Prologue: Avoiding the Obvious and the Not So Obvious

He walked into the garden, carrying a tray with a flagon of wine and two pewter goblets. She looked up from her seat on the flagstone terrace and beamed. Then she closed the thick and ancient book on her lap, placing it carefully on the stones. She took the goblet gratefully and brought it to her lips, sipping the wine, feeling its tannin pucker her mouth as he stepped behind her and draped his arms around her shoulders.

"I'm nervous about this event," she admitted. "A part of me wishes I didn't have to go."

His lips barely touched her neck but it was enough to turn her pale skin red. He was about to bury his face below the forest of pins that kept her hair piled atop her head when she gestured to the garden. There several men were pruning the flowering bushes that had been planted the previous Spring.

"Ahem, will you have the gardeners watch us? I would not."

"I'm sure they know I love you," he stood up, but left a hand softly on her elaborate chignon.

She patted her ever more prominent abdomen, which could no longer be concealed by high waisted gowns. "Our child is the very visible proof," she said proudly.

"Proof of what?" he teased. "Of our great love? I'll speak my words of love to you until I die. But I've yet to hear a similar pronouncement from your lips."

"Why, that's not true. Haven't I proved my love time and time again for the past two years. You're just playing with me," she winked as he sat down in the chair next to hers.

"Proved your love, yes, beyond all measure, but I've never heard you say, 'I love you." He chuckled as he watched her try to hold her emotions in check, as she so often did, though with less success now than when he first met her. She was so delightful, especially when flustered.

"In fact," he leaned forward and tapped her softly on her chin, "If you are indeed in love with me, when did the great realization happen to you? I'm fairly certain that I loved you within a few days after we met. But, Wild Wife, do you remember when love came to you? If you do, you've forgotten to tell me. I wish some of your wildness went into the words that come out of your mouth."

"Ha!" she grabbed his hand and squeezed it. "You certainly have shown fondness for my mouth, for all that it might not have said the wild words that you seek!" But then she withdrew her hand and rested it on her midsection. She thought about the events planned for the next few days, her slow dread of attending them, and wondered if she had always been this way, wanting to avoid matters.

Eowyn's eyes traveled over the horizon beyond their gardens and farmlands. She swallowed, hesitated, then began again, trying to put tomorrow's eventuality out of her mind.

"Do you recall, not long after the war? I stayed with you in Minas Tirith, and there came messenger after messenger from my brother. He wanted me to attend him at the various ceremonies after the Fall of Sauron. But I didn't want to go.”

"How could I not remember that," Faramir said, enjoying the drink as he studied his wife's face, now thoughtful rather than piqued. "Every day you turned away another messenger. It disturbed me greatly then, but now, looking back, it was really funny."

"Yes, and what a pest Eomer was," Eowyn laughed softly. "But at the time, I did everything I could to avoid going to him. It would mean acknowledging the way I really felt."

"And that's when you realized you loved me?"

She lowered her gaze to her hands, which were tapping slightly on her belly, as if in an attempt to communicate with the child in her womb. The words were difficult: "That is when I realized that avoiding my feelings was causing me much pain." She took a long look at her husband, delighting in his not quite perfect features, the large nose and gentle, small mouth that seemed so incongruous in a tough, sternly handsome face. Years later, there were moments when the look of him still made her grab a slight intake of breath, as he did, right from the beginning.

Eowyn settled in her chair. She had but a few hours left before the journey. And now, finally, the words wanted to come out.

"After the death of my parents, life became so grim. I loved my uncle, my cousin Theodred, and was, as you know, very close to my brother. But day after day there came rumors of war. Every day tales of farms destroyed and people killed came to Meduseld. Men, women, children, our horses, our animals. The madness would not stop. My brother left with an eored while I was in my teens. My uncle was ever embroiled with defending our people. Theodred was his heir but Theoden also trained me in governance. But no one was paying much attention to my heart, even me. I trained for war, as was expected for a woman of my station. But I was not trained for love.

"I always knew that I would marry not for love but to strengthen my family's ties, either to a noble family of Rohan or to shore up an alliance with another country's rulers. I knew that I must save myself for my eventual husband."

“And so you did, after our own particular fashion," Faramir grinned like a pleased, comfortable cat. But he noted that she looked so forlorn. Why should talk of love today make her so sad?

She sighed, recalling how in her youth there was so little improper behavior on her part in regard to love, in comparison to what her much more experienced husband had confessed. "I kissed various boys among my people when I was young, but the years went by, and the skirmishes went on. So many of the boys I kissed wound up dead on the battle field.

"My uncle and my brother forgot their duty to see me properly wed. And eventually I was in my 30s, still a maid, and apparently doomed to remain so. I thought my life would surely end soon, the casualty of another endless battle."

The sun was setting in the west. Eowyn's voice was strained. Faramir noticed that she was consuming more wine than he. He could tell that she was churning inside. Why on this night did she want to tell him of this part of her youth? They'd been married for two years and only now this was coming out. Simply because he wanted to know when she realized that she loved him?

And as he thought this, he noticed her look up and draw back suddenly. His features softened, as he realized that he'd been staring. He knew that his stare sometimes unnerved people, even his wife who knew him well.

Eowyn took a deep breath. She felt pressed, pressed for time. She thought of the King and his Queen who had now returned after more than a year's absence. But then she continued.

"When Grima became Theoden's councilor, I could see my uncle deteriorate before my eyes. And I could feel Grima's eyes on me, lecher that he was. I always carried a knife concealed in a pocket in my sleeve. But he never did more than touch my cheek now and then and give me rude looks."

"I trained for battle, as was my duty, and became adept, far more adept than many men despite my sex. By that time Theoden was in his dotage. Grima wouldn't grant my request to join an eored and defend our people. Though they had different motives, in that one thing did Grima and my brother agree."

"Every night I'd go to sleep, thirsting for battle or for love or for both. Neither was to be. So I'd battle my disappointment by dreaming of a suitable lover, who would save my country and make me a husband." Eowyn was overcome, remembering how desperate her situation was. She felt Faramir's intense scrutiny though she did not look at him. The heat of his eyes was the ever-present reminder that her husband still had the ability, to a degree, to perceive other's feelings. Maybe that was why she had never felt the need to tell him that she loved him. Words weren't necessary.

"And who was the dream lover, I wonder?" he said, suddenly feeling apprehensive.

"Oh, no one I had ever known or seen. I imagined that my love would be a Numenorean, right out of the tales in our songs, which must have come down to us when we had more contact with Gondor."

"Ah ha," he brightened. She had wanted a Numenorean. That was good.

"Most nights, I would lie down and think of this man. I could picture him, his pale eyes, black hair, and a thick black beard. And handsome beyond belief." A stricken look came across her husband's face, the type of melancholy that seemed to overwhelm him when they first met.

Eowyn reached over and stroked Faramir's beard. It was soft, red, trimmed close to his face, and always clean, at her insistence.

"I had yet to seen a descendent of Numenor then," she continued. "Such a man seemed so exotic, so far from anyone I, who had never left the borders of Rohan, would ever meet. To think that soon I'd make friends with a dwarf, an elf, and some hobbits. And as you've seen, I am considered tall by my people. So I dreamed my imaginary love to be much taller than anyone I had ever known."

"When Lord Aragorn first came to our land, he seemed so different from anyone I had ever met. He was from the North by his accent. I suspected he was a Numenorean. We all did, in fact," she continued stroking her husband's beard for fear he might become too steeped in thought, too withdrawn.

He rested his head in her hand. "I'm taller than the King and your brother, if that counts," he said defensively.

She rose slowly from her chair. The sun had gone down, and now the grounds keepers were lighting torches in the garden. Eowyn carefully sat on the ground before her husband's chair and settled her body between his knees. She loved his long legs. It was so comfortable sitting here on the grass. Ah, but at some point she must get up and round up the items that her maid servant had packed for her. But for now she had resolved to tell Faramir...

"Aragorn held me while I watched Gandalf cure my uncle. It was unbelievable. I hadn't seen him as I came in and he just grabbed me," She felt Faramir's legs tense against her shoulders.

"He held you!" he sat up. She was describing the man who was his superior, his king. The man with whom he'd been having long policy discussions during the past two weeks. He had much respect for Elessar, even though he'd known the story of Eowyn's infatuation since those first few days in the Houses of Healing. However, Faramir had no idea that the king had ever held his beloved Eowyn, “And you thought it was unbelievable.”

"It was more like Aragorn restrained me from reaching my uncle, who Gandalf was about to transform back into the whole warrior king that I knew and loved. Theoden's transformation was amazing,” Eowyn quickly clarified, surprised but aware of her husband's distress. “I didn't think much of Aragorn's behavior at the time. I didn't feel anything for him at first. It was not until we evacuated Edoras that I realized that he was, indeed, the man of my dreams."

Faramir was getting increasingly uncomfortable. It was dark now. They should be getting ready. He had promised they'd ride to nearby Minas Tirith after the evening meal.

"Ow," Eowyn squirmed, tapping his knee. "You do not know your own strength. Husband, you wanted to know when I first loved so I must tell you now, now that I am fairly sure when that actually happened."

His legs slacked. He leaned over and started removing the pins from her hair. Yellow strands swooped down about her back as she spoke of the King of reunited Arnor and Gondor. Like his father and the proud line of Hurin before him, Faramir now was the Steward of this king--and, as it happens, the first man in Gondor while the king was in the Northern lands.

"Aragorn did not keep secret that he was betrothed," Eowyn continued. "At first I was devastated until he then said that he had ended the engagement. That the woman, our Queen Arwen, was actually an elven woman who was leaving the shores of Middle Earth with her people. I thought then, perhaps I would have a chance with this intriguing man. But I could tell that he would miss Arwen through the rest of his life.

"We of Rohan do not have powers to beseech for guidance and help, as you do with your Valar. So I lay in my bed each night after I met Aragorn and wished for that elf woman to indeed leave. When I heard later that she had not left and was going to stay and wait for Aragorn to become king, I wished her dead. My uncle told me that Arwen had a grave illness, and so I wished her dead. I had never seen her, had no idea of her, but I wished she would die. I have killed men and orcs and that horrifying Witch King. But I never wished death on anyone, not even Saruman, until I learned I had a rival named Arwen"

She buried her head in her hands. "I am so ashamed now. I can't bear to be in her presence."

"But we have to see her," Faramir said, as he slowly stood up and stepped around her. She was shocked at the grave look on his face.

Eowyn got to her feet awkwardly, feeling the clumsiness of her pregnancy, "I am ashamed because now I understand how they felt. And now I understand how she felt with her love for Aragorn."

Faramir turned on his heel and started toward their manor house, then paused and turned to her. "The King is back now. And he has been asking for you to attend him personally. Perhaps it's time for us to get ready to leave."

Eowyn cried after him, but he had already gone inside. "I now understand Arwen's love for Aragorn because it must be the same as the love I feel for you." There. She said it, but he was gone and she was talking to herself. For such an intelligent and well-educated man, his confounded sensitivity was getting the best of him. He was acting, well, thick.

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Author's Note

Regarding my characterizations of Faramir, Eowyn , and characters to come who were depicted in the LOTR films:

Because "Avoidance" stems from Movie Verse, I try my best to depict all Tolkien characters who were cast in the films as you would have seen them in the theater or on DVD. Thus Faramir is a red-head with a large nose and a certain amount of guilt about his initial treatment of one Frodo Baggins. And Eowyn is no longer a relatively young maid of 24. She is the same age as Miranda Otto was when the LOTR films were shot-33 years old. I made this conscious decision because I thought Eowyn's more mature age would give her interesting issues that a younger Eowyn wouldn't have.

In the remaining chapters are also book-only characters. I have tried to depict them with utmost regard to Tolkien canon. I hope you enjoy the remainder of "Avoidance."

Chapter One: What Was It In the Past?

The overhead braziers gave the wide corridor a golden glow. The air smelled faintly of grease from the smoke. Faramir's dutiful squire Bergil, son of Beregond, had been sitting in a chair near the outside door. The boy rose when the Steward came in, deep in thought.

Now was not the time for a social visit, Faramir agonized, feeling the strain of responsibility fight against his need to set matters straight with his wife. He was vaguely aware that Bergil was at his side, dogging his footsteps as he paced down the hall.

She said she didn't feel anything when Aragorn grabbed her, Faramir considered his wife's words. But she certainly felt something afterward, enough to wish Queen Arwen dead. It did seem odd that Arwen was the only person his wife had ever wished to die. Then again, her vile thoughts toward Arwen happened before Eowyn tasted real battle.

Surely she wanted the orcs and Haradrim on the Pelennor fields, not to mention the Witch King, to die as she charged among them. But on the other hand, she had never mentioned lying in her bed, hoping that unseen forces might kill the Witch King. She didn't even know of Angmar's existence before she met her fate. She just snuck into the Pelennor Fields and there the fiend was.

“Wild wife,” he muttered with no small amount of pride as he entered the Great Hall of their manor house.

"I beg your pardon, your highness?" Bergil asked.

Faramir started. He didn't realize that he had said anything. Bergil took his job so seriously. There was little that the boy didn't notice.

“Have a messenger sent out to the King," Faramir ordered curtly. "Tell him that Eowyn is feeling poorly with her condition and that we will come tomorrow morning, instead."

The youth turned on his heel, "Yes, your Highness."

Faramir's wretched mood was broken just then. "See here, Bergil, you don't have to call me "highness." I've yet to experience what makes princes high."

"I'll have that messenger sent out right away, my Lord Steward," Bergil straightened up brightly.

"Better," the flummoxed Steward admitted. "But, simply My Lord Faramir, even Captain Faramir, will do." As Bergil's footsteps echoed down the end of the hall, Faramir turned to see his wife standing quite still in the archway. Her reams of golden hair swirled about her, partially concealing her expanding waistline. Her determined mouth was turned down slightly as the close-set blue eyes regarded him levelly.

And then she made her move. She bounded up to him, grabbed his cheeks in either hand, and forced his head down so that she could kiss him. At first, his arms were limp at his sides as he refused to respond to the pressure of her lips on his. But then, he gave in, and his arms slowly went around her waist with a vast sense of relief.

Eowyn pulled her face away and regarded him like a mother admonishing her child, “Your far-sightedness failed you just now, sweet Husband. Didn't you know that I really don't want to see them this evening for a variety of reasons?"

"I did figure that out," he responded guiltily. "I pleaded your belly. Babies can be an excellent excuse. But we still have to go to Minas Tirith tomorrow. They are back, and we can no longer avoid our social responsibilities to them," Faramir added and then took a deep breath.

She put her hand in the crook of his arm; they slowly walked down the corridor into the new Great Hall of their manor. Recently completed tapestries, depicting the Lady's victory at the Battle of the Pelennor fields, hung on the walls. Unused tables were pushed against them. A comfortable, new-fangled day bed was set up parallel to the great fireplace that warmed the huge room.

The March evening was turning cold. The servants had ramped up the fire. Soon they'd pull out one of the heavy tables and serve dinner for the Prince and Princess of Ithilien.

Wouldn't it be much nicer to have them set a modest tray of foods right here by the fire, Faramir thought. He stretched himself over the length of the daybed, using its solitary arm as a rest for his upper back.

That daybed was wide enough for an adult and perhaps a child, but not for two full grown people. So, naturally, he took up all of it. "My dear Lord Steward," Eowyn squished down in the little space left below Faramir's shoulders, her fingers playing with his soft lips.

"I will tell you all I can, if I can find the words..." but she gasped a little, almost in relief as he started nibbling on her fingers. “Oh stop, one moment you are so serious, the next moment teasing. Move over a little while I tell you how felt when we first met..." If I can remember it clearly, she added to herself, hopefully. She marked how the tension seemed to be leaving his muscles. Before he'd been tight as one of his bowstrings.

Faramir turned onto his back, almost pushing her off the cushions as he held out his arms, “Then lie on me, Wild Wife, for we'll otherwise be cramped for what I hope will be a nice, revealing tale.”

“Our child and I will squash you,” she laughed gently as she gingerly stretched out atop him, her back resting on his long stomach. With a bit of a struggle, he managed to free his trapped arms to wrap them around her, his hands resting over her breasts.

“I particularly like this change,” he noted appreciatively. “I hope that they won't become small when our child is born.”

Though she loved the touch of his hands on her body, it was all she could do to keep from elbowing him in the ribs. Her powerful but sensitive husband so hated war, for all that war had consumed his whole life. He was not at all like the men of Rohan, who thirsted for battle and fretted in the peace. However, when it came to conjugal matters, her dearest lord was but the same as any human male of her experience. That is, he conformed quite predictably to the tales of the Rohan warriors' wives she'd heard in her youth, and her beloved herbalist manual, “Collected Wisdom of the Elder Women of Gondor.”

“My breasts are full of milk and will remain so until our child is weaned,” Eowyn said matter-of-factly, proud of her hard-won learning. “I don't mind their larger size, but they tend to hurt.”

Faramir's lips pressed against her ear, “Then I shall massage them for you – Ooof!” This time Eowyn's elbow dug deep in her husband's diaphragm, as she twisted onto her side to look him in the eye.

“You wanted to know when I realized that I loved you,” she challenged. “Do not distract me, or the words may never make their way to my mouth.”

What a handful she is,” Faramir thought as he contracted involuntarily to the pressure of her arm. Eowyn's face, slightly swollen like the rest of her body, seemed to gleam as she hovered over him. How could he doubt her feelings? If only she was comfortable in making those feelings known.

“I am happy enough to have you prove your love right now,” he raised an arm, gently urging her to lie down again. “However, if you truly intend to tell me your story, I will happily listen until your weight overwhelms me. Talk, Wild Wife.”

“It's so long ago,” Eowyn rested back, cradling her head against the side of Faramir's chin. “I don't know how much I can remember or want to remember of the darker events that led me to your side. Do you really want to hear them?” she asked.

“I do, since you forgot to tell me about them ....”

Eowyn's Tale Begins with a Bitter Promise

Thoughts of a husband, real or imagined, were hardly in her mind two years ago, as she twisted in her bed in Minas Tirith's Houses of Healing. She was alone, trying to find a comfortable position for her shattered arm, trying to find comfort for her shattered hopes.

Eomer had visited numerous times before the Captains of the West rode for their impending journey to the Black Gate. On his last visit, she demanded to join them. Her brother appeared to be severely troubled, “Eowyn, you have only the use of one arm,” he said, stating the obvious.

“My right arm is strong,” she reminded him then. “I care not if my left cannot carry a shield. I do not expect to live. Do you?”

Eomer sat beside her on the humble but comfortable bed. “I cannot count on living past the Black Gate. But I must count on your living, Eowyn. Whether we succeed or fail, I still might fall in battle. Neither you nor I have children. We are the last of Theoden's line.” His hand lifted her chin so that he could regard her directly. Eowyn wanted to lower her head but her brother's hand prevented that.

“So you must stay here and recover. You may have dreamed of being a queen, my sister, or thought you should have been one. If I should not return, you will, indeed, be Queen of Rohan, by Theoden's will and my decree.”

She felt her stomach constrict as the enormity of her situation descended on her. In effect, her brother was ordering her to get well, return to lead their people, marry a man of noble birth, and produce a legacy of children. Though once she had desired such a perfect life, it was not at all what she wanted in the near future. Would there even be a future for her people? No, Eowyn wanted what all men, and too many women, of Rohan dreamed of these days—a swift, glorious end in battle.

“You must have a future, even if you can't face it now,” Eomer pleaded. “Not all of our troops go with me in our combined host. Most Rohirrim who survived are camped outside the city or here, injured, like you. Only those that specifically chose to go to Mordor ride with Aragorn and myself.

"Promise me that you will stay here. Give those Rohirrim that remain here the opportunity to ride back with you and return the remains of our uncle to our home. Make a last stand for Rohan if I cannot. Or, if we should prevail, prepare a celebration worthy of the greatest sagas.”

Eowyn composed her features and sniffed back her tears as she draped her right arm over Eomer's shoulders, “May your name be remembered in the songs of our people, for as long as those songs exist. But from myself, go with the love of a sister for her brother.”

After he left, she sank onto the bed yet continued to look out the door , which Eomer had neglected to close. The sun set and shadows enveloped her room. Still she stared out the door onto the corridor, her arm heavy with pain. Her mind lingered on the image of her brother, as he left her. And then her mind lingered sadly on Aragorn, as he said farewell with a gentle rebuke at Dunharrow, reminding her again of the futility of her dreams of love between them. Someday she would know real love, predicted the man who would be the king of Gondor-if he indeed returned.

Eowyn thought bitterly, If the free peoples of the West survive the next few weeks, perhaps real love will have a chance, perhaps for hose left among us, but not for me.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

This story was originally prepared for the faramir_fics community on Live Journal. It is Movie Verse, which is why Faramir is a red head and Eowyn, like Miranda Otto, is 33.

Chapter Three: The Power of Dreams in Darkness

Two servants came in with trays of cheese, bread, and wine, for the beginnings of a light, quickly prepared dinner. They pulled a low table in front of the day bed. Eowyn sat up on the edge of the bed and rubbed her left shoulder, working at the tight muscles.

“It still troubles you,” Faramir remarked as he sat up behind her. He reached forward and commenced to massage both her shoulders. “The weariness and the dreams were what plagued me then, too, as I remember, worse than the pain,” he told her softly.

“Then tell me your remembrances of your days before we met, 'Mir,” Eowyn turned around to face him. “Really tell me your side. For pretty words, as well as silence, can often hide true feelings. Speak prettily or speak plainly, but be true with me now.”

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It was cold, cold as a cave, and dank. And horribly quiet, except for the occasional sound of water dripping. The heat and flame that had tortured him was gone, as was the apparition of the penetrating Eye. The stranger who was the returned King had chilled the fever, banished the Eye, and promised him hope. But now he lay on the damp floor of a vast room, chilled and shaking.

His chest was bare; a rough blanket bound his body from waist to toe so that he couldn't move. They had removed his shirt, exposing the angry new wounds on his neck and shoulder. The puncture on his neck where the poison entered his body was particularly inflamed by the cold. The King had neutralized the poison that had left him paralyzed, but the pain from the sting remained.

In the dim light he could tell there were others about him. Bodies piled one upon the other. A few moved and screamed in an ugly, twisted language. And then the hideous face of a Mordor Uruk loomed above him. “I'll have you for my very own lunch, you appetizing little slug,” the Uruk snarled but only for a moment. He shrieked as the point of a sword suddenly appeared in the middle of his chest, black blood spurting everywhere. The Uruk collapsed, to reveal the face of Samwise Gamgee in the process of withdrawing his sword from the fallen Uruk's body.

“Come. We must get out of the Tower,” Samwise said as he helped him rise. “The orcs have taken your shirt. They fought over it with the Uruks and now most are dead. We can take the armor from the dead ones.”

In the vague distance, a soft voice pierced the deep dark, “Where is it?”

He felt his neck. “It is gone.”

“No, no. It's here. I thought you were dead, so I took it.” Samwise's hand went to his pocket, withdrawing the chain and the One Ring, which throbbed and gleamed and sent sparks into his unprotected body. He reached out to grab the thing and Samwise didn't stop him.

In the vague distance, the voice asked, “Where are they going?”

“Into Mordor,” he heard himself say. “Down the stairs into the plains. There is the fiery mountain. Ah, I can't stand it!”

The faraway voice persisted, “Who are you?”

The Eye. The Tower and Eye at its apex in the distance to the North. He stumbled and choked and then cried out in defiance as he set foot on the smoldering plain, “I am Frodo, Son of Drogo, of the Shire”

Someone was shaking him. The outline of the Tower and the Eye became wavy and dissolved into nothingness. Just the voice speaking, “Who are you, really?”

He struggled. It was so hard. He could see nothing now. The effort to overcome his paralysis, regain his identity, and move his lips was overwhelming. Finally, in the nothingness his lips managed to move just a little, “I am Faramir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor.”

A hand was on his forehead, “Then wake up, Faramir, son of Denethor. You are needed.”

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His eyes opened to sudden, painfully spectacular prisms of light as he tried to focus his eyes and mind. The concerned face of Mithrandir filled his slowly returning vision. “You must try to stay awake for awhile, my son,” the wizard said. “You saw Frodo?”

He felt no real pain at first, just a wall of exhaustion making him want to sink into oblivion, “I dreamed I was Frodo. I was alive and walking with Samwise into Mordor. That Gollum creature who traveled with them was not in the dream.”

Faramir closed his eyes, but the wizard gently shook him, “You must learn now what has happened. I thought, perhaps you should heal a bit before you are told the whole story. But then I feared the matter in which you might ultimately learn the full tale. So I decided it would be best if you heard the story from those of us who were there. I suspect that you are far stronger than anyone, including yourself, gives you credit for.”

This time Faramir's mind came fully awake. He was aware of a sting at the base of his neck, the punctures in his shoulder, and strange, chafing inflammation along his calves, where a rough blanket bound his legs. “I'm cold, Mithrandir,” he said. “Is there water anywhere? Where is my father?”

“Nurse, bring the Steward a soft blanket and something to drink,” the White wizard ordered to someone Faramir could not see.

“How long have I been thus?” Faramir asked. “Why would you have the nurse bring my father a blanket? Does he lie here injured, as well?” He recalled a brief moment of joy and hope when he had awakened earlier, not in a sea of orc swill, but among wounded men in a cool courtyard. But that moment was gone. He felt trully paralyzed and this time he was awake.

Mithrandir leaned over the bed and placed a comforting hand on Faramir's head, “Your father fell the evening after your horse returned you to the City. That would have been two days ago.”

Faramir lay there almost immobile, watching the well-loved, strong though wrinkled face, and listening to the low voice tell him the manner of the Lord Denethor's fiery end. “I felt nothing, heard nothing. I don't remember my horse returning me to the City. And as to my father, I only remember a bitter farewell.” Faramir spoke with an agonized slowness. “I remember having horrible dreams but their content is unclear, save for the last.”

But then he asked, “The Dunedain King, did I dream him, too?”

Mithrandir stood up slowly, “That was Aragorn. He brought you back from the wraith world. He now prepares to lead a host out of Minas Tirith."

As I lie here, unable to lift my head, let alone my hands, Faramir thought. The pain--it wasn't the pain that tortured him. He had been wounded in combat any number of times. It was the relentless exhaustion and despair that ground at him.

A stocky, middle-aged woman came into the room. With Mithrandir's help, she lifted Faramir's torso just slightly, placed some pillows behind his back, and covered him with a soft fur. He recognized her as Ioreth, daughter of Mersin, a chief nurse in the Houses of Healing. The woman's husband had been the Rangers' battle tactician years ago, when Faramir first joined them. Mersin and Ioreth's son Harod had fought beside Faramir then. Ioreth smiled and chattered, “Ah, Captain Faramir, it's so good to see you awake. I've brought some water and hot tea and warm breads if you are hungry.”

“He's 'My Lord Steward,' now, woman,” Mithrandir nudged her arm gently.

“Very well, My Lord Steward, drink lots of water. It is not good to get dried up when you are feverish.” Was that a saucy look that she gave Mithrandir?

The wizard gave the nurse a wink, “Enough talk now. Tell Peregrin Took that he can come in.”

In a moment, the little perian moved quickly to the bed, his squarish face beaming, a smile on his bow-shaped mouth, “Faramir, it's so good to see you awake again...Oh my, you don't look well though, if you don't mind me saying so.” Mithrandir said, “If you pardon his ill-considered way of speaking, Faramir, Master Peregrin could tell you what happened to your father. He saw most of the events leading up to Denethor's death.”

Pippin Took rested his elbows on the mattress. He wore the black and silver tabard of the Tower Guards, though the chain mail was replaced by a soft black shirt. Mithrandir tousled the halfling's wavy brown hair: “And don't forget to tell Faramir of your part in all this.”

Pippin looked at the wizard, and it seemed to Faramir that the perian blushed. At that moment, a terrible sense of dread threatened to return Faramir to the oblivion of his tortured dreams...until Pippin started his tale. As he spoke, Faramir found himself pulled out of his personal abyss by the halfling's words, though sometimes the words stumbled and sometimes Pippin used words strange to Faramir's ears.

“He wept for you when you were returned,” Pippin said. “At that moment, I am sure he realized how much he loved you. But he also thought you were dead, at first.”

This revelation stung Faramir worse than the piercing of the dart that evidentally had poisoned him. He had no awareness of how he was returned to Minas Tirith. Yet the halfing was here, telling the story. And it seemed to Faramir that tears were forming at the corners of Pippin's eyes.

“I put my face up to yours and could see your lips move as you breathed. I told Lord Denethor that you were alive, but he wouldn't listen to me. It was as though his mind was made up and no manner of truth telling would change his course.” Pippin buried his head in his hands and could speak no longer.

“Did Pippin tell you that your father constructed a pyre to immolate himself and you?” Mithrandir's strong, low pitched voice broke the silence. Though perilously weak, Faramir felt his body jerk involuntary. Immolation. Intolerable heat. Didn't he dream this?

Faramir hadn't realized that the wizard had gone, but he had returned, this time accompanied by another halfling.

“Merry!” Pippin called out, almost helplessly, as though he expected the new arrival to help him out in the uncomfortable situation.

“This is Peregrin's cousin Meriadoc Brandybuck, or Merry, as he is known,” Mithrandir said.

The halfling Merry squeezed in between Mithrandir and Pippin. The newcomer had a bright and inquisitive face, but seemed subdued in comparison to his cousin. Faramir noted that the wrist of Merry's right hand was bound. He had sustained some hurt, most likely in battle, while Pippin appeared to be unharmed.

Pippin looked up at Faramir and sniffled. The halfling's eyes were red. Then he blurted out, “I ran through all the fighting to get Gandalf. On our way back to the Tombs of the Stewards, the Witch King tried to stop us.”

“Ah, the Witch King!” Merry gasped and seemed to lose his balance.

Mithrandir put a hand on the halfing's shoulder and whispered something that Faramir could not hear.

“The horns of Rohan chased him off,” Pippin exclaimed, now agitated, “But when we got back to you, your father was standing over your body with a flaming torch. I saw your face. You seemed to awaken when Lord Denethor lit the pyre.” The halfling stopped, his mouth agape.

Faramir gasped but like Pippin, could say nothing. The nightmares became clearer. He could remember the flames and the Eye of Sauron behind them, staring, probing. He could remember horrible visions of the fiery volcano spewing rivers of boiling red mud. But he could not remember dreaming of his father—not his face, not even his voice.

“Pippin pulled you off the pyre and beat the flames from your legs,” Mithrandir broke the silence. “He saved your life.”

Pippin drew his knuckles over his nose.

“You have a great heart, Peregrin, son of Paladin, but I didn't know you had great strength,” Faramir finally found himself able to speak.

Pippin composed himself and said, “You didn't stay awake long enough to help me pull you off the pyre. You must weigh more than three doughty hobbits.” The little fellow grinned behind his tears.

“I would have liked to see that, Pip,” Merry chided softly.

“No, you wouldn't have liked being there. Not at all,” Pippin rebuffed him, “although I could have used your help.”

Mithrandir sighed, “Enough of your talk. There is much to do before tomorrow. I wish you would stay here and rest, Merry, but I suppose I wouldn't be able to stop you from coming along. Now leave us, and that means you, too, Pippin.”

The wizard pulled up a stool and finally sat down beside the bed. He placed his hand on Faramir's forehead, “Ah, as I suspected, your fever has gone down. That's good. I expect you'll be moving about in a few days, though you should really wait at least a week. Hmmm.” Then he looked pointedly at Faramir, “I was worried about Frodo but now I know where he is. I'm sure he was a captive in Cirith Ungol but now is free. I feel much better.”

“Were you able to see into Mordor?” Faramir asked, trying to concentrate on something besides the news of his father's horrible end.

“No, but you were. Sauron has long blocked my view into his lands.”

“It was just a dream, Mithrandir,” Faramir sighed.

“But you dream true,” the wizard upbraided him. “You should trust your dreams. And try to use your farsight when you are awake. It is not a curse or a weakness or sign of mental derangement, no matter what your father might have told you.”

Faramir pursed his lips. Weakness, yes, it threatened to overcome him, but somehow he must continue on.

“Did you know the history of the palantir of Anarion?” Mithrandir asked. “It did not disappear with the end of the line of Kings. The Stewards always kept it, though your father may have kept this secret from you. Denethor, in his pride, used it to vie with Sauron, and thus had his visions twisted by the Enemy.”

“I sometimes thought I felt the Eye of the Dark Lord here in Minas Tirith,” Faramir recalled. “Sometimes I thought I was crazy to have such a fear. At other times, I wondered if Sauron knew about me or Boromir. Angmar certainly knew who I was. He sought me out whenever his troops clashed with us in Ithilien. He and I have faced each other more than once.” He shuddered suddenly, feeling a cold sweat coming on. The conversation was saping what little strength he had, bit by bit.

Mithrandir smiled gently, “Then you will be relieved to know that the Witch King is no more. He was killed yesterday on the Pelennor Fields.”

Faramir closed his eyes and felt a strange sense of relief. “He boasted to my face of how no man could kill him. But all that speak can be killed. Even wraiths of the twilight world.”

“The boast was true, but in vain,” Mithrandir chuckled. “It was a woman who delivered Angmar's doom. With the help of Master Meriodoc, whom you just met.”

“A woman?” Faramir opened his eyes and felt his dry lips try to grin. “On the battlefield? What a wonder.”

“Ah, that she is, and a good person for you to know once you are feeling better,” Mithrandir rose and patted Faramir's uninjured shoulder gently. “Eowyn, Eomund's daughter, who was a shieldmaiden, raised by Theoden King of Rohan. Angmar slew the king but Eowyn had her revenge, though the fiend shattered her shield arm before she and Merry dispatched him. You might seek her out later, for in Theoden's long illness, she helped administer the every day goings on in the Mark. And you will need people to help you until the King returns to Minas Tirith.

“Now I see you grow weary and need to sleep. And I have much to do. I will look in on you before we leave.” Mithrandir continued, but Faramir didn't hear the last. He was sleeping, a white, dreamless sleep with just a minor undercurrent of pain.

The sleep was a sleep of security. Sometimes he was aware of the others in the room, watching him. Nurse Ioreth. A strange man who woke him briefly, ostensibly to examine him. Vaguely he sensed that afternoon had become night. And later, his eyes flickered open to see Mithrandir in the hazy torch light, seated in a chair beyond the bed, smoking a pipe with a long, curved stem.

The sleep was a floating substance of white, like a thick fog on the slopes of Mount Mindoluin. Then, in the left corner, a red light seemed to flicker. It expanded and moved to the center of his mind, a black slit bounded by red flames that grew larger until they flashed out, encompassing his entire vision.

Faramir suddenly bolted upright and screamed past the apparition, “The Eye. It's here.” He was awake, sitting in the bed in the Houses of Healing, sweat pouring down his forehead and neck.

Mithrandir was still seated in the chair beside the bed. He leaned forward calmly, “No doubt he is looking into Minas Tirith at this moment. But not for you, my son.”

No, not for me, Faramir thought. The cruel probing of the Eye was gone. And he had managed to sit up. That must mean he was healing. However, the effort had exhausted him, and he sank back. In his chair, Mithrandir said nothing, the pipe still stuck in his mouth. Faramir could no longer sleep. His body had been jerked into action so violently that his heart refused to calm down, and his body throbbed in extreme pain from the force of his wakening. He lay back and tried to settle down, uncomfortably aware that Mithrandir was studying him intently. His mind drifted, losing all sense of time and place.

Some time later, a dark figure appeared in the doorway beyond Mithrandir's head. “It is done, Gandalf. He has survived the trial.” a man's voice spoke Westron with the accent of Rohan. The stranger moved into the room. In the haze Faramir noted a warrior with very long blond hair and oblong face, bearded and sun burned in the fashion of those who are extremely fair. Yet the man had bushy black eyebrows, tilting over his eyes, giving Faramir the impression of one of a very fierce and possibly uncompromising nature.

The man of Rohan either did not fear Faramir's scrutiny or didn't notice him at all. Instead the Rohan warrior said to Mithrandir, “We move forward then, tomorrow noon, as planned.”

“Excellent,” the wizard put down his pipe and rose. “Frodo is in Mordor, and so far safe on his journey.” Then he said, pointedly, “So you see, Faramir, you were able to help us even from your sick bed. Try to follow Frodo, whether or not your dreams can follow us. That can tell you what preparations must be made in Minas Tirith.”

Faramir did not answer, just watched as the wizard rose, giving him a farewell smile. The stranger of Rohan stood in the doorway a moment longer, regarding Faramir with a curious kind of respect. Then he disappeared after Mithrandir.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

This "movie verse chapter was originally prepared for the faramir_fics community on Live Journal.

Chapter Four: Becoming the Steward

Think of Frodo, Faramir told himself as he settled back into the bed after Mithrandir's departure. Don't think about the crushing news of the past night. If he could follow Frodo in his dreams, the knowledge of the halfling's whereabouts would put Minas Tirith at an advantage. So Faramir tried to picture the face of Frodo, Son of Drogo. However, his sleep was long, and uneventful. And toward the end of the uneventful sleep, the smell of food that awakened him. When had he last eaten? How many days?

“Fresh crusty bread, cream, and jam. And bacon is on its way.” He opened his eyes. The room, his refuge in the Houses of Healing, was not the vague smokey space that it had seemed at his first awakening. Rather, he had been closeted in fairly large quarters, with chairs beside his bed and a table beneath the wide bay window directly in front of the bed. Morning sunlight streamed into the space, filing it with hope. At the table, a young nurse set down a tray of foods. She smiled at him a little shyly as she came forward.

“My name is Nienor, my Lord Steward. It is good to see you awake and hungry. Do you take kavay or tea?” Nienor, hmmm, Faramir, thought. She did not seem like his concept of the tragic woman of the myths he had learned as a child. Her brown hair was rolled up in a crescent across the top of her head and secured by two large pins. Her face was broad, plain featured, her nose turned up, a fairly ordinary woman not many years past twenty. Yet to Faramir at that moment, she was as lovely as Yavanna herself, offering foods and the aromatic kavay, brewed far smoother than could ever be found at the typical ranger's camp.

And, amazingly, he was strong enough to sit up against the soft pillows. First eat the warm bread, then have the kavay, he told himself.

“If you can manage your breakfast, then I will take my leave for a bit,” the nurse said. “The Captains of the West ride out of the city at noon, and I would watch them go.” When he nodded she headed to the door, but turned around for a moment. “I am glad you are staying with us in Minas Tirith, my lord,” the nurse said humbly, then took her leave.

Faramir sat there for awhile, carefully applying the jam and cream to the bread, and then eating very slowly. To his dismay, he found the task of eating very difficult, indeed. His shoulder was stiff and troublesomely painful with the simple act of applying jam. As he let the soft bread linger in his mouth, the horrible revelations of yesterday slowly intruded upon the sunny day. His stomach that had seemed so deprived suddenly was a hard fist that threatened to reject what normally would have been an appetizing breakfast.

His father went to his death a suicide, driven mad by his own ambition and the insidious intervention of the Dark Lord into the affairs of the Steward's house. Faramir felt too bereaved to chew. The bitter thoughts churned in his mind. And when the Lord Denethor finally admitted the love of a father for his younger son, that son was unconscious and about to become a sacrifice to his father's grief. No fond words for Faramir to remember Denethor by.
And what of the true manner of his father's death? Pippin had not described it. He had been placed on a pyre—that much Faramir could figure out—and Denethor had applied a torch to the kindling. And after that? What was the true story of Denethor's death and where were his remains? What must be done for a burial and memorial? And what of this palantir of Anor that had manipulated the Steward's mind for so long? The very thought of all these questions made him want to sink back into dreams, even if dreams too often were tormenting.

Then there was Boromir--beloved brother, valiant, mighty in war, foolhardy, and fun. The pranks of youth and the council of their adulthood was gone, destroyed forever in a battle somewhere on the northeast reaches of Gondor. Who now was left to hear the words from the deep reaches of a troubled younger brother's heart?

Their mother Finduilas was just a memory and an artist's image sitting on a table by Denethor's bed. Faramir had no immediate family left, no more siblings, and no wife, for he and Boromir had spent their adult lives protecting Gondor from the ever-growing menace to the East. Marriage was a matter only brought up every few years or so, most often by their father. And children? If the brothers had any by-blows, their mothers had never spoken up and demanded recognition and compensation for the offspring.

Who remained of his company and his friends? Most of the Rangers posted at Henneth Annun had died in the retreat from Osgiliath and the tragic attempt to retake that beauteous ruin. Among them were most of his friends who hadn't died in earlier battles. Who was left? Who remained that he could call friend in this city for which his family had sacrificed their lives?

Poor, pitiful me, Faramir finally reproached himself in an attempt to stop the grief from churning. He watched the steam rise from the cup of kavay. Though his heart was steeped in misery and guilt, surely he nevertheless deserved to indulge in this Ranger's simple pleasure. He took a sip, then some more, finding that the warmth and the robust taste of the hearty drink penetrated the darkness in his heart.

As Faramir sipped his hot drink, a knight bounded into his room, interrupting the his tortured thoughts. The visitor was an exceptionally tall, broadly muscled man. An ornate silver breastplate engraved with a graceful ship in the form of a swan spanned the knight's barrel chest. Faramir's heart leapt. The soldier's magnificently worked helm bore the half-unfurled wings of the swan on its sides. The curved neck and proud face of the huge bird rose in the center, anchoring the lowered visor. With a quick gesture, the man pulled off his helm, discarding it on a chair. In two great strides, he was at Faramir's side, leaning over and kissing the bedridden man's brow.

“You've come. You're here,” Faramir gazed at his uncle, feeling a small stroke of hope do battle with his gloom. Imrahil of Dol Amroth met his nephew stare for stare, holding Faramir's shoulders for a second, before he situated himself on the bed, at Faramir's side. Imrahil's black hair was streaked with more gray than Faramir remembered. The Prince still favored a shortish hair style in the unlikely shape of an overturned bowl. His face was clean shaven, as was the manner of the men of Dol Amroth. How long had it been since Faramir had seen his mother's brother? Why had he never noticed the wrinkles at the corners of the thin-lipped mouth and in the corners of the grey eyes that Faramir knew were carefully assessing him?

"I trust that you will recover completely, though I must say that I have seen you on better days,” Imrahil chuckled ruefully, but then became grave. “I deeply regret that Dol Amroth could not join in the defense of the city until after your father's death. All our forces were engaged in a sea battle with an armada of Corsairs--evidently paid mercenaries of Sauron, the lot of them. Yet we found unlooked-for aide from Lord Aragorn. He came to us at the head of a ghastly horde of spirits, bound by an oath made to Isildur thousands of years ago. It was quite remarkable.”

“Aragorn can command ghosts?” Faramir was amazed. “Who could imagine that a man of these times would have such extraordinary abilities? He seems to have walked out of legend.”

“Yet I knew him in my youth, though he served your grandfather under the name of Thorongil,” Imrahil said. “He was friendly to me, but your father ever saw him as a rival.”

The Prince continued, “With the help of the ghostly army, we made short work of the Corsairs and commandeered their ships to Minas Tirith. Seven hundred knights of Dol Amroth accompany me. Most will remain here to support the defense of Minas Tirith, should matters go ill. I have instructed them to take orders specifically from you, now that you have awakened and are more or less lucid.”

“And what of you?” Faramir asked, feeling dread creep upon him.

“I go with a contingent of 20 who volunteered to accompany Aragorn to the Black Gate,” Imrahil said simply. “I freely gave my oath to Aragorn as my liege lord, nephew. If we all survive, I will recognize him as king, as I was told you also have done. So I ride with Aragorn to acknowledge this oath and the debt that Dol Amroth owes him for ridding our harbors of the Corsairs.”

Imrahil stopped and seemed to be waiting for Faramir's reaction. When there was none, the Prince of Dol Amroth continued, “The Stewards have ruled our land for a thousand years yet none of the Steward's family could ride with this desperate host. None except me, though my tie to your house is by marriage, not by blood. So in my way I also wanted to represent you, who remains of that family.”

The Prince leaned in toward him and said in a hushed voice, “The Tower Guards have sealed off Denethor's quarters but they let me enter, no doubt due to our kinship. On your father's bed side table, before the woodcut image of your mother, your father left the tokens of his office. He left them behind, perhaps for later generations to see.” Faramir gasped. A chill ran through him.

Imrahil turned his head to look into the hall. “I'll be back in a few minutes.”

_________________________________________________________________

Before Faramir had much time to consider Imrahil's words, the Prince returned in the company of a young lad: “This is Hyermandecil, whose father recovers in a ward down the hall. Young man, help me to assist Lord Faramir to his feet.”

“Please call me Hyer,” the youth said with a trace of bashfulness. He gaped at Faramir, most likely astonished that he'd been called to the bedside of the Steward's son. “I'm pleased to meet you, my Lord Faramir. Truly pleased. In fact, I can't wait to tell my friends.”

Somewhat embarrassed by Hyer's outpouring, Faramir willed himself strong enough to get out of bed unaided. Though once on his feet, he needed to steady himself by resting his good hand on Hyer's shoulder.

“Hyer, bear witness to what transpires now,” Imrahil intoned gravely. He reached into his knight's pack and withdrew the White Rod. “Here is the symbol of the Steward's authority,” he placed the rod on the bed. “And here is the ring of Mardil Voronwe.” Faramir's left hand clung to Hyer's shoulder for balance, as Imrahil took his right hand and placed the onyx ring of the Stewards on his index finger. To Faramir's surprise, the ring was a trifle tight.

“Go now, boy,” Imrahil ordered. “Be prepared to tell anyone that you know that the symbols of the Steward's authority survive and that you have witnessed Lord Faramir receiving them.”

“Oh, I will, Prince Imrahil, sir. And Lord Faramir, if you feel lonely, my father is in a ward just down the hall. It would thrill him to meet you. My dad's saddlery outfitted Lord Boromir's troops.”

“Why, I'll come and visit him,” Faramir brightened as he carefully slipped back onto the bed. The boy turned on his heels and disappeared.

Faramir looked long at his uncle's face, seeing a man who had triumphed in many sea battles over the many decades, yet who would be off soon, to a battle on land from which Imrahil might not return. At length, he spoke, “I am astonished at the lad's words, Uncle. I sent two hundred men to their deaths. They trusted me, but now I am the last of the company left alive.” He felt the level gaze of Imrahil, watching, evaluating his words. “Their families should hate me and resent my assumption of this ring and rod.”

“Those who marched with you loved you and respected the authority of your father. That's why they followed you. And I suspect that most of the people of Gondor still love you, Red,” Imrahil countered gently. “The only one who doubted your ability as a leader was your father. And he sowed those seeds of doubt in you. You might doubt your ability to lead our country, but I don't. Hyer and his father don't doubt you either. They are counting on you. I declared Lord Aragorn as my liege lord, yet my heart still lies with the House of Hurin and my beloved older sister's son.”

Imrahil grabbed Faramir's hand, “This is your chance, nephew. The final battle might very well be at the gates of this city. For myself, I breathe easier just knowing that you will lead should we fail, and Minas Tirith becomes the place where the West makes its last stand.”

He leaned forward and kissed Faramir's brow, “Oh, and one thing more, Red, see to your appearance. I realize that your living situation was far different as a Ranger in the field, but you are Steward now. You must now look the part. Put some effort into your appearance.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, Faramir found himself grinning, briefly remembering how Imrahil used to scold Boromir and himself for having slovenly grooming. He took one last look at his uncle, always impeccably turned out though he must be nearing 65. Imrahil grabbed his beautiful helm and departed to a fate no one could foretell.

What is the state of the city? Faramir wondered, feeling the exhaustion that plagued him return not long after Imrahil's visit. There must be plenty to do to re-fortify Minas Tirith, but where to start? He closed his eyes and slowly considered matters. So many had died. Who were the survivors, and would they follow his lead in rebuilding the city? 199 were dead because they had followed him to Osgiliath, or so he had been led to believe.

In his mind he saw the Witch King on that terrible day. He heard the despicable wraith hiss, “They're all dead. Go home and tell that to your deluded father, you incompetent weakling. Tell him Angmar has won. And only after that do I give you permission to die.” He felt the pain of the Southron's dart as it pierced his neck. “No,” Faramir answered back this time. “No! You are dead by the hand of woman and hafling. Your dust combines with my father's on the Pelennor fields. Your forces are defeated but I am not. None of your ilk can defeat us. I will rebuild the Great Gate!” His eyes flashed opened as he sat up violently.

A woman screamed. It was the nurse Nienor who had evidentally been in the room while he was asleep. She raised her hand to her mouth and ran from the room. Faramir collapsed against the pillows, surprised and shaken. The room was lit by candlelight. He realized that it was evening
The Chief Nurse Ioreth came into his room, carrying a lantern. Nienor crept up behind her. “See here, Lord Faramir, you've scared the poor girl,” Ioreth chided him as though he were five years old. “She fears the look in your beautiful eyes.”

Which Faramir closed automatically as he sighed, “I'm so sorry, Nurse. I scared myself, too.”

“Oh, you didn't scare me, my Lord Steward,” the young woman stepped out from behind Ioreth's broad frame and figgeted, eyes downward. Her face was red. She seemed to be trembling, but she spoke clearly, “That is, I was afraid you were getting worse in your illness.”

My illness? Faramir thought. “See here, good Dame Ioreth, I must know what is going on with me and when I can be free of this bed,” Faramir demanded though he intentionally kept his voice soft. “Bring the Warden to my room, if not this evening, then tomorrow. I will lie here inert no longer.”

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

This "movie verse" chapter was originally prepared for the faramir_fics community on Live Journal.

Prince Imrahil was not cast in the films. However, I have a great love and respect for the Tolkien canon, and couldn't resist casting Imrahil in my story. He's one of my favorite minor characters. To remain true to Movieverse, I left Im out of the Siege of Gondor. But to also remain true to canon, I'm sending Imrahil off to the Black Gate with Aragorn. I hope you like my version of the Prince. I promise that he'll return later.

Chapter Five: Black Breath

“Ah, Imrahil,” Eowyn grinned. “He does like to lecture you, doesn't he?”

Faramir sat up on the daybed and put his arm around his wife, “He was always on my side, 'Wyn, as far back as my childhood. It was so good to see him in the Houses of Healing, when I felt that I had lost everyone who ever mattered to me. I think I'll ever be that scruffy, unwashed lad to Imrahil.”

She nuzzled her head into his armpit, “You are that scruffy, unwashed Steward to your wife right now.” Eowyn held in her laughter as she watched her husband groan. “It will be difficult enough to dine with the King and Queen tomorrow. I would not sit with them and be constantly reminded of your odor.”

Faramir stood up, resigned to visit the huge oaken tub in the bath cubicle adjacent to their sleeping chamber. “I thought you were nervous and uncomfortable about visiting the King tomorrow? Now it's become your excuse to make me take a bath. I wonder how clean was the former Strider before Arwen took up residence with him? But very well. I'll do your bidding, but I still hold you to your promise of telling me when you first realized that you loved me.”

Eowyn rose a bit clumsily, her bulk slowing her down. She wrapped her arm in Faramir's and said, “Then I shall be your chamber maid, pour water down your back, give you a good scrub, and try my best to remember when I first loved you. It should be a lovely, memorable bath.”

As they walked slowly down the hall, an unbidden memory came to Faramir of another bath, in the steaming pool of the Houses of Healing.

___________________________________________________________

Hurin, Keeper of the Keys, sank into the chair beside Faramir's bed, his voice weary from concern, "Five thousand Rohirrim camp on the Pelennor and protect the ruins of the Gate. Erkenbrand and Elfhelm, two of their Marshals, are in charge of their forces. Save for the 200 or so that followed Eomer, he that succeeded King Theoden, in the host of Aragorn." Faramir did not know the wiry, middle-aged Hurin well, though the two of them had coordinated on security issues for the Tower of Guard in the past.

Hurin continued, "Of our own forces, so many have died that their number is not rightly known. The soldiers that survived are in the city, repairing their homes, seeing to their families, or repairing themselves here in the Houses of Healing. My assistants tell me that it is whispered on the streets that those who remain of Lord Boromir's former troops await your word."
"Do they, then?" Faramir considered this information in silence. A full day had passed since the Captains of the West had ridden out of Minas Tirith, bound for the Gates of Mordor. He was pleased, though not really surprised, that Hurin had not followed Lord Aragorn's host to the Black Gate.

"I hold council with Erkenbrand and Elfhelm daily. They are good men, though unused to the ways of city folk. I suspect that they find us spineless,” Hurin said matter-of-factly. “They tell me that their warriors are growing restless. They feel vulnerable in their encampment outside the city, grumble about sanitary conditions, and worry about their families. Erkenbrand thinks that some have already deserted and are on their way back to Rohan."
At that moment, Faramir suddenly felt the now-familiar onslaught of deadly exhaustion and despair. His muscles began to tremble, but he gritted his teeth. "Tell the Marshals of the Rohirrim to bring their forces into the first circle of the city. Have them work on clearing the debris of the shops. The warriors of Rohan can then use these shops as their quarters while they work on the task that I will give everyone."

Suddenly, in his memory he could hear the very voice of the Witch King on the day of the disastrous charge. The fate of the city is more important than me, he thought grimly. With this thought, he found his mind clearing. “Tell the Marshals and those that survive of my father's ministers to come meet with me tomorrow...” But then he stopped in mid-sentence. In the open doorway stood Narmar, the Warden of the Houses of Healing, with a deep scowl on his lined face.

“My Lord Steward, councils are ill-advised for you now, in your current state,” the Warden's tone was emphatic, not welcoming any arguments.

“What current state?” Faramir found the strength to defy him. “No one has been direct with me as to my ailments, not to mention the affairs of Gondor, since I fell. Hurin has been trying to tell me of the state of the city. I ask for only an hour or two tomorrow to meet with the Marshals of the Rohirrim and my father's surviving ministers to plan for rebuilding the city's walls. They will speak. I will listen. That will be enough. Isn't there a room in this place that could accommodate us?” His eyes searched Narmar's face.

Narmar stepped back for a moment, as though disconcerted. But then he conceded, “Very well, then. You can have the library and adjacent garden for your meeting tomorrow. For two hours. That is it. Then you need to rest.”

Hurin got up and quickly departed, as though relieved to get out of the tense situation. The Warden, on the other hand, was not in a leaving mood. He stood at the side of the bed, laid a hand on Faramir's forehead, and then grabbed his patient's wrist, assessing the pulse rate.

“What of my wounds, Warden?” Faramir questioned the healer. “ How long have I been here? And how long will it take before I can draw a bow and wield a sword?”
“Four days since you were brought here, at least. And , ideally, you must stay abed another four,” Narmar observed him steadily.

“In the field I would have been up yesterday,” Faramir said archly.

“No, you wouldn't. You do not realize what ills plague you. However, I deem that you are well enough to endure a necessary treatment today. I have to attend to the Women's Quarters. When I return, we will begin your treatment, at which time I will give you my prognosis.”

Faramir nodded slowly. Half of his battle would be won if he could just know what was going on with his body. Surely these wounds would heal, but in how much time? Before the final doom came to the walls of Minas Tirith? Lying in bed, Hurin's news and the confrontation with Narmar finally got the best of him. His eyelashes persisted in closing over his eyes. The scuttle of someone moving beside his bed awoke him.

“Sssh. The Chief has sent me every day since you came here, but Warden Narmar has outright refused me entry to your room.” It was Beregond, son of Baranor, and looking not well at all. A great bandage was wrapped around his head. His right eye was covered with a patch, beneath which black bruises and a map of tiny veins descended. His left hand was covered in a cast that went halfway up his forearm. Something else was odd about the guardsman, Faramir noted. Beregond wore a full tunic of rich, wine-colored wool with a heavy belt of tooled black leather—and no weaponry or mail. He was not in the uniform of the Tower Guard.

“You have seen your share of action,” Faramir finally said, after pondering Beregond's surprising appearance.

In response, Beregond grabbed Faramir's right hand and raised it to his lips. Much to Faramir's amazement, Beregond then knelt beside the bed, kissed the huge Steward's ring, and began: “Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm...”

Faramir listened quietly, moved by Beregond's heartfelt renewal of his oath to the Stewards' House. It was strange to see this incredibly tall and well-formed man on his knees, doing homage to the new Steward, who was actually his long-time colleague and friend. “I accept your fealty,” Faramir spoke the formal words, but then added gently, “I trust your loyalty above most others, Beregond. The oath that you gave to my father when you first joined the guard would have sufficed for me.”

“But not for others,” Beregond's voice was agitated. “I presume you know of Lord Denethor's last hours and what transpired during that time?”

“I know how I came to have itching bandages about my legs,” Faramir said laconically. “Peregrin, son of Paladin, told me of my father and the pyre. I gather that you were present, as well?”
“I came by these wounds trying to prevent the whole incedent,” Beregond exclaimed. “But your father and some of my guardsmen mates felt my actions were traitorous. A fight started, where I came by these injuries. And the Chief was forced to remove me from the Tower Guard. I have a wife, three young children, and now no way to support them.” Beregond sat down on a chair beside Faramir's bed, his long legs and arms sagging beyond the small seat. With great emotion, he recounted his fight with his fellow guardsmen outside the door of the House of the Stewards. Neither man realized that Narmar was standing in the doorway until the Warden cleared his throat rather conspicuously.

“Ah, Guardsman Beregond, now that you have managed to sneak in while I was out, could you help me assist Lord Faramir to his treatment?”

Beregond nodded, looking slightly abashed at being caught breaking the Warden's rules. The two helped Faramir onto his feet and wrapped him in a plush, full-length robe.

“It's a bit of a walk,” Narmar explained as he gestured down the hall. “You might need to lean on the Guardsman.”

“I can walk by myself,” Faramir insisted, though his burned legs felt loose and his balance and strength seemed somewhat off. He moved slowly down the hall, aware of the pain-ridden murmuring of the men in the ward rooms. The nurses scuttled down the hall, bearing trays of medications and infusions. A few nurses nodded in deference as the three men passed. For a moment, Faramir didn't fully realize why they slightly curtsied.

Narmar led them through a magnificent double door, bordered with inlaid ivory of ornate, geometric design. The three stepped into a small courtyard and immediately were overwhelmed by the intense sunlight reflecting off the marble walls of the buildings.

“Ah,” Beregond groaned, covering his bandaged eye with his good hand. “How is it that light can pierce through this foul patch?”

Faramir's eyes were startled by the brightness, as well. The sunlight was clear and brilliant, breaking through the air that seemed so cold for March. He stopped for a moment. “Everything is so still,” he remarked. Still and dry. His body again felt sapped. Again, the memory of the Witch King tried to penetrate his consciousness. I can do this, he thought resolutely, and straightened up.

“Come,” Narmar beckoned them through the courtyard to a building that was isolated from the large hospital wards. This building must be considerably older than its neighbors, possibly hundreds of years older, Faramir thought. He had never seen a structure with such an unusual architecture, for the oblong bottomed building was roofed by three blue and white striped, onion-shaped domes. The blue stripes glittered in the bright sunlight.

Faramir and Beregond followed Narmar into the building. “This is where you will have your treatment, my lord,” the Warden said, waiting patiently while his companions caught up with him. When they did, Faramir and Beregond stopped abruptly, amazed by their magnificent surroundings.

What had looked like a small building, on the inside opened into a large, spotlessly clean hall. The air in the vast room was tinged by a slight metallic scent. The domed ceiling above was divided into mosaic bands alternating with long, narrow windows, which let in the light from the gleaming blue sky. From a distance, the ceiling mosaics seemed to be decorated with a pattern of animals and fruit vines.

“Incredible,” Beregond gasped, craning his neck. “Eru's curse on this lousy patch. I can only see half of the ceiling without aggravating my neck.”

As he looked up at a single cloud drifting across the ceiling windows, Faramir felt his balance give way. He grabbed onto Beregond's shoulder with his left hand. As he straightened himself, he noticed that the room space was mostly taken up by three pools. The largest was furthest from where they stood. Two men were swimming slowly across its length. A second, unused pool was closer, small and square shaped. The nearest pool was surrounded by a tile ledge. It was oval in shape. Steam wafted up from the water.

“Why, it's a hamam,” Faramir said in amazement. “I've seen the ruins of the great hamams of Osgiliath, but had no idea one existed in Minas Tirith. And functioning, too. How old must this one be?”

“I believe it was built by the first Stewards,” Narmar said, as he motioned Faramir to a bench. “ My guess is that this is probably the only remaining operational hamam in Gondor, save for the few in Dol Amroth that the Prince maintains. This one pre-dates the Houses of Healing, which were built around it so that patients could have treatments there.”

“Treatments?” Faramir chortled. “More likely these are just huge baths for the patients.” He considered his own words for a moment, then the realization came to him, “Do you mean that you got me here on the ruse that I would have a treatment, when what I'm actually going to have is a bath?

“Lord Faramir, I need to remove all your wrappings today,” Narmar explained, “at which time I can give you a complete assessment of your injuries. The pools are the most effective way to clean out wounds, particularly the burns, so that I can determine their state and see if any infections crept into the injuries after they were bound.”

“What you are really saying is that I need a bath,” Faramir said, trying to control his annoyance.

“The nurses have been complaining,” Narmar sounded a bit hurt, as he and Beregond helped Faramir out of his robes. Just then Faramir noticed the portly, balding man sitting patiently on a bench beside the great pool. Damned if it wasn't Boromir's regimental barber with his shaving kit on the bench beside his great belly. He looked up and smiled at Faramir in acknowledgment.

“My uncle is behind all of this. He put you up to it!” Faramir protested. He did not want to get wet. He did not need to get wet. A quick dip in the Anduin was all a Ranger ever needed. All he could think of was Imrahil's memorable parting advice, “Look to your appearance, Red.”

Nevertheless, when he was stripped of all clothing except his many bandages, Faramir enjoyed the feel of the warm, moist air of the hamam against his exposed skin. What a contrast from the air on the banks of the Anduin, which, except in summer, was always freezing.

“Your uncle did mention that he was concerned about your hygiene,” Narmar admitted, handing Faramir a towel. “Here you are, my lord.”

Faramir stared down at the towel, a bit confused. “I'm not wet yet.”

“To be used as a drape, for modesty's purposes,” the Warden pointed out.

“Modesty?” Faramir was baffled. He stood stark naked in a huge hamam populated by exactly five males. The only windows were in the ceiling. Why should this be an issue for the Warden—who obviously had never served in the military, where everyone got clean by throwing themselves naked into a stream—but wait... “Good Narmar, does this bath serve women, too?”

“They are in the women's half,” Narmar answered, as Faramir wrapped the towel around his hips. “That's better. After all, you are the Steward, now.”

“I think he means that the towel makes you look dignified, above and beyond your average Beorn,” Beregond teased, as he and the Warden led Faramir to a fountain against the near wall. There a statute of a maiden poured water from a vase into a shallow pool. As Faramir sat on a bench beside the fountain, he noted that the statute wore a short, sleeveless tunic, simply belted at the waist, as Numenoreans were often depicted in art.

Narmar indicated a bar on the wall above a bench by the fountain, “Have a seat and hold onto the bar while I remove your bandages. And here is a cloth for you to hold in your mouth.”

“I don't need to bite down on a cloth,” Faramir said adamantly, though he did grasp the bar lightly in his left hand.
“What will hurt you the most is actually the adhesive materials pulling against your uninjured skin,” the Warden pointed out, as he, fast as lightning, removed the bandage from Faramir's right side. Before Faramir could realize that it hurt, the bandage was gone.

“This,” the Warden said, “is from an arrow that pierced beneath your hauberk. It hit your ribs and is not very deep. It seems to be healing cleanly. Now Guardsman Beregond, please help the Steward to raise his right arm. This next wound will most likely hurt the most when exposed.”

Faramir's right arm was very weak, muscles and tendons complaining as he rested it on Beregond's shoulder. The Warden slowly unwrapped the extensive wrapping around Faramir's chest and beneath his right armpit, to expose a nasty, inflamed puncture. Faramir gripped the bar with his left hand and took a sharp intake of breath.

“An arrow went several inches deep beneath your armpit, but missed any vital organs. It has some infection that should be stayed by the baths and some salves I'll put on it.”

“These wounds don't sound very serious,” Faramir mentioned to Narmar.

“Not in comparison to that gut wound, certainly” the Warden said, having no doubt seen the old scar on Faramir's upper abdomen. “This wound will prevent you from drawing a bow for some weeks, however. And then you will have to rehabilitate it. You might be able to wield a light sword sooner. But see here...”

The Warden lifted Faramir's stringy hair away and quickly removed the bandage at the base of his neck.

Faramir realized that he was falling. His desperate ride had found him outside the hidden gates to the Sewers. The screeching Witch King on his wretched steed was perched above him on an overhanging roof. Below him was the Southron, his right hand raised. There was no pain, only overwhelming despair.

“My lord,” Narmar shook Faramir's left shoulder slightly. “Are you all right?”

The ruins of Osgiliath dissolved into the warm humidity of the hamam. Faramir shook his head to clear it, making the tiny wounds on his neck cry out in anger. Now he only saw the Warden, who knelt beside the bench and stared directly into his eyes. Beregond sat beside him, slowly lowering Faramir's right arm from his shoulder.

Faramir sighed. “That is where the Southron's dart pierced me.”

“The dart brought on your fever and the death-like state that evidently fooled your father,” an overwhelmingly sad expression came over the Warden's face. “The poison might have killed lesser men,though it shouldn't have killed you. However, there was another aspect, something that I knew nothing about.” He began to unwrap the strips of fabric that bound Faramir's burned legs.

“And that was?” Faramir prompted when the Warden ceased speaking, evidently concentrating on the state of the exposed burns. They didn't hurt much but they weren't very pretty to look at.

“You know the story behind these burns. They should heal with minor scarring,” the Warden got to his feet. “Here is some soap. Wash yourself in the fountain. Gently. Do not scrub. Then get into the steaming pool. Beregond, help Faramir to soap his right side. ”

Faramir stepped gingerly into the fountain. He could tell that the Warden was withholding information and was not happy to reveal it. “What was that aspect of my injury that you knew nothing about?” he persisted gently, trying to catch the Warden's eyes. As weary as he was, Faramir knew that he must get to the bottom of this mystery before he could totally recover his health.

The Warden turned his gaze on Beregond, as if to avoid looking at Faramir. Narmar said, “The Black Breath.”

“What's that? Just the name of it gives me the chills,” the guardsman shuddered.

“Mithrandir said it was caused by close exposure to the Nazgul,” Narmar spoke slowly, with great difficulty. “How close did you get to the Nazgul, Faramir? I've only seen them once or twice, in the air, horrible though that was.”

Now rid of surface grime, Faramir stepped out of the fountain, “Oh, the Witch King and I knew each other well,” he said, full of sarcasm and the joy that his tormentor was now dead. “His troop's steeds were favorite targets of mine. I don't think he liked that at all.”

“What are you saying?” Beregond looked most horrified. “I can't imagine anyone getting close to those Nazgul, unless you were in the claws of one of their beasts.”

Feeling extremely exhausted, Faramir again grasped Beregond's shoulder as they walked slowly to the steaming pool. He said, “I've snuck up on various Nazgul in the past. I could never kill them. But I could repel them with fire. And their terrible mounts are remarkably easy to bring down with a couple of arrows. You have to get within close range to them, though.” Faramir remembered the last Fell Beast his arrows had pierced, just as its rider was about to swoop down and carry off the Halfling Frodo, Son of Drogo.

“Mithrandir was right, then,” the Warden concluded. “He said that you had long been exposed to the Nazgul. This exposure, the Black Breath, diminished your ability to ward off disease and death. You couldn't fight the poison from the Harad dart and so were dying when you came to our wards. Lord Aragorn was the only one who could bring you back from the lands of the wraiths. There were others who also suffered from Black Breath, though not to the degree as yourself. Aragorn suggested that your long exposure to the Black Breath might still cause you lingering despair, unclear thinking, and despondency.”

So that was it, Faramir thought. That's why the Witch King's face and voice still torment me, even though he has fallen. He asked, “What can I do to heal myself of this malady?”

“I'm not sure,” the Warden admitted as he and Beregond helped Faramir climb the short steps at the rim of the hot pool. “It might be that your mind and heart need to be healed, as well as your body. Hot pools are a good place to start.”

Faramir stepped into the pool carefully, surprised and delighted by the feel of the steaming heat lapping about his ankles. And then he put one burned leg into the water. “Great Manwe's Balls!!” he thundered.

“My lord!!” the Warden cried.

"Varda's bloody...”

“Faramir, watch your language. Think of the women!!” Narmar cut him off resoundingly. “Now get in the pool very slowly. The burns might hurt but the hot water is therapeutic for them.”

“Women? Where are they?” Beregond's apparent concern evaporated into an amused grin.

The Warden gestured to a row of rectangular lattice-work panels where an inside wall joined the bottom of the domed ceiling. “This hall shares those ventilators with the women's section. They can hear us quite plainly.”

Only slightly abashed by his unconscious resort to Ranger invective, Faramir let the rest of his body sink carefully into the pool. Except for his blistering calves, the effect of the steamy water on aching muscles and barely healing wounds was marvelous. Mmmm. He could handle this. It wasn't torture at all, although who knew what to expect from the final step in the treatment, the waiting scissors and razor of Boromir's barber?

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

This "movie verse" chapter was originally prepared for the faramir_fics community on Live Journal.

The word "hamam" is Turkish. It refers to the vast bathing halls that were common in the Ottoman Empire and can still be found today in Middle Eastern and North African countries. In my imagination, the hamams of Gondor are more like the great Roman baths. I was fortunate to visit the ruins of the Roman Bath of Aquae Sulis, which is in the British city of Bath (of course). From ancient communal baths to today's luxurious spa's, people soak in mineral springs for curative as well as cleanliness purposes. Why shouldn't Faramir? And why shouldn't Eowyn? Stay tuned.

Chapter Six: The Stranger on the Patio

“You are really enjoying this, aren't you,” he grumbled as she handed him a bar of newly milled soap. It was no accident that she had taken up the art of soap making as a hobby, he thought. As if sweetly smelling soap would ever entice him into daily bathing.

Eowyn sat on a stool chuckling, remembering.

_____________________________________________________________

It all started when she woke up feeling so much better. She had been in bed for two days and certainly that was enough. Now she had to put her plans for departure into action. Unfortunately, when those plans included demanding her clothes, Nurse Gertrudis revealed their sad state. The warriors' garments that Eowyn had worn when she was brought to the Houses of Healing were essentially unwearble. Her leather armor was destroyed. Only her coat of mail had survived relatively intact, and it was at the armorer's being cleaned.

“And what of the clothes in my pack?” Eowyn asked, feeling very impatient. She thought, I need to speak to someone in authority and don't want to approach him dressed in a hospital chemise and blanket.

But when Gertrudis and her assistant, young Thera, brought in Eowyn's pack, all three gasped to see that it had been opened, most likely by scavengers on the Pelennor Fields. Most of the contents were gone, save the only women's garments that Eowyn had packed. Her brown surcote was ripped and blood stained. Her simple white under tunic had fared better, but the upper arm of the sleeve was too fitted to accommodate her accursed cast.

“I've got to get something to wear,” Eowyn muttered through clenched teeth. So that I can get out of here. So that I can be on my way to join Aragorn's host. Every moment I spend here is a moment lost.

Gertrudis looked at her with one skeptical eyebrow raised, “I don't understand, My Lady. You don't need more than hospital clothing for your bed. Are you expecting a high visitor today?”

“No. I expect to get out of here today,” Eowyn controlled the urge to stamp her foot in annoyance.

“But my Lady, the Warden's orders are for you to stay abed for a week,” Thera's timid little voice insisted.

Eowyn would have none of that. She sat up with great determination, steadied her muscles, and said in her most icy, authoritative tone, “Then you bring the Warden to me and tell him that I demand to be released from his cage. And find me some respectable women's garments, for which I assure you that you will be well compensated.”
Gertrudis and Thera gaped at her for moment, as though aghast that such words could come from someone who--no doubt from their perspective--seemed too fair or too womanly to have such resolve. Then they scurried out of the room as though all of Saruman's Uruk-Hai were in pursuit.

When they left, Eowyn hung her head. She was running out of time. The Captains of the West were moving farther and farther from Minas Tirith with every breath that she took. But that was no excuse for her behavior toward the nurses. Eowyn, you are acting downright haughty, just like a royal witch, she berated herself. The very type of person she had promised herself she would never become, despite her birth and her position. No reason to be so high-handed with the nurses, who have given you good care so far. They were just obeying orders, after all.

She got up from her bed and settled down on the window seat. Her view was of the courtyard below, surrounded on all sides by three-story buildings. To her left, a patio was raised about three feet above the courtyard level. Two nights ago, the courtyard had been filled with cots containing groaning bodies. Today, however, just a few unoccupied cots remained. Most of the wounded that she had seen earlier had either been released, or died, or removed to wards within the Houses of Healing. For a moment, her curiosity about the great hospital challenged her strong desire to be free of its stifling environment

Then Eowyn heard Thera at the door. In her hands, the nurses aide held a cream-colored garment. The nurses aide lowered her head and moved into the room cautiously. Eowyn got up as quickly as she could and went to Thera's side. “I am so sorry for my words before,” she apologized, “but I am in great unrest.” And as she said these words, Narmar, Warden of the Houses of Healing walked into her room, followed by Dame Ioreth and Gertrudis.

“Lady, you are not healed yet, for all that you say that your arm is at ease,” Narmar concluded after examining Eowyn's arm and listening to her entreaties. “I really cannot give my approval in the matter that you ask. You cannot mount a horse with your arm in such a cast, or ride any distance until you regain your strength.”

Eowyn sat upright on the bed, her back stiff and straight, refusing to be weighted down by his words or the unwieldy device on her left arm. “I will sicken far worse than I am now if I am forced to remain in this room, condemned to my bed,” she spoke coolly, though her words were defiant. “There must be something I can do within the City. If you refuse to let me join the Captains, then perhaps I can help Ioreth and the nurses?”

The chief nurse had been standing patiently behind the Warden, holding her tongue. Now Eowyn could see Ioreth's kind but mobile mouth spring into action, “You need two good hands to set bones and replace bandages, dearie. Give your arm a rest, or it will trouble you greatly later, when you need it for important activities.”

“Like embroidery?” Eowyn said archly. “My left arm IS at ease, as you must admit, my Lord Warden. It only troubles me when I remove the sling or jostle it the wrong way. All I need is a horse and an assistant to help me mount. Together we could find the path of the great host."

The Warden sighed and sat down on the bed beside Eowyn. “I am a healer. It is not my wish to also be your jailer. I only ask you before you go off is to be realistic about your own limitations with a large cast on your arm.”

“Well, then, tell me who commands in this City, that I might that I might take my request to him?”

Narmar paused for a moment, as though unsure of the proper response to her last question. Then he said, “So much has changed due to the siege that I don't really know. Under normal circumstances, by right it is the Steward of the City who commands.”

“Then will you speak for me to the Steward?” Eowyn said earnestly. Could it be that someone in this infernal institution was willing to take an action to do more to help her than to condemn her to that cursed bed? Freedom. A horse. And as far as the cast was concerned, she'd demand that it be replaced with a lighter sling.

Narmar cleared his throat. “I will not speak for you, Madam because I cannot support your mission. I would not have you set foot outside the Houses, let alone the gates of Minas Tirith. You must speak for yourself. The Steward is resident in this building. He was sorely hurt but is now on the path to health.”

Eowyn paused. The thought of actually asking the Steward to redress her complaint suddenly filled her with dread. Her uncle had told her much of the formidable Steward of Gondor and how he had let the alliance with Rohan fall into neglect. Would he think her a hysterical woman, not worthy of his time? Would he find her little more than a whining child, though she was years past her thirtieth birthday? Nevertheless, she would speak to him and do her best not to be intimidated, “Tell me of Lord Denethor.”

“Why Lady, he is dead,” Warden Narmar said, evidently with some surprise, as though he expected her to have been informed of this matter. “Lord Denethor fell in the siege some three days ago. His son Faramir is here. He was gravely wounded in battle, and in fact, like yourself, was healed by Lord Aragorn. By the laws of our country, Faramir is now Steward of Gondor. He is still quite weak, but insists that starting tomorrow he will meet with various officials of the city. Perhaps he will have enough time and enough strength to consider your request—if you have enough strength to speak that request in the first place.”

Eowyn noted the continuing look of disapproval on the Warden's face as he continued, “Really, My Lady, you tell me that you have long worked with the injured and sick. Would you advise someone in your condition to have a meeting with the Steward of the land, who is in even worse health than you are?”

She answered resolutely. “If it meant that she could be free to fight beside those she loved, then I certainly would. Warden, our very world could collapse in a matter of weeks. We could be dead or taken into slavery by Sauron. It is not always evil to die in battle, even in bitter pain. Would you be a slave? For myself, I don't expect to live long enough to see my arm thoroughly healed.”

Narmar seemed shocked at her words. He hesitated before finally responding, “Then I will take you to Lord Faramir. But I must warn you to be forthright and not use any method of deception to get your way. Faramir has the clear sight of the Numenoreans of old, which the old wives and Dame Ioreth insist has not been seen so fully in a man for many a century.”

These Gondorians have strange ways and obscure words in their Westron speech, Eowyn thought. What could the Warden mean by clear sight? She said, “I am a friend of Lord Aragorn, who, I might remind you, is of the highest Numenorean blood. If he too has clear sight, then he has not chosen to frightened me with this unusual gift.”

“Well spoken!” Ioreth applauded. “Well spoken, indeed.”

The Warden gave Ioreth a warning glance before continuing, “My wife and her company of gossips chatter about the Steward and his family day and night, for want of better entertainment. According to them, Lord Denethor considered Faramir's ability to perceive events at great distance as a weakness and despised his son for it. I personally have witnessed how Faramir can look deeply into the hearts of men. I warn you that he might be perceptive enough to understand the hearts of women, too, although such a feat is difficult, in my opinion. So heed my warning and do not use guile or women's wiles when you treat with him.”

“Hah,” Eowyn laughed and then winced, as her arm complained. “My mother died before she could see to my raising. So Theoden King had me educated in the ways of the soldier and the doctor. I do not know of women's wiles. I insist on seeing this Steward.”

“Then I will come for you mid-day tomorrow. You can take your petition to Lord Faramir.”

At last, at last. Eowyn thought. Someone will finally spring me from this trap. She got up up from the bed, about to head out into the hall, but the motion caused her shattered arm to complain again. Eowyn let slip a string of Rohirric curses upon the aggravating limb. Why, oh why, had she consented to remain in this prison for yet another day?

“Women's wiles? Of all the nerve.” Eowyn grumbled to the nurses. “Does Narmar expect me to simper and cry, or pout until the Steward does as I bid?”

"No doubt,” Ioreth laughed. “Still, the warden warns you true, when he says that Lord Faramir can see what lies in men's hearts. My husband was once Faramir's commanding officer. Supposedly, the clear sightedness scared poor Faramir as much as it did his fellow rangers. Nevertheless, I doubt sincerely that he can understand the hearts of women. Though, he probably thinks he can.” Gertrudis laughed as she carefully assisted Eowyn into the luxurious, cream colored robe that Thera had brought.

Ioreth continued, “Come, dearie, we do have something to keep you occupied as well as sufficiently rested, I should think. Right, ladies?” Thera giggled a little as Ioreth continued, “We have a beautiful hamam with gifted attendants who can pamper you with treatments so that you can go to the Steward looking beautiful.”

“I don't need to go to the Steward looking beautiful,” Eowyn stood riveted, not moving though the nurses were about to head down the corridor. “I want him to listen to my words, not dwell on my face or form...And what is a hamam? I've never heard of such a thing.”

“It's a bath, Lady,” Gertrudis said, wrapping a guiding arm around Eowyn's back and gently steering her down the corridor. “Or rather, it's a hall with two great baths that ten women can sit in at one time.”

This was more than Eowyn could possibly imagine. In Rohan, those of royal blood bathed in wooden tubs that their servants filled with hot water. The lesser folk had no such fine facilities. The thought of immersing herself in a hot bath filled Eowyn with delight, though she wondered how she could do this with a massive cast on her arm.

The nurses walked her outside the building in which she dwelled. Ioreth was quick to point out that the bath was part of the Houses of Healing complex. The day was so intensely bright that Eowyn's spirits began to pick up, despite her best efforts to remain impatient and remote. When the nurses took her inside the hamam, she marveled at its beauty. The walls were completely decorated with murals, painted scenes of people of long ago, walking in a breathtaking forest so real that the walls seemed to expand beneath the forest eaves.

The baths themselves were not enormous wooden tubs, as Eowyn had expected. Instead, they were pools of blue water sunken into the blue tile floor. Thera pointed out that the long, narrow bath contained cool water, “We often come here after work on hot days for a swim. But surely you want the heated pool for your bath.” This pool was shallow and shaped in a large square; steam rose from it in inviting wisps. The nurses helped Eowyn to disrobe and showed her how to immerse herself with her cast resting along the bath's edge.

Two attendants, one young and one middle aged, entered the room. The young attendant, who introduced herself as Selenet, poured a mixture of sweet smelling herbs into the water. “To soothe your aching muscles, my lady,” she said. The older attendant Visme introduced herself as the hamam's official hairdresser.

Eowyn resigned herself to enjoying the bath. Her muscles, which had been strained and wracked from warfare and her own frustrations, gradually eased and loosened. It felt as though they were saying, “thank you, thank you very much.” She closed her eyes.

Then she heard a man's voice speak rather loudly a short distance away: “What you are really saying is that I need a bath.”

Eowyn looked up but no man entered the building.

“Is that anyone interesting?” Visme asked. Eowyn noted with minor curiosity that Selenet was climbing a staircase to a narrow walkway above one of the murals. Along the walkway was a row of open lattice-work windows. Eowyn recognized Narmar's voice, apparently floating in from the other side of the windows.

Gertrudis seated herself on a stone bench beside the hot bath. She explained to Eowyn, “That wall separates us from the men's quarters.”

Eowyn was surprised. “Why don't they just come in here? Hmm, do the men have finer quarters?”

Before anyone could answer, Selenet hissed down at them, “Why, it's the Steward. He's there with the Boss and another man. Narmar's making him wear a towel rather than walk about in the nude, and Lord Faramir is protesting.” She began to chuckle. “Thera, get up here. The Steward is a fine sight to see, although he is rather bandaged up and not walking well.”

Eowyn grinned slightly as she watched the young nurses aide clamber up the stairs to take her place in front of the lattice work. Eowyn asked Gertrudis, “Don't they see naked people of all shapes and sizes and ages every day in this House? I don't quite understand all the commotion. We of Rohan don't have great baths such as these. Most ordinary people use the rivers or pools for bathing. In summer, whole families typically make a holiday of cleansing themselves in our lakes.”

“Without clothing?” Gertrudis eyed her curiously.

“Why of course. The object is to clean the body, not the clothing,” Eowyn shrugged and rose out of the water, whereupon Gertrudis quickly wrapped her in the enveloping robe and shuttled her over to the row of basins where Visme presided.

The hair dresser yelled up to the women on the walkway, “You aren't telling us about the Steward's most important characteristics.”

From the walkway, Selenet said, “I can't until he drops that towel. Ah, there he goes to cleanse himself in the fountain.”

Ioreth, who had been sitting calmly on a bench by the cold pool, smiled as she warned, “Lower your voices, ladies.”

Paying very little attention, Selenet squealed, “Ah, hah, from the distance he certainly is, ahem, larger than my husband. But then, I think that the Steward is far taller than my husband. So I would say, judging from the men I have seen pass through here, the new Steward is endowed in proportion to his rather lofty height, though no larger or smaller than one would expect.”

“Lady Eowyn, you must come up here for a good look at the Steward before you meet him,” Thera teased over her blushes.

“Is he so different unclothed from any other men, that I must sneak such a peak without his knowing of it?” Eowyn retorted. The steam had turned her muscles to jelly, quite dampening any desire she had for walking up a flight of stairs just to look at a naked man.

“Well, he is certainly different from Lord Denethor,” Selenet laughed. “Lady Eowyn, your husband must be a fine looking man for you to show such disinterest ...”

“Sssh, enough enough,” Ioreth pointed a finger at Selenet. “I believe that Lady Eowyn is unmarried, and so, Visme, note that her hair should be dressed as such.”

Eowyn could hear the audible astonishment from the other women, as if they wondered why a woman of her title and her appearance should not be married and a mother many times over. Suddenly she felt overwhelmingly sad. Young women like Selenet and Thera, easily ten years her junior, had families of their own. The pleasures and pains of marriage had not been for her, nor would they ever be if she rode out from Gondor tomorrow. But then, everything and everyone in this beautiful hall could be destroyed in a few weeks time.

Following Visme's instructions, she lay her head on the rim of a basin while the hairdresser poured water and then soap on her hair.

A minute or so later, with her shampoo complete, Eowyn was startled by a voice suddenly ringing out from the men's quarters. The protester sent forth a chain of particularly salty oaths, which provoked an even louder outcry from Narmar. What a fine, descriptive language Westron is for cursing, Eowyn thought. But the two women on the walkway put their hands over their mouths, their faces red as they tried to stifle laughs.

“Get down from there!” Ioreth whispered as loudly as she could. “Narmar knows what you are up to, and I'll have to answer for your silly behavior. Men can be excused for letting forth oaths from time to time, particularly those men who have fought in our defense.”

Ioreth got up off her bench and wandered up to Eowyn, who tried to sit still as Visme combed her three feet of soaking hair. “Ah, but we women know better than to stoop to such language, don't we?” Ioreth beamed at Eowyn.

Eowyn grimaced to herself, Oh, for the opportunity to land a few choice words on Visme, who shows no mercy while untangling a snarl.

Ioreth continued, in a jolly mood, “One of my unmarried daughters is about your weight, though probably taller. I'll see if I can borrow one of her dresses for you. You can't go to meet the Steward in naught but a sling and hospital shift.”

Eowyn sighed as she endured her hair being combed and oiled. She would certainly be sent to the Steward cleaner than she had ever been in her life, irregardless of her attire. Despite her discomfort over all the attention made to her appearance, she let the nurses fuss over her and finally return her to her room. At least the rituals made her day go by, and kept her mind off her dire situation, her aching arm, and tomorrow's encounter with the Steward.

When night came and she found herself finally alone in the modest hospital bed, Eowyn found at first that she could not sleep. So she let her imagination wander onto thoughts of Aragorn, as she had every night since he had returned her from the brink.

Could he see into the hearts of men, as this Steward was rumored to do? Aragorn had not seen into her heart, or he would have known of her love. Or perhaps she was wrong, Aragorn had indeed seen into her heart and knew he could not return that love. She thought of him as he left her, before the gateway to the Dimholt. She pictured his fine face, his sharply etched features, and his quiet voice saying, “I have wished you joy since we first met.” What joy, she thought bitterly, still picturing his face as she fell into a restless sleep.

A dim figure of a man penetrated her shallow dreams. A shadow, but she knew it was the Numenorean, he who had drifted in and out of her dreams since she became a woman. This night his face was agonizingly vague, but sometimes it took on the distinct features of Aragorn.

Some time later Eowyn's dreams were disturbed by the voices of men outside her window. It must be very late, she thought, long past midnight. Who might be up at this hour? She squirmed slightly, her eyes still closed, and tried to get comfortable despite her bulky cast and thick hair that had wrapped itself around her body. Yet the voices drew her from her attempts at sleep.

“I can't thank you enough,” one of them said. “I could not support my family without my guardsman's pay. And this position is far more than I could ever hope for.”

Another voice said, “I should be thanking you. I obviously need an assistant. And for now, you can also be my representative to the people. The blasted Warden won't let me out to represent myself.”

Eowyn grunted into her pillow and thought, Does everyone held in this house feel trapped like I do?

The first voice continued, now scarcely audible, “The people are afraid. I hear them whispering among themselves in the markets and on the streets. They saw a high and strong man leading a host of Gondor's finest fighters out on what to them seems a fool's errand. I heard a few say that he is the restored King of Arnor, now come to save Gondor in its hour of need. But most are skeptical. And many think that the Steward's line is extinct—that you are dead.”

Eowyn's eyes sprang fully open. A faint light filtered in from the window. Compelled by the half-heard conversation, she rose from her bed as she heard the second man let out a mirthless exclamation, “I can see that I still am alive and hope to remain so.”

She grabbed the creamy robe, hastily draping it around her as she went to the window. In the courtyard below, an extremely tall, heavily muscled man dressed in an elegant black tunic and cape stood on the cobblestone patio. A thick white bandage wrapped around his head, compressing curling black hair streaked with grey. A patch covered his left eye.

From behind this fellow came the voice of the second man, “At noon, then.”

The man in black gestured to his companion with a hand wrapped in a cast. Eowyn studied him carefully as he walked off with the limp of one suffering a back injury. Then she returned her gaze to the patio. The second man, who until now had been nothing more than a voice, was standing on the patio and staring up at her. Relentlessly.

Her first inclination was to toss her head at such an indignity and walk away. Then she told herself, take the measure of this impertinent lordling first. There was something about him that was oddly compelling. What could it be? This rude man too was tall, though not as lofty as the man in black. His coloring was not at all what she would have expected from a Gondorian. In the hazy torch light, his shortish hair waved barely past his shoulders and seemed to be the color of sundried grasslands. But indeed, it was his face that seemed so unusual--his beard. In the dim light it appeared to be red. The few Gondorians she had met so far were mostly olive skinned and dark haired. But here stood a fair one with a red beard.

The stranger stood there, humbly dressed in dark leggings and a plain blue shirt that could not completely conceal the heavy bandages at his neck and chest. Despite these modest garments, he emanated such a commanding presence that she almost was intimidated. She fought the to turn away, overcome by a shyness she didn't usually feel. Then he smiled just slightly at her. It was not a challenge to her own quick appraisal, but more of a gentle greeting. She felt her lips push into a grin before she turned away, having had more than her fill of this strange encounter.

Eowyn sank into her bed, her strength utterly drained and her arm feeling testy. I will speak to the Steward tomorrow. Now that I have seen him, I feel more reassured. But what of his operative, the Steward's assistant, who had given her such intent looks. Who might he be? I must remember tomorrow to ask the Steward.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

This story was originally created as a challenge for the faramir_fics community on Live Journal. The challenge asked writers to write back story for the Faramir sequences that had been added to the "Return of the King Extended Edition." "Avoidance" is Movie Verse, which is why Faramir is a red head and why Eowyn, like Miranda Otto, is 33.

The word "hamam" is Turkish. It refers to the vast bathing halls that were common in the Ottoman Empire and can still be found today in Middle Eastern and North African countries. In my imagination, the hamams of Gondor are more like the great Roman baths. I was fortunate to visit the ruins of the Roman Bath of Aquae Sulis, which is in the British city of Bath (of course). From ancient communal baths to today's luxurious spa's, people soak in mineral springs for curative as well as cleanliness purposes.

Chapter Seven: When Éowyn Met Faramir

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

"Avoidance" is Movie Verse, which is why Faramir is a red head and why Eowyn, like Miranda Otto, is 33.

The "rwist" that occurs in this chapter relates to an incident that occurs at the end of the previous chapter. That sequence is my attempt to interpret the "balcony scene" encounter of Faramir and Eowyn, which only occurs in the films. If you haven't read that chapter, you might want to check out its last few paragraphs for illumination on "When Eowyn Met Faramir".

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“I didn't grab you when we first met.”

Faramir sat up to his chin in hot water as Eowyn worked his red-gold hair into a lather of bubbles. “Not like Lord Aragorn,” he continued. “He grabbed you the moment you met, so you have told me. Are you the kind of woman who likes to be grabbed?” he teased, and then whirled around clumsily, attempting to pull her into the enormous oaken tub. But she had anticipated his move and was out of his range before he swung his arms out to grab her.

She turned her back on him, feigning disinterest in any tussle. Then she wheeled about and advanced on the tub with a bucket full of cold water, which she promptly overturned on Faramir's soapy head.

“Wild woman!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs, making ready to splash her. But he stopped in mid move when he detected the abrupt change in Eowyn's mood. She carefully settled herself beside the tub, then reached in to place her hands on his slippery shoulders.

“When I first met you, you grabbed my breath,” Eowyn said gravely. “You weren't at all what I expected, 'Mir. I did not love you from the first moment we met, if that's what you want to know. But I admit that you grabbed my breath.”

__________________________________________________________

She stood by the bed, willing herself to stay frozen, as the women gathered about her, pinning, plucking, combing, and performing all sorts of unnecessary female rituals that under happier circumstances she would do for herself. On her body was the dress that Dame Ioreth's daughter had lent her. Not surprisingly, it was too big. It hung like a great gray bag--albeit a soft, decorative, and beautiful gray velvet bag--about her body and six inches beyond her feet.

A nurse named Nienor from the men's wards was recruited to raise the hem and tack the loose garment into pleats just below Eowyn's breasts. As if that Gondorian fashion were strange enough, the sleeves on the dress were equally unusual, bell shaped and wide at the arms eye. Fortunately, the large opening for the sleeve made it easier to slip a cast-impeded arm through the arms eye. The nurses' aide Thera had found modest slippers for Eowyn's feet. Nurse Gertrudis hung a simple gold chain around her neck. Then Gertrudis bound a clean sling around Eowyn's cast.

By this time, Eowyn was growing nervous, though she held herself steady and pursed her lips. It would soon be time to speak to the Steward and then leave. Leave!! Which would take longer now because she'd have to get unpinned from this voluminous, ill-fitting dress. And then, could she convince Gertrudis to break open and remove the cast on her arm?

The hairdresser Visme came in from the hamam, fully expecting to paint Eowyn's face.

“I don't want makeup,” Eowyn muttered, holding her temper in check. “And please roll my hair atop my head. I would do it myself if I had two useful hands.”

“Don't you want to appear at your best when you speak to the Steward, my lady?” Gertrudis gave Eowyn a puzzled look.

She always seems to be confused by my behavior, Eowyn snorted to herself. But she said evenly, “I want to dress appropriately, of course, and I appreciate the efforts that you have gone to. But why should that include makeup? My face is adequate enough. Visme, I'd prefer to have my hair pinned up, to preserve some sort of formality even in this institution. Just duplicate the style of Gertrudis.” Eowyn liked the way Gertrudis' dark brown hair was pinned in a tight, austere chignon with just a tendril loose at the back of her neck.

But Gertrudis shook her head adamantly. “My lady, you must wear your hair loose and down,” she insisted. “And wear makeup. Perhaps you don't understand our ways, but trust me that this is the proper way for a highborn woman such as yourself to approach the Steward.”

I want the Steward to listen to my words and not think me a helpless painted woman, Eowyn groaned inwardly, though she was careful not to let her feelings spill onto her face. She stoically endured Visme's makeup application and another excruciating hair comb out. By this time, the smell of lunches being delivered to the inhabitants of the women's ward had traveled into Eowyn's room. However, the scent made her nerve-rattled stomach sicken, rather than groan for food.

When Visme's ministrations were complete, Thera brought over a three-foot looking glass. Before Eowyn could see her reflection, Warden Narmar had come, ready to escort her to her fate. As they were about to leave, Eowyn caught a fleeting glimpse in the mirror. A lovely woman with a bright shaft of blonde hair, a shimmering pearl gray dress, and a tight, frigid face floated momentarily over the glass. That is not me, she thought as she lifted her head. Not me at all.

I am a daughter of Rohan's greatest family, she told herself, proudly raising her chin and trying to forget that she brandished an ignoble broken arm in a sling.

Narmar escorted her down the corridor, past the portico that opened onto the courtyard , and further, much further, past rooms filled with women patients, who most likely had been injured during the siege. They went past the large doors to the outside world and descended a wide marble staircase. The staircase opened onto an immense lobby, nearly the size of the Golden Hall of Meduseld. The lobby floors were entirely of marble, covered here and there by thick pile rugs embroidered in flowing designs. For the first time Eowyn was fully aware of the splendor of the Houses and the fading might of Gondor, even though they were displayed in--as she told herself--naught but a big hospital.

Few people were congregated in the lobby, save for a couple of women in modest woolen bliauts, who sat at a highly polished oak table. The Warden motioned Eowyn down another set of stairs. They passed through a wide corridor with walls of gleaming burnished mahogany. Decorative shields hung near the ceiling, bearing colorful standards. Eowyn briefly wondered at the significance of those standards as her stomach tightened. As they walked, Eowyn and Narmar passed various Gondorian men, clad in elaborate fur-lined robes, mail dully glimmering beneath the edges of soft wool surcotes.

And then, as they approached the wide glass door at the end of the hall, there was Bema, assistant to Erkenbrand himself. “My lady,” he exclaimed and lowered his head just briefly before he walked up to her eagerly. “We have heard that you were safely held in this House. And I must say that you look as though your health is restored.”

Eowyn shot a glance at Narmar before she said, “Good Bema, I am here to visit the Steward. I understand that he was meeting with officials of this city.”

“Why yes,” the high colored lieutenant flushed, as though thrilled to be addressed by the woman now second in line to Rohan's throne. “Erkenbrand sent me to make plans with Lord Faramir for the reinforcement of the great walls. It seems that our forces will be moving quarters into the lower parts of the city. My lady, it would be wonderful for everyone's morale if you were to visit us...”

She started to reply, and suddenly found herself choking back tears. She did not want to tell Bema that she had no time to visit with the brave warriors who had sacrificed all to come to this strange land. She said, “Before I can do that, I must speak to the Steward. Which way do we go?”

Bema gestured behind him, where two imposing men entirely clad in plate armor, stood sentry on either side of a magnificent doorway with a border of colored glass panels. Both guards wore audaciously decorative helms and black tabbards bearing the magnificent standard of a sinuous white tree. They held ornate steel pikes, which they struck on the ground twice in unison as Eowyn and Narmar approached.

Beyond the guards Eowyn saw several splendidly-appareled Gondorians who conversed excitedly with a few officers of Rohan. When she and Narmar approached, they all looked up quite abruptly. Eowyn nearly jumped out of her skin, for the very largest of the Gondorians was the man she had seen last night. He was easily distinguishable by the bandage around his head and eye as well as his considerable size, even more imposing now that she was but a few feet away from him. The large man was dressed in a luxurious velvet tunic the color of red wine, a heavy gold chain draped around his shoulders. It was clear that the others had been paying him particular attention.

Eowyn drew herself up proudly though she felt her knees tremble. Before she or Narmar could say a word, the large man stepped forward to her and said in a voice that rang like a bell, “My Lady of Rohan, well met indeed!” Eowyn heard the others express their approval as the large man gently took her uninjured arm and lifted her hand to his lips. Her utter surprise as he kissed her hand almost caused Eowyn to lose her high demeanor. It must be a custom, she told herself. It's a custom to greet a lady thus.

Though he clearly stood a head taller than her height, Eowyn willed herself to look up to the man with as much candor and strength as she could muster. He smiled down on her, a delightful smile that raised his thick black eyebrows and made his sympathetic dark eyes sparkle. With a slight sense of relief, Eowyn addressed him boldly, “I would make a request of the Steward of Gondor.”

“Very good, my lady. Allow me,” the big man said, as he placed her right hand in the crook of his left arm. “I will take you to him.”

Her feet would have slipped out from under her if the big man hadn't quickly propelled her through the others. So swift and efficient was he that Eowyn didn't have time to say, “But aren't you...,” when they stood before a broad desk of ornately carved wood. Behind that desk sat the Steward of Gondor, the second man she had seen last night, the stranger on the patio, the very man with whom she had exchanged stare for stare.

Dimly Eowyn heard Narmar say, “My lord Faramir, here is the Lady Eowyn of Rohan, who dwells now in my keeping.” She was far more aware that the breath had gone out of her body. The Steward, Lord Faramir, resumed his habit of staring, seemingly taking even greater measure of her now that they stood at the same level. Eowyn was sure she felt his blue eyes unapologetically bore through her clothing in an attempt to locate her heart.

Behind her, Narmar continued, “She is not content and wishes to speak to the Steward of the City.” Breathe, Eowyn told herself. Breathe. I must make my case without gasping. This Steward might be able to see into the hearts of men, but I wonder if he's merely curious about what's beneath my chemise.

The Steward raised his eyes to look above her, as though observing what was happening with the others in the room. He did not raise his body from his chair, to show Eowyn proper respect for her sex and her status. He did, however, raise his arm in a sweeping gesture, “Councilors, this is Lady Eowyn. We of Gondor owe her a great debt, for she and the Halfling Meriodoc son of Saradoc rid Middle Earth of the Witch King of Angmar.”

Did the men actually say, “Hear, Hear?”

Disarmed by the Steward's abrupt change from wordless interrogation to hearty praise, Eowyn again found herself short of breath. She could not allow herself to be distracted from her purpose. She gathered her pride and said, “Do not misunderstand Warden Narmar. My care has been of the highest quality but I no longer need caring. I looked for death in battle, but it did not come. Now the battle rages on, far from the walls of your city. I would be off to meet that battle now.”

“But what would you have me do, Lady?” the Steward regarded her keenly once more, though this time he seemed more respectful. “If it lies within my power, I will do it.”

She gulped. Then she spoke out, her voice struggling to keep from choking, “I would have you command this Warden and bid him to let me go. I ask for nothing more than the return of my warrior's armaments and garments, a good horse, and a guide to help me find my way through your country until we reach the great host.”

The Steward paused. His hard blue eyes softened. Could it be that he would grant her request?

The Lord Faramir motioned to the extremely tall man, “Beregond, I think Narmar's presence here is a sign that it is time for my part of the meeting to conclude. Can you escort the councilors to my father's old offices, so that the planning can continue?”

The towering Beregond, whom Eowyn had mistaken for the Steward, nodded genially and shuttled the Rohirrim officers and Gondorian councilors past the great desk. The real Steward spoke quickly to each official as they filtered out the room.

In the resulting commotion, Eowyn unobtrusively studied the Steward. She concluded that the formidable and rather rude Lord Faramir's complexion betrayed his outward show of strength, with its washed-out, pallid cast. His red-tinged blond hair might possibly have been quite beautiful in other circumstances; for now it hung limp on his shoulders, clean but clearly lacking in health. And yes, his close-trimmed beard was red, all the more striking against his ashen cheeks. His deep blue V necked surcote partially covered thick bandaging across his chest up to his neck. Perhaps she should excuse his lack of courtesy, Eowyn thought begrudgingly. Faramir, son of Denethor, was obviously fighting against a grave injury.

When all but Narmar had gone, the Steward addressed the Warden in an even toned voice, “Leave us, my lord Warden, but please ask one of the nurses to bring us some tea. Do you take tea, Lady Eowyn?”

“I drink tea, if that is what you mean.” And tea would be really nice, Eowyn thought. I'm thoroughly parched.

“I don't drink tea, actually,” the Steward admitted. “But I do like the food that accompanies afternoon tea.” Eowyn looked at him slightly confused. The Steward clarified, “Sweet breads and breads mixed with cheese, which I would rather have with cavay than tea. Have you eaten lunch yet, Lady?”

She shook her head and realized that she was exasperated. She was hungry. She was thirsty. She was eager to state her case and leave. But now the Steward had finally decided to remember the proper formalities for visiting dignitaries—even those imprisoned in a hospital. It seemed that she would have to endure the formalities before she got an answer from the Steward

Lord Faramir raised himself slowly from his chair, gripping its top for balance. The slightest smile moved across his small mouth as he said, “My apologies, lady, for not being as gallant as my assistant Beregond. Please allow me to show you the garden, where I would hear your request in full.”

He moved carefully from behind the desk to stand at her right side and raised his left elbow. Eowyn did not understand the meaning of his peculiar behavior.

“Ah, you do not know,” the Steward turned slightly, reaching carefully for her uninjured hand, which he placed in the crook of his left elbow, repeating Beregond's earlier gesture. Something utterly strange and unexpected happened as a result. Eowyn felt her skin tingle where her hand rested on the fabric of Lord Faramir's sleeve.

They walked slowly out of the large room, which was lined wall to wall with crammed bookcases ,and furnished with massive desks and heavily upholstered chairs. The Steward's gait was unsteady, almost as if he should be relying on her to hold him up. Yet he held his own as they passed through a wide door onto a cold patio, where a solitary fountain bubbled. The Steward led her past the fountain to an opening in the wall bounding the patio.

She gasped inwardly, for before her was a small but delightful garden, just awakening in the week before Spring. Eowyn recognized the scent of tuberoses blended with other perfumes that she could not name. A soft expanse of dry grass opened up beyond the patio wall. Bushes arched over the colorless grass, peppering it with tiny pink and yellow blossoms. Plants with thick, succulent leaves hid the edges of the walls of the Houses of Healing. As Eowyn looked ahead, she saw the garden end at a broad ledge, beyond which spread the levels of the city of Minas Tirith and the plains beyond.

The Steward gestured her to a stone table and chairs beside the ledge, where they sat with the vista of Minas Tirith expanding in front of them. The air was dry and crisp. Eowyn felt a swift coldness bite into her, despite the heavy fabric of her dress. She was about to shiver when the Lord Faramir said, “Like you, I am in the Warden's keeping and a prisoner of sorts. I admit that something inside me wants to rebel against his rules. Yet I realize that he knows far more of the extent of my injuries than I do. I am glad that he has allowed me to meet with the officials today, even though I have not yet taken up my authority in the city. But had I done so, I still would listen to his counsel.”

Eowyn leaned in to him, “Let me explain myself plainly, then. I do not look for healing. I want to ride to war with Eomer and the others.” She managed to not stumble on her words as she thought of Aragorn. “If this be my death, I'll have my death be one of honor, like my uncle Theoden.”

Her train of thought was momentarily broken as an elderly nurse entered the garden with a tray crowded with foodstuffs. Two pitchers of steaming liquid, cups, and a large bowl of breads and buns were spread before them. The nurse served her with tea; for Lord Faramir she poured a nearly black liquid with a wonderful aroma such as Eowyn had never experienced.

“This is cavay,” Lord Faramir lifted his mug in her direction. He poured cream into the liquid and then added a teaspoon of sugar to the mix. “It comes from the land of Far Harad originally, or so the tales say.” He lifted the mug, looked at it, and sighed, “Sometimes the cup of cavay in the morning is the only joy a Ranger gets in his day. ”

Then the Steward leaned in to her, his wistful tone turning matter of fact, “It is two days at least since the great host left. Already mid-day has gone. You would need the rest of the day to prepare for your journey. They would have been traveling three days before you could set out in pursuit.

“It is too late for you to follow the Captains, even if you had the strength. I understand that your loved ones have gone to battle and you wish to be with them and face what might be your end. But death in battle may come to us all, willing or unwilling, whether before the Black Gates of Mordor or here, in a desperate attempt to save the White City. I council you to stay here and do as the Warden commands. If battle comes to Minas Tirith, I would be honored to have a warrior of your renown at my side.”

Eowyn's plans effectively stopped with a crash. She knew that the Steward was right, but the knowing was barely endurable. Her ability to fight was immaterial. Realistically, she could never catch Eomer and Aragorn before they gathered at the Black Gate. She tried to raise her head to show the Steward that her dignity was still intact, but she could feel her insides slump. A solitary tear dripped down her cheek as she said, “But Warden Narmer would have me stay in my bed for another week. I cannot lie there with nothing to do. And my window looks on a dull courtyard. Oh, that it looked to the East, where the host goes.”

The Lord Faramir leaned in to her, and it seemed that his face had softened. He said, “Then I will command the Warden to give you a room with an eastward view. If you will stay in this House in our care, and take your rest as the Warden has ordered, then I will insist that Narmar allow you to freely walk within this place as you will.”

For a moment, her deep disappointment lifted just slightly. She was still condemned to her prison, but she was free to walk about unaccompanied within its confines. A bitter consolation but better than isolation in a tiny room.

The Steward continued, “If it is your wish, then you can read the books of the library, or come to this garden and enjoy the sun. Here you will find me, walking and waiting, and also looking east, whither all our hopes have gone. It would ease my care if you would now and then join me here.”

Eowyn was startled. This was strange talk indeed. “How should I ease your care, my lord, for I would now prefer to wander alone and keep my own counsel?”

“Would you have my plain answer?” he asked.

“I would,” she said and then restrained herself from drawing back in surprise at the content of the veritable torrent of words that poured from Lord Faramir's mouth. How was she supposed to interpret his response when he said:

“Then, Eowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful.” On and on he waxed poetically about her various virtues, hardly plain speech by anyone's standards.

Ah, that was it, she concluded. She had wanted him to listen to her words but all the while he had been looking at her face. Or at her body. Or perhaps even through her dress!! Yet his words seemed so sincere as he concluded, “It may be that only a few days are left ere darkness falls upon our world. It would ease my heart, if while the sun still shines, I could see you still. For we have both passed into the Shadow, but the hand of Lord Aragorn drew us back.”

Eowyn gasped. At the mention of Aragorn's name, she could restrain herself no longer. “My lord, the Shadow lies on me still. Its cold hands grip my heart. I cannot give you healing. I am a shieldmaiden with a broken arm. For healing two strong hands are needed. Right now my hands are ungentle. But I thank you for permitting me to walk about as I will, by the grace of the Steward of the City.” She got up from her chair, nodded in deference to the Steward's rank, and then turned on her heel, not even taking a backward glance to see how he reacted.

She realized then that she was overwhelmingly tired as she retraced her steps up to her room. The terrible pain in her arm that she had ignored no longer could be denied. Her plans were thwarted by a practical dose of reality. What was left to her now except to wait, here in a strange land, while all who remained of her loved ones rode to their deaths? She found her room and felt oddly grateful as she collapsed , fully clothed, onto the very bed that she had tried so hard to escape.

Chapter Eight: First Sight and Far Sight

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

This chapter includes discussion of sexual matters, although it does not have any sex scenes, explicit or otherwise. The talk might not be appropriate for readers under thirteen.

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She sat on the stool beside the massive tub. Without turning around, he could feel her closeness, the heat that eminated from her body. She leaned forward. Her hands slid down his chest and onto his stomach, still acceptably lean after two years of marriage. Faramir reached up suddenly to grab his wife's forearms. Eowyn squeaked and tottered off balance. He wanted more than anything to pull her into the soapy water, so that she sat on his lap, alluringly sopping in her chemise. But there was the child to think about. Could their son be injured from such exuberant play?

So he caught her gently and steadied her arms so that she wouldn't fall. He craned his neck to face her. “I confess that you didn't grab my breath when I met you. Rather, you unloosed my tongue, much to my surprise.”

“You were a quiet man before we met, right?” Eowyn rested her cheek against Faramir's soft beard.

“I kept my own counsel in those days,” he said. “As did all who were posted on the borders of the evil lands. Though I could speak enough and well when the occasion called for it. But looking back to when I first saw you, I recall that you reminded me of a proud war-mare.”

“One who would thrill to bear her rider,” Eowyn let her lips travel over his beard.

“One of the Mearas,” Faramir assured her before he kissed her, “Great Shadowfax's great sister.”

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Faramir stood at the garden ledge, looking inward at the calm patio, its winter-quiet fountain, and the grand door to the library beyond. He noted the Lady of Rohan's form as she disappeared beyond a large stack of books. Then he slowly walked along the wall to the spot where the trees and buildings separated, giving him a clear view beyond the city's rings, beyond the Pelennor Fields. In the late afternoon, the air was astoundingly clear. He could see the shadows of verdant Ithilien and, at the very edge of his straining vision, the forbidding outline of the Ephel Duath. East, where all their hopes lay.

He concentrated, closed his eyes, and reached for the power Mithrandir assured was within him. But he could see nothing, certainly not while he was awake. Had the great host been besieged by Sauron's armies? Or did they march along unimpeded? The Captains of the West traveled on paths near to hidden Ranger strongholds. Faramir had not ordered the skeleton forces in these outposts to aid in the retaking of Osgiliath. On their usual patrols, the Rangers certainly would see the army as it passed.

Again, he concentrated on the eastern horizon, to no avail. He strove to know the fate of the Captains' army for any number of reasons, not the least of which was to assuage the worries of the Lady of Rohan. The proud and indecipherable Eowyn, daughter of Eomund.

He remembered feeling disappointed earlier, as they took tea, that she mentioned nothing at all about the incident last night. He had been standing in the courtyard, noting that it was no longer filled with ailing bodies, and wondering who among them still lived. Then he looked up, to have his deep thoughts shattered by her image in a window, like a luminous apparition. Her flowing hair and shimmering white chemise gave her an aura of gauze--a tenuous softness about her body. Her face above him seemed remote and stiff for all its beauty. Still he thought he saw her smile at last, a mighty queen condescending to smile on a poor yeoman. Oh, to be that poor yeoman.

The frosty impression of the lady was strengthened when he finally sat beside her in the garden. But then that fit of wordiness flowed out of his mouth. He became an uncouth Ranger from the farthest outposts of the South, reassigned to guard a fair noblewoman. He praised her beauty and could not stop. And then, like the floes on the Bay of Forochel, her icy features cracked.

“Lord Faramir,” Beregond's voice broke into his thoughts. “I have the results of the planning between the councilors and the officers of Rohan.” Beregond stood at the stone table and spread a length of parchment across the table's length. Faramir's mind had been so preoccupied that he hadn't heard his aide enter the garden. He sat down and tried to study the agreement that was reached.

“The engineers will have a design for us tomorrow,” Beregond reported. “Erkenbrand has promised half of his forces to aid in the rebuilding of the walls.

“What of our people? How did the ministers react?” Faramir spoke softly. His neck felt hot; then the heat traveled to his forehead. A single drop of sweat formed on his brow. The fever was returning. For a second, he thought he could hear a Nazgul's derogatory hiss.

Beregond's usually cheerful face looked grave. “The ministers and myself will go among the people tomorrow and try to persuade them to assist with the labor at the gates. We need many more workers, non-combatants, laborers, skilled tradesmen whose service in the army ended decades ago. These people cower in their houses, I am told. They persist in believing that the King who passed through here is naught but an ambitious Dunedain Chieftain, and that you, their only hope, are dead.”

They still believe that foul rumor. Faramir began to sink into despair. He walked slowly to a bench along the ledge and carefully lowered himself onto it. Unexpectedly, his thoughts traveled to a set of alert, clear blue eyes below a pale brow. A woman's eyes. He knew whom those eyes belonged to. Faramir drew a hand across his brow. So many things needed caring for. Nevertheless, he said, “Find out what you can about the Lady Eowyn. Has she been provided with a new room that faces East? And see to it that the nurses provide her with proper garments and shoes and...”

“And what?” Beregond asked. “What about the shoring up of the wall?”

Faramir struggled, trying to focus his thoughts on the dire situation facing the city. Finally he said, “I will draw up a proclamation. I think if the West succeeds, we can safely promise all volunteers land outside the city walls. Gondor is so depopulated now. The countryside needs to be filled. Still, that wouldn't squash the rumor that I am dead. I can't travel outside these Houses so that people can see me.”

He rose slowly. Beregond moved to assist him, but Faramir waved him off. The two went inside to the library, where Faramir hastily drew up the proclamation and handed it over to his assistant.

“Have copies made for the public places, and then have the criers read it throughout the city. I'll put the Steward's seal to the copies tomorrow,” Faramir said. Then he slumped, spent, into the plush chair behind the massive ornamental desk.

Beregond shook his head and sat on the desk beside Faramir's chair, “Perhaps you should go back to your bed and rest.” He grinned mildly, though Faramir perceived that his aide was greatly concerned.

“Her demeanor and her unbound hair led me to think she was unmarried--a maid, not a widow,” Faramir said, suddenly wistful.

Beregond jerked up, startled, “I would think her unmarried, too...but, well, shouldn't we continue planning the city's defenses?”

I was rude to her, Faramir berated himself. I spoke to her of her beauty when I should have planned with her to ease her stay here at the Houses. I forgot I was the Steward and acted the lonely Ranger beguiled by the sight of a lovely woman. With a clean scent and all her teeth. Yet to Beregond he merely said, “I am fully considering the city's defenses. However, I fear I might have offended Lady Eowyn, though it was not my intent. This is not a good way to improve Gondor's relations with the nobility of Rohan.”

Though Beregond said nothing, Faramir perceived that the huge man was on the verge of making a quip. So he took a deep breath and then continued, “Gather the ministers and also the heads of the major guilds, the carpenters, the masons, the black smiths, the bread-makers. Have them meet with me at midday in two days time. They can vouch to their people that I still live. And I am still planning to be alive in two days time.”

Yet when he returned to his modest room within the men's wards, Faramir was barely able to stand. The Tower Guardsmen, who had turned up outside every room he was in this day, at last made themselves useful by assisting him to strip down to his braes. Faramir slid beneath the bed covers. The exhaustion penetrated every muscle in his body. Curse that foul Witch King; he's dead but his taint still lingers.

Before he had a chance to close his eyes, Chief Nurse Ioreth bustled into the room, carrying a tray with the evening meal. She had evidently chosen to serve him herself, rather than delegate the duty to one of her comely minions—which did not bode well.

Ioreth was uncharacteristically quiet, though she looked at Faramir expectantly. He watched as she set the tray before him, curious at her silence. The Chief Nurse lifted the cover from the large bowl that occupied much of the tray.

Faramir set a spoon into the aromatic stuff and began to eat. The heat from the meal forced another sweat upon him, which this time cooled him off and broke his fever. He felt energy from consuming the simple beef, mushrooms, and potatoes. Could it be that the comforts of ordinary life had the power to defeat the fevers of the Black Breath?

“So what did you think?” Ioreth finally broke the silence between them.

“About?” Faramir mumbled as he chewed contentedly, though he was getting a faint inkling of the subject that Dame Ioreth intended to grill him on.

“About what, indeed,” the nurse said sarcastically, but then caught herself. “I am sorry, my lord. I continually forget my station. You are high above me now and not marching in attendance behind my husband's old battle destrier. I was curious about your thoughts on the Lady Eowyn.”

He hesitated. Ioreth was ever a busybody back when he was but a fledgling Ranger, and her husband Mersin was Faramir's mentor. Age had not withered that busybody in the least. Her nerve was astounding. “I would see that Lady Eowyn is comfortable in a room facing East,” he threw Dame Ioreth a crumb of his thoughts.

“Oh, my dear Faramir, the whole ordeal must have exhausted her, for she collapsed into sleep on her bed and didn't even lift an eyelash when we had her carried to her new room. We unpinned and removed my daughter's dress from the lady's body without waking her. She will have a happy surprise at the big window that looks onto the Pelennor Fields. Her room is far finer than this one, might I tell you.”

So she did not speak of me, Faramir thought, but he certainly wouldn't let Ioreth know his feelings. Perhaps Lady Eowyn would even forget his outburst after she'd had a good night's sleep. And that would be a good thing. Or would it?

“Oh, my lord, you must know that the Lady of Rohan is unmarried,” Ioreth continued. “I do not know if she is betrothed. A fine catch she would be, though a bit hard to handle, as you would expect from one of those wild Horse People. However, I suspect that she fancies herself far more stubborn and high-handed than she is in reality. She tries to give my staff trouble but she's actually quite sweet, for all her attempts at haughtiness. I suppose that there is some lord of Rohan what would petition the Rohan king for her hand, should this war end favorably. Though undoubtedly she deserves a man of higher station. That's my take on it. Surely you have some opinion of her.” And she cast such a look at Faramir that he immediately felt uneasy.

“Then I will tell you that I do feel sorry for her.” Faramir warned himself to control his words. Certainly Beregond had asked Ioreth for details of the Lady, which no doubt had emboldened the Chief Nurse. “She is alone in this House and does not know our customs. Plus a hospital room, even the most commodious of hospital rooms, is not particularly fine accommodation for a noble lady.”

“Indeed, indeed. Some flowers in her room might sweeten her awakening,” Ioreth commented as she collected Faramir's now empty tray. She observed him cannily for a moment and then teased, “I must say that you are looking much improved now that you've been cleaned up a bit. Good evening, my lord Steward, and to you, noble fellows, as well.”

Faramir grunted as he watched Ioreth leave. He couldn't see the “noble fellows” but knew full well whom Ioreth was farewelling: his shadows, the fellows of the Tower of Guard. The retinue of the Steward of Gondor. For as long as he remembered, the fellows of the Tower of Guard stood sentry outside his family's living quarters, and followed his father's footsteps wherever he went throughout Gondor. And now Faramir had inherited what he had never expected to have: the magnificent living quarters, the Stewardship, and the ever-present Tower Guardsmen to remind him of his responsibilities.

These all faced him and he must face them alone. He sank beneath the covers and closed his eyes, an immense sadness overwhelming him. This was not the Black Breath. This was not a result of being wounded and feeling the inadequacies of one condemned to a hospital bed. No, this was simply the fact that he now must go through life bereft of a brother and a father, no matter how difficult the relationship with that father had been. The sumptuous living quarters of the Steward would be inhabited by him alone, should he survive long enough to move into them. Faramir, Steward of Gondor, last of the House of Hurin.

When I am more recovered and the city defenses complete, I will order the construction of a tomb for you on the Silent Street, so that Gondor and I can remember you. He silently made a promise to his father and Boromir, even though they had gone beyond the confines of Arda and could not know his pledge.

The Lady Eowyn, too, must be mourning her uncle. Would it be appropriate to speak to Eowyn of her plans for King Theoden's obsequies? Or should he wait until King Eomer returned from the Black Gate? If he returned from the Black Gate? Poor Eowyn. She looked so lovely, so brave, so out-of-place in that great dress with her arm in a sling. And that coldness that seemed to collect all about her. Was that more residue of the Black Breath? Or was the lady simply, as he detected, cold as ice, and vulnerable to cracking when thawed?

Despite his grief, Faramir felt himself start to smile at the thought of the Lady of Rohan. She reminded him of a great silver destrier who had suffered a laming injury in battle and thus was retired and put out to pasture. His heart went out to the brave mare, who he imagined standing alone in her paddock, calling out to her war-bound companions, and watching her beloved knight ride off on some other steed. The lonely mare had naught to do but recover. If she were lucky, she might later be bred to a stallion of fine stock, also put out to pasture due to injuries.

Hmmm, would Lady Eowyn would appreciate being compared to a great war-mare? Faramir mused. A proper Gondorian lady would have been horribly offended by such a comparison. She'd think, “He means that I have a great long face, like a horse. Or that he means I am fat as a horse. Or that I am an old nag.” But a noble lady of the Rohirrim, the proud Horse Lords of the Plains? What might she think? He tried to picture her face in his imagination. He hadn't seen her for that long a period of time. Aside from her obvious coldness, he remembered a rather small but beguiling, somewhat sun-freckled face on a long proud neck, like a horse.

He slept. Deep. Without dreams. But at some point he awoke to pain and stiffness beneath his right arm and the sound of voices and movement outside his door. Sure enough, it was his loyal retainers, Tower Guardsmen Dorlas and Marod of the night watch, conversing with themselves.

“The Steward has been sleeping for some hours,” Faramir heard Dorlas say. “I'd deliver the message in the morning. This is the second night in a row that we've got messages of this type, particularly for the Lord Steward!”

Marod's voice said, “It was a strange matter. A woman covered in veils approached me outside the Houses, just before I reported. She bade me give her message directly to the Steward and tell no one else.”

Dorlas snorted, “They are looking for assignations with a sick man. Earlier, Lord Faramir could barely stand up. How could these ladies expect him to get it up, for even the most magnificent whore in all Gondor? Unless they are really looking to establish political favors early on, like exemption from taxes, now that he's Steward.”

Faramir squirmed. He was about to clear his throat and alert them to his wakened state when he heard Dorlas say:

“I certainly couldn't comfort a woman if I were in his condition, yet I wonder about Lord Faramir? You remember the talk about him and Lord Boromir and the ladies of the Blackthorn Inn?”

“Aye,” said Marod. “But it must have happened some years before I joined the military. The story was oft told among us rank and file rs when I had my basic training.”

Ah, that old rumor. No truth to that. Faramir answered silently. That brothel had 18 ladies in residence and no, the Steward's sons did not sample them all in one evening. They had merely paid that night for the services of the entire establishment. He had something like four women, too much to drink, and a raging headache when he woke the next afternoon in the bed of the Mistress of the Home. He could not vouch for what Boromir was doing, though he found out later that Boro hadn't stayed the night.

When Faramir returned home the next evening, his revered father announced that his second son's higher education had gone high enough. It was time for Faramir to fulfill his military responsibilities to Gondor. Two weeks later, at the age of twenty, he spread out a bedroll for the first time, in a humble Ranger tent beneath an uncharted shadow of the Ephel Duath.

Dorlas lowered his voice to the point where Faramir could hardly hear him: “I have heard strange tales about those Rangers. Tough duty out there in the wilds. Who knows what such duties might drive a good man to?”

Not me; I never had an interest. Faramir silently answered. He certainly knew what his loyal retainers alluded to. Again, he considered clearing his throat to alert the gossiping guards, before their speculations became too outrageous.

“Nah,” Marod said. “Not Lord Faramir. Too many stories of female trouble when he was a youngster, sowing those wild oats like we all do. The older one, though, now there was someone to wonder about.”

That was too much for Faramir to keep silent about. It was true that Boromir seemed to prefer the company of men to women. But Faramir knew that his brother had relations with women. In his youth, he'd been in adjacent rooms on various occasions when his brother was having relations with a woman. End of gossip. He moaned softly to try to get their attention, but kept his eyes closed.

“Thieves! Thieves! They've broken into the kitchens!” a woman's voice screamed from the end of the hall. “They are ransacking the meat closet. Help!”

Dorlas spoke swiftly, “He's asleep. He won't miss us. We'd better see what's going on.”

Of course, the Steward was fully awake, with a wildly pumping heart. Had the situation in Minas Tirith deteriorated so fully that simple hooligans were raiding public buildings for food? His eyes at first opened slowly, but then flashed open wide.

In front of him was a female figure swathed head to foot in wine-colored velvet, except for the flimsy veil that covered her face up to her nose. The veil was so transparent that he could see her perfect mouth when the veil sunk into it as she took breath. She could not have been more than 17.

“My Lord, I was sent here by the Mistress of IthilienFaire Inn,” the woman spoke hardly above a whisper, but the mere trembling of her breath told Faramir of her fear.

He sat up carefully, for his injured rib was troubling him. He had never expected to be propositioned in a hospital bed at an hour long past midnight by a mysterious swath of fabric.

The intruder continued, “My Mistress Doe Eyes says that you are an old friend. She asks if she or any of the employees of IthlienFaire can be of assistance, in the near future or perhaps this very night. Are you in need of entertainment? Or comforting?”

He couldn't help but smile. The lovely Doe Eyes, fairest courtesan in the White city, or so he thought, as a green Ranger on leave from his terrible duties. Life was lonely indeed in the far outposts, where one's job was to spy on and outsmart a variety of enemies. How the Rangers had counted the months until their brief leaves of absence. Sometimes all they wanted to do was merely talk to someone female other than an ornery war-mare or a malodorous she-orc.

He hadn't quite forgotten Doe Eyes' plush body squirming in real or feigned delight beneath him. How many years ago had that been? He had heard of her eventual rise to Mistress of her brothel, IthilienFaire Inn. And now she had sent him a little message through this frightened girl.

“Tell Doe Eyes that yes, I am quite uncomfortable right now. And I am quite lonely now. But the thought of sharing my small bed with a lively woman sounds even more uncomfortable to me, as I sometimes become plagued with fevers.”

She lowered her lovely painted eyes, a gesture of humility for the prostitute-in-training, Faramir noted. Then she said, “Would you prefer to be comforted by a man? We have some very comely and attentive gentlemen working in IthilienFaire Home.”

He grinned and wished the girl would remove her useless veil. He said, “Please tell your Mistress that at the age of 36 I still have no interest in being comforted by a male. My only interest in boys is in the recruiting and training of them as bowmen for the Rangers. Pass that message and my other words to Doe Eyes and to the other Mistresses who have been pestering my guards.”

The girl moved forward to the bed, grabbed his right hand to kiss the Steward's ring, when the two Tower Guardsmen ran in with a great racket. The guard Dorlas grabbed the girl and elevated her three feet from the floor, her bulky garments entangling both their bodies. Marod bellowed, “You again, you pestering tart. You made up the whole thing.” The bulky fabric of her garment bulged and contracted as she struggled, though not a word came from her mouth.

“Put her down,” Faramir ordered evenly.

Dorlas let the girl go instantly. She almost toppled to the floor when he swept her up again, this time to set her safely on her feet. He said, “There were no thieves in the kitchen. No one was in the kitchen, not even the cook.”

“You have to admire her enterprise. Her order was to deliver a message from an old friend,” Faramir grinned. “Young lady, please pass the news to Doe Eyes that I am still alive and getting better. Perhaps in a few weeks I can take up my office in the City. There Doe Eyes can petition me along with the other citizens of Gondor, so that I can find out the real reason why she wants to offer me whores' favors, when I am in a sick bed. And Marod, please have one of the guards downstairs walk the girl back to her place of business. I can't think of how late it is.”

The guard Marod swiftly escorted the girl out the door, as Faramir sunk back onto the mattress. Oddly enough, the post-midnight communication from Doe Eyes made him feel comfortable, comforted, and slightly less lonely. In this relaxed state, his mind began to wander, thinking,almost guiltily,of the Captains of the West. Where would they be? Surely they must have passed the hidden strongholds some miles north of Cair Andros by now?

His thoughts grew bright and strong, as though his body was inside the fort closest to the river. He felt as though he walked among the skeleton force that had stayed in place. He saw that they were intact, about their business of monitoring the northern reaches of the Anduin. He did not regret ordering them to not march South to participate in the siege.

As he wandered silently, undetected by the Rangers, Faramir saw many more men than he had assigned to remain in North Ithilien. Moreover, he recognized a few he hadn't expected to see again—Casta, Tarst, Earnil--Rangers who had been in Osgiliath when it fell. They had not returned with him on the retreat to Minas Tirith. Now, beyond hope, Faramir saw them as he walked about the River fort.

Lieutenant Castamir had gathered his sergeants at arms about him and was saying, “Anborn spoke at length with them yesterday, and now he rides to Minas Tirith with a report.”

Anborn? But he had volunteered to participate in the charge to retake Osgiliath. Anborn had died, hadn't he? Didn't he? Wasn't Faramir the sole survivor of the ill-fated charge? Or so he had been told—by the Lord of the Nazgul! How could Castamir be talking about Anborn? What was Faramir seeing? Was he dreaming? Were these images residue of the Black Breath sent to drive him mad?

Faramir did not have to force his eyes open from this dream because he had never closed them. Now he looked at the table and darkened window of his room in the Houses of Healing. He could hear the shuffling of the Tower Guardsmen posted on either side of the door. His mind was no longer among the Rangers.

I am mad, he told himself, but now he wasn't really sure. Was Castamir really talking to his sergeants at this very moment? Surely this vision must be hopeful wishes on my part. Mithrandir was right; I undoubtedly have farsight. However, I have been able to clearly perceive events at a distance only in dreams, never in my waking. Except once. Except that misty evening not long ago, on the banks of the Anduin, when the tragic boat drifted by.

Dreams were where his farsight functioned completely. But that night he didn't dream much. Only of orcs, orcs marching in poorly disciplined columns. Orcs smelling of the most odiferous orc sweat. They squashed each other as they weaved. They bumped him, and he couldn't tell if this was their typical marching style or that they simply didn't see him because he was so small.

“Lord Faramir, don't you want to get up now?” Beregond was leaning over him. The room was achingly bright. “The nurses couldn't wake you at breakfast. I should think you would be hungry by now. It's three hours past dawn, and very cold. There was a frost in the valleys, I am told,”

“And the other news?” Faramir asked carefully.

“There is no other news.”

Sadly, he asked Beregond to order another breakfast, to be delivered, this time, to the big Steward's desk in the library.

Faramir decided he was well enough to dress himself. He recalled had that Beregond and the guards had stuffed some clothes into the room closet. From these, Faramir haphazardly pulled on a simple shirt, leggings, and grey over- tunic. He was glad to find his trusty Ranger's cloak, which he tucked under his good arm.

As he headed to the library, trailed by the guards, Faramir thought, Had any of the ancient Numenoreans written about farsight, just what it was and how to distinguish it from madness? Was there an aged volume somewhere in the stacks that could help him? His vision last night had filled him with both dread and hope? Was he a madman? Or had he finally succeeded in all of Mithrandir's teachings?

Faramir was determined to find out.

Chapter Nine: Her Fateful Charge

AUTHOR'S NOTE

"Avoidance" is movie verse with a healthy respect for Book canon.

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Later that evening, Eowyn rose from the now tepid bath. Her husband sat on a stool nearby, peacefully watching her. As she stepped out of the tub and dripped on the tile floor, he rose and wrapped a heavy blanket around them both. Agreeably bound to each other, they made their way slowly to the bedroom. She felt warm, very warm indeed.

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She had been sleeping, curled up in a heavily cushioned chair in the corner of the cold library. At some point she heard the heavy volume that Warden Narmar had left for her, “Basic Medical Practices,” slip off her lap and land on the floor with a thud. She was too weary with grief to even care. She huddled, shivering in her light weight chemise and cream colored robe. At home in Meduseld, the sharp cold of winter and the powerful winds of the plains used to invigorate her. In this dank library the cold caused a deep pain to penetrate her muscles and bones

She was aware of the soft murmur of voices. Though she was certainly awakening, she dreaded opening her eyes. Happily, the overwhelming chill had lifted. In its place was an unexpected sense of warmth and security. Evidently, someone had covered her with a heavy cloak while she dozed. Her chin rested on the rough wool of its outer layer, but her arms and torso were comforted by the luxurious smoothness of deerskin. It was some man's cloak; it bore a faint scent of him. A ranger cloak, she told herself, like Aragorn would wear.

Eowyn did not want to be in the library. However, the only way to assuage her deep grief of this morning was to once again speak to the Steward. After his strange outburst last night, he was the last person she wanted to see. Nevertheless, see him she must. As she very carefully and very slowly opened her eyes--wouldn't you just know it--she saw him sitting at his big desk down the end of the row of bookshelves nearest to her corner.

The Steward's head was bent over a stack of papers, seemingly intent on his work. He was dressed somewhat haphazardly, in a surcote of rich but worn fabric, with a single braid for trim at the neckline. His wispy, reddish gold hair partially obscured his features as he worked. Then he suddenly looked up, as though he felt the heat of her curious eyes.

“My Lord Steward, “ Eowyn started abruptly, only to hear the Lord Faramir simultaneously exclaim, “You are awake, my Lady!”

For a second, they both were speechless. Then the Steward cleared his throat and continued, “Ah, I hope that Narmar found you a room more comfortable than this, uh, basement, Lady Eowyn.” The well-spoken Steward from yesterday seemed awkward this morning, nearly as awkward as Eowyn felt. His face was still relentlessly grim, but he no longer seemed to be scrutinizing and analyzing her every move.

Eowyn rose slightly, “Well, yes. I slept there last night. The view is what I had asked for. And very beautiful, besides. The room is filled with flowers that are different than you find in the Mark. I suppose a woman in different circumstances might be cheered to wake up in such surroundings. But as for me, I have a sadness--that is, I have a matter to discuss. That's why I came down here earlier. I fell asleep waiting,” she finished, sheepishly.

The Steward got up from his chair and walked toward her. Eowyn immediately noted that his gait had steadied in comparison to yesterday, and that his face had lost its striking grey pallor. Then he stopped and said, “Why, your eyes are red .... I'm sorry, lady. ”

She lowered her head, not wanting him to hear her sniff. She mumbled, “It is what I have come to speak to you about.”

The Steward held out his arm to her, “Then come, let's talk. ”

Eowyn now remembered that here in Minas Tirith, a lady was expected to put her hand on the arm politely offered by a lord, and let him escort her. She rose from her chair, wrapping the thick ranger cloak about her. Though she had little patience for what she'd seen of proper Gondorian etiquette, Eowyn condescended to place her hand atop the Lord Faramir's forearm. For a second, the contact made her tremble. Or was it that she felt the Steward tremble almost imperceptibly as her hand rested in the crease of his arm? He looked down on her and then seemed to relax, as he led her to a seat by the big desk. At that moment, Eowyn was reminded of Aragorn. He was not quite as tall as this Steward and somewhat lighter of frame. Unlike Lord Faramir, Aragorn had never made her tremble.

She felt a little foolish, like an uncouth young girl from the countryside, being escorted by the greatest man in Gondor. Oh rubbish, he's the same age as I am more or less, and I'm the one here who is of royal blood. He's merely the Steward of Gondor. Aragorn is their rightful King.

“Perhaps I can offer you more hope today than I could yesterday,” the Steward said.

“Hope is not what I want,” she looked at him directly. “There is no hope for me. Still, I must talk to you about my uncle, Theoden King. I have put aside thoughts of his fate these past few days in my own selfish attempts to leave your city. Did my brother or anyone else make preparations for his burial? What has been done with his remains? Where do they lie? I would like to see him again, but I agreed not to leave these grounds.”

The last sentence barely escaped her lips before her jaw tightened and prevented more words from coming out. She remembered well her awakening in the new room, after evidently being carried there in her sleep the previous night. Her thoughts were of Theoden, his bravery in the great charge, and his words of comfort to her at Dunharrow. She had willfully ignored his wishes, and now he was gone. Her injuries and her frenzied activities of yesterday had pushed the thoughts of her uncle's death to the back of her mind until today.

But in her new room, Theoden's shade threatened to obsess her. No one was there to see her: no nurse or healer. She could safely cry at Theoden's memory, so the tears wouldn't stop. Surely Eomer hadn't left without making arrangements for the king? She had to speak to the Steward, even if she hadn't liked his final words to her. The activity would distract her from crying.

The Lord Faramir listened to her carefully and then said, “Yesterday, Marshal Elfhelm discussed these matters with my aide Beregond, who told me that King Theoden's body lies in state in the Great Hall, beside the Steward's chair.”

As he said this, Eowyn detected a tone of regret in Lord Faramir's voice. She remembered how his piercing stare had made her extremely uncomfortable yesterday. Today he seemed vulnerable. Lord Faramir's eyes were indeed cast down as he continued. “You need not worry that you might not be able to see King Theoden before he is buried. The Numenoreans cared very deeply about how their bodies might be preserved after death. Their art of embalming is remembered to this day in Gondor. I've ordered these arrangements for Theoden's remains.”

He looked up at her then, and she sensed that he was deeply troubled as he said, “I wish the Numenoreans had passed the secrets of their strength and their statecraft to us, as well. They were far more concerned with holding off death than dealing with living.” Then he seemed to brush the introspective feelings aside, “Elfhelm and the other Marshals will meet with me and the chief Gondorian Councilors at noon, tomorrow, to discuss these and other matters that concern the defenses of Minas Tirith. You are welcome to join us. Do you know Marshal Elfhelm?”

“I do indeed. My brother was Third Marshal before Theoden King's death. Through Eomer I got to know the other Marshals,” Eowyn grinned for the first time all morning. “In fact, Elfhelm it was who let me join his eored in secret so that I could ride with the Rohirrim in defense of your city.”

Lord Faramir paused for a moment and then said, “I have never heard of a Gondorian woman involved in a similar adventure. It's about lunch time. If you don't mind sharing another meal with me, then I would enjoy hearing your story if it does not trouble you to tell it in the full light of day.”

Eowyn drew a quick breath. Here it was, almost a week since her feat, and no one had asked for her story in full. Admittedly, the telling might be tough and troubling. Yet now she realized that telling her experiences to someone might alleviate the grief she felt over Theoden. Lord Faramir didn't really know her and would have no idea of what was acceptable behavior for a lady of the Mark. He might not ridicule her or be critical of her.

The Steward then rose and took a few steps to the grand door of the library. A massive guardsman quickly appeared and stopped him. Eowyn watched as they talked. A wave of coldness passed over her, making her pull the Ranger cloak more tightly over her shoulders. Shortly afterward, the Steward returned to his seat. He shifted his weight a little, cleared his throat, and said, “I am glad that you've decided to talk to me at all after my comments last night. I'm sorry for being such a boor.”

Eowyn squirmed a little, “Well, I confess that I didn't know how to react. It is flattering to hear a man proclaim your beauty, but I have never put much value into flattery. Especially when it would come at the expense of another.”

“At the expense of another?” Lord Faramir seemed confused. “Lady Eowyn, if I had known that you had a suitor, I never would have presumed to speak to you as I did. You wear your hair loose and have no rings on either hand.”

Blast those nurses for primping me up and making me unwittingly advertise my single state to this man . Eowyn was exasperated, but she calmly explained to the Steward, “I am unmarried, my Lord Steward. Women of the Mark have different symbols than Gondorians use to show their marital status. We do use wedding rings. And when a woman of my country is betrothed, her fiancé gives her a necklace in recognition for the dowry that she brings to their partnership. Dowry necklaces can be quite elaborate. As you might notice, my neck is bare.” Her last words were difficult. It is many a long year since my uncle entertained possible suitors for me, she thought bitterly, but that does not mean I do not love.

Then she said, “My Lord, let me speak plainly, for I do not like artifice or hiding behind true feelings. By 'at the expense of another,' I was thinking of your lady wife. Surely, she would be hurt to hear that her husband was flirting with the Lady of Rohan.”

The Steward seemed taken aback by her words. An uncomfortable moment passed as he lifted a hand to stroke his closely-trimmed red beard. Eowyn caught herself noticing his hands, well formed and long fingered, but not powerful, as you would expect from a man who wielded a broadsword or battle axe. Strangely enough, the Steward's hands brought to mind the Elf Legolas, who had become her friend on the long march from Edoras to Helm's Deep.

“Lady, I have no wife. Nor have I ever been betrothed,” Lord Faramir said ruefully. “I've been married, so to speak, to the Ranger bands that patrol our borders in secret.” His bow shaped mouth suddenly erupted in a smile that lit up his grim face. “It seems we have misunderstood each other. My mother died when I was a child, so I've never quite learned the proper behavior toward women—as my dear cousin Lothiriel would no doubt agree. My words were sincere, but the way I behaved to you was pretty typical for a lonely Ranger.”

Eowyn felt her muscles relax and a grin form on her face to echo the Steward's smile. “This is your cloak,” she stated rather than asked. “You must know somewhat of how to treat a woman who is cold because you covered me with it while I slept. It is a fine sturdy cloak.”

She looked directly into his blue eyes now, no longer afraid of revealing aspects of herself that she didn't wish him to know, sensing that a grain of understanding had passed between them. She dimly recognized that she found this Lord Faramir more than passing attractive, but she put those thoughts resolutely aside. A nurse came into the study and set an appetizing spread of steaming chicken, vegetables, and breads before them.

“And so, Lady Eowyn, tell me how it was that you got to ride in Theoden's host and bring down Angmar before the gates of our city.”

Eowyn reached out and grabbed a chicken leg. She tore the skin with her teeth and took a few bites. Delicious. Then she said, “Theoden knew nothing about it. He ordered me to take charge of the Mark, in his and Eomer's absence. He offered me the opportunity to be a steward in his place for a little while. But my choice was so different.”

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What kind of woman would run off with a huge cavalry, wield a sword, and slay all manner of monstrous fiends that Mordor had brought to the field that day? Great Eru, that included Angmar!

Faramir studied the Lady of Rohan as she leaned back in her chair. Slowly, bits of her story came out between munches of chicken. He ate, too, but scarcely noticed the food passing his lips. Instead, he noticed those deep sapphire eyes, candid eyes, cool eyes. This woman was nothing if not honest and surely not one to be trifled with. Her beauty was part of her straightforwardness--her unadorned hair and simple, hospital regulation garments. So pure, but somewhat stiff. He still could get no sense of the shape of her body, other then its overall strength and the sense of purpose in her movements. But did she have decent breasts? Did she have good, round hips for bearing children?

Red, stop thinking of her that way! She's a visitor, not a brood mare. An emissary of her country. Can't you offer her some respect in addition to speculating about her form?

Finally he said, “I find it amazing that you rode into battle and then commenced to bring down enemies. Such a thing takes years of training to do effectively.”

“And so have I trained since ten, when I first showed an aptitude for warfare,” she lifted a mug of water to her lips. “The Rohirrim have the tradition of training capable women as shield maidens, to act as assistants to the men in battle. So our old songs go—of long ago, before we settled on the plains of Rohan. Today there are about thirty of us who are trained as shield maidens. I'm of the highest birth, so my people name me Shield Maiden of Rohan.

“You see, my Lord Faramir, shield maidens have long been kept off the battle field. Instead, we are trained to protect our homeland while the men are away in battle. I'm the only one that I know of who attempted to ride with an eored.”

Faramir studied her face, enjoying her beauty, her freshness. He delighted at her audacity. He couldn't imagine a woman of Gondor joining the Rangers, although Boromir assured him that every once in awhile, a soldier in his standing army was uncovered as a woman in disguise.

The Lady of Rohan shrugged her shoulders, as if trying to chase away unwanted thoughts. She leaned in to him and said, “The women of the court accompanied the eoreds as they mustered in Dunharrow. I rode out, of course, and brought my armaments with me as a precaution. I was afraid we'd be assailed by roving Uruk Hai, which happened earlier when we evacuated Meduseld. Some events happened at the muster that made me decide to ride with our men to Gondor.”

"Even though King Theoden asked you to lead your people in his stead,” Faramir said, as he watched her face carefully. “I never met Theoden. What manner of man was he?” Eowyn answered his question with what seemed like great pleasure. Her love of her uncle was so evident. And it was equally evident that her decision to disobey the King's orders did not arise from a disagreement with him. Something else had happened to fuel her decision. Something she seemed to avoid telling him.

“I confided my purpose to Marshal Elfhelm. He found me a simple set of chain mail and leathers from a youth who lately had been killed. Of course, Elfhelm had no idea that I would be bringing Meriadoc the holbytla with me.” Her face lit up as she spoke of her utter defiance. “Theoden had ordered Merry to stay with me and the women, while his cousins rode off in battle. We both felt rejected, but I was determined that it wouldn't be for long.”

Her story went on, describing the vast numbers of mounted warriors that mustered—6,000 and more. Faramir doubted that there were that many suitable destriers in all of Minas Tirith. Though she did not speak of it, he could sense her pride in her own rebellion, her comradeship with Meriadoc, and yet he could also perceive that motivating her behavior was a terrible pain of her emotions. He couldn't quite sense the pain's cause.

Faramir asked about other, less sensitive subjects: what types of arms the cavalry carried and if they encountered any foes on their way to the Pelennor Fields. Then he said, “Mithrandir told me that Aragorn had fought beside Theoden in a great battle before you rode to Minas Tirith. But you make no mention of Aragorn's name.”

To his surprise, she bit her lip just slightly before she said, “Aragorn was a leader at the siege of Helm's Deep, our great fortress, where Saruman's armies were defeated. But he did not ride with us to Gondor.”

“That's strange,” Faramir said. “I can understand that with so many people on the field, you could not have known who was there and who wasn't. But surely Aragorn came to the Pelennor in time to heal you and me? I only saw him for a few minutes at my bedside when he brought me back. I would like to know more of him.”

The Lady of Rohan twisted several strands of her plentiful golden hair. Her tone, which had been so animated when she described the muster, became still and contemplative. She spoke with great care, “Lord Aragorn is like no man that I have ever met. He seemed to come from the tales of the Isle of Numenor that the visiting Gondorian minstrels would sing to entertain us at Meduseld. He does not revel in glory or in the death of his enemies, though his deeds, at least at Helm's Deep, have already spawned many songs among those of the Mark who were there.”

She sighed and continued, as though every word she spoke was a chore: “I participated in strategy talks for the Helm's Deep defense with Theoden and Aragorn and his companions. But I did not see Aragorn fight that day. As usual, it was my lot to lead the woman and non-combatants into the caves behind the Deep. We huddled against the horrible noises. Then, in the morning, we came out and heard the fighters' tales.”

The lady's words led Faramir to conclude that Rohan's king held Aragorn in high enough regard to involve him in planning a major defense of his country. Moreover, that defense held and the day was saved. That was reassuring, Faramir thought. But he must know more of this man who, if he returned victorious, would assume responsibility for Gondor from the House of Hurin. Could Faramir trust the strange wave of clear sight that overcame him when Aragorn called him back from the brink of death? Perhaps he could trust Eowyn's assessment of the Dunedain chieftain.

He asked her, “Is there anything you might tell me that could recommend Aragorn to me as Gondor's king.”

Eowyn's face colored as she said indignantly, “I was raised by a great king in a House that was often visited by the mighty of other countries. Aragorn is a brilliant and powerful man, indeed kingly, if that is the answer you seek, my lord Steward.”

She stopped suddenly, as though uncertain about her last words. Faramir wondered what deficiencies of Aragorn's character had given her pause.

Then her strong shoulders slumped as she said, to Faramir's bewilderment, “He left us at the muster to take the dark road under the Dwimorberg. Our legends say that the mountain is haunted by ghosts of men who had sworn allegiance thousands of years ago to Gondor's first king.” Lost in thought, she murmured, “I asked to join him and his companions, but he refused me. Just yesterday the nurses told me strange gossip: that he sailed to Minas Tirith at the head of an army of the dead! Evidently they swarmed the battle fields before sunset and destroyed the remains of Sauron's army.”

Faramir's mouth dropped open, but he managed to keep the expletive that he wanted to shout from bursting forth and offending the lady. Instead, he considered her words and watched her keenly. He perceived not one but two undercurrents in her conversation. The first gave him unimagined hope—that Lord Aragorn could lead both the living and, unbelievably, the dead in successful battles. Might his challenge at the Black Gate be enough to sidetrack the Dark Lord from discovering Frodo's purpose?

The second undercurrent—perhaps he should have realized it from the outset. He now knew why Eowyn of Rohan wanted to follow the Captains of the West to the gates of Mordor. It would be impolite to pressure the lady to speak openly of her feelings, so Faramir said, “When you speak of Aragorn's achievements, you give me great hope for Gondor.”

“For Gondor, yes,” she said, dropped her chin, and turned her head away.

“Lady Eowyn, I am sorry if our conversation has worn you out,” Faramir apologized. “You are the first person who was at the Pelennor to give me a detailed account. I'm hungry to hear your tale, but I understand how this can be deeply troubling. Perhaps we could speak tomorrow? I would enjoy hearing about the actual battle and the tactics King Theoden used.”

To Faramir's surprise, she straightened herself and replied, “No, I am quite prepared to tell you my tale. No one has heard it before and it wants to come out. Now, if I can figure out where to continue ....”

“We will have some wine,” Faramir interrupted her as he carefully rose from his chair. Predictably, Nom, one of the midday Tower Guards, strode into the library and took his order for a carafe of slightly sweet ice wine from last winter. “Perhaps the wine will ease your story's telling.”

For the first time, Eowyn appeared to relax, “Perhaps it will. Or perhaps it will make me embellish the tale.”

“Embellish it, then, for I would hear of how Theoden's army came to the Pelennor and how you felt at the time.”

She paused for a moment, as though taken aback. Then the flood gates seemed to open as she told of Theoden's enormous cavalry appearing at the ridge above the Pelennor Fields, just as the sun rose on the fated day that he never saw. She described the sights, the sounds, and the strange rush of battle lust that overcame her as her horse charged with the others into the hordes of orcs and Haradrim. Faramir experienced her great sense of triumph as she and Merry rode among them, the halfling guiding their horse as Eowyn hacked at enemies on either side of them.

Then she stopped abruptly. By this time Nom had returned and set the glasses before them. Faramir poured the wine for them both. He said, “Do go on, lady, if it does not trouble you too much.”

Eowyn shuddered. Then she brought the glass to her lips. “It's sweet and cool,” she said.

Like herself, Faramir concluded. He chose his next words carefully, for the thoughts that they provoked made his body start to burn. “Is this when you were confronted by Angmar?” he asked.

“This is when I saw that vile dwimmerlaik bring down Theoden, yes. Windfola, my horse, tripped and fell. I ran to my uncle when that evil...” she shuddered and stopped.

By this time, Faramir was certain that his fever had returned. But he said, “I've met the Witch King, myself, any number of times. He knew I was Denethor's son, and he definitely tried to harass me whenever he could find me.”

“Really? He was so horrible, he stopped me cold. ”

“It was well known among us Rangers that no man could slay Angmar,” Faramir said, feeling a great surge of defiance. “His mounts, on the other hand, had no such protection. Their very size makes them remarkably easy targets. My arrows have brought down a number of them. A few times they've flown so close that I would have seen the Witch King's features, had he any behind that mask of his.”

She laughed, “Well, I couldn't see his face but I heard his hissing. He mocked me and told me no man could kill him. Imagine that. While he was boasting, I saw Merry sneak up behind the fiend and ready his knife. That's when I tore off my helmet and let the Witch King have a good look at the Shield Maiden of Rohan.”

He whooped with delight, and then felt a stab of pain in his armpit where the arrow had pierced him.

“Valar!” Faramir let loose the mild oath, then relaxed as the pain subsided. What a delight to imagine the scene, as Eowyn narrated how Merry delivered a wound to the Witch King's invisible hamstrings. Angmar lost balance, at which time the remarkable woman sent her sword right into the mask, where the son of a bitch's evil mouth would be. Hearing of Eowyn's great victory brought cool relief to Faramir's body, as though her deed helped him in his battles with recurrent Black Breath. He raised his glass of wine in her honor, and they clicked the glasses together in triumph.

Faramir was feeling very good indeed until the Lady said, “My lord Steward, I have told you the tale that ends with me here in this place. And now I am totally exhausted. We have been here many hours. I need to return to my room for some rest. I would like some time to study this book that Warden Narmar gave me. It's so huge it may take six months for me to finish.”

He felt genuinely sad, having enjoyed her company fully, “My dear Lady of Rohan.”

“It's okay to call me plain Eowyn,” she interrupted.

“Then, plain Eowyn, I insist that instead of calling me 'My Lord Steward', you call me plain Faramir,“ he countered. “Please come to the council at midday. I would appreciate your thoughts on whatever decisions we make.”

Eowyn rose and said, “I will be there. But I ask one favor in return. After the council, if I am not too tired, I would have you tell me the tale behind your wounds.” She removed his Ranger cloak and placed it on the desk, then turned to leave. As she passed the door, one of the Tower Guards took her elbow and escorted her out of sight.

Chapter Ten: A Similar Fate

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This chapter took so long because it was so very difficult to write. It is an attempt to fill in gaps, not only in what Jackson didn't show in the films, but also in what Tolkien didn't describe in the books. That this chapter ever was completed owes much to my Beta readers, Raksha and SMOR, without whom ......I hope you enjoy my interpretation of Faramir's famous charge.

Of course, "Avoidance" is movie verse with a healthy respect for Book canon.

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She slept with her head nestled up against his shoulder, her huge belly pressed against his torso. But he couldn't sleep. Eowyn's reaction to the invitation from the King and Queen frankly surprised him. So much of her anxiety was based on events several years in the past. Nevertheless, Faramir was acutely aware of the strength of his wife's former infatuation with the man who was their liege lord and now his superior officer. Eowyn seemed to purposely avoid all but the most formal visits with the King of Gondor.

And why? Faramir wondered as he turned his head to nuzzle his wife's disheveled hair. Aragorn Elessar and Arwen Undomiel were away more than a year in the Northern Kingdom and only now were returning to their residence in Minas Tirith. Faramir genuinely liked and respected Aragorn. He was just beginning to establish a working relationship with the King. So Eowyn's refusal thus far to attend any private audiences with Aragorn, and especially with Queen Arwen, made Faramir very uneasy. Just how deep were Eowyn's feelings for Aragorn, son of Arathorn? And why did she in just a few weeks switch her scarcely concealed affection for the Dunedan to a rather more open affair with the last ruling Steward of Gondor?

He placed his cheek on her head and closed his eyes, remembering those difficult times.

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She's cooler than the snows on Mindolluin, yet her face burns with fire as she describes her deeds in the great battle. She delights in her tales of combat and triumph. And yet she wants to curl up with a big medical text that would put the greatest of scholars to sleep in five minutes. Does she know what a bundle of contradictions she is?

What a woman, Faramir sighed as the past day's encounter with the Lady of Rohan kept invading his memory and disrupting his concentration. What would she think of a man whose entire life was spent under the shadow of war, but who has ever yearned in vain for peace?

Eowyn's image threatened to consume his thoughts while Beregond helped him plan the strategy for tomorrow's Council. Later, as they ate a spare dinner, Faramir wondered whether Eowyn would truly attend the Council.

Two nights ago, when he first saw Eowyn at her window, an obviously distressed figure with a broken arm, Faramir had pitied her for her injuries and her confinement. Today he understood that his pity did the lady a grave injustice. He sensed that her life had been one of thwarted ambitions and desires. Then something must have happened recently to make the lady desperate to grab as much of life as she could, while her world was still free of the Dark Lord's hand.

Put her in the back of your mind, Red! While you are supposedly recovering from injuries, your mind must be at rest, not churning, particularly with idle speculation about a woman.

His wounds were starting to itch and burn. Faramir returned to his bed early. How long had it been since he was wounded? Six days? Surely not a week yet. Narmar would certainly insist that it was far too soon to be passing his hours in friendly talk, let alone holding a Steward's Council. He ordered the early evening shift of guards to bring him wine to take the edge off the pain of his healing wounds. At times like these, he was grateful for the Tower Guard's inevitable presence.

Faramir needed to clear his head and concentrate, as Mithrandir had taught him long ago. Another day had passed with no word of the great host. His odd vision of last night, with its revelation of messengers en route to Minas Tirith, had amounted to nothing. Was his vision naught but madness? Or perhaps his farsight was faulty, as he had suspected all along.

He must try again tonight, even if his attempts were, indeed, bouts of madness. It could be that on this night he might get a sense of Frodo's travels. He'd had more success so far in perceiving the halflings' journey than the journey of the Captains of the West.

On this night, he wanted more than ever to perceive Aragorn's forces. If only he could communicate with Mithrandir. If only he could learn more of Aragorn, the Dunedain Chieftain. Was he indeed the great hero and returned King worthy of Gondor's hopes?

And was he the lover to whom Eowyn had given all her hope?

Though she had not said it, Faramir was certain that Eowyn wanted to join the host at the Black Gate, not only to die grandly in battle, but also to die gloriously by Aragorn's side. Did Aragorn love her? Did he turn her away for her own safety, when she would have followed him into that haunted mountain? Or did he spurn her affections for another reason?

What would Eowyn think of a man who could never be king? Faramir wondered. A man who had never seen a ghost in waking life, let alone lead an army of three thousand year old spectres? What would she think of a man who led cavalry on a mission that had little hope of success? A man who put the lives of 200 riders in mortal danger out of duty to a severely disappointed, perhaps even deranged, father?

The Guardsmen returned with his wine, which Faramir downed far too quickly. His stomach burned, reminding him that one chugs ale, not wine. He bade the guards to snuff out the lamps, yet leave the brazier burning to warm his room. Then he slipped under the covers and closed his eyes.

Eowyn had asked to hear his story after the Council met. Faramir had told no one his tale; telling it to the Lady of Rohan filled him with dread. To dismiss her presence from his sleepy thoughts, he visualized the broad road that paralleled the Anduin. His dreaming mind searched along those familiar trails, looking for the host, looking for isolated Ranger bands. The road was roughened by wagon tracks and the footprints of men and horses.

Yet his footsteps turned, as they had for several days, to the East. This is the wrong road, he told himself, but was unable to change direction. At some point he realized that he was sleeping fitfully, wrapped in grimy hides and rough fabric that bit at his skin. All around him he heard the hideous accents of Mordor orcs. Common sense told him to get up and flee, but he couldn't open his eyes. Hands shook him, and the voice of Samwise Gamgee whispered, “Get up now. We're moving. If we're careful, we can give 'em the slip. Give me your hand.”

With great determination, he tried to wake. In response to these efforts, he found himself in an unfamiliar forest. He saw her, standing in the center of a road where he had never walked, her back toward him. Her long blonde hair draped over the hood of her silvery cape. A rush of oddly comforting mist penetrated Faramir's skin. He stood a few feet behind the mysterious woman in a heavily forested glade that seemed to be lit by tiny stars.

“Who are you?” he gasped.

Her melodious voice was kind, though she did not turn to face him as she said, “Do not doubt or fear your clear sight, Steward of Gondor. You are neither mad nor foolish. In you clear sight rings true. Even now you help your friends from afar.”

“But I don't understand,” he protested to the back of her luminous cape. In response, a familiar and comforting odor permeated the deep of the glade. Another woman's voice answered, “I have bacon, seeded bread, and strong cavay, as you have ordered.”

Faramir groaned as the image of the spectral woman disappeared in an instant. His stomach grumbled; now he truly was awake.

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The Steward's Council was far different than equivalent events that Eowyn had witnessed in the Golden Hall. It was held in a large but bare meeting room within the Houses of Healing. The participants sat at a vast dark table that took up most of the available space. The Marshals of Rohan and their seconds occupied an upper corner of the table. Some rather self-important Gondorian councilors sat opposite the men of the Mark. At the lower corners were representatives from the various trade guilds of Minas Tirith, to whom would fall most of the responsibility for designing, rebuilding, and refortifying the city.

The Steward Faramir and his assistant Beregond sat quietly in the center of the table, dividing the Gondorian councilors from the tradesmen. In the Golden Hall, it was expected that Theoden King would sit at the table's head, though Wormtongue clearly dominated the proceedings during the past few years. By contrast, in Minas Tirith, the head of the table was occupied by a middle-aged man identified as Hurin, Keeper of the Keys, whom Eowyn assumed was responsible for managing the city.

During the proceedings, Eowyn sat at the end of the table, by Hurin's left hand and with Marshal Erkenbrand on her other side. As the only female present, she was not sure what her role was to be. She was content to be an observer. Everyone received two rolled parchments, outlining a plan drawn up by Faramir, with Beregond's assistance. Rather than presenting his plan as orders to be acted upon, Faramir asked for comments and additions to the basic outline. All present were happy to oblige, and some were loud and opinionated.

Interestingly, the participants appeared to agree with the Steward's plan, but took what Eowyn considered petty pot shots at each others' additional contributions. After several hours of brainstorming and bickering, all agreed to put aside their opinions and put the plan in place. They also agreed to meet the next morning to discuss their progress.

As the council ended, the men's voices melted into the general hubbub as they left the meeting room and filtered into the main lobby. Eowyn realized that many still had questions, and not necessarily about the best way to refortify Minas Tirith. She watched them—Rohirrim, councilors, and tradesmen—wander off in each other's company. She was forgotten, an injured woman uninvolved with their preparations.

Feeling forlorn, she went to the library to browse through the medical manuscripts. The vast room was dusty and packed tight with moldy documents. Nevertheless, it seemed almost pleasant, with light flooding in from the large windows that looked out onto the gardens. Eowyn had forgotten that it was mid-day and the sun was shining. She wandered through the stacks and found a book, “Collected Wisdom of the Elder Women of Gondor.” Removing it, she settled down at a table near one of the windows.

Her eyes descended to the pages, which were written in a careful hand. She had found an encyclopedia of common remedies used by mothers and nurses, supposedly since Numenorean times. Her interest totally captivated, Eowyn read on until the words blurred. To relieve her burning eyes, she looked out on the garden.

There the Steward stood alone by the wall. As he turned his head and caught her glance, his features tensed , as though disrupted from particularly distressing thoughts. He sat down on the wall, proud shoulders hunched, and gestured to her.

Eowyn swiftly walked out into the garden, and sat on a bench beside Faramir. She noticed that the grey pallor on his face had returned. “Did the Council trouble you, my lord?” she asked, willing herself to be gentle.

His bowed mouth relaxed only for a minute before tensing up. He said, with what Eowyn thought was some difficulty, “I do not understand why they want me to lead them. Surely Gondor deserves better?”

Faramir's eyes sought hers for a second, then lowered as if in shame. His shoulders flinched. He spoke slowly, as though considering every word, “What would you think, Lady Eowyn? Would you want your country to be governed by a Steward's lesser son, who had just led 200 men to their deaths in an futile endeavor, out of a sense of duty to a man he knew was going mad?”

“I would hear his story first of all,” her own response surprised her.

Again Faramir paused, shifted his body on the wall, and regarded her. The charismatic strength that had impressed Eowyn during the Council was totally gone, replaced by the simple anguish of self-doubt.

“Tell me the story behind your hurts,” Eowyn repeated calmly. “I promise not to judge you for good or ill until the tale is done.”

Faramir slipped off the wall and sat down beside Eowyn. “Very well,” he sighed and began his story, often pausing as though the memories were too painful for words to express. “The councilors look to me to lead as their Steward, most likely because they think Aragorn's mission is pointless and futile. They have no idea that Aragorn's purpose is to distract the Dark Lord from his own lands. They do not know about Frodo, son of Drogo. Did you meet him, Eowyn?”

Though she had not met this particular holbytla, Eowyn knew that he was on a perilous mission. From Aragorn, she learned that Frodo bore a heavy burden. She did not know the burden's true nature until her journey to the Pelennor with Merry. Fearing that Frodo and his companion Samwise were dead, Merry had spilled out his grief to her and told her of the Ring of power.

“Frodo is alive and has crept into Mordor undetected—or so I think.” Faramir seemed to brood as though considering events at a distance. “We found him and his party traveling through the borderlands, where my father had decreed all strangers should be killed. By law, I should have ordered them killed on the spot. Instead I had them seized. Frodo bore what my father wanted, the very Ring that the Dark Lord sought. It's just a plain ring, on a chain round Frodo's neck. But when I saw it, I thought I heard it call out to me.”

From that point onward, Faramir's words flowed, no longer carefully considered, as his speech had been thus far. As his tongue unloosed, Eowyn decided that the Steward was not a simple, plain-spoken man. He used large words to explain large concepts; he had large emotions that she could easily tell were bottled up. No doubt he bottled up his emotions to protect himself.

Faramir's eyes glistened slightly as he told her of his father and brother. The Steward Denethor knew that the great Ring had been found before receiving an invitation to a council called by the High Elves to discuss the matter. He sent his beloved heir Boromir to the council in Rivendell, far to the North. From there, Boromir had traveled with the holbytlan, Gandalf, and Aragorn and his friends. Faramir choked up when he mentioned that his brother had died during that fateful journey.

“I didn't know the details surrounding Boromir's death until we discovered Frodo's party when we ambushed some Southrons,” Faramir explained. “The halflings were evasive. Frodo even threatened us. I caught them lying, particularly about their suspicious looking guide Gollum. Still I learned worthwhile information from Frodo and much more from Samwise. It took awhile, but I finally understood why Frodo acted as he had. I wish I could meet him and Samwise again, to explain why I treated them so roughly.” He shook his head and looked away from her.

“I doubted that they were responsible for Boromir's death. I believe that they were shocked to learn of his death. However, I was right that Frodo was withholding information,” Faramir sighed. “Sam revealed that Boromir had forcibly attempted to take the Ring from Frodo. They fled just as their companions were attacked by Uruk Hai, during which Boromir was killed. ” Faramir had his men bind the holbytlan, so that he could bring them, and the Ring Frodo bore, to his father. These plans were rudely interrupted by one of the lesser Nazgul at the ruined city of Osgiliath.

“I wanted to trust Frodo but couldn't completely. I still had so many questions. I remember watching him by a wall some 20 feet away. He held up the Ring and was about to put it on when a Nazgul on his beast rose up right behind Frodo. What I saw next was even more amazing and horrifying. Samwise pulled Frodo down from the wall. I managed to loose an arrow that pierced the Nazgul's gruesome mount in the neck. That beast took off as though all the eagles of Manwe pursued it.

“While the Nazgul flew off, the halflings rolled over each other, fighting. Frodo pulled out a dagger and aimed it at Sam's throat! I was appalled. I had perceived these two to be long time friends. Frodo's utter madness had convinced me that the Ring did not belong in my father's hands. I feared what such a mighty talisman might do to my father—and to my country.

“I did not kill these trespassers. I did not take the Ring, though I easily could have seized it. Instead, I loaded Frodo's party with supplies and sent them on their way, thoroughly disobeying my father's wishes and the laws of our land. So for defying the Steward's laws, his son condemned himself to death. ”

Eowyn shuddered. She had disobeyed Theoden's orders and thought her situation desperate. Nevertheless, she knew that her life would not be forfeit for refusing to stay home and lead the Rohirrim in Theoden's stead. Faramir's choice in regard to the Ring was understandable to her, but he seemed terribly conflicted about his decision.

Faramir turned away, as though reluctant to continue. He shifted his position, gave her a rueful glance, and then resumed by describing the next day's battle. The Rangers were overwhelmed by a huge force of orcs that invaded Osgiliath in the hour before dawn. They fled the ruins, harassed by several Nazgul. Faramir estimated that they'd lost perhaps 50 before arriving in Minas Tirith. The news of his decision to release Frodo's party did not sit well with the Lord Denethor.

Eowyn noticed how Faramir grew increasingly agitated as the next part of his tale enfolded:

“My father called a Council and ordered me to retake Osgiliath with the cavalry regiment. The plan had little chance of success. I knew it, as did Mithrandir and most of the other councilors. Perhaps my father hoped that my uncle of Dol Amroth would to sail up the Anduin to our aid, with his army of 800 Swan Knights. They would have swelled our numbers, possibly enough for the plan to succeed. We did not know that Corsairs besieged Imrahil's ports while the Dark Lord's forces drove us from Osgiliath.

“My brother had trained over 300 cavalrymen, who stood ready in Minas Tirith. Knowing how slim our chance of our success was, I insisted that any fathers with young children be excused from duty. That left about 150 knights to ride with me. 50 Rangers who I had specially trained as mounted bowmen also joined the force. I estimated that about 2000 enemy forces had overrun Osgiliath by the time of the our earlier retreat.

“My father insisted that I mount a charge directly on the Western district of Osgiliath, through the collapsed sections of the city walls. The Rangers know the ruins well; we could take on the enemy on familiar territory.

“A cavalry can cut down ten times its number of foot soldiers, as I am sure you know. I'd seen first-hand how terrified orcs are of mounted soldiers. I did not know how the enemy numbers had swelled after our retreat, nor that evil men had joined the orcs.

My strategy was to have the cavalry kill as many as possible and seize the city. If we could not overtake the enemy forces, then myself and three captains would each lead a division through several hidden gates the Rangers had built into the cisterns. That tactic would enable our escape through secret passages to the Ranger strongholds above Osgiliath. You shiver, lady. Perhaps I should arrange for you to get a cloak.”

She clutched her shoulders, “I tend to feel chilled since I was hurt.” She did not tell him that his story made her shiver in excitement. “You are a good story teller. I can imagine myself there, preparing for the charge.”

The Steward's pale eyebrows arched. He seemed to be studying her as he said, “Were you excited, Lady Eowyn, when Theoden's warriors lined up into their battle formations?”

She paused, remembering, “I was thrilled, but I was terribly frightened. Part of me couldn't wait to have at the enemy. But when we assembled before the Pelennor Fields, I doubted my sanity for choosing this course. My uncle rallied us on, and I heard the voices of the Rohirrim fill with rage and battle lust. Their rage was contagious and drove away my fear.”

Faramir's response was silence and a return to his usual grim expression. Finally, he drew in a shallow breath and said, “I was filled with dread just before we charged. Please understand that as a Ranger captain, I planned and led stealth operations, where we ambushed our opponents. I had limited experience in facing an enemy head on, whether on foot or on horseback. I dreaded what I might find at Osgiliath. I feared our contingency plans offered us little hope of escape, should we be overwhelmed. My misgivings turned out to be true.”

He rose from the bench, looked out at the Pelennor Fields, then faced her again, “I admit that when I yelled for the charge and our great destriers thundered across the field, battle lust did overtake my sense of fear. My mind was consumed with driving forward and slaughtering whoever got in my path. I hardly noticed that a volley of arrows was loosed from the walls of Osgiliath as we approached them. The sky turned black, and I heard the sound of arrows pinging off everyone's armor.”

His words drew pictures in Eowyn's mind. She imagined Faramir and his soldiers as they gathered speed, kicking up a great cloud of dust, and making a thunderous amount of noise. Would they appear to the enemy as a gleaming blur heading relentlessly to the ruined city?

Faramir continued, “Looking backward, the huge cloud of arrows was the first indication that something had happened in Osgiliath after the Ranger's retreat. Orcs are poor archers and poorly equipped. Why had their arrows carried so far from the city walls?

“I understand what you mean completely when you speak of battle lust. When the charge began, I felt that nothing could stop me. I felt as though my destrier could run down a herd of Mumakil. When the sky cleared of arrows, I spurred my mare ahead of the line of the charge so I could see how we had fared. Remarkably few riders had fallen, no doubt due to the skill of Boromir's armorers.

“One more arrow cloud came forth from Osgiliath, but we kept going. Some arrows struck me but they fell away harmlessly as we rode toward our goal. Then the sky cleared, and I saw a regiment of warg riders less than a quarter mile ahead, lined up beneath the city walls. I gave the order for the divisions to split.”

“You rode ahead of the cavalry line?” Eowyn asked.

“I had to be seen by as many men as possible,” Faramir explained as he recreated the scene. “The cavalry had developed hand signals for their maneuvers. I gave the signals, and they were relayed down the line by the division captains.”

Eowyn's teeth sank into her lip as she listened. Faramir was harder and harder for her to understand. He feared the charge before its start and questioned his own leadership abilities. Yet his own words spoke of him heading the charge, giving orders, and pressing forward as the cavalry out carried his commands.

Faramir continued, “When the wargs came, the bowmen split off to either side of the main cavalry. I commanded the left division while my captain Anborn led the right. Haldad and Kell, my brother's captains, led the cavalry onward to face the warg riders.”

He returned to the bench but gazed off at the distant river he continued, “I think that's where we took our greatest casualties—when the cavalry and wargs collided. Suddenly, every sort of enemy charged forth out of the city—in far greater numbers than the 2000 orcs that I estimated from the previous morning. They'd been joined by Haradrim and Mordor Uruks and other Human fighters from who knows where. I signaled for the divisions to split, in hope that each could hack through the edges and reach our exit routes.”

She noted that the Steward's face gleamed with sweat as he recreated the scene, “My division was to enter Osgiliath through a major break in the north side of the wall. I led the charge. I cleared the way through the vermin, shooting my arrows and mowing the foe down. When we passed the wall, at least 30 of my division still charged with me.

“At that point the first of the Nazgul swooped down upon us. His beast grabbed men off their horses and tossed them against the battlements like they were mere mice in the claws of a lion. I was terrified but still managed to launch enough arrows to bring down the vile beast. Then we entered the city to face the doom that awaited us. The walls, the courtyards, the streets, were filled everywhere with enemy scum, blocking our escape route. We cut down some of the rabble, but more always arose in their place. I pressed on towards the hidden gates, fully aware that if I reached them, I'd have to plow through at least 50 enemies.”

When he turned to face her, his eyes like cold blue steel, “You know what this feels like, don't you: the madness of the melee. My destrier was surrounded by every sort of creature known to Mordor. I put aside my bow, drew my sword, and swung at whatever slime blocked my path. Oddly, I was always on the attack. No one confronted me.”

Eowyn just then realized that she had sidled closer to Faramir. Failed leader? How could he so berate himself? His courage astounded her. She was about to reach with her unbound hand to touch his elbow when Faramir said, “I'd been purposely separated from the others and intentionally drawn deeper into the ruins.”

She quickly held her hand in check. It would be unseemly for her to make a comforting gesture to this man, however much Faramir deserved it. Instead, she asked him plainly, “How did you know this?”

“The enemy fighters ran from me, rather than standing and fighting. In fact, they lured me on and also cleared a path before me—but not in my chosen direction. They split me from my men. Still, I remarkably untouched.” His words stopped abruptly.

She shifted nervously, waiting. Finally she said, “And that is when you were wounded.”

Faramir let out a gasp, as if racked with pains far worse than battle injuries. Several beads of sweat descended his cheek into his beard as he said slowly, “That's when I turned into a blind courtyard and saw Angmar standing on a wall, not 15 feet beyond, waiting for me.”

Her body stiffened involuntarily as she remembered the horrible sight of the Witch King on his beast in her path. A great chill froze her once more as she awaited Faramir's next words—which didn't come.

After an increasingly uncomfortable pause, Faramir collected himself and said: “It's hard for me to continue. My memories are jumbled up and confused.”

“You will feel better if you can untangle them,” Eowyn suggested.

“But Lady, you are still cold. Let me call the Guardsmen...”

“You have stopped your story. You must go on,” she insisted, “for both of our sakes.”

Faramir drew a hand through his wavy, red-gold hair, as though gathering his thoughts. Then he spoke, strong and defiant:

“I was suddenly, very keenly aware that the orcs who had forced me into the courtyard had not followed. Instead, they milled around behind me. Either they feared Angmar too much to come further, or they were under orders to block my escape.

“Angmar hissed at them, something like, 'Leave, you worthless maggot turds, this wretched lesser son of an insane Steward is mine.'

“By the time he spoke, I had my bow raised and arrows at the ready. I sensed that other enemy fighters were lining up along the wall to my right. I think that I yelled, 'I can't take you down, excrement of Ungoliant, but I'm pleased to remove your lackeys.' I turned quickly and saw three Harad archers on the wall near to me. I remember firing an arrow, felling one. When I raised my arm to draw my bow, the gaps between my hauberk and the other pieces of my armor must have been exposed.”

Eowyn gasped, imagining the young Steward all alone, his soft mouth set hard, expecting imminent death.

Faramir whispered, “I don't remember being hit.”

“What!?” Eowyn jumped.

“I don't remember their arrows piercing me. I do remember hearing the Witch King say, 'Take my message back to your craven father—that Angmar has taken Osgiliath and is ready to come for the rest!'

“I must have turned back to defy him then. That's when I saw the lone Southron crouching in a corner about ten feet away. A tube of some sort was at his lips. He launched a dart. It pierced my neck. It surprised me more than hurt me.”

Faramir swallowed. When he spoke next, his voice was little more than a mumble: “Things started to fade, though I'm sure I heard Angmar say, 'Send him off to the Steward.' And that's it, unless you count plagued dreams until Aragorn awoke me.”

Eowyn clutched her shoulders, remembering the icy grip of the Nazgul on her heart. “You don't remember how you returned to Gondor?”

Beside her, Faramir's sinuous, muscular body leaned forward, spent. Sweat dampened his hair and the bandages below his neck. He said, “I remember having horrible dreams but not what those dreams were about. Aragorn's host had already gone when Beregond told me how I returned. My horse dragged me to the main gate of the city. I must have fallen from the saddle. One of my feet was caught in a stirrup. Beregond said that a note written in blood was tucked into one of my vambraces. It claimed that all the Gondorians had died but me, spared to be the Witch King's messenger.”

Faramir slid away from her, “I'm sorry. I must stink, Lady. The fever has come upon me again. Angmar is gone, but I still suffer now and then from the Black Breath. As do you.”

“I don't understand,” Eowyn wanted to move closer to him, feeling a strange urge to touch him. Instead she stayed in her place, respecting his need for distance. Could Gondorian custom dictate that men not impose their normal active scents on poor, delicate women? Such scents wouldn't bother bold women like me, she thought.

“Didn't the healers tell you that you suffer from the Black Breath, from exposure to the Nazgul? You seem to freeze while I burn.”

“They did not,” Eowyn said. “And I don't understand why you doubt your bravery or worth as a leader. Why do you wonder that the men of Gondor want to follow you even after you led a doomed mission? My dear Steward, Theoden's mission was doomed, too. When we rode from Dunharrow, everyone of us doubted we would see our beloved homeland again. And though you lost all your men, the Rohirrim lost many more, though Erkenbrand told that two thirds yet survive. Our King it was who fell.”

She was about to cry. Then she composed herself and said, “I don't doubt for a minute the survivors' loyalty to my brother. You shouldn't question Gondor's loyalty to your house. The Stewards have kept Gondor safe and well-governed for a thousand years.”

Faramir smiled gently. He had a soft, gentle mouth, this tough, conflicted Lord of Gondor. “You have heard my tale. Now, Eowyn, what is your judgment of the Ranger who risked a cavalry because he felt his life must be forfeited as a pawn to his father's command?”

She hesitated. He seemed almost afraid to hear her words. But Eowyn was not afraid to say, “I find Faramir, Denethor's son, honorable and exceptionally brave, one who cares about the people he leads, be they his Rangers or other folk, the great and small of his land.”

The blue eyes widened. Faramir reached for her unbound hand and held it for a moment. He lowered his face to brush the hand with a kiss. Then he released her hand as he fastened his cryptic gaze on her face.

The gesture's sweetness surprised Eowyn. She was uncertain what it meant. No doubt Faramir appreciated her support. What kind of a life could he have led thus far to have such self-doubt?

Time for contemplation ran out when one of the Steward's huge Guardsmen walked out onto the patio. He announced that dinner was ready. Again, Faramir asked her to dine with him. This time Eowyn agreed.

Chapter Eleven: In the Shadow of the King

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Some parts of this chapter were inspired by Karen Wynn Fonstad's "The Atlas of Middle-Earth." Many thanks to Raksha for her great Beta review.

Once upon a time, he slept soundly, whether on a plush feather bed or on a bedroll spread out under a rain-soaked tent. Once upon a time, his dreams wandered through all of Gondor and then through lands he had never seen in waking life. Now Faramir lay awake on the immense bed he shared with his wife—a bed designed to accommodate a couple and up to three children under ten. He'd forgotten about his jealousy. Now the jealousy robbed him of his sleep. His body tossed; his mind churned as he lay awake, remembering.

Their modest hospital dinner was a pleasant, light-hearted affair especially welcome after Faramir's ordeal of telling the Lady of Rohan about the ill-fated charge. The Tower Guardsmen escorted Éowyn and Faramir to a small alcove for entertaining special guests on official business. They were greeted by Warden Narmar, who was far more pleasant when he wasn't treating Faramir as a patient.

During the meal, Éowyn thanked Narmar for the medical textbook he had given her, and mentioned that she had been studying it in the evenings. Faramir gently hinted that a few hours outside in the sun would do a world of good for driving away the symptoms of the Black Breath. Narmar grumbled predictably.

After the Warden's departure, Faramir and Éowyn shared a few tankards of ale and a few hours free of care. Late in the evening, as Faramir sat up in his hospital cot, his mind drifted back to their conversations. The scroll containing the revised plans for refortifying Minas Tirith was sprawled on his lap. He had already studied it in fine detail and wondered if the plan was too ambitious. But now, with midnight drawing near, his mind persisted in devoting time to the Lady Éowyn.

Faramir never expected to admire Éowyn as much for her intellect as well as her cool beauty and, as he imagined, her Rohirric horsemanship. They had talked at length of their homelands' warfare customs. Éowyn seemed surprised that mounted bowmen were a rarity in Gondor. Most riders of the Mark were taught to fire arrows while astride as a matter of course, though she admitted to being a poor archer.

Here in Gondor, the technique of the mounted bowman was strictly a Faramir creation. He had taught himself this skill, after spying on mounted Haradrim archers poaching antelope along the southern borders of Ithilien. When he perfected the “borrowed” technique, Faramir trained many interested Rangers as mounted bowman. Still, he accepted that his archery skills far exceeded his skills as a rider. Maybe he could trade Éowyn lessons in archery for lessons in horsemanship?

And when could we do that? Melancholy came over him. The only future that he could see involved the immediate defense of his country. Right now the lady's broken arm prevented archery lessons in the near future, and Faramir doubted he was ready to ride a horse.

On the other hand, could he be ready to, hmmm?

He thought of how appealing Éowyn looked today in her billowing houpelande, most likely borrowed from one of the nurses. Her hair was braided, encircling her head. She could have been a proper Gondorian merchant's wife, except for her yellow hair and freckles.

Indeed, he had noticed freckles on her cheeks even in the blazing torch light while she spoke of her childhood as an orphan. She had lost both her parents at a slightly older age than he was when his mother died. And yet, it seemed that her home life was happier than his. Her kingly uncle loved and protected her, even if he couldn't spend as much time with her as she would have liked. Moreover, she had the love and support of an older brother yet among the living.

By contrast, his lord father spent entirely too much time trying to control the lives of both his sons. Then Faramir's own bitterness softened into grief as he remembered that his father was gone. He'd easily trade a month of the Steward's endless belittling if only to hear his voice again.

He blew out the candles at either side of the cot, then lay down on his back. Trying to cope with the overwhelming sadness, Faramir closed his eyes. He imagined Éowyn's face in a lovely vision above him.

He recognized these peculiar woods. His dreams had taken him there before. He remembered these trees, older and larger than any he had ever seen. Their leaves were silver, reflecting the twilight of stars never dimmed by the Dark Lord's pollution. She was waiting--the woman with the pale hair, who stood with her back toward him. She raised her arm in a gesture to follow as she floated just ahead, never looking back. The woods opened into a vast garden, brightened somewhat by the light of the half moon. She led him to a gracefully sculpted fountain, and then turned.

His whole being gasped. Before him was not the lady who pervaded his waking thoughts, but a strange being of such awesome power and beauty that his legs trembled beneath him and gave way. He could not gaze at her directly to take her measure.

Her voice was gentle as she said, “Well done, well done, Faramir, son of Denethor.” She reached down for his hand. With more strength than even the strongest man, she raised him to his feet. In his dream—for Faramir knew he was dreaming—he lifted his head and looked on her powerful, yet kindly face. He had never seen one of the First Born, but knew immediately this woman was a Queen of the High Elves. “Who are you? How do you know me?” he managed to say.

“I am a long-time friend and ally of Olorin—Mithrandir, as you know him. I have watched events unfold in Minas Tirith, since long before the city was known by that name. Like Mithrandir, I too would know the fate of Frodo Baggins. Sauron blocks Mithrandir's sight into Mordor, but he does not block my sight. He waits for it, hoping to find out why I search his land. Now I hesitate to look there for fear he might follow the path of my mind. But I do not think the Dark Lord knows of your sight, Faramir, son of Denethor,and that it follows Frodo and Sam into Golgoroth.”

He gathered his sleeping courage and faced the terrible lady directly. She was at least a hand's width taller than he and moved like a willow, graceful yet unbreakable. Her silver cape partially revealed a white gown encrusted in jewels so bright that they overpowered the weak moon. Even more blinding was the piercing beam from the stars where her eyes should be. A strong wind swept through the garden, causing strands of her hair to billow and create an aura of light about her form. Faramir managed to say, “I believe I have heard of you—Sorceress of the Golden Wood.”

She laughed gaily, “I once was Altariel, she who commands in the Golden Wood, though Sorceress was never my title, even among those Eldar who wished me ill. Last night, your sight finally strayed into our land but did not stay. Tonight I sought you. I have long been aware of your ability, especially after your brother came with the fellowship into Lothlorien.”

Faramir lowered his head, ashamed at his audacity. This was indeed the Elven Queen whom Mithrandir had mentioned on many occasions. “Did Boromir speak to you of our terrible situation in Gondor?”

“Not directly,” the lofty woman said, “but I conversed with him in his mind, as we are doing right now. He did not understand clear sight and could not use it, though he might have learned it with stronger will and proper training.”

“I am not using clear sight,” Faramir's lips moved though no sound seemed to come from them. “This is a dream.”

“Sight can appear in dreams or in waking life, as you know. Do not fear your sight. Use it! Continue to concentrate your thoughts on Frodo. I charge you with this task, Steward of Gondor. I will follow you, and through me, Mithrandir can learn Frodo's fate.”

“My sight is cloudy. I don't understand half the time what I am seeing,” he said.

“But I understand,” the Lady's response was enigmatic. “I will leave you with a few words that might give you some hope, Steward of Gondor. Do not doubt that Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, is Elendil's heir and might indeed bring peace and order to your country—if he survives. Those who did not march with Aragorn still have a crucial part to play in the end of days as we know them.

“Defend your city with the forces available to you. Some of the Eldar yet remain in Middle Earth. Our numbers are small, but we watch and I assure you we will act. If the Men of the West fall at the Black Gate, we will speak in dreams again. If victory beyond hope comes to the West, my sight will fade, though yours might not. The clear sight given to the Numenoreans is separate from any powers that the Elves keep. Yet maybe we will meet again, son of Denethor, this time in waking life.”

Her arms reached toward him, and her hands touched his head. A powerful current emanated through her fingers. His whole body seemed to glow, as if filled with light, as the Elven Queen said, “Now sleep without care or pain. In the morning remember Galadriel's request.

His room was grey. Morning had come, early morning, without sounds of nurses moving about nor smells of breakfasts to be delivered. It was so quiet that he could hear a slight shuffle outside his door: one of the Tower Guardsmen shifting his weight. Faramir remembered his dream and the great lady's order to him. He did not remember her name.

As he sat up, he noticed that his body felt less stiff this day. His wounds were annoying, rather than agonizing, and his skin felt cool and comfortable. This was particularly surprising because outside the room's only window a mist swirled, the type of weather that sometimes made his old battle scars burn.

I must try to think of Frodo, Faramir reminded himself, though there was much to do today.

He pulled on soft leather breeches and a calf's length tunic without difficulty, using both hands. He felt the cold dampness in the air. The guardsmen had retrieved one of his father's winter robes of office, which now hung from a peg on the wall of his modest hospital room. The Steward's office is mine now. I should wear its badges in addition to performing its functions, Faramir thought. Besides the robe looks nice and warm.

However, he did not have enough strength yet in his right arm to pull on the bulky, fur-lined robe. He cleared his throat with resignation. The guardsmen were at his side in a flash, helping him into Denethor's garment., Faramir reflected sadly as the robe's hem trailed on the floor, On the day before his death, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, nearly nine decades old and bowed with unimaginable troubles, still towered over both his sons.

The morning nurse Idril entered the room with a breakfast tray and gasped, “My Lord Steward, you are up and well.” She quickly placed the tray on the table, curtsied politely, and left in a rush. Shortly afterward came Beregond, ready for this morning's Council update. He sat on the hospital cot, grim and silent.

“There is no word from the great host or from Mithrandir?” Faramir asked bluntly. Beregond shook his head.

“The city was silent last night when I arrived for duty,” said the guard Marod, “except at the first circle. Folk worked there by bonfire light. Perhaps the upper circles are so quiet because all the people are at the first circle, working to fortify the gates. I even saw women and children working or delivering food and water to the men.”

Faramir and Beregond conferred briefly; then they set off for the Council. Denethor's councilors and the trade guild representatives were already assembled in the meeting room of the Houses of Healing.

To Faramir's discomfort, the Gondorians rose at his arrival. He quietly found a chair among the men in the middle of the long council table. Hurin already occupied the chair at the head of the table. The Keeper of the Keys ordered the meeting to begin, and then asked the guild representatives to deliver a status report for each of their projects.

The representative of the Masons' Guild told of how his fellow stone-workers had cut massive stones out of the ruins of houses destroyed in the siege, which then were taken in carts to the fortifications. His report was interrupted by the arrival of the delegation of Rohirrim, with the Lady of Rohan at their head. The Gondorians started to rise in deference to the Lady, but she gestured for them to be seated.

On this morning, with his health and strength starting to revive, Faramir's reaction to the Lady Éowyn's presence was immediate. He noted how her lovely face was frozen into an impassive mask of brittle authority, as she took her seat next to the First Marshall. For the first time Faramir saw her in the garments of a noblewoman of Rohan. Her fitted cotehardie conformed to her shape, so unlike the baggy hospital gowns and oversized, probably borrowed dresses he had seen her wear so far. At last, he could tell that she had small, upright breasts, and a lean, muscular upper body, contrasted by curving hips perfect for bearing children. At this important, possibly contentious meeting, he was ferociously aroused at the sight of a lovely woman, like an inexperienced youth or the lonely Ranger he had been.

No doubt now that my health is improving, Faramir quipped to himself as he squirmed beneath his heavy robes. Both his body and mind were in great discomfort. Right now I have to pay attention to the proceedings, not dwell on the lady Éowyn . Even as he berated himself for his lack of bodily control, she turned her lovely dark blue eyes toward him. Her aloof bearing relaxed momentarily as she gave him a genuine grin. Ah, I can't stand this! Faramir struggled with his urges. Should I send a guard to Ithilien Faire after all?

The thought of tumbling a whore was hardly appealing when you were surrounded by arguing craftsmen and councilors. He tried to concentrate on the meeting, forcing his eyes upon the speakers, just in time to hear the Carpenters' Guild spokesman say, “The members of our guilds want your assurance that they will be rewarded in the end, as you have promised. ”

Faramir leaned back in his chair for a moment. So much for any arousal, he thought, repressing a bitter grin. He said gravely, “Our end is unknown to us. There is no guarantee that the West will prevail. If the host at the Black Gate is defeated, then your reward, at least in the near term, is safety behind the rebuilt walls. If by some great turn of fate, the Dark Lord falls, I will see to it that all are compensated.”

The Gondorian tradesmen grumbled. The councilors whispered among themselves. Faramir sat silent, tense, waiting.

Finally, a grey haired councilor in a rich velvet hat said, “My Lord Steward, I must speak what is on everyone's mind. We know very little of this man who took a force of just 500 to face the Enemy at his door. What if the Dunedain chief survives and comes back intending to be King?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Faramir caught Éowyn bristling at the councilor's words. Her reaction suddenly troubled him. He took a deep breath and told everyone present what had been much on his mind:

“If Aragorn, son of Arathorn, returns to Minas Tirith, then I will accept him as my liege lord and king. I have made no secret of my feelings on this matter. Mithrandir and others before him have recognized Aragorn as Isildur's heir. Even my father suspected his true lineage. I am confident not only of the validity of Aragorn's claim but also the reports of his wisdom, strength, and courage.”

Among the Rohirrim, Éowyn 's face beamed. She smiled at him in hearty encouragement, but Faramir felt uneasy.

Erkenbrand, the First Marshall of Rohan said, “Aragorn is a gifted leader. I have seen him in the heat of battle. Yet even the best of us is easily felled by an arrow or a sword. By a stroke of luck, the West might prevail, but that does not mean our leaders will return alive.”

Faramir leaned forward, trying to take the participants' measure. He said, “If Aragorn does return, I will try to persuade him to compensate you as I have promised. If the worst happens and he does not return, then you will still receive your compensation. You have my word as Steward of Gondor.”

Hear, hear!” several of the guild representatives exclaimed, and suddenly the whole meeting erupted in a joyous wave of noise. Faramir quickly gestured to Hurin to strike his gavel on the table in the effort to silence the commotion.

At the sound, the Rohirrim jumped up in surprise. The men of Minas Tirith stopped their cheers, but the escalating noise continued from outside the council room. Then the Tower Guardsmen burst into the room shouting, “Lieutenant Anborn has come with a force from North Ithilien.”

A silent exclamation lit the faces of everyone in the room. Faramir's skin prickled as he asked, “Where are they?”

“Why, they're here! The nurses have surrounded them, begging for news.”

“Have Anborn meet us in the library right away,” Faramir ordered, and then indicated to Hurin to adjourn the meeting. He signaled for Beregond and Erkenbrand to join him as he rushed downstairs to the dusty library.

Moments later, the Ranger lieutenant Anborn and his sergeant Ornendil, whom everyone in Minas Tirith had presumed dead, entered the library. They collapsed into the comfortable chairs near the oversized desk, quite unable to speak.

Faramir, too, was momentarily rendered speechless. In his vision of two nights ago, Lieutenant Castamir had appeared, quite alive, in the hidden fortress above Cair Andros. He had heard Castamir tell his men that Anborn had left with messages for Minas Tirith. Anborn's exhausted presence in this very library meant that Faramir's vision was true, just as the Elven Queen had assured him. Then she too must really exist and await his help! Faramir felt his blood begin to rush. He quickly orde“red the Tower Guardsmen to fetch food and beverages for the worn out Rangers.

“We met the great company three days ago, north of Castamir's fort, on the road to Henneth Annun.” Anborn groaned and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “They were moving slowly and had not encountered any resistance. We've been riding hard and fast and untroubled by enemies to give you this news. ”

“The Witch King claimed that all who rode with me were dead,” Faramir spoke, so relieved to see the swarthy face and crooked-tooth smile of his capable lieutenant. “My father and everyone else saw no reason to question his claims. How did you manage to escape?”

“Through the southern gate to the cisterns, just as we planned,” Anborn answered. “When we entered the city, the enemy numbers were so overwhelming, we had no chance to prevail in prolonged combat. I ordered my men to hack their way through to the hidden gates, in hopes that most of us could escape into safety. To my surprise, the opposition we faced seemed disinterested. Most fought us as if we were just obstacles in their path to somewhere else.”

“They were on their way to try and trap me,” Faramir said laconically.

“I am sorry that I ordered such a swift retreat, Captain,” Anborn apologized. “It was my decision, and perhaps it was craven. I didn't want to sacrifice my men in a hopeless situation. I vowed that I would make amends to you in some way. I took it upon myself to lead my men to the north, either to join Castamir or relieve the few men still maintaining Henneth Annun.”

Ornendil said, “We kept well hidden, looking for retreating enemies, but saw no one for several days. Then we ran into Castamir and some of his trackers near the fort. They'd spied a medium-sized division of Easterlings and Uruks marching down from the north. With our group swelling their numbers, Castamir had enough Rangers to ambush them.”

“Shortly afterward we heard the sound of great horns and men chanting,” Anborn took up the story. We hid in the hills above the road. A good sized army flying both the flags of Gondor and Rohan marched up from the south. A single man rode ahead of them. Those of us with the best eyes reported that he was followed by heralds and standard bearers flying the seven stars and the white tree! As they came closer, we could hear the criers yell, 'The King Elessar has come.'

“We didn't know what to make of it. No one had heard of this king. Castamir and I resolved to have our men block their way as they marched into the narrow valley half a mile or so up the road.”

“We could move faster than the great company, so we snuck ahead and blocked their path as they came,” Ornendil continued. “Their leader reminded me of one of the statues of the kings up on the Citadel. He motioned for the host to halt perhaps 20 feet before us. There was something uncanny about him. I admit that I was scared. I thought that maybe Numenor had risen again, and the Valar had sent this great king from over the sea to battle it out with the Dark Lord.”

But Anborn laughed, “Then who should ride out past this Elessar but Mithrandir on his great white horse. He seemed as surprised and excited to see me as I was to see him. We'd learned of the victory in Minas Tirith earlier from Castamir. Mithrandir was full of much more news. He told us that no one who charged on Osgiliath had returned to Minas Tirith—except you and you were now the Steward. We also got to meet Elessar and learn of his plans. I met the King of Rohan and I saw your uncle, Captain, looking quite bright in his swan armor. They all were unharmed and their arms were untested.”

Faramir took a deep breath, ““You are the first to bring us news of the greater world. Minas Tirith tends its wounds in an eery peace since the battle at the Pelennor.”

“I've sent out some patrols a few miles beyond the Great Wall,” Erkenbrand said. “The only enemies they found were corpses that need burning. It's been strangely quiet.”

“Not even one of those cursed Nazgûl has paid us a call since the Lady of Rohan eliminated their boss,” Beregond said. “The Dark Lord has abandoned us. No doubt he finds his northern gates more important than lowly Gondor.”

Faramir considered the news for a moment. Then he said, “Aragorn's ruse is working. The Dark Lord knows of Aragorn's host and readies his armies for an attack on the Morannon. That's why he has left us alone. He might have sent the enemy patrol Castamir saw to spy on the host, rather than to attack it.”

He studied the faces of each of the four men in the library, and then said gravely, “The Captains of the West could arrive at the Morannon as early as tomorrow. What happens then, I doubt Eru himself could predict. All we can do is prepare for another attack here within the next week.”

Faramir sent Beregond and Erkenbrand out to relay the Rangers' news to all in Minas Tirith. His stomach felt edgy with tension; his wounds burned again. Leaving Anborn and Ornendil with the remainder of the food, Faramir headed into the garden and looked out to the East. High clouds feathered across the sky. The air felt heavy and cold. It would rain tomorrow.

The army of the West would soon be at the Morannon. But where was Frodo? He was certain that the halflings still lived. He somehow would know if and when harm came to them. Faramir remembered his promise to the Elven Queen, but he was too agitated to focus his clear sight on Frodo.

I feel useless, stuck inside when I should be outside, talking with people, helping along the walls, or possibly re-training myself with a sword. It's nine full days since I was brought back by Aragorn. He has left us. My father is dead. Gondor needs a leader. I owe it to the people to shed the invalid's role and publicly assume the Steward's office, if only for a brief while.

Faramir left the library as swiftly as he could, tailed as usual by the Tower Guardsmen. They quickly climbed two flights of stairs that amazingly did not steal his breath, and headed into the Men's wing. Nurse Nienor was preparing an herbal remedy at a table in the main hall. “I must see Narmar right now” Faramir demanded. She inclined her head respectfully, then gestured for Faramir and his guards to follow.

They climbed one last flight to the top floor of the building. As Faramir followed Nienor, he heard children's voices issuing from the rooms. Finally, the nurse paused in front of a non-descriptive door and put a finger to her lips. Faramir peeked his head into the doorway, trying to be unintrusive.

In the little room, Warden Narmar sat on one side of a girl not more than ten, explaining his actions as he cut a mass of thick casting from her left arm. On the girl's other side sat Éowyn, totally engrossed in the procedure, totally oblivious that Faramir was watching her. She was so magnificent, so animated, so amazingly smart, so beyond how his childhood fantasy of an ideal woman.

In this quiet moment, watching this intimate scene, Faramir realized that his life had changed. He suddenly accepted that he was so in love with Éowyn that it practically drove all other thoughts, even thoughts about the future of Minas Tirith, from his mind. He wanted to take her out of this ordinary room, speak to her of deep thoughts and utter nonsense, and kiss her cool lips until they steamed. Instead, he cleared his throat in a desperate attempt to remember his purpose. Éowyn looked up and a smile as broad as sunshine lit her face. “Narmar is showing me how to remove a cast like the one on my arm. Today I begin my apprenticeship as a healer,” she said proudly.

He took a deep breath, not wanting to break the tranquility of the moment. But speak he must, “Rangers have come from North Ithilien. They saw the great host three days ago. They haven't been challenged by enemies. One of the Rangers spoke with your brother, Éowyn . He is fine so far.”

At the news, the lady sat upright, “Aragorn? Did they speak of Aragorn?” The color left her face. Her right hand clenched as she moved it to her lap from the child's shoulder.
Her words pierced Faramir's heart as keenly as any arrow, as she asked, “How does he fare? You do not mention that he was harmed.”

If she had wanted to hide her love for the absent Dunedan, she had failed. He said grimly, “Anborn heard Aragorn as he spoke to all the Rangers. He did not mention speaking directly with Aragorn. I would assume that Aragorn was fine three days ago.”

“Three days ago. Anything could have happened since then,” Éowyn said softly, giving Faramir what he perceived as a surprised look.

“Very true. It might be many days until we find out what befell them,” Faramir sighed. “Narmar, we must talk. The host should reach the Black Gate tomorrow or the next day. Give me leave to take up my service in the Citadel, or I will leave this place tomorrow of my own accord.”

“I will determine your state only after I give you a complete examination, my lord Steward” the Warden continued to remove the girl's cast, hardly giving Faramir so much as a glance. “I'll examine you when I finish my rounds, just before the dinner hour.”

“Who are you?” the little girl interrupted, staring at Faramir.

“My name is Faramir.” Her spunk somewhat abated his growing gloom. The child had brown hair divided into two braids on either side of a lively, peasant's face. “You are very handsome, Faramir” she said blithely. “Are you married?”

“No.”

“Then you should marry Lady Éowyn ,” the girl declared emphatically. Faramir gasped. Where did this child get such ideas? Were his crazy, amorous thoughts and his disappointment so obvious that an innocent young girl could sense them?

“Shush, Rethe, you are too bold,” Narmar scolded as he positioned two narrow boards on either side of the girl's now cast-free arm. He held one strip of fabric against a board and gestured to Éowyn. She took the other end in her free hand and proceeded to bind it around the girl's arm. Faramir could not see Éowyn 's face as she teased, “Faramir is the Lord Steward of Gondor, Rethe. He's got more important things to think about right now than whom to marry.”

Rethe gleamed, “Well, then, if you are not spoken for in ten years from now, Lord Steward, I'll be old enough for you.”

“I'll remember that,” Faramir laughed at Rethe as he took his leave. But his mind swirled. Images of Éowyn , his duty, and horrible premonitions troubled his thoughts. He returned to the Men's wing but knew that he would be unable to rest. Could he bury his ardor for the lady and accept merely being a friend? A bitter taste formed in his mouth. The man whom Faramir looked to as Gondor's greatest hope was now his rival in love. He spent hours every day in the company of the White Lady of Rohan. He was about to officially become the Steward. What would happen when and if the king returned?

Chapter Twelve: While Looking Elsewhere

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Avoidance is movieverse with much respect paid to canon. My Éowyn is the same age as Miranda Otto when the “Lord of the Ring's” films were made, rather than the much younger age of Book Éowyn. I chose to adopt Miranda's more mature characterization for “Avoidance,” to give her issues on love, marriage, and childbirth that a younger woman would not have. In this chapter, these issues really come in to play.

Thanks so much to Raksha and Shieldmaiden of Rohan for their Beta reviews.

Their bedroom was dark and silent, except for her husband's slow breathing, his lips close to her ear. His erratic turning had awakened her several times during the night. Now he lay calm as she heard the song of the early Spring birds herald the dawn.

When had she fallen in love with him? Why was it so important to him to know that now? Had she fallen in love while looking elsewhere? She knew well that she had been looking elsewhere when she first experienced her great desire for him. Unfortunately, no one in her youth bothered to tell her that desire and love sometimes walk hand-in-hand. She would not have dreamed of discussing these matters with her uncle. As for her closest companions, her brother and cousin Theodred, they were males and easily as naïve in these matters as she.

When she first came to Minas Tirith, Éowyn had long believed that desire and love were separate entities. She considered love as the highest of all feelings. She loved her few family members, her closest friends, and the man once called Estel, the king of all their hopes. By contrast, desire was a simple bodily craving, needing no lofty explanation. As a girl in her teens, she desired the boys who stole her kisses when her uncle wasn't looking. Then, two Springs ago, while waiting in fear and wrenching anxiety, to her surprise she felt simple desire again. But this time, desire had kindled as she stood next to her friend at the garden wall.

Morning was nigh at hand. In an hour they would rise and prepare for the events in the Citadel. Perhaps Faramir would forget his demand, that she tell him when she first realized she loved him? Unlikely, she concluded.

Faramir walked past the first of the wards in the men's wing of the Houses of Healing. His mind churned with love, jealousy, and fear of the possible end of his world as he knew it. For tonight, Minas Tirith was quiet and unharmed, though how long that state would persist gnawed at his mind.

To drive away his anxiety, Faramir decided to visit the patients, many of whom had fallen in defense of the city. He circulated from ward to ward, listening to the stories of Gondorian and Rohirrim alike. To his utter surprise, his entrance brought a chorus of cheers, from all but the most gravely wounded. Some of the Gondorian soldiers even kissed his ring and swore fealty to the Steward of Gondor. While listening to convalescing Rohirrim, Nurse Nienor summoned him for his examination by the Warden.

Narmar's final assessment was that Faramir's wounds and general health had improved greatly, just in the past few days. Faramir quickly announced that he would leave the Houses on the morrow. The Warden begrudgingly gave in to his demands, if he agreed to wait one more day. Faramir agreed to abide by the decision if he could leave the hospital grounds for some hours the next afternoon.

Thrilled to be free at last, Faramir dressed and requested that the guards standing loyally outside his door go and locate the lady Éowyn.

“Why, I just saw her downstairs with Dame Ioreth in the dining hall,” Nienor said, as she was about to enter his room with the evening meal.

“I'll have my dinner there, then,” Faramir told her as he scurried off. The dining hall was easy to find; simply follow the strong aroma of onions and spices. Thick chicken stew was on the menu. He was still enveloped in the imposing Steward's robe of office when he entered the large room. To Faramir's discomfort, many of the nurses and healers rose to their feet to acknowledge his arrival. He took off the robe as he strode among the tables and tucked the bulky cloak under his left arm.

He found Éowyn and Ioreth sitting at a table with a woman called Visme, who worked in the hamam. Ioreth cleared a space on the bench between herself and Éowyn, and insisted that Faramir sit between them. The chief nurse then proceeded to regale her companions with embarrassing tales from the boyhood of the Steward's sons.

Certain that his already ruddy complexion was now the color of a beet, Faramir nevertheless enjoyed Ioreth's tales, particularly one about baby Boromir that he had never heard. For the time being, he rested his worries about the inevitable crisis in the days to come. He forgot the exhilaration and confusion from realizing that he was madly in love. He ate the stew calmly, yet aware that Éowyn sat at his side, no doubt oblivious to his strong feelings.

Ioreth and Visme eventually returned to their duties. Sluggish from eating the heavy stew, Éowyn and Faramir decided to take a walk. They headed to the library's garden, now bathed in twilight. One of the guardsmen came forward from the hallway and set the torches in the garden ablaze.

Éowyn stepped onto the short wall and faced East, out onto the Pelennor Fields. High above her head thin clouds drifted across the newly risen half moon. A strong damp wind blew in from the Ephel Duath. It tossed Éowyn's hair and whipped at the funnel-shaped sleeves of her dress. She turned to Faramir, shivering. “I'm cold again. I wonder if I will ever be warm.”

“You just need a cloak. Use mine.” He stripped off his father's massive robe as Éowyn stepped down from the wall.

“It's huge,” Éowyn remarked as Faramir draped the cloak over her shoulders. Her lithe frame almost disappeared within the robe's thick fur lining. The robe billowed out past her feet onto the patio.

“My father was a very large man, taller than his sons,” Faramir grinned. “This was one of his state robes.”

“Does it make me the Steward of Gondor?” Éowyn laughed as she lumbered along the wall, looking toward the East more often than she looked toward Faramir.

He said, “Aye, and I'd swear fealty to you except for one thing.”

“And what is that?”

“I'm wearing the Steward's ring. All who would ally themselves with the House of Hurin show their loyalty by kissing the ring.”

She tossed her head and sat down on a bench that was built into the wall. The folds of the robe spilled about the ground like a voluminous quilt.

She looks deceptively vulnerable, swathed in that robe, Faramir thought as he walked her. Wouldn't it be nice to join her inside that fat fur lining?

The robe was large enough to cover them both. But Éowyn might be put off by such a suggestion on his part. Furthermore, the thought of sharing a robe with her made him break out in a sweat.

A serving girl walked onto the garden terrace, bearing a tray with a flagon of wine, glasses, and fruits for dessert. “The Tower Guards must have sent her,” Faramir remarked as the girl left. “They excel at anticipating my needs. I only wonder what they did for my father.”

Éowyn grinned as he poured the wine. She said, “That little girl Rethe certainly was bold with her questions.”

“Mmmm, asking me to wait ten years so I could marry her,” Faramir gave her a full wine glass, then clicked his glass against hers.

“And yet, there was some wisdom in her words,” Éowyn took a sip and swirled the red liquid in the glass. “Why is it that you are not wed? I'm surprised that your father didn't marry off his sons when you were very young.”

Faramir considered her words for a moment and then sighed, “My father saw his sons as soldiers and rangers, not as guarantees for the survival of his line or pawns for political gain. Father didn't marry my mother until he was 46, older than my brother Boromir's age at his death. My parents were a love match, according to my uncle Imrahil. But rest assured that my grandfather Adrahil was quite pleased to marry his daughter to the Steward.

“Some years ago, Father did talk of finding a suitable wife for Boromir, though Boro never seemed particularly interested in marriage,” Faramir sat down beside Éowyn, resisting the strong urge to cuddle up to that blanket of a robe. The night was cold, after all. “In fact, your name might have been mentioned as a possible bride.” Was the level-headed, plain-spoken Éowyn actually giggling?

“As for me, when I was young I didn't think my father much cared what I felt or did about women. All he wanted was for me to finish my schooling. Then his bowman son could quickly be sent to the Rangers and quickly get out of his sight. I had a sad surprise in my eighteenth year. I found out that my father did pay attention to my choice of women. I fell in love with a ship builder's daughter from Dol Amroth, a friend of my cousin.”

“Ah hah,” those dark blue eyes teased, “you have been in love once.”

He looked away, trying to remember Gwynellor, daughter of Dirhavel. She was small and ripe with thick brown hair and a vivacious spirit. Gwyn couldn't have been prettier, although she certainly could have been more discreet.

“Every summer, Father sent Boromir and myself to stay for two months with my uncle's family by the sea. On my eighteenth summer, my uncle held a huge gathering for the leading merchants of Dol Amroth and their families. That is where I met Gwyn, some years before the curse of clear sight came to trouble me. I thought I was in love and should have used better sense. Gwyn was very forward in her behavior toward me, sometimes in full sight of my younger cousins. Later I found out that Gwynellor had boasted to her father that she was going to make me marry her.”

Beside him, Éowyn stiffened. Had he offended her by his frankness? She had emphasized her preference for plain speech so he had tried to be plain. Then the lady said, “Was her behavior considered unusual?”

“For a girl from a respectable merchant's family, I would say so, at least to older folks like my aunt Idris,” Faramir smiled. He was surprised when Éowyn huffed—her only response.

“Gwyn was my first woman, I her first man,” Faramir said, watching Éowyn carefully. Not the slightest twinge of shock appeared on her face, so he continued, “My blasted cousin Elphir had been spying on us in the woods. He told our secret to my uncle, who had a little talk with my father. After scarcely a month of what I thought was true love, Gwyn disappeared off the face of Arda, so it seemed.”

“That's awful,” Éowyn gasped.

Faramir chuckled. “Not really, when you consider what happened later to Gwyn. I was sent back in disgrace to Minas Tirith. But my father arranged for Gwyn to marry a wealthy landowner with huge herds of cattle in Lebennin. I was heart broken. Last I heard, Gwyn was fat and happy with three children, none of them mine.”

Éowyn laughed and loosened the robe. Faramir glimpsed the round neckline of her Rohirric-style gown peeking out from behind the furs. “So your father wanted to arrange your marriage after all,” she said, and moved closer to him on the bench.

“I doubt he was interested in finding me a suitable mate. He was more inclined to scare away women he deemed were unsuitable for me.” Faramir pressed against her just slightly, wanting to share the warmth of the robe.

“I wonder what Denethor would have thought of me?” Éowyn leaned into him. “Would he have deemed a Shieldmaiden of Rohan a suitable wife for his heir?”

“It's a moot point now,” Faramir answered, “but Boromir would have liked you. You're a fierce woman. He'd have appreciated that.” He raised the all-but forgotten glass of wine and drained it dry. She followed suit. Then Faramir said, “And what about you, Éowyn, why are you unmarried? Do the lords and ladies of Rohan have leave to marry whom they choose?”

Éowyn sat up and moved just slightly away from him. She said, “Our people don't have as many rules and niceties as you Gondorians. The folk of our settlements and rural areas marry by inclination or by family arrangement, usually by their mid-teens. If a boy and a girl lust after each other, their families see to it that they are married quickly. That's what happens most of the time among the common folk. Their lives are short and hard, by comparison to the lofty Numenoreans of civilized places like Gondor.”

Her icy tone continued, “But the same could not be said of the House of Éorl . We were raised with the knowledge that the king was going to marry us off to solidify alliances. My cousin Theodred, as heir to the throne, particularly expected to make a political marriage with a high-born woman of Laketown or Gondor. My brother told me he assumed he would be offered a Marshal's daughter. As for me, the only woman among Theoden's heirs? My bride price would be very high, unavailable to common men. To merit a husband who could pay such a price, I had to maintain impeccable purity. Looking back, I was a valuable trade commodity.

“When I was in my teens, my uncle promised to find me a husband among the highest born of our Middle Earth--if such a man even existed. But Theoden too often was preoccupied by the dangers at our door to think about his promise to his niece. Then he descended into dotage.”

Her shoulders hunched forward. To cheer her, Faramir rubbed her upper left arm vigorously.

“Oww!!” Éowyn exclaimed, distracted from her stories.

“I'm sorry,” he pulled his hand away quickly. “The robes cover your cast. I entirely forgot your injuries.”

“So did I,” she managed a faint grin. “Thinking about those times is trying. My life for many years was an endless, joyless circle of duty and defeat, without hope of a husband or family. ”

“But now you are in love and with the Lord Aragorn” Faramir said, then immediately regretted it. Éowyn shot him a stare that could freeze the blood. Instead, a trickle of sweat ran down the base of his neck into his hair. He stammered, “Lady, you have asked me to speak plainly. One doesn't need any special genius or clear sight to figure this out.”

She nodded, “I thought I kept my feelings well hidden. I was gravely mistaken. I can't hold a secret. The day nurse Gertrudis and Dame Ioreth have been teasing me about Aragorn for practically since I moved to my current quarters.”

Faramir's stomach constricted. He shouldn't have so blatantly burst out his suspicions, but he needed some confirmation of Éowyn's feelings. He respected her confession, and yet it produced such gnawing envy in his heart. Faramir son of Denethor next blurted, “So your wedding night can no longer be enhanced by your impeccable purity?”

She kicked him.

Her face flushed, as thoroughly insulted. The impact of her leg against his burned calf was muffled considerably by the heavy robes. Nevertheless, that kick made her feelings known. He raised his right hand to cover his mouth, all too aware that the arrow puncture beneath that arm was hurting him mightily.

“What a crass ...!” Éowyn scolded. “Aragorn has never so much as kissed my hand, unlike you and Beregond and two thirds of the Gondorians at your meeting.”

“The Dunedain of Arnor have forgotten how to be polite to women,” Faramir teased behind his muffled mouth but immediately regretted it. “I'm sorry,” he apologized. Nevertheless, he could not stop himself from studying her acutely. He perceived her distress, though her face had regained its calm. Finally he said softly, “You are a maid still.”

Éowyn spoke with great regret, “In Rohan, most women my age are busy planning their daughters' marriages. They aren't like me, who wonders why no one has married her. I am 33, with few child-bearing years left to me.”

“You are second to the throne of Rohan and still a maid, which would count in your favor with many high-born men.” Faramir tried to cheer her. “Not to mention that you are very beautiful,” he gulped, unable to stop those words from escaping his mouth.

“I am no longer a candidate for marriage, whether by arrangement or inclination,” Éowyn insisted.

“But why?” Faramir asked, though he suspected the answer. “I can't think of a better marriage candidate for you than the Lord Aragorn.” He had to hear her answer, even though Éowyn might kick him again.

Her free hand played with the broad edge of the Steward's robe of office. Her head hung down. Thick blonde strands of hair fell over her shoulders and hid her face. Faramir could barely hear her when she said, “Aragorn is not inclined to marry me, so I am not inclined to marry. He was betrothed for many years to an Elf-woman, the daughter of the Master of Rivendell. He never hid this from me, nor that he at last broke their engagement so that she could leave Middle Earth with her people.”

“So he is free to marry though his heart is still with this Elf?” Faramir asked cautiously.

“That is only half my story!” Éowyn sat up and looked at him directly. “While he was in Rohan, Aragorn treated me as a friend and often spoke with me. He flirted with me, or so I read his behavior. I thought he was interested in me as a woman. I know now that am a poor reader of men. On the day that he left Rohan with his companions, Aragorn made it very clear that he could never love me.”

Faramir expected to see tears form in her eyes, but instead Éowyn's face was composed and strong as steel. She said, “After his departure, my uncle told me that the Lord Elrond himself had secretly visited our encampment the previous night. Lord Elrond gave Aragorn the great sword of the heirs of Númenor. The Elven Lord told my uncle that he was sorely grieved. His daughter had chosen not to leave Middle Earth, and made the decision to become mortal. As a result, she was gravely ill.”

She took a deep breath and said, “So now you know why I chose to ride with my uncle's host to the Pelennor Fields. If I could not find glory as Aragorn's queen, I'd find glory for myself, on the battle field.”

Faramir was stunned. He felt her distress so deeply that his body shook for just a second.

Éowyn continued, “And then, after Aragorn called me back, I deemed the march of the Men of the West a hopeless situation. Though he did not love me, I loved Aragorn enough to want to die at his side. You cannot understand how deeply it hurts to love someone who doesn't love you.”

Faramir reached out his hand and put his fingers beneath her chin, raising her face for closer study. She did not pull away. Instead he perceived that she in turn took great measure of him. Was she trembling? He hoped he wasn't scaring her. Swallowing tightly, he finally said, “Nay, lady. I believe that I might understand how it hurts to love someone who doesn't love you.” His fingers tapped her chin playfully before he lowered his hand to his lap.

Regarding him thoughtfully, Éowyn said, “You continually surprise me, Faramir Denethor's son. How can such a grim war-captain have a such an understanding heart?”

“I know well how to protect my heart,” Faramir said. Grimly. He got up from the bench and eyed the bottle of wine. Only a few drops remained. Éowyn declined his offer to get them a second bottle. She pleaded weariness and the need to go to sleep early. He nodded and walked along with her to the Women's Quarters. The evening Guardsman Havel followed discreetly, about 20 feet behind them.

As they paused before the entrance, Faramir helped Éowyn free herself from his father's robe. Then he said, “Narmar has given me permission to leave the Houses for tomorrow afternoon only. I've ordered a wagon to take me to the City walls and perhaps beyond them. I also asked permission for you to accompany me--that is, if you want to interrupt your studies.”

Éowyn wrapped her free arm around her bound arm, as though chilled now that the cloak was gone. She said, “I would love to get out of here and see something of your city.”

“You will,” Faramir promised. “Be ready at the noon hour. We've got a long and hilly ride. I'll send the Guardsmen for you when the wagon arrives.” Oddly enough, her face looked confused, as she quickly turned and headed down the long corridor.

Faramir walked toward the stairs, where Havel patiently waited. “What time is it now, I wonder?” he asked the guardsman.

“About two hours before midnight.”

“Ah, too late. I would have liked to sit in the hot pool at the Hamam, but I suspect it is closed.”

“I don't know, my Lord,” Havel said, “but what difference should that make? You are the Steward. Any time you like, you can order it opened.”

“Yes, I guess I can. Let's see to it!”

Éowyn hurried down the hall, still clutching her bound arm. She passed Dame Ioreth, making her final rounds for the evening. The head nurse exclaimed, “Are you all right, dearie?” Éowyn nodded her head but didn't even look at the older woman.

Once inside her small quarters, she undressed quickly down to her chemise, extinguished the lone torch that provided lighting, and lay down on the cot. The evening was cold, as usual, but for once she felt overly warm. She lay on top of the rough wool covers and didn't give it a thought. She had more troubling matters to think of.

Her body felt extremely uncomfortable. She recognized some of her physical reactions. She had felt this sensation of longing in her teens, for those boys whom she kissed secretly with no thought of marrying. But never had she been strongly overcome. Why should she be tormented at this age with desire, when she had no hope of fulfilling it? In the end, she knew she had to leave the garden before Faramir perceived her overwhelming sensations.

I love Aragorn. But never have I felt such burning desire during all the times I spent with him... Well, perhaps that's wrong. I did feel a tiny bit of lust when he accidentally awoke me. That time when my uncle had the male visitors sleep in my quarters and made me sleep in the great hall. Surely all our talk of Aragorn this evening has made me lust for him even though he is a hundred and more miles away.

“Acck!!” Éowyn exclaimed aloud as she tossed over to her right side. Then she snorted as her bound left arm complained, for all that her right arm cushioned it. Lord Aragorn might have been in her talk much of this evening, but he was not sitting close to her in the garden. He did not share a drink with her this evening. He did not hold her chin in his hand and study her face. Aragorn had never held her chin in his hand and studied her face.

Her heart loved the great commander who had marched out in a desperate gambit. Didn't it? Her body, on the other hand....She had to accept what had happened this evening. Her body was trembling from a lust that she had never experienced, and, she must admit, a lust that had nothing remotely to do with Aragorn.

What had Faramir meant when he held her face this evening? Was he was trying to use his clear sight to read her mind? When he held her chin this evening, she was bound and determined that he not guess her suspicion that he wanted to kiss her. She especially did not want him to know that had he kissed her, she most certainly would have returned the kiss. Looking backward from the perspective of a hospital cot, the opportunity to respond to such a kiss was irresistible.

Éowyn squirmed. Once a formidable stranger, the Steward had become, in one week, the person who had made her hospitalization in Minas Tirith bearable and even enjoyable. Faramir had become her friend, and more of a friend than anyone in her life beyond her family. She so enjoyed their conversations, even if he had cajoled a few secrets that she hadn't wanted to tell. She'd gotten some amazing confessions from him, as well. This evening, Faramir's pale blue eyes were so warm and gentle, even when his words were probing and sometimes ill-considered. He Had cuddled so close to her—or was it she who was cuddling so close to him?

Éowyn, you are drunk! It's the wine talking. She groaned and chided herself. You know whom you love. You are merely lusting, lusting for your friend; the wine is doing this. That is all.

But is it? She tried to sleep. She tried to imagine the face of the Lord of the Dunedain but his features were blurry. The grave grey eyes that rejected her kept dissolving into the clear blue ones that looked on her with love. Éowyn quaked. She lay alone on a scratchy blanket, practically overwhelmed with simple lust. But Faramir, he was actually in love with her! She was sure of it. Blast it, what should she do?

Chapter Thirteen: Time Stands Still

Faramir awoke to the crackle of wood burning in the fireplace. Per usual, his manservant had crept into the bedroom an hour after dawn and set the fires blazing. Now the warmth tickled Faramir's cheeks, lips, and hair, making him relax rather than motivating him to get up.

Ah, to remain in bed in peace for the rest of his life, with his wife cuddled beside him and a warm fire crackling in the hearth. Ceremonies and festivities normally did not cause him concern, yet a strange dread weighed upon him as he thought about the upcoming events in Minas Tirith.

Faramir gently dragged his big toe down Eowyn's calf. She refused to even twitch. His mind wandered back to that eventful day, two years ago, when Minas Tirith seemed to hold its breath before heir lives changed forever.

Eowyn followed the Tower Guardsman along a colonnade that opened into a balcony above the street. A stiff wind blew into the hallway. Her skin prickled beneath the soft grey wool of the dress borrowed from Ioreth' s daughter. It was the warmest garment of the few she had besides her hospital gowns, though it clearly could not keep her warm outside.

She walked onto the balcony and craned her neck to check the sky. Variegated grey and white clouds pushed against each other, with no trace of blue peeping through them—not a promising start to a journey outdoors. She heard men arguing in the street below. Leaning over the ledge, she spied Faramir standing beside a carriage. He heatedly discussed some matter with a Tower Guardsman and another, much shorter man wearing the black and silver tabard of the Stewards of Gondor.

Faramir's reddish gold hair whipped back from his face, emphasizing his broad cheeks and adamant expression. Even at a distance, Eowyn was acutely aware of his presence. He looked up. Immediately his perturbed demeanor brightened. He raised an arm from beneath his heavy cloak--the same Ranger cloak that he had spread over her some days ago--and greeted her enthusiastically.

Once outside, the full blast of cold air pierced through Eowyn's dress. Her teeth chattered and her body trembled. What was going on? Certainly Rohan was much colder in March.

The carriage resembled an elaborately carved box, open on the side facing the horses. Windows were carved into the side walls to afford the passengers a view. Two impeccably groomed, dapple-grey horses were harnessed on either side of a pole attached to the carriage body. The animals tossed their heads impatiently. The shorter man, with whom Faramir had been arguing earlier, stood beside the closer horse, affectionately scratching its neck.

Faramir reached into the vehicle and withdrew a bundle wrapped in white muslin. As he removed the flimsy fabric, he said, “Here, Lady, you need not be cold again.” A great length of deepest blue velvet adorned with shimmering clear jewels spilled out from beneath the wrappings. Faramir held it up for her inspection. Then he draped the mantle over her shoulders, securing the ends with a delicate brooch at her neck.

The garment's soft fur lining calmed Eowyn's shivering muscles. She grasped the cloak's edges, admiring the intricate design of beads and pearls adorning its borders. “I've never seen a cloak quite like it. Why, it's fit for an elf-queen.”

“Not an elf-queen,” Faramir laughed. “Fit for my mother. It was her winter robe of state.” He placed his hands on Eowyn's shoulders and rotated her to face him. Those blue eyes studied her, but today she did not try to defy him. She instinctively knew that he was merely deciding whether the garment suited her, not probing her inner thoughts, or speculating on what lay beneath her dress.

She broke the silence, “Your mother must have looked magnificent in this cloak.”

He shrugged sadly, “I don't remember seeing her in it. I barely remember my mother's face. Some years after she died my brother and I delved into my father's great armoire, and I found this mantle. We assumed that my father had a secret lady friend.”

Guiding her into the carriage, Faramir steered her past the driver's seat to a bench for passengers that was wedged between the carriage's side walls. As they sat down, he said, “I asked my father about it, though I expected him to cane me for being so bold.” Faramir said, sitting down beside Eowyn on the passengers' bench . “Instead, Father brought me back to his rooms and told me the mantle's history. He also showed me some other hanging garments and a trunk of clothes that had belonged to my mother. I remember to this day how gentle and dreamy he seemed then, not short-tempered and annoyed, like he usually was with me.”

The short man climbed into the carriage and took the driver's seat. “Calem and Nem are most annoyed with me,” Faramir said. “I slipped out through the gardens, while the guards were in the hall. I went to my father's quarters, just to get this mantle. That's more than I have walked since I was wounded. But it was worth it, just to see you in the mantle. It is yours to keep, from the son of she for whom it was made.”

“I'm honored,” Eowyn thanked him softly as Calem the driver cracked the reins. The wagon lurched slightly. The horses' hooves clattered on the stone pavement. Oh, to ride again, Eowyn thought, all the while knowing that she could not mount a horse until her broken arm healed. She watched Calem's back and the view of the white stone street beyond the horses' heads, then slid down the passengers' bench to look out the left window.

Their way was shadowed by graceful buildings of white marble or smooth stone. Domed turrets towered over the street corners. The white walls were tarnished by patches of black grime, no doubt from the recent smoke of war engines and the gathered accumulation of dirt from years of neglect

Nevertheless, the buildings' ageless beauty stupefied Eowyn, who had never seen a city of more than 30,000 people. Their entrances were bounded by columns or arches. Some doors had ornamental shrubbery at either side. Ornate balconies surrounded wide, curved windows on the second or third floors. A woman stood on a balcony, hanging wet clothes over the balustrade. Yet the scene was rather eerie. “Where are the people” Eowyn asked. “Don't they ever stand in their doorways or walk down the streets?”

“I hope that we will see most of the people who still live here down at the first circle, helping to rebuild the gates,” Faramir explained. “We're in the sixth circle, home for most of the wealthy and high born. Not long ago my father ordered everyone not directly involved in the city's defense to evacuate. People who live here typically have property in the farmlands or the seaside where they could go to escape the summer's heat. Or war.”

Then he added grimly, “The folk who live on the lower circles have less money and no country homes to flee to. Today we shall find out...But look here, Eowyn!” Startled, she slid across the bench toward him.

“That's my brother's town house,” he put his arm around her shoulder and leaned backward so that she could see out the window on his side. “I stayed with him whenever I visited Minas Tirith.” A narrow, three-story building with arched windows passed by. She caught a glimpse of statues sculpted into the niches that decorated the building's walls.

Trying not to fall into Faramir's lap, she said, “It seems very fancy, not the sort of thing I could have imagined your brother living in, from what you have told me of him.” She sat up quickly, regaining her decorum, as he chuckled and straightened himself on the bench.

They passed through an ornate, turreted gate and then headed upward on a curving stone street. Then the narrow road opened onto a vast space, part lawn, part broad avenue. Eowyn was captivated by the enormous vista of terraces, mountains, and ominous grey clouds beyond the heads of the driver and the horses. They had come to the top circle of the city.

“This is the Court of the Fountain, the center of Gondor's government,” Faramir told her.

Eowyn strained her neck as she looked ahead. Few people walked about, save hulking guards wielding pikes as tall as they were. The guards would have terrified her, had they not been wearing absurdly grandiose winged helms. The carriage stopped outside a great building. Only when Faramir helped her out did she realize how immense the building was. Its right side abutted a great tower with an intricately carved base. Opposite the great building spread a panoramic view of the snow-capped mountains rising behind broad walls.

Before she could ask to be pointed to the East, Faramir gestured toward the immense building. The Tower Guardsman Nem, who had followed behind on horseback, held open the heavy brass and inlaid ivory door. As Faramir bounded forward, Nem spoke softly, “This is the Great Hall of Minas Tirith and White Tower of Ecthelion. Tomorrow, in this place, my Lord Faramir officially takes up the Steward's rod and his office in our land.”

The Great Hall was the biggest enclosed space that Eowyn had ever seen. Two buildings the size of the Golden Hall of Meduseld could easily fit inside. She recalled fondly how the Golden Hall was warm, active, crowded with people petitioning the king, people feasting, celebrating, and carrying out the business of life in the Mark. This place, by contrast, was silent, sterile, empty, except for Faramir, Nem, and herself. Instead of living, yelling, sweating Gondorians, the central corridor of the Great Hall was populated on either side by beautiful, cold statues.

Eowyn stopped at the first statue, ignoring the men who by now were far ahead of her. Here was an immense, heroic figure, taller than anyone, fair or foul, that she had ever seen. The figure wore a strangely cut tunic and a swath of stone fabric draped diagonally across his shoulders. Though exceptionally fair of face, this hero was most definitely human, by the look of his bearded face and rounded ears. At the statue's base a highly-polished brass placard proclaimed, “Isildur Elendilion, Aran, SA 3209-TA 2.”

“Here begins the line of the Kings of Gondor,” a man's voice said. Beside her stood one of the huge guards with the feathery helms. “I am Suiadan, guard and afternoon curator,” he said gravely, without honoring her by a bow. “Would you like to hear their stories?”

Eowyn nodded. The statues of Isildur and his brother Anarion reminded her of how she imagined the great heroes of her ancestors to look. How lofty they were, vastly superior to anyone alive in the present day. She could not take her eyes off the parade of statuary and the stylized, indulgent fashion in which the sculptors had represented the Gondorian kings. As she and Suiadan walked along, the appearance of the statues subtly changed. Their faces became less heroic, their poses less formal, their costumes less arcane.

“Here begins the line of the Stewards,” Suiadan said softly. “Here is Mardil Voronwe, first ruling Steward, of the House of Hurin.” Whereas the statues of Gondor's earliest kings seemed unreal, almost elf-like, the Stewards were more realistically represented. The placards on their pedestals were in the Westron tongue, not Sindarin Elvish.

At the end of the column, Faramir waited. “This is my grandfather Echthelion,” he said.

“He looks like he could jump off his pedestal and have a conversation with us,” Eowyn grinned. “The statue is so life-like. He even looks a little like you. He must have been a formidable Steward.”

“So I've been told. This statue is all I know of him. He died when I was an infant.” Then Faramir chuckled, “Mithrandir used to take Boromir and me here for history lessons. The old wizard always emphasized the might of the Numenorean kings. He was much less enthusiastic about the House of Hurin. Even as a boy, I insisted that the Stewards had better sculptors, but I don't think Mithrandir appreciated my taste in art.”

Then he said, “Two of our best sculptors yet live. I've commissioned them for a statue of my father, before his memory fades too much for a realistic portrayal. That's the best I can do for his legacy, as his unintended heir.” He turned abruptly and walked past her into the reception area dominated by an imposing ceremonial staircase to a canopied throne. Faramir stopped beside a simple black chair at the foot of the stairs.

“I will sit here tomorrow to take up my office,” he said. “The investiture of a new Steward usually calls for great pageantry and weeks of celebration throughout the country. But I've asked the Keeper of the Keys for just a basic ceremony.” He cast his eyes downward and said, “I did not expect to hold this office and must assume that it won't be mine for that long.”

Before Eowyn could respond, Faramir gently took her unbound elbow, his face now an inscrutable mask. He led her past the Steward's chair to an immense, highly polished mahogany bier atop an elegantly carved marble pedestal. The casket came to just above her waist. Its arched glass lid enabled passers by to view the deceased while protecting the embalmed body from the unforgiving air.

Eowyn peered inside. There lay the body of Theoden King, preserved for the ages in the manner of the great Numenoreans. Theoden's face was not resigned and wracked with pain as she had last seen him on the battlefield, his crushed body beneath her daughterly embrace. No, here was the noble face of her beloved uncle. The embalmers had opened his eyes and replaced them with clear blue glass. She stood transfixed for what felt like many minutes until she collapsed on top of the casket lid.

Uncle! Uncle! I miss you so, her heart sobbed though no sound escaped her lips. Oh, to hear his voice and the words that guided her through so many places in her life. All she felt was the glass between herself and her uncle's embalmed body. She lay unmoving, her free arm outstretched, her bound arm trapped between her body and the smooth, cold glass. Above her, she heard Faramir say, “When I saw you in the library, mourning your uncle, I promised myself that I would bring you to him as soon as I could.”

How long she lay there, prostrate in her grief, Eowyn could not tell. Finally, her broken arm started to trouble her. She sat up slowly and drew the sleeve of her borrowed dress across her eyes. On the other side of the casket Faramir leaned, his expression troubled. He said, “I wish I could have met Theoden King in life. I am grateful to see him, even in death.”

Swallowing the urge to sob outright, Eowyn raised herself. She looked about the vast hall and saw no other biers but Theoden's. She was about to suggest that they visit Lord Denethor's resting place, but quickly remembered the grisly rumors of the late Steward's final end, though she did not know the entire story.

Faramir stiffly offered Eowyn his arm, “I have forgotten my manners, Lady. Come, those still among the living are waiting for us,” His expression was bleak.

He whisked her down the hall with Nem following behind. Suiadan flung open the ornate doors; a brilliant light flooded the Great Hall. When they stepped outside, Eowyn raised her hand to shield her eyes against the glare. The huge clouds had parted, giving way to warm sunlight that was reflected by the white buildings and glittering cobblestones. The sun's mild, early Spring heat and the sheer beauty of the Court of the Fountain cheered her.

As Faramir helped her into the carriage, he sighed, “I promise to stop brooding on the past and the future, at least for the moment, and enjoy what I can have right now.” Eowyn nodded solemnly and pressed against her side of the carriage.

She recalled her lustful fantasies of last night as she observed the morose object of her silly desires. In the reality of a beautiful afternoon, these memories embarrassed her. Faramir stared out the window, oblivious to her presence. So much for his trying to be happy, Eowyn thought. I wish I knew what troubles him.

The carriage wound downhill, through the circles of the city. Below the sixth circle, the streets and alleys were more populated with people, carts, and animals. After her isolation in the Houses of Healing, Eowyn enjoyed simply watching the everyday aspects of life in Minas Tirith. She noticed the breeds and health of the horses and mules; the variety of buildings and how they were used; the look of the people's clothes. What a joy it would be to explore the streets on foot by herself, but she held her peace. On the opposite side of the bench, Faramir still brooded silently.

At the third circle, the carriage was momentarily trapped among wagon after wagon, in the square that Calem identified as the Farmer's Market. Eowyn prepared to jump out of the carriage and sample the produce. Faramir shook his head, and signaled to Nem whose horse had pulled up beside them. Just as the clatter of carts and wains unsnarled, the guardsman returned with a sack filled with early season fruits and vegetables. “I'm relieved that the farmers could produce an early Spring crop despite all the destruction so close to their lands,” Faramir commented bluntly.

They continued their circuitous route, lower and lower. Here many more people were on the streets, going about their business. They were simple folk, plainly dressed. Most were clean, though it was clear to Eowyn that they were poorly fed, even emaciated.

As they approached the lowest circle, she saw caved-in store fronts, collapsed roofs, and walls reduced to cracked masonry around gaping holes. The carriage rumbled through the remains of a gate into a vast courtyard. Wood scaffolding and filthy cloths covered the surrounding walls. People crawled over the scaffolding, plastering, painting, and cleaning up debris. Here were many more mounted riders than heavy carts and covered wains For the first time, Eowyn recognized mounted Rohirrim among the crowd.

The carriage approached the huge gap that revealed the Pelennor Fields, the remains of the great gate of Minas Tirith Again they were caught up in choking traffic. The driver Calem bellowed, “Make way! Make way for the Steward!” The horsemen and cart drovers moved aside to clear a path. Some of the people on foot tried to gape inside the carriage.

Bracing himself against the carriage's vibrations, Faramir stood up. Holding on to the carriage wall, he said, “Let's stand up. The people would be heartened to see us.”

Eowyn rose to her feet, then stumbled when the carriage suddenly bounced. She lost her balance and swayed hard against the driver's bench. Faramir caught her in his free arm, grabbing her protectively just when the carriage heaved over a fissure in the cobblestones.

She lost her breath momentarily from the unexpected warmth of Faramir's body against hers. Eowyn squeaked involuntarily and heard Faramir laugh in her ear. Then the carriage flew into the air as it hurled over a rock. Calem grabbed onto the reins as he slid down the bench into Eowyn. Faramir hung onto the carriage frame with one arm as he clasped Eowyn tightly. The two swerved and almost toppled out of the vehicle before the carriage swayed in the opposite direction, and tossed them back against the driver's bench.

“Sit down!” Calem ordered. Eowyn obeyed immediately, settling down beside the driver, but Faramir remained standing while the carriage passed through the collapsed walls. Eowyn wondered how his injuries fared from all the tossing. He turned his head about, as though assessing the amount of the city's devastation and the state of its reconstruction. The sunlight burnished his red-gold hair. He didn't take me on this ride just to get fresh air and a change of pace. Or to know me better, Eowyn concluded.

“Here it was where I first learned to shoot a bow and ride a horse. Now it's devastated, ruined for any children who might want to play here,” Faramir said above the din of carriage wheels and horses' hooves.

Eowyn's only prior memory of the Pelennor was of mutilated corpses piled one upon the other, of giant Mumakil bellowing, and of the reek of orc, horse, and human blood. Now the debris of war and endless columns of enemies was replaced by a village of tents and pavilions, most flying the white horse pennant of the Mark. In her mind, the healing of the Pelennor was underway, despite Faramir's gloomy conclusion.

The carriage lurched forward over ground viciously raked and torn by battle and stopped beside an unremarkable beige pavilion. Four warriors of the Mark and a Gondorian foot soldier walked out, carrying a large bundle wrapped in sack cloth. One of the Rohirrim raised a small cask and deposited it into the carriage. Nem dismounted and helped the Gondorian toss the bag beside the keg.

The air was immediately permeated by the odor of roasted meat. Eowyn's stomach churned. She hadn't eaten lunch, and it was way past noon. She wanted to tear into that bundle and devour whatever slab of beef put forth that scent. And what about the fruits the Guardsman had bought at the farmer's market? Where could they possibly be bound that required a store of food? These provisions had obviously been ordered for them earlier.

Calem slapped the horses' reins and the carriage pulled away, heading past Minas Tirith. The city's white surface was speckled by shadows of patchy clouds. When Eowyn had arrived last week with Theoden's host, she had paid little attention to the city the Rohirrim travelled a hundred miles and more to protect. Now the beauty and power of the cityscape enthralled her. Minas Tirith's image was startling, a picture of magnificence basking in its own decay. Only now did she truly appreciate that the city was built on a mere foothill, at the knee of a huge mountain with a snow-covered peak. She must walk the streets of Minas Tirith by herself, to explore its corners and learn its secrets.

“Do you see that great wall rising above the gap where the main gate once stood?” Faramir asked suddenly. Eowyn 's heart thudded once against her chest. Composing herself, she leaned forward to view the sheer wall that curved gracefully to the top circle of the city.

“It's the Embrasure. Its design represents the prows of the ships that bore the Faithful from Numenor,” Faramir continued. “I was told that my father set himself ablaze on the funeral pyre he intended for us both. When Mithrandir and Pippin tried to stop him, Father ran out into the Court of the Fountain and hurled himself over the Embrasure. His body was consumed by flames before it could hit the ground.” An enormous sadness hung on his shoulders as he said, “I cannot visit my father's remains for they are nowhere and everywhere. His ashes lie here, on the Pelennor Fields.”

“I'm sorry,” Eowyn drew closer to Faramir and laid her unbound hand on his forearm. At last she understood why he was so withdrawn since they left the Great Hall. She said, “We've suffered such losses in the past few weeks. Having someone to talk to about it helps.” He nodded solemnly but didn't look at her. As she touched him, the peculiar thrill from last night returned again to torture her. She wanted to comfort her grieving friend and not have such a basic, lustful reaction.

The carriage headed onto a wide road that turned past the city and climbed into a bleak landscape of the skeletons of recently burned trees. The smell of charred wood hung thick in the air, irritating Eowyn's throat and making her cough. To cover her mouth, she attempted to remove her hand from Faramir's arm, but he took it gently. He lifted her fingers to his mouth and brushed them just slightly with his lips. His eyes were sweet and thoughtful, though he teased, “There, I've had so much on my mind that I forgot to greet you properly this morning.”

Her breath caught as he released her hand, which she then laid politely in her lap. By all the ancestors in their great halls, beyond all doubt this Steward of Gondor was most certainly in love with her. Eowyn leaned against the back of the carriage, aware that it was growing cold. She breathed deeply, not knowing what to say and so saying nothing. The stand of burned trees gave way to a healthy, living forest that cast deep shadows across the road. At last she said, “Where are we going? You've avoided telling me our destination.”

Faramir chuckled softly, “I've seen what I needed to. Now we can go on our picnic up the slopes of Mount Mindolluin.”

For about an hour, the carriage climbed without encountering another vehicle. The air was cool and still. Eowyn clutched the beautiful blue mantle about her shoulders, appreciating its warmth. Riding behind the carriage, Nem the guardsman began a lovely ballad in an arcing, slightly nasal tenor. Faramir's voice answered, harmonizing at a slightly lower pitch. Then they sang some popular drinking songs that Eowyn joined in with until the carriage stopped before a clearing.

The driver and the guardsman spread out a blanket on the grass and set out the food. Eowyn helped as best as she could with only one functioning arm. Faramir insisted that everyone partake of the meal. Nem grumbled about how the Lord Denethor would never dine with his staff, to which Faramir replied, “When is the last time you ate?”

The meal of roasted beef cuts, freshly baked bread, and spring vegetables from the market was delicious. They drank tankard after tankard of mead, until the sunlight dimmed beneath the forest canopy.

“Come, we must see the sunset.” Faramir helped Eowyn up. They walked down a short path through the trees to a cleared area at the mountain's edge. A wall of stones about four feet high bordered the curving mountain side. Beyond the wall spread a panorama of mountains and gathering clouds. It was quite late in the day.

Faramir led her to the southernmost edge of the wall and pointed downward, “Look, there's the great river. It empties into the Bay of Belfalas, where some of my uncle's fleet is harbored. Belfalas is too far away to see from here.”

Eowyn peeked over the wall, then drew back quickly “How high up are we?” Faramir explained that they were 6,500 feet above the Pelennor Fields, at the end of the road. The mountain would rise to over 9,000 feet, where a river of ice covered its summit.

“Time seems to stand still. I wish today could last forever.” Eowyn said, feeling dizzy and slightly inebriated.

“All the West holds its breath,” Faramir agreed. “But everyone must exhale at some point so they can go on living.”

Straightening herself, Eowyn confessed, “I love what I have seen of Minas Tirith and want to know it better. Perhaps I can have a future like none I would have imagined but a month ago. Dame Ioreth has appointed herself the mother I never had. And when I found myself separated from everyone that I loved, the Steward became my best friend in Gondor.”

“Indeed he has,” Faramir said gravely. Was that a trace of cynicism in his voice? Then he straightened himself and smiled, “This is the place for the best views of all eastern Gondor.” He guided her along the wall and showed her various sights, like the ruined city of Osgiliath, split in two by the Anduin. Fading into the distance beyond Osgiliath, Faramir identified the Ephel Duath range, which marked the boundary of Mordor. Black clouds boiled above those distant mountains, preventing keen eyes from seeing further into the Dark Lord's lands.

As they walked northward, Faramir pointed out the island of Cair Andros. “To the east of the island lie the Rangers' hidden forts and our chief stronghold. Somewhere in that region, the Captains of the West have hopefully ambushed the orc bands.”

She drew in a hissing breath between her teeth, “Then that is the direction of the Black Gate?”

“A few days' march north of there,” Faramir's voice trailed off.

A rush of doubt overcame Eowyn. While she had amused herself with lustful thoughts about the Steward, Aragorn's host might be assembled at the gates of Mordor. They could be dead, or, against all hope, they could have triumphed. She gripped the dark mantle across her shoulders, trembling in shame. She had forgotten them, those she held most dear, in her desire to live only for the moment.

Eomer might survive the inevitable battle and then what? Most likely he would force her to return home and marry a lordling of his choice. And what of Aragorn? If he returned to Minas Tirith, it would be as its king. He would seek to marry his betrothed, but what if Arwen Undomiel did not survive? Where does this leave me? she thought. A suitable match for a king, she reminded herself, but now her previous dreams of marrying Aragorn troubled her.

“Faramir?” she said before realizing that he was gone. She spun around and saw him standing at the wall a distance away, his body turned East. A red crack split the ominous black clouds that covered the evil lands. Then a bolt of lightening rent the sky with a flash that illuminated the clearing with more brightness than the sun ever could. Faramir cried out and doubled over, as though he'd been struck by a pike through his gut.

Eowyn screamed and raced to Faramir's side.

He straightened slowly, his face ashen in the gathering twilight “I am unharmed, Lady,” he grunted brusquely. “We must leave right now. Nem! Calem!” He took Eowyn's elbow in an uncharacteristically rough fashion and rushed her down the path. They were met by the carriage driver and Tower Guardsman, bearing torches.

“Make haste as quickly as your beasts can travel,” Faramir ordered the driver as they helped Eowyn into the carriage. “We must return to the city immediately” Once in the carriage, he leaned forward on the bench, intent on the road ahead.

“Did you see them, the Captains of the West, in a vision?” Eowyn asked carefully.

“Their way has always been hidden to me,” Faramir muttered through clenched lips and refused to speak more.

Eowyn huddled against the carriage wall. The vehicle bumped and swayed furiously with the horses' quickened gait. Her stomach roiled and complained. Not a word passed between anyone in the party for the entire descent of Mindolluin. When the road finally straightened out, it was fully dark on a night without stars or moon. The torches mounted on the carriage sides provided paltry light. Eowyn could hold her peace no longer, “What happened to you at the walls, Faramir?”

He sat up slowly and spoke with a tight, low voice, “Did you not feel that bolt of red, Lady of Rohan? Perhaps the Eye only tracks a few unfortunates, like whoever might be the Steward of Gondor? You wonder why I have not married?” His broad, handsome features twisted with bitterness. “Then tell me what woman would have a man who is plagued with visions of the world beyond his door that torture his sleep and now his waking life?”

“Only a woman with no knowledge of the world beyond HER door,” Eowyn retorted. “In the past few weeks, I've met Elves, Dwarves, and Holbytlan, races I thought only existed in tales. Tree herders destroyed Isengard. Warriors 3000 years dead invaded Minas Tirith and scoured the battlefields of enemies. That a man of high Numenorean blood has inherited their gift of far sight is hardly remarkable, given what I have experienced. I am not afraid of a man who has visions; I only fear what the visions might have told him.”

Faramir breathed deeply before he said, “I saw Frodo. Frodo and Samwise. I saw beyond the clouds of Mordor for the first time in my waking life. I saw them so clearly I felt that I was there with the halflings. They lay exhausted at the foot of Orodruin, the great volcano. If the visions are true, they have succeeded beyond all expectations, though the most difficult part of their journey lies ahead.

“As I watched them rest, the Great Eye stretched his gaze along the black lands, searching, skimming the top sides of the volcano, barely missing the halflings. He must have sensed my presence, for his Eye lifted and bent West. The force of his gaze found me and probed my mind, but only for a second. Her eyes intervened and protected me.”

“Her?” Eowyn gasped, as did Calem seated in front of them.

“The Elven Queen who has been in my dreams for the past few days. I thought her a figment of my imagination.”

“It must be the Lady of the Golden Wood!” Eowyn exclaimed. “She's quite real, and extremely powerful, from what I've been told. She gave shelter to Aragorn and his friends. Gimli, Gloin's son, is decidedly in love with her.” Her heart lightened, just to think of Gimli. How was her dwarven friend faring?

The torchlights from the tents before the great gates of Minas Tirith lit their way as they returned to the city. Faramir shuddered, “Once more I have called myself mad, only to find out that my visions are real and must be acted on. Nem, lead us to Erkenbrand's quarters.” His eyes locked with Eowyn's, “The Elven Queen begged me to cease looking into Mordor, as I have done in my dreams since Aragorn called me back. The Dark Lord has discovered that the Lady saw into Mordor through me. She warned that the time of great deeds lay just ahead, and that she had to defend her own lands.”

Calem steered the carriage through the maze of tents to the pavilion bearing Erkenbrand's shield on its side. As Faramir got out, he told Eowyn, “I must leave you in the care of Calem and Nem. Tomorrow morning we will speak again, if the city survives the night.”

“Thank you for showing me your lovely city,” Eowyn farewelled him politely, not wanting him to see that she shuddered at his dire predictions.

Calem's reins struck the horses, and the carriage lurched forward. Any thoughts of lust for the Steward, love for the great Captain of the Dunedain, or fear for her beloved brother were dimmed by a real fear for her life. If the city survives the night? Can I sleep this night? Eowyn wondered as the carriage passed through the gaping hole and entered the city of Minas Tirith.

Chapter 14: The Day Our Lives Changed Forever

AUTHOR'S NOTE

"Avoidance" is movieverse with much respect paid to book canon. I've borrowed Peter Jackson's actors to star in my book gap filler. So Faramir is a red head and Éowyn is 33, the same age as Miranda Otto when the “Lord of the Ring's” films were made.

As ever, thanks to Raksha and Shieldmaiden of Rohan for their Beta reviews.

Her husband was already dressed when Eowyn opened her eyes just slightly. She watched him as he paced around their living quarters. 'Mir is as uncomfortable about today's events as I am, Eowyn decided. She slowly rolled from side to side to massage the muscle aches caused by her enlarged form. Her movements were punctuated by the baby's fluttering kicks. You like that, don't you, she silently addressed her child.

“Come, let's get up,” Faramir said as he reached out his hand to help her out of bed. Eowyn groaned and then grinned as her husband kissed her cheek. His arms steadied her as she awkwardly rose to her feet. No one had forewarned her that being pregnant was a balancing act.

Pregnancy also put quite a strain on her wardrobe. She considered herself a woman hearty of body and strong of mind, as capable as any man. Nevertheless, Eowyn readily admitted her weakness for lovely gowns and jewels. Today she was to have an audience with the Queen of Gondor, the woman Eowyn once thought of as her rival. She had to look her best, not only to honor her husband but also to reflect well her position as Princess of Ithilien and heir to the throne of Rohan.

“How do I create a great impression six months into my pregnancy?” she sighed to Faramir. “Can you call Bethene to me? I need help with my wardrobe.”

Before summoning Eowyn's maid, Faramir teased, “I'm sure that you will impress the entire Royal Court with your greatness today.” He pinched her swollen belly. Before she could respond, he moved in and gave her a hug.

“It's lust that doomed me to this fate,” she squirmed half-heartedly against him.

Faramir released her suddenly. “And no love was involved along with the lust?”

She placed a hand on his shoulder, “Of course there was love, though I think I did not realize it at first. Don't you enjoy a bit of lust along with the love?”

“If I didn't you would not be in your current state,” he teased. “Love and lust are best when combined. However, if you still can't recall when you first felt love for me, at least tell me when you first lusted for me. Do you remember that, wife?”

“I recall those moments more clearly than the love part,” she confessed reluctantly. She sat down on their plush bed, cushioned by the folds of their thick coverlet. Faramir sat down beside her.

“It was the night after our picnic on the mountain.” Eowyn admitted. “I tossed about in my humble hospital bed, a sleepless wreck, torn by desire for the Steward and fear for my life.” She paused to see how this confession registered on her husband's face. He looked at her intently but did not register any surprise. “I recall telling myself, if I am to die at the hands of Sauron's forces, I will not die a maid. If we are to be doomed, I first will offer my body to the Steward.

“I didn't care if you thought me wanton and forward. I suspected that you were in love with me and might accept my proposal under the circumstances we faced. I feared one or both of us would be dead in the course of the upcoming days. I needed only to shore up my courage and wait for my best opportunity.”

“To seduce me?”

She cringed at his blunt words, but then said, “Yes, if you must put it in those terms, I wanted to seduce you.”

“Why didn't you tell me then?” Faramir challenged, his blue eyes twinkling.

She leaned against him and shuddered, “Because the next morning our lives changed forever.”

Elfhelm's eored is waiting outside the Great Gate. The temporary gate to the second circle is complete and manned. Anborn's taken command of the regulars. They're behind it, as you have ordered. The Rangers who came with Anborn are now under Ornendil's command. They will soon leave to scout the areas surrounding Osgiliath. Who knows what they will find.” Beregond wiped perspiration from his thick brows after he delivered his report. The air was frigid in the room, yet Faramir's assistant sweated profusely. No doubt the man was overcome by his pre-dawn exertion, running liaison among the forces preparing for the city's defense.

“What is the situation in the third circle?” Faramir asked.

“Erkenbrand commands there,” Beregond said. “Half of the people still left in the city are gathered behind the gate for the circle's defense. Women and children, too. Everyone has come out to play a part.”

“The people understand the gravity of our situation,” Faramir spoke softly, his early morning sleepiness dispelled by Beregond's report. “I'm glad to hear that. Now the remaining folk in the circles above should be on their way to the Citadel. If the enemy gets to the Citadel, the regulars and the Rohirrim under Elfhelm should be positioned for the last defense. ”

Beregond nodded, “The Tower Guard is ready to help the women, children, and noncombatants evacuate through the passages into the forests.” Then he leaned in to Faramir, “My lord, it will be our doom down at the first circle, if the Enemy sends a force of the size we saw two weeks ago.”

“It won't happen,” Faramir assured him. “Their forces were destroyed here, thanks to Aragorn and the ghostly army. I strongly suspect that the Dark Lord has fallen for Aragorn's ruse and sent the bulk of his strength to the Morannon. The Captains of the West should approach the Black Gate today. They might already be there.”

They sat at the small table in Faramir's room at the Houses of Healing. A feeble daylight filtered in from the single window. Beregond's anxious dark eyes gleamed as he murmured, “Have you seen them then, Aragorn's host?”

“No,” Faramir admitted sadly, understanding his aide's inference. “Their way has always been blocked from my vision. I wonder now if this was Mithrandir's doing. But know that I saw into Mordor last night. Sometimes farsight seems like madness, yet incidents that I have perceived these past few weeks have proven true. That's why I am convinced that the last confrontation will happen today.”

“The air feels strange,” Beregond said. “I can sense that something is about to happen. Everyone that I've spoken to this morning is uneasy.”

Faramir chuckled bleakly. He rose from his chair and beckoned for Beregond to follow. “I doubt we will be attacked by a force that we can't handle, today or tomorrow. Unless Ornendil's Rangers discover enemies approaching Minas Tirith, our future is totally dependent on the outcome of the struggles of our friends and allies .”

“Our fate hangs in the balance,” Beregond said as he followed Faramir past the two Tower Guardsmen calmly in position outside Faramir's hospital room.

“Indeed,” Faramir spoke through teeth set tight against his mouth. “Go now to the third circle. I'm off to the White Tower in a few minutes. Let Calem know that I am ready.”

Standing beside the main staircase, Faramir watch his assistant race downward with the great strides of the very tall. Then Faramir turned and headed up the stairs.

One more matter to take care of, and then I can take up my office. My war office. I must speak with her before I leave. Our trip yesterday did not turn out as I had planned. She deserves an explanation.

When he arrived at the women's quarters, the nurses said that the Lady Eowyn had left her room more than an hour past. Perhaps she's gone off with Narmer for her training? Faramir thought. Just in case she hadn't, he headed down the stairs to the basement library. What little sun was out this dim morning scarcely penetrated the dank stacks and cold leather furniture.

He walked quietly into the garden but stopped before the ancient fountain. Eowyn stood near the wall, her back toward him. The overhanging first floor protected her from the light morning rain. She was almost unbearably lovely, her long golden hair flowing over his mother's starry mantle. He wanted to touch her but was afraid she would find such behavior unseemly.

“Lady, I must apologize for my behavior yesterday,” Faramir began awkwardly. “I was too concerned about conditions in the city to be a proper host.”

She did not turn. She hardly moved when he spoke. Had she known instinctively when he came into the garden?

Eowyn murmured, “I did not mind, my lord. I was fascinated by the city. But now it has fallen silent. There is no warmth or light left in the sun. I wait for some stroke of doom.”

Faramir slowly approached her and regarded the brave, determined expression upon her profile. Yet he perceived her uneasiness. “It's just the first spring rain,” he explained. “We saw the clouds come in last night.” Her eyes glittered; how carefully she controlled her anxiety.

“I do not believe that any darkness can endure,” Faramir reassured her, all the while trying to assure himself. He reached for the lady's hand to comfort her. He was surprised with the strength of her grip. Rays of sunlight penetrated through the gray rain and lit the damp garden.

Eowyn regarded Faramir silently, studying his face. Then, to his utter surprise, she exhaled deeply, rested her head on his shoulder, and leaned her body against his. Faramir was thrilled to simply feel her pressed against him, drawing warmth and unexpected joy from their closeness. Could she possibly realize how much she meant to him? He said, “I would not have this world end now, or lose so soon what I have found.”

Lose what you have found?” she murmured into his shoulder.

There was no reason nor time now to answer her or consider what was happening between them. “I must leave,” he whispered reluctantly. “Will you see me off?”

Eowyn nodded her head. Her gait was unsteady as they left the library, still hand in hand as they passed the faithful guards waiting outside. She did not have trouble climbing the stairs, Faramir noted. But when they headed into the main hall, he was forced to stop so abruptly that Eowyn almost collided into him. Faramir's vision clouded, dimming the mundane sight of the hospital entry. Instead a vivid picture of three small figures scrambling across a landscape of black earth and steam crammed itself into his mind.

“What's the matter?” Eowyn's voice penetrated the vision. Faramir wiped his hand across his eyes. He saw the halflings, all three of them alive; they fought with each other. Was this what the quest had come to? Faramir thought in despair. Then his eyes cleared. His balance almost failed as he regarded Eowyn and the Tower Guardsmen not far behind.

“Did you feel that?” he asked ominously.

“Feel what?”

“Hurry!” he cried, pulling roughly on her unbound arm and gesturing for the guardsmen to follow. They ran past surprised nurses and visitors into the street.

The Steward's carriage waited outside, but something was clearly amiss. The horses were skittish and rebellious. They snorted and scraped their hooves restlessly at the cobblestone pavement. Calem tried to calm them, but the darker gray animal reared slightly, as far as the restrictive harness would allow. The other horse tossed his head, his eyes wild. Then they lowered their necks and, with great determination, tried to push the carriage backwards. Fortunately, the weight of the vehicle and the awkwardness of their harness prevented them from making much progress.

“I don't know what's gotten into them, Lord Faramir,” Calem called out as Faramir and Eowyn arrived.

“Eowyn, for your own safety you must come with us. Calem, help the lady into the carriage,” Faramir said swiftly. Then he approached the horses and put his hand on the closer animal's neck. The horse immediately stopped struggling and let Faramir rest his head on its neck. Faramir listened to the sound of the animal's veins pulsing in its great neck and perceived the cause of the horse's troubles. He straightened up and then put a hand on the muzzle of each horse. “I can feel it too,” he told them. “We must work together now.”

He climbed into the carriage and grabbed the reins and whip. “My lord, what are you doing?” Calem exclaimed.

“Driving,” Faramir said abruptly. “Sit beside Lady Eowyn and hang on to her.” He waited for the grumbling Calem to vacate the driver's seat. Then Faramir slapped the reins and cried, “Away! Away! As fast as you can take us.” The normally calm draft horses charged forward with the determination of battle steeds. The carriage took off with shattering speed down the cobblestone street.

The earlier rain had given way to sporadic sunlight that made the wet stones gleam. Families with children and goods walked swiftly on either side of the slippery road. Faramir felt Calem lean over from the back seat to yell, “Make way for the Steward.”

“Where are they going?” he barely heard Eowyn ask.

“Hopefully where we are going--to the Citadel” Faramir yelled back to her. The switchback that climbed to the seventh circle loomed just ahead. “Hold on,” he warned as they approached.

“Make way! Make way!” Calem roared at the fleeing citizens. Faramir pulled the reins sharply to the right. The horses dug in their hooves and wheeled around as quickly as they could. The carriage swung around awkwardly and skidded to the left across the wet stones. Pedestrians on their way to the seventh circle screamed but thankfully managed to avoid the unwieldy carriage.

The team's pace slowed measurably as the vehicle straightened its path, and they headed up the incline. “Away! Away!” Faramir insisted. “One last effort and we will be there.” The straining animals lowered their heads with determination and quickened their steps. In a short amount of time, they came to the seventh circle and approached the Great Hall.

Pulling the horses to a halt, Faramir handed the reins to Calem. For a second, an awesome scene came unbidden to his mind: Frodo, son of Drogo, lifting the One Ring on its chain over a lake of molten rock. But that vision dissolved as suddenly as it came. He had no time to consider what it meant.

Faramir leaped down from the driver's seat and assisted Eowyn out of the carriage. Behind it, the Tower Guardsmen swiftly dismounted their horses. The earth beneath Faramir's feet trembled. He yelled, “Nem, to the Tower and order the people out of the building right away. Marod, clear out everyone still left in the Great Hall. Calem, get the carriage away from the buildings. Eowyn?”

But she headed off, joining the scattered groups of people moving across the plaza. “Move away from the buildings! Away from the buildings!” Faramir cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled from deep in his diaphragm. He spied Eowyn's golden hair and the glittering blue robe among the throng.

Then a great gasp issued from the people already at the walls. Faramir's eyes automatically looked East. The great limestone prow that constituted the Embrasure raised and then lowered over an unearthly wave. That wave[*] then continued beneath the plaza, rolling at least three feet high, cracking the pavement, lifting and dropping the trees, statues, and buildings.

“Hold on to each other!” Faramir shouted as he moved through the confused and terrified people. He raced toward an elderly couple and wrapped his arms around them, steadying them, as the wave harmlessly lifted and then dropped them, like pieces of driftwood on the Great Sea. The clamor of moving earth, shifting stone, cracking concrete, and screaming people was deafening.

“Was the fall of Numenor really like this?” Faramir wondered as his hands loosened their grip on the old people. He started to follow the crowds when a voice whispered low, inside his head, “Alas, you could have had me.”

Faramir froze in place. He recognized the tempting voice that had beckoned to him when he first beheld the One Ring on its chain at the point of his sword. The ring twirled in his consciousness, alluringly bright and painfully beautiful against a fiery backdrop of red hot lava. It called again, “What wonders we could have wrought.”

“Wonders?” Faramir lips formed the words. Then the bright glimmer of the Ring seemed to dissolve into a curtain of dust. But the curtain was insubstantial. It parted to reveal a fearsome army clad in shimmering mail in the late morning sun. Faramir was now positive that madness had overtaken him forever. He could not control his vision. Some other force guided his mind to the front of the host, where a mounted figure shone in an aura of light brighter than any he had ever seen. The Elven Queen, at the summit of her power and glory, smiled at him and said, “It is done, Steward of Gondor. Return and rejoice with your people. Farewell for now.”

Raising her hand, she released his farsight from her control. Faramir's mind felt curiously light and clear as ice on the coldest winter day. The beauty and grandeur of the Citadel of Minas Tirith, and the imminent peril to it from natural disaster overwhelmed him. He moved ahead to Eowyn just as a massive cloud of smoke, dust, and ash rose above the Ephel Duath[**].

The terrifying cloud rose higher and higher above the mountains of Mordor until it collided into the already dissipating rain clouds. Shafts of lightening forked out of its mass, tormenting the harmless weather clouds.

“It reminds me of Numenor,” she heard Faramir say just above her ear. She felt his hand on her unbound arm, leading her away from the wall.

“Numenor?” she asked.

“When the Valar sent the great wave to destroy it,” he said.

She whirled about, “This cloud is not the work of your Valar. I know who sent it. I will not go to my doom without staring its cause in the face.”

Avoiding Faramir's attempt to grab her, she strode to the wall, wedging herself next to a Fountain Court Guard among the frightened Gondorians. “I fear this is the work of the Enemy,” the Guard said. He removed his elaborate helm in despair. “Sauron has gained the Ring and sent the cloud to finally cover us with darkness.”

Eowyn looked out beyond the Pelennor Fields. The ominous cloud rolled West over the lands beyond the great river, moving relentlessly toward Minas Tirith. A stifling hot East wind spread over the city in advance of the cloud, bringing with it biting dust and the stench of rotten eggs. She gasped and stepped backward, trying to regain her balance, covering her eyes from the sting of the fumes. She could barely see Faramir through her tears as he reached for her.

“Sauron has the Ring!” she sobbed. She stood directly in front of him, her right hand clenched in a fist at her hip, defying Faramir to tell her otherwise.

“No. No,” he said, barely audible above the din. He grabbed her wrist with both hands and said, “Frodo's quest is complete. I believe that the Ring has dissolved into the Cracks of Doom. Now the great volcano collapses and spews its contents. ”

Through her burning eyes, she stared at him in disbelief. He squinted in the sulphurous air. Her heavy mass of hair flew over her shoulders and face, covering them both in a tangled gold curtain. Without warning, a counteracting blast of wind rushed in from the West, so powerful that it lifted Eowyn a few inches off her feet. Faramir grabbed her, holding onto her desperately. “It's the winds of the Valar,” he sobbed into her shoulder. “It must be.”

The west wind thundered through the plaza. Amazed citizens, some of whom had been knocked down by the gust, walked in a daze to the Citadel's walls. Eowyn's hair was now seriously tangled in the clasp at the neck of Faramir's cloak. Joined together by circumstance, Eowyn and Faramir walked with the others, their eyes fastened eastward. The cloud of volcanic dust from Mordor rose to form a wall of unfathomable height when the rampaging blast of West wind confronted it. Unable to resist the greater force, the dark cloud rolled backward just beyond the Ephel Duath. Then it dissipated, revealing a bright blue sky over the Land of Shadows.

At Eowyn's side, the guard of the Fountain Court said, “I never thought I would see this day. The Valar have finally heard our pleas.”

Unclear as to what that meant, Eowyn looked to Faramir. His hair gleamed red in the sun; tears streamed down his face. “The Dark Lord's reign has ended. I do not think the Valar had a part in his downfall. But I do think that the Valar turned back the poisonous cloud from the collapsing volcano. Look at the mountains of the Ephel Duath. The fog bank that covered them my whole life is gone. For the first time, I can see what the tops of those mountains look like.”

For a moment more they stared in wonder at the mountains beyond the Pelennor. Then Eowyn turned and tried to untangle her hair from the falcon-embossed clasp on Faramir's cloak. “I'm sorry, my Lord Steward,” she grinned, “but my hair refuses to let you go.”

“Two hands are needed for this task,” Faramir beamed as he untangled the strands. “I am glad you are with me on this day. I have not lost what I have found. A hope and joy have come to me that no reason can deny.”

His face bent down toward hers and he kissed her brow. Eowyn trembled. A thrill unlike any she had ever known swept over her body. She waited expectantly, unable to restrain her joy. But rather than giving her lips the hoped-for kiss, Faramir's mouth erupted in a surprised yelp as his body was raised above hers. The Guard of the Fountain Court had grabbed him by the legs and now lifted him above the crowd, bellowing, “The Steward of Gondor!”

Then Eowyn felt hands at her hips. Nem and Marod, Faramir's loyal Tower Guardsmen, had found her and lifted her onto Nem's shoulders. “The Lady of Rohan!” Nem screamed. Eowyn screamed too, in delight and in real fear as she tried to maintain her position on a shoulder not broad enough for her behind. Marod raised his arm for her to hold as he marched beside Nem, trying to clear a way through the growing crowd.

A continuous stream of people made its way onto the plaza, Eowyn noticed from her elevated vantage point. Rather than moving aside for the guards and their upraised captives, the citizens of Minas Tirith crowded around them. They called out Faramir's name and then her name, as though she were the Queen of Rohan on a formal state visit. She was amazed and slightly dizzy, straining against Nem's protective arm across her lap.

The guards slowly made their way toward the Great Hall. Faramir and his bearer lagged behind. Men cheered, “Long live the Steward!” Women grabbed Faramir's hands and kissed them. A little boy raced up to Nem and pulled on Eowyn's skirt, “Are you the woman who killed the nasty gull?” he asked. Eowyn gaped at him in surprise, then nodded her head.

“Away with you,” Marod said gently as they continued toward the great fountain, where the Steward's carriage waited. Beside the fountain, the skeleton of the ancient tree still stood unharmed. A young girl placed a hastily constructed circlet of flowers around one of the stunted tree's branches. The two guardsmen set Eowyn down carefully, mindful of her broken arm.

A minute later, Faramir climbed into the carriage. He stepped onto the driver's bench and began to sing an unfamiliar tune to the crowd. The guards picked up the tune. Calem the driver withdrew the white banner with the silver embroidery from its post on the carriage's side and waved it in the air. Suddenly everyone was singing except Eowyn. The Rohirrim sang to celebrate great events, but she never would have imagined the formal and sometimes staid Gondorians to burst out in song. And in Elvish, no less. Her skin prickled in awe, even though she couldn't participate. When the tune ended, Eowyn whispered to Calem, “What were you singing?”

“It's called “The White Tree.” It's the song that supposedly was written shortly after the last king departed. It talks of how we of Gondor remain loyal to the lords of the White Tree,” Calem explained. “You might call it the song of our land.”

Faramir stepped down from the driver's bench but remained standing behind it. He said, “The White Tower of Ecthelion still stands despite the earthquake. And we are still here. Orodruin has suffered the fate of Thangorodrim of old, but Gondor has been spared Beleriand's and Numenor's doom. I've ordered food and wine to be distributed in the third circle this evening. It will be makeshift, and the food not nearly as bountiful as the occasion deserves. But the city needs to have a proper celebration tonight.

Lady, I'll have Calem take you back to the Houses. Please tell the good people there what has happened and invite them, even that steely old Narmar, to the event this evening. so you will have plenty of time to dress in your finest. Be ready by sunset.”

ABOUT THE SEISMIC EVENTS IN THIS CHAPTER

* Earthquakes—rollers and shakers

In my years in California, USA, I learned that the non-scientific folks here describe earthquakes as rollers or as shakers. I decided that the earthquake that strikes Minas Tirith as the ring dissolves should be a roller. My description is based on the eye witness account of my office mate at the time.

He was walking with his children along their quiet street one lovely October afternoon in 1989 when the Loma Prieta earthquake struck the San Francisco Bay Area. My friend lived about 10 miles from the epicenter of the quake. He literally saw his street rise and fall about two feet as a wave moved across it like a wave on the ocean. According to him, the pavement cracked, and cars, buildings, and people were lifted, then dropped. Loma Prieta was estimated as a 6.9 to 7.1 earthquake. I decided that the earthquake that struck Minas Tirith must be equivalent to the great San Francisco Earthquake of 1906—about 8.1 on the Richter scale, thus the rolling three foot wave.

** Volcanoes

I imagine Mt. Doom to be a strata volcano, the type of volcano that spews forth great clouds of gas and steam so noxious that people die from inhaling the fumes before the ash and lava come to cover up the land. My inspiration for the explosion of Mt. Doom came partially from the Return of the King film, but mostly from the eruptions of Mt. Saint Helens and Mt. Lassen, both volanoes in the Cascade Range of the Northwestern United States.

Chapter 15: An Uncertain Future

AUTHOR'S NOTE

"Avoidance" is movieverse with much respect paid to book canon. I've borrowed Peter Jackson's actors to star in my book gap filler.

Thanks to Raksha the Demon for her betas and her support.

- Steff

Faramir carefully draped the bejeweled mantle over Eowyn's shoulders. Her loveliness in that magnificent cloak took his breath away. The glow of her pregnancy illuminated her cheeks and face, grown fuller over the months. The maid servant Bethene had braided Eowyn's hair and wrapped it below her thin gold circlet, making her all the more alluring.

But when his wife held out the coronet of the Prince of Ithilien, Faramir hesitated.

“It is but a thing of ceremony. I have never felt comfortable wearing it,” he confessed.

“Are we not going to be involved in a ceremony? And possibly more than one ceremony?” Eowyn countered, her pale eyebrows lowering as she scrutinized him.

“Aye,” Faramir said, “but I'd rather bear the symbols of what I do every day.” His hands ran nervously along the heavily jewelled chain of office that looped over the shoulders of his dark blue Steward's robe. By the time they reached Minas Tirith he would be too warm.

"Kneel, my Lord Steward," Eowyn chided," and accept your duty to become Prince for the remainder of the day." He sighed as she placed the coronet on his head and rearranged the hair beneath it.

His wife said. “Today I rejoice that I am Princess of Ithilien. And my circlet gives me more confidence to appear before those who might wonder about me--especially those who think women in my state shouldn't appear in public.”

He pondered her response as they left their comfortable manor and headed for the stables. More confidence? Eowyn always radiated an aura of confidence, all the more so when she actually jittered in her shoes. At least that had been Faramir's observation from the past few years by her side.

To this day he relied on his normally acute perceptions to determine what the woman of his heart might want. But the insight into human emotions that had served Faramir so well throughout his life failed half the time when applied to Eowyn, daughter of Eomund. Was this some trick that aided wives in outwitting their husbands?

He recalled how he had so misread Eowyn at the celebration on the day of the Dark Lord's defeat, to the discomfort and misery of them both. What if he misread how Eowyn might react to this afternoon's festivities when planning them earlier with the Queen?

At the stables, the grooms had saddled the couple's favorite mounts in the elegant formal tack necessary for affairs of state. Behind the beautifully caparisoned horses, two mounted Tower Guardsmen waited to escort the Steward of Gondor and the Princess of Ithilien. A lump of anxiety settled in Faramir's stomach as he remembered Eowyn's reaction to that fateful celebration a few years ago.

“My finest garments lie in a wardrobe 150 miles north,” Eowyn sighed in dismay. She briefly checked her appearance in the scratched mirror. Her brown hip girdle and now laundered white surcote were the only female garments she had packed for her trip to Gondor in disguise. The nurse Gertrudis created two braids from the side locks of Eowyn's hair and wrapped the braids around Eowyn's head. They made a crown atop the remaining tresses that descended unpinned down Eowyn's back.

“My lady, you look very much a Queen of Rohan,” Gertrudis chuckled appreciatively. “I think the people will like that.”

Earlier Eowyn had begged Warden Narmar and Chief Nurse Ioreth to come to this evening's celebration, or at least release the nurses from their duties so that they could join the festivities. Only Gertrudis received permission. The nurse doubtlessly had no idea that Eowyn merely needed her hair divided into two great, hanging plaits to achieve the look of a proper shield maiden. Did the warrior woman Eowyn saw in the streaked glass relect the Gondorians' image of a lady of the Mark?

Perhaps I should have worn one of the gowns borrowed from Ioreth's daughter? Eowyn thought wistfully. Self-consciously, she wrapped the sparkling blue mantle from Faramir tightly around her body, completely covering her shield maiden's garments. She hoped that the lovely cloak of the Steward's mother made her look more Gondorian, less strange and foreign to the people of Minas Tirith.

A Tower Guardsman appeared at the door of her hospital room, announcing the arrival of the Steward's carriage. Eowyn and Gertrudis followed him outside, where the carriage waited, flying both the Stewards' white banner and the white horse on green field that signified the Mark. Behind the carriage rode a column of Rohirrim, led by Erkenbrand. They burst into song when Eowyn stepped outside. Erkenbrand dismounted exuberantly and assisted the women into the carriage. Then he rode ahead, escorting Eowyn's entourage among the lively crowds on their way down Minas Tirith's winding streets.

At the third circle, yesterday's crowd of vendors in the open air market was replaced by orderly rows of tables laden with foods. In the rapidly falling twilight, people thronged together, chatting while eating and drinking mugs of beer and mead. The Steward's carriage with its train of Rohirric lords wove through the crowds into a narrow street, then halted beside a great building with tall windows alight. Between two torches, a sign above the entrance identified the building as “All Guilds' Hall.” A pile of stones was heaped on one side of the building where part of its roof had collapsed during the earthquake.

The hall was huge but simply decorated, lit by humble braziers and torches set in the walls. The gap in the ceiling where the roof had collapsed let out the smoke from all the fires and revealed the darkening sky. On either side of a wide aisle, jubilant men and women sat at rough tables and lifted overflowing tankards to their lips.

A blast of horns and a chorus of deep male voices tore through the hubbub, “The Lady of Rohan! The Commander of the Westfold!” In the fashion of Gondor, Erkenbrand offered his arm to Eowyn and paraded her down the wide aisle. To Eowyn's amazement, the people discontinued their activities, rose to their feet, and applauded.

“They greet me like I was a queen,” Eowyn murmured.

“As well they might to the one second in line to the throne of the Mark,” Erkenbrand proudly reminded her as they walked.

Eowyn's stomach tensed. She rejoiced in the defeat of the great enemy, but what of Eomer? She did not want to think that he might have fallen. Not on this night. As she passed the celebrating Gondorians, Eowyn thought she heard a persistent chatter, “They say she killed the Lord of the Nazgul. Yet she is beautiful, like Finduilas reborn.”

The aisle ended at a cleared space with a shiny wooden floor. To the left was a great fireplace, where long spits of meat turned and sizzled. A band of musicians gathered on the right and softly played pipes and lutes. The magnificently decorated head table stretched along the far end of the cleared space. It was covered by glittering glassware atop a cloth embroidered with silver stars.

Behind the table sat the Lords of Gondor: the Keeper of the Keys, the members of the Steward's Council, and their ladies. Interspersed among them were empty seats for the Lords of the Mark. Faramir stood at the center of the table, his smile beaming.

Erkenbrand escorted Eowyn to the head table. He took a seat as Faramir pulled out a heavy chair for Eowyn between himself and Beregond. Now well-schooled in Gondorian etiquette, Eowyn stepped forward and held out her right hand to Faramir. His deep blue eyes caught hers before he lowered his head to kiss her hand before everyone in the Guild Hall.

What happened next was a custom Eowyn found strange but wonderful. On holidays and on great victories in the Mark, the highest ranking lady present served celebratory mead to the honored guests in the Golden Hall. Eowyn remembered how she often filled the chalices of great warriors from the King's bejeweled ceremonial horn. While the great men ate, she would maintain her ceremonial position, standing behind their chairs and awaiting their bidding.

However, in Gondor, customs worked in reverse; the highest ranking man was in charge of pouring the celebratory libations. That lord, Faramir, gestured for her to sit and gave her an odd, tubular shaped glass. He remained standing and grandly raised high a bottle of green glass wrapped in a white cloth. “Bottled in Ecthelion's day,” he addressed all at the table. Then he took Eowyn's glass and poured out a golden beverage, which bubbled into a sweet smelling foam at the top. He then emptied the bottle's remaining contents into the glasses of everyone at the head table. Urging them to raise their glasses, Faramir exclaimed in a loud, deep voice, “To the people of Gondor, who risked their lives so that we might be here on this day, and to our friends of Rohan for honoring the alliance of Cirion and Eorl.”

Amid the chorus of cheers, Eowyn raised her glass and looked at the strange bubbles. Then she carefully sipped the stuff, enjoying the fruity sensation of the bubbles breaking against the roof of her mouth. “This is the most wonderful drink I've ever had,” she grinned at Faramir, who had finally taken his seat. “What is it?”

“Sparkling wine, Vintage 2975. I can't think of a better occasion to bring out the best of the Steward's wine cellars.” Faramir clinked his glass against hers. “Don't drink it too fast,” he teased.

Eowyn nodded politely, but inwardly she scoffed at his warning. The Steward of Gondor had no idea that the White Lady of Rohan was quite capable of holding her own when the ale flowed and the people sang. Now that she could relax as never before, her thirst was powerful. She quickly downed the glass of sparkling wine and then requested a tankard of ale.

When the serving lads brought out the breads and cheeses to start the meal, Eowyn's mind was already bathed in a golden glow. Her perceptions grew more fuzzy and her attitude more frivolous as the dinner progressed. The musicians stepped before the head table, and sang and played their instruments to accompany the meal.

Faramir's body leaned gently against her restrictive cast. He constantly nudged her and gave her glances that no doubt would be meaningful, if her brain had been clear enough to figure out their meaning. On her right Beregond also pressed closely, telling jokes and anecdotes. His wife Emerie sat at his other side. She leaned across Beregond and tried to start up a conversation with Eowyn. But neither woman could hear the other other above the din. Plate after plate of food arrived on the table. Eowyn's head spun at the sight of roasted beef, pork, and goose.

“This is more food than I've seen in one place since Saruman came to Isengard,” she heard Elfhelm roar at the far end of the table.

Emerie sighed, “This is more food than I have fed my family in the past six months.”

“Good thing that you ordered all those sides of beef for storing yesterday,” her husband chided Faramir.

“Good thing that yesterday the farmers finally returned to the city with beef,” Faramir grinned, “and that the cooks hadn't started to dry the beef before the earthquake struck.”

Everyone at the table found this jest the height of amusement. They banged their tankards and glasses on the table with such force that the empty plates rattled and jumped. The serving boys arrived with carafes of wine and honey mead. Eowyn eagerly requested a glass of the latter. Faramir raised her chin with his hand and addressed her grandiloquently, “Remember this occasion, my Lady, for today our lives change forever. I charge you with your sensible woman's wisdom to remember it well because tomorrow most of us won't remember it at all.”

Eowyn beamed at him and then at her empty glass. “I promise, my Lord Steward. Now I would like another glass of sparkling wine.”

“The White Lady wants more sparkling wine,” Faramir signaled to the serving boys. They brought out more bottles, accompanied by fruits and sweet cakes for dessert. Eowyn's stomach felt like it would burst from all the bubbles inside it. Faramir leaned across her comfortably and said to Beregond, “I guess it is time.”

“Aye, so it is,” Beregond sighed.

“Time for what?” Eowyn asked. Barely able to keep her balance, she felt herself sway across Beregond's chair as the tall man stepped behind it to rise. Eowyn hadn't realized that she had been leaning against Beregond. Faramir and Emerie caught her and righted her on her seat.

“Your attention this way!” the Steward's aide bellowed from his great height. The great thrum of chatter in the hall stopped reluctantly. Beregond was patient. Finally, he said, “The time has come to call out the names of everyone who has made this auspicious day possible and honor them by having a sip or two.”

“Just two?” a man's voice in the crowd heckled.

“The Steward has urged me to start us off,” Beregond burped happily. “And so I raise my glass to the honorable Elfhelm and his men, for their noble attempts at masonry and artistic expression. Their hand prints in the limestone by the Great Wall will live long after the Rohirrim leave our city.” The crowd roared and clapped. Eowyn took a sip of the sparkling wine.

After a slight pause at the end of the table, Elfhelm rose to the challenge several seats to the right of Beregond. "To Irolas, the terror of the first circle. I wonder who he drove harder, his soldiers in the seige or us who repaired the walls."

“Irolas is the Major in charge of ordnance,” Faramir whispered. “They man the catapults and trebuchets.” Eowyn nodded her head and sipped some more of the sparkling wine.

At first sight, Irolas seemed a rather humorless man in his early thirties. Yet he held up his glass and proclaimed, “To Mithrandir who isn't here. He pushed all of us free people onward when we doubted our own strength.”

All the men at the head table rose to their feet. Cries of “Mithrandir” and “Gandalf” rang through the hall. Emerie and the wives at the head table pulled on their husbands' cotes hardie until they finally sat. Then silence prevailed until Erkenbrand stood up.

“Somehow, I think Gandalf can hear us or can tell that we drink in his honor,” the Commander of the Westfold raised his tankard. “So I think he would be happy to hear me salute the Lady Eowyn. Her bravery and her beauty are an inspiration to us all.”

Several little girls slipped out of their parents' grasps and ran out into the cleared space. They squealed, “Lady Eowyn. We love you. Huzzah!”

“How is it they know me?” Eowyn gasped. Her cheeks burned from embarrassment and and too much wine.

“Your deeds are sung in the city,” Emerie said as she raised her glass in tribute, “You are a heroine, especially to the girl children.”

“Your turn,” Faramir said and helped Eowyn to her feet.

With the eyes of hundreds of people on her, Eowyn straightened her back and lifted her chin. The shock of having to represent her people, to speak clearly, and hopefully to be witty, forced her to comport herself with some sobriety. She raised the nearly empty tubular glass and swirled what remained of the sparkling wine. Then she sighed and said, “My toast is for those who are not here. For my uncle, Theoden King, who honored the pact of our ancestors and led us here to great deeds both our peoples will always remember. For my cousin Theodred, slain by Saruman's Uruk Hai. And to my brother, Eomer Eomund's son. May he safely return to us who love him.”

“Hail Theoden King! Hail Eomer King!” the Rohirrim bellowed and clinked each other's tankards so vigorously that ale spilled over the remains of their desserts. Eowyn lowered herself into her chair. She had not meant to introduce a tone of sadness into the ritual. But she had needed to mention those that she loved. They too had offered their lives to defeat the forces of darkness.

A hush fell over the crowd. Beregond sat down and gestured to a serving boy. An opened bottle of sparkling wine appeared on the table. “Well then,” Beregond said. He leaned over to refill Eowyn's glass.

Nodding to his assistant, Faramir rose slowly, steadying himself on the back of his chair. How striking he looks, Eowyn thought. Far more handsome and healthy than ever he looked in the Houses of Healing. Faramir's cheeks flushed into the redness of his beard; his blue eyes glistened from the affects of the wine. His freshly washed red-gold hair gleamed, shining in the glow of the torchlight.

Faramir raised his glass and held it out toward the crowd. He said gravely, “To some others not here I raise my glass. To Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the hope of us all. May he return safely to our city.” The Rohirrim cheered but the Gondorians murmured anxiously among themselves. Faramir grabbed a knife and hit it against his glass until the reaction subsided. Then he said, “And I personally hail two whose names are unknown to most of you but won't be ere long. More than anyone else, these two brought down the Dark Lord. To the halflings Frodo, son of Drogo, and Samwise, son of Hamfast.”

“To Frodo,” Eowyn mumbled. She tried to imagine what the holbytlan might look like, based on Merry's description, and immediately she was saddened. Did Frodo and Sam survive? Did Merry survive? She thought, We sit here drinking and cheering, but those brave fellows might be as dead as Theoden. Eowyn sniffed and swayed against Faramir, who had poured himself another drink. He put his arm around her and said, “I know. I know. Concern for them is heavily on my mind.”

His speech was interrupted by the sound of many knives tapping against glasses and mugs. Eowyn straightened and looked about. Hurin was on his feet, demanding attention. The Keeper of the Keys turned slowly so that everyone in the hall would note him. Then he said, “My toast is to Lord Faramir, and all the great Stewards before him, for sustaining our land. Because of them, Gondor's rightful king has a realm to return to.”

The response was thunderous. The people scrambled to their feet, crying out the names of Faramir, his father Denethor, Boromir, Denethor's son, and others Eowyn did not know. A tear streamed down her face as she rose carefully from her seat. “To Faramir,” she said softly, not caring whether the Steward heard her or whether his clear sight perceived her trembling thighs. She raised her wine glass and downed the whole contents in one gulp.

Suddenly all the wine and ale she had drunk rose to her head, melting the last of her defenses. The single tear turned into a torrent. She swayed against Beregond's side. He gently lowered her into her seat. She could see the Steward's steel blue cote out of the corner of her left eye. Faramir's comforting arm slipped around her. Eowyn sobbed, “To Frodo,” hid her face in the crook of his arm, and promptly fell asleep.

“Collapsed roof at Oldstone Mill, second level,” Faramir dictated to the city scribe.

The scribe added this latest entry to a scroll listing nearly 50 items, each with an estimated price of repairs in Stewards' coin. He shook his head, “The damage from the earthquake has taken a greater toll on the city than the siege.”

“Sauron wins in the end,” the Chancellor of the Treasury of Minas Tirith grumbled.

“Not really,” Faramir said optimistically. “He's gone. Our cost today might be great, but we can rebuild. Then we will have a fair and strong city, with no threat of a Dark Lord to destroy its future.”

“Look how well the new construction held out through the earthquake,” the Keeper of the Keys pointed out. “Men were thrown from the scaffolding but the new wall stayed in place.”

It was four hours and more since the rising of the sun. Faramir's head hurt; his sense felt thick as he carried out his first full day as Steward by listening to the assessment of damage done to the city.

Like nearly everyone in Minas Tirith last night, he had consumed too much food and especially too much drink. This morning, he regretfully remembered every thrilling, tedious, and better off forgotten moment of the previous day. When the Lady Eowyn suddenly collapsed and would not be woken, the urge to sleep nearly overtook Faramir's fuzzy brain. Powerful though the suggestion of sleep was, the Steward of Gondor could not curl up in a corner and take a nap. So his long evening ended hours later with a final toast at the Great Wall's construction site. Then the carriage dropped him off at Boromir's town house, where he collapsed fully clothed on the great bearskin rugs in front of the cold fireplace.

This morning after the day that changed his world, Faramir took up office for the first time in the modest black chair of the Stewards. He was surrounded by the surviving Gondorian Council members and representatives from the Rohirrim. They listened to an unending chain of damage reports from merchants in the third circle.

Faramir's weary mind longed to ponder on thoughts of Eowyn and her surprising behavior yesterday. He thought of her hair twining around him, her head resting against his shoulder as she sobbed. On the walls earlier, it was the wind that wove her hair through his. Last night it was the drink that provoked her tears. But what of the moment yesterday morning when she grasped his hand so strongly. Was she looking for reassurance from a friend? Or was the cool Lady of Rohan beginning to thaw in delightfully surprising ways?

The massive doors of the Great Hall opened with a flash of blinding daylight.

“A great beast circles in the air above the city!” a Tower Guardsman yelled as he ran down the broad corridor, evading petitioners lined up to see the Steward.

Faramir automatically rose to his feet. “A bow, someone fetch me a bow,” he demanded, not once questioning whether his arms had regained enough strength to lose an arrow. He ran through the quickly scattering queue. Did the Nazgul not perish when the Dark Lord fell? Or had the seemingly obvious signs fooled them, and Sauron still reigned in Mordor?

Suiadan of the Fountain Court met him at the entrance. “The people fear that a Nazgul survives,” Suiadan said as he trotted alongside Faramir. He pointed upward, “But look there, is that not an eagle?” They made their way to the fountain of the White Tree, where people who worked in the Citadel gathered, necks craning upward.

“Biggest eagle I've ever seen,” a modestly dressed woman said doubtfully.

By now, the bird circled lower and lower. Its enormous, golden-brown wings and white neck and head were more distinct. Suiadan gasped. “It's so huge that it could only be an eagle of Manwe.”

“Aye,” Faramir agreed. As the eagle descended, he could make out a shining figure astride the bird's shoulders. A thrill went through him as he said, “And see whom he bears.”

The crowd parted quickly as the eagle swooped down onto the plaza before the fountain, folding his wings against his body. "Mithrandir!" Faramir yelled like a child as the white-robed figure of the wizard slid from the huge bird's body.

Mithrandir bounded forward onto one of stone benches surrounding the fountain so that all could see him. A slight grin escaped from his lips as he surveyed the crowd, waiting for them to stop chattering and fidgeting. When there was enough silence to be heard, the wizard sang in a clear baritone:

Sing and rejoice, people of the Tower of Guard
for your watch has not been in vain,
and the Black Gate is broken,
and your King has passed through victorious

The tree that was withered will be renewed ...

Folk great and small cheered and clapped each other on the back. Faramir let out a sigh of relief, for here was direct confirmation of all he had thought to be true. The Dark Lord had fallen. Middle Earth was free of his terrible power forever. He raced to Mithrandir and gave the wizard a huge hug.

“My, my, Faramir, son of Denethor, the heart rejoices just to see you, my boy,” Mithrandir held Faramir at arms length, as though studying him thoroughly. “You are well recovered and Steward of Gondor, by the look of those outsized robes. That is good because I need to speak to you, your Council, and the Captains of the Rohirrim who are here in Minas Tirith. And the Lady of Rohan, of course, if she is well enough.”

“Suiadan, please tell the Tower Guards to summon these people as soon as possible,” Faramir said to the guard. “Tell them to have everyone convene in the Steward's Chambers.” Several of the elderly people gathered at the Fountain grabbed Faramir's arms, fawned about him, and kissed him. He was vaguely aware that Mithrandir continued to talk with Suiadan.The guard was gone by the time the jubilant people freed Faramir from their attentions.He turned to Mithrandir, but their conversation was interrupted by a loud squawk, followed by loud human screams. Some children had ventured a bit too close to the patient eagle, who swayed his head toward them to chase them away.

"I must see to Gwaihir," Mithrandir explained. He walked to the eagle and mumbled something that Faramir was too far away to hear. The bird shuffled his feet, then slowly flapped his wings. The curious people who had approached to take a closer look at Gwaihir pulled back in terror as the great eagle flew off into the air.

Faramir watched, astounded, “What an incredible animal,” he said.

"Yes, indeed," Mithrandir remarked as the two of them headed to the Tower of Echthelion. "He has come through for me on numerous occasions, the greatest of which came yesterday. When I was certain that the Ring had been destroyed, Gwaihir carried me to Mordor. We found Frodo and Sam still alive on a rock pinnacle surrounded by a river of lava. Gwaihir and his brother Landroval carried the hobbits to safety."

Faramir stopped in his tracks. “So they survived,” he murmured. “Against all odds. What wonders have happened.”

Mithrandir nudged Faramir to move ahead quickly. He said, “The eagles had barely snatched them away when Orodruin shook and one of its sides exploded. Yesterday was quite a day.”

They continued on to the White Tower and then to the Steward's Chambers. Mithrandir updated Faramir on the details of the halflings' rescue. “I've left them in Aragorn's hands,” the wizard said. “Practicing the healing arts seems to be a relief to the man. Aragorn has some minor injuries, though he never seems to let them stop him. He limps from an ankle sprain and bears some cuts and scratches. You missed all of that, Faramir, son of Denethor.”

“Instead, I had to crawl out of my sick bed and oversee the rebuilding of Minas Tirith,” Faramir winked. “You must tell me all, and especially about what happened to Frodo.”

“I don't rightly know all of Frodo's story,” Mithrandir admitted as they sat down in the two large chairs reserved for the Steward and any important visitor. While the two guards who currently served as Faramir's retinue assembled a circle of chairs around them, Mithrandir told Faramir of the halflings' injuries. Hurin quietly slipped in and sat on Faramir's other side. The wizard's story had barely begun when the Gondorian councilors filtered into the room and began to pepper him with questions.

Mithrandir brushed them off, explaining that he had not enough time to tell his story twice. “I must away to the river as soon as my story is told. I would see the land between here and Cormallen from the vantage point of the Anduin. Imrahil has given me leave to take one of his ships. I suspect he's impatient to return to Belfalas.”

“So be it,” Faramir nodded. “We'll have your message delivered among the people.”

“Mithrandir, did you know my nephew Andros? Did he survive?” the lord of the Keys interrupted, unable to contain himself and observe proper meeting protocol.

“And my son Labadil?”

“What about Hendarch, Sergeant at Arms? He's my sister's husband.”

The desperate councilors pulled their chairs out of the orderly circle and crowded around the wizard, Faramir, and the Keeper of the Keys. All thoughts of their country's future were driven quite out of their heads. Instead, they pleaded for news of kin and friends who had ridden out with Aragorn's host. Mithrandir raised his hands in an effort to silence them. “One matter at a time!” he cried.

At the peak of the chaos, the Rohirrim entered the Steward's chambers, led by Lady Eowyn and Commander Erkenbrand. The Gondorians abruptly ceased their noisy petitioning and pushed their chairs back. Faramir noted how Eowyn's face echoed the clear grey of her modest Gondorian gown. She was pale and controlled, her bearing resolute. Gone was the vivacious and vulnerable woman who had rested her body against his yesterday. When his eyes caught hers and tried to perceive the reason for the change, Eowyn raised her chin and turned away.

Erkenbrand's assistant Bema pulled over a chair for the Lady. The small group of Rohirrim clustered around her, but leaned forward expectantly in Mithrandir's direction. The wizard got up slowly, turning to take the measure of them all. He said, “The Dark Lord and his Nazgul minions are truly defeated. Gone forever from all of Arda.”

Eowyn rose from her seat, “What of Lord Aragorn?” she demanded. “How does he fare?”

A gasp escaped Faramir's lungs before he could control it. His fingers dug into the thick padding of the arms of his chair. He grimly observed how the lady's formerly ashen cheeks now flushed red with heat.

Mithrandir's face initially registered some surprise at Eowyn's boldness, but then he said, “Ah hah, that's the kind of approach I like, to the point and no evading the issues. But why do you not inquire for more news of your brother.”

Eowyn's face blushed a deep red. Nevertheless, she raised her proud chin and said, "Suiadan of the Fountain Court gave me the curt message that Eomer lived, but with injuries. Then he said that he must be off to gather the lords of the Mark. I knew nothing else."

Mithrandir leaned on his white staff and smiled, "Well then, the Lord Aragorn and those that survived the battle at the Black Gate are now camped north of here, on the Field of Cormallen. On the first of May, Aragorn will enter the city, to be crowned as King Elessar. He will be escorted by Prince Imrahil and his Swan Knights, and Eomer, King of the Mark, with his Marshals. I'm here to have the Steward spread the word and begin the preparations for the Coronation."

“We'll be too busy to repair the eight foot crack in the center of the Farmer's Market,” Tarcil, the Steward's economic councillor, complained.

“It will be fixed,” Beregond assured him. The Steward's assistant stood by the door, apart from the others, no doubt to better observe them. “We don't want that crack to swallow the King's retinue.”

The corners of the Lady Eowyn's lips turned up just slightly at Beregond's jest. But she gave no other reaction, and sat stiffly as Mithrandir related the story of the battle of the Black Gate. Sometimes Eowyn rubbed her bound arm as though it troubled her again. Faramir sighed. He tried to catch her attention, but every time she caught him looking at her, she turned away.

What had he done? he thought morosely. Or, more properly, what had she done? He could excuse her exuberance yesterday as simply behavior instigated by all the sparkling wine. But how about her sweetness in the garden in the rain? Or at the wall when he held her? Of course, he held her to keep her from being blown down. But did she run away? Nay, and she had smiled at him, and gave him such a look that only a green boy or a fool wouldn't recognize as ... Faramir sighed and tried hard to hide his feelings, in case anyone in the room might think the Steward's failed romantic notions more interesting than Mithrandir's heroic tale.

Why had she displayed what anyone who called himself a man could only interpret as growing affection for him, only to completely lose interest when she found out that Aragorn was alive?

Concentrate, Faramir admonished himself. He had so much to do, as leader of the effort to rebuild Minas Tirith for the Coronation. Women and the mysteries of their fickle behavior must take second place to the enormity of the tasks at hand. Still he couldn't help admire the Lady, even though she had openly shown the truth of her heart's priorities for the leading men of Minas Tirith to see. She rose as Mithrandir's story ended and the wizard gestured for her to walk with him.

How Faramir wanted to walk with them.

No, you don't, he scolded himself. She's proven her quality. She'd have no further interest in what little time the lowly Steward had to spend with her, now that the King was whole and soon to return. Faramir had thought Eowyn honest and straightforward, but his perceptions were all wrong. Either she had no idea how her behavior affected others, or she had merely been flirting with him.

Chapter 16: Torn

AUTHOR'S NOTE "Avoidance" is movie verse with much respect paid to book canon. I've borrowed Peter Jackson's actors to star in my book gap filler.

This chapter is currently in "Beta" state, awaiting comments from my Beta reviewer who is about to go on vacation.

*************************************

When the groom produced their riding horses, Éowyn shook her head sadly. The stable hands had automatically assumed she would be riding, though she was too far along in her pregnancy to do more than admire the animals' elegant trappings. Her conveyence would be the Steward's carriage, highly polished and ready for the departure for Minas Tirith. How difficult it was for one of her northern heritage to eschew riding and be content with a carriage for traveling. Her unborn child was more important than a brisk ride to Minas Tirith.

Éowyn was pleased that Faramir decided to keep her company and leave his mount to the care of the retinue of Tower Guards that followed behind the carriage. Nevertheless, she regretted that she could not make her entrance on this day of high formality astride a prancing mount in jewel-encrusted tack. She watched ruefully from the side window as the groom returned her mount to the stable. Strange how the ability to mount a horse had affected the major decisions she had made in her life, Éowyn reflected. If she had been able to ride shortly after her grievous injuries, would she have made different choices two years ago?

*************************

Gandalf gently draped his arm across Éowyn's shoulders in a grandfatherly gesture. He escorted her from the hubbub of the Steward's Chambers to the relatively quiet main hall of the White Tower of Ecthelion. “I am pleased that the frost has gone from your cheeks,” the wizard remarked. “The Gondorian clothing becomes you, as well, but you seem to be in pain. Are you still quartered in the Houses of Healing?”

Éowyn nodded, “Yes, though not due to a need for further healing. The Warden and nurses are training me to be a healer of the Gondorian practice.”

“Excellent!” Gandalf replied, “We are in dire need of healers with medical knowledge from all the Free Peoples. I'm on my way to the Houses to speak with Narmar on this very subject. I gather that you are not riding yet?”

“Not for at least six weeks, as Narmar has warned me again and again,” Éowyn said ruefully as they headed out into the Fountain Court of the Citadel.

“Then a walk in this brisk air will do us both good,” Gandalf said with exuberance that was almost catching. His fine white garments seemed to glitter in the afternoon sun, though Éowyn could discern tears and discolored patches where blood and dirt had resisted scrubbing.

The light breeze carried the soft fragrance of newly blooming trees, celebrating the simple joy of a beautiful April day. Yet Éowyn's spirits drooped. She would rather not have left her modest hospital quarters to appear in an official capacity beside the very people with whom she had caroused the previous evening. She was glad that Gandalf give her a reason to not linger with the Steward's councilors and the captains of her own country.

“I admit to being very surprised when you first asked for news of Aragorn, rather than Éomer, in the Steward's Chambers,” Gandalf said. “Though I understand now that you already had news of Éomer when you arrived. I have much news about the Kings, and particularly your brother, that is for your ears alone, my girl. I'm glad that we can have this moment of peace together. Even Istari can get tired of conversations that dwell only on battles and warfare.”

Éowyn summoned the little bit of her pride that was left to her after the disastorous party. She lifted her chin and said, “Do not be shocked if I wince now and then, Mithrandir. I had too much sparkling wine last night.”

“Ah, hah, that's why you show a prickly spirit this afternoon,” the wizard chuckled as they passed through the Citadel gate.

“My head prickles,” Éowyn admitted. “My arm does more than prickle.”

They passed few people as they walked along the narrow, sloping street down to the sixth circle. “Your attitude toward pain is far easier for others to take than your brother's,” Gandalf's blue eyes twinkled. “He suffered two cracked ribs in the battle yesterday. This morning he made his friends suffer his bellowing about it.”

“Éomer was ever belligerent about his injuries,” Éowyn couldn't help but grin. “I think he hurts less when he groans loudly.”

“His sister by contrast, suffers her injuries in silence, I deem,” Gandalf teased.

“I defy my injuries to hurt me,” Éowyn said through gritted teeth.

“You must allow them to heal,” Gandalf said. “And I council you to treat your injuries with respect.”

He paused for a moment and then continued,“Éomer has asked for you to accompany me back to the Field of Cormallen. In fact, he was quite insistent. I believe he woke up this morning and realized that he now must function as king without being trained for such a responsibility. That might have caused him more pain than his ribs.”

“Éomer has always been a very effective Marshal,” Éowyn said as they passed along the rows of stately houses of the sixth circle.

“That is fine training for the warlord aspects of kingship,” Gandalf agreed. “But you have more experience in everyday governance. There has been so little peace in Middle Earth for thousands of years. Your lands need rulers who know how to lead a country in times of peace.”

Éowyn's stomach burned as she remembered Théoden's court, “Grima governed in Meduseld, much more than Théoden King or I, in the last ten years.”

“You watched them both throughout that time and helped whenever you could,” Gandalf said. They walked the final block to the gracefully porticoed entrance to the Houses of Healing. Éowyn was disappointed by how tired she felt, merely from walking the mile at most to the Citadel and back.

As they entered the Houses, Éowyn said wearily, “Aye, Mithrandir, I watched them and studied them with no thought that I could have a life of my own. Often I wondered how I would rule the Mark if I were its queen.”

Gandalf gestured to a stone bench along one of the lobby walls, where they sat, huddled together. He lowered his normally booming voice, “The night before the battle a number of us gathered in Aragorn's tent. Éomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and Imrahil's eldest son Elphir all drank a toast and talked much as men will do on the eve of a great battle. They spoke of the great things they would do after the war was won.”

“I would like to have heard that,” Éowyn leaned her head back against the wall.

“I wonder?” Gandalf said. “Gimli spoke of exploring the Glittering Caves behind Helm's Deep. Legolas wanted a plot of land with rich soil, so that he could farm and garden to his heart's content. But Éomer did not think of himself. Instead, he said that he would see that you married well, so that you could produce an heir for Théoden's line.”

“Aren't heirs Éomer's responsibility?” Éowyn laughed though the news made her feel extremely uncomfortable. “Surely Éomer is brave enough and high enough to attract many an eligible woman. Who wouldn't want to be a queen?”

“I concurred and told him so.”

Éowyn shifted her weight on the bench. She asked, “What did Lord Aragorn have to say?”

“He was silent,” the wizard eyed her carefully and then rose abruptly. “Come, I must ask Narmar for that contingent of healers and nurses. As I told you earlier, Éomer asked me to bring you with me on the ship to the Field of Cormallen. But I will tell him that you were not healed enough for the journey, though it is short and by ship.”

“Thank you, Mithrandir,” Éowyn breathed a sigh of relief. “I am not ready to stand by Éomer's side. I need quiet still and prefer to continue my studies for the time being. I really like Minas Tirith. I've made good friends here.”

“You must talk a lot with them, judging by how many times you've called me Mithrandir.”

“So I have,” she realized and immediately was saddened. She followed Gandalf to Narmar's office, where the Warden canceled her training for the day. Gandalf's request for medical help would easily consume the remaining hours of Narmar's work day.

Éowyn was just as pleased to not deal with any more people. She climbed the flights of stairs to her little room, where she sat at the rough table and opened her beginning medical text. But her mind could not concentrate. Instead she dwelled again and again on the events of last night and the horrible gossip she overheard this morning, as she lay in bed with the headache that only an hour in Gandalf's company finally cured.

**************************************

She had woken abruptly, to the sound of Thera, the nurses' assistant, tapping at her door. Thera gently whispered, “Lady, the Warden has canceled your lessons for this morning, but will see you after lunch.” Éowyn recalled grumbling and pulling the blanket over her head to drown out the morning light. The movement of her right arm caused her bound left arm to burn with a pain that traveled down from her shoulder to the tips of her fingers. This was a different pain, not as severe as the first few days after her maiming, but troubling nonetheless. She thought that her arm was healing. Instead, she lay in bed, gritting her teeth and mentally yelling at her arm to stop hurting her.

Could she have injured herself at some point in last night's festivities? She did not remember how she had gotten to her room. Someone must have transported her to the Houses, undressed her down to her chemise, and tucked her into her bed. Perhaps her arm was re-injured as she was moved?

Had she fallen asleep in front of the combined Lords of the Mark and Councilors of Gondor? And where had she lain her head? On Faramir's shoulder? Oh that would have been awful—but far less embarrassing than if she had simply lain her poor head on the great table, between the wine glasses and the dessert plates. What had gotten into her, besides too much of that delicious sparkling wine?
Her tortured thoughts were interrupted by whisperings outside her door.

The lady sleeps still, " Éowyn heard Thera say.

I'd hate to be her when she awaks," Éowyn recognized the voice of Nellas, one of the morning nurses. "They say that she was very drunk last night and made a fool of herself."

"And who are 'they'" Thera retorted.

"Why, a bunch of nurses and orderlies at breakfast in the Hall this morning. I heard that she and Lord Faramir were snuggling up to each other all night. One of the servers said he heard that the two of them kissed during the toasts whenever the name of a hero was called out for recognition.

Éowyn gasped in horror. Could that have happened? She didn't remember it. She remembered toasting round after round of heroes, but no kissing was involved.

How could she have done such a thing? Thera said in Éowyn's defense. "That doesn't sound like the lady at all. Gertrudis, you were there, weren't you?"

"Aye, and I saw none of that, though I sat at a table nearby."

Good Gertrudis, Éowyn silently thanked the nurse. You are a true friend.

"The Lady did smile at the Steward and lean against him somewhat. What else might you expect? They have become good friends. They never kissed, not for a moment. Whoever told you that probably wishes that they could be kissing Lord Faramir."

“I'm glad to hear that,” Nellas said. “People's tongues waged like dogs' tails this morning. Those nurses and orderlies probably weren't even there. They called Lady Éowyn a wild shieldmaiden who drank too much and then wantonly threw herself upon the Steward. They even speculated about what she and the Steward might have done later that night.”

Éowyn cringed. What could she have done to make the people of Minas Tirith slander her so? She could remember nothing. How had she found her way to her hospital cot?

“Their tongues are cruel, indeed, to someone who doesn't deserve to be the butt of such gossip,” Gertrudis snorted. “Everyone had too much to drink last night. I certainly did. But I was sober enough to help Commander Erkenbrand remove Lady Éowyn from the table when she fell asleep. We took her to the Steward's carriage—and I assure you that the Steward was still in the hall, getting drunk with everyone else. I rode with Lady Éowyn the entire way here and put her to bed. If anything happened between the Lady and the Steward last night, he must have snuck into the Houses, right under Dame Ioreth's all-knowing nose.”

“Unlikely! Can you imagine what would have happened if she'd caught him?” Thera cheered and then was admonished with a loud “sssh” from her betters. Their voices then trailed off, beyond Éowyn's ears.

But she had heard enough this morning, Éowyn remembered, as she fingered the pages of “Basic Medical Practices,” spread out on her humble table. Facing Faramir this afternoon was difficult and embarrassing, in light of her behavior yesterday. She could not bear for his eyes to meet hers and try to read what was going on in her heart. How fortunate it was that she had never revealed to him her lustful feelings of the previous morning. How fortunate that the kiss she had longed for at the walls of the Citadel had been interrupted by the celebrating guards.

Now those feelings must be dampened and forgotten, she admonished herself and rested her head on the pages of the open text book. Last night she was an ordinary woman, celebrating an extraordinary event at the side of an exceedingly attractive, powerful man. Today she must return to her true self: Lady of Rohan, second in line to the throne, and for now, the injured but willing pupil of the Warden of the Houses of Healing. How had she started the illustrious path to a future of her own making? By leaning all over the Steward and by being defeated by her cups, and by giving the great and small of Minas Tirith enough food for gossip to last a month.

Despair threatened to overwhelm her, but so did her need for more sleep. Éowyn managed to haul herself from her chair to her bed. She needed to study, but on this day she could not bear to face anything, not even the welcoming pages of “Basic Medical Practices.” Mindful of her injured arm, Éowyn curled up within the blankets and willed herself into oblivion.

When Dame Ioreth awoke her, it was quite late. “Narmar told me your nerves and tendons have come back to life,” the chief nurse said briskly. “I have some herbs for the inflammation and some dinner, as well.” Éowyn sat up in her bed and toyed with the food on the tray Ioreth set before her.

“Lord Faramir sent a guard with a message at dinner time,” Ioreth continued. He asked for you but Narmar sent him off. The Warden wouldn't have your sleep disturbed. No doubt you had too much of a good time last night.”

Éowyn looked up into the older woman's face. The chief nurse was so effervescent and kind, yet also very interested in everyone else's business. “What have you heard?” she challenged Ioreth.

“Not much that I believe is true, by all Varda's stars.” Ioreth sat herself down on Éowyn's cot. “My old bones are tired these days, but I would have loved to have gone to the celebrations, had Narmar permitted it. Instead I've been subjected to the most outrageous gossip. I'll have none of it, though Narmar seems to believe all of it.”

“I never kissed the Steward,” Éowyn grunted icily. “I don't remember it, and Gertrudis said I didn't do it.”

“I believe you both, dearie,” Ioreth assured her. “However, people's nature is to gossip about their betters, from the foreman in the Carpenters Guild, all the way up to the Steward of Gondor.”

“And the Chief Nurse of the Houses of Healing?” Éowyn's spirits rose as she teased.

“Oh, certainly,” Ioreth beamed. “My gaggle of nurses start whispering every time they see me talk to an unmarried older man. They'd pair me off with Mithrandir, if only he would have me. The story of your victory over the Witch King of Angmar was on everyone's lips this past week. And now that folk have seen your glorious, unbound hair, their imaginations can't wait to pair your off with the highest ranked, unmarried males in Gondor.”

“So they talk of me and Faramir?”

“And several other military leaders you might have not met yet,” Ioreth said eagerly. “And when Lord Aragorn enters the city for his Coronation, why I can't wait to hear the speculation!” She raised her hands in delight.

“Don't speculate too much,” Éowyn said. Her head drooped. What of Aragorn? What was he thinking, now that all he had worked for in his life was about to come true? If he thought of a potential queen at all, surely he thought of his love Arwen Evenstar. Would he spare a minute to remember Éowyn, Éomund's daughter?

“Don't be glum,” Ioreth carefully draped her arm around Éowyn's shoulder. “You now are the most eligible female for thousands of miles.”

“I don't know now if I want to marry,” Éowyn gulped.

“You'll change your mind,” Ioreth said. “Meantime, I do not work tomorrow. I would love for you to come for dinner at my house tomorrow, and meet my daughters and their families.”

*****************************

In his office on the second floor of the Houses of Healing, the Steward of Gondor pondered the response to his missive in dismay. He had sent a courier with the small parchment, under strict orders to deliver it personally to the Lady of Rohan, and then wait for her response. His message was simple and direct, in compliance with her usual requests. He merely asked if she would like to accompany him to dinner that night at the Fool's Folly Pub in the fifth circle. She responded in Westron, rendered in runic style script:

I appreciate your invitation, my lord, but I have already promised to join Dame Ioreth and her family for dinner at her home this evening. I have borrowed her daughters' clothing since coming to the Houses of Healing and wish to meet the ladies who were kind enough to help me in this regard. I also long to see what life is like for regular people in Minas Tirith. I could join you for dinner perhaps later this week. My days at the Houses will be very long and full, when the contingent of healers and nurses leave for the Field of Cormallen.

That was it, Faramir sighed, a rejection of his second attempt to continue their friendship after the fall of the Dark Lord. She would rather sup with regular people, as if Ioreth's boisterous and formidable clan could ever be considered “regular.”

True, Éowyn's note contained far more information than one would expect from a woman who no longer wanted to hear from him. Moreover, if you studied it closely, she wasn't really rejecting him. She was merely postponing a dinner for another time. He wouldn't feel so despondent if she hadn't been so unexpectedly cool toward him yesterday. Perhaps Éowyn was simply hung over, like himself and two thirds of the people in the White City. Yet Faramir wondered whether the Lady's thoughts were now fixed on the man who prepared for his Coronation on the first day of May.

I won't let her forget me so easily, Faramir told himself. But he told Beregond, “I am going to take a break for awhile and go off for a walk.”

Beregond looked up from the scroll spread over his desk, “Are you off for some lunch? In that case, would you like company?”

“I don't plan to eat. I'm off for the home of Ioreth, widow of Mersin.”

“You are going to stop by, unannounced, for a friendly visit?” Beregond asked.

“Why not?” Faramir answered as he gathered his cloak. “Her husband was my commanding officer, after all. I spent many a happy evening there when I was in my 20s.”

“You are the Steward,” Beregond said. “The Steward of Gondor does not show up without ceremony at a widow's house, even if she was an old friend.”

“Even if she found the herbs that the Dunedan used to save my life?”

“Even so,” Beregond said.

“Then you must deliver my message for me,” Faramir eyed his assistant.

Beregond groaned, “I suppose that is the proper payment for me trying to educate you in the proper behavior for Stewards. Yes, I will go and visit the grand dame. What will you have me tell her?”

“Tell her to hire the best seamstress she can find to appear at the dinner she is throwing for the Lady Éowyn,” Faramir said, fully expecting the knowing grin that formed on Beregond's face. Faramir nonetheless continued, “Tell Ioreth to have the seamstress fit the Lady of Rohan for a gown for the Coronation. Anything that the Lady requests should be honored. Spare no expense.”

The look on Beregond's face at this announcement was worth the expected price of the Éowyn's proposed gown.

“The Lady is too far from the treasury of Rohan to finance such a garment,” Faramir explained. “So I will include her costs as part of the Coronation budget. Éowyn should only know that the gown is a gift from her friends in the Houses of Healing. And that would be appropriate. I found out yesterday from the Chancellor of the Treasury that the budget for the Houses comes directly from the Steward's purse. They were set up a thousand years ago as a philanthropic work by Mardil I himself.”

*****************************

Éowyn once again examined the fabric she had selected for her Coronation gown. Serindë the seamstress lifted the bolt in both arms to let the golden silk fabric cascade in thick folds onto the floor. Éowyn tried to imagine how the fabric would look with embroidered edges encrusted in red gemstones, as the seamstress had described. To Ioreth and her eldest daughter Uinéniel she said, “How can I thank you, and Narmar, and all the nurses for this gift,” Her hands swept along the luxurious fabric one last time before the seamstress folded it up.

“I will see that you all will receive proper gifts from the Mark when I go back home.” Éowyn own words saddened her. She loved her country but did not feel any compulsion, other than duty, to return soon.

“She'll make a smashing impression in that dress, don't you think, Nene,” Ioreth nudged her daughter.

“I am glad that you chose to have it cut in the style of Rohan, rather than in Gondorian fashion,” Uinéniel said. “Maybe you will start a new fashion here in Gondor.”

“I have to represent my people,” Éowyn said. “I love it here in Minas Tirith but I am more comfortable in the garments of the Mark.”

Ioreth leaned toward her and nagged, “Just wear your hair down.”

Éowyn sighed. She hadn't even considered how she would wear her hair. “In Meduseld I am not obliged to advertise my marital state by the style of my hair.”

The chief nurse winked, “As you wish. The highest man in the land knows you are marriageable. That's what is most important.”

“Did she ever tease you this much, Nene?” Éowyn asked Uinéniel. “Your mother knows he is betrothed and has been so for nearly as long as I am alive.”

Nene seemed confused, but Ioreth smiled and said, “Ah, Lord Aragorn, yes. And his Elven princess. Oh cheer up, Dearie,” Ioreth hugged her. “I apologize for being an overeager match maker. You are here with us for the time being and not about to be married in the near future. Still I deem that Nene and I could find you a far more suitable husband among our fine Gondorian males than your brother could from interviewing elligible lords in his tent.”

“You're incorrigible!” Éowyn laughed, happier than she had been in the past three days. The warmth shown to her by Ioreth's large family and the workers of the Houses of Healing tempered the sting of her embarrassment over her unseemly behavior at the ill-fated party. She vowed to put aside her growing anxiety about being forced by others into a future not of her own making, now that she finally could plan a peaceful future for herself.

****************************

The following morning, Narmar examined Éowyn's arm prior to beginning the day's work among the patients in the Houses. The Warden declared the bones of her arm healing nicely. However, the nerves and tendons were inflamed as they came back to life after their great trauma. Not a serious situation, of course, but one that would make long trips by boat or wagon uncomfortable and horseback travel out of question for many weeks.

“Besides, we are about to become very short-handed,” Narmar confessed as he completed the examination. “The first contingent of nurses and healers sets sail today for the Field of Cormallen. I hoped you can help us in the children's ward. There is much you can do, even with the use of only one hand, to ease their pain and make sure they drink their teas and take their medicines.”

Éowyn was relieved. The Warden's diagnosis soothed any reluctance she might have about joining her brother or heading off on the long road to Meduseld. Moreover, her living conditions were about to improve. Her possessions were to be moved this day to the dormitory in the Houses of Healing complex for student nurses and healers. “It is but a dormitory, no different from the ones that are part of the great college of Minas Tirith,” Narmar explained. “Nevertheless, the rooms are larger than in the women's ward, and your neighbors are healthy students, not the injured or sick.”

Éowyn quickly engrossed herself in learning the healer's profession. She dogged Narmar's footsteps, listened to his lectures, and added an extra hand as he bound wounds and set breakages. Her afternoon hours were spent on the third floor, in the children's wards, working with the nurses.

Though some of the children were recovering from the various diseases common to childhood, like the adult patients most were injured in the siege. They had heard tales of the Lady Éowyn's great feat on the battle field. The children regarded her as a heroine out of the myths of the Elder days, reborn and now here to take care of them. The adoring light in the youngsters' eyes as she talked to them was sometimes difficult for Éowyn to bear. On the other hand, she did notice that the children minded her instructions more than the nurses', especially when it came to taking medicines without a fuss.

A day and then another day passed. Éowyn was so busy with her work during the day and her studies at night that she only noticed when she went to bed that her injured arm still prickled and burned. The proper treatment for inflamed nerves and tendons was to bathe the injured part in ice cold water—impossible for an arm enclosed in a cast. When Éowyn tried to sleep, a restless anxiety took hold of her. She thought, how wonderful to learn the healer's profession far beyond whatever knowledge was kept in Meduseld. How rewarding to be out among the people, rather than at the arm of a beloved but enfeebled uncle for years on end. How long could such goodness possibly last?

Four nights past the Dark Lord's fall, Éowyn's sleepless mind dwelled on thoughts of Aragorn. She imagined him embroiled in putting together his new government for the combined lands of Gondor and Arnor. Was he too busy for his mind to dwell on marriage and the need for a king to create a line of descendants? Éowyn tried to picture the Dunadan's, rough-hewn, weathered features, and dark, waving hair. How often in the past she had thought of him with love and high regard? But that night, installed in her small but comfortable dormitory quarters, her mind raced with questions:

What if Arwen Undómiel did not survive the fall of Sauron? What if Éomer succeeded in persuading Aragorn into marrying Éowyn instead? What might it be like to wed a man who regarded you tenderly but clearly spent the days of their marriage in mourning for the true love of his life? Was this the ultimate fate of Éowyn, Éomund's daughter?

Éowyn's anxiety grew as she pondered a fate that others might make for her. Was she destined for a marriage made for political purposes? If not Aragorn, who else might Éomer propose as a suitable spouse for her? Could she even bear children at her age?

Alone in her bed, she wished for someone she could truly talk to, who would console her and not divulge their secret conversations. She longed to speak to Faramir, but then realized that he had not contacted her for several days. Simply talking to him might help her to put her feelings in order, embarrassed though she still was about her behavior at the celebration. How proper would it be for her to contact the Steward? Her thoughts slowly stopped churning until she slept in a fitful state.

*************

At breakfast the next morning, an orderly told Éowyn that a messenger from Elfhelm had arrived and was waiting in the great lobby. Upon her arrival, the messenger gave her a scroll and news of greatest importance. He had orders from Éomer to withdraw from Minas Tirith. Elfhelm and Erkenbrand requested a meeting with her on this turn of events that afternoon.

Éowyn's heart froze. She had but a short while before she reported to Narmar for their daily rounds. She quickly found a bench and unraveled the scroll. The stiff paper rattled from the shaking of her nervous fingers as she read the flowery, unfamiliar script:

Sister, I miss you so. They were Éomer's words, but rendered in Westron. My heart sank when Gandalf told me you were not well enough to journey to us. Your friends miss you too, especially Gimli and Meriadoc, who transcribes this message for me. My cracked ribs are on the right, making writing painful. Please give whatever assistance you can to Erkenbrand and Elfhelm in the planning of the withdrawal. I hope that you will come to me as soon as you are able. I am sorely in need of your advice and quick thinking. Your loving brother.

Her love for Éomer and strong sense of duty to her land washed over her as she sat, isolated on the cold marble bench in the sixth circle of Minas Tirith. Then Éowyn rose, clenched the fist of her unbound arm, and determined to continue with her course of study. Narmar had deemed her unfit to travel. Moreover, she hadn't forgotten her promise to help in the worker shortage here in the Houses.

So off she went to assist Narmar in the damp herb cellar, where they created medicines and herb teas. In the afternoon she visited the ailing children, gave them the medicines, and listened to their stories of terrible dreams that haunted their nights and kept them from sleeping.

Late in the afternoon she bade farewell to her healer's duties and joined Erkenbrand and Elfhelm in the basement meeting room of the Houses of Healing. Éowyn sat down at the big table, back to the door, as the stoic old warriors unrolled Éomer's reports. The king ordered all eoreds to depart Minas Tirith within the next few days. The eoreds under Marshal Elfhelm were to return to Rohan, while the Commander of the Westfold's forces were to join the remaining Rohirrim on the Field of Cormallen.

The three bent over the reports and discussed the number of men that were healthy enough to march. Éowyn felt honored to be part of the discussion, yet slightly inadequate in her knowledge of military matters. She looked from the spread out reports to Erkenbrand, who often paused to look up, apparently deep in thought.

After careful consideration, Éowyn offered her opinion, “I suspect Minas Tirith's fighting forces have been heavily depleted. So many Gondorians are injured and here recovering in the Houses. I wonder how many uninjured soldiers are left to help rebuild Minas Tirith or defend it against attacks by retreating orcs or Haradrim? I suggest that you keep a small contingent of Rohirrim here to bolster the local armies.”

Erkenbrand said, “What do you think, my Lord?” His question confused Éowyn. She turned around to face the door. There stood the Steward of Gondor, leaning against the wall at the entrance to the room.

“I applaud the Lady's suggestion,” Faramir said in a low, even toned voice. Éowyn caught her breath. Though he spoke to them all, Faramir's eyes fastened on her as he said, “Why don't we gather at Erkenbrand's tent tomorrow afternoon. I will bring my ordinance officer Irolas. Your eoreds will need provisioning, especially those you send all the way to Rohan. If you keep a division of warriors here in Minas Tirith, I'll see that the eoreds bound for Rohan have adequate food supplies for their journey.”

“Done!” Elfhelm agreed. “Let's work out our plan tomorrow.”

“Agreed,” Faramir said. He still hadn't taken his eyes off Éowyn. Her humbling embarrassment returned, and Faramir's unrelenting gaze made her tremble. He was trying to gage her thoughts, deliberately or simply by habit, she decided.

“Lady Éowyn, why don't you join us. You give worthy advice,” Faramir said.

Duty. And responsibility. She had both of these to use an excuse. “I have to help Narmar in the children's ward during the afternoon,” she said. “There is a shortage of folk to work here in the Houses. Besides, the children mind me,” she offered lamely, looking away from Faramir's persistent eyes.

“That is an admirable occupation,” Faramir said. Then he spoke to them all, “I hope that you don't mind my stepping in. I'm doing some research in the library and heard your voices.”

Éowyn watched his departing form. She wrapped her right arm around the sling binding the left arm. She hugged herself in an effort to control urges that ordered her to run out the door after the Steward. Instead, Éowyn continued to listen to Erkenbrand and Elfhelm discuss the evacuation of Minas Tirith. Their conversation did not go on much longer. The logistics of the departure truly needed to be discussed with a full contingent of Gondorian officers. The marshals rose and bid her farewell.

No sooner had they left than Éowyn raced down the corridor to the library. So strong was her desire to see Faramir that she no longer understood her own impulses. When she arrived in the dusty archives, Faramir was not at the Steward's great desk. Éowyn moved from stack to stack, hoping to find him. But the only people in the dusty room were a few students whom she recognized from the dormitory.

In great despair, Éowyn finally sank down in the chair behind the Steward's desk. Pieces of blank parchment and a quill pen laid there haphazardly, as though Faramir had left them there but a few minutes ago. She picked up the pen and studied it. Then she took one of the parchments and wrote:

My dear brother, It is true that the Warden of the Houses of Healing has advised me not to travel beyond the gates of Minas Tirith. My broken arm prevents me from mounting a horse. I keep busy by assisting the Warden here at the Houses, which is much to my liking. I love you and hope to see you as soon as I can.

That night Éowyn had no trouble falling asleep. But in the middle of the night, she awoke screaming from a dream she did not remember.

Chapter 17: The Acts of the Last Ruling Steward

AUTHOR'S NOTE

"Avoidance" started out being movie verse with much respect paid to book canon but has grown into a personal merge of both. I've borrowed Peter Jackson's actors to star in my book gap filler.

Sincerest apologies for my slowness, especially for those who have been loyally reading "Avoidance" so far. This chapter was particularly difficult for me to write.

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Within the confines of the Steward's carriage, Faramir held Éowyn's hands, hoping that she would derive strength through his love and support. Perhaps her having a separate audience with Queen Arwen and her ladies was not such a good idea after all. The encounter might be too stressful, given her delicate condition. On the other hand, 'Éowyn would not like to be called delicate, whatever her condition was. The appointment had been made. It could not be cancelled.

They traveled down the newly graded Eastern Road and onto the Pelennor Fields. Faramir stood up to stretch his legs. Gardeners and farmers were busy restoring the fields to a condition far superior than any now living could remember. In their midst, a magnificent pavilion had just been erected over the incongruous hillock that marked the highest point on the Fields. It was an elven pavilion, similar in form to the tents of Legolas' Silvan people when they first moved to Ithilien. Yet this pavilion had the delicacy of pattern and color far beyond any that Faramir had ever seen. The banners and colors were strange, too. Foreign and exotic.

"I think some high elven lord has come for a visit," Faramir described the scene to Éowyn, who could not balance her weight well enough to stand in the swaying carriage. She looked up at him with glittering eyes. How could he have doubted her love? Why hadn't he noticed the start of it?

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Faramir stood on a hastily-erected platform atop the hillock that rose gently above flat grass lands. Around the rise spread the Pelennor Fields, now packed with people and horses right up to the scaffold-bedecked walls of Minas Tirith. Mounted Rohirrim gathered at the base of the hill, just below Faramir's position. They reined in their horses and sat them at strict attention.

To Faramir's left, a long column of supply wagons was assembled, ready for a slow but hopefully uneventful journey north to the recovering armies at the Field of Cormallen. Beside him on the platform were Beregond and the members of the Steward's Council. Intermingled with warriors and Gondorian officials, the ordinary citizens of Minas Tirith milled about, eager to hear their Steward's first official speech.

Raising his right arm gingerly to gain the crowd's attention, Faramir began, in his most stentorian, captain-addressing-the-Rangers voice: "On behalf of the people of Gondor, I thank the eoreds of the Mark for answering the summons of the beacons and honoring the treaty of Cirion and Éorl."

The huge crowd, perhaps ten thousand strong, roared and stomped in approval, though Faramir wondered how most could hear his words. He continued, "Marshal Elfhelm has left a force of 500 Rohirrim, to be quartered in the First Circle. They will patrol the city with our security forces and lend a hand on the repairs of the wall, if we can persuade them with enough mead."

"I will remember that part of the bargain," yelled Bema, now in charge of the Rohirrim in Minas Tirith. Faramir grinned and continued his speech, abiding by his philosophy of keeping brief and to the point. This was not the place for a philosophical or political speech. He concluded by bidding the huge group safe passage.

Erkenbrand spurred his horse before the patient Rohirrim, followed by Elfhelm on his dun battle stallion. Then the commanders urged their horses to one side, to make way for a golden haired figure who stepped out before the crowd. The Lady Éowyn, impossibly lovely in a white gown in the style of her people, carried a basket overflowing with yellow broom flowers. She entwined these in the bridles of the commanders' horses. Then she withdrew two scrolls from the basket, which she presented to Erkenbrand and Elfhelm. Faramir faintly heard her bid the Rohirrim farewell in their land's tongue before she disappeared back into the crowd.

Erkenbrand's great black horse reared as he shouted, "To the Steward and the people of noble Gondor!" He raised his arm. As one, the Rohirrim raised their voices in powerful song. They spurred their horses and commenced in orderly progression to the Great North Road. With considerable clanging and braying of mules, the Gondorian supply wagons started to move. The drovers held their teams in check to let the Rohirrim pass first, to give escort for the wagons on the road.

Faramir was filled with joy. So many warriors and supply wagons had gathered. Rather than mustering for battle, today, for the first time, they rode forth on a mission of peace--a peace none had ever imagined had come.

Without a word, Faramir nodded swiftly to the Council members and descended the little hill. His constant bodyguard of the Tower Guardsmen quietly appeared, leading his father's preferred riding horse, a roan gelding named Nahar. The younger guardsman Jarred gave Faramir a boost into the saddle. Faramir's upper body had not yet recovered sufficient strength to mount a horse unaided. Yet he felt it of utmost importance that the people see their Steward astride a horse, to give them more confidence in the continuity of Gondor's government. He traveled among the crowd, followed by the Tower Guardsmen and a standard bearer with the colors of the Stewards of Gondor.

Minas Tirith this past week pulsed with an energy such as Faramir had never experienced. The streets were cluttered with wains of refugees returning to their abandoned homes in the seriously depopulated city. Uninjured Gondorian soldiers were granted week long leaves to visit their families. Women who had hidden in their city homes or in the provinces finally returned to grace the streets with their beauty.

What do people do in times of peace? Faramir wondered, as his heels tapped Nahar's flanks. Rebuild their cities and the outlining towns? Till the fields? Become farmers and artisans, rather than soldiers? Marry and have children? Who knew how to govern them so that they could live out their lives in peace time? Faramir, the Steward, son of Denethor? Aragorn, the Dunadan, son of Arathorn?

At least I can set Gondor on its first steps in peace time, Faramir thought. His horse picked its way carefully through the slow-moving crowd. The gelding's gait was magnificently smooth, perfect for an injured man just returning to the saddle. The citizens walked and rode back to the city, singing and conversing. Faramir had declared this day a government holiday, for all Gondorians to rest from their usual toils. The markets, guild halls, and government organizations were closed.

What were the Lady of Rohan's thoughts about living without war? Faramir wondered as he and his retinue rode along. The people cleared a path for their horses and called out Faramir's name. He skimmed their faces, but Éowyn was not among them.

Convinced that finding her among all the people would be impossible, Faramir was about to give up his search when he spotted an open wagon drawn by two mules bumping its way through the crowd. At least ten young people squashed against each other in the vehicle, laughing and jostling among themselves each time the wagon rolled over a rut. In their midst, three lovely women captured Faramir's eye. One was a willowy woman scarcely past 20 with wavy brown hair. The second was the dark, statuesque nurse Gertrudis, whom Faramir recognized from the Houses of Healing. Between the two swayed Éowyn herself. She grasped onto the wagon's guard rail to hold her balance and tossed her long blonde hair out of her face.

At Faramir's signal, the guardsman Nem rode ahead and ordered the drover to halt the wagon. The jolt caught Éowyn off-guard. As she tried to regain her balance, her eyes caught Faramir's; then her cheeks reddened.

"Good afternoon," Faramir called as he rode up to the carriage. "Lady Éowyn, I was saddened to hear hat you are not recovered enough to join your brother on the Cormallen."

Éowyn's chin raised slightly, but otherwise her face remained perfectly still as she said insistently, "I promised to stay here and help Warden Narmar." Her companions gasped, surprised at Éowyn's abrupt retort--or so Faramir perceived their behavior.

"Begging your pardon, my Lord Steward," the brown haired girl twisted her body flirtatiously as she spoke. " Lady Éowyn loves Minas Tirith. Practically every day she makes us go for walks at lunch so she can learn all the neighborhoods."

"Hush, Nellas," Éowyn tugged at her companion's sleeve. "Please don't trouble the Steward with silly talk. He has much to do. He's responsible for my feelings for Minas Tirith. Lord Faramir was the first to take me on a tour of the city."

Faramir watched Éowyn carefully. He suspected that more lurked behind her reason to stay behind than wanting to experience life in Minas Tirith. She seemed tense and troubled, as though her mind was in torment. At least she seemed seemed willing to talk, rather than aloof and abashed.

What she really needed was for him to swoop her out of that wagon, set her before him on Nahar's sturdy back, and then ride off at top speed across the Pelennor

How impossible that would be on this particular day, the practical side of his nature doused his fantasy. Her broken arm would surely be re-injured from any form of swoop; as it was, he hardly had the strength enough lift a woman, even a lean and muscular woman like Éowyn. By now a crowd had gathered around the halted wagon, calling out for both the Lady and the Steward. Only now aware of their presence, Faramir gaped at them, momentarily distracted. Was his father ever being pursued by adoring crowds? he mused. He found the attention both embarrassing and affirming.

"Faramir?" Éowyn yelled out. Her voice pierced through his reverie and the increased noise from the onlookers.

Faramir flinched and said, "I'm sorry. I was thinking that I'd like to walk with you as far as the Houses of Healing and have a pleasant chat."

"What?" she held her hand to her ear.

"Let's walk back to Minas Tirith and talk. The guards can take my horse."

Éowyn laughed, "I doubt we could hear each other." Gertrudis frowned and nudged her slightly.

The wagon driver stood up from his seat and bellowed, "Begging your pardon, my Lord Steward, I have to get this wagon moving! I promised the Warden I'd have his lazy staff back right after the soldiers left."

"It's true," Éowyn sighed. "I'm assisting Ioreth in the Men's ward this afternoon. No day is a holiday for healers." The wagon suddenly lurched forward. The young woman Nellas giggled and pressed her hand over her mouth. Éowyn seemed grave, almost frustrated.

"I will come to visit you at dinner in the next few days," Faramir called after her.

To Faramir's surprise, Éowyn suddenly exclaimed, "Yes, please do." Gertrudis nodded her head, ostensibly in approval, and Nellas turned away, trying to hide giggles that Faramir none-the-less saw. He reined in Nahar and watched the women as the wagon moved off down the road. To his delight, Éowyn held his gaze and waved once before turning away. She had decided to stop avoiding him. In fact, she did want to see him again. He was sure of it.

What a woman! Faramir thought. He admired her so for quickly finding an important role for herself in the peace time to replace her battle capacity as Shield Maiden of Rohan. What would Faramir's role be in the new kingdom? He liked the responsibility of reordering Minas Tirith in time for Aragorn's coronation much more than he would have imagined, although some aspects were far more easy to handle than others.

These matters drifted through Faramir's mind as he rode slowly back to the city. Occasionally, he stopped to shake hands with eager citizens. More than occasionally, he reflected on the beauty and the puzzle that was the Lady Éowyn. Finally, his entourage halted outside the deserted town house on the sixth circle that was now Faramir's personal project.

Though the final battle had not reached beyond the second circle, the empty townhouse had some damage from last week's earthquake and the after shocks immediately following. Since finding the house three days ago, Faramir had hired carpenters and painters to make the place habitable. Now the painters were hard at work, happy to receive double pay for working on this public holiday. The building's former tenant had removed all the furniture, but the carpenters had moved in several benches. Faramir sat down in exhaustion on a bench and stared for a moment into the two foot hole at the bottom of the nearest wall.

"Have you found the mouse killer yet?" he called up to the painters.

"No, but we found four mouse bodies this morning," one of the painters answered. "Not eaten, though. The food that you left 'im was eaten. You know how those mousing animals are. Feed them and they think the vermin are playthings, not something to eat. They kill mice for fun but would much prefer to eat human food."

"He'll come out eventually," Faramir said, remembering the note that the tenant's son had written at the end of his father's letter with the final rent payment. A child's request of the great Lord Denethor. Faramir studied the gaping hole. He listened for the scratching sounds that announced the presence of rats and mice. Those animals had better get themselves out of the walls within the next few days.

In particular, Faramir was determined to coax the mouse killer out, be it ferret, or cat, or rat terrier; otherwise the carpenters would seal it in the wall with the rats. Any animal that kept a house relatively vermin free was held in high esteem by the people of Minas Tirith. Every day last week people visited his afternoon council with complaints about the growing infestation of mice and scarcity of cats, terriers, and other animals that preyed on rodents. Even the barn owls had fled the stables of the city; perhaps they feared sharing the sky with fell beasts.

When no animal slunk out of the hole, Faramir's thoughts eventually wandered back to the events earlier in the day. The supply caravan that headed out today ,in addition to food, bore his first messages to Aragorn. No words had yet come to him from the man who would shortly rule Gondor. No requests for a special observance at the Coronation, or for rooms for incoming relatives, or for magnificent garments to wear for the great event. Not even a request for supplies for the host at the Cormallen issued forth from the Dunadan.

True, Aragorn's host might have received supplies from the nearby Ranger forts, though no reports had yet come to Faramir from the Ranger strongholds. The victorious host could easily supplement their rations with game and fish caught in the Anduin. Still Faramir found it odd that he received no correspondence from Aragorn. Surely the Dunadan, Mithrandir, and the King of Rohan would appreciate the stream of food and drink coming their way from the Steward of Gondor.

Had Éowyn hoped for word from Aragorn but, like Faramir, heard nothing. Could that be the reason for unease, confusion, and discomfort he thought he read in her heart. Surely Lord Aragorn had sent her a message politely inquiring after her health. Could Aragorn's silence have dismayed her so that she wanted a future as a healer and no longer cared to marry?

Shrugging off the last thought, Faramir got up, brushed saw dust from his leggings, and walked toward the front door of the townhouse. Surrounded by the clutter that would eventually become his new home, Faramir accepted that he would love Éowyn, whether she became Aragorn's wife, some other man's wife, or the wife of none. If unrequited love were to be his fate, so be it.

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Every morning the next week Faramir worked with the council and planned strategies for huge housing projects for people who wanted to resettle the city. At lunch he worked through a new regime of exercises to rehabilitate his right side and build upper body strength. The sergeant-trainer assured Faramir he would soon regain strength enough to battle with a sword. The long bow, however, would take months to rehabilitate, if that ability ever returned to him. In the afternoon Faramir reviewed petitions from the people. And late in the afternoon, he returned every day to the Steward's House, to oversee its restoration.

Regardless of when Aragorn finally chose to communicate with him, Faramir accepted the responsibility for finding a home for the Dunadan, his family, and staff. The fabled King's House was long gone from the Citadel. Several public buildings sprawled over its former site, including the smaller Steward's House, where Faramir had grown up. No doubt it was less grand than the King's House, but certainly more than adequate for a monarch to live in, at least on an interim basis. Faramir oversaw the remodeling of the Steward's House so that it would be ready for Aragorn on the day of his Coronation.

Faramir doubted he would miss the Steward's House, which he left for the wilds of Ithilien fifteen years since. He had no desire to live there after his release from the Houses of Healing, much preferring his old rooms in Boromir's house, despite the ever-present memories of his brother. He knew he could always retire to his mother's substantial holdings in Dol Amroth, though his ultimate dream was to build a manor in Ithilien, an uncertain dream at best. In only a month, the remodeled Steward's House would pass on to the king, and the Stewards' thousand years of safe-keeping Gondor would pass into history. Faramir, son of Denethor, would need a place to live in Minas Tirith--one that belonged to him alone and not the spirit of his father or brother.

Spending any time in the dusty, neglected Steward's House was painful almost beyond endurance. Still Faramir rummaged through the rooms, packing valuables and mementos, ordering walls to be repainted, and furniture to be refurbished or replaced. In a locked chest in his parent's bedroom, he salvaged clothes that belonged not only to his father and mother, but also to his grandparents. Maybe a museum someday would display the garments of the Stewards.

In Denethor's desk he found a pile of documents ranging from deeds several hundred years old to ledgers that listed tenants' payments made scarcely a few days before the siege. Faramir had always known that his Hurin side owned major buildings and tracts of lands in Minas Tirith.

During the week following the Dark Lord's fall, Faramir inspected the buildings whose deeds he had found. Most were either occupied or in need of far more than one month's repair before he could move in. The unoccupied homes usually were rat-infested and stank of mold and mildew. But not the building that he now called his townhouse. When he first unlocked the door, he found it relatively clean, though not without problems mostly stemming for earthquake damage. The most recent tenant had left tacked to the inside door a final rent payment and a note of apology for removing his family to their farms in Lossarnarch. It was dated but two days before the start of the siege.

One evening, two days past his speech on the Pelennor Fields, Faramir returned to his townhouse to lend a hand to the workers, wherever he could. He brought a makeshift dinner of Anduin trout and roasted potatoes wrapped in a cloth, and a full wineskin. That evening the carpenters had left early, perhaps to take advantage of the fine weather and lengthening days. Though daylight still lingered, the Tower Guardsmen brought in lanterns before assuming their posts outside the front door. Faramir sat on the bench by the still gaping hole in the wall and took out his dinner. Loneliness suddenly overwhelmed him. Here he sat, Steward of all the land, bereft of father and brother, and soon to be out of a job. He loved fish but his grief made the usually appetizing meal tasteless.

Then he heard the scratching movements of the animals who hid in the walls.

"You and I are going to meet tonight," Faramir addressed the hole, grateful to be distracted from his mourning. He tore off a piece of fish and laid it on the floor several inches below the hole. Then he sat down on the floor and leaned against the wall, to the side of the hole. Several minutes passed. At last, a thin black leg reached out from inside the wall and yanked the fish into the safe dark interior beyond the hole. Excellent, Faramir thought as he heard the sound of a small animal eating. The creature had revealed itself. He then tossed another piece of fish onto the floor, about a foot from the wall.

The first morsel must have been particularly tasty because barely ten seconds later a blur of fuzzy blackness flew out of the hole, pounced on the fish, and leaped back through the hole into the wall.

"Aha, there you are, moggy," Faramir chuckled, amused by the animal's behavior. "Let's see what you think of people." He sat down cross-legged on the floor, about two feet in front of the hole, and placed yet another sliver of trout just in front of his feet. This time the animal waited a bit. Faramir could see its gold eyes gleaming in the darkness beyond the hole.

Finally, the starving creature gave in, walked up to Faramir, and sat a few inches before the tantalizing piece of fish. A young cat, totally black, a scrawny but muscular male no more than four months old matched Faramir stare for stare. Very carefully, he reached forward and touched the kitten's nose with his index finger. To his delight, the little fellow rubbed the top of his head against Faramir's knuckles. Then the kitten lowered his head to eat the trout.

"You miss your boy, don't you?" Faramir said. "He has moved away and asked the Steward to find you a home. Well, I am the Steward now and I would bring you home, if you will let me." He reached forward and grabbed the kitten, held him in the air for a second and turned him around, assessing the state of the animal's health. Poor thing was skinny and covered in grease where he could not reach to clean himself. Though the cat did not resist being held, he set up such an piercing stream of mews that Faramir set the animal down in his lap. In response, the cat quieted down and seemed relieved. He curled his dirty body up in the folds of Faramir's tunic and commenced a loud, satisfied purr.

"That settles matters. You're mine. Your first order is to have a bath in whatever I can find to clean a cat" Faramir said, beguiled as he stroked the kitten until one of the guards called out, "My lord, are you alright."

More right than I've been for awhile, Faramir thought as he picked up his cat and placed the animal on his shoulder.

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The next few days passed quickly as Faramir was inundated with plans, paper work, and people demanding his time. Between council meetings and endless sessions, Faramir hunkered down with mounds of paper work in the Steward's offices of the White Tower. He conversed mostly with Beregond and the black kitten, whom he took everywhere. He named the cat Cirion, in honor not only of the famous Steward but also for the boy who was forced to leave behind his runaway pet.

Messengers came frequently from the districts and fiefdoms outside Minas Tirith. At midweek a brief message came from Mithrandir thanking Faramir for the supplies and requesting even more food and pipe weed, if possible. The wizard cautioned, "Do not venture out to meet us yet. Stay in Minas Tirith. Mind your health and the people's health. Await the summons of the king.

The last sentence made Faramir extremely uncomfortable. He had to yet receive any message from Aragorn, son of Arathorn.

At the end of the week, Rangers from the Causeway forts arrived from the Cormallen. They brought news of a great ceremony honoring the ring bearers to be held there on the coming Sunday. They inundated Faramir with reports and scrolls full of news and requests for food and supplies. To his continuing dismay, none of these scrolls came from Lord Aragorn. What he did receive was a surprising and enlightening communication from the King of Rohan.

Éomer, son of Éomund, wrote:

Please accept my thanks, Faramir, Denethor's son, for the safe return of the eoreds who had remained in Minas Tirith. They look far happier and healthier than the last time I saw them. Erkenbrand and Elfhelm have been speaking their praise for the Steward and the people of Gondor non stop since joining us on the Anduin.

We all appreciated the sides of beef and pork and especially the kegs. You Gondorians brew some fine beers. I am sure you would also appreciate the robust beers we brew in the Mark. After we are through with all these ceremonies, let's you and I talk about a trade agreement between our countries for beer importation.

One more matter, a favor I would ask of you. Erkenbrand says that you have befriended my sister. I am worried about her health, for she is yet unable to join us here. In the past, she was never one to ignore her responsibilities. Can you inquire as to the true state of her injuries? Please encourage her to come to the Cormallen as soon as possible for I greatly need her help in many matters.

Faramir reread the scroll and hung his head. Last Sunday he had promised Éowyn to come calling at dinner time. Nearly a week had passed since then, but Faramir had not found time for a visit amid all his tasks.

When he read Éomer's note, his heart felt plagued with guilt. It was mid afternoon on Friday. The King of Rohan's note gave Faramir an ample excuse to put other duties aside and attend to this matter. He rose from his seat, nodded to Beregond, and grabbed little Cirion off the desk where he had been napping. Then Faramir headed out on foot to the Houses of Healing, doggedly followed by his trusty duet of guardsmen.

*******************

"She's quite busy in the Apothecary," Warden Narmar explained as Faramir followed him down the broad hall on the basement level. "The Lady of Rohan has developed quite a talent for brewing medicinal teas. She is preparing a shipment of herbs for the armies on the Cormallen." Narmar slowly opened the door to the Apothecary and leaned in. He said, "The Steward is here to see you, Lady Éowyn." Faramir took a deep breath.

A moment later, she stood at the door, her simple, egg-colored healer's robes accentuating the ashen pallor of her cheeks. Her bound arm was barely noticeable within the folds of her garment. Éowyn smiled faintly. Faramir could sense the chill on her skin. He perceived that she was troubled and desperately wanted to take her into his arms. Instead, he politely gestured for the lady's hand; it was cold and dry. By contrast, her dark blue eyes were heated and intense when he kissed her wrist in formal greeting before they entered the Apothecary.

Vaguely aware that Narmar had closed the door behind them, Faramir followed Éowyn into the narrow, dimly-lit, windowless pharmacy. The walls were crammed with shelf after shelf of beakers, boxes, small vials, and great carafes. Strangely enough, the bleak, airless surroundings emanated a wonderful scent of orange blossom and cinnamon. Faramir felt enveloped in an eerie sense of cosiness. He sat beside Éowyn on a bench next to a broad table covered with sprigs of herbs.

"Lady, I am glad to see you," Faramir began awkwardly. She was so still, so silent, so stiff. What to say next? He finally blurted out, "I apologize for not visiting sooner. I am burdened down with so many tasks."

"Why is a cat in your tunic?" Éowyn said abruptly and then pursed her lips.

Faramir looked down to see Cirion's small black head poking out between the vee of the neck of his cote. He was so nervous about this encounter that he had forgotten the kitten, whom he had tucked into his cote right before entering the Houses.

"I found him in an abandoned townhouse that belonged to my father," Faramir said eagerly. "I've named him Cirion, though usually I just call him Cirry. I take him everywhere and wanted you to meet him."

"And that is why you finally came to visit?" Éowyn teased but Faramir detected a bite beneath her words.

Faramir pulled the struggling Cirion out of his clothes and deposited the kitten onto Éowyn's lap. He said, "I though all women liked cats."

"And so I do," Éowyn answered. "I always played with the cats in the stables. They are great companions for the horses, and children love them, too. Unfortunately, the last year or so most of the cats in Meduseld ran away or were killed. We have a terrible rodent problem as a result." Her hair, bound in two severe plaits, hung down her neck to rest in her lap. Cirion promptly attacked the braids and rolled in them, making the lady finally laugh.

"Here in Gondor, we keep cats in our homes to keep down the vermin," Faramir explained quickly, relieved to make small talk before he came to the crux of his visit. "It is said that the tabbies make the best mousers, and the black ones bring good luck."

Éowyn laid her hands down on Cirion, calming him until he curled up on her lap to purr. How Faramir wished he could put his head in that very lap. He was acutely aware of Éowyn's closeness. Her hip, thigh, and knee brushed just slightly against his leg.

She turned to Faramir, her beautiful face drawn and tired. "I am sorry for getting so drunk at the great banquet," she apologized. "I forgot that Gondorians are so circumspect. I'm afraid I wasn't a fine example of a noblewoman of the Mark."

"There were many drunk people in the hall that night," Faramir assured her. He sensed her great upset and wanted so to put his arm around her shoulders. The dim light and calming smell of the herbs made the world outside the Apothecary seem miles away.

Éowyn sighed and suddenly leaned against him, as though hungry for the warmth of his by now heated body. "I overheard some of the nurses gossiping about me. I'm afraid they found me nothing more than a wild shield maiden out of the barbarous North,"

"The wild shield maiden who helped to save our land," Faramir said, relishing her closeness, wishing he could slowly unbind her thick plaits and run his hands through the length of her fair hair. "You are a hero to the people of Minas Tirith. I'm told all the little girls in Minas Tirith want to be like the Lady of Rohan."

Her eyes flashed suddenly, and she pulled away from him, "Speak plainly, Faramir. Your words and your face are pretty, but I suspect you had more reason to come here than to cheer me up and show me your new cat."

He sighed long and deep. One did not skirt around issues with Éowyn. "I got a message today from Éomer King," Faramir said.

"As did I," Éowyn said, knitting her pale brows.

"He is worried about your health to the extent that he asked me to inquire..."

"And then he asked you to try to convince me to leave for the Field of Cormallen!"

"Well, yes," Faramir said, his languorous mood totally broken.

"No doubt Narmar would say I needed more rest in these Houses. If I really wanted to leave, I could travel out tomorrow, regardless of Narmar's opinions, on the same boat with this herb shipment I've been preparing," Éowyn retorted. "I want to stay here and learn what I can of the healer's profession in the time given to me."

The strength of her defiance surprised Faramir, although he sensed that she had arrived at this decision through great turmoil. His own uncertainty gnawed at his heart so much that he had to tell Éowyn what had been so much on his mind. "I sent Lord Aragorn a note last Sunday, but I haven't gotten a response," Faramir said, trying hard to be tactful. "Have you heard from him?"

"Not a thing," she said matter-of-factly, "though days ago I sent him a brief note of congratulations." Faramir's gut contracted. He had assumed that the lack of a summons from Aragorn was the cause of Éowyn's distress. Sitting here beside him, she seemed merely resigned

"I must give Éomer King some reason for your not joining him," Faramir said, "if your injuries are not troubling you."

"You have heard my reason," Éowyn said. "I would stay in Gondor and train to be a healer. My brother wants me to return to him so he can marry me off."

"If you were Gondor's queen, you could stay here and learn the King's healing practices, as well," Faramir barely managed to keep his voice restrained.

A calm expression formed on Éowyn's face. She twisted to lay her unbound hand on his arm and said, "So I once would have wished. If my brother had died, I would have been Queen in my own right, without benefit of marriage. Now I recognize that if others must die or be driven to grief and pain to make me a Queen, why I'd prefer to follow my path as healer."

The door to the Apothecary swung open. "Lady Éowyn?" Ioreth's voice whispered gently before she entered the room. And when she did, a somewhat disappointed smile curled her lips, as Faramir noted. Just what did that busy body expect to find?

"Might I remind you of your duties in the Children's Ward?" the Head Nurse said. She curtsied just slightly to Faramir, "Good to see you as ever, my Lord Steward. Please remove your cat from the premises. They make some of our patients sneeze."

Perhaps it was just as well as their conversation was interrupted, Faramir thought. Otherwise, he would have either skulked out of the room in a fit of melancholy or thrown caution to the wind and taken Éowyn in his arms. Surely she deserved to be kissed by some man, be it Aragorn or himself. The best Faramir, Denethor's son could do at the moment was gingerly remove his cat from Éowyn's lap, so that she could attend to her duties.

"Is there anything else I might tell Éomer King?" Faramir asked as Éowyn and Ioreth left him standing in the hall.

Éowyn called back, "Tell him I am needed to help heal the Steward and the people of Gondor."

*************************

ON TOLKIEN AND CATS

I've heard it said in several places that Tolkien was no fan of cats. Certainly his "ficlet" of Queen Beruthiel gives that impression.

No wonder authors who write fanfic in the world of Middle Earth create tales that redeem the integrity of cats within that "verse." In the United States, black cats are considered to be bad luck. In the British Isles the reverse is true. Black cats are lucky symbols. I adopted the British tradition for my purloined characters' attitude about black cats.

Chapter 18: Putting Two Together

AUTHOR'S NOTE

"Avoidance" began its life as movie verse with much respect paid to book canon. As it nears its conclusion, the story has grown into a personal merge of both book and film. I've borrowed Peter Jackson's actors to star in my book gap filler.

*********************

Éowyn leaned against Faramir's shoulder, trying to absorb strength from his resolve. Still she could tell that he was as nervous as she as their carriage approached the Great Gates of Minas Tirith.

"Recognize them Elven folk, Lord Faramir?" Calem the driver turned his head to ask. "Don't seem like Prince Legolas' people. Maybe Elrond of Rivendell has come to visit?"

"I don't think it's Elrond or his sons," Faramir answered. "I know their standards and colors. I've never seen pennants like these newcomers'." He squeezed Éowyn's hand, "It seems that more is happening today than the official return of the King and Queen"

"Especially since they've unofficially been here for over a month," Calem quipped.

"I doubt that these new arrivals were expected," Faramir said. "I would have been told of them."

The baby kicked gently. Éowyn's stomach churned. Now she must make a magnificent, pregnant appearance to mighty guests from the length and breadth of Middle Earth. For a moment she remembered her early training as a healer, when she worried herself to sickness over what her fate would be. She would never have imagined herself the guest at an informal reception with Arwen Evenstar, whom she once had considered a rival. She and Arwen as yet had had few words. Éowyn had never considered what to do or say at her audience. Now she had to.

******************************

"Greetings, my Lord Steward. Peregrin, son of Paladin, returning to your service," the halfling said cheerfully as he kneeled before Faramir 's great desk in the Steward's offices of the White Tower. He wore the silver and black tabard and mail of the Tower Guard. In the halfling's hands were a small scroll and the highly ornamented helm that completed the largely ceremonial outfit that had been Faramir's in childhood.

"Ah hah! Many thanks for answering my summons," Faramir said. "Now get onto your feet. There is no need for you to bow to someone whose life you saved."

"But you look so, well, kingly. You've turned kingly since I last saw you," the little fellow's irrepressible green eyes danced as he spoke. "And I have some knowledge of kings now, being a friend of at least two of them."

"Kings lead armies and hold grand audiences and wear crowns on their heads. I bury my head in plans and parchments. I'm not a king, nor will I ever be," Faramir said proudly, but chuckled to himself. What would his uncle have thought about the halfling's assessment of his "kingly" appearance? "Please have a seat, Master Pippin. There is much we need to talk about."

"I must give you this first," Pippin said, "so that I don't forget it." He set the helmet on the desk and handed Faramir the tightly wound scroll. Faramir unrolled the parch immediately. Sue enough, his request for Pippin's return to the Steward's service had brought the results Faramir had hoped for. Written in a small, distinct script, was the first communication from the chief of the Dunadan to the Steward of Gondor:

Mellon, Faramir, son of Denethor.

I hear that your health continues to improve. That is good news indeed. I regret that I could not write earlier. I've had my hands full reordering the army, tending to their hurts, and seeing that the dead are suitably cared for.

Per your request, here is Pippin Took. Sending him to Gondor should do him much good. He sustained a mild concussion at the Black Gate but is healing well. He is lonely, though, without the company of his friends. Frodo and Sam are not quite up and about yet. Merry, on the other hand, is busy serving Éomer. I fear that Pippin grows restless without his friends and that might well prove dangerous. It is far better to put him to useful work than to let him wander freely to get into trouble.

Soon I will send for you. We need to discuss the upcoming activities and the general state of Gondor. Please extend my greetings to Eowyn, Eomund's daughter, whom Erkenbrand tells me has become your friend. I request your patience until you receive my summons to the Cormallen.

Pippin seemed about to rest against Faramir's desk when the halfling's hand touched the sleek curve of a snoozing feline body. "My cat Ciri," Faramir explained and gestured to the seat beside the desk. Pippin paused a moment, picked up the now awake kitten, and then sat on the chair with the squirming Ciri on his lap.

Beregond got up from his desk and greeted Pippin with a gentle cuff to his shoulder. The fearful, distraught expression that Faramir remembered from his first encounter with Peregrin Took today was replaced by an open, healthy grin.

"Now that you've got here, your first job is to tell us about the doings at Cormallen," Beregond demanded.

"Faramir's my superior officer and you're not," Pippin retorted. "At least I think you're not my superior officer. Are you?"

The very sight of the small halfling blithely defying the huge man made Faramir chuckle again. "You'll work for both of us," he explained. "I asked Aragorn to return you to the Steward's service because I need a page. You will run errands, serve as a messenger for Beregond and myself, assist us during council meetings, and do all sorts of duties that are needed in peace time. For these duties you get room, board, a stipend, and our company. Does that type of service appeal to you, Master Pippin?"

Pippin nodded eagerly. Brown bangs severely in need of a trim fell into his eyes.

"This service fulfills your oath to the Stewards of Gondor until Aragorn is crowned king," Faramir said. "Then he can decide on your further employment."

The halfling's broad, earnest face grew serious, "I agree, my Lord Steward. When can I begin?"

"Start by telling us how you got here so soon after the ceremony at the Cormallen. Behind whose back did you ride?" Beregond teased as he returned to his desk.

"I didn't ride a horse. I came in one of Prince Imrahil's ships," Pippin explained. "We left last night and got here at dawn. Or so Imrahil told me. I was asleep when we arrived."

"Imrahil came with you?" Faramir exclaimed.

"Indeed he did. But he had other matters to attend to in the city, matters that he kept saying were secret.

Though I must admit I was curious to know what kept him so closed mouthed. He did say that you should expect him for tea."

"In that case, your first assignment is to visit the cooks with instructions to serve a formal tea," Beregond said. "Imrahil wouldn't expect anything less than the best."

"Not yet," Faramir interrupted. "Tell us what happened at the ceremony yesterday. I would hear of Frodo, son of Drogo."

"He only woke up a few days ago and was rather shaky at the big event," Pippin said. "Aragorn had his hands full in tending Frodo. Between him and Gandalf, someone was always at Frodo's side--aside from Sam, of course."

"Of course," Faramir said. Could this explain Aragorn's silence until today? Faramir wondered. "Tell me more of Aragorn."

****************************

Éowyn wandered through the library gardens, inspecting the area devoted to herbs. An immense weariness sat on her shoulders. Each night she had fallen easily asleep, only to awake drenched with sweat and shaking with fear. Food tasted like paper. Water burned her throat. She had chosen to remain in Minas Tirith, here in the Houses. The only joy she had found so far from her decision was learning the healer's profession.

She picked a sprig of basil and crushed the leaves between her fingers. The plant's scent was sweet and fresh, tempering her bitterness.

"Psst, Éowyn, you have a visitor," one of the orderlies poked his head into the garden. "A very impressive visitor."

Éowyn raised her head. A moment later one of the grandest men she had ever met--other than Uncle Theoden, of course--walked into the garden. She had to control herself from gaping in astonishment. Here at last among all she had met in Gondor was the embodiment of her childhood vision of a true Numenorean. The immensely tall and broad man in his richly jeweled, archaic knee-length tunic, and ornate silver breast plate could have stepped out of the Gondorians' ancient stories or the crumbling frescos depicting their Numenorean ancestors.

The knight strode across the garden with a grace not typical of one so powerfully built, an eleven grace. Yet he was certainly not elven, for all his great personal beauty. His black hair was streaked with grey and barely long enough to cover his rounded ears. His oblong chin was clean-shaven, not beardless, with the slight sag of the late middle years.

"Lady Éowyn, Éomund's daughter, I am honored to finally meet you," the man approached and gestured for her hand. As he politely kissed her fingers, Éowyn noted the his clear grey eyes.

"I am Imrahil, son of Adrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth," he introduced himself with a flourish, "and a great friend of Éomer King."

"You are Faramir's uncle," Éowyn said when Imrahil released her hand. "He has told me much about you. Why does the Prince of Dol Amroth make a special trip to visit a busy healer-in-training? Have you come with more pleas and entreaties from my brother?"

Imrahil grinned and said, "I can give you news of him, Lady, but he has sent no messages with me. I am on my way home. I greatly miss my wife any youngest children. I haven't seen them since I led my knights northward behind Aragorn and his ghostly army." He placed his hand gently on the elbow of Éowyn's cast and led her to a decorative seat near the bubbling fountain at the garden's center.

"So you see, your brother knows only that I have gone to see my family," Imrahil explained as they sat. "I had no reason to tell him the details of my itinerary nor that I planned to stop off in Minas Tirith. Still, I would have you know some news of your brother that affects you because it propelled me to make this visit."

"And how is it that you are privy to my brother's life and thoughts?" Éowyn asked, barely restraining her urge to be sarcastic.

"Éomer and I are both comrades-at-arms and advisors to Aragorn as he prepares for his kingship," Imrahil said. "Aragorn is an amazing military strategist, but he has no experience in the every day operations of a large army. Éomer and I both have this experience, so we have become Aragorn's advisors."

Éowyn's unbound hand kneaded the skirt of her healer's garment. This was the first full news she had of Aragorn's daily life since the downfall of Sauron. She was almost afraid of what Imrahil story might reveal.

The Prince of Dol Amroth continued, "And as you know, your brother shares his thoughts freely with those he loves and trusts--even thoughts you didn't care to know, like how his cracked rib has affected his digestion."

Éowyn could not help but laugh. The Prince defined her brother so perfectly. For all that Imrahil was an imposing, ostentatious figure, his candor and good humor had succeeded in disarming her suspicion.

"For the past week or so, Éomer has received a rash of proposals for your hand, Lady Éowyn."

She grimaced and then said, "So Éomer is already planning to marry me off."

"That is not quite the case, Éowyn. He is fielding requests from various nobles, mostly Rohirrim that you might even know. At the Cormallen yesterday, an entourage came by ship bearing messages from one of the Kings of the Northmen. One scroll was a proposal for your hand in marriage to his eldest son."

"And what did my esteemed brother say of all this?" Éowyn murmured.

"He was very clear that none of these men, not even the King of the Northmen's son, was worthy of you. Still he often mentions the need to produce heirs for Rohan. He told Aragorn and I in no uncertain terms that you must marry soon and to a man worthy of your station. He fears he will be inundated with proposals from far and wide for your hand."

"Why doesn't Éomer forget me and devote his energies to finding a spouse for himself!" Éowyn spoke up defensively. "He's the King. Heirs are his responsibility, and he can sire them for many years longer than the few I have left for bearing children."

"My dear Éowyn, your brother made it very clear that he prefers a match between yourself and Aragorn."

Éowyn clenched her healer's robes so tightly that her hand began to ache and sweat. "What said Aragorn of all this?" she gulped.

"Well, I perceived that they had had this conversation more than once," Imrahil said." Aragorn seemed a bit exasperated. He made it quite clear to Éomer that you accepted that he was betrothed and that he intended to stay bound thus while the Master of Rivendell's daughter lives."

"As I have suspected," Éowyn whispered. Most likely this explains Aragorn's silence, she thought.

"And that, young lady, is why I have come to visit," Imrahil punctuated his words with a sweeping gesture. "Éomer has decided that you won't come to him because Minas Tirith has seduced you."

Éowyn laughed, though she was acutely aware of how those grey eyes studied her reaction with an intensity that was uncomfortably familiar. "I do love what I have seen so far of Minas Tirith," she admitted, "though I've been so busy with my studies I've scarcely had much time to go outside and explore the city."

"If you love Minas Tirith, why not marry a man of Gondor?" Imrahil said. "That way you are assured of staying here. Many worthy, single Gondorian men still live even after the War. My purpose for meeting you was to propose such men to you personally before getting Éomer involved.

Please consider my middle son Erchirion as a possible consort for you. He is 30, a recent widower, so not a stranger to the ways of women. Not only that, he is heir to our family's shipping business and a fine looking fellow, if I must say so myself."

"I, I don't know what to say," Éowyn stammered. " I am honored that you would ask my feelings about a prospective union between myself and your son. I would be delighted to meet Erchirion though I cannot say if I would consent to marry him."

"I'm sure you would find him suitable. You can ask Faramir about Erchirion..." Imrahil paused suddenly. His grey eyes regarded her with such intensity that Éowyn had to look away. But then he laughed and said, "And while we are discussing suitable Gondorian men, what about that red-headed, benighted nephew of mine? You speak as if you knew Faramir well."

Suddenly Éowyn's throat constricted. The words came out of her mouth with great difficulty: "We spent a great deal of time together when Faramir was hospitalized here. But I have seen little of him since the day of the downfall."

"More's the pity," Imrahil sighed and clicked his tongue. "He's the perfect mate for you. Similar in age and station. Absolutely eligible. He's inherited much property from both of his parents. Never married. No by blows, either, to the best of my knowledge."

"Prince Imrahil!" Éowyn exclaimed. "I certainly consider the Steward my friend, but marriage? He has said nothing to me of marriage..."

******************

"Why haven't you spoken for the Lady Éowyn?" Imrahil said as he regarded Faramir over his cup of steaming tea.

"Spoken for?" Faramir stammered. "I speak to the lady. I just spoke to her for a bit last Friday."

"Spoken for. Not spoken to, though you have missed an opportunity by not speaking to her more," Imrahil said. Dressed to the nines, as ever, to Faramir he still seemed the war hero on his weary way home. Yet Uncle Imrahil was not too tired to resist a little side trip just to give his nephew the Steward of Gondor the usual piece of advice about his personal life. Faramir groaned. Imrahil was always subtle and always convinced that he knew what was best for Faramir. Often he was right.

"You are far too intelligent to not know what I mean," Imrahil continued. "Barely two weeks have passed since the Dark Lord fell, but Éomer, son of Éomund, has received more than ten proposals for the Lady Éowyn's hand."

"So I have heard," Faramir said. "This morning Pippin was only too happy to reveal that and all the other news about the Captains on the Cormallen. And you, I deem, have been to visit Eowyn on your way to the Citadel."

Imrahil chuckled, " Éomer did not send me here, if that is what you are thinking. I decided myself to meet the Lady. As you say, she was on the way."

"She is a fine woman, an amazing woman. Strong-willed but I like that," Faramir said.

Imrahil leaned forward and tapped Faramir just slightly on the forward. "Don't hesitate, Red. You are the last of the Hurins; your house needs an heir. Petition Éomer for Éowyn's hand."

Faramir gaped at Imrahil, amazed, as ever, at the outright nerve his uncle sometimes had. But then he sighed, "My house is soon to fade into obscurity. Surely Éowyn deserves better. No doubt you have deduced that the lady pines without hope for Aragorn."

"Really?" Imrahil's voice reeked with skepticism. "Mithrandir tells us your far sight helped him to track Frodo on his journey through Mordor. Why don't you use the sight to help yourself? The lady pines away but not for Aragorn. I humbly concluded that she pines because she misses you."

Faramir gaped at Imrahil in exasperation, "Honestly, Uncle Im, how can you know this? Why would Éowyn confess the secrets of her heart to you, a stranger?"

"She didn't, actually," Imrahil said. "I just did what you haven't been able to. I -saw into her heart. When I return from Dol Amroth in a couple of days, I can take your marriage petition to Éomer."

"Éowyn would reject any suitor that did not ask her first," Faramir felt his cheeks burn up.

"So ask her," Imrahil nudged him. "Everyone who has ever married has had to ask or be asked."

*****************************

Faramir gasped. Faramir balked. He rode with Imrahil down to the havens and there farewelled his uncle. Facing Éowyn as Imrahil had urged him at that moment seemed as frightening as facing the platoons of orcs who invaded Osgiliath. Every single doubt that Faramir had ever had about himself and about the lady raced through his head. His horse Nahar cantered smoothly up the circles of Minas Tirith as the sun set. On the sixth circle, Faramir passed his townhouse and then the Houses of Healing.

Speak to her! His inner voice pestered, a voice that this day sounded uncannily like Imrahil. Faramir balked and spurred Nahar on to the Citadel. The White Tower was deserted, except for the Tower Guardsmen. Little Ciri waited alone in the Steward's offices and meowed continuously when Faramir arrived. Got to get him home and feed him, Faramir decided. He was too tired and overwrought to do any more work.

A few hours later, in Boromir's house, Faramir stretched out on the fur rug in front of the broad fire place. In just a few days the basic furniture for his new home would arrive. He wondered what Éowyn would think of it. Think of it? She would not know of it unless he asked her to share it with him. Did he want to marry her? There was no question of it. Now the lady, on the other hand, she might have a totally different opinion. The only way to know was to ask, but he was terrified of asking her.

Faramir remained curled up on the rug, his mind churning, long into the night. He tried to envision Éowyn's face, her slim, muscular form, her long blonde hair floating out in a wave. Through the wave of gold he saw eyes, the eyes that shown like jewels and bore into him. In his vision he saw her clad in arms of a fine silver such as he had never seen in waking life. Yet the aura of nearly blinding light that surrounded her in previous dreams was gone.

The eyes cast down. Though she did not move her lips, the words of the Lady of the Golden Wood invaded his mind:

"The water in the mirror is cloudy. It has remained so since he was destroyed. I cannot see Elrond Half-Eleven and my grandchildren. Mithrandir appears but dimly. He is much closer to Lothlorien. Why is it that I can still see you, Steward of Gondor? My power fades slowly but nevertheless the fading commences day after day. I can only repeat to you now what I knew while the Ring of Adamant still flourished at the peak of its power. If the West overthrew Sauron, I saw that you would have an important place in Middle Earth's reshaping. You could have a family and children, but that is clearly up to you. Make your choice."

"Will I see you?" Faramir felt his lips moved.

"The mirror is cloudy," the Elven Queen's lips moved this time. "Whether we meet depends not on fate but on planning in the waking life. Even now, I fade."

Her image was gone. In his dreams, Faramir struggled to contact her again. Instead he awoke to bright light and a dead fire in the great room of Boromir's house. Ciri stood on his chest and gave him a baleful look.

"I'll do it," Faramir promised Prince Imrahil, the Lady of the Golden Wood, and his cat. "I must do it if only to have some peace of mind. If I don't I could lose her to some unknown princeling from Dale."

*******************

The morning was golden. The air was clear and scented with blossoms from the blooming trees. Faramir briskly concluded the morning's Council meeting, checked his appearance briefly, and then walked out the door of the White Tower. He considered bringing flowers or some sugary treat to sweeten Éowyn's mood. She might need sweetening after hearing his declaration, if he managed to get the words out.

Faramir eschewed his horse, preferring to walk and enjoy the beauty of the day. His heart, though filled with fear, drew inspiration from the brilliant marble of the fine houses of the Sixth Circle and the happily buzzing people who passed on the street. The mounted Tower Guardsmen followed at a respectful distance, just in case a crowd formed to pester their Steward.

His arrival at the Houses of Healing was another matter. Faramir stopped at the Warden's office and nervously inquired of Éowyn's whereabouts. Instead Narmar upbraided him, "It's about time that you have come to visit. The poor woman wears herself down with work and study. She tells me that her sleep is troubled, too. I insisted that she take the rest of the day off. It troubles me to see her so sorrowful on such a lovely day. What I cannot decide is whether you are the cause or the cure for her anguish." Faramir turned on his heel guiltily and started for the basement library.

Sorrowful? Would his words today make her joyful or only serve to grieve her more? The only way he could know was to speak them to her. He could hesitate no longer.

Faramir hurried through the library and into the vast garden. There Éowyn stood at the wall, examining the yellow buds on a rose bush. She wore a form fitting white dress in the style of Rohan, with wide sleeves down to the wrists of both hands. Both hands! Her left arm was no longer bound in a sling. Though Narmar deemed her heart to be ailing, her arm clearly was improving. How beautiful she looked, with a thin braid of gold hair circling her head, while the remaining length of hair trailed down her back.

Éowyn looked up then. She gasped audibly in what seemed like very real surprise. But she simply said, "My lord Steward."

"May I? I will be gentle," Faramir asked politely as he carefully lifted her left hand to kiss it. Her dropping sleeve revealed the light cast on her arm.

"It is good to see you, Faramir," Éowyn's voice was soft. Her face was drawn and tired, though no more so than on his last visit. What to say? What to say to her?

Finally, Faramir said, "Your arm has improved, I see. Yet you stay with us in Minas Tirith."

"I am needed," she said and raised her eyes candidly.

"I understand, and I admire your efforts to become a healer," Faramir began lamely. The words that he wanted to speak kept evading him. "But I know now that they are only one reason why you have remained here."

"I'm sure your uncle has told you that my brother has received marriage proposals for me from many lands?" Éowyn's words were direct though Faramir detected a slight tremble in her voice.

"Yes, and I sympathize that you would prefer to decide whether to marry than to have your brother decide your husband for you," Faramir tried to grin but his voice, too, was trembling. "Éowyn, I cannot help but think there are more factors affecting your decision."

Éowyn reached up with her right hand and brushed a strand of stray hair over her shoulders. "Still you do not know? Does your far sight fail you now? You speak in riddles."

Faramir drew a deep breath. He placed a hand on Éowyn's shoulder and looked at her squarely. "Two reasons there are, in my estimation. I originally thought you remained here because you awaited Lord Aragorn's summons. Yet like me you waited without a word and your now your heart grows bitter."

He could feel her shoulder flutter just slightly beneath his hand. Yet strangely enough, her face remained calm, her mouth silent at his bold words. So continue he must:

"The other reason was the one that I dared to hope--that you remain here because I am here. But due to misunderstanding and too many responsibilities, I've left you here in neglect." At this, Éowyn raised her hand and placed it over his on her shoulder.

"Or maybe you stay here for both reasons. Two men pull at your heart and you cannot choose between them," Faramir's words finally flew from his mouth. He knew he could stop them no longer, "So I am here to speak my part and apologize for not telling you sooner what I suspect you might already know. I love you, Éowyn. Do you not love me, or will you not?"

Chapter 19: What Eowyn Was Avoiding

AUTHOR'S NOTE

"Avoidance" began its life as movie verse with much respect paid to book canon. As it nears its conclusion, the story has grown into a personal merge of both book and film.

Since Tolkien wrote the love story of Faramir and Eowyn, many writers have given their own spin to the scene where Faramir begs Eowyn to marry him. I have always found Tolkien's dialogue rather one sided and wondered what Eowyn might think while Faramir plies her with flowery speech. I had hoped to see more equal time given to Eowyn in the film version of the marriage proposal. To my immense disappointment, Jackson famously avoided filming it. PJ therefore left a giant gap for those who write movie verse to fill.

My take on the famous scene also answers one of the two basic questions that have formed the main themes of "Avoidance." I like to imagine Jackson's actors playing the parts, but I encourage you, dear folks who have kept up with the story so far, to imagine your favorite form of Faramir and Eowyn as you read.

***********************************

The Steward's carriage arrived at the Citadel, lumbered past the Tower of Echthelion, and then reeled around the corner to the back of the Great Hall.

"Where are we going?" Eowyn asked.

Formal celebrations and receptions usually took place in the Great Hall or on its broad steps. Today, however the carriage hurtled forward, rounded a corner, and came to rest at the rear entrance to the Great Hall. A new addition to the ancient building provided reception rooms for the king and queen. The wood, and, indeed, the architects of the annex, were from the land of Rivendell.

"They tailored their designs to suit our environment here in the South," Imrahil had told her a month and more ago, when the renovation was complete. He was the minister in charge of buildings and other public works in the new government. And a fine job Imrahil had done in coordination with the Elven architects, Eowyn concluded as she entered the building on Faramir's arm. The annex entrance included a vaulted ceiling with lightly colored murals that drew your eyes upward.

Eowyn craned her head up to view the elegant trajectory of the arched beams and the delicate patterns painted in gold leaf on the ceiling between the beams. "The Prince and Princess of Ithilien," a herald announced as they entered the annex. Eowyn lowered her head and almost lost her balance. Ahead of them, Aragorn, Arathorn's son, and Arwen, Elrond's daughter, approached quite informally.

Faramir's steadying hand found Eowyn's forearm. The royal pair were finely dressed, she noted, but wore no crowns or other symbols of office. As the king neared, Faramir raised his right hand in a fist to his chest and nodded briefly. Eowyn turned toward the glowing Evenstar and nodded politely.

Aragorn smiled and offered his hand to Faramir. Her husband grinned the biggest grin a small-mouthed man might hope to achieve and shook the King's hand in response. Then the two grabbed each other in a brotherly hug. Clearly their relationship had bloomed beyond collegiality into an easy friendship.

Queen Arwen stood apart, warm and serene. Her clear eyes regarded Eowyn, even as their husbands comfortably welcomed one another. Like Eowyn, the queen had chosen this day to dress in the style of Gondor. Her low cut gown was gathered just below her full breasts to flow about her tall body. Arwen Evenstar's heavy brocade gown billowed around her form with more volume even than Eowyn's unadorned lilac silk.

"Princess Eowyn, I've wanted to speak to you in more comfortable circumstances than the formal events where we have met previously," Arwen began. Her voice was lilting and melodious, giving Eowyn a sense of ease that tempered her deep discomfort.

"Come, I would show you the new Queen's chamber, which will be unveiled formally a little later," Arwen continued. "We can talk for a moment before the others arrive." She slipped her hand into the crook of Eowyn's arm, the gesture of a sister or best friend, not one's sovereign.

The queen led Eowyn through an arched doorway into an airy corner room. Enormous windows on two of the walls let in the warm May sun. Graceful chairs upholstered in silvery fabric were scattered throughout. Arwen sat and motioned for Eowyn to join her. She leaned forward as she said, "Congratulations and best wishes for an easy birth and a healthy child. When is your baby due?"

"I'm nearly six months along," Eowyn felt her cheeks burn as she responded.

"How has your health been these past few months?" Arwen asked. Her translucent complexion colored just slightly at the top of her high cheekbones.

The beautiful chair that Arwen offered was wide and comfortable, but Eowyn still squirmed a bit before she answered, "I had some sickness during the first two months, but that has given way to good health. I have tried to remain active throughout my pregnancy and eat the proper foods, though I admit a constant craving for ice from Mindolluin, flavored with sugared raspberry juice."

"And we shall have that in a few minutes," Arwen smiled graciously. "But first, well, I have a troubling matter to discuss with you. I spoke earlier to the Warden and the Chief Nurse of the Houses of Healing. My body, too, is changing. They recommended your services as an herbalist ..."

********************************************

"I love you, Eowyn. Do you not love me or will you not?"

Faramir's hand sat uneasily on her right shoulder. His body was scarcely an arm's length from hers. Her hand lightly rested on top of his hand and long fingers. She could feel Faramir's breath on her forehead as he spoke. He who chose flowering words to mask his insecurity now demanded plain speaking from her. Eowyn did not need to look at his face to feel the intense blue eyes probing. And pleading.

Trying to compose her thoughts, Eowyn turned away and looked out over the landscape of Minas Tirith. The brilliant sun gleamed across the city and turned the great river into a silver ribbon. Gulping slightly, Eowyn said, "When we first met, I wished to be loved by another." Before she could draw breath, Faramir's hand was gone from her shoulder.

After an uncomfortable pause, Faramir said, "I know. You were quite open about your feelings for the Lord Aragorn. You admired him--and who wouldn't admire such a lord among men, the greatest that now is. Yet often when you spoke of him, I heard words such as a young soldier might speak about a revered captain."

Spoken like a true military man! Eowyn wanted to scoff but restrained herself, "Would a young soldier have the same feelings as an unmarried woman whose life has known nothing but war and little of hope?" She averted her eyes. How difficult it was to speak without bitterness.

"Could I not help but long for a hero? And one day there he came unbidden, from over the great plain of Rohan. How could I not love such a hero, Faramir? A hero that my King and brother as well as myself thought my perfect mate. Since Mordor fell, I studied and worked beside Narmar and pondered what my response would be, should Aragorn change his mind and decide it was in the best interest of both our lands for us to marry."

"And you heard nothing," Faramir's voice was sad, barely audible. "Here, then, is the matter that has troubled you so. Do not scorn pity that is the gift of a gentle heart. Look at me, Eowyn."

Her gaze was long and considering at the man who stood so close by. The midday sun lit his now familiar broad cheekbones and brow, and put a burnished red glint into his wavy hair. Faramir's far-seeing eyes that regardless never quite grasped everything about her were gentle as they regarded her.

Eowyn said, "I need no one's pity. In the end, I no longer felt rejected by Aragorn. No, he saved me from having to tell him what I realized these past few weeks. I prefer a solitary future as a healer than a political marriage to a man who respected but did not love me."

Faramir drew a hand through his hair and regarded her in confusion.

"You asked if I was torn because I must choose between two," Eowyn continued. "Your Uncle Imrahil it was who helped me to see the truth of the matter. I felt rejected, but not by the hero on some field far away. I felt rejected by the one I counted as my closest friend. He promised to visit, but save for a few spare moments, he stayed away. Now here he stands, speaking words of love."

Faramir seemed stunned. He opened his mouth as though to speak, but instead swayed a little until his side brushed against her. He drew away quickly, as though remembering to be polite. Then he drew a deep breath and said, "I truly thought you wished to become Aragorn's queen. I thought I understood the meaning behind the messages I got from your brother and from Pippin's innocent gossip. To me they hinted that Eomer hoped to initiate a formal courtship between Aragorn and yourself. I wondered if this signified that Elessar's lady had passed over sea or had died.

"I admit that I avoided you because I did not wish to influence your feelings for Aragorn or your brother's desire to find you a suitable match. Nor did I want press you to change your mind in my favor. I have always known that were you without sorrow, fear, or any lack, were you the blissful Queen of Gondor, I still would love you."

Eowyn said gravely, "I have no desire to be queen, for all that my uncle begged me to reign in Rohan in his stead."

"Nor will I ever be a king," Faramir suddenly grinned. "I am proud and content to be Steward of this land, even if it be for but a few weeks more. Yet I would marry you, Lady of Rohan, if that is your desire. "

"And if I agree, what will the people of Gondor think? I have already been a favorite topic of their conversation." Eowyn teased and impulsively reached for Faramir's hand. "Would you have them say of you, 'there goes the lord who tamed a wild shield maiden of the North! Was there no woman of the race of Numenor worthy of his affection?'"

Faramir carefully took Eowyn's left hand and held her at arm's length. His eyes twinkled as he said, "In this city every twelve year old girl wants to be you and every youth wants to marry you. Were we to marry, I guarantee that a generation of boys will envy me while you are busy training their sisters in the warrior arts of the shield maidens."

"Then I will marry not for political reasons, or for duty, or to honor my brother's choice of a spouse for me. I will marry you Faramir, Steward of Gondor, simply because you are my choice."

Carefully sliding his arm around her waist, Faramir leaned forward slightly and touched his forehead to Eowyn's. "Spoken plainly," he said and then suddenly kissed her.

His kiss was crisp, quick, promising much but giving little. He drew his head away slightly and teased, "Forgive my boldness, Lady. Many a year has passed since I courted, ahem, a virgin." Then he blushed as though realizing that his words might not be well taken.

Eowyn reached up and ran her finger just slightly along Faramir's jaw line. His face glowed and his eyes seemed at peace for the first time since she had known him. Her words tumbled out, "I appreciate boldness."

It mattered not who started the next kiss and the many that followed. Their kisses were languid and lingering. The two held each other at the garden wall, with all of Minas Tirith and the Pelennor Fields spread out before them. For Eowyn, the very vastness of the landscape dissolved into a small space, where only she and Faramir existed, with their lips and bodies pressing against each other. This is all that I ask for, she thought when she actually thought at all.

"Well done, well done!!" She felt Faramir look up, but Eowyn did not want the outside world to invade her joy. She rested her head on Faramir's chest, despite the loud revelation that Dame Ioreth had been watching their erstwhile intimate encounter with great delight.

Without warning, Faramir slipped one arm beneath her rump. "Oh how I have longed to do this," he whispered in her ear as he lifted her.

Eowyn squealed in surprise and a little pain from her recovering arm as Faramir swung her round so that she could fully see Ioreth and Narmar. They stood between the arches of the second story portico, watching her and Faramir's romantic idyll. Narmar glowered in disapproval but Ioreth seemed totally delighted.

As Eowyn clung desperately to his shoulders to keep from falling, Faramir shouted to Narmar and perhaps the whole world, "Here is the Lady Eowyn, and now she is healed!"

"Excellent. My day is made for the next year!" Ioreth cheered though Narmar refused to change his forbidding expression.

Eowyn starred at them for a moment and then yelled, "Behold dear Warden my first patient, and how he is now strong."

"And may he always be strong for you, Dearie!" Ioreth cheered.

"Dame Ioreth, can't you speak decorously, even if the Steward and the Lady have forgotten proper behavior." Narmar grumbled. "Though I admit that it warms my heart to see that you two have recognized what the rest of us have noticed for weeks."

**********************************

Faramir carefully let Eowyn slip downward. She rested against him. The frost in her being had melted, leaving her relaxed and compliant. Or so she seemed at this particular time, Faramir thought as his lips brushed her forehead. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Marod of the Tower Guard at the entrance to the Library. That made three at least who had seen his proposal to the lady.

"Come, Eowyn," he grabbed her hand. "We've already given them enough to talk about, at least until the Coronation."

He led her to a concrete bench beneath the vast balcony where they might have some semblance of privacy. Faramir sat on the cold bench and pulled Eowyn onto his lap. Her face lit up as she wrapped one arm his neck and rested her other hand along his cheek. What delicate features she had--a gentle profile and sweet lips. Yet as she sat on him, he marked that her body was weightier than its slim appearance implied. Beneath her graceful gown was a strong, well-muscled body, he suspected, and immediately longed to find out.

He brushed a lock of her glorious hair out of her face. "Unlike you I must work today," Faramir said regretfully. Eowyn's response was to kiss him with an insistence that surprised him. "Bold virgin," he mumbled into her lips before giving them the attention they demanded.

Moments later, Eowyn caught her breath and said, "Does the heart follow where the body leads?"

"Lady, it is now you that speaks in riddles," Faramir laughed and jostled her on his knees. "I must get up, wild woman. Eru only knows whether the guards will keep their oath of secrecy in regard to the Steward's private life! I have an assistant, a page, and a cat waiting for me in the White Tower."

Now she sat beside him and leaned against him. "You won't forget me again and leave me alone to wonder why you haven't returned?" she asked, her cobalt blue eyes full of concern.

"You are unforgettable," Faramir kissed Eowyn's brow and then rose slowly. "I will be at your dormitory this evening promptly for dinner. There is an excellent pub but a few blocks down the street."

*********************

"I knew that I was becoming human shortly after I returned from the Grey Havens, after deciding not to sail," Queen Arwen spoke softly and gazed about her. No one else, not even her attendants, were in the reception hall, yet Arwen still seemed to fear an eavesdropper. Eowyn nodded her head intently as the queen continued:

"My menses returned but a day or two later. You must understand, Princess Eowyn, that an elleth has her courses but once a year. This is only time in the year when she can become pregnant. My yearly cycle has always been in the month of January. Then suddenly in March of that fateful year, I bled again, and with such pain and distress to the stomach as I had never experienced. My father thought I was dying, for my agony was great, at first. But as all human females know, the pain only lasted a day or two. To this day it comes back and troubles me every month, more so evidently than most human females that I have spoken with in Gondor."

"That is because the Gondorian women have a wonderful, pain relieving tea for the menses that was handed down to them from the wise women of Numenor," Eowyn said with a great sense of relief. "I can gather some leaves and prepare a sachet for you. I always keep them in storage in the apothecary of the Houses of Healing."

"I appreciate that, my dear Eowyn," Arwen said softly. "But there is more to ask. My courses ceased two months ago. The healers, my own husband, and I myself know that I am pregnant. Every morning I have the predictable sickness..."

"Congratulations, my queen," Eowyn grinned. "And I have excellent herbs for that, as well. They work. I have used them myself."

Could this conversation really be between myself and the woman whose name once provoked me into great waves of jealousy? Eowyn wondered briefly as she and Arwen continued their chat. Despite her lofty position, she already acts as my friend.

A blare of trumpets interrupted their conversation. The heralds shouted the announcement, "The Ladies of the Court and Honored Guests are here to celebrate the upcoming birth of a child to the Princess and Prince of Ithilien!!"

************************

END NOTE:

The onset of her monthly periods as the signal that Arwen had become human is purely my invention. I beg your indulgence in this matter.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

"Avoidance" began its life as movie verse with much respect paid to book canon. As it nears its conclusion, the story has grown into a personal merge of both book and film. I apologize for the huge gap between this chapter and the last. Real life and lack of inspiration are to blame. I hope to be much faster in turning out the final chapters of "Avoidance." The story has not had a Beta review so my apologies for any typos and mispellings.

Chapter 20: What Faramir Was Avoiding

"They look magnificent, don't they," Aragorn sighed and slipped his hand over Faramir's shoulder, guiding him to a finely carved, oval-shaped table. Faramir watched his wife disappear behind a large door way, arm and arm with the High Queen. How does she really feel? he wondered. Any moment now, the Queen and the Ladies of the nobility will present her with the surprise."

"Queen Arwen is a lovely and gracious elleth," Faramir said as he sat beside the table. He wondered how appropriate it was to compliment his liege lord's consort. "I hope that Eowyn can help her. Legolas taught Eowyn some elven remedies for common ailments to add to our ever-growing pharmacy at Emyn Arnen. One of these might help the Queen."

Aragorn grinned and gestured to a servant for a pitcher of ale. He poured a mug for Faramir and then for himself. "Next year our lives will be so different," he raised his mug and smiled at Faramir. "This year we have wives with female complaints."

"Aye, my liege," Faramir laughed and tapped his mug against the king's. Next year their houses would ring with the sound of sobbing heirs. Faramir looked forward to it. Then he sensed a deep gravity creeping over the king. He very carefully looked into Aragorn's eyes and saw such a sadness.

"I am glad that Eowyn has finally consented to a private audience with Arwen. I wish she saw fit to meet with me occasionally," the king said wistfully. "I have a great deal of medicinal knowledge from my years at Rivendell, some of which I'm sure can be practiced by a mortal other than a king. This knowledge will be lost soon, for Rivendell empties of more folk every day. Already people speak of your wife's healing powers, especially her potions. I would like to impart this wisdom to Eowyn."

"She is a skillful apothecary," Faramir agreed. "Narmar already complains about losing her help to our child."

"I don't understand her reluctance to see me outside of state occasions," Aragorn said and sank back into his chair.

A knot formed in Faramir's stomach. Why his wife avoided her liege lord and former friend was clearly at the bottom of their recent problems. Yet there was an uncertainty that had plagued Faramir far longer. Would it do to ask the king the question that had bothered his Steward for three years? Faramir drew a breath. Now that the court was in residence for the next nine months, he must clear up his own discomfort with the king before it rent a hole in his marriage.

"My liege, you seem quite happy now," Faramir began slowly.

"I am. Happier than I ever expected to be in my life. There still is much to do to order the lands of Gondor and Arnor, as you know. Arwen and I both are saddened by the departure of her kin from Middle Earth. Nevertheless, it is a great joy and a sense of relief to realize that the peace we fought so long to achieve is a reality."

"Forgive my boldness, then, my liege. I wonder," Faramir said quietly, "did you once consider marrying Eowyn?"

************************************************************************

The procession marched slowly up the steep road from the fifth to the sixth circle of Minas Tirith. About 40 paces above him on the slope, Faramir could see the five heralds who led the parade blasting a joyous fanfare on their silver horns. Their stirring notes served a dual purpose: to announce the imminent arrival of important personages and to order anyone in the street to clear the way. Between Faramir and the heralds rode Peregrin, son of Paladin, on a shaggy grey pony magnificently adorned in the black and silver livery of the Stewards of Gondor. Though he was attired in the uniform and mail of the Tower Guard, this day Pippin served as Steward's standard bearer.

"Prince of the Perianath!" some in the crowd called out. Faramir wished he could see the look on Pippin's face when he heard their calls. The halfling's back lifted, and his arm, bearing the heavy staff and colors, did seem to rise higher at each adoring comment. Pippin is, by birth, a prince among his kind, Faramir reminded himself, for all that the halfling's diminutive size and carefree air made Gondorians take him less seriously.

What a special moment this must be for Pippin, Faramir thought. He's escorting his beloved friends in a procession that gives them great honor. It is an important moment for me, as well, Faramir thought. One I never expected to see. The halflings who had made the fateful quest into Mordor now entered Minas Tirith after succeeding beyond anyone's hope. The little entourage was the first of many parades scheduled to welcome important guests expected for the Coronation ten days hence. Faramir doubted that any subsequent arrival processions could fill him with the same joy as this one--not even the return of Imrahil and his family, due to arrive tomorrow or the next day.

Jolly, Faramir's favorite riding mare, pranced and tossed her head when he pulled her up beside the matched pair of bays that drew the Steward's carriage. They neared the Houses of Healing, soon to become Frodo and Samwise's lodgings until Narmar completed a thorough physical examination of them. Faramir noticed how Sam craned his head to better see the buildings and gardens on either side of the street. Frodo was hidden from view behind Calem, the carriage driver.

A portentious blast from the heralds echoed against the fine buildings of the sixth circle. They halted and blocked the street. The Steward's carriage, followed by a double column of 20 mounted Tower Guardsmen, drew up beside the heralds at the broad entrance of the Houses of Healing. A considerable crowd had gathered to watch the proceedings. Faramir dismounted Jolly, handing her reins to one of the guardsmen, and then he stepped up to assist the halflings from the carriage. Sam ignored the offered hand, but Frodo let Faramir half-lift him from the carriage onto the street. Clearly, the ringbearer was weak and not fully recovered. Faramir shivered slightly at the sight of the halfling's bandaged hand.

"The ringbearers, Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee!" one of the heralds announced.

Faramir noted how Frodo watched the crowd briefly, then turned away. "It will take me awhile to get used to the size of the people and the buildings," Frodo confessed. "Everything is so big." His large blue eyes seemed troubled; his face was tanned a deep brown that Faramir did not remember from their previous encounter. And yet that skin appeared transparent, as if a soft candle gleamed beneath it.

Samwise appeared less cowed by his surroundings. He studied the crowd with as much interest as the crowd studied him. Faramir placed his hands on Sam's shoulders. "Do the trees and shrubs of the city measure up to your standards of health and beauty, Master Gamgee?" Faramir teased. Pippin dismounted his pony and joined them.

"I'd like to give them a closer look before I answer," Sam countered. "Most seem quite different from our greenery in the Shire."

"Come, Pippin, let's bring them in," Faramir ordered gently. He shuttled his guests toward the door, where she waited, glorious and glowing in her humble healer's gown and veil protecting her hair. For that mere moment, nothing else mattered to Faramir than his need to stare at Eowyn. He vaguely heard Pippin tell his fellow halflings, "We've set up rooms for you for the next day or so. The medical people need to have a look at you, so to speak. The accommodations are plain but cozy, sort of. Then, if the Warden says you're okay, you can move to the Steward's House. That's where we're going to put Aragorn and Gandalf."

Faramir caught Eowyn's hand swiftly as he walked into the main lobby, ahead of the halflings. "This is Lady Eowyn of Rohan," Faramir indicated proudly. "Master Samwise, we've got a fine garden behind the main buildings. Eowyn maintains an herb garden within it and could tell you more about the plants than I." He said to Eowyn, "Can you give Sam a tour of the garden while Pippin and I bring Frodo to the Warden?"

"She's Lord Faramir's lady love," Pippin whispered none to softly to Frodo as Eowyn and Sam disappeared down the stairs.

"And how many others are you telling this to, Master Peregrin," Faramir glowered into Pippin's guileless eyes.

The halfling returned stare for stare, fully unrepentent, "It is no secret. Everyone talks about you."

"What are people saying?" Faramir stifled an urge to gasp. "No one outside this city has heard tales of the Steward and his lady. At least, I hope they haven't spread rumors linking the two of us."

Frodo chuckled softly, "Life has changed for you, too, Captain Faramir."

They climbed the stairs to the Men's quarters. Pippin scurried off to summon Narmar while Faramir and Frodo waited on the ornate wooden bench outside the main ward. Faramir could not help but study Frodo's face. He sensed the great loss the halfling felt, but also the enormous sense of relief.

"I never expected that I would see you again," Faramir said.

"Nor did I ever think I'd come to the White City your brother loved so much," Frodo smiled just barely. "As for you, you are Steward of Gondor, clean and kingly looking."

Faramir jolted slightly, but then he relaxed. "It is not my ambition to be a a king, let alone look like one," he sighed. "I am happy enough to meet you again in better times, and to apologize for whatever rough treatment you and Sam suffered at our hands."

"Boromir and I had an evil parting. That made it difficult for me to remember that he was basically a good man. I didn't learn until a few days ago that Boromir had died trying to save my cousins," Frodo 's wide eyes stared at Faramir, full of the candor they did not have at their first meeting. The halfling continued, "In the end, I understood your grief and knew that you had made a great sacrifice when you let Sam and I go." Frodo stroked his bound hand absently.

Faramir said. "My sacrifice seems small now, when I think about the evils that beset you and Sam."

Frodo shuddered, "While we walked through Mordor I thought I felt the eyes of others watching me from afar. The Dark Lord's eye always sought my mind. But throughout that time, I sensed that others watched me as well. I seldom knew whether I was awake or dreaming. In the middle of nightmares, I'd sense that you in particular were following me, keeping me from Sauron's probing."

"I tried to follow you in my dreams, though I don't know how I could have protected you much," Faramir admitted. "Many years ago Mithrandir tried to train me to use my farsight in that manner. Despite my father's disapproval, I've been marginally successful."

"I wouldn't say that," Frodo said gravely. "It gave me peace for a little while, to feel the support of others in the worse times. I didn't know that humans had such powers."

"The farsight of the Numenoreans sometimes is a blessing; usually it feels like a curse. I suspect that the Lady of the Golden Wood and possibly even Mithrandir used my sight to gain news of your journey. The Dark Lord protected his land from surveillence by high folk like Mithrandir. Evidently he never considered that I, the Steward's lesser son, laid low by the Lord of the Nazgul, had the ability to see into his land."

"So it seems," Frodo said. The tone of sadness in his voice was unmistakable.

"What will you do now that your journey is over?" Faramir asked.

The halfling considered this for a moment. Then he said, "I want to go home, eventually. But before that, I'd like to visit my Uncle Bilbo in Rivendell, if he still lives. And Lord Elrond. Maybe he can tell me why I feel like a bottle with all the milk gone."

****************************************************

Eowyn and Sam sat at one of the ornate porcelain tables in the garden, enjoying steaming tea and soft conversation when Faramir joined them. "Up with you, Sammy," Faramir lifted him from the chair by the armpits. "The Warden is examining Frodo. Soon enough he'll want you. The Tower Guardsmen will take you to him." Eowyn discretely rose and stood calmly by Faramir's side until Sam disappeared into the library. Then she turned those jewel-like eyes on Faramir with a look that promised all those things he had to wait months for her to deliver.

He grabbed her hand and led her to the sheltered corner at the far north end of the garden, where blossoming fruit trees hung low over the bench built into the wall. Prying eyes were least likely to see them beneath the canopy of white flowers. In an instant Eowyn's lips were on his, silky soft in all her boldness. His mouth joined hers, responding joyfully but carefully. When he first kissed her, but a few days ago, she had seemed eager but a little shy. Fortunately, as they became comfortable with each other, shyness on both their parts melted away. Now Faramir deemed Eowyn infinitely more passionate and enthusiastic than he had ever expected from a woman with such a cool demeanor.

There were some moments in course of their short wooing that were perhaps too new for the lady in his arms. Yesterday, when his hands traveled down the sides of her body to form a nice cup for her bottom. Eowyn had not expected that. She pushed away swiftly at first, giving him a startled, though not offended look. This day, however, Eowyn moved against him so comfortably that Faramir was convinced that the woman had no understanding of the impact of her behavior. He grabbed her thick hair at the neck and swiftly traced kisses along her neckline, turning her pale skin a burning red. She gasped and tilted against him, losing her balance.

With an exasperated grin, Faramir caught her and staggered into a chair, pulling Eowyn onto his lap. One of his hands was caught between his thigh and her muscular but generous rump. He felt that lush muscle twitch for just a second and then settle comfortably into his upturned hand--until he cried out that her lovely bottom was squashing his hand.

"We cannot marry soon enough," he laughed as he repositioned the crushed hand on Eowyn's back. "I can't stand much more of this."

"Nor I," Eowyn said as she rested her head beneath his chin. "But I cannot marry without a large ceremony. I owe it to my brother and my people."

"Then go off to Eomer King and tell him of your wishes," Faramir straightened his back.

"Not yet," Eowyn said. Faramir could feel her muscles tighten against him. She continued, "I would wait until after the Coronation."

"Do you fear Eomer would stop our marriage?"

"He wouldn't," Eowyn lifted her chin. "He and I love each other. I hope that he would respect my wishes. He might protest about not being involved in my choice of husband. That's his nature. I'm not ready to speak to him about it face-to-face."

"Then why don't we make our betrothal formal as soon as possible before you speak to Eomer," Faramir suggested. "That gives us an advantage in the nuptial negotiations."

"What?" Eowyn knitted her brows. "You are speaking in puzzles again."

"Uh, well...in Gondor when two people intend to marry, they sign a contract of betrothal. It's a legal document, drawn up by an advocate and signed by both the man and the woman. The contract is then posted on the public bulletin boards throughout the couple's town or city--in our case Minas Tirith. It is a very important document, particularly for an arranged marriage where the woman has chosen from among several suitors. No jilted suitor or angry relative can legally make trouble for a couple who has signed a document of betrothal.

"My uncle arrives this evening or tomorrow with his family. My cousin Lothiriel is an advocate's assistant. ** She can draw up the contract for us." Then he whispered into her ear, "I hope you will sign it." Eowyn drew her hand across the side of his face and nodded softly.

"After that," Faramir continued, "the man gives the woman a token of his intent to marry her."

"Such as?"

He chuckled slightly, "A ring with as extravagant a gemstone as the poor man can afford."

"Does it have any power?" Eowyn teased.

"It tells everyone that the woman is married," Faramir bounced her on his knee.

In response, Eowyn slid off his lap, "The men of the Mark have a similar custom. The groom gives his intended an extravagant necklace for her dowry. That way, if he dies or abandons her, she can sell her necklace for a temporary income."

"Then you shall have a ring and a proper Rohirric fancy necklace!" Faramir hugged her enthusiastically. "Do the Rohirrim have any customs like ours for announcing a betrothal?"

"Not exactly," Eowyn said. "We have no formal contracts. However, the groom must give the bride's family suitable gifts to pay the bride price."

"Bride price? How much does a man pay for brides these days in Rohan?"

"You know what I speak of! The bride's parents expect a large gift from the prospective groom for her bride's price. The parents do not consent to the marriage unless the groom has given them a gift that is suitable compensation for the loss of their daughter. It's also proof of the groom's ability to provide for the bride and their offspring."

"Reasonable enough," Faramir said and then chuckled, "So, am I to present your brother with your weight in gold? Fortunately you are light. Another bride would empty the coffers of the House of Hurin."

Eowyn sniffed, "Families in Rohan don't expect money for the bride price. They expect tangible goods. And animals. Fine horses always work."

"Alas for the Steward of Gondor, then, for the horses of the Mark far outshine our home grown variety," he grabbed Eowyn and pulled her toward him.

"Land!" she squealed. "Aren't I worth large tracks of land?"

"What?" Faramir kissed her forehead, "Should I cede North Ithilien to your brother to get him to approve our marriage. In ten days, Gondorian land won't be mine to parcel out. So we are at an impasse in the matter of your bride price."

She rested her head in the crook of his shoulder, "I trust you will think of something special. I am the first lady of Rohan. Surely I am worth something"

*************************************************************

"Quick! Shut the door behind you," Eowyn whispered as she pulled Ioreth into the pharmacy.

"Why all the urgency?" Ioreth huffed and plopped herself in the chair beside the broad work table.

"Dame Ioreth, you are my friend. I need your medical advice and especially your silence. Do not to go to Narmar if you can't answer my question." Eowyn sat on the table, her shoulders slumped in distress. Was she asking for trouble by taking Ioreth into her confidence?

"I'm a wealth of medical advice, dearie, after all the years I've spent working in this fine institution," Ioreth gleefully tapped Eowyn's knee.

Eowyn did not appreciate the Head Nurse's unfailing good humor at the moment. She leaned in to Ioreth and said, "I am afraid I am too old to have children. Do you know if a potion exists for..."

"For what? To help you have children?" Ioreth winked. "And who might you be having children with?"

"You know these shelves almost as well as Narmar," Eowyn ignored her. "Certainly there must be something here ..."

"See here, Eowyn, I had my youngest daughter Gloredhel when I was near to 40, years older than you are. And ten years after Glory's brother, too."

Eowyn slid off the table top, somewhat relieved. If her marriage was delayed by several years at Eomer's insistence, she still could have a child. "Life must have been very difficult for you," she said, "with your husband gone so long that you went ten years between children"

Ioreth laughed robustly as she said, "Oh no, my husband retired by the time I was 35. They don't keep 'em in the Rangers past their 40th birthday. The duty is too dangerous. We had many good years together after his retirement. I did not have children for ten years because I took tincture of mare's milk every month to prevent a child from quickening in the womb. Don't tell me no such potions are available in Rohan? Mithrandir doesn't approve of such potions, I can tell you. He blames them for the shrinking population in Gondor. I blame constant war for the shrinking population."

"Dame Ioreth, I don't know if women in Rohan tried to limit their number of babies! I was raised by men and lived in the company of men except for our female servants. I had no mother or close female relative to advise me about matters of childbirth."

"Tut tut, well I and the nurses are here for you-your family in Minas Tirith," Ioreth stood up and gave Eowyn a motherly hug. "You'll find the recipe in your "Wise Women of Gondor" volumes, but we always keep tincture of mares' milk here, as well. It's a very common remedy, which we actually sell for a small fee."

A small fire was lit in Eowyn's brain. Ioreth had unwittingly given her the perfect vehicle for making her engagement official in ways understood by everyone in Rohan,
including her brother.

*************************************************

The servants announced the arrival of the guests for Arwen's reception. Aragorn waved them away. His face was drawn, as though remembering a difficult time in the past.

"I admired Eowyn then as I do now," Aragorn said, in that low voice he seemed to reserve for matters of great weight. "I felt then that she would make a good friend for me and a good wife for a very lucky man. Shortly after we met, she made it clear that she was in love with me. "

Faramir blanched but remained silent.

"I have high regard for her, but I never was in love with her," Aragorn looked up candidly. "My heart belonged to the Evenstar, then as now. But to answer your question, when we rested on the Fields at Cormallen, I listened to Eomer's request that I marry his sister. And yes, I did consider it. Eowyn loved me. She was a good choice for the wife of the King of Gondor and Arnor reunited. Many royal marriages have less than that as a foundation. But I could not marry Eowyn while there was a chance that Arwen yet lived. I could not bring myself to tell Eowyn of my decision. I should have called her to the Field of Cormallen; instead I avoided her. Now she avoids me.

*******************************************

** I wrote a story called "Family Matters" that features Lothiriel as a legal assistant. You can find it in the Stories of Arda archive.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

"Avoidance" began its life as movie verse with much respect paid to book canon. As it nears its conclusion, the story has grown into a personal merge of both book and film. Most importantly, the event that concludes this chapter is my creation alone. Please consider the particular incident "alternate universe" (AU). The chapter has not had a Beta review so my apologies for any typos and mispellings.

CHAPTER 21: A Pledge Made and a Wish Fullfilled

"The Ladies of the Court and Honored Guests are here to celebrate the upcoming birth of a child to the Princess and Prince of Ithilien!!"

Eowyn's hand lifted to her lips. A quick sense of panic gripped her. She rose slightly, but Queen Arwen put a hand on her shoulder and gently urged her to sit.

"It will be alright. Do not leave, " the elven queen's smooth voice advised. "This event has been long in the planning.

As she spoke, a vertible parade of noble Gondorian ladies and exotic female elves in flowing costumes entered, carrying beautifully decorated packages. The elven women sang in the Sindaran language--a tongue Eowyn barely knew--words of good luck and encouragement to the mother and good health and long life to the child. As they sang, there began a parade of all the women who had become her friends since her fateful arrival in Gondor with her father's army.

First was Gertrudis, Eowyn's great friend, who started out as her nurse and now was Eowyn's assistant in the Apothecary of the Houses of Healing. She was accompanied by Nellas and Nienor, who had tended Faramir during his sojourn at the Houses. Then entered Visme, the hairdresser in the Hamam. She courtesied at Eowyn's feet and left a huge jar of aromatic salts, of the type they used in the baths. Nurse Thera, who had been a mere assistant when Eowyn met her, gave Eowyn a box of sweets.Then came Beregond's wife Emerie, who spread a beautifully crocheted baby blanket across Eowyn's lap. The lovely Idris, Princess of Dol Amroth, and her daughter Lothiriel followed next. Arwen gestured for them to pull up chairs next to Eowyn, for they were her family.

"Did you have a hand at this?" Eowyn chided Lothiriel, who would soon become her sister-in-law.

"Who me?" the unflappable advocate shrugged. "I just got the invitation and dragged Mother here. I suggest you ask my beloved cousin, your husband."

"Aye, this party is his doing--his, Her Majesty's, and mine!" called out Dame Ioreth. The Chief Nurse, more a mother to Eowyn than anyone else in her life, and her daughters Nene and Gloredhel, had snuck in behind the Dol Amroth ladies . "And since you liked the clothes you borrowed from us so much, here you are, dearie, compliments of our family, enough large dresses and baby clothes to assist you through many pregnancies.

*******************************************

After the rush of final renovation of his townhouse, Faramir collapsed exhausted on the huge new bed. His beloved new home in Minas Tirith was at last refurbished to the point where it was ready for daily habitation. Most of the furniture, some newly commissioned and some moved from Boromir's home, was in place on the polished tile floors. The holes in the walls were repaired; all rooms were now repainted.

Faramir had appropriated a few carpets from the Steward's House to cover the floor in the main room.He hoped that no one would miss the especially lovely carpet that was commissioned by his ancestor Turgon II to illustrate the oath of allegiance between Cirion and Eorl. As far as Faramir was concerned that lovely piece belonged to the Steward's family. The carpet commemorated a great moment in the history of Hurin's family. It had hung in the Stewards' bedroom for at least a hundred years. Now the carpet hung in the bedroom of the final Steward, the man who would marry one of Eorl's most heroic descendents.

Clad only in his undertunic and leggings, Faramir sprawled out on the enormous bed. The cabinet maker assured him that a bed of such dimensions was essential for a couple just beginning their family. "Children will prefer to sleep with their parents," the cabinet maker told Faramir. "You will appreciate a bed with enough room for the entire family." Faramir snorted as he looked about his surroundings. The bed was big enough to comfortably accommodate four adults and perhaps a young child or two. Would his family grow to be so big? He and Eowyn would get lost in such a thing.

"Achhh," Faramir groaned, his contemplation interrupted by the sound of ripping fabric. He leaned forward and rustled the tied-back bed curtains. His kitten Cirion climbed blissfully up the bed curtains, claws sunk firmly into the thick velvet fabric. Faramir pulled the animal off the curtain, lay back, and deposited Ciri on his chest. The cat was now returned from his temporary home in the White Tower to his very altered birthplace. Perhaps he misses Pippin and Beregond? Faramir thought. That would explain Ciri's rambunctiousness. Those two always played with the kitten enough to tire him out.

Faramir propped a pillow beneath his head. He watched Ciri prance along his chest and then plop down in a ball to to sleep unself-consciously in his armpit. Faramir could barely comprehend the events of the past few days. Amid all the preparations for the Coronation of the King, his own life as a private citizen had begun. Faramir's mind drifted back to the events two days ago, when he stood on the steps of the White Tower, anxiously awaiting the carriage that would bring his love to him.

How he had paced in front of the steps of the White Tower! He could not have felt more impatient. At last, the Steward's carriage entered the plaza at a steady pace. Beside it rode Peregrin, son of Palladin, bearing the white and silver standard of the Stewards. Fastened beneath his standard was the white horse on a green field banner of the Mark. Faramir remembered how the sight of the combined standards of Rohan and Gondor thrilled him and dampened his hands in their ceremonial black gloves with sweat.

When the carriage drew to a halt, Pippin swung down from his pony and assisted Eowyn as she stepped out of the carriage. The blue mantel of Finduilas draped over Eowyn's strong shoulders to protect her from the blustery wind that cooled the late April morning. Faramir sighed contentedly as he remembered how he could not restrain himself at the sight of her. He kissed her hand in greeting and then swiftly kissed her lips, perhaps a breech of proper behavior, but he didn't care. Then he removed Eowyn's sparkling cloak and handed it to one of the guardsmen. To Faramir's delight, Eowyn wore her shield maiden's garments and sword on this auspicious day.

In front of the Tower, Pippin handed Faramir a velvet maroon pouch. From it, Faramir withdrew the heavy gold necklace, from which descended three downward-facing, crescent-shaped pendants.* The gemstones carved into the large crescents glittered in the morning light. Eowyn gasped as Faramir put the necklace around her neck. "Where did you find it?" she asked. Her face beamed, and a small tear formed at the corner of her eye."

"One of our local jewelers makes Rohirric dowry necklaces. There is some demand for them, evidently," Faramir winked and placed his hand in the crook of her right arm to lead her into the Tower.

Now, as his eyes threatened to close, Faramir remembered how the Tower Guardsmen opened the door to the spotlessly clean main hall of the White Tower. And then, as they entered the Steward's official chambers, Faramir saw Imrahil, Prince of Ithilien, Faramir's aunt Idris, and their youngest children, Lothiriel and Amrothos. They had arrived by ship at eight o'clock the previous night. That eliminated the need for a fancy arrival parade in their honor--to Imrahil's evident displeasure and Faramir's vast relief. The Dol Amroth family stood at either side of the great desk where many Stewards, including Faramir, had toiled through their days' work. Hurin, Keeper of the Keys, sat in the Steward's chair. Standing slightly behind the Steward's chair was Beregond, who had proven himself a most loyal and affective assistant. Pippin took his place with the other Tower Guardsmen, who filed in to perform their formal duty of protecting the Steward and to serve as witnesses on this auspicious occasion.

Lothiriel stood opposite Beregond, at Hurin's elbow. She wore the sober brown robes of the legal assistant's office. Trust Imrahil to assure that his daughter was prepared to serve the law of Gondor in some fashion during the next few weeks.**

"You are gathered here on this happy occasion to witness the formal betrothal of these two people," Lothiriel had addressed the participants in a deep, formal voice. Then she spoke the words used by advocates and legal assistants on such an occasion since the foundation of Gondor:

"Eowyn, Eomund's daughter, and Faramir, son of Denethor, please step forward."

Faramir remembered how the small throng applauded as he took Eowyn's hand and led her up to the great desk.

Ah, what a day, Faramir sighed, remembering the events surrounding their betrothal. He turned on his side, gently moving Ciri to keep the kitten from being crushed. To celebrate the momentous occasion, Imrahil hastily rented out the entire dining hall of the Golden Cockerel, a better public house favored by those who worked in the Citadel. Faramir sat at Eowyn's side and held her hand beneath the table while Imrahil and Beregond gave the traditional speeches about the joys of married life.

Faramir caught Aunt Idris' wry smile while her husband spoke of all the wonderful duties a wife must do for her husband.

"She must lay out his clothes every day and ensure that his hair is groomed and his body clean," Imrahil looked pointedly at Eowyn.

"Enough, good husband," Idris finally scoffed. "You always pick your clothes and are very picky about them."

Faramir recalled his jest, "I think Imrahil wants you to do that for me, Eowyn, to make sure that I'm turned out in the fashion that he would approve of."

Did the celebrants laugh? Faraamir wondered. He tried to recall more specific incidents, but he rest of the banquet was a golden blur of happiness. He did remember the party's departure from the public house. He and Eowyn waited for everyone to leave. Then they snuck into a deserted alcove off the main hall to share a kiss. No more than a minute passed before Lothiriel found them and said calmly, "Oh there you are. Good job. Now you must come see us off." His cousin winked as she ushered them outside.

The party took carriages and horses down the circles of Minas Tirith to the city's havens on the Anduin. There Imrahil and Lothiriel departed for the Field of Cormallen. They would deliver the contract of engagement to Eomer king and bear the brunt of whatever his initial reaction would be. Few words were spoken by those who remained on the pier as the ship carrying Imrahil and Lothiriel left the harbor.

Alone in his bed, Faramir recalled the nervous twinge in his stomach as he watched Imrahil's flagship sail upriver. By this time Lothiriel would have read their engagement contract to Aragorn, still silent in his headquarters in Cormallen. Perhaps this important news would inspire the reticent king to contact them?

"We joked about wordless Aragorn at dinner last night," Faramir told Ciri as he picked up the cat and lifted him in the air. The little animal's claws spread out harmlessly while Faramir swooped him around like a bird in flight, and then finally set him back down on the bed. But we couldn't say much else, too many people around who shouldn't know of these things. Engaged though they might be, he and Eowyn could only meet at dinner time and for an hour or so afterwards. At all times, they were accompanied by friends and well wishers, congratulating he and Eowyn and teasing them about their future. The past two nights had been like that. In reality, Faramir's duties as Steward and Eowyn's training schedule in the Houses of Healing made it nearly impossible to spend much time alone together.

Tomorrow would be different, Faramir hoped as he closed his eyes. Tomorrow is the end of the week. They would go visit his aunt in the foothills of Lossarnach.

****************************************

The following morning, the Steward's carriage stopped at the Houses of Healing. Eowyn waited at the entrance, a carpet bag in her hands. How wonderful she looks, Faramir sighed as he leaned over driver Calem's shoulder. Her hair was tied off by a bow at the back of her head, accentuating her flushed cheekbones and dark blue eyes. He moved forward to help her into the carriage, but she bounded up the vehicle steps unassisted. When she sat down beside him, she seemed stiff and preoccupied.

Faramir reached to embrace her. Unfortunately, her bulky carpet bag wedged itself between their bodies. "What's in here?" Faramir groaned while Eowyn composed herself on the carriage bench. "A present for my aunt Haleth?"

Eowyn nodded. She avoided his gaze. Her fingers kneaded the thick cord handle of the carpet bag. "I brought a change of clothing, just in case we need to stay overnight," her voice sounded breathy and nervous as she set the bag on the floor. "Your aunt is expecting us, right?"

"Yesterday, I sent Dorlas off with a message for her. He hasn't come back yet." Faramir slid next to her and kissed her cheek. Her cool skin blushed where his lips touched it. She finally settled against him, but Faramir could tell she was uncomfortable. Her muscles felt tense and overwrought. Perhaps the prospect of meeting his father's older sister made her apprehensive.

"You'll like my aunt," he offered. "She's two years older than my father and looks far younger than he did at his death. She's past 90 and still rides every morning for a few hours. At least she did three months ago when I last saw her..." his voice trailed off when he felt Eowyn pull away and stare out the carriage window.

"It will be alright," he reassurred her. Was Eowyn as nervous as he was? Was he this nervous when they travelled to Mount Mindolluin? How different their lives had become in less than a month's time. This was only their second journey together, in quite different circumstances.

"First, let's stop for breakfast," he said as the carriage turned into a cul de sac. "I've something for you to see." The view beyond the driver's bench consisted of rows of graceful, two-story townhouses of freshly cleaned pink marble on either side of the unpretentious cobblestone pavement. Faramir's townhouse was indistinguishable from the other buildings, save for the Tower Guardsmen in full armor at the arched front door.

Faramir helped Eowyn out of the carriage and escorted her past the Guardsman. "Who lives here?" she asked while the Guardsman opened the door.

Greeting them in the archway, forelegs spread wide, Cirion stared up at them and blinked his gold eyes. The cat answered Eowyn's question with a plaintive and very loud meow. She picked up him up and held him to her breast. "You live here," Eowyn said, her lips grazing the top of Ciri's head. Her eyes lifted and caught Faramir's.

"This is the house where I found Ciri," Faramir explained. "It's his home, first and foremost. I've made it my home in Minas Tirith." Her face lit up as he put an arm across her shoulder and led her inside.

In the main room a table was spread with bread, fruits, and breakfast meats, nicely arranged for their consumption. They sat down on the bench beside the table and gazed at the food for a moment without speaking. Then Eowyn put the cat in her lap and reached for an orange.

Faramir poured cups of kavay from a steaming kettle. Eowyn split the orange in pieces. She teased Ciri by flipping an orange peel across his small feet. Then she tossed the peel onto the floor. The kitten bounded after it, rolling on his belly with the peel coiled around his legs.

"Do you like oranges?" she looked up abruptly. When he replied, Eowyn lifted her hand, brushed Faramir's mouth with an orange section, and then continued moving her hand past his mouth. He caught her wrist and directed the orange piece back to his mouth. He gulped down the fruit and then said, "A fine way to feed me."

Eowyn ate an orange section and then grinned shyly, "I'm not really hungry, though I will have some kavay. I've developed a taste for this odd beverage."

She was nervous, tentative, Faramir concluded as he watched her sip the brew.

Removing the steaming mug from her lips, Eowyn whispered, "We are alone for the first time since we snuck into the Apothecary."

He took a long sip of his own kavay, and then said, "The Apothecary, yes, but Dame Ioreth caught us. Now, however...you are not afraid, are you, lady? Your fingers tremble a little."

"This drink makes my heart beat faster," she explained, perhaps too quickly.

Kavay did warm the heart, Faramir thought. However, he had perceived Eowyn's unease since she climbed into the carriage with him. "I will not harm you," he said. "We can leave, if you prefer."

She examined a chunk of the newly baked bread, but did not eat it. "How long does it take by boat to get from here to the field where the armies are waiting?"

"Six hours or so depending on how swift the river current is," Faramir responded, surprised by her question. "The snow melt is great at this time of year. The oarsmen will have to fight against the current to get to the Cormallen. It's not that far away."

"Then my brother could have gotten the message from Prince Imrahil two days ago?"

"Yes. We could have had his response as early as yesterday evening. I've heard nothing yet."

"Perhaps a message will come from Eomer while we are away," she pointed out.

Faramir rested his hand gently at the top of her head and studied Eowyn's face, "If you prefer, we can take our journey another time, so that you can be here when Eomer's response comes. If it comes."

Her back straightened; she arched her neck and, characteristically stuck out her proud chin. "At the moment, I would prefer to see your home, especially if some day I will also live here. I am glad that we are finally alone."

Abundantly relieved, Faramir rose to his feet, "Come then, and see the rest of the townhouse." Eowyn stood. Somehow her good arm found its way round his neck, her bound arm wrapped gently along his back as she guided him into her arms. They kissed long and leisurely. Eowyn's body pressed against him, her muscles tight as a bow string, almost desperate in their longing. Or was it his own body being driven crazy by longing?

Faramir laughed and disengaged himself. "Perhaps we should stay here awhile longer then," he said. He went to the door and signaled to the guard to pack the food, save for the kavay, for their long carriage ride.

She stood alone in the room, like a statue that had suddenly started to glow. "Let's have the tour of the townhouse, shall we?" Faramir said, and rested his hand around Eowyn's waist. He took her about the main room, introducing her to the furniture and confessing his dreams for the room in the future. Next, he showed her the two recessed alcoves built into the walls, to serve as bowers for overnight guests. Then they went outside onto the patio and the bare patch of earth that extended to the walls.

"Here we can have an herb garden," Eowyn said, "with fresh herbs for our food every night."

"Speaking of food, come see this," Faramir gestured to the staircase at the end of the patio. He led her down the stairs to a long hallway. They walked in the first door, which opened onto a huge pantry. There were tables for preparing food, racks for drying and processing food, and a deep fireplace built into the wall. "We have this for cooking plus the bread oven outside."

"Will we have servants? And a cook?" Eowyn gulped.

"Whatever you wish. We have quarters for two servants down the hall. There isn't room for a huge household, but you will be the head of it," Faramir beamed and implusively spun her around.

"I never really learned how to cook," Eowyn blushed, wrapping her right arm around the brace that bolstered her left arm. "I can make a few things, but not very well. I confess that I am better at making medicines. I was raised in a household full of men who relied on our female servants to cook for us."

Faramir burst out laughing,"You grew up surrounded by warriors and not one of them would cook?"

"What's so funny about that?" Eowyn retorted.

"All rangers learn to cook as part of our basic training. We survive in the wild with few non-combatant personnel. All must do survelliance. All must do battle. All must share cooking responsibilities. I designed and organized this pantry especially for me to cook in. Nevertheless, I will share it with you and whatever cook you hire--as long as you agree to share my lamb grilled on sticks with onions, peppers, and tomatoes. It's a secret recipe we saw the Haradrim cook on more than one occasion."

"The food of the Haradrim has found its way into the Gondorian diet, I see," Eowyn said. She followed him back onto the patio and then into the main room again. Faramir sighed. He would take her upstairs, but what might she think? He was quite proud of the way the upstairs rooms turned out.

"Do not think me dishonorable, but I would like to show you the family's quarters," he spoke gently. Eowyn gave no indication that she was insulted or afraid by his suggestion. She stepped ahead of him and waited at the top of the stairs in a small hallway. Faramir led Eowyn through the
nearer door into a small bedroom.

"This bedroom could be used for your maid servants, though it could do well for children. The chest was my brother's. The bed is new." Eowyn looked about, checked the bed, and then went to the window, which looked out onto the street. She nodded her head but was otherwise silent. Then he gestured to the adjoining room.

"This is the master's bedroom," he said while they entered.

"It's lovely," Eowyn said softly. "It's so big, larger than any bedrooms in the Golden Hall, save the chambers of the King."

"I did not experience this myself, but I was told that an entire family of a Guild's man might live in the same room until the children were about eight years old. This is a Guild man's bed. It's for everyone."

"They must have happy lives," Eowyn's voice was scarcily above a whisper. She walked up to the bed, fingered the drawn curtains, and pressed her hand upon the mattress. "We do not sleep on such thick pads in the Mark. Does that explain the longer lives of the Gondorians?"

"More likely that explains why Mithrandir complained that the Gondorians had become soft. Most Numenoreans slept on thin pallets, or so ourhistory books tell us.

"Eowyn?"

"Yes?"

"Are you uncomfortable here?"

"I am hot. It is a little stuffy."

"I should have opened the windows this morning," Faramir apologized. He went to the windows and pushed them aside. The midmorning sun burned upon the patio below. "My mother's jewels are in this chest," he said. He stood for a moment, looking at his nascient garden and enjoying the feel of the cool wind on his face. Then he knelt down and opened the chest beneath the window. Inside were troves of smaller boxes and some loose strands of glittering gems. "Come take a look at these. Surely there are some items of great beauty and age here."

When Eowyn didn't respond, Faramir twisted about and then froze. Eowyn had loosed the laces of her soft cote, which now floated about her feet. She stood near the bed, proud and unashamed, in a simple chemise so sheer that it revealed the outlines of her breasts and her curving hips. Her beauty and glory astounded him, yet she was real, earthy, and terribly vulnerable. No hint of guile was on her face--just an open, honest look that no man needed farsight to read.

Like a dolt Faramir sat on the floor, amazed at this turn of events. Why had he feared she might think he meant to seduce her by bringing her to the bedrooms? Instead, in her innocent, tentative fashion, she revealed that her purpose was to seduce him.

"Are you sure you want this?" Faramir managed to pick himself off the floor. He walked very slowly towards Eowyn, locking her eyes with his gaze. "Do you not want to wait until our wedding? I hold you in honor, lady; I will not press you for sexual gifts."

"Ah, but I will press you," she returned his look, strong and clear. Her hands reached up to the laces on his tunic. "When will our wedding be? When my brother has brought order to all of Rohan and is finally free to hold celebrations? I have waited long enough. I can wait no longer."

A well-mannered Gondorian male would have reached down, picked up her dress, and covered her with it. He would have told her that their wedding could not be far off, and wouldn't she much prefer to be a virgin in her marriage bed?

He placed two fingers beneath her beloved cleft chin and turned her head up to him. "A life of war has beatened my sense of honor down to near nothing. But one thing I do remember from the days when I was an honorable soldier--never keep a lady waiting."

Faramir kissed Eowyn swiftly, a quick, chaste kiss. Then he slipped one hand around her back and the other beneath her hindquarters. She clutched him and squealed as he hoisted her onto the huge bed. "Wild woman!" he cried as her hands reached up to loose the lacings of his cote.

***************************************************

"It's time for us to go in to the Queen's chamber," Faramir advised his liege over their second mug of ale.

Aragorn drained the last bits of his brew, "Isn't this a woman's tradition?" he asked. "Perhaps they want to have a few more minutes to tease Eowyn and shower advice over her head. The only part of such a party that might be of interest to a man is wagering on the sex of your child."

"She's having a boy," Faramir slammed his mug on the table and bowed slightly to the king.

"No doubt your farsight has told you thus," Aragorn said. He rose to his feet and tapped his Steward's shoulder briskly.

"My farsight and Ioreth's stories of the wise women of Gondor indicate a boy child," Faramir grumbled. "Now, my liege, for the part of the celebration that involves us. Do you remember all the verses?"

Aragorn's servants draped the thick royal robes over his shoulders and placed one of his lighter crowns on his head.

"Of course I remember all the verses," the king assured Faramir. "I am astonished how popular this lay has become. They sing it in all the lands north of Rohan. I have a new verse that Lord Elrond's son Elrohir has composed. And two new ones from the Shire, contributed by Merry Brandybuck himself, the eye witness. For myself, I have written a new verse in honor of this occasion."

"Then let us go in and entertain the ladies!"

***********************************************

END NOTES

* Eowyn's elaborate Rohirric dowry necklace is actually based on the contemporary dowry necklaces worn by the fellahin, the peasants of Upper Egypt.

** To find out the exact contents of Faramir and Eowyn's contract of betrothal, see my story "Family Matters," also archived on Stories of Arda.

As far as Faramir's aunt is concerned, there is unending speculation on this subject. A discussion I read on the Brothers of Gondor web site mentioned that Tolkien had once thought to give Denethor II an older sister. Because this factoid is in the History of Middle Earth, it could hardly be considered canon. However, I liked the notion and gave Faramir an aunt on his father's side.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

"Avoidance" began its life as movie verse with much respect paid to book canon. As it nears its conclusion, the story has grown into a personal merge of both book and film. The chapter has not had a Beta review so my apologies for any typos and mispellings.

This chapter partially gives reason for Eowyn and Faramir's behavior in the previous episode, for those who have been wondering about my decision to portray their romance in a particular, possibly AU fashion. However, you will have to wait for the final chapter of "Avoidance" to learn why Eowyn acted on her desire for Faramir. The good news is, what will probably be the final chapter is already 70 percent complete.

"Betrothed" includes romantic encounters and sexual discussions but no sex scenes or explicit discussion of any type. I've tried to keep it PG-13 to the best of my ability.

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CHAPTER 22: BETROTHED

Eowyn was knee deep in presents. A crowd of ooing and awing females surrounded her when the heralds' horns blared. The criers sang:

"Our great king Aragorn Elessar Telcontar, Lord of the United Kingdoms of the West, and Faramir, son of Denethor, Steward of our beloved land."

The crowd surrounding Eowyn split, making way for the top men in Gondor. Faramir and Aragorn led an entourage of notable males who had become Eowyn's friends: Uncle Imrahil, Hurin, the Keeper of the Keys, Legolas Greenleaf, in the process of building an elven enclave in Ithilien, Eowyn's dear friend Gimli, Faramir's assistant Beregond, and Warden Narmar, her mentor.

Eowyn's eyes first lit on her husband, splendid in his Steward's robes, prince's circlet slightly askew. Beside him, Aragorn beamed beneath a light silver crown. His dress and demeanor emphasized Aragorn's royalty, in a way that hadn't been as obvious earlier today, when she and Faramir first came to this facility. Nevertheless, Eowyn still got a sense of the independent Ranger beneath all the regal trappings. Aragorn was as handsome and charismatic as that first day in Edoras more than two years ago.

To her surprise, as Faramir came to her side, grabbed her hand, and kissed it, Eowyn finally clarified her feelings about the man who was her husband and he was their king.

***************************************************

The mid-day sun bathed the bedroom with an amber glow. Distant bells from the Citadel proclaimed the noon hour. Eowyn's skin glowed, too. She lay on top of the well-padded quilt, near to the edge of the immense, family-size bed. Bird song floated in from the open window. Eowyn's heart longed to soar with the bird's song. She could not recall a time in her life when she felt such joy.

She stretched her legs, pointing and then flexing her toes. Her left ankle rested on the cotton hem of her discarded chemise. Beside her, Faramir was still. His breath came evenly; his pale eyelashes did not flutter. I guess what so many women have told me is true, she thought. Men get so spent after love making that they must fall asleep. By contrast, Eowyn was alive and fairly quivering with boundless energy and curiosity, delighted and not in the least exhausted by their recent activities. She was afraid to cause too much of a stir, lest she trouble Faramir. Indeed, she had much to learn of him.

What might he think of her now? Would he rue the formal and traditional pledges they had made? Would the more circumspect attitudes of the Gondorians deem her the most wayward virgin in all Minas Tirith? Most importantly, would Faramir remember their discussions about the legal significance of sex between unmarried people in the Mark? When she had spoken to him of these matters, he seemed to find them shockingly liberal. When they spoke of these matters, Eowyn hadn't imagined herself in her current circumstances.

Eowyn did not regret her decision for a minute. She lifted herself to a sitting position and studied the man she had chosen to wed. My oh my, here was a fiance with a face so fair it made her dizzy. He slept on his back, limbs at angles to his body, naked and oblivious as any battlefield casualty newly come to the Houses of Healing. The blissful difference was that Faramir had come to this bed as her lover, not her patient.

His body was lean, with powerful shoulders and wiry frame, at 36 the epitome of a fearsome warrior in his prime. Like the injured Eowyn had treated in the men's ward, Faramir's proud body bore a sad and telltale network of wounds and scars. Unlike her patients, this man had promised to lie beside her for the remainder of their days. Now, at the beginning of their life together, her avid novice healer's eye took stock of him. She'd best make a mental inventory of his scars before new ones mounted up.

She started at the top, with Faramir's head. No evidence of wounds there, though it would be easier to determine this if she could part the wavy, red gold hair and inspect his scalp. However, that would surely wake him up and end her study.

Next, the face. Sometimes she forgot how handsome Faramir was. He certainly was not vain of his appearance. As Prince Imrahil had impressed upon her, Faramir typically went about oblivious of the impact the very sight of him had on people, especially women. Yet when Eowyn studied his face at close hand, she noted its slight imperfections. A faint line parted his pale right eyebrow. His prominent nose was slightly bent near the bridge, rendering his good looks less formidable. She leaned over him, trying to be quiet so as not to wake him. Not even the faintest sign of a scar ran across the top of his nose. Maybe this break was but a childhood accident, a fall from a horse or a boy's trip on a crack in uneven city cobblestones?

Then there was a scar on his chin, partially obscured by the well-tended red beard. And further down, near the base of his neck, was the recent puncture wound from the Southron's poisoned dart, nearly a quarter inch in diameter. It was red and jagged, but healing nicely. Several lengths of bandages wound from beneath his left armpit and across to his right shoulder. His left arm was nearer to her. It bore a vivid scar about three inches long across the muscular biceps. That was from a sword. From what she could tell, an old arrow piercing marred his right forearm. Another arrow puncture was located on his rib cage, just below the bandaging. Why, the poor man is a pin cushion, Eowyn thought. What might his backside look like?

Her eyes lowered and slid right across his ribs. There a long red scar traveled across Faramir's rib cage and descended to his groin. Eowyn gasped. Was this a battle scar or was his appendix removed? She moved her fingers to touch the scar.

Like lightning, Faramir's hand grabbed hers and made her gasp in shock again. "Battle wound," he said, "and my appendix was pierced. So they took it out. That was six or seven years ago."

"Oh," Eowyn murmured as he pulled her down against his body. Faramir regarded her with a fierce grin, barring his teeth like a wary beast. Eowyn was both embarrassed and thrilled to sprawl on top of his body, her eyes aimed directly at his mouth. "I don't understand," she muttered, at a loss for the proper words for the occasion.

"You forgot these!" Faramir spoke through his grimace and then unclenched his teeth. "You've been assessing me like a prize horse you just bought at a market. So I thought you should evaluate my teeth as well. As you can see I am lucky that as yet none are broken in battle or decayed by time. The waters of Mount Mindolluin contain strange chemicals that make the teeth of those who drink it strong and free of disease. On the other hand, I have broken one ankle, several toes, my nose as a child, dislocated my left shoulder a number of times, and amassed more bruises, arrow piercings, and torn muscles than I can remember. And yet, even after my last wounds almost killed me, I could still make love to you. So indeed, I am healing nicely."

Eowyn lifted her good arm and rested it on Faramir's head, "Good job! I must guard my thoughts more completely when I lie close to you. You have guessed them well enough." She did not speak of the problems some soldiers were already reporting: inability to make love to their wives due to injury of their hearts or minds, not their bodies.

"I feel wonderful," he smiled, looking relaxed and pleased and almost silly. "But how do you feel, lady?"

"I, well, I had some surprises," Eowyn gulped. "I think I lost my virginity to a horse."

"What!!" Faramir raised his body, causing Eowyn to squeak as he inadvertently jostled her left arm.

"I must have lost my virginity long ago, while riding horses as a girl. I did not bleed. It is a common occurrence for girls in the Mark. Please do not think I have ever been with another man."

His clear blue eyes were languid and soft. Faramir teased, "I can easily tell that you are woman in need of experience."

"Will you teach me now?"

"I am not in a position resist," he grinned.

****************************************

Sometime later Faramir rose from the bed. He closed the bed curtains so that Eowyn might sleep, but she was as yet unable. She heard soft murmurs in the bedroom and then silence. Moments later Faramir opened the curtains. He wore a thick grey robe that Eowyn suspected originally belonged to a taller man, perhaps Lord Denethor himself. In his hands was a tray heaped with bread and jam--this morning's breakfast.

"It's late afternoon," Faramir announced before she could ask the time. "I've sent a messenger off to Aunt Haleth to tell her we'll drop by on another day, if that is alright with you."

Eowyn nodded and reached for the bread.

*****************************************

The bedroom was dark and silent. Eowyn curled into the crook of Faramir's arm, alternately napping and wide awake. She stirred when she heard a gentle knock at the door, followed by a soft male voice, "My lord, we have brought dinner."

At last Eowyn crept out of the bed. Her legs quaked beneath her as she finally put weight on them. Faramir gave her a soft robe that once belonged to his mother. She joined him beside a small table where one of the guardsmen set a substantial meal purchased from one of the nearby inns.

"It's time for me to hire a cook or at least devote some time to preparing food," Faramir suggested as they tucked into roasted beef and sweet root vegetables. "I'm not particularly hungry, and I confess I've lost track of time."

"I'm ravenous," Eowyn confessed.

"Are you expected this evening at your dormitory?" he asked.

Eowyn savored the taste of the well-cooked meat. "I told a few of my friends that I might not return until tomorrow. I don't have to go back this evening, that is, unless you need for me to leave."

"Then stay!"

The evening gave them ample time to learn of each other's wants, desires, and small habits of speech and mind. Late into the night, Eowyn was entirely spent. She was exhausted, down to her bones. Yet somehow the birds easily disrupted her light sleep at the dawn. Faramir rested his head on her shoulder. He must have sensed her waken because he said, "When are you expected at the Houses?"

"I told them mid-day. How long would it take us to return to Minas Tirith from your aunt's house."

"Less than two hours. Eowyn?"

"Yes, 'Mir?"

"What if you become pregnant?"

She twisted her body to lock direct glances with him: "I will not get pregnant. Not now. My cycles have always been reliable and it is far too late. My courses should descend on me but a few days from now, just before the Coronation, as luck would have it." She did not mention the remedy made of mare's sweat, which forestalled pregnancy. She had no need to take it. Yet.

Faramir didn't flinch. In fact, his expression was stubbornly opaque.

"You now have a fiancee," Eowyn continued. "Welcome to living with a woman."

"A wild woman!

***************************************************

When mid-day came, they boarded the Steward's carriage for a quick trip down to the third circle farmer's market for vegetables and gifts sold by the Lossarnach merchants. Faramir insisted that they give Narmar a flask of ice wine from the foothills of Mindolluin. "Just to keep him from idle speculation," he said.

Eowyn nestled against his shoulder and wondered where she would find the energy to work. She was loath to be separated from Faramir, now firmly intrenched in her mind as her betrothed. "What will our life be like now?" she mused as the carriage returned up the steep streets to the Houses of Healing.

"Happier than they have ever been," Faramir answered, "at least that is my hope. It's also my hope that we marry soon so that we don't have to sneak about to be together." He sighed and rested his hand at the base of her neck. "I fear that our personal wishes and any plans we could make will take second place next to the events of the next week." Then he whispered in her ear, out of the hearing of the driver, "Eowyn, I persist on worrying that Aragorn and especially Eomer might have other plans for us. "

"They can't stop our marriage!" Eowyn hissed. "We've announced our intention to wed in legal Gondorian contracts and in customs well understood in the Mark."

Faramir's arm slid from her shoulders. He said, "I'm sure they will let us marry. One of these days. That's my issue. I'm also concerned that our way of announcing our betrothal might have caused Eomer some insult. You really should go to the Cormallen."

"How can I?" Eowyn stiffened. "I've already promised to help your aunt Idris arrange the accommodations for the guests from the Mark. And then there is Narmar, who expects me to work and study with him right up to the day of the Coronation. He's even asked me to mix the simpler medicines for the injuries and dietary indiscretions that he says always befall celebrating people. At least he accepts that I must attend the celebration as Lady of Rohan, not medical staff."

"And beside Eomer, no doubt, while I stand by Aragorn's side, if he sees fit to place me there," Faramir mumbled as the carriage pulled alongside the curb at the Houses of Healing. "I understand your reasons for staying here, but I perceive there is more to it. But I cannot know for sure. I have never met your brother."

She rose and collected her carpet bag. Callum stepped out to help her from the carriage, but Faramir caught her hand and held her back. He kissed her thoughtfully and then said, "I will come at dinner time for you."

***************************************

Eowyn tried to immerse herself in her work. She followed Narmar on his travels through the wards and helped the student nurses fold clean bedding. Little good it did, though. Her body longed for Faramir. Her legs weakened at the thought of his touch and the insistent pressure of his kiss on her lips. Ahhh. How long before dinner? And what would they do for dinner, possibly sneak off to his townhouse again? She would like that.

In mid afternoon, she went to the children's ward with Narmar. Several youngsters had newly arrived with minor sprains and fractures. She had just finished an wrapping an elbow brace for a impudent twelve year old boy when one of the orderlies ran into the ward.

"Lord Faramir is outside and insists that you attend him right away!" the awed orderly announced to Eowyn. The bratty youngster she was treating suddenly remembered his manners and begged to come with her to see the Steward.

"Alright, but you must go back upstairs as soon as you have a look at him," Eowyn was stern. The boy dogged her heels down the stairs through the main entrance, where they both stopped abruptly.

Faramir stood at the edge of the cobblestones, holding the reins of his riding horse Jolly. He was dressed as one about to begin a journey, his deep green ranger cloak covering a simple brown cote hardie and similarly colored leggings. However, two items in his dress announced that he was about to embark on more than a simple trip. First was the sturdy leather armor that protected his mid section. That well worn hauberk was embossed with the white tree of Gondor, the insignia of the Stewards of Gondor. The other item was the long sword and plain baldric drawn across his waist. Eowyn had heard Faramir's war stories and seen the map of scars across his body. Now she finally appreciated that her man of peace was indeed a formidable warrior, one who could stand with the greatest warriors of Rohan. He clearly was a great hero of their age.

The boy beside her sobbed and then grabbed her waist. "There isn't another war, is there?" he looked up at Eowyn with traumatized eyes. "Lord Faramir, please don't go off to war. My dad and my brother didn't come back. There's no one left in my family to send to the army until I am 18."

In response, Faramir approached them and removed the lad's hands from Eowyn's waist. "The war is over, my friend. I'm going to visit the brave soldiers who won the day at the Black Gate. They will be here in five days. You and your mother and all your kin must come celebrate with us in the Citadel."

Evidently a close encounter with the Steward of his land was too much for the youngster, for he dashed back into the Houses without further word.

Oblivious of whomever might be watching, Faramir grabbed Eowyn and kissed her desperately, for this moment might be their last opportunity to kiss for awhile. "You are going away," she stifled a sob after he released her.

"Yes I am, and well stocked for the journey," his arm swept along the street to the amazing entourage behind him. Two magnificent Gondorian wains, elaborately carved and inlaid in pearl and gold plating, lined up behind the restless Jolly. Each wain was drawn by two pairs of the largest horses Eowyn had ever seen. The animals were of honey brown color with silken white manes and tails. Their harnesses were festooned with bells that jingled each time one of the animals raised its head. The significance of the animals and their vehicles was not lost on Eowyn. People of the Mark rode horses; their few carts were small and ox-drawn. They did not trade in remote lands, so did not build huge wagons and breed mountainous horses to pull them. Ornately carved wains and mighty draft horses were symbols of Gondorian strength, fit for a king of any land.

She touched Faramir's cheek and ran her hand along his beard.

"You are priceless," he gulped. "Ten thousand of these could not match your value to me. I hope that these wains and the goods inside them sweeten your brother's attitude toward our marriage."

Eowyn wrapped her good right arm around Faramir's neck. "Do you think it will set a bad precedent for the Steward to visit the soldiers on the Cormallen?" she shuddered.

"No doubt Mithrandir would advise against it," Faramir said. "But I do not go there as a ruler trying to assert his last bit of power. I simply go there as a suitor delivering his beloved's bride price to her next of kin. I am going without fanfare or prior announcement. I will surprise them."

"Them?" Eowyn drew away. "How long will you be gone? The Coronation is but five days from now. I will miss you."

"I will miss you, too," Faramir drew her close and kissed her brow. "We have put this off enough. I can wait no longer. I will return before the Coronation, rest assured. It is my duty to throw open the doors of the Great Gate so that the king may enter."

You are brave, braver than I, Eowyn thought as she watched Faramir urge Jolly down the street, followed by the magnificent entourage. The horses' bells tinkled. The flags of both the Mark and the Stewards fluttered from the magnificent wains. To passers-by they would symbolize joy and promise, the joy of an eager lover asking a family for their beloved daughter's hand. Eowyn's stomach tightened. Faramir brimmed with optimism today, but she suspected that his journey would be one confrontation after another. Confrontation with a new king who might prefer to use his sister as a political pawn in a changed Middle Earth. Then there was the other confrontation ...

She didn't want to think about it. Her heart yearned for Faramir's closeness, his breath on her cheek, his teasing voice in her ear. She sadly returned to the Houses of Healing for a quiet dinner in the cafeteria and a lonely night in her tiny dormitory room. The huge bed she had slept in the previous night would need to be folded in half before it could fit into tonight's utilitarian quarters.

How long would it take Faramir to get to the Fields of Cormallen? How long would he stay?

These thoughts plagued her through the night and the next day, while at Narmar's side she visited the men's wards. Late in the afternoon, Dame Ioreth invited her to dinner. The Coronation gowns were complete and ready to be fitted for final alterations. Eowyn managed to put aside the gnawing undercurrent of anxiety that had made her so miserable throughout the day. The lovely gold fabric that she had chosen weeks ago was now fashioned into a beautiful, form fitting bliaut in the style of Rohan. The magnificent funnel sleeves and neck were trimmed by shimmering beads and subtle tracery. Eowyn had never owned a garment so lovely. She took a little pleasure in imagining how Faramir might enjoy her appearance when he came for her at the Coronation. If he came for her beforehand? Would his journey cause the carefully staged reception Faramir had planned to change and put her at her brother's side.

Another lonely night followed. Faramir had not arrived but her menses certainly had, emphatically confirming that she was not pregnant. Eowyn eschewed breakfast and instead went to the pharmacy, where she sipped teas to relax the cramping female organs. She also prepared the first dose of mare's sweat compound to assure that she could make love without making a baby. How sad to think of how much she wanted children but now must take precautions not to have any until she was by law a wife.

The daily tasks that trained her and enriched her knowledge of healing today seemed such a chore. Eowyn ate lunch with Gertrudis and Thera, who now were full of talk about the Coronation. They, too, had new gowns and spoke eagerly of where their families would stake out a location on the esplanade for the best view of the Coronation ritual.

"Where will you stand on Coronation Day, Eowyn?" Thera pressed her.

"Nothing is set," Eowyn shrugged evasively.

The day dragged on. Her cramps let up a bit but her legs felt tense and sore. This evening she would meet with Idris of Dol Amroth on the plans for the huge reception after the actual Coronation ceremony. If only she felt more enthusiastic. Eowyn trudged down to the Apothecary in late afternoon to create the medicines and teas to be used the following day. She had just managed to lose herself in grinding the compounds with mortar and pestle when a heavy knock came at the door.

"Lady Eowyn, you must come to the Tower immediately!" the Tower Guardsman Nem stood in the doorway, an impassive mask on his face.

Eowyn's tools slipped from her hands. "The Steward has returned?" she asked as she hastily put away the medicines.

"Aye, a few hours ago," Nem said. "He said the matter was of extreme importance, but more than that, I do not know."

And I am supposed to believe that? Eowyn bit her tongue as she reached for her light cloak. Her cramping legs suddenly gave way, but Nem broke her fall. Faithful, taciturn guardsman that he was, Nem assisted Eowyn into the waiting Steward's carriage. On the passenger's bench she tried to compose herself during the short trip up to the seventh circle. What had happened? Was it a good or bad omen that Faramir had returned within the course of two days?

With Nem at her side for support, Eowyn regained her strength and entered the offices of the White Tower of her own accord, Just outside the Steward's chambers, she saw the holbytlan Merry standing at attention, fully attired in the leather and mail coat of a warrior of the Mark. Instantly disregarding whatever duty had been assigned to him, Merry cried, "My Lady!" and raced up to Eowyn, hugging her in delight.

Eowyn dropped to her knees to more closely read his face. Merry's presence gave her great joy, but what might it mean? "Are you here in Minas Tirith to stay from now on?" she asked carefully.

He grabbed her hand. "Eomer king has asked me to help you with the preparations for the arrival of the Rohirrim on Coronation Day. But for now, come with me." He led her into the Steward's chamber.

As she entered, the sight before Eowyn's eyes gave her pause, although it did not completely surprise her.

*****************************************

"Thank you for planning this surprise," Eowyn whispered in Faramir's ear. "And strangely enough, I have a surprise for you. I now remember when I knew that I loved you."

"Speak clearly now, wife, for though the party is noisy, I am most interested in hearing you."

AUTHOR'S NOTE

"Avoidance" began its life as movie verse with much respect paid to book canon. This is its final chapter, although it will have an epilogue with two scenes that people have requested. As those of you who have followed along with me know, the story has grown into a personal merge of both book and film that I like to refer to as the "Steffverse." I hope that you have enjoyed your journey into the Steffverse with Faramir and Eowyn.

Last but not least, many thanks to Raksha, Shield Maiden of Rohan (SMOR) and Linda Hoyland who have helped me, reviewed my drafts, and been patient with my little aberrations from canon. You folks rock!!

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CHAPTER 23: The Steward, the Lady, and the King

Faramir placed both his hands on either side of his wife's head and kissed her brow. Then he whispered, "I love you, wild 'Wyn. I will never doubt you again. Now, tell me when you first knew you loved me."

Oblivious to the party guests surrounding them, Eowyn leaned in to her husband and said, "Don't you remember, 'Mir, when you returned to me from the Field of Cormallen with unexpected company?"

*****************************************

The sight before Eowyn's eyes gave her pause, although it did not completely surprise her. There behind the Steward's wide table sat two fine, strapping men in the prime of their lives. They did not mark her quiet entry. Both were preoccupied, turning to Peregrin Took behind them, who poured golden liquid from a large bottle into their glasses. The King of Rohan raised his glass and regarded the beverage curiously. He took a sip, and then clinked the glass appreciatively against the glass of the Steward of Gondor.

Eowyn's stomach had churned for two days straight. Her hands had sweated. Her nerves were constantly on end for fear of what might happen when her brother met her betrothed. And now, after 48 hours of non-stop fretting on her part, there they were, downing sparkling wine and carousing like a pair of long-time friends. What if they had sealed a fate for her different from the one she wanted--and without consulting her in the bargain? Eowyn's fingers gripped the edges of her sleeves, and her chin rose defiantly.

Then Eomer turned toward the door. His face was purple as a beet; his wiry eye brows rose over the familiar dark brown eyes. The new King of the Mark sat up at alert attention and regarded Eowyn in his usual, straight-forward fashion. "Sister," he said simply and lifted the glass of sparkling wine in her direction. Her first instinct was to leap to his side, to hug him and drink in the sight of him. But she would not move, not until she found out what they were up to.

And as for her betrothed? He rose, ever the well-mannered Gondorian, and greeted her graciously: "Welcome, my love." His magnificent blue eyes bore into hers. Her body automatically heated to the point where she feared that both these formidible men might see how badly she perspired under Faramir's inquiring gaze.

"My dearest lord," Eowyn's words were sweet but she took care that her expression only gave cool acknowledgement. Just why had Faramir returned with Eomer in tow?

Faramir moved to Eowyn's side and kissed her hand in formal greeting. He then offered her his arm and escorted her to the chair that Pippin placed between King and Steward. Merry joined them at Eomer's side, while Pippin deftly stepped aside to serve Faramir.

"I am a new king," Eomer began. Eowyn cringed. Her brother typically was very emotional, very direct, and very impatient with fools and sisters that he was about to dress down. Eowyn was not about to be made her brother's fool. Knowing Faramir, he probably figured out what Eomer was going to say before her brother fashioned the words."

"I know much of war and strategy and little of peace and government," Eomer continued reasonably. "Not like you, my sister. You learned governance at the side of Theoden King and later Grima Wormtongue, for whaever he was worth. Yet when I asked you to come to me, for the love that I bear you, and the help that I needed, you stayed here in this city, ignoring my pleas. Finally, when I needed you the most, I got a cold piece of parchment, announcing, in Westron legal terms yet, that you intended to marry a man I knew only by reputation." Eomer's thick eyebrows lifted into a scowl. Eowyn returned him a hard glare but did not respond.

"While my sister hides in Minas Tirith, her intended at least has the courage to meet me in person, with an impressive bribe that goes a long way in paying for the loss of such a valued sister. A sister who defies the wishes of her family and ignores the needs of her country At least her betrothed was sensitive to the bridal customs of the Mark--some of them, anway."

Eowyn loved Eomer but resented his insistence that he knew what was good for her, better than she did herself. She retorted, "Eomer, for the first time in my life I put my needs ahead of the Mark. I needed to heal, and then I needed to become a healer. While all this went on, I met the man I want to spend the rest of my life with. It is that simple. And what of you, my quiet lord Steward?" Eowyn turned to Faramir and tossed him the same peeved expression as she had Eomer. "Was it my brother's idea to come here, or did you persuade him?"

Faramir slowly turned and leaned over Eowyn. He took his time before speaking, a ploy Eowyn recognized from the many times she had seen him resolve conflicts in the Steward's Council. On his face was the opaque, negotiating expression that he maintained on such occasions, though she knew that Faramir was subtly assessing her brother's mood and, most likely hers, too, before speaking. He finally said:

"Eomer King is fond of Gondorian beer, so I brought him many casks in one of the wains, as part of your bride price. We've set up a beverage distribution between the Steward's distillery and the shops and taverns in Rohan. Eomer's merchants will then have the rights to ship the beer north to the mannish lands along the Anduin, and even to King Thranduil's halls, assuming that the wood elves have a taste for human beer."

"Excellent response!" Eomer slapped his fist on the heavy table and raised his empty glass. Merry quickly refilled it. Then her brother sank into his chair and said, "The Steward is too polite. In deference to you, he glosses over the highpoint of our conversation in my tent yesterday."

"And what might those words be?" Eowyn glared at Faramir.

"Pippin, a glass of sparkling wine for the Lady," Faramir smiled mildly. In just a few seconds, the glass was in Eowyn's hands. She was torn between the urge to kiss that evasive, bow-shaped mouth or to toss half the contents of her glass onto Faramir's expression-free face--saving the remaining wine for Eomer's obstinant mug, of course.

"Ah," said her brother. He leaned back, tugged at his beard for a moment, and then finally responded, "I asked him if you had had sex."

Eowyn slammed her full glass down and spilled wine over herself and Faramir.

"AS IS MY RIGHT TO ASK AS YOUR NEXT OF KIN," Eomer bellowed at her, "and your sovereign, I might add."

Refusing to speak, Eowyn took the napkins that Pippin handed her and wiped herself off. In the silence that followed, she picked up her glass and took a sip of the remaining contents. She wished the holbtyla weren't present. Merry probably could be discrete, but Pippin? He always meant well, but unless Faramir had trained him otherwise, Peregrin Took spoke without thinking rather too much. There was no getting around it now, she sighed.

"I TOLD HIM THAT OUT OF RESPECT FOR MY BETROTHED, I WOULD NOT DISCUSS SUCH MATTERS WITH HER BROTHER!" Faramir suddenly burst out and then abruptly sat back. His fingers tapped the side of his glass but he did not drink. Eowyn, however, had a sip of wine.

Eomer shook his head, slid an arm over Eowyn's shoulders, and, in a more moderate tone addressed Faramir: "My Lord Steward, you are forgiven for not knowing the common law of the Mark. For us, it is extremely important for their families to know if an unwedded couple has had sex prior to requesting marriage. If the couple has made love, then they must marry. That is our common law. It is my right as a brother to ask my sister this question, and as the King I have the right to demand the answer." *

Calm now, Faramir said, "So I told him yesterday that in Gondor the only time a man must legally respond to the question of sex with a woman not his wife is if the woman has accused him of rape or of not supporting their natural children. Right?"

"So you said," Eomer grumbled.

"Then I reminded him that though he might be King of Rohan, he stood in the heart of Gondor. And until the Coronation, the final arbiter of the law in this land is ME." Faramir emphasized. Eomer nodded gruffly.

"So I invited him to visit Minas Tirith in an unofficial capacity," Faramir continued,"so that he might ask you the question that I, out of deference to you, refused to answer."

To Eowyn's surprise, Eomer threw back his head and laughed resoundingly, "What a capitol fellow this Steward is, and so well-mannered, though he can swear as well as the most eloquent warrior of the Mark. I admit that you did well on choosing him, sister. I suspect he will go far in Aragorn's government."

But then Eomer glared at Eowyn, "So what is it, Sister mine, did you have sex with this man?"

Eowyn rose to her feet very slowly, turned to face her brother, and then turned to face Faramir. The words came from her mouth, so cold and so forceful that she almost did not recognize herself: "I did and I do not regret it for a minute. Thus, by the common laws of the Mark and by the Gondorian contract of betrothal, no one but Faramir or I can legally dissolve our engagement, Eomer King!"

"So be it," Eomer nodded, with a magnamity that Eowyn hadn't expected. "So be it. I approve the marriage as your brother and king. I confess that I had heard much about Faramir, Denethor's son, both from Gandalf and Erkenbrand who, like you seems to have fallen in love with Faramir. I am quite impressed by your choice, Eowyn. The Steward of Gondor is an ideal husband for you, a union of the great families of both our countries. And curiously, Imrahil's daughter insists that you are both in love, which is a rare thing indeed for a marriage between the nobility.** But are you pregnant, sister?"

"I am not pregnant!" Eowyn declared with a strong air of finality. She was ready to wring her brother's intrusive neck. She had had enough of this verbal sparing between the two men most dear to her. No longer caring what they thought, she said bluntly, "My menses have come. I presume you two are learned enough to know what that means?"

At the same time that Faramir said, "No baby," Eomer grumbled, "Bad mood. Not to be trifled with."

"I've had it with the two of you," Eowyn sighed. "When I first arrived, you acted like great friends, only to start arguing and manipulating the moment I came into the room. I am not a bad sister or a princess who has forgotten her country. We will marry in Rohan, with your leave, brother, and have the big ceremony with all the panoply that befits the Lady of Rohan. That is, if Faramir agrees?"

"I would have the ceremony in Rohan, in any fashion that you desire, my love. Weddings are women's work, after all. My only request is to have it done in a few months."

"Request denied!" Eomer scowled. "The Mark is a shambles. It needs reorganizing and a written code to record the common laws. I will do it, but I need my sister's help. When my country is set on the right foot, I will see you two married."

"That might not be for years," Eowyn quietly bristled.

"It doesn't have to take years," Faramir said. "I do not know exactly what Aragorn, son of Arathorn, plans for me. As a private citizen, I can help you. The House of Hurin amassed a huge fortune in real estate and goods, which have nothing to do with the treasury of Gondor. I'm happy to fund a hospital in my family's honor, in Edoras or another place of your choice. Plus I have some experience now with setting up a government. I could give you counsel."

"Brother, I agree to come to Edoras alone after the Coronation," Eowyn offered, "in return for living until that time in Minas Tirith wherever I please. Faramir and I can both help you rebuild Rohan, if you agree to hold our wedding a year after my return to the Mark."

"Done," Eomer finally relaxed. A slow, beaming smile spread over his lips.

"Then I will join Eowyn some months after her return to Rohan, depending on my responsibilities to the new Gondorian government," Faramir said, "just to make sure there is no reniging on the contract of betrothal."

"There won't be," Eomer extended his hand over Eowyn's body. Faramir reached out to shake it. Eowyn placed her right hand atop theirs.

"Well, I'm glad that's done, then," Pippin interrupted. "It's a bad moment when people you love don't agree. That's what we say in the Shire, of course."

"Oh Eomer, I am so glad to see you," Eowyn could restrain herself no longer. She reached for Eomer and wept as he cradled her in his arms.

"Sister mine," Eomer sniffed in return. Eowyn could feel his tough, stocky body shaking as though to keep from breaking down entirely. Her brother's voice choked with emotion as he said, "Why would you think I would deny your wedding with the Steward? I do not deny that you and Aragorn would have been a worthy match, but in the end, I am not the one who must live in that marriage. You would have been unhappy in the end, I fear."

He lifted Eowyn's chin and stared firmly into her eyes, "I watched you hand the cup to Aragorn on that day when we celebrated after the battle at the Hornburg. You looked at him with adoration, and he returned your gaze with affection. Many marriages are arranged where the couples have no such fondness for each other.

"But what I see right here between you and Faramir is a different story. I can't find fitting words to describe it. There seems an unspoken connection between you that anyone would envy. I would consider myself lucky indeed if I find such joy with whoever becomes my wife."

Through her tears, Eowyn vaguely heard Faramir beckon, "Come sit down, my good halflings, the formal part of this meeting is done. Have some sparkling wine and celebrate with us." She sat up slowly and grinned to see Faramir change from negotiating Steward to genial host, pouring wine for Merry and Pippin.

"I believe I know now what happened between us," Eomer said as he raised his glass to everyone at the table. "Eowyn avoided speaking to me about marriage. Faramir avoided asking me for Eowyn's hand. And that was because Aragorn avoided determining what to do for a wife and what to do about the Steward. he saved your lives, of course, but then avoided having to deal with you. It's all Aragorn's fault," he chuckled. "Problems of a new ruler."

"Speak for yourself, brother," Eowyn retorted. "You avoided coming to me after you had set up camp on the Field of Cormallen. You could have left one of the Marshals in charge. You could have taken a boat down the Anduin...."

"In that case, we are all guilty of avoidance," Faramir laughed. "And now, by your leave, Eomer king, can I have my betrothed? There is something I would tell her."

"I am not a package to be bandied about," Eowyn huffed as Eomer slid her over to Faramir. Nevertheless, she did not struggle when Faramir lifted her slightly onto his lap. He lowered his lips to her ear, but the volume of his speech was far louder than a lover's murmur, "I met with Aragorn."

Eowyn stiffened. "And?" her voice was barely above a murmur.

"He congratulated us and asked about your health. Then we worked on plans for the Coronation," Faramir said and then kissed her cheek.

"Aragorn signed the beer distribution drawn up by Faramir and myself," Eomer chimed in. "Just to make sure that it carries over into his reign. Yes, I showed up sometime after the King met the Steward. Aragorn needed to know that in the end, I was quite pleased about your upcoming marriage. "

"Guardsman, another bottle, this time of mead!" Faramir yelled out. Eowyn felt his body sigh and then relax beneath hers.

And so the five of them continued in a celebratory mood long past time for the evening meal.

*******************************************************

"It was when you got angry and refused to tell Eomer if we had made love!" Eowyn laughed. The heads of several female guests turned toward them and then quickly turned away. "Who could not love someone who would stand up to her brother?"

"Really!" Faramir chuckled. Then he chuckled again. "You realized that you loved me because I had strength of will to not be intimidated by your brother. And therefore not by you."

"That's not what I mean."

"It certainly is."

"You're trying to read my mind again."

"I don't have to now. Come, my love," Faramir gave her his arm, which she took gracefully, and they led the party guests into the Great Hall of the White Tower.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

* Several chapters in Avoidance mention that in the Mark unmarried couples who have sex are by law required to marry, especially if the woman is pregnant. The strictness of the law is to prevent unwanted pregnancy and indisriminate sex between the young 'uns. But the law can also be used to force unwilling families to let their willing children marry. This is absolutely my invention and has nothing to do with Book or Movie canon.

** In my story "Family Matters," which is archived on this site, Eomer meets Lothiriel when Imrahil delivers Faramir's contract of betrothal to Aragorn.