The White Tower, 26 March 3019 T.A.

In a small chamber in the White Tower, Húrin, the Warden of the Keys, conferred with a trusted ally, Meldis, the housekeeper of the Steward’s residence. 

“Ornendil told me he might have to let the Lord Steward leave tomorrow or the day after,” Húrin said. “He would like to keep him for a few more days, but you know how Lord Faramir is when there are deeds to do.  And Ornendil telling him he is strong enough for riding... that hardly helps.” 

Meldis shook her head slightly.  “The chief healer he may be, but sometimes Ornendil is tactless.  Once Lord Faramir is aware he is well enough, there is no keeping him in bed.” 

“There are a few things we need to take care of before he leaves the Houses,” Húrin said. 

“Of course,” said Meldis.  “Poor boy.” 

“Have you cleared the late Steward’s belongings?” 

“I have tidied the late Steward’s chambers, but I will wait for Lord Faramir’s instructions on what to do with his father’s personal items.  And I believe he prefers his own chambers to his father’s, at least for the first few days.” 

“But still, would you want him to return to a house full of reminders of his father and brother?” 

“I know better than that, Lord Húrin.  I have kept all Lord Denethor’s and Lord Boromir’s things inside the chests in their chambers.  Not a single thing remains in the dining chamber or the parlour—well, except the library, what could I do?  The books belong to both Lord Denethor and Lord Faramir.  And Lord Denethor’s study, I locked it.  What about the rod?  He will need it when he takes his oath.” 

“A new rod will be ready tomorrow.” 

“And what about the ... the burnt place?  He may wish to go there.” 

“I have taken care of that. Mithrandir spoke to me before he left for the last battle.  Lord Faramir had asked him whether there were any remains of his father.” 

Meldis’ eyes filled with tears.  “Poor boy.  How has it come to this? Poor Lord Denethor.”  She had served Steward Denethor’s family for many years. 

“My men have cleared away the rubble and ashes.  But of course, anyone who goes down the Silent Street will still see the broken dome and the scars of the fire.  I will try to prevent him from going there for as long as I can.” 

“Were there any remains?”  

“Parts of the rod were found.  The chain mail survived.  I placed them all in a chest in the House of the Steward,” Húrin replied. “I have also seen to Brandir and the other three,” he added. 

Meldis raised her eyebrows. “Where did you send them?” 

“I sent them to work at Cair Andros, under Ingold’s sharp eye. I will keep them close for some time, until I discuss with Lord Faramir what should be done about them.  I believe they acted out of fear and confusion, not malice, yet their actions aided a great evil.”  He was talking about the household servants who had brought oil and fire to Denethor that fateful night. 

Meldis nodded.  Then she remembered something that made her happier. “Have you seen the Lady?” 

Húrin kept his composure, but his face brightened. “I have even spoken to her.” 

“Spoken to her!  How did you find an excuse to do that? What is she like? Ioreth kept babbling about how beautiful she is.” 

“The Warden of the Keys can always find a reason to drop by anywhere.  Beautiful?  Aye, very.  Tall, golden hair, a regal bearing.  Our Lord Faramir seemed less grave when he was with her.” 

“Is she smitten by him?  Ioreth said she must be, although outwardly she seems reserved.” 

“She seemed content sitting and conversing with him.  And she wore the mantle.” 

“Did she!  I was so surprised when Lord Faramir sent for it. I knew then that Ioreth’s tales have some truth.” 

Húrin took a sip of the honey water that Meldis offered him.  “So, the Steward’s residence is ready?  Let me know if you need anything.  I have asked Ornendil to send word to you before he releases Lord Faramir.” 

“It is ready.” 

“Good evening, then, Mistress Meldis. I will see you tomorrow.” 

... 

The Houses of Healing, 27 March 3019 T.A.

The night before Faramir was to take his oath as the Steward, Húrin visited him in the Houses of Healing. He came as Faramir studied the reports on the goods sent to Cormallen and the food stores in the City. 

“Given the extent of the destruction of the Pelennor, the next harvest may not be sufficient.  We will need to dip into our reserves,” Faramir said. 

Húrin nodded.  “It would be prudent to keep the food ration in place for now, my lord.” 

“Are the Rohirrim content with their lodgings and rations?  Who among them speaks with you on such matters?” 

“Marshal Elfhelm.  Thus far, he has not mentioned lacking anything. There had been a minor misunderstanding about the grains for their horses, but we have sorted it.” 

Faramir nodded, then he put down the parchments on the bedside table.  

“I had meant to ask; do you have the rod?  Or do we have to find a substitute while waiting for a new one to be made?” 

Húrin looked searchingly at Faramir before he answered.  “The old rod was broken, but I had a new one made.  The smith delivered it this afternoon.”   

He continued cautiously, “There has not been time to forge a new Steward’s ring, but I have this.”   

Reaching beneath his robe, he produced a small box and held it out to Faramir. 

While not originally a sign of the Steward’s office like the white rod, the Steward’s ring had been handed down through many generations and had come to represent the authority of the Stewards.   

It was a plain gold band unadorned by any gems, as unassuming as the Steward’s white banner.  On the inner side was engraved the mark Cirion had used when he called for Eorl’s aid: the tengwar R.ND.R with three stars above the letters. 

Faramir accepted the box but did not open it.  He grew quiet. 

“I found it almost intact, only a few small parts melted.”  Húrin’s voice grew softer as he continued, “I have asked the smith to clean it, as I thought you might want to keep it, even if you choose to have a new one made.” 

Faramir opened the box slowly.  He took the ring and placed it in his palm.  Then he returned it to the box. 

“This will do,” he said.  “In fact, I prefer it.” 

Then he asked, “I believe you have also taken care of the late Steward’s remains, Lord Húrin?” 

Húrin nodded.  “Worry not, my lord.  The ashes and remains are kept with due honour.” 

Faramir clasped Húrin’s hand between his own and looked into his eyes. “Thank you, Lord Húrin.” 

Húrin placed a hand on Faramir’s shoulder.  “You have done very well, Faramir.”  

Later, when the house had grown quiet and the night pressed close, Faramir sat in the stillness of his room. He opened the box again and took the ring in his hand, studying it for a moment before slipping it onto his fourth finger.  He gazed at it again, tracing the burn marks slowly.  He blew out the candle on his bedside table.  Then, in the blessed darkness of the night, he kissed the ring reverently, and let his tears fall as he quietly remembered his father. 

... 

Early the next morning, as Faramir prepared to leave his room, a knock came at the door.  He opened it to find Erien, the cook who had served the Steward’s family for many years.   

She brought a large basket and the scent of freshly-baked bread—an unusual and welcome change from the aroma of medicinal herbs that lingered in the Houses of Healing. 

“Good morning, Lord Faramir.  You did say you would like to leave early today.” 

Erien entered the room, placed her basket on the table, and even drew open the curtain, as though it were part of her daily routine. 

“I mentioned it to the Warden,” Faramir said.  “I did not expect him to send for you to fetch me home.” 

“O, how you jest!  Of course you do not need fetching, my lord.  But to go home alone, as if you had no one, while so many have cared for you, where is the sense in that?  Meldis is busy making the house spotless, so I get to come instead.  But why did you not tell us you were coming home, my lord?” 

She spoke the last remark in the same tone she had used when urging young Faramir to finish his meals. 

Faramir smiled faintly.  “To avoid the fuss, perhaps.” 

“What fuss? The lord of the house is returning—” She stopped abruptly and turned her back to him.  When she turned back, her expression was calm again, though her eyes glistened.  “Let me pack your things, then I will set up a meal for you.” 

Then she looked around the room, noticing the empty table, the bare walls and the chest in the corner.  “O, you have already packed, even your nightshirt.” 

Faramir refrained from telling her, even in jest, that he had survived in Ithilien and Osgiliath without her or Meldis.  He rather enjoyed being fussed over by the kind, motherly cook this morning. 

“Would you like to break your fast now?  Let me set it up.” 

“Would you set it up in the garden, Mistress Erien?”  He added, rather sheepishly, “And do you happen to bring enough for two?”   

Erien’s eyes widened.  “It is true, then!  You and the lady of Rohan!  Why did I not think of that?  Enough for two, but that means you cannot have a second helping.  And it is porridge with cinnamon and apple slices, your favourite.” 

Faramir raised an eyebrow.  “Second helping?  Apple slices?  My dear Cook, do you forget we are still under food rationing?” 

Erien huffed.  “You need better food to regain your strength, my lord.  And I have kept strictly to the rations.  The apples are the ones preserved from last harvest—I would love to give you fresh ones, but these are what we have.  Surely I am allowed to use what I find in my kitchen?”  Then she corrected herself with a blush, “I mean, your kitchen, my lord.” 

Faramir chuckled, then his gravity returned.  “I thank you, Mistress Erien,” he said. 

... 

When they reached the garden in the Houses of Healing, there was no sign yet of the Lady of Rohan.  Erien placed a bowl of steaming wheat porridge before Faramir, and proceeded to slice the apples.  The sweet scent of cinnamon and apples filled the air, mingling with the comforting aroma of bread. 

The simple porridge had been Faramir’s favourite breakfast as a child.  As he grew older, Erien made it for him whenever he was ill or returning home after a long absence. 

Just as Erien finished setting up the bowls of porridge and a plate of fresh bread and butter, the lady of Rohan appeared. 

Faramir rose to greet her.  “We have special fare this morning, Lady Éowyn,” he said.  “Courtesy of Mistress Erien, the head cook of the Citadel.” 

Erien did not try to hide her interest; she openly watched the lady.  Then she gave her a curtsey and greeted her.  “My lady,” she said. 

“Mistress Erien,” said Éowyn as she dipped her head.  “This smells delightful.” 

Then she took her seat.  Erien left them to their meal and went off to find a servant to take Faramir’s belongings to the Steward’s residence. 

After they finished their meal, they parted, for Faramir was to leave the Houses of Healing that morning, but the Warden had asked Éowyn to stay a few more days. 

“I will come from time to time,” Faramir told her, “though not as often as I wish, I am afraid.” 

Éowyn said, “Come when your duties permit you, lord.  It would gladden my stay here.”  With some reluctance she added, “But you must go and get ready now.” 

“I will see you in the Hall, Éowyn,” he said.  He had invited her and Marshal Elfhelm of Rohan to witness him taking the oath as the Steward. 

Éowyn nodded.  “I will be there, Lord Faramir.” 

They left the garden and found Erien and the Warden waiting at the entrance of the Houses.  After listening to the Warden’s final instructions and assuring him that he would come every few days to have a healer tend to him, Faramir left with Erien. 

From the terrace of the Houses, Éowyn watched them—the tall, lordly man and the short, plump matron, their heads turned toward each other as they conversed.  For some reason, the sight made her smile. 

... 

At the gate of the Citadel, the guards bowed low as Faramir approached. 

“ ’Tis good to see you return, my lord," one of them said.  Then, with a loud voice, he shouted towards the Citadel, "The Lord Steward enters!" 

As Faramir passed through the gate, he lifted his eyes to the White Tower.  The Tower stood tall, its white stone gleaming in the sunlight, and the Steward’s banner fluttered at its peak--a stark contrast to the ruin he had seen in his fevered dream under the Black Breath

Erien requested his leave to make her way to the Steward’s residence ahead of him.  “The Tower guards must have been waiting impatiently to speak with you,” she said with a smile.  “I will see you at home, my lord.” 

True enough, the guards had gathered at the entrance of the Tower.  “Lord Faramir!”  “Lord Steward!” they called eagerly as he approached.   

Faramir was as glad to see them.  Among the guards, he noticed some who had followed him to Osgiliath.  Their eyes met, and a silent understanding passed between them.  

How strange it seemed, that they had returned when so many had not. 

He entered the Tower and ascended the stairs to the Steward’s Residence.  The door stood open, and inside, Meldis and the other servants had gathered to greet him.  It was a sight Faramir had never seen before, not even when he and Boromir had returned from their successful campaign in Osgiliath the previous summer.  Yet today they welcomed not only the lord of the house, but one who had returned from the brink of death. 

Meldis curtseyed deeply and took his cloak.  “Welcome home, my lord,” she said.  “I have placed your things in your chamber.  Do you wish to use the Steward’s chambers instead?” 

Faramir shook his head.  “Eventually.  But not today.” 

When he entered his chamber, he saw his bed was made with crisp new sheets.  Had the curtain been changed as well?   Hanging on the wall were his best tunic, his finest robe and the white mantle of the Steward, all sparkling and without a crease.  His belt and sword rested on the table, gleaming and waiting.  He knew that if he went to his father’s chamber, he would find it equally prepared, with the things that might remind him of his father carefully kept away from view. 

He turned to Meldis, who stood quietly behind him.  “Thank you, Mistress Meldis.” 

The housekeeper pressed her lips together to maintain her composure.  “My lord.” 

... 

Acknowledgement: 

The part about the household servants welcoming Faramir home was inspired by Altariel’s fanfiction “Leaving the House” in ff.net. 

The Houses of Healing, 2 April 3019 T.A.

Éowyn sat beneath a tree in the garden of the Houses of Healing, the one where she had often sat with Lord Faramir.  It had been four days since she last saw him, the day he took his oath as the Steward of Gondor.  She realized that when she walked in the garden now, her eyes often wandered towards the Houses, hoping to see him coming.

As she was heading back to the Houses, she saw him walking towards her.

“Lord Faramir?” She called to him, while inwardly she chided herself.  She had spoken with more warmth than she had intended.

“Lady Éowyn.”  He smiled when he saw her, but he looked wearier than she had ever seen him.

It unsettled her that this man—who bore his burdens with quiet resolve, and treated others who faltered with understanding—had weariness and grief of his own.  But surely he did.  Why had it taken her so long to see his sorrows?

He came and stood before her.  For a long moment he looked at her.  Then, without a word, he bent and rested his forehead on her shoulder.  He said nothing.  He neither wept nor sighed, but Éowyn knew that he was pouring out his sadness, his weariness, and it was to do this that he had come.  

And she wondered as she realized that she did not mind it, that she wished for him to share his burden with her.  She, who had once spoken bitterly of growing tired of waiting on faltering feet.

She could hear his breathing, feel his heartbeats, and catch the faint scent of his hair and body.  She realized that she did not wish him to step back.

They remained thus for some time, standing together in silence, his head resting upon her shoulder, a presence more comforting than burdening.  Her hands sought his and held them.

At length he straightened and looked at her.  “Thank you, Éowyn,” he said softly.  

He seemed a little less weary, less sad, and she felt she had accomplished a great deed.

He sighed and began to speak.  But suddenly he seemed to check himself and stepped back slightly.  He took her hand and kissed it, then let it go.

He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.  When he opened his eyes again, his composure had returned, though the weariness remained.  It was once again the face of the Lord Steward—the grave, gentle man who had spoken so kindly to her in their first meeting.  

He smiled at her and asked, “How fare you today, Éowyn?”

Éowyn wondered what had just happened.  She was sure he was about to confide in her—about his grief, about many matters weighing his heart and mind—when he suddenly checked himself. 

Did he think such matters too private to share with her?  Did he worry she might think less of him if he revealed his troubles?  

She wished to hold his hands (she wished to cup his face in her hands, if she was honest to herself) and assure him he could tell her anything.  

But she remembered that bitter night in Dunharrow not so long ago, when she had laid her heart unguarded before another, at such great cost to her pride.  She would not risk repeating the pain.

She settled for polite words.  “It is no shame, lord, to confide one’s troubles to a friend from time to time,” she said. “Do not bear your burden alone.”

A silent disappointment crossed his face, but it was gone almost as soon as it appeared.  He nodded and said, “I am leaving for Osgiliath tomorrow to meet with Lord Aragorn.”

“And this weighs on your mind?” she asked.

“Among other things. There is much to consider regarding his claim. I also grieve for my father and brother, and I have not yet grown accustomed to being alone in my house.”

They spoke for some time, but Éowyn sensed that he was not unburdening himself.  They talked politely as two acquaintances would.

When the sun began to sink, they walked together towards the Houses.  Stopping at the door of Éowyn’s room, Faramir bade her a good evening before taking his leave.

She stood there, watching his retreating figure until he disappeared from her view.  As she stood there, she weighed in her mind whether to seek out Ioreth or the Warden.

Deciding that the whole City did not need to know of her concerns for the Lord Steward, Éowyn went to find the Warden of the Houses of Healing.

...

“I am concerned about the Lord Steward,” Éowyn said plainly as she took a seat in the Warden’s office.

“Has something happened, my lady? When last I saw him, his wounds were healed and he had regained his strength.”

“He was just here and he seemed so weary and alone,” said Éowyn. “Does he have any kin?  Or does he dwell alone in the Steward’s residence?”

“No kin in the City now, not that I know of,” the Warden said, “but he is surrounded by faithful servants who have served his family for many years.”

“I have never seen him so burdened,” Éowyn said. “Perhaps he is too proud or too considerate to ask for company. Is there anyone who could keep him company, without him having to ask for it?”

The Warden considered her words for a moment, before replying, “I will send word to Lord Húrin. Between him and Mistress Meldis, they will know what to do.”

“Mistress Meldis?”

“She is the housekeeper of the Steward’s residence, though Housekeeper of the Citadel might be a more fitting title.  Why, she oversees the maintenance of the Steward’s residence, the White Tower, even the vacant King’s House. She has held this position since the early days of Lord Denethor’s rule, and she is ... Ah, anyway, what I meant is that Mistress Meldis takes excellent care of Lord Faramir.”

“Would you send word to Lord Húrin now, Master Warden?”

“At once, my lady.”

He turned to leave but paused at the door. “Perhaps you could let him know that you care for him, my lady.  I believe that would do wonders.”

...

“What were the Master Warden’s exact words again, Bergil?” Húrin asked.

“The Lady of Rohan is concerned for the Lord Steward and wishes someone could keep him company,” Bergil recited.

Húrin thought that the Steward had seemed well this morning. But then, perhaps one who loves more sees more.

If Faramir indeed needed company, whom could he send, and for what reason? Should he invite himself to supper? 

Or perhaps send Saelond with some reports to discuss? The young scribe had long admired Faramir, and had been overjoyed to spend much time working together with Faramir this week. But Húrin doubted that admiration would comfort Faramir when he was distraught.

Then he remembered Faramir had mentioned he intended to speak with the Lord Treasurer but had not yet found the time. Húrin knew that old Meneldil had a soft spot for Faramir, not least because Faramir accorded the old dragon the respect that many in these days reserved only for men of arms.

“Could you deliver a message to the Lord Steward for me, Bergil? Go to the kitchen and get yourself a warm drink while I write it.”

“Is the Lord unwell, Lord Húrin?” Concern shadowed Bergil’s young face.

“I do not think so, Bergil, worry not.” Húrin placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

After Bergil had left to deliver the message to Faramir, Húrin made his way to Meneldil’s house. It was also located in the Sixth Circle, separated by several houses from Húrin’s house.

Meneldil agreed to join him and as they walked towards the Steward's residence, they met Bergil returning.

“The Lord Steward himself came out to see me,” the boy beamed with delight. “He said you are most welcome, my lords. And he seemed well.”

“Thank you, Bergil. Go home safely.”

When they reached the Steward’s residence, a servant welcomed them and led them to the dining chamber. A short while later Faramir appeared. He received them warmly, as though he had invited them himself. He did not question why they suddenly came to see him.

He ate well, Húrin observed. But then again, this was the son of Denethor. Even when he had no appetite, Húrin imagined he would force himself to eat, knowing the importance of keeping his strength.

Faramir did not speak much, but neither did he seem distant nor absent-minded. They discussed the food storage, the war expenses, and the connections between the treasuries of Gondor and Arnor in the days of old.

The supper was simple (everyone was still under food rationing), but Faramir opened a bottle of old wine. “After all, we won the war and rejoicing is in order,” he said. “I sent a few bottles of the same vintage to Cormallen.”

As the evening went on pleasantly, Húrin began to wonder if perhaps the Lady Éowyn (or the Master Warden or Bergil or he himself) had worried unduly.

But when he was about to leave, as Meldis handed him his cloak, she said discreetly, “Thank you, Lord Húrin. These past few nights he has sequestered himself in the library and I was beginning to worry.”

That night, Éowyn received a letter from Húrin.

Lady Éowyn,

All is well. I am pleased to inform you that the Lord Steward had his supper with pleasant company this evening. I shall ride with him to Osgiliath tomorrow morning. We will spend the night there and return the following day. When it comes to the Lord Steward’s welfare, my lady, I am ever at your service.

Húrin son of Túor

Faramir walked quietly back to the Steward’s residence.  After Lords Húrin and Meneldil had taken their leave earlier that evening, he had ascended the Tower, seeking solitude beneath the vast expanse of stars.

He reached his home and made his way to the library, his chosen refuge in recent sleepless nights.

He entered the library and placed his cloak on the settee.  An unusual scent caught his attention.  It was lavender, and the scent grew stronger as he approached a corner table.  On the table there was a bowl of water with a small burner beneath it, its warmth releasing the fragrance into the air.

He remembered reading that lavender oil could help ease the mind and invite sleep.  He thought it mere sayings, but someone in his household clearly thought differently.  Or perhaps they simply tried whatever means they could to help their lord find rest.  The thought warmed his heart.

He settled onto the settee and closed his eyes.  As had often happened, memories and thoughts stirred in his mind, weaving together the sorrows of the past and the worries of the days to come.

The sound of flapping wings and dreadful shrieks, the sight of his men slaughtered, the sorrow of leading them to a hopeless battle. 

Nay, not hopeless, he corrected himself defiantly.  Almost hopeless, perhaps.  And necessary.

The sight of his brother in his funeral boat, followed by the image of his father engulfed in flames.

The line of the Stewards had failed.  Was that not why the King had come at that very hour? 

Nay, it had not failed, for here he was—the last of the House of Húrin—ready to do his duty.  Was that not why he was spared, having come so close to death? 

But was it not arrogance to think he could shoulder the weight of ruling Gondor—the very weight that had crushed his father, the noblest lord he had ever known? 

Nay, he dared say it was not.  For where his father had turned to pride and despair, Faramir would choose humility and trust. 

O, was that not arrogance, too?  To be so sure that his way was better?

The thoughts swirled and flowed like a restless stream.  But that night, he neither pushed them away nor carefully weighed the wisdom of each thought, as he usually did.

Instead, he inhaled and exhaled slowly, and let the thoughts play out like scenes in a story he read or a lay sung by a minstrel.

In time, other thoughts came to his mind. 

His wise uncle, pledging his love and trust to Faramir as Steward, despite his heart being drawn towards the King. 

Lord Húrin, tending respectfully to Denethor’s ashes.

The beaming faces of the healers when they saw him use his recovered arm with ease. 

And the fair lady in the Houses of Healing, who had given him hope amidst the ruin.  Faramir had not known that a heart—his heart—could ache from too much tenderness.  None of the poets he read had told him this.

The image of his father’s pyre returned—he had not seen it, but his imagination supplied whatever details were required.

He drew a deep breath, and with it the fragrance of lavender and of gentle care.

His thoughts turned to the simpler kindnesses—yet not less precious. 

Mistress Meldis had thoughtfully prepared the library for her lord to sleep in, without Faramir ever mentioning it.  She had even placed a blanket in the settee.

Mistress Erien had brought Faramir breakfast on his last day in the Houses of Healing, so that he needed not begin his homecoming in an empty dining chamber.

Faramir shifted and opened his eyes. 

On the morrow he would meet the Lord Aragorn, the heir of Isildur through the male line, and heir of Anarion through the female line.

What was the best course for Gondor?

We are the Stewards of the House of Anarion, his father had said, not of Isildur’s...

He smiled faintly, letting his thoughts wander. 

Folding his arms across his chest, he told himself, Take courage—this too shall pass. 

Gondor was safe, and he was alive.  What should he fear?

For some time the tempest in his mind continued, but he made no effort to quiet it.  He had come to terms with his  thoughts, like one who lives by the sea accepts that every now and then the waves will crash upon the shore.

Then, he knew not how, a welcome heaviness began to settle over him and he yawned.  Perhaps there was some truth to the benefits of lavender oil, after all...

...

The Council of Gondor had been dismissed after reaching a momentous decision: Gondor would once again have a king, ending nearly a thousand years of rule by the Stewards. 

The Steward himself had written the letter to the King, accepting his claim to the crown of Gondor.  He wrote it in the presence of the Council, signed it and affixed his seal on it.  Then, he ordered a fast rider to dispatch it to the Field of Cormallen, where the Lord Aragorn, the King, awaited the Steward’s reply. 

Afterwards, the Steward rose and without instruction, the lords of Gondor bowed deeply to him, each perhaps thinking that this might be the last time the Council would bow to the Steward. 

Betraying no emotion—he was his father’s son in this—the Steward inclined his head slightly, gave them his characteristic faint smile, turned and left the chamber, his head held high and his back straight.   

Yet Imrahil had to fight the urge to run to him and to clasp him in an embrace—Faramir, his sister-son, the last Ruling Steward of Gondor, to whom the weight of decision had fallen after his father’s death.   

It was not pity that urged him.  Indeed, Imrahil realized that he would not have longed so greatly to comfort the Steward if his shoulders had slumped or if bitterness had shadowed his steps. 

It was instructive to observe the lords after the Steward left the chamber.  A few of them, Imrahil knew, were already planning how best to ingratiate themselves with their new lord.  Most of them, however,  had watched his retreating form until it disappeared from view.  Only then did their gazes lower, a somber quiet settling over the chamber. 

Húrin and Angbor looked at Imrahil.  An unspoken agreement passed between them, affirming what they had discussed earlier—Húrin would remain in the City to stand with the Steward, while Imrahil and Angbor would return to Cormallen to learn what plans the King had concerning Gondor and the Steward. 

...

The Houses of Healing, 6 April 3019 T.A.  

Éowyn looked again at Éomer’s letter on her hand, inviting her to join him at the Field of Cormallen.   

Everyone will be glad to welcome the most valiant champion of the battle, the Witch-king slayer, he had written.   

But a few weeks prior, she thought, such praise would have pleased her tremendously.   

To be proven right, that though born in the body of a maid, she had courage equal to the kings of Rohan! 

Now, she did not wish to hear such words.  From what Elfhelm had told her, Éomer and the riders of Rohan were so awed by her vanquishing the Witch-king that none of them had blamed her for deserting her post in Dunharrow.  She did not wish to go to Cormallen to receive such undeserved praise.  The most valiant champion, indeed. 

Her thoughts on courage had shifted. Yes, it took courage to fight in battle and to face death.  But it took courage, too, to quietly perform one’s tedious duty, knowing that no songs would be made of it. 

That thought made her heart heavy.  She had abandoned the post entrusted to her by her king.  How could someone who so highly prized duty think about her other than with disappointment, or at best, with understanding—as one might extend to an immature child?   

Faramir had been understanding when she had told him about Dunharrow, but she suspected that he might have been understanding even towards a cruel Easterling. 

And to go to Cormallen would mean facing Lord Aragorn.  What would they say to each other? 

And, it would also mean not seeing Lord Faramir for many days. 

When the women who served her offered to pack her things for the journey to Cormallen, she told them she would not go. 

Thus she remained at the Houses of Healing and planned for the days to come.  She had resolved that when she returned home, she would make amends for having abandoned her duty.   

Éomer would need her help in running Edoras, at least until he wed.  The leechcraft she had seen in the Houses of Healing interested her, too.  She thought that she could introduce some of the craft to Edoras, to complement their own healing knowledge. 

Amidst the thoughts for the future, her eyes often drifted to the entrance of the Houses and she wondered why Faramir had not come for so many days.  She knew he remained in the City and had not gone to Cormallen. 

It had been five days since his last visit, was he that busy? 

Or was he unwell?  He seemed so weary the last time he came. 

She knew that Ioreth and the Warden looked at her with concern, as her quietness stood out amidst the air of rejoicing.  Yet she did not wish to feign cheerfulness, not to people who genuinely cared for her.

...

Two evenings later, after supper in the Steward’s residence, Faramir spoke of a place he wished to show her. 

They ascended the White Tower, climbing so many steps that Éowyn thought the pinnacle must be the intended place.  But when they stopped, she saw yet another staircase leading higher. 

With a hand on her elbow, he guided her to a parapet that offered a clear view of the sky and the City. 

The mantle of the night, strewn with silver stars, mirrored the one draped around her shoulders.  Below, the lower circles, the Pelennor, and the silver thread of the Anduin reflected her heart: rippling with new life. 

Yet more wondrous still than the beauty of the night was his dear presence.  

He stood beside her, their hands joined, as attuned as they had been on the day they witnessed the passing of the Shadow. 

“Your city is beautiful,” she said, and she said this not only to please him. 

“I am glad you find it so,” Faramir replied.  “Can you picture yourself dwelling here in joy?” 

“I picture us dwelling in joy,” she said shyly.  “But what of Ithilien, and the garden there, waiting to be made?” 

Was it her words, or the spell of the night?  For she saw in his eyes a strange glow amidst the tenderness.  

He swallowed before answering. 

“Ithilien lies now in wilderness.  Building a house worthy of the White Lady will take time.  We will need another house in the meantime. And even after we settle there, would we not come to Minas Tirith from time to time?  Many lords of the fiefs keep a house in the City.” 

Éowyn smiled knowingly.  “Surely, my lord.  I shall not begrudge you your first love.” 

He kissed her brow.  Then his hand was once more on her elbow.  “There is yet another place I wish to show you,” he said.

...

They went inside and stopped before a sturdy metal door.  An old guard approached from another side of the Tower, his face lighting up as he saw them.   

“Young lord,” he said warmly.  “Come to show your lady the stars?” Then he bowed to Éowyn. 

Faramir clapped the old guard on the back.  “Aye, Sirion, I am showing off our tower to my lady.” 

To Éowyn he said, “Sirion has been a guard of the Citadel since my brother and I were little rascals who liked to hide in secret spots here.” 

Grinning, the old retainer opened the door.  “Have a pleasant night, my lord, my lady.  The sky is clear, and there is no wind.  I shall continue my rounds.” 

The room resembled a large study, its two walls lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves.  The ceiling arched into a half-dome.  At the centre of the room stood a strange device—its long metal shaft reaching nearly to the ceiling; its intricate mechanisms gleaming under the glow of the oil lamp. 

Faramir moved to one of the bookshelves and removed several volumes from a middle shelf.  Hidden behind them was a lever attached to the wall.   

Faramir pulled the lever.  Éowyn heard a faint grinding sound, and to her amazement, a part of the domed ceiling slowly began to open.   

The grinding gave way to a creak, and they were now standing beneath an open sky, the stars showering them with ancient light. 

“O, how wonderful!” she exclaimed.   

He slipped his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close.  She leaned into him, her gaze fixed upon the heavens, hoping the sight would rein in the galloping in her heart. 

Presently he walked to a corner, sat on the floor with his back against one of the bookshelves, and drew his knees up to his chest.  She took in the sight of him—endearing in his rare moment of ease—and settled beside him. 

“What is this place?  One of the secret hiding spots from your childhood?” she asked. 

“This is no secret place,” Faramir replied.  “This room was used by lore masters who devoted their lives to studying the stars.” 

“Ah, that strange device is for looking at the sky, then?” 

“Aye, some clever masters built it based on an older device brought by the High King from Númenor.  When one looks through it, the stars appear much closer.” 

“How clever,” said Éowyn. “Though I prefer to see the stars this way.” 

Faramir smiled.  “I share your preference.  My cousin Amrothos would complain that we are sadly lacking in curiosity.” 

“Do you come here often?” 

“I like to come here when I feel sad or discouraged,” Faramir said.  “Fixing my sight on the heavens reminds me that we are but a very small part of Eä—our troubles and sorrows, no matter how insurmountable or grievous they may seem, are but a small, fleeting matter.” 

 “Did you come here when your mother died?” she asked gently. 

“Nay, I was only five then.  I was ten when Father brought me here the first time.” 

She reached for his hand, and her fingers caressed the lines on his palm. 

“I came here when I had my first leave after joining the army training,” he said. 

“Why would coming home cause you sadness?” she asked. 

“We were young recruits returning from a long journey across the southern parts of Gondor.  Most of the new recruits had their families waiting eagerly for them at the Great Gate—mothers and sisters, in particular.  That day I missed my mother more than ever.” 

Being an orphan herself, Éowyn knew the pang of missing a loved one who would never return.  In her mind appeared an image of young Faramir sitting alone in this room, gazing at the stars and letting his sadness ebb away.   

Fighting the impulse to gather him in her arms, she kissed his palm and leaned her head against his shoulder. 

“Was Boromir not waiting for you?” she wondered. 

“He was away on an errand at Pelargir.  And of course Father did not come; it would have caused too much fuss if the Lord of the City had appeared.  Lord Húrin came instead, and we rode home together.” 

“Bless him,” said Éowyn earnestly.  “One day I will thank him for all he has done for you.” 

“I came here a few nights ago—that night when you sent Lords Húrin and Meneldil to keep me company,” he said, glancing at her. 

“Nothing escapes the eyes of the Lord of the City,” Éowyn said, her cheeks flushing.  “I meant well.” 

He gently tucked strands of her hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering there.  “Of course you meant well, my love, and I thank you.” 

“What happened that day, when you came to the Houses of Healing to tell me your troubles, but suddenly checked yourself?” 

“My lady is perceptive,” he said.  “I was weary with many things on my mind and I felt lonely.  I came to seek your company, but then you seemed so willing to share my burden.  I did not wish our union to begin that way: that I seek you because I am lonely.” 

“What is wrong with that?  Husband and wife share their burdens with each other.”  She blushed as she saw his expression at the mention of husband and wife. 

“That is true, husband and wife share their burdens.  But a union should not be built on loneliness, nor on the need for someone to share our burdens with.” 

Éowyn shook her head at the workings of his mind.  “So, what has changed? Were you not lonely anymore, that you allowed yourself to seek me two days ago?” 

“I have since realized that I wish to be with you, whether I am lonely or blissful.  And someone advised me not to be foolishly honourable.” 

Éowyn laughed. “That describes you perfectly!” 

Her laughter eased into a smile, and she cupped his face in her hands.  Looking straight into his eyes, she said slowly, “Faramir.” 

His face lit up, and the strange glow in his eyes grew into a flame.  That was the first time she had called him by name. 

“Faramir,” she said again.  “You have done very well on your own for so long.  Now, will you share your heart, your grief, with me?” 

He closed his eyes and pressed his cheek onto Éowyn’s hand, letting out a contented sigh. “So, this is what would have happened, if I had not restrained myself that day?” 

“Aye, you foolish man of Númenor”. 

“Foolish indeed.  But you are worth the wait, Éowyn.” 

She smiled and stayed quiet, waiting for him to unburden himself. 

That night as they sat under the light of the stars, he told her about his father: their many disagreements, their bitter last parting, the pyre, and the sorrow he carried for defying his father’s last wish by accepting the King. 

As she listened, her heart stirred with pity, not only for her beloved, but also for his father.  She was indignant as Faramir recounted Denethor’s last words to him, but pity for the late Steward also crept into her heart.  Perhaps it was the way Faramir told the story. 

And as she listened to him, she realized that all those people who told her what a jewel she had found in him had not even begun to describe his worth.   

When this man loves, she realized, he gives all of himself.  Such was the way he had loved his father, his land, and by some marvel, now he had bestowed that love on her. 

“To you, to love means to give yourself to the beloved, does it not, my lord?” 

“Could there be another meaning to love, but to give oneself?” he replied. 

“There are men, many, I dare say, who upon looking at a beautiful flower in a meadow, plucked it and said they did so because they loved it.” 

Faramir’s gaze grew sharper as he studied her.  “A lowly man had darkened your path before.  Does he still dwell in Rohan?” 

“Theoden King sent him away,” Éowyn assured him. 

He waited for her to say more, but she said, “I will tell you about it another day, my lord.  I am safe now; tonight let us speak about you.” 

He hesitated for a moment, but he let it go.  “Please tell me about it tomorrow.” 

Éowyn nodded, then spoke again.  “Did you never resent your father for favouring your brother? Or your brother for accepting that favour?” 

“There were times when I was sad and angry that Father praised Boromir so often.  But as I grew, I began to understand that different people are drawn to, or moved by, different things. 

“Then I decided that it was my father’s right to favour whomever he wished.  As for his duty as a father to treat us fairly, he had always done so, except at the very end, when bitterness overcame him.”  

His face grew tender as he continued.  “Save for some childish jealousy, I never resented Boromir.  He deserved every praise he received.  I do not think it unfair that others consider me second to him.  And we loved each other fiercely.” 

“I disagree with that.  You are second to none.” 

“Not even to Helm Hammerhand or Beren Erchamion?” 

She lifted her chin and shook her head defiantly. 

He laughed merrily.  “Then you are besotted indeed, my lady.” 

How she loved to hear him laugh! And it seemed she had become skilled at making him laugh. 

All too soon, it was time to return to the Houses of Healing.  As they descended the stairs of the Tower, he said that he would show her his house another day. 

“But you have shown it to me this evening, unless by ‘your house’, you mean the whole Tower?” 

“Well, the Steward is also called the Lord of the White Tower,” Faramir said grandiosely.  “We can say the whole Tower is my house, and there are many interesting parts I wish to show you.”   

The usual gravity returned to his face as he continued, “What you have seen tonight is the Steward’s residence, in the heart of the Citadel.  Another day, I will show you a house in the Sixth Circle which belongs to my family and is not tied to the office of the Steward.  I hope you would like it.  For I do not think it appropriate to continue residing in the Tower after the King returns.” 

“Why would it not be appropriate?  Ah, because this is the heart of the Citadel, and only the Lord of the City may dwell here?” 

He nodded. 

She understood his reason, but she was loath to see him give up yet another thing. 

“Is there no other way, Faramir?  Must you give up your house, the place where you grew up?” 

“I see it differently: as leaving my childhood home to start my family in a new place.” 

He said it sincerely, and this made Éowyn feel so much pity that she suddenly wept.  Had he been a little bitter, sad, or pitying himself, she would not have been so moved. 

“Éowyn?  Beloved, whatever is the matter?” 

She shook her head.  The galloping in her heart returned, and this time she let go of the rein.  “You said one should not scorn pity that is the gift of a gentle heart, my lord.  Then, do not be dismayed when I say I pity you.  For I pity you, I admire you, and I love you, Faramir of Gondor. 

“How much grief and hardship you must have suffered, my lord, to have learned to master yourself so well, to make yourself content with what you must endure, to find consolation and joy in your solitude! 

“I am not wise and have much to learn, but let me say this: I am here with you now.  You may ease your restraint a little.  You do not have to be brave, noble, and content at all times.” 

As she spoke, he looked at her with growing amazement.  The flame in his eyes danced, like people who had suffered a long winter might bask beneath the bright sun.   

Then, he abruptly pulled her into a tight embrace.  When he finally straightened, Éowyn drew him back to her. 

They descended the rest of the stairs in silence.  And still in silence, they walked back to the Houses of Healing, hand in hand. 

... 

The White Tower, 14 April 3019 T.A. 

Húrin and Meldis were again conferring.  This time, Erien the head cook joined them. 

“Is it true that there will be a king?” Erien asked.  Hearing her tone, one might think she was asking whether an exotic creature would take residence in the Citadel. 

Húrin nodded. “Lord Faramir has instructed me to prepare the crowning.” 

“He has asked me to prepare the King’s House,” Meldis said, “and to ready Mardil House for him.” 

“Mardil House!  Did the King ask Lord Faramir to leave his residence?” Erien exclaimed. “How could you and your Council allow that, Lord Húrin?” 

“What will happen to Lord Faramir when the King returns?”  Meldis added, before Húrin could answer.  “Will we have no Steward anymore?” 

“Gondor without the Steward?  Who has ever heard of such a thing?” Erien huffed. 

Húrin raised his hands.  “If you would give me a chance to speak, my good dames.  When the King comes, he may choose to abolish the office of the steward.  But Mistress Erien is right—even in the days of old, the kings had stewards. 

“As to the Steward’s residence, it is news to me that Lord Faramir intends to vacate it.  But I can imagine that Lord Faramir may think it unseemly to remain in the heart of the Citadel, once the King returns.” 

For many hundreds of years, the Stewards and their family had made their residence in the Tower of Ecthelion.  They occupied the levels above the council chamber, which was itself above the Hall of the Throne.   

The King’s House they had left empty, for they would not have anyone accused them of making themselves king.  And having the Lord of the City reside in the Citadel, rather than at their stately house on the Sixth Circle, made things easier for the Guards of the Citadel and the courtiers. 

“You have met the King, Lord Húrin, have you not?  Does he treat Lord Faramir well?  Poor boy, he has gone through so much, I would not see him suffer any more loss.”  Meldis looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment. 

“And seemly or unseemly, it is his house, where he has lived all his life,” added Erien. “Well, he lived in Mardil House when he was a babe, but that hardly counts.” 

“The King is a wise man,” said Húrin.  “And Lord Faramir has not said he is leaving his house, he simply asked Mistress Meldis to prepare his other house, for whatever purpose he may have in mind.” 

“Mardil House is a happy house, at least,” Meldis said, trying to console herself.  “Do you remember how happy our lord and lady were when they lived there, Erien?  Before the lord became the Steward.” 

Erien smiled wistfully.  “Those were their golden years.  Poor Lord Denethor.” 

“The Lord Steward also told me to form a household for the King,” added Meldis.  “He said tomorrow he would speak to us; I mean his household.  He encouraged us to serve the King, said that it would be a great honour.” 

Erien snorted. “As if! And let new, clueless servants take care of our lord? What is so good about this king?  Why does Lord Faramir have to do all this?” 

Húrin made a polite noise. “Be more careful, dear Cook, the King is our lord now, or will be soon.  And are you suggesting we let new, clueless servants serve the King instead?” 

“He will not know they are new,” said Erien. “Well, what I mean is that Lord Faramir needs familiar people with him.  He has lost all his family.” 

Meldis and Erien wiped their eyes.  They both had entered service as young girls near the end of Steward Ecthelion’s rule, and had cared for Boromir and Faramir from their birth. 

“He will soon start a family of his own,” Húrin said.  “Has it not occurred to you that he might prefer to have a fresh beginning with his lady at Mardil House?  As Mistress Meldis said, it is a happy house.  It is customary for the Heir of the Steward to begin their wedded life there.” 

He had clearly said the right thing, for the two matrons of the Steward’s household brightened up considerably. 

“O, how they kissed!” Erien placed her hands over her heart.  “Did you see it, Meldis?” 

“After listening to Ioreth for the third time, I feel as if I did.  Who would have thought our Lord Faramir could be so bold?” 

Húrin raised his eyebrows.  “Are you surprised? He is bold in battle.  There is no reason why he should be any different in courting.” 

“I will stay with Lord Faramir,” Erien said.  “That stuck-up Sador can be the King’s head cook.  He likes cooking for grand feasts and thinks my dishes are too homely.” 

Meldis laughed.  “Sador would be more than eager to move to the King’s House, or ‘move up’, he would say.”   

Húrin concluded their discussion.  “Let me know if you need help finding servants for the King’s House, Meldis.  The crowning is set for the first of May, we must move swiftly.” 

He drained his cup and rose.  “Good evening, Mistress Meldis, Mistress Erien.  I will see you tomorrow.  Lord Faramir has invited me to dine with him and Lady Éowyn.”  

With that they parted ways, each returning to their duties, caring for their lord in their own way. 

...