Ch. 1 - A New World

Late April 3019

Éowyn looked out over the city.  She still kept up residence in the Houses of Healing, not because she needed to but because it now felt like home.  She was still working to care for the sick.  Not at the feverish pace she had set for herself when she was using it to avoid thinking of her own unhappiness.  That had passed.  She had found herself here.  She had found happiness and purpose.  And here was where she also learned to accept Faramir’s love.  She was only amazed that it had taken her so long to see it.  But so much had happened.  So much sadness and tragedy.  But they had come through it all and now it was time to live for those who would not live to see the new age; who had sacrificed so that it could become a reality.  She felt a responsibility to make good with the chance they had been given.  If they did not, then what was it all for. 

“There you are! I thought you had gone to catch a nap and when I went to change my apron I found you nowhere!”

Éowyn turned to her roommate and fellow healer.  No, she stopped herself.  Alyrin was more than that.  She was a friend and the one who had shown her the path to healing.  She owed so much to so many in the Houses.  She felt compelled to give back. “I just needed air and perspective much more than a nap!”  She took a deep breath, “Do you feel it, Alyrin.  There is a change in the air.  Not only Spring but…”

Alyrin finished the sentence, “Hope?” she supplied.  She looked at her friend and her heart filled with happiness at the change that had been wrought upon her.  Éowyn was brought to the Houses nearly dead after the battle had raged on the fields of the Pelannor.  Those first days of recovery Alyrin had become acquainted with the Lady Éowyn, as she then knew her as, and she did not speak of hope.  She had only thoughts of regret that she had not died on the battlefield.  So much had happened since then.

“Aye!  That is the word.”  Éowyn broke into Alyrin’s with the small phrase. She smiled, “We had best get back to it.  Tis almost time for afternoon rounds,”

~*~*~*~*~

Éowyn was headed to the Master Healer’s study.  She needed to discuss treatment options for a girl who had been caught under a cart when a wheel had collapsed.  Alyrin would usually have been the one to come but she had been called away by a new arrival on a stretcher. 

She was about to knock on the wooden door when it suddenly opened and she was met by a pair of grey eyes that still managed to take her breath away, this time only in embarrassment and shame. “My Lord Aragorn!”  she stumbled out completely stunned by his presence to recall whatever proper form of address that was now due to him.  She dropped as full a curtsy as her uncertain knees would allow; the last words spoken to Aragorn coursing unbidden through her mind. 

“My Lady…”  Aragorn looked at Éowyn and all the regret and pain of their last parting ripping through his memory. “Please…No,” as he lifted her from the slight curtsy.

She looked at the Master Healer, “I will come back,  Alyrin has a question, please see her.” She added before she fled.  Her footsteps lead her to the one place that always brought her solace, the balcony gardens.  She stood at the balustrade, her heart pounding.  She had fled.  Shame flowed over her.  She had never run from anything in her life and yet she had run.  She refused to let the tears that scalded her eyes to flow.  That would be the final indignity.

“Éowyn…” A voice filled with regret sounded.  Her back went ramrod straight at the sound. “Please…” the supplicant voice was closer.

“What is your will, my lord.”  Éowyn spoke formally as she had always to keep Grima at bay.  The thought stuck in her head.  This was not Grima with all his foulness.  This was Aragorn.  He did not deserve the treatment she gave to that noisome little man when he had acted in a way that frightened and disturbed her.  She swallowed and tried to let the embarrassment melt away.  It was stubbornly resistant.  She turned to find a sorrowful look of regret on that stern earnest face.

Aragorn stepped to the balustrade not two feet from her, a respectful distance, and looked into her eyes.  He took a breath and then, “Allow me to apologise to you for my treatment of you that day we left Edoras.  I am so sorry.  My harm upon you has weighed heavily on my heart since,”  he stopped, at a loss.  “Can I ask your forgiveness?”

Éowyn looked stunned, “My forgiveness?!  When it was I who forced the issue, When it was I who begged.”  She stubbornly added.  She needed to own her behavior which had placed him in the awkward position in the first place.  Her own embarrassment admitted, she looked into earnest grey eyes that no longer held the allure they once did.  The awe and grandeur had been replaced by the warm, accepting love she had found in Faramir.  She smiled, “I can forgive you, if you will forgive me?  I was lost, drowning in duty and regret and I saw in you what I did not have.  But be happy for me.  I am no longer lost and a gentle heart has won me.”  Looking into Éowyn’s eyes Aragorn could see joy residing.  He felt a heaviness lifting and happiness for her flowed in behind it.  Éowyn looked beyond Aragorn and saw Faramir standing at the archway that bordered the gardens with a look of love indelibly written across his face.  Éowyn left the balustrade and walked towards Faramir who then walked forward and met her in the middle of the garden.  They clasped hands and then kissed.  

Faramir had come to seek Éowyn, having spoken to the Master Warden and knew of her upset at having unexpectedly met Aragorn.  The thoughts that ran through his head tormented him even knowing of the hurt she had sustained from Aragorn.  The old doubts crept in, “Now that Aragorn has returned, she’ll have him and you will once again be alone.” He whispered, “No!” to ward off the negative voice whispering in his ear.  He reached the archway at first to listen, the negative voices having weakened his belief in Éowyn ever-so-slightly that he needed to hear confirmation or denial.  He stood still.  Then he saw her smile and the words, ending with “I am no longer lost and a gentle heart has won me,” allowed his heart to start beating again and silence the negative voices.  She did love him and was affirming this to Aragorn.  He should never have doubted, but he had.  Éowyn caught his eye and he ventured forth ending the short journey in a kiss.

Aragorn saw this and his joy multiplied for he could not think of two more worthy people to have found each other.  As Aragorn was departing Faramir asked, “Pardon my liege, a question.  What are you doing here?  My last missive received stated that your company would be arriving two days hence.” Éowyn looked at him up and down and realised that he was clad as the Ranger she had first met, not dressed in the armor of Gondor as he had been when departing for the Black Gates.

Aragorn sighed, “I wanted to visit the City unannounced before all the Pomp and Glory that will attend the Coronation,”  He finished with longing and resignation.  The ranger within was uncomfortable with ceremony.  He had wished to be among his people and to hear their unguarded tongues.  He needed it.  He had no wish to impose his will upon the City.  It needed to accord with the people’s will.

Faramir looked at his liege lord, one for whom he would most willingly give up the title of Ruling Steward.  “It must be difficult, for this is not a life that you have ever been accustomed to.”

Aragorn looked at Faramir, having only formerly met him within the chaos of the Battle of the Pelannor Fields and most intimately while captive within the horrors of the Black Breath.  He had seen the younger man’s torment and he knew his heart.  What he did not know was Faramir’s innate ability for empathy and compassion which had frequently set him at odds with his father.  “No, it is not.” Aragorn held the look long enough for Faramir to break the gaze.

“Forgive me, my liege.” Faramir stated, his eyes downcast, “For speaking out of turn.  ‘Tis a fault of mine that my father ever tried to correct.”  He so respected this man and did not wish to fall foul of him.  Faramir felt Aragorn’s hand lift his chin to meet eyes, man to man.

“Pardon, but that was wrong of your father.  Do not ever be afraid to speak your mind to me.  It is a quality that I most respect.”

Faramir was moved by the sincerity he saw in Aragorn’s eyes.  He cleared his throat and stated in a strong voice, “I shall, my liege.”

Aragorn had come to see how the more severely injured, those still in residence in the Houses of Healing, were faring.  He looked at Éowyn, “You are no longer ailing, how comes it that you still reside in the Houses.”

Éowyn smiled at his puzzlement and stated, “I have found place and purpose here, My lord.  Master Healer asked if I could help with the wounded and I have been apprenticing with Alyrin, one of the healers who kept me on the path to healing after you of course.  I have been learning so much.”

Aragorn noticed that her shoulders were thrown back and she had an air of confident ease about her.  “It is so wonderful to see, My Lady.  You were on your way to discuss the treatment of a patient, was it not?  When I interrupted you.”

“Aye, it was!  If you will pardon me.  I must return to my rounds!  I have tarried too long.” She nodded her head to Aragorn and caressed Faramir’s bearded cheek.  She hurriedly left the gardens. Aragorn watched Faramir as the younger man followed her with his eyes.  “I am very happy that you have found each other.”

Faramir looked to his liege lord, “She is more than I deserve.”

“Nonsense!” Aragorn declared forcefully.  It was wrong to speak ill of the dead, but Denethor had so much to answer in his treatment of his second son. “You have both had trials and you both deserve happiness.  Never again say you are unworthy for I will fight you every time.  Swords, if needs be.”

“Yes, My Liege.”  Faramir conceded the point.

Aragorn sighed, “I must return to my retinue lest they worry,”  He placed his hood upon his head, gave the younger man a chagrined smile and was gone.

Faramir stared after him pondering his words.  His brow furrowed, but his lips contained a small smile.  It was very odd, but it was a change that he could most definitely become accustomed to.  He walked to the balustrade and looked out onto the city and took a deep breath.  It was indeed a new world.

Ch. 2  Healing begins

Late April 3019 TA,  Minas Tirith

Faramir stood gazing at the White Tree, guarded in honor of a memory.  A memory that had become reality.  He felt a tear slip down his cheek, so much had been lost.  So many lives irreparably changed.  Once again his thoughts turned to his brother…and his father.  Another tear fell.

“Are you ready, my Lord Steward,” sounded from behind, the voice of his King, uncrowned as yet.

Faramir was mortified that Aragorn, a man he held in so high an esteem, should find him in such an emotional state.  He tried to surreptitiously wipe away the shameful tears and answered in a husky voice, “Yes, My King!”

Aragorn had noticed the younger man’s movement to wipe his face.  He sighed and again thought of Denethor’s ill-treatment of his second son.  He paused not looking at Faramir to allow the good man a moment to gather his dignity.  He voiced thoughts that he hoped would help, “Many times I pass by this tree and think of all that has happened.  All the loss, and then I think of the responsibility we have, the opportunity we have been given to make their sacrifices meaningful.  There are times when it overwhelms me but,” he turned to look at Faramir who had since gathered himself.  The King locked eyes with his Steward, “I think there is no shame in that. And it spurs me to action.  To work towards the world they sacrificed for.  For that is the job before us.”  He put his hand on Faramir’s shoulder. “Yes?”

“Yes, My King.” Faramir nodded.  “Thank you…”   He saw in Aragorn’s eyes kindness and compassion.  Two emotions he was unused to in one who commanded him.

“Good, then!  Let us get on!  The gathered lords await us!” 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Life flowed once again into the City.  Women and children who had been sent away for their safety came back to their homes bedecked in flowers and ran into the waiting arms of their husbands, or those not as fortunate into the compassionate arms of family and friends who would bear the loss with them.  No one was left alone; the compassion of neighbors who then became friends flowed to share in both sorrow and the coming joy.

Stories of Aragorn’s healing abilities had flowed from the Houses of Healing by those who had witnessed them. The old adage “The hands of the King are the hands of a healer, and so shall the rightful king be known" flowed through the City; spoken by many. A week-long holiday was to be declared for the week of the Coronation and there were to be celebrations among the varying neighborhoods along the tiers. All during the week the third tier upward could look past the walls and see pavilions across the Pelannor spring up as those who could leave in haste made their way from all parts of the kingdom. From the far-off Anfalas and the coastal holdings of Andrast, the westernmost point of Gondor, to harpers from Dol Amroth renowned through the land for their skill to clear voiced singers from the Lebennin, all who heard and could in haste come to the White City were indeed pitching up tents on the Pelannor as many hostelries and inns had been damaged in the battle as many of these establishments were on the first and second tiers.   Banners of the white tree and stars flew from undamaged battlements and all tiers were wreathed in the Sable and Silver, the colors of restored hope.   

~*~*~*~*~

Morning of Coronation Day.

Éowyn stood reveling in the joyous sight from the balcony of the Houses of Healing on the morning of the Coronation.  The colors that flew throughout the City and the brightly colored pavilions that were dotting the Pelannor filled with those who came to witness with joy the coronation. She was to attend the coronation as sister to Éomer, uncrowned King of the Mark as he was Théoden King’s nephew and proclaimed heir by Théoden himself; her relationship with Faramir not yet announced publicly.

She did not see Faramir as much as she would have liked but she reveled in the reason that she did not.  Aragorn clearly valued the input of the young Steward and he was being consulted on every aspect of the transition from Stewardship to Kingship. From the few times she and Faramir could steal an evening away from their duties she understood that the coronation was going to be a spectacular ceremony.  She looked down at her gown, a beautiful cream brocade loose long gown, short waisted with fitted sleeves to the elbow and long trailing sleeves with gold trim at the neck and sleeves.  It was a beautiful dress.  She thought back to a few weeks previous to the conversation they had had. 

~*~*~*~*~

“The coronation has been set!”  Faramir told Éowyn as they sat on a bench in their garden on the balcony of the Houses of Healing, Éowyn’s head resting in Faramir’s lap.

“For when?” Éowyn asked.

“May morn, the first of May.”

“Hmmm…The earth is reborn and so is the kingdom.  I like it.”

“Glad to have your approval as it was my idea.”

“Only your idea?”  Éowyn looked up.

Faramir exclaimed, “It was!  Gandalf always said I have a very poetic soul!” He preened slightly.

“Ah yes, the elderly wizard with the beard and whiskers!  Good source for poetic knowledge.”  

Faramir was quiet for a bit. Then he said, tentatively, “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

Éowyn sat up and looked into blue eyes that held a slight look of doubt. Gently she said, “Of course I am teasing you.”

Faramir relaxed visibly and tried to continue as if nothing had bothered him, “It will be a grand spectacle which of course Aragorn will hate but he knows it has to be.  Éomer and you will of course be taking part in the ceremony.”

“It will be a joy to take part,” Éowyn was honored to have any part in the festivities,  “but I don’t know how grand I can be. I have only my armour and the two gowns Alyrin has lent me.”

“I think you look wonderful as you are,” Faramir stated, “But I am sure that we can have our seamstresses make you a gown fit for the Princess that you are!”

“I am no princess…” Éowyn declared.

“You are in my eyes…”  Éowyn looked into earnest blue eyes as happiness filled her heart.  They shared a gentle kiss.  “And as the sister to the uncrowned King of Rohan and you shall have a dress accordingly.” 

“If you wish…”  Fine clothes had never been of much importance to Éowyn and she knew very little about fashion.  She dressed in what Waerith deemed appropriate.  At the thought of her governess and then friend, worry across her face.

“What troubles you, my love?”  Faramir asked, noting the concern writ across her visage.

Éowyn shook her head, “Nothing that I can do anything about…my companion and friend, Waerith.  She left to visit family a day before we had to leave Edoras.  I do not know whether she is alive or dead.  She was always the one who told me what to wear.  I was always more interested in swords and shields and improvements to my armor than what I wore in my hair.  I … just don’t know…” 

Faramir hugged her and placed a kiss on the top of her head, “I am so sorry, my love.  But keep her in your heart.  There she will always be and if the Valar be merciful you will see her again.” 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A gentle breeze broke her reverie. Éowyn stroked the fine cream brocade of her gown.  It was truly fit for a princess.  It was in the Gondorian style because Éowyn could not even begin to instruct the seamstress on proper noble Rohirrim style.  Alyrin helped her to dress because she was not sure what piece went where. Alyrinthen went to attire herself properly for the occasion.   

“Sister!”  Éowyn turned at her brother’s voice.  Éomer stood at the archway, rapt at the vision in front of him.  “You look…absolutely radiant.”  Éomer still could not rid himself of the sight of her on the battlefield, presumed dead and now to see her radiant not just because of the gown but because of the light of happiness in her eyes, filled his heart with happiness.  She had told him of her love for Faramir and his for her.  Éomer was beside himself with joy that so fine a man should see his sister’s qualities for himself.  He was sad to lose her but she could not have chosen finer.

Éowyn smiled and then saw a box in Éomer’s hand. “What do you have in your hand?”

Éomer looked down at the parcel he had forgotten he was carrying.  “I have had something made for you.  Lacking any finery for the coronation, I commissioned this for you to wear to today.  But if it is too much you don’t need to wear it.”   Éomer stated as he walked to the balustrade.

Éowyn took the proffered velvet box and opened it.  Inside lay an exquisitely delicate circlet of gold filigree entwined with small golden roses. “Oh Éomer, it is beautiful!”

“So glad you like it.  I tried to have it styled like your circlet back home, but this was all I could remember.  You deserve to look like a princess today.”  Éomer finished in an abashed way.  

“You spoil me so…” Éowyn whispered and hugged her brother. 

Éomer’s eyes misted.  He whispered in a choked voice, “You deserve every happiness I can give you.”  He cleared his throat as they separated.  He took the circlet from its box and placed it on his sister’s head. He stood back and stared at the vision of beauty in front of him as he tried to supplant the memory of horror with this moment of pure happiness.  He bowed his head and placed his fist on his heart and threw his shoulders back offering his arm, “I am due at the King's tent.  I must be off.”

Éowyn stared at her brother, dressed in court finery underneath his shining battle armor.  His eyes glowed with happiness.  He looked magnificent.  She touched his hair.  “I see Wulf managed to sit you down and threaten your hair with a comb for once!”  She teased to bring some normalcy to this moment of heightened emotion.

“Is this the way you talk to your king?” Éomer quipped.  His voice dropped lower to speak in confidence, “The first comb did not survive.”  Éowyn laughed merrily and again Éomer’s heart warmed to the sound.  This day life was good.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Aragorn sat in his bedchamber in the King's tent on the Field of Pelennor in his dressing robe.  He thought of his years as a ranger in the wild.  Dressing robes and fine bedding had not been a part of his life then. His cloak had sufficed for cover and his arm as pillow.  There were times when he craved companionship.  The life of a Dunedain was often colored by loneliness.  His times spent among his family in the Dunedain enclave near Fornost gave him this but he never stayed long because there were so much he needed to learn.  Being a ranger at times was solitary and their work in shadow and secrecy did not lend itself to camaraderie with the locals that they protected.  Many times he wished that he could enter a local tavern without suspicious looks following him.  But he now found himself on the opposite side of the coin.  Greeted by all with expectation.  Ceremony and show for all to see. He knew this was to be his life now and but it was going to be an adjustment.  Faramir’s words had been uncannily astute. 

His coronation finery lay on the dressing stand untouched.  He walked to the window looking through to the City and the tiers that were festooned with banners in Sable and Silver.  He took a deep breath and reflected upon everything in his life that had led to this point.  The sacrifices his mother and father had made to bring him to this road, this destination.  Both had already gone beyond the veil.  His father, whom he had shared no living memory, because Arathorn had died before Aragorn was three but whose love was wrapped around his heart, the emotion gifted to him when he was twelve. And his naneth, his mother, he corrected himself.  But no.  He would always think of Gilraen as naneth raised as he was in Imladris, again to keep him safe and to prepare him for this road, this destination.  Imladris, his childhood home, a tear fell for the home of his heart.  Home with the only father he had ever truly known, Lord Elrond.  Estranged of late because of Arwen.  According to his Adar, a love that should not have been.  It broke Aragorn’s heart to be estranged from his Adar but he could not help where his heart had led him.  Arwen would be here soon, but not in time for the coronation.  He sighed again as the weight of expectation lay upon him. Tears slipped silently down his face as he thought about all that happened, for all that had been lost.

“Estel,”  he felt a hand on his shoulder.  Another voice, “We are here for you, to attend upon you.”  He turned and saw his two foster brothers, Elladan and Elrohir.  Dressed green silk finery and with stars bound upon their brows.  There were very few he would allow to see the effect of such weight of responsibility, such emotion upon him, to see his inner self because so much was expected of him, but these two were among that select company.

The quip that Elladan had been ready to let fly as was his merry wont, died on his lips.  His little brother seemed to be in genuine distress. “Muindoreg nin, why do you cry?  Is there anything we can do to ease your suffering.”  He wiped a tear and then dried his little brother’s face.

Aragorn shook his head, “No, there isn’t.”  He shrugged as he took a deep breath to ease his sorrow and strain.  “I was reflecting upon everything that has brought me to this path.  It just overwhelmed me for a few moments.  So much death and so much change…”

Elrohir nodded his head, “Aye, that is true and there is no denying it,” as he stroked his little brother’s hair, an empathetic tear dropping for his little brother.  “You have sacrificed much.”

“Your mother and your father are so proud of you and smile beyond veil,” Elladan stated.  

Aragorn looked into his brother’s star-filled eyes, searching for the truth in his eyes, “Do you think so?”

“Aye, I know so…”  He stared into his little brother’s eyes intently and kissed him on the forehead.  Aragorn heard his brother’s voice inside his head, a bond that had been forged in desperation when Aragorn was only three.  The voice said, “I know you struggle with this, but you have this through your own efforts.  It was meant for you.”  Elladan left Aragorn’s mind and then voiced his thoughts aloud, “Prophecy is only that, prophecy.  It takes will and heart to make it reality.  This you have done muindoreg nin!”

“Your tears only say you know what this victory has cost and that you will never take for granted the sacrifices made.”  Elrohir said with quiet conviction. 

“If you don’t believe them then let me reaffirm their words,” came a voice from the door.  Aragorn looked to the doorway and saw his uncle, Erithain. 

“Uncle!” Aragorn exclaimed.

“Yes I am here.  Come see my nephew before all the Pomp and Grandeur sweeps him off his feet.  Too grand to know us Rangers of the North.”

“That shall never happen!” Aragorn affirmed earnestly.

The older man smiled, “I know it won’t.  But that doesn’t mean I am not going to tease you a bit.”

Aragorn looked at the older man and the two ageless elves who had meant so much to him throughout his life, steadying influences of love and loyalty.   He placed his hand on his heart and softly said, “Hannon le, my brothers.  Hannon le, My uncle!”

All three nodded to him hand on heart. And in a mercurial shift Elladan proclaimed, “It is time to dress you for your coronation. You shall be grander than grand,” 

Aragorn gave a chagrined smile, “All right, make me grand…”

Elladan held a twinkle in his eye, “You deserve nothing less, muindoreg nin,” he whispered.  They shared a look and Aragorn smiled, starting to accept the role he had always been destined to fulfill.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Muindoreg nin:  My little brother (lit. Brotherlit, my)

Hannon le:  Thank you

Ch. 3

Earlier that morning at dawn

Standing at the base of the pinnacle of the Tower of Ecthelion Faramir watched as two guards of the Citadel prepared the Stewards banner to be flown.  He watched as the snow-white banner of the Stewards with the silver tree and seven stars that had flown above the Citadel for close to a thousand years was raised one last time.  Hand over hand the guards inched banner higher until it reached the top of the spire.  He felt compelled to watch this ritual that had been performed every morning for nine hundred and sixty-nine years.  His heart swelled with pride for the dedication that the Stewards had served with these many centuries, in hope, out of duty and at the last he was to be the one to perform the rite so long ago sworn.  To give over the Stewardship to the newly returned king.  His thoughts strayed to his father, and he felt a tear fall.  Would he have given over the Stewardship had his mind not been corrupted by the palantir and Sauron’s whispered words that insidiously shadowed his heart to duty.  Another tear stained his face as it was turned upwards towards the banner as it seemed to scrape the sky.  It pained him to admit it, but he truthfully did not know.  He tried to bat away the thought as unworthy, telling himself that his own troubled relationship with his father colored his view.

He pushed the unworthy thoughts of his father to one side, telling himself this was a day of celebration not of recrimination.  He would probably ponder the unsettled relationship for the rest of his life, but he would enjoy this day and this celebration for what it was.  He felt like he needed to have a reason to feel joy and this was as good a reason that existed in this world.  He had to return to his suite of rooms, Eirik was waiting to adorn him in coronation finery.  He smiled thinking of his squire.  He could not have a more devoted servant and he had best get back, lest the boy should worry.  Eirik knew that Faramir hated pomp and ceremony.  Much like Aragorn, Faramir thought.  He murmured, “It is our life now so we had best get used to it.”

“Pardon, My lord steward?” one of the guards asked, “What was that?”

Faramir turned and smiled warmly at the guard, “Nothing, Harthedir.  Just musing on the fate of the world is all.” he chuckled.  

Harthedir looked up at the banner flying, “It is all changing, My Lord Faramir.  Is it not?  And all for the better.  I feel” He paused searching for the word, “…hope once again.”

Faramir looked into the eyes of the guardsman he had known since the boy had come from the Lebennin to start training and was then named to the Citadel guard.  He saw happiness and hope.  He placed a hand on the guardsman’s shoulder, “I share this feeling as well.  It is time to make things right.”  Harthedir nodded, determination in his eyes. “Are you to raise the colors when it is time?”

“Yes,” the guardsman stated in a suddenly emotion-choked voice.  He cleared his throat, “That is to be our honour,”

“Good man!”  Faramir nodded to Danaer, the other guardsman and then to Harthedir, “I must return to my suites. Eirik is waiting to make me grand!”

Harthedir smiled, “He is ever the diligent one, is he not, My Lord?”

Faramir chuckled, “That he is, Harthedir, that is he is!  Till later,” he stated as he made his way down to Eirik and finery.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Eirik had been up since before dawn and he had slept on the pallet within his lord’s room instead of his mum and dad’s home on the third tier as he had since his lord had given him permission after the eagles had flown to the City with news of Mordor’s fall.  He wanted to be on hand for whatever his lord might need in the early morning hours on the day of the coronation.  He had been up late polishing Faramir’s armor so it would shine until Faramir told him to stop and go to bed.  “Get some rest, the world will be there tomorrow.”  Eirik smiled and did his lord’s bidding.  But he awoke as Faramir left his suite just before dawn, dressed quickly to finish polishing the ceremonial breastplate that Faramir was to wear.  His lord needed to look his best to give over the Stewardship into the hands of the King.  Next, after brushing down the deep blue velvet of his lord’s ceremonial robe, he ran a hand over the fabric reveling in the softness of it.  He marveled at the silver embroidery along the hem.  He drew a deep breath and let out a shuddering sigh.  He tried to master the overwhelming grief that sigh had brought and he wiped away an offending tear that he was ashamed to have shed.

Faramir entered his bower and saw his normally ebullient squire wiping a tear away.  He smiled as his heart went out to the boy.  “Eirik?”  He saw the boy’s back straighten.

“Yes, My Lord!” The boy answered, still with his back to Faramir.

Faramir came to stand behind his squire, “Eirik, turn around.”  After a small hesitation the boy obeyed, his tear-stained face evidencing his emotional state.

“Tis the spring, My Lord.  The flowers, they cause my eyes to water.”  Eirik tried to explain as he looked down.  

Faramir paused and then lifted his squire’s chin to meet eyes, “Is lying something I have taught you in my service?” he gently admonished the boy.

“No, My Lord.”  Eirik mumbled, looking downward again.  Once again Faramir raised the boy’s chin to meet eyes and looked at him with compassion.  “Why am I sad?” the boy asked, “Why do I have tears in my eyes?  I should be happy.  This is a wonderful day!” he ended, clearly confused, more tears falling.

“You are right.  Today is a wonderful day.”  Faramir began assertively, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “But you cry because you have a heart and you know what it has cost to bring this day foward.” he continued gently, holding his squire’s eye.  “I have great respect for a man who sheds tears in remembrance.  This means you honor the sacrifices made.”  At the use of the word “man” Eirik’s eyes widened and he stood up straight and threw his shoulders back.  Faramir smiled inwardly.  He loved this boy, who came to him at age ten and had never disappointed him, always rising to what task was set before him and always accepting of correction should something go amiss.  He kissed him on the top of his head and then said briskly, “Shall we get on?  I will be due at the Gates within the hour.”

“Yes, My Lord!” Eirik said, wiping away the last of his tears and briskly setting about his task of dressing his lord on this the finest of all days. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

Faramir and Eirik arrived at the Houses of Healing after Eirik had sufficiently fussed over his attire and then attended to his own finery as squire to the Steward.  Faramir was filled with expectations of how Éowyn would look in the gown he had commissioned for her, but Éowyn waiting in the foyer of the Houses with her young Riders, Haling and Léoulfwine, who had healed sufficiently to attend the ceremonies, had exceeded all expectations.  She was a radiant vision of loveliness in creme brocade.

“Will I do?” Éowyn asked, a slight hint of teasing in her voice. 

“I’ll say…” Faramir was enrapt by the vision before him.  He reached to touch the circlet upon her head, Éowyn blushed in the torchlight of the foyer.

“Éomer had it commissioned for me for the coronation.  He spoils me so much.”

Faramir smiled, “It can never be too much, for you deserve every jewel that can be showered upon you, though they can never outshine your beauty from within.”  He turned to bid greeting to the two young riders he had gotten to know over the course of the last month and was met with what could only be described as approving looks.  He nodded to Haling and looked at Léoulfwine, “How are you feeling? Are you recovering well?”

“Well enough, My Lord.  I shall be fighting fit soon enough!”

“Good to hear, though I should hope there will be no more fighting, at least not for a long while.”

Léoulfwine nodded, “I wholeheartedly agree, My Lord.” A shadow of remembrance shaded his young face.  Faramir nodded as he looked upon the young man with compassion.  Éowyn touched the young man’s cheek and smiled at both her boys.

Offering Éowyn his arm, Faramir stated, “Shall we be off?”

“Aye!  We shall!”  Éowyn declared cheerfully.

They made their way down to the main gate, or rather what was left of the main gate where a ceremonial bar had been placed across the opening.  The streets were thronged with the happy people of the City in their best festive attire, the women and children bedecked with floral wreaths in their hair. They greeted Faramir with joyful cheers as he made his way down to the first tier and the main gate. Faramir was to give over the ceremonial rod of Stewardship to Aragorn as part of the ceremony and Éowyn and Elfhelm and the thanes that had survived the battle were there to represent Rohan along with the Riders named by Elfhelm to stand attendant upon them.  Éomer, as the uncrowned king of the Mark, was to enter the city with Aragorn as friend and ally.  Faramir nodded his leave to attend to matters before the ceremonies began.

Éowyn looked around and saw Elfhelm and greeted him effusively and the old soldier looked her in the eye and said, “I don’t know whether to laugh with joy or to put you over my knee for disobeying your uncle!” Pausing the gruff, old warrior’s face broke out in a rare smile,  “But I am so happy you are here to witness this joy!”  Éowyn looked at the man who risked his position as Marshal and perhaps even his life for allowing her to stay.

She said in a low voice, “I owe you a debt I do not believe I will ever be able to repay.”

Elfhelm stared deep into her eyes before answering, “Aye well,” he sighed, “Clearly, Fate would have it her way.”  He chuckled softly, “If I had not you would have only found another way.  Best you rode with me…so I could keep an eye on you!” He ended more forcefully.

Éowyn has the good grace to laugh, “I would have.” She sobered, “I was in a place in my heart I never wish to go again.” They shared a look, Éowyn stated, if only to escape her memories of that time, “And thank you for caring for my boys.” she said as she saw Háláf, Heostar and Ceorl approach with Aethelred.

Elfhelm looked at his son and his three companions and said with a smile in his voice, “They are inseparable, I could not have one without taking the other three.”

Éowyn looked at her boys.  They looked like strong, proud young men arrayed in their polished armor and their Éored badges received in the field, shined to perfection.  Háláf was no longer that eleven year old boy she knew who played with a wooden sword or on crutches trying to recover from his broken leg.  A lump formed in her throat and she tried to disguise it by wiping an imaginary smudge off of Háláf’s nose with motherly concern.  “Oh dear, this won’t do at all.”

Háláf blushed at the motherly onslaught, his blue eyes once again that eleven year old Éowyn remembered so well. “My Lady, I washed my face!”  he said in embarrassed tones. Éowyn laughed.

“Of course you did!”  Éowyn looked at the other three.  Again, the lump formed itself in her throat, “You all look so manly!”  Now three more faces turned the blotchy red of teenage embarrassment.  They were spared more embarrassed blushes as the bell sounded for them to take their places as the royal entourage had just been spotted approaching the barrier set at the gate’s entrance.  

A portion of the Tower Guard were given dispensation to stand at the main gate on either side of the entrance.  In their uniforms of sable and silver the Guard stood awaiting the order to draw swords and form an arch for the Royal Entourage to pass under.  Faramir stepped forward and greeted Elfhelm, “My Lord Elfhelm and My Lady Éowyn of Rohan,” he bowed to them both formally as his connection to Éowyn could not be made public until her uncle was properly buried under Simbelmynë in Edoras. “It is time!” Faramir announced and with a wistful look at Éowyn he turned to lead the procession to stand at the gate’s opening.

Outside the gates lining the path the coronation procession was to follow into the City were the many soldiers and knights of the victorious armies and all manner of well-wishers who had come from near and far to witness this joyous event.  A hush spread over the festive crowd. Éowyn looked forward and saw the approaching procession. She had been told the order of the procession by Faramir on one of their stolen moments during the month preceding.  But knowing did not dim the beauty of first sight.  She saw the remaining Dunedain who had come to fight for their chieftain and brother.  But they were not dressed in their customary browns and greys, but in formal raiment of silver and grey.  But as the procession drew nearer she could see in front of them walking slowly was Aragorn, Éomer on his left and Prince Imrahil on his right.  Gandalf in undimmed white alongside.  As the procession drew near Éowyn could see Aragorn more clearly. He was clad in bright silver mail with a breastplate adorned with the tree and seven stars.  He wore a long white mantle clasped with a green jewel that flashed when the early morning sun struck it.  His head was bare, save for a jewel at his forehead.  Behind she could see Merry clad in his polished armor of Rohan and Pippin in his sable and silver livery of the Tower Guard.  She saw Frodo and Sam dressed hobbit style finery. She had gotten to know over the last weeks as Frodo had healed in the Houses.  A finer more stout people she had yet to meet.

Aragorn paused some paces before the gates and the procession came to a halt.  A lone silver trumpet rang out from the wall above and the hushed crowd fell silent for many moments.  Faramir took a slow calming breath as he and Hurin of the Keys stepped out in front of the barrier across the front gates.  They were followed by four guards of the Citadel, one holding the Steward’s Rod of Office and two holding a casket of black lebethron bound in silver.  They walked the short distance to stand in front of Aragorn.  The guard bearing the rod of office moved even with Faramir and presented him with the rod.  With hand on heart Faramir took the rod and proceeded to kneel into front of Aragorn, the rod held across both hands as Faramir bowed his head and then looked up to proclaim for all to hear, “The last Steward of Gondor begs leave to surrender his office.” He lifted the rod to be received by his king. Aragorn laid a hand upon the rod and then spoke.

“That office is not ended, and it shall be thine and thy heirs’ as long as my line shall last.  Do now thy office!”

Faramir stood and with pride shining in his eyes, he proclaimed in a loud, clear voice, “Men of Gondor hear now the Steward of this Realm!  Behold!  One has come to claim the kingship again at last.  Here is Aragorn son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dúnedain of Arnor, Captain of the Host of the West, Bearer of the Star of the North, Wielder of the Sword Reforged, victorious in battle, whose hands bring healing, the Elfstone, Elessar of the line of Valandil, Isildur’s son, Elendil’s son of Númenor.  Shall he be king and enter into the City and dwell there?”  To this there was rapturous acclaim from all the peoples both inside and outside the gates.

The two guards carrying the casket came forward and Faramir laid eyes on the black lebethron wood and the emotions of the previous day came to mind.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The day before, 

He stood at Fenn Hollin, the Steward’s door leading to Rath Dinen, the street where the dead were entombed.  The last time he was here he was barely conscious, ravaged by fever and injury.  He felt a swirl of differing emotions and tried to dampen them down.  He could hear the crashing of doors; Could almost feel the flickering heat from the funeral pyre.  He shut his eyes and he could hear his father’s last words to him.  Even though the fever was raging through his body and distorted his perception, he remembered the words, “Do not take my son from me! My son!  He calls for me!”  Pain distorting his father’s noble face, the flame flickering all around.  The sight he had longed for, evidence of his father’s love for him, written in pain across that ravaged face.

“My Lord Faramir!  He started at Beregond’s voice.  He tried to rein in his emotions before he addressed his old friend currently on suspension from the Tower Guard for leaving his post though it had been to save Faramir’s life.  Faramir asked him to come to the Silent Street with him more as a favour to him rather than a command.

“Yes, my friend,” Faramir rubbed his face with the hand not holding the key to the door. Beregond cast a concerned look at his lord, not knowing whether or not he should tread upon the obvious ground of tragic memories that this road was going to bring for his friend.  Faramir saw the constrained look on Beregond’s face and sighed.  He pasted a chagrined smile on his face.  “I am fine.  We have a job to do here.” he ended levelly.

Beregond looked at his lord, the man he risked everything for.  He wanted to say so much but he knew that it was not the time.  He did not know if it ever would be the time.  He pursed his lips and mutely nodded his assent.

Faramir nodded, receiving his friend’s acquiescence, for he knew that is what it was, not acceptance.  He took a deep breath and turned the key to the Steward’s door.  They walked down the Silent Street to the as yet unrepaired door.  He stepped over the threshold and lit Beregrond’s torch from his.  As the second flame blazed to light Faramir looked around the room; all lay undisturbed, the strewn kindling and burnt sticks.  The platform upon which his father had set himself alight.  It was cold, so very cold.  He pushed aside recent memory with some difficulty.  

They were to travel far back into the tombs, to where the kings lay; the silence was almost unbearable and the air stale, even a few steps beyond the threshold.  Neither spoke much, almost as if the occupants of the tombs they passed frowned on sound of any kind. There was little degradation of the effigies placed upon the stone monuments owing mostly to being sealed inside, away from the elements. Passing through the section owed to the stewards was sobering.  He paused at his grandfather’s effigy.  He had not known him, Ecthelion had died when he was only a year old, but still he felt compelled to stop. 

When they reached the section where the kings lay there was a marked difference in ornateness, almost as if the Stewards thought by right the kings should be more celebrated even in death. Though for Eärnur, the last king of Gondor, there was no effigy for there had been no body.  He had gone into Mordor for single combat and was never seen again.  With no heir he was the last. Only the years of his life 1928 - 2050 and his winged crown set in an alcove under the numbers were evidence of his passing.  Perhaps because the alcove was inset but the crown looked like it had just been set there, only the silver, tarnished over the centuries spoke to any time having passed.  The wings, tarnished though they were, still spoke to Faramir’s heart.  He shared a glance with Beregond.  Still neither man spoke.  This is what they had come for.  Faramir placed his hand over his heart, staring at the crown, at the wings gently folded back.  He cleared his throat, the noise seeming loud in the complete absence of sound, “It is time for you to see the light of day.  One destined and worthy will wear you once again."  They were whispered words but they still seemed to reverberate around the silent chamber.  He reached to remove the crown from its thousand year home. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

Faramir looked about him and proclaimed, “Men of Gondor, the loremasters tell that it was the custom of old that the king should receive the crown from his father ere he died; or if that might not be, that he should go alone and take it from the hands of his father in the tomb where he was laid.  But since things must now be done otherwise, using the authority of the Steward, I have today brought hither from Rath Dínen the crown of Eärnur the last king, whose days passed in the time of our longfathers of old.”  He opened the casket and then held the crown for all to see and then he dropped to a knee as he then presented it to Aragorn looking at the man’s face.  Faramir was struck by the look in his friend’s eyes.  It was a private look shared between friends as if the world did not look on.  He gave a slight nod of approval and was overcome with shame that he should have been so presumptuous, but Aragorn answered with empathy in his eyes and the slightest of smiles before he accepted the crown from Faramir’s hands.  The young steward’s heart sang, knowing his presumption was forgiven and even accepted.

Aragorn held the crown aloft and sung the words of oath last heard from the lips of a king born over a thousand years ago, “Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn’ Ambar-metta!”  He again repeated in Westron, “these were the words spoken by Elendil after he had come from the sea!  Spoken by each king in his turn.  ‘Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth I am come.  In this place will I abide, and my heirs, unto the ending of the world.’”

He turned to Faramir and handed the crown back to him and Éowyn noticed the surprised look on Faramir’s.  This had not been part of the plan.  She looked at Aragorn wondering at what he was going to do next.  Aragorn stated in a voice designed to carry, “By the labour and valour of many I have come into my inheritance.  In token of this I would have the Ring-bearer bring the crown to me,” he gestured gently toward Frodo, “and let Mithrandir set it upon my head, if he will;” Here he gestured gently toward Gandalf, “for he has been the mover of all that has been accomplished, and this is his victory.”

She watched as Frodo started at his name and then focused on what he was being asked to do.  She saw Gandalf smile and then step forth.  Faramir gently handed the crown into Frodo’s hands, who then carried it to Gandalf who promptly stood in front of Aragorn, crown in hand.  Even from the slight distance Éowyn could see a slight twinkle in the old wizard’s eye just before he placed the winged crown upon Aragorn’s head.  The younger man knelt to receive his destiny, achieved after many years lived and many miles traveled.  And to Faramir’s eyes Aragorn seemed to grow in stature and he seemed to resemble the sea-kings of old in the stories he poured over as a child and dreamed a dream.  Wisdom sat upon his brow and strength and healing were in his hands.  A child’s dream collided with the reality that he had seen all of this with his own eyes and felt within his own heart.  Aragorn had shown himself to his young steward as the stories had been told.  Faramir heard someone shout, “Behold the King!” and he realised that voice was his own.

At that trumpets sounded and people rejoiced, Aragorn then made his way to the Gate of the City followed by his entourage of knights and Dunedain rangers.  Hurin of the Keys commanded four guards of the Citadel open the barriers outwards and Aragorn entered the City proper as King Elessar, the Elfstone, the one who brings healing.  He wended his way along the tiers as harps from Dol Amroth, the clear voices of singers from the Lebeninn rang out in the crowd that was bedecked in all colors and flowers thrown freely, this time in joy and not in sadness.  He climbed the seven tiers to the Citadel and as trumpets blared to announce his arrival Harthedir and Danaer lowered the Stewards banner for the last time and placed with shaking hands and joy on their faces the banner that Arwen Undomiel made with her hands, or so the story was told.  The banner that was unfurled on the Corsair ship that had given hope to all who had seen it while on the field of battle.  This banner was raised in hope and in promise that Elessar would bring hope to all Middle Earth. 

~*~*~*~*~

Ch. 4 - “All else can wait!”

Minas Tirith,  May 3019 TA

Éowyn stood in the Houses of Healing at the balustrade of her balcony, as she had come to think of it.  The place had become dear to her heart because she found herself here.  She had found purpose in life, and she had found happiness with Faramir.  She truly loved this place, but it was time to go home and set things right.  She thought of her people that she had left in Dunharrow, and an ache twinged in her heart.  She sighed thinking of those she loved…and deserted if she were honest with herself.

“What thoughts troubled you, my love?” A voice from behind and arms encircled her.  She breathed in Faramir’s scent of musky sweetness and immediately her heart calmed.  She turned in his arms and looked into those gentle blue eyes, and Gamhelm’s long ago words “Make sure, my lady, that he has a gentle heart.  ‘Tis most important.”  She smiled at the truth of those words, but her brow furrowed again.  

“We will be departing on the morrow for home.”

“And you will miss me so much that it furrows your brow?”  Faramir teased in a tentative fashion.  This happiness was still so new to him that he was almost giddy at times.

Éowyn smiled, “Arrogant man!”  Truly a change was coming over him.

“You will not miss me?” Faramir said, with a small amount of doubt glinting in his earnest eyes.

Éowyn, noting the change, did not tease further, “Of course, I will miss you!” She smiled. “But that is not all.”

Faramir, noting her concern, sat her down on the bench nearby and then joined her, concern in his eyes, “Then what is it?”

Éowyn pursed her lips then stated, “I deserted my people to follow my own path…I have pushed that fact aside but I can no longer.  We are starting home tomorrow.” 

Seeing the torment in her eyes Faramir was quiet, trying to think of the words that would absolve her of this transgression.  “I do not think you will be found wanting.  What did Gamhelm say when you left?” he said, speaking of the horsemaster that Éowyn had often spoken of with such affection during their stolen time leading up to the Coronation.

“He said to leave it to him.  He would take care of it.”

Faramir held her eyes, “Well then, do you trust him?”

“With my life!”

Faramir gently smiled, “Well then, it is settled.” He leaned over and kissed Éowyn’s forehead.  Éowyn gave a pained wordless smile. He continued gently, “If you had not, we would never have met and that is a tragedy I do not, cannot conceive of.”

Éowyn nodded as the full horror of never meeting Faramir hit her full force.  It made her hope that his words were true.  She somehow knew that she could face anything as long as Faramir was in her life, waiting for her.  She wished he was coming with her back to Rohan so that he could be at her side as she faced whatever music was to be faced upon her return.  But it could not be; Faramir was quickly become Aragorn’s right hand man as they prepared to bring Gondor past the war and into its former glory and she was so happy that Faramir's worth was finally being recognised.  It was enough to know that she was in Faramir’s heart, come what may.  She turned her head up for a gentle kiss.  It would have to suffice until they came to Gondor once more to bear hence Théoden King’s body home to the Mark.  Rohirrim custom held that the handfasting would have to wait until after then.

~*~*~*~*~*~

They stepped off the next morning.  Éomer, Elfhelm on his right hand and Éowyn on his left.  The Rohirrim army was returning home.  At Éomer’s bequest Éowyn’s boys rode at her side as hers to command.  She looked at the six of them, young and strong but also changed as only hard battle could change a boy into a man.  She thanked Bema that they all rode home to family and friends.  Many other families were not so lucky.  She thought of Háláf’s parents, Déor and Saelith, they lived in the lower reaches of Edoras.  Déor was a potter and Éowyn had met them while she did weekly rounds of the less affluent areas of Edoras.  It had started as a duty, owing to the fact that she was the King’s niece and it was her station to help the less fortunate.  But in point of fact, she came to love the visiting and many of those on her rounds became close friends of hers.  Their honesty and their acceptance of her, not asking that she be anything other than herself, came very close to her heart.  Déor and his wife Saerlith were among those she called friend.  She thanked Bema that she was bringing their son home safe, though he had changed.  War does that to all.  She looked at Háláf who was to her immediate right.  “Homeward bound!”

“Aye, my Lady… Tis strange it is not?  It has not been many days since we left Dunharrow…and yet it seems a lifetime ago.”  He looked at her with eyes that seemed older than his sixteen years.  Then he visibly brightened, “Though I look forward to my mum’s cooking,” once again looking like the boy he had been before leaving Dunharrow. 

“I wholeheartedly agree, Young Master Háláf,” Éomer stated.  “I, too, would look forward to your mother’s cooking, but alas I will not be afforded that luxury.  Mine is a different fate…”  Here he looked at Éowyn with a purposefully baleful glance.  

Éowyn stated indignantly, “I cook one stew not to your liking and forever branded an ill cook!”

“One?” Éomer smiled, enjoying his purposeful barbing.  

Éowyn looked at him through slitted eyes.  Háláf looked at his lady and said, “I don’t know.  My King, I should tread carefully.  I’ve seen that look and it never ends well for the recipient.”

Éomer barked a laugh, “My man, I have lived through that look and lived to tell the tale.”

Háláf looked at his king with eyes of new appreciation, “As you say, My King!” 

“If you two are done…”

“Aye, My Lady,”  Háláf quickly said but with a trace of humour still in his voice.

Éomer, not so easily cowed, barked another laugh, then stated joyously, “Life is good.  We head home and thankfully I, as now comes to mind, will have a cook waiting for me there!”  He felt something plonk the side of his helmet.  He reached for his sword then caught his sister’s mirthful face as she held another nut yet to be shelled in her hand.  She plonked him again and then tore across the plain that lay before them laughing.

Éomer shouted, “That is your game, is it?” and tore after her, laughing as he went.  Elfhelm smiled as he watched them ride. King of the Horse Lords and his sister riding with joyous abandon.  Life indeed was good.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Edoras, late Spring 3019 TA

At Dunharrow they had received a message from the south in the form of an eagle announcing that the Armies of the West had been victorious and Sauron had been defeated.   Holdlith had never heard from a talking eagle before and it was quite the experience.  Unfortunately, the bird was short on details and could not tell her much else.  “Bloody bird,” she had muttered under her breath as the bird had flown away.  That had been over a month ago.  Holdlith now sat on an obliging hay bale as she sat in the stables at lunch time with both Gamhelm and Gamwen sipping the ale from the Meduseld kitchen stores.  The Royal kitchens were working overtime because after being away for a little more than a month, a bad rainstorm had come through Edoras and caused some damage to some of the homes, especially on the lower edges of the city.  Many were bedding down in the Great Hall and were being fed out of the kitchens.  Holdlith’s house was among those that had sustained some damage and was housing in Meduseld.  “This is fine ale, but the mead does not hold a candle to mine.” 

“True, True.” Gamhelm murmured. “You make a truly fine mead.  Shame about the beehives.”

“True, True.” Holdlith murmured, her tone tinged with sadness.  Some of the hives had been damaged by the partial roof collapse.  The bees had not deserted the hives and had been busily repairing them, but Holdlith’s roof would need repairing before she would be able to attempt any more mead as she needed a place where she could control temperatures.  “Well next year should be a bumper crop!”

“Indeed,” Gamwyn stated as she quaffed more of the fine ale.

Just then a rider came into the stable in a rush.  He looked at Gamhelm, “Are you Master Gamhelm?”

“Aye, I am!  What news do you bring?” 

The outrider stated joyously, “We are coming home!” he paused, a little sheepish at his outburst, He began again, “The Lady Éowyn told me specifically I am to hand this to you, Master Gamhelm and that you would see it into the right hands.”

Gamhelm nodded, the relief coursing through his veins to hear word relayed by his lady, for that meant she lived.  He looked at Holdlith, whose eyes were filling with tears at the mention of Éowyn’s name.  “Thank you,” Gamhelm paused, for he did not know this Rider.

“Elffred,” the Rider supplied, “I served under Grimbold, who has unfortunately met his end on the Fields before the White City.”

Gamhelm’s eyes teared up again.  This time in sorrow.  He had known Grimbold to be a stern man of honor.  His loss would be felt greatly.  “He was a great warrior and a very good man,”  he affirmed.

“That he was.”

Gamhelm smiled, “I will stable your horse and will relay the message to Lord Erkenbrand, who holds the defense of Rohan from the Golden Hall.”  Elffred nodded fist on heart.

Holdlith took his arm, saying, “You are weary, come let us fortify you with food and drink.” 

“Aye, mistress.  Thank you!”

She met with Thilda and asked that Elffred be given food.  She then went to find Saelith to ask about bedding.  She still marveled over the change that had come over the noblewoman while at Dunharrow.  No longer was she preemptory in her manner.  She, as one of the only highborn ladies in residence, had taken up the duties as Chatelaine of Meduseld temporarily and was quite efficient in the responsibilities.

“My Lady Saelith,” Holdlith called as she spotted the short woman with a scarf wrapped around her head, speaking to Wilda, one of the maids.

Saelith looked up and nodded to her, “Off you go, Wilda, take Heruling and begin at Déor and Saerith’s house and begin cleaning and then go down the row.”

Wilda nodded, “Aye, My Lady!” and left to find Heruling.

“Mistress Holdlith, what is your need?” she began with a brisk but not unpleasant tone.

“We have received an outrider.  The Riders will be returning, My Lady.”

Saelith was immediately still and then asked, “Did he say anything…”

Holdlith looked upon the young woman with compassion, “He did not say anything.  He held a missive for Lord Erkenbrand, but his demeanor was not an unhappy one.” She said gently, knowing that Saelith thought of her husband, Haere who had ridden south as one of Elfhelm’s captains.  Holdlith took hold one of her hands and patted it comfortingly.  “I’m sure Haere has come through all right and will be coming home.” Before Dunharrow she would have never attempted such a familiarity, but war and misfortune had a tendency to break down custom.

Saelith smiled, taking comfort from the older woman, “I am sure, too.” trying to convince herself that such hope was possible.  She straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath and refocused.  “You had a need?”

Holdlith inwardly smiled, Saelith had indeed changed and much for the better.  “Aye.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Two days later…

“What was that Mistress Holdlith?  I didn’t quite catch that.”  Héohelm, one of Éowyn’s apprentices, now a Rider, who was standing guard and allowed her to stand with him in expectation of Éowyn’s arrival from Minas Tirith.

“Hmmm!”  Holdlith looked up at the young man, “Never you mind, Héohelm!” she patted the young man’s arm, “Just trying to catch my breath after those steps!  Thank you for allowing me up here!”  

Héohelm, blushing a little, stated, “I knew you would want to!”  In truth, Holdlith reminded him of his grandmother, whom he had not seen since last he was given leave and did not know how his village in the Eastfold near Aldburg had fared.  Being kind to Holdlith helped his heart and he prayed Bema had been kind to his family whom he hoped he would be able to see very soon.

He looked out past the walls to try and distract himself from his thoughts. After a few minutes of scanning the distance Héohelm saw a cloud of dust and then sounded the horn of approach.  “Mistress!”  He tapped Holdlith on the shoulder as she looked up from her knitting, brought to pass the time.  She stood and looked in the direction he was pointing and saw a faint cloud of dust.  Her heart leapt, “Héohelm, what else do your young eyes see?”

Héohelm sheepishly shrugged, “Not much else, Mistress!  But I must now sound the horn of welcome!”  He walked to the horn mounted on the side of the small tower enclosure and blew it.  A few seconds passed and a sound that brought joy to Holdlith’s heart split the air, the respondent staccato horn blast.  She waited until she could see the green banners of the King flying in the distance and then descended the steps bounding down with feet half her age.  She heard Héohelm shout down, “Open the gate!”  Aye indeed, Holdlith thought.  With joy in her heart, she waited to see her lady.  At the head of the column she soon saw Éowyn in a green gown and at her side was Lord Éomer.  She scanned the front of the column for the King and then memory reminded her.  In her vision she had seen Théoden King die on the battlefield and a wave of sorrow passed through her.  Curse my visions for always being right.  She looked again, this time more clearly as the entourage approached.  It was the King’s banner that flew behind Éomer.  She felt a bang of sorrow for the young man who had endured so much in his life to have this much responsibility thrust upon him at so young an age.

Éowyn heard the horn of welcome and she burst into tears, which completely startled Éomer as his sister was normally so unflappable.  “Sister, what is wrong?”  He said in a low, fervent voice.  As members of the Rohirrim royal family they had always been taught to be more reserved amongst their people.

Éowyn quickly composed herself, “I am sorry, brother, but the horn blew the welcome and it all hit me at once…We’re home!” she exclaimed.  Inside her heart, she wondered what kind of reception she would receive.

Éomer smiled softly and Éowyn could see that tears he would not shed rimmed his eyes, “Aye that we are!”

By the time they reached the gate Lord Erkenbrand had gained the gate for the proper welcome home, flanked by a guard of honor, for he had been informed in the missive from the outrider that Théoden King had been slain and would be returned home with a guard of fallen honor formed.  He had been asked to not say anything and allow Éomer to bring the news home with him.  He remained standing silent, though to all watching it was obvious what had happened.

Éomer dismounted and walked to Erkenbrand, Elfhelm dismounted as well and walked next to Éomer.  He could feel the palpable grief from the younger man.  Éomer stood in front of Erkenbrand and then knelt, removing his helm to hold at his side, head bowed.  Elfhelm spoke in a loud voice for all gathered to hear, for by now a crowd was lining the lower streets of Edoras, “Théoden King, son of Thengel has fallen,” He paused as he heard a gasp run through the crowd.  “Named by Théoden, Éomer, son of Eomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark like his father, asks ‘will you, the good people of Edoras, accept him as your King?’ ”

People were still stunned by the news of Théoden King’s death, but a rising tide of acclamation came rolling forth and Lord Erkenbrand placed a hand on Éomer’s head and said in a voice choked with emotion, “Rise, my king!”

Éomer looked up.  Erkenbrand saw tears in his eyes, together with determination and humility in the young man’s earnest blue depths.  He reached out a hand to the older man, “Will you help me?” 

Erkenbrand’s eyes widened, and his eyes felt wetter than before, “Aye, that I will…My King.” knowing it was more than the simple request to rise from his knees. 

Éomer smiled a tight-lipped smile and said in a choked voice, “Thank you, my friend.”  After Éomer accepted Erkenbrand's help to rise, he turned to the gathered residents of Edoras and bowed his head, hand on heart.  “Thank you, good citizens of Edoras,” looking at all who were assembled, “We will mourn my uncle the king.  Bright was his light.  Great is his memory.  He shall be buried under Symbelmyne and only then I shall take my seat in the Golden Hall!”  He finished humbly.

As she watched from atop her horse, Eowyn could almost see a mantle of responsibility settle upon her brother.  When he turned to address the amassed army of Riders she could see it in his eyes.  All captains were assembled in front to take orders to their own eoreds.  “Your oaths to King and Country have been fulfilled.  Return home with your King’s thanks and know that he owes you a debt that he will fulfill should you have need.  Forth to your homes, Eorlingas!”  He finished shouting the words.  The cheers arose and the captains, head bowed and fist on heart dispersed to spread the King’s Word.  Éowyn slipped from her horse to lock arms with her brother, now acclaimed King though a more formal coronation would wait until Théoden was buried under Symbelmyne.  She smiled and said, “What would you have me do?”

Éomer stated, “I would have you greet those that are vibrating with joy to see you for I fear for their well-being if they are not allowed to welcome you.”  He had spied Holdlith out of the corner of his eye.  “All else can wait!”

Ch. 5 - “Always, My dear girl”

Éowyn found herself hugged by first Holdlith and then Héohelm.  She had tears in her eyes that no amount of royal restraint could keep from falling.  She saw Héohelm hug his friends who had ridden south.  All else would keep while initial joy held sway.  Holdlith pulled back from a second hug and looked into her young friend’s eyes.  Beyond the obvious grief for her uncle she saw a calmness of spirit, a happiness where there had always been a restlessness before.  She smiled, but she knew amid this tumult of joy and reunion was not the place to ask questions.  She merely said, “When the outrider, Elffred appeared with the message for Gamhelm, it was only then that we knew that you lived.” 

Éowyn hugged her friend again, “I am so sorry for everything that I put you through.  Can you ever forgive me?”

Holdlith pulled back from the hug and looked into Éowyn’s eyes, “Forgive?  There is nothing to forgive.  I am just happy to see you happy and whole again.” Possibly for the first time She thought, smiling at her friend.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Lady Saelith had been tending to the weekly inventory of the kitchen stores with Thilda.  She sighed, “With those staying within the Golden Hall due to the storm, the store of barley and oats is lower than I am comfortable with.”  She looked at Thilda.  “We shall all have to tighten our belts a little more until we can get back on a normal footing.”

“Aye, my lady.  It has been a rough go of it, but we shall make do!”  Thilda replied firmly.

Saelith was about to reply when Wilda, one of the housemaids, bounded into the kitchens. “The horn of Welcome has sounded!  They are here!  I just saw Lord Erkenbrand heading to the gate now!”

Saelith froze and then looked at Thilda with fear in her eyes.  Thilda looked at her with compassion.  She had come to like the lady with her brisk ways, “My Lady?  Go!  Quicker to know either way!”

Saelith dazedly undid her smock.  “You are right, Thilda.  But the stock is not done…?”

Thilda stated firmly, “Pish to the stock!  It will tend itself!

Saelith shook herself from her daze, “Aye, Aye!  You are right!”  she said, still somewhat distractedly.  She started towards the door.

Thilda eyed the young noblewoman with some affection.  She turned to the maid, “Wilda, you had best go with her.  She is not quite herself.  Be there, should she receive unwelcome news.”

Wilda bobbed a curtsy, “Aye!  That I will.  But I hope I am not needed.”

“Aye, child!  So do I!  Now go!”

WIlda quickened her steps to catch Lady Saelith. “My lady!” She called.  The noblewoman stopped, with a puzzled look on her face.

“Wilda?  What is it?  Is there something you need?” Her face showed the impatience to move forward but she needed to know what the problem was.

Bobbing her head, Wilda stated quickly, “Thilda said to be with you, should you have need of me.  Though I hope not to be needed…”  She stumbled over these last words, hoping she had not said too much.

“Not to be need–” Saelith stopped herself as dawning recognition fell upon her.  She looked back up the hill.  She bit her lip as emotions that she too had been taught not to show, flowed through her, “I must thank Thilda later.  Thank you, Wilda.”  She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath, “Come, let us go.”  They continued down to the gate briskly to an outcome unknown.

They reached the gate as Elfhelm was informing the gathered crowd of Théoden King’s demise.  A pang of sorrow for the King crossed Saelith’s heart and she looked to her side as Wilda gasped in dismay, as a servant at the Golden Hall occasionally serving at table she knew the king to be a kindly if sometimes distracted man.  Tears fell.  Then she heard that Lord Éomer was asking to be king.  She dried her tears and shouted, “Aye!”

She followed as Saelith continued through the gathered citizens, driven as the noblewoman was to view the army to see her Haere.  Having reached the front Saelith began scanning the first line of Riders.  She saw Éomer addressing the line of captains and then dismiss them.  She did not see Haere and her heart started to darken.  

“Oh, My lady…”  Wilda started but Saelith stayed her sympathy with a slight gesture, her heart breaking; her eyes brimming.

“One so beautiful should never look so sad.”  A voice to thrill her heart and stop her tears sounded.

Saelith looked up and burst into tears of a different sort; those of joy.  Her Haere dismounted and took her in his arms and they kissed.  She pulled back and looked at him, touching to make sure he was real and whole, “You are here…not dead on a battlefield away from me!”

“Aye!  I am here and not dead on some unknown battlefield.”  Haere stated and enveloped his indomitable wife in his arms again.  “Though many are not…” 

Saelith heard the tremor in his voice and vowed at that moment to love him through the trauma that she heard.  Looking into her husband’s blue eyes she saw pain that he was trying to hide from her as he had always done.  Always trying to shield her from pain and unpleasantness.  Before the war she had always welcomed it, but she had grown up in the past weeks and realised that she did not want to be protected anymore.  They may have both changed.  War does that but she was determined that they would weather life together.

Haere looked into his wife’s blue-green eyes.  He had always been amazed that she had favoured him.  When they first met, she had been so beautiful and delicate.  He recalled what her father had said. He instructed Haere that Saelith had never been exposed to the harshness of life and she needed protection.  Haere instantly agreed and the couple had made a life together with him always shielding her.  Now looking into her eyes, he saw something different.  Gone was the girl that needed protection but in her place was a vibrant woman ready to share their life.  He recalled seeing her in Dunharrow with that adorable scarf wrapped around her head serving up stew to the people. He kissed her again.  He was home in a way he had never truly been before.  Ruefully as duty reminded him of his task, he ended the kiss.

“I must get on to inform my men that they are discharged,” Haere said in a voice of regret, making ready to mount his horse once again, “But I saw you and could not take one more step without you!”

Seeing him about to mount his horse Saelith declared, “I am coming with you!”  She turned to Wilda, remembering the girl was there, “You can return to the kitchens with joyous news!”

Caught up in the rampant joy she was witnessing, Wilda wiped her eyes, “Oh Aye!  My Lady, I shall!”  She turned and dodged happy people, her feet not even touching the ground.

~*~*~*~*~*~

As Éowyn rode through Edoras to Meduseld, she beheld many a friendly look and call outs of “So happy to see you!” and “overjoyed that you are back safely, My Lady!”  Everywhere she looked she saw happy faces of welcome.  Her wounded soul began to heal thinking Gamhelm had indeed taken care of it as he had promised.  She looked at Holdlith who walked by her side as they rode.  Éomer was on her other side as they made their progress up to the Golden Hall, eyes filled with awe.  Éomer equally looked stunned by wonder as he was greeted by the populace as King.  “Hail Éomer King!” sounded by many along the way and a less formal “Home safe, Béma be praised.”  Éomer raised a hand in acknowledgment to each cheer.  Éowyn saw the look on her brother’s face, one of mingled grief and responsibility and curiously, doubt.  She would approach him later to talk, if she could get him to; Éomer was not always forthcoming with his feelings.

The stables came into view and Éowyn quickened Windfola’s steps.  She was truly home.  She dismounted and walked Windfola into the stables.  She saw Gamhelm’s burly form from the back.  She cleared her throat and then said, “Pray, good master stableman, can I board my horse here for the night?”  She said in a voice shaking with emotion.

Gamhelm stood and then turned around, “Well,” he started in an equally choked voice, “We don’t just board any horse.”  There stood Éowyn, alive and well.  Glowing, in fact.  His heart swelled with happiness and Éowyn ran into his arms and was immediately enveloped in a great bearhug.  She burst into tears, so much pent-up emotion came flowing forth.  She gulped and sobbed and Gamhelm sat her down on an obliging hay bale and just let her cry, holding her like she was the eight-year-old girl that had stolen his heart all those years ago.  “Let it all out, my lytling!  You just cry.  You’ve had a long, hard road but you are home now.”

Holdlith and Éomer approached the stables as Éowyn burst into tears.  As he handed his reins off to the waiting stable boy to have Windfleet taken to his stall, Éomer’s first impulse was to go to his sister, but Holdlith stayed him gently with a hand on his arm.  “Nay, My King,” she whispered gently.  “Let her have this time.  She needs a father’s arms and Gamhelm can provide that office.”  Éomer looked at the older woman for whom he knew Éowyn had great affection. At first he was doubtful, casting sorrowful eyes on his sister.  But then chewing his lip in thought he acquiesced, “You are right Mistress Holdlith, my sister deserves the gentle touch.  She has had so little of it in her life and has deserved it ever.”

Holdlith smiled and looked into his earnest blue eyes and motioned him down toward her.  Curious, Éomer acceded to her wishes.  She laced her fingers though his hair, which he allowed out of respect for his sister’s friendship.  She kissed his forehead as his mother had when he was a small boy and he felt strangely comforted.

Holdlith’s vision blurred and then saw images of golden wheat fields waving in the wind and well kept crofts and contented people tending to their daily tasks.  She saw an older version of Éomer with wisdom in his eyes and speaking to a child and the child was looking at him in wide-eyed wonder.  

“Mistress Holdlith, are you well?”  She looked into Éomer’s eyes full of worry, grief and humility.

“Aye, my King.”  She patted his hand in a motherly way saying softly, “And so will you be, too.  You grieve now but there will be much happiness in your life.”

Éomer saw such certainty in her eyes and such kindness that he could only say, “Thank you,” somewhat bewildered at her certainty.  Even so, her words had touched his heart.  “Come let’s away, to the Hall proper,” he said decisively.  “Lord Erkenbrand says many are housing in the Hall currently as their homes await repair.”

“Aye, my King,”  Holdlith nodded, “I and many others are bedding down in the Hall of Song.  And we are most grateful.”

Holdlith looked back at Gamhelm as she and Éomer were leaving the stables.  They held eyes for a minute and Gamhelm mouthed, “Thank you.”  Holdlith gave a small smile as she departed.  

Gamhelm held his precious sobbing daughter-of-the-heart in his arms for a few more minutes.  When the sobs lessened in severity he pulled away gently and looked into her eyes.  Éowyn was a little embarrassed to have cried as much as she did, but she could not have stopped herself if she had tried.  “Oh Gamhelm!  Your shirt!”  It was soaked through in places and the leather from his apron had large spots from her tears.

“Pish!”  The burly man replied with a smile, “The shirt will dry and the tears give the leather character!”

Éowyn gave a tearful laugh, and continued with, “It is so good to see you!  Is Gamwen well?”  she asked after Gamhelm’s wife.

“She is fine!”  Gamhelm stood up and placed Éowyn on her feet as well.  “Let me look at you!”  He held her arms wide and looked her up and down.  He saw past the tears and saw an inner happiness in his daughter’s eyes.  The happiness of her girlhood at times, “My dear.  I pronounce you fit and happy.  It looks good on you!”

Éowyn smiled radiantly, “I have found what you told me to look for all those years ago!”

Gamhelm was at a loss, “And what was that my dear?” for he truthfully did not know.

“A gentle heart, Gamhelm.  I have found him.  You said it was most important.”

At first the older man did not understand.  But then he had heard the word “him”, and he remembered a long ago talk between him and a little red-haired spitfire.  “Have you now?”

“Aye!  His name is Faramir!  And we met in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith.  Where we were both recovering–”

“You were injured!  How?  Where?  Are you well now?”  Gamhelm interrupted as fear gripped his heart.

“I am well.”  Éowyn reassured him.  A shadow crossed her face, “My injury is a tale for another time.”  She brightened once again almost as if to distract herself from memory, “We met and we-, we helped each.  He is wonderful and kind and brave.”

Gamhelm clasped her hands which had been gesticulating wildly, “I hope to meet this paragon of male virtue to make sure that he is good enough for you.”

“You will and he is!  Éomer has and he already approves!”  

Gamhelm raised his sandy brown eyebrows.  Éomer was very protective of his sister, “If your brother approves then this Faramir must be special indeed.”

“He is.  You will see.”  Éowyn paused, “speaking of my brother, did I hear him earlier?”  

“Aye, it was him.  He and Holdlith have gone into the Hall proper.”

Éowyn paused and then she pursed her lips as if she had something pressing that she needed to say.  Gamhelm tilted his head and looked at her expectantly.  “When I left,” she began hesitantly, “When I chose to desert our people…”

The older man grabbed her hands and pulled them up to kiss them, “I am going to stop you right there, daughter.  I’ll not be hearing that talk.  You did what you needed to do.”

“But did I, or was I just being self-indulgent?” Éowyn tried to lay blame at her own feet.

“All right, we will talk and I will ask.  What was the result of your leaving?” Gamhelm leveled a look at her, “Because we were fine.  I told people that Théoden, at the last, asked for you to come south and they accepted that.”

“They did?” Éowyn asked, “But Gamhelm, that wasn’t actually true.”

“Well, it should have been.”, Gamhelm proclaimed, “and I would not have anyone casting doubts upon your actions!  Not after everything you have done for people.  I wasn’t going to stand for it!” He cleared his throat. “I ask you again.  What was the result of your going south?  Now you don’t have to tell me but think to yourself what would have happened if you didn’t go.”

Éowyn paused for a moment and thought about all that had happened.  She was overwhelmed with the dire consequences of her not going.  Slowly her guilt was sluiced away.  Éowyn looked at Gamhelm with tears filling her eyes and love for this gruff bear of a man who had been such a rock in her life.  “Thank you.”

Gamhelm’s eyes filled with tears, “Always, my dear girl.”