Belen Menel
Chapter 2: A Home in Emyn Arnen

“Lady Éowyn” a young girl called to the White Lady, “the messenger you sent for has arrived.”

“Please have her come in” Éowyn replied absentmindedly, as she stared off into the distance, in no particular direction.

It was a glorious day in Emyn Arnen, the northernmost reaches of South Ithilien. From Faramir and Éowyn’s home, perched high upon a hill, one could see the river Anduin meander below. To the east were the Mountains of Shadow that could not completely shake the dark places that lingered, but there were also mists that rose from the mountains, catching the light of the sun, which seemed to explode deep into the crevices of the mountains that had been so overwhelmed by darkness. The mountains seemed to shimmer with excitement, as if the very trees were shaking out their branches, awakening from a deep slumber. The old stone and rocks murmured quietly, welcoming old friends back to paths once lost in the impenetrable shadow of Mordor.

The sun shone with a fierce determination, a determination to reach its silky bright tendrils into all the corners of Middle Earth. The times of peace brought great changes, interesting and unexpected changes. Some had not yet come to happen, but the King’s providence would shape things to come.

Éowyn gathered herself and stepped onto the stone veranda that surrounded the home she and Faramir had built with the help of many friends, and the will of the common people of Gondor, whom Éowyn was ever grateful for their unabashed love for her. The White City gleamed in the distance, and the river danced with anticipation as it coursed its way south to the Bay of Belfalas. Breezes carried the warm scent of the sea causing her skin to chill ever so slightly, not because they were cold, but because of the reminder these breezes brought. Indeed the breezes from the south were warm and luxuriant, but they brought a longing with them that pained Éowyn.

“My lady,” the messenger’s voice interrupted her wandering thoughts.

Expecting the messenger, Éowyn turned and addressed the young woman with a graceful smile, “Please, take some nourishment.” Without the need for a word from Éowyn, her handmaiden bid the messenger to sit and offered an array of fruits, breads, cheeses and drink to the tired messenger. The messenger did not hesitate, partaking in the bounty of food, but not without a gracious acknowledgment of her generous Lady. The Prince of Ithilien and the Lady of Ithilien insisted from the day they were anointed as such that the strict Gondorian etiquette was not to be brought to the Princedom of Ithilien. In this garden of Gondor, life was less rigid than in the King’s court, although even in Minas Tirith, the noble etiquette was loosened considerably from the days of the Stewards, and nothing at all like the harsh and silent environment familiar in Denethor’s times. While Éowyn had a hand in this, it was Faramir’s desires for gentleness and care that set the standard for relationships.

It was also the presence of them that so changed the interaction between all folk, common, noble and unknown. The First-Born brought to Ithilien what can only be described as grace. They had come from Mirkwood now Eryn Lasgalen, the merry folk of the Green Wood, with their Prince to bring back the beauty of the gardens of Gondor and the woods and fields beyond.

Éowyn sat silently as the messenger ate the food offered her. She laughed softly at the ease of this young girl, who reminded Éowyn of herself not long ago—eager to fulfill duties not easily given to a woman, but Hild was a Daughter of Eorl, come to live and serve the White Lady of Rohan now the White Lady of Ithilien and Emyn Arnen. Éowyn had long known Hild, daughter of one of Theoden’s Marshall’s fallen in battle, and looked after by Éowyn, following the death of her mother during the dark times. Hild would not have it any other way. She insisted she would serve the brave Éowyn, and threatened in that way that cares less about rank and rightful place, that regardless of Éowyn’s wishes, she would come to serve her lady. This struck Éowyn, and she saw herself in the young woman’s face, really just a girl, and if Éowyn admitted, there was also guilt, for much like Éowyn Hild had fended for herself. Éowyn pledged that she would help this young girl restore the happiness that had long eluded her, just as she now devoted her time to the healing arts.

Hild proved her worth, taking on the job of messenger and delegate of the Shield Maiden of Rohan, learning the ins and outs of her duties with more than due diligence. Faramir welcomed Hild, for he felt this young girl would bring the comfort of the familiar for his fair lady and understood Éowyn’s recognition of herself in Hild.

“My lady?” the young messenger queried, not wanting to interrupt Éowyn’s thoughts.

“Yes, Hild, what news brings you so hastily from Minas Tirith?”

“My, lady” Hild, exclaimed, remembering her exciting news, “A host comes to the White City.” Her excitement was so great she did not notice she was now speaking Rohirric, a practice she avoided in order to ensure her use of Common melded with the Gondorians. Although similar, most Gondorians did not understand Rohirric even though the language shared origins.

Éowyn’s interest was now piqued. It was rare that Hild would let her childish excitement take over. “What is it Hild, prey tell!”

“You will not believe this—an envoy of Woses comes from the Drúadan Forest to Minas Tirith!”

“What?” Éowyn uttered in disbelief, “…Woses?”

“Yes, my lady, WOSES!” Their surprise and disbelief was appropriate, for the Woses, as known to the people of the Mark were a secretive and strange folk, generally thought to be a wild sort. During the War of the Ring they had provided safe and secret passage to Theoden’s army through the Drúadan Forest, avoiding the orcs that secretly waited to ambush the riders of Rohan. If it were not for the Woses, Sauron would indeed have prevailed on the Pelennor Fields.

Éowyn sprung up from the table she had taken a seat at, stammering, “But, but, how and why?”

“They come to speak with King Elessar,” Hild replied, trying to regain her composure, “and they sent word they seek permission for their kin in Drúwaith Iaur-“

Unable to contain herself, Éowyn interjected, “But there were no more of those folks from old Púkel-land.” But the excitement in Éowyn was quickly quelled by a new focused interest. She continued, “It is said that in Drúwaith Iaur, the old Púkel wilderness" Éowyn whispered these last words, remembering the old carved stone images on the way to Dunharrow. It was there Éowyn lost all hope, but now her hope was alive. She smiled as she heard herself sound much like her husband, "the Woses, in Gondor called the Drúedain, were driven out and killed by the men who settled in the White Mountains long ago, but tell me Hild, in my hasty excitement, I know not what they seek permission for?” (1)

Hild nodded her head in excited understanding, this was after all her first mysterious endeavor, “I heard as much my lady. It seems the Drúedain from Drúwaith Iaur,” Hild corrected herself, using the Sindarin name common in Gondor, “wish to settle a family in fair Ithilien itself!”

Éowyn’s eyes widened in further surprise. This she had not expected. She knew that this new development would be priority for her in the time to come. She welcomed it. It did not feel dark, like the continued cleansing of dark things that Remained. This felt welcome. “And this is all we know at this moment, is it not?”

“Yes, my lady, more will be known when the envoy reaches Minas Tirith.”

“And Aragorn has already sent out emissaries bidding them welcome” Éowyn stated, sure of the King’s course of action.

Hild smiled, “The King has, my lady.”

Éowyn stood up and leaned against the stone pillar that supported the garden roof thinking of the tasks that lay ahead for her and Faramir. Without a word, Hild rose and left the lady on the veranda. Lost in her thoughts Éowyn did not see Faramir approaching the white house, nor did she notice the Elf that accompanied him trying to inspect the small welts on Faramir’s face.

(1) From Unfinished Tales; see pp. 398-404).