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.
...
On the eighth day of April he came to her. His face bore a quiet peace; it seemed a heavy burden had been lifted from his mind.
The first thing he asked was why she did not go to Cormallen. Did he not know?
When she asked him this, he mentioned Lord Aragorn, that perhaps she had not gone because she did not wish to see him. Or, he added, she had not gone because he, Faramir, had stayed.
For both reasons, she thought, though the latter weighed heavier. But how did he know of her love for Aragorn? She had not told him that.
Then without hesitation he asked her, “Éowyn, do you not love me, or will you not?”
He did not press for an answer and a silence stretched between them.
She asked herself: if it were Aragorn who had come to seek her, would she have felt a greater joy? She knew the answer. In the past ten days, how many times had she thought of Aragorn? More often, her eyes would wander, drawn to the entrance of the Houses, hoping for a glimpse of another man—one she had not expected to yearn for.
She did not wish to hide anything from him, so she admitted that she had once desired Aragorn’s love, even though he seemed to already know. “But I desire no man’s pity,” she added.
He said he knew, and proceeded to describe gently her admiration for Aragorn, her desire to have renown and glory, and for death.
He admitted that he once pitied her sorrow. He was honest and she prized honesty.
And he said he loved her.
She watched him as he spoke. He regarded her with such tenderness, which she knew would remain even if she had told him she did not return his love.
As if affirming her reflections, he then said,
“Were you the blissful Queen of Gondor, still I would love you. Éowyn, do you not love me?”
His sincerity made her heart ache. Words that would be empty flattery on other men’s lips formed a solemn promise when uttered by this man.
The mention of queen made her ponder. She had to admit, one of the things which drew her to Aragorn was the thought of standing tall as his lady—a queen among men, far above the ordinary folk who would neither be sung nor remembered.
But now she knew what her answer would be, if the Lord Aragorn were to come and ask her to be the Queen.
Nay, she thought, what happiness could there be, even if she were a queen, unless this grave, remarkable man were her king?
As she stood by the wall pondering this, she felt the warmth of the sunshine on her face, and in her heart she knew that was how life with this man would be.
It would be like the gentle buds of flowers that grew in spring, a promise of a new life; like the warm sunshine in summer, bright but not blinding; like the golden leaves which fall quietly and willingly in autumn, cheerfully following the course of nature; like a warm embrace in a cold winter night, protecting but never overpowering.
She looked at him then and told him that her winter had passed, that she no longer craved glory in battle, nor wished to be a queen.
He laughed merrily, and she was glad to see his joy. He said he would wed with the White Lady of Rohan, if it be her will (he was ever respectful of her will), cross the River, dwell in Ithilien and there make a garden.
Wed!
They had known each other for how long exactly? Three weeks, a season of sorrows, a lifetime?
This man was bold, and she liked boldness.
Her heart said yea. To him, to Ithilien, to the garden waiting to be made, to love, to life. She knew nothing of Ithilien, whether it was cold or humid, what plants grew there or what animals roamed its lands, but the joy in Faramir’s face when he spoke of it was enough for her.
Again she looked at him. Tall, upright, raven hair, grey eyes, fine features—every inch a man of the race of Númenor. She knew how his proud folk thought of her folk: as a younger sibling—dear, but lesser. His folk would question his choice of bride, daughter of kings though she was. She asked him of this, even though she already knew his answer.
He did not even bother to pause or elaborate.
“I would,” came his firm reply.
Then he gathered her in his arms and kissed her in full view of the City.
This man was bold, she thought again, and she loved bold Faramir.
...
Notes:
Faramir’s speech is quoted verbatim from the chapter “The Steward and the King” in the Lord of the Rings, the Return of the King.
The title of this chapter is derived from Song of Songs 2:10-13.
My Beloved lifts up his voice,
he says to me,
‘Come then, my love,
my lovely one, come.
For see, winter is past,
the rains are over and gone.
The flowers appear on the earth.
The season of glad songs has come,
the cooing of the turtledove is heard
in our land.
The fig tree is forming its first figs
and the blossoming vines give out their fragrance,
Come then, my love,
my lovely one, come.’