Faramir Fiction Archive

Beginnings & Endings (G)

Written by Susana

18 January 2012 | 37741 words | Work in Progress

Title: Beginnings & Endings Chapter 3: The Steward’s Fierce Lady
Author: Susana
Series: Desperate Hours: Story: Beginnings & Endings
Feedback: Please use the form below
Warning: AU
Disclaimer: All recognizable elements are Tolkien’s
Summary: Éowyn and Faramir have dinner together after his first day acting as Steward outside of the House of Healing.

Beta: Thanks to Beth for reading over earlier versions for me, and whose suggestion regarding Chapter 3 I am finally following, albeit well over a year late. Thanks also to everyone who has let me know that they like B&E, and encouraged me to go back to it.

A/N: Please note that the eagles bringing the ringbearers to Minas Tirith instead of to the army is a deviation from canon. For plot reasons that will become apparent, I needed the ringbearers in Minas Tirith. I am hoping to update this story more frequently, now that I have excised the difficult chapter into a different planned story (“The Road to Barad-Dur and Back”), as well as decided that since this was really the story I wanted to write, I’ll go ahead and focus on it and get the other prequels and stories fleshing-out supporting characters done as I can. This chapter is mostly Éowyn POV, which I did not expect. But that’s Éowyn for you.

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Chapter 3 – The Steward’s Fierce Lady

“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” – Anais Nin

Every man’s life (and … every woman’s life), awaits the hour of blossoming that makes it immortal … love is a divinity above all accidents, and guards his own with extraordinary obstinacy. – Eleanor Farjeon

Éowyn of Rohan paused in a garden of the House of Healing, a smile on her pale face as she luxuriated in the feeling of the sun upon her skin with a smile on her face. A gentle breeze tugged playfully at Éowyn’s white-gold braid and her dun-colored skirts, and the clean, fragrant scent of the herbs in her collection basket relaxed her.

It was pleasant to have a moment to herself. Éowyn had been busily and contentedly occupied for most of the day. Learning the routines of the House as a student of healing, rather than a patient had been interesting, to say the least. Even fulfilling. Éowyn was an attentive student, when she cared to exert herself, but now her mind felt stretched. In a good way, like her body felt after a practice match during which she had comported herself well with a blade. But still, this errand in the garden was welcome, away from the needs of patients, and the eyes of the curious.

Oh, the healers had all been kind to Éowyn, and quite willing to help her expand her skills beyond those of a competent battle-field medic. Nor had any one else been unwelcoming. In fact, those patients and citizens who had recognized Éowyn had been alternatively grateful and…almost awed. It was not a reaction to which Éowyn was accustomed, and she did not think that she cared for it, for several reasons. On a practical level, people in awe were not the best at thinking clearly or answering questions, and Éowyn found such dithering quite irritating.

On a more personal level…the people of Gondor knew and respected Éowyn, only for slaying the Witch-King. But that had been merely one moment in time. A duel that had lasted only minutes, such an incalculably small fraction of Éowyn’s twenty-five years of life. True, there had been other moments leading up to that…thousands of hours of practice, learning to match blades against a larger opponent and live. Years of frustration. And years of fighting an even more invidious darkness, with weapons that not were not Éowyn’s best.

She took a deep breath, and lifted her face again to the cleansing sun and wind. Éowyn’s smile widened, as she felt a familiar presence approach from the direction of the House.

“You said that you would be back for supper,” Éowyn told her betrothed, turning to behold him with her cornflower blue eyes, “But I did not know that you would be able.” She had to catch her breath again at how handsome he was, yet she could also see how much more fatigued he seemed just since earlier this morning. Oh, he still stood tall, his fine features etched with focus, and his gray eyes ablaze with affection for her. But Faramir seemed worn, like the elegant sheath on Éowyn’s uncle Théoden’s favorite sword.

“My Lady,” Faramir said in greeting, and in his eyes Éowyn saw herself to be the most beautiful of all the flowers in the garden, “I will tell you that it was not easy,” Faramir confessed, his mouth widening into an unaccustomed smile as he added, “But it is a matter of priorities.” And Éowyn was one of Faramir’s very highest priorities.

The two exchanged a smile, grateful and relieved to find themselves still on the same wave-length despite their first day spent apart. Faramir offered her his arm, and Éowyn took it without demur. If they walked perfectly in tandem, no one could tell that today it was her lending Faramir her strength, rather than her leaning on him.

As they walked back into House of Healing, Faramir leaned down to whisper, his breath warm in Éowyn’s ear, “I had expected to see you in the robes of student healer by now, meleth-nin.”

Despite the seriousness of the topic, Éowyn’s heart beat faster just at Faramir’s touch and tone, and her heart soared at how well he listened to her hopes and dreams. “I will learn gladly from them, but I cannot take their oath.” Éowyn explained quietly.

Faramir nodded after a moment, his attention still intently focused on her. “The part about never seeking to cause harm? That has been an issue, for a number of battle-field healers, including Del himself when he served my father, Lord Denethor.”

“Aye, that part.” Éowyn agreed. “I’ve lost many family to orcs and bandits, including my own father. Even in times of peace, which you and I have never known, there are those who will seek to gain unfairly by force of arms. I do not wish to fight; but I cannot swear to never cause harm.” Éowyn paused, reflecting that a lifetime spent in her Uncle’s court of Rohan, where every year they had heard reports of not just riders slain by the Enemy’s creatures, but women and children also, had made of her a guarded, cautious shieldmaiden. Now she was to be the wife of a man who had been a soldier his whole adult life. Faramir’s role in this new era would almost certainly require a sword in his hand. She meant to be often by his side, and perforce, a sword in her hand as well. So, when Healer Del had told Éowyn of the Healer’s oath earlier that day, which precluded the bearing of arms and the intending to wield them, even in defense, Éowyn had decided that while she would learn all she could of healing, she would never take that oath, never be a Healer proper. Being a soldier who healed was good enough for Aragorn, and for the half-elven sons of Lord Elrond Peredhel. It would have to be good enough for Éowyn as well. “There are some that need killing.” Éowyn concluded in a dark voice.

“It is just as well,” Faramir told her quietly, his arm tightening around Éowyn, as he pulled her closer to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. It was not a passionate gesture; rather one of comfort, affection, reassurance. Faramir had known how important to Éowyn it was to set a new course for herself, one less focused on renewal instead of fighting. He understood that she felt her inability to swear to this new way of life as a fault, that she feared the darkness within herself that saw no solution to some conflicts save sword and death.

“To be honest,” Faramir continued, holding Éowyn close enough that she could feel each quiet word as he rumbled through his chest, “I prefer you well able to defend yourself. As a man of Gondor, it would be proper of me to promise you that you shall never have to fight again. That instead, I and mine will protect you from everything that might threaten your safety. And indeed, that would be my hope, to never see you at risk. But I prefer to plan for all eventualities, and given the unexpected dangers that life in a still-wild land like Ithilien can pose, the prospect of a wife who can best me at swordplay reassures me rather than intimidates me.”

Éowyn fluttered her eyelashes, flattered, though honesty compelled her to admit, “I think my Lord too modest.”

Faramir grinned at her, an honest, open expression that Éowyn found particularly endearing, and one that she hoped she might inspire in him quite frequently.

“When we have time, and not so many tasks pressing upon us, we will have to see, my Lady.“Faramir answered her, his smile melting into a serious expression as he added, “In the meantime, I will have one of my staff make a note for the future King that he ought ask the guild of healers to reconsider what oaths they require of their members. We do send soldiers to guard our healers when they venture through dangerous parts of the kingdom, but I have never seen the point in requiring healers to swear not to defend themselves.”

Éowyn smiled back at Faramir brilliantly, and tried not to mind as three or four petitioners claimed his attention before dinner. After all, she and the Steward did get to eat supper together, in company with Frodo, Samwise, and the ebullient Meriadoc, who had brought along with him several of the Rohirrim known to Éowyn. She was particularly glad to see Swidhund, a rider and horse-trainer who had long ago put Éowyn astride her first horse, and who had never looked askance at his King’s niece training to be a shieldmaiden. But it was still a shock to see Swidhund without his best friend, Harding, who had died during the Battle of the Pelennor. Just as it was a shock for Éowyn to see her young cousin-by-marriage Barden, without his blood-brother Guthlaf at his side. Guthlaf had been her uncle Théoden’s standard bearer, and he had fallen defending the King before Éowyn could work her way to his side.

Barden was also prone to taking offense to Faramir’s affectionate gestures towards Éowyn, even those as innocent as the Steward’s occasionally reaching out to clasp the White Lady’s hand. Faramir politely ignored the behavior, but it made Éowyn want to slap Barden. She’d settled for pulling him aside several days ago, and telling him to stop acting like a boor around her betrothed Lord, or else.

“Éowyn, he kissed you, on the battlements, in front of everyone! As if he were a randy stableboy, and you naught more a common scullery-maid! It was undignified, and besides, when Éomer hears…” Barden had protested hotly.

At that point, Éowyn had seized Barden’s hand, and twisted it behind his back. When Barden squeaked with pain and tried to dislodge her, she’d knocked him down to the ground, and used a nearby gardening hoe to keep him down as she explained, slowly and using small words which she thought even a hot-headed young rider should be able to comprehend, “That is my business, cousin, and not yours. You will cease to glower and mutter in Lord Faramir’s presence, or else I will tell Éomer when he returns that it was you who vomited in his saddle bags five years ago, and that Théodred only took the blame because he felt guilty for getting you so drunk.”

“Eep,” said Barden, but after that he did stop glowering and whispering darkly when he and the Steward of Gondor were in the same room. Mostly.

So it was a cheerful group which gathered together for dinner, even if Steward and Lady were both more tired at the end of the day than they had been in the morning. Only one issue truly troubled them, and that was the ringbearer’s wan face, and his still fragile state.

Healers came and went, including Warden Del himself, who sighed and clucked at Faramir, until Frodo’s growing paleness drew the entirety of his attention.

“Frodo is not recovering as he should,” Éowyn murmured softly to Faramir, “It has even the most senior of the healers baffled, and greatly concerned.”

“Frodo Baggins is a hero even amongst the greatest hero of this last war,” Faramir replied, grave worry in his quiet tone, “For the wisdom of Gondor’s medicine to fail to heal him now, after everything, would be worse than a tragedy.”

Éowyn nodded, her lips pressed carefully together. Being a hero didn’t guarantee that you would come home from the battle. Théodred’s death had proven that to Éowyn. Then Théoden’s death at the Witch-King’s hands… the wraith of Angmar had needed killing, and Éowyn did not regret that she and Merry had been his fate. But nor did it bring her loved ones back from the dead. That Frodo, after all of his sacrifices, might survive their victory by weeks, was so desperately sad. “Lord Aragorn,” Éowyn remarked quietly, “He and the sons of Elrond Half-Elven saved many besides us, the night after the Battle of the Pelennor ended. It may be that he can help, when he returns. “

A quick glance between Éowyn and Faramir ensued, and then Faramir’s thoughtful gray eyes widened. “You think that the King’s return with the army may come too late.” He observed softly.

“Most see Frodo fading and cling to hope of improvement, saying that hobbits may heal differently. Warden Del is silent. But Healer Olidhor has said that he fears the army may return only in time to watch helplessly as Frodo dies.” Éowyn confessed.

Faramir blinked, “Isn’t Healer Olidhor an animal-healer?” He asked, taken aback.

Éowyn nodded, not seeing the point. In Rohan, horses and men were often stitched up by the same healers. But because that might be different in Gondor, Éowyn expanded, “Olidhor has actually spoken in depth with Sam and Meriadoc, as well as Frodo, whereas the other healers seem to be working off of old scrolls which describe hobbits as ‘semi-mythical creatures,’ while trusting Frodo’s protestations that he’s ‘feeling much better, thank you.’”

Sighing, Faramir confessed with a worried, incredulous smile, “I wish that I had foreseen two eagles coming out of the sky and bringing us hero halflings in need of healing. If I had, I’d never have ordered so many of our best-traveled healers to go with the King’s army.”

“I don’t know as anyone could have foreseen that one.” Éowyn murmured with sympathy, remembering the mix of shock and relief that had pervaded the House of Healing when the eagles delivered their precious burden.

At that point, Meriadoc leaned forward to ask Faramir a question about sanitation, and one of the Rohirrim asked Éowyn to assist him with writing a message to his sweetheart. Faramir and Éowyn had arranged for some of the refugees in Minas Tirith who were literate and capable of riding long distances to join the messenger relay which had been established between the White City and Edoras in Rohan, after the battle. Éowyn was intent on her task, but she still overheard Faramir send away one of his guards, with the curious command that the fellow loudly discuss the healers’ concerns about the ringbearer’s health in front of the temporary quarters belonging to the Northern Ranger Ethiron.

After dinner, Warden Del insisted that Frodo return to his rooms and rest. Samwise, of course, would not leave Frodo. Since the spring night was pleasant, the rest of the party retired to a garden. The hobbit Meriadoc and the Rohirrim shared stories of the recovering city. Éowyn half-listened to her country-man and her companion Merry, while curled on a bench beside Faramir. The young Steward sat in front of a camp table, speaking with one member or another of his staff or the Council of Gondor, concerning the herding of men and materiel to and fro. In between that work, Faramir pored over documents and scrolls by the light of lamps, moon, and stars. Éowyn herself read from a scroll on recovery from traumatic injury, pleasantly aware of the moments when Faramir paused in his work to give her affectionate glances, or murmur some information about his country that Éowyn would soon call home.

The pleasant conviviality was interrupted by the arrival of a very angry older man, white of hair and stern of face. His cheeks were darkly flushed, almost the same shade as his robes of magenta velvet. A dozen or so other men followed him, some also clad elegantly, others in armor, and some in the simple cotton clothing and leather aprons of tradesmen.

“You must do something, my Lord Steward! A boy just came running into my house and stole my silver!” The angry man protested, slamming the palms of his hands down on the flimsy camp table before Faramir. Éowyn’s future husband did not even flinch, although it was clear that this petitioner had his full attention. But no more so than any other who had approached him, this evening.

Faramir’s guard stood at attention, clearly torn between protecting his Steward and reluctance to lay hands on the finely dressed man, whom both he and Faramir seemed to recognize, although Éowyn did not.

“Master Burgold,” Faramir replied with a calm, tired sigh, “I am sorry to hear of the loss of your property. The city guard is stretched rather thin right now, as I am sure that you understand, since you were present at today’s council meeting.”

Éowyn recalled hearing of Master Burgold. Specifically, that he was the leader of the powerful commodities guild, the association of buyers of food-stuffs and prosperous farmers who did not rent their lands from Gondor’s feudal lords. Burgold was a formidable force amongst Gondor’s rising merchant class, and had held his position since some years prior to Faramir’s birth. Or so Éowyn had learned from Faramir’s friend and funds-manager, Nessanie Saelasiel.

“What USE is there in your ordering Gondor to put bread in the mouths of the poor, if they’re busy helping themselves to their betters’ valuables!” Burgold boomed furiously in reply.

Éowyn didn’t say anything, but she watched as intently as a cat. Intently enough to notice as Faramir’s gray eyes flickered almost imperceptibly towards a soberly dressed middle-aged man in the middle of the crowd, one who stood with a soldier’s straightness. The man nodded back, and then Faramir stood and said firmly, “I understand the concern. While I cannot order the city guard to be redeployed when they are already working double shifts, looting is a scourge upon our wounded city. Do any of you have a suggestion?”

Master Burgold’s jaw dropped wide open, as a stir worked its way through the crowd. Éowyn heard someone whisper that Faramir would be an easy ruler to maneuver around, as Denethor would never have permitted this type of insubordination. Another man murmured that it was a pity Faramir intended to turn over the white staff to a Northern barbarian, since the new Steward was already proving himself a better listener than his father had been.

It was the tall, spare fellow whom Faramir had silently addressed, who first spoke up, “We’ve still got the list of pensioned-off soldiers and trained volunteers from the fire and pitch lines,” he began, referring to the citizens who had bolstered Minas Tirith’s defenses during the siege, trying to minimize the damage from the Enemy’s barrage, while deterring assaults on the city walls, “Most of that lot are still in the city. And there are probably more retirees and folk they’ll vouch for as regular militia volunteers, amongst the refugees.”

“Homeless flotsam and jetsam,” Master Burgold sneered. Faramir ignored him, instead answering the man who had made the suggestion, whom Éowyn was beginning to suspect might have been planted in Burgold’s retinue by Faramir, or perhaps Boromir or Denethor, if the appointment had been of longstanding.

“A good thought, Merchant Salabros.” Faramir praised, “Make it so.” Enough of the men of the city guard who had been seconded to the House of Healing had gathered in the garden, clearly giving their support to their Lord Steward and his chosen delegate. Master Burgold, recognizing that he’d lost whatever contest of wills he’d chosen to initiate, scowled, but followed Merchant Salabros from the garden willingly enough.

“The politics of Gondor,” Éowyn commented lightly when the group was out of earshot, “seem to have more in common with the politics of Rohan than I ever would have expected.”

Faramir laughed, his white teeth flashing in the semi-darkness, while Swidhund made a joke about how a young Lord Eomund, Éowyn’s father, had once tricked a boyhood enemy into escorting valuable wagons of manure to grain fields a week’s ride from Edoras.

“Impressive,” Faramir commented, his gray eyes dancing, “May I ask how Théoden-King managed that feat?” Then someone else needed Faramir’s attention, some matter of recovered horses to be apportioned amongst the guard. Faramir murmured a quiet apology to Swidhund, and returned to his duties.

Éowyn turned back to her reading. Her fingertips lightly tapped Faramir’s good arm, as she visualized the wounds that the scroll described, and how a healer would prioritize their treatment. The stream of petitioners somehow finding their way to Faramir slowed, and Éowyn was considering seeking her bed. She would have surrendered to slumber hours ago, were it not for her even stronger desire to spend time with Faramir. As the night grew later, and the visitors fewer and less official, Faramir’s arm slipped around Éowyn’s shoulders, and she put her head on his good shoulder with a soft sigh. Rider Barden, across the garden, gave them a glare, but Éowyn ignored it. Everywhere that Faramir’s body touched hers, Éowyn felt as if she were warmed by summer sunlight on a snowy winter’s day. As if his very fingers trailed light as he stroked her arm, a feeling that was at the same time soothing and exciting.

Before Éowyn could decide between sleep and Faramir, there was a commotion at the gates of the House of Healing. Injured men and women in foreign clothing were being carried in on litters through the doors, into the rooms set aside for urgent care. Without pausing to think, Éowyn was moving to assist, and Faramir as well. Her beloved was not a healer, nor was Éowyn yet, but both had steady hands and strong stomachs. And both were well practiced at triaging wounds inflicted by orcs.

Soon enough, the most sorely wounded patients had been seen to, and Éowyn looked up to hear Faramir speaking softly but intently with Lord Húrin and Helegair, the acting Captain of Minas Tirith’s city guard.

“We have patrols guarding the roads and scouring the surrounding countryside in sweeps, and have since the battle.” Captain Helegair assured Faramir, “It’s just that they can’t be everywhere, I don’t have enough men for that and garrisoning the city.”

“The orcs and the defeated men of the Enemy are more desperate for having lost their master.” Lord Húrin added solemnly, “Their numbers have steadily increased as the army makes it way back. They flee before our host like rabbits before a fire, for they know that when our army returns, their chances of survival are very slim.”

“What if we were to send someone with each patrol who has a sense for the yrch, for the foulness that clings to them albeit their master’s defeat?” Faramir asked, his right hand tapping idly on his bow as he spoke.

“Such men are few and far between, my Lord, and we sent most of them with the army.” Captain Helegair pointed out with a sigh.

“I am one.” Faramir reminded them levelly, “I am here, and am well enough to ride with another patrol, and point them to where the land itself most hates the creatures which walk upon it.”

Lord Húrin winced, and Captain Helegair immediately protested, “My Lord, that is very brave and noble of you, but we do not have another patrol planned for this night. I mislike the idea of sending soldiers so far afield at night, let alone yourself. After all, we don’t know where the enemies are, or what their numbers are.”

“Sensible of you,” Faramir observed fairly, “However, my understanding is that we still have not only refugees but also dignitaries on the road tonight, given the full moon.”

“That is the case.” Lord Húrin reluctantly.

“How many men can be released from the city guard, given that Captain Salabros is reorganizing his volunteers to take over some of the city patrols?” Faramir inquired intently.

“Salabros has been retired for a decade!” Helegair protested.

Faramir didn’t reply, he just waited. After a few moments time, Helegair supplied with a sigh, “Enough for at least half a company, my Lord.”

“Faramir, I really don’t think that’s really necessary,” Lord Húrin protested, “Those who travel at night, whether they be allies or citizens, ought to know that they are courting grave danger by doing so, in such unsettled times.”

Éowyn could tell that Faramir clearly didn’t agree, an impression that he quickly bore out by objecting, “Hurin, if we are not fit to defend travelers into this city, that is not only to our shame, but truly unacceptable. For what do we even have an army, if not to protect people who have been displaced by war and are coming to the White City for safety? Besides that, the King will be arriving in the next few days, and others of his allies may arrive in between then. The ways into the city must be kept safe, ‘lest we risk losing a valued ally and causing a diplomatic incident.”

Éowyn, sensing that the moment was ripe to reinforce Faramir’s authority, leaned toward him and stated loudly and firmly. “My lord, I had thought to never take up arms again, but here and now I promise to you, my sword arm is yours, tonight and always, should you have need of it.” Éowyn’s offer shamed Hurin, and guard Captain Helegair, into agreeing that patrols another patrol that night was needed. More importantly to Éowyn, it brought a light to Faramir’s eyes, and a carefully concealed smile to his lips. As she had intended, the offer showed Faramir again that he need never fight any battle alone, for Éowyn would always have his back.

Warden Del sighed resignedly, “You will return to the House after your little field trip, will you not, Fara… er, my Lord? So that we can check to make sure that you haven’t…”

“Yes, yes.” Faramir hastily reassured the chief healer. Probably, Éowyn surmised, not wanting to have him again air Faramir’s less than battle-ready state to all present. Éowyn was sympathetic to that, as she herself had little liking for displaying weakness before anyone, even close family. But still, she worried over her new trothed lord. He was left-handed, and she knew that his left shoulder was still healing. Besides, she had yet to see Faramir do anything more strenuous than lift a dinner plate with his left arm.

Swidhund, at least, knew Éowyn well enough to read the worry. “We of Rohan who have healed since the battle are somewhat at loose ends, my Lord.” He offered Faramir. “I will send down to our lodgings, and see if any of the other men are as bored as Barden here, and would welcome a spot of orc-hunting.”

Barden actually grinned at Faramir, for the first time in their acquaintance. “You won’t regret taking us with you.” He promised the Steward.

“I am sure I will not.” Faramir replied, with a grateful smile.

As Helegair and Swidhund left to find and organize men, and Faramir spoke with Hurin, Barden whispered fiercely to Éowyn, “I swear to you, cousin, I will see to it that this man comes back to you alive and well, or die trying.”

Éowyn’s heart ached, for Barden had been one of the warriors to bear Théodred’s slain body back to Edoras. But this was a peace offering, as well an act of love and fealty, and Éowyn accepted it as such. “Thank you, Barden.” She whispered, her voice husky with emotion.

Then Faramir was preparing to take his leave, and Éowyn had to take her chance to address him, “My Lord? A moment, please?”

“Of course, my Lady.” Faramir answered, with a soft smile for Éowyn despite his evident desire to be about his self-appointed errand.

Left alone for a rare moment, Éowyn asked with quiet intensity, “Are you truly well enough for this, Faramir? If not, you could say that I persuaded you bide. There are others who have a feel for where orcs might be. Barden is one such, as I know are several of your own guards.”

Faramir did not take offense to such a question from Éowyn, as Éomer undoubtedly would have. Instead, he just put a gentle hand on her shoulder and explained, “It will be well, Éowyn. My right side is fine. I’m ambidextrous, and the lighter blade and smaller bow I carry do not pull intolerably on my left shoulder.”

Éowyn smiled slightly, trying to be reassured. “You can wield a sword or pull a bow with either hand. A neat trick, beloved.”

“A necessary one,” Faramir replied with a wry smile, “At least for a boy half the size of his academy classmates. And even at that, I still normally lost.”

Tilting her head, Éowyn made the reasonable guess, “But not, I think, when it was most important.”

With a rueful half-grin, Faramir agreed, “Well, I’m not dead yet. And if I thought that I’d die tonight, I would not go.”

Éowyn thought that much, at least, was probably true. Lord Húrin was a good man, but he had a hard time standing up to the most respected of Gondor’s Lords, many of whom were not convinced of Aragorn’s right to rule Gondor. If Faramir died, there could well be civil war in Gondor, or at the least a large-scale uprising in Minas Tirith or the southern fiefs. Éowyn knew that Faramir would not risk that possibility lightly.

A long moment passed, while Éowyn and Faramir gazed into one another’s eyes. Éowyn thought of how Théodred had not expected to die when he rode for the Fords of the Isen, nor Théoden either, when he led the Rohirrim to save Minas Tirith. Faramir took in a ragged breath, then they moved towards one another at the same time. Her arms flung carefully around him, and his tightened around her. The grip of Faramir’s right arm was a bit tighter than his left, but the left was still strong, so strong. Then he kissed her, or she kissed him, and the moment seemed both gloriously long and infinitely too short. Éowyn wished that he would leave her thusly more often, but not if it meant she might not see him again.

But then the soldiers of Gondor and the Rohirrim were ready. Faramir departed with them, and Éowyn was left behind to worry. But it was not so much of a burden when there were patients to see to. Warden Del did not remind the Witch-King slayer that she had been up since dawn and should perhaps be a-bed, and neither did anyone else. Perhaps they realized that she could not rest without seeing Faramir safely back, or perhaps they just needed her aid. Some of the injured who had been brought in that night grew worse, for no reason that Éowyn could tell. She had seen men much worse injured recover handily, though she recalled that sometimes those injured by orcs died, despite having suffered only minor wounds.

“Yrch wounds carry a… .a taint. Not quite the same foulness that attacked your ladyship, but of the same nature, just reduced.” Senior Healer Gailor explained to Éowyn, as they mixed medicines for poultices on the affected weapons.

“You can call me Éowyn.” Éowyn reminded him. “Will cleansing the wounds and dressing them again, help?”

“We never know.” Gaelor told her sadly, “Some heal, where others, less gravely injured, wither and die. We don’t know why, precisely. Folk with Númenorean blood are usually better off… the Ithilien rangers, as well, tend to heal, even from orc-poisoned wounds.” Gaelor adjusted the heat on the bowl that Éowyn was mixing, and then continued unhappily, “Still, we lose far too many. The Kings of old were said to have a way of combating it… as does Lord Aragorn, evidently, for the peace he brought to you, Lord Faramir, and Master Meriadoc, when you were afflicted by the black breath.”

“He does, “ Éowyn agreed. Although she could barely remember Aragorn healing her, she she recalled quite well his hands aiding others, after the siege of Helm’s Deep. He had driven himself to near exhaustion, before Legolas and the Wizard convinced him to rest. But no man whom Aragorn’s hands had touched, died of wounds which should not have meant his fate. “Why were there more survivors from Ithilien, do you know?” She asked.

Gaelor shrugged, “I do not know, my lady. But rangers seem to be hardy folk, whether they be of Ithilien or the North. And some of the old blood survives there, in Ithilien.”

Éowyn just nodded, but she would later note that of those similarly injured that night, the ones who were doing the best come morning’s first light had all been those whom Faramir had aided, however briefly. And, as the White Lady waited with Warden Del for Faramir’s return, Éowyn thought to herself that there was something of the same air about Faramir as about Aragorn.

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