“I didn't grab you when
we first met.”
Faramir sat up to his
chin in hot water as Eowyn worked his red-gold hair into a lather of
bubbles. “Not like Lord Aragorn,” he continued. “He grabbed you
the moment you met, so you have told me. Are you the kind of woman
who likes to be grabbed?” he teased, and then whirled around
clumsily, attempting to pull her into the enormous oaken tub. But she
had anticipated his move and was out of his range before he swung his
arms at her.
She turned her back on
him, feigning disinterest in any tussle. Then she wheeled about and
advanced on the tub with a bucket full of cold water, which she
promptly overturned on Faramir's soapy head.
“Wild woman!” he
bellowed at the top of his lungs, making ready to splash her. But he
stopped in mid move when he detected the abrupt change in Eowyn's
mood. She carefully settled herself beside the tub, then reached in
to place her hands on his slippery shoulders.
“When I first met you,
you grabbed my breath,” Eowyn said gravely. “You weren't at all
what I expected, 'Mir. I did not love you from the first moment we
met, if that's what you want to know. But I admit that you grabbed my
breath.”
She
stood by the bed, willing herself to stay frozen, as the women
gathered about her, pinning, plucking, combing, and performing all
sorts of unnecessary female rituals that under happier circumstances
she would do for herself. On her body was the dress that Dame
Ioreth's daughter had leant her. Not surprisingly, it was too big. It
hung like a great gray bag--albeit a soft,
decorative, and beautiful gray velvet bag--about her body and six
inches beyond her feet.
A nurse
named Nienor from the men's wards was recruited to raise the hem and
tack the loose garment into pleats just below Eowyn's breasts. As if
that Gondorian fashion were strange enough, the sleeves on the dress
were equally unusual, bell shaped and wide at the arms eye.
Fortunately, the large opening for the sleeve made it easier to slip
a cast-impeded arm through the armseye. The nurses' aide Thera had
found modest slippers for Eowyn's feet. Nurse Gertrudis hung a simple
gold chain around her neck. Then Gertrudis bound a clean sling around
Eowyn's cast.
By this
time, Eowyn was growing nervous, though she held herself steady and
pursed her lips. It would soon be time to speak to the Steward and
then leave. Leave!! Which would take longer now because she'd have to
get unpinned from this voluminous, ill-fitting dress. And then, could
she convince Gertrudis to break open and remove the cast on her arm?
The
hairdresser Visme came in from the hamam, fully expecting to paint
Eowyn's face.
“I
don't want makeup,” Eowyn muttered, holding her temper in check.
“And please roll my hair atop my head. I would do it myself if I
had two useful hands.”
“Don't
you want to appear your best when you speak to the Steward, my
lady?” Gertrudis gave Eowyn a puzzled look.
She
always seems to be confused by my behavior, Eowyn snorted to
herself. But she said evenly, “I want to dress appropriately, of
course, and I appreciate the efforts that you have gone to. But why
should that include makeup? My face is adequate enough. Visme, I'd
prefer to have my hair pinned up, to preserve some sort of formality
even in this institution. Just duplicate the style of Gertrudis.”
Eowyn liked the way Gertrudis' dark brown hair was pinned in a tight,
austere chignon with just a tendril loose at the back of her neck.
But
Gertrudis shook her head adamantly. “My lady, you must wear your
hair loose and down,” she insisted. “And wear makeup. Perhaps you
don't understand our ways, but trust me that this is the proper way
for a highborn woman such as yourself to approach the Steward.”
I
want the Steward to listen to my words and not think me a helpless
painted woman, Eowyn groaned inwardly,
though she was careful not to let her feelings spill onto her face.
She stoically endured Visme's makeup application and another
excruciating hair comb out. By this time, the smell of lunches being
delivered to the inhabitants of the women's ward had traveled into Eowyn's room. However, the scent made her nerve-rattled stomach
sicken, rather than groan for food.
When
Visme's ministrations were complete, Thera brought over a three-foot
looking glass. Before Eowyn could see her reflection, Warden Narmar
had come, ready to escort her to her fate. As they were about to
leave, Eowyn caught a fleeting glimpse in the mirror. A lovely woman
with a bright shaft of blonde hair, a shimmering pearl gray dress,
and a tight, frigid face floated momentarily over the glass.
That
is not me, she thought as she lifted her head. Not me at all. I am
a daughter of Rohan's greatest family, she told herself, proudly
raising her chin and trying to forget that she brandished an ignoble
broken arm in a sling. Narmar escorted her down the corridor, past
the portico that opened onto the courtyard , and further, much
further, past rooms filled with women patients, who most likely had
been injured during the siege. They went past the large doors to the
outside world and descended a wide marble staircase.
The
staircase opened onto an immense lobby, nearly the size of the Golden
Hall of Meduseld. The lobby floors were entirely of marble, covered
here and there by thick pile rugs embroidered in flowing designs. For
the first time Eowyn was fully aware of the splendor of the Houses
and the fading might of Gondor, even though they were displayed
in--as she told herself--naught but a big hospital.
Few
people were congregated in the lobby, save for a couple of women in
modest woolen bliauts, who sat at a highly polished oak table.
The Warden motioned Eowyn down another set of stairs.
Decorative
shields hung near the ceiling, bearing colorful standards. Eowyn
briefly wondered at the significance of those standards as her
stomach tightened. As they walked, Eowyn and Narmar passed various
Gondorian men, clad in elaborate fur-lined robes or mail dully
glimmering beneath the edges of soft wool surcotes.
And
then, as they approached the wide glass door at the end of the hall,
there was Bema, assistant to Erkenbrand
himself. “My lady,” he exclaimed and lowered his head just
briefly before he walked up to her eagerly. “We have heard that you
were safely held in this House. And I must say that you look as
though your health is restored.”
Eowyn
shot a glance at Narmar before she said, “Good Bema, I am here to
visit the Steward. I understand that he was meeting with officials of
this city.”
“Why
yes,” the high colored lieutenant flushed, as though thrilled to be
addressed by the woman now second in line to Rohan's
throne. “Erkenbrand sent me to make plans with Lord Faramir for the
reinforcement of the great walls. It seems that our forces will be
moving quarters into the lower parts of the city. My lady, it would
be wonderful for everyone's morale if you were to visit us...”
She
started to reply, and suddenly found herself choking back tears. She
did not want to tell Bema that she had no time to visit with the
brave warriors who had sacrificed all to come to this strange land.
She said, “Before I can do that, I must speak to the Steward. Which
way do we go?”
Bema
gestured behind him, where two imposing men entirely clad in plate
armor, stood sentry on either side of a magnificent doorway with a
border of colored glass panels. Both guards wore audaciously
decorative helms and black tabbards bearing the magnificent standard
of a sinuous white tree. They held ornate steel pikes, which they
struck on the ground twice in unison as Eowyn and Narmar approached.
Beyond
the guards Eowyn saw several splendidly-appareled
Gondorians who conversed excitedly with a few officers of Rohan. When
she and Narmar approached, they all looked up quite abruptly. Eowyn
nearly jumped out of her skin, for the very largest of the
Gondorians was the man she had seen last night. He was easily
distinguishable by the bandage around his head and eye as well as his
considerable size, even more imposing now that she was but a few feet
away from him. The large man was dressed in a luxurious velvet tunic
the color of red wine, a heavy gold chain draped around his
shoulders. It was clear that the others had been paying him
particular attention.
Eowyn
drew herself up proudly though she felt her knees tremble. Before she
or Narmar could say a word, the large man stepped forward to her and
said in a voice that rang like a bell, “My Lady of Rohan, well met
indeed!” Eowyn heard the others voice their approval as the large
man gently took her uninjured arm and lifted her hand to his lips.
Her utter surprise as he kissed her hand almost caused Eowyn to lose
her high demeanor. It must be a custom, she told herself.
It's a custom to greet a lady thus.
Though
he clearly stood a head taller than her height, Eowyn willed herself
to look up to the man with as much candor and strength as she could
muster. He smiled down on her, a delightful smile that raised his
thick black eyebrows and made his sympathetic dark eyes sparkle.
With a slight sense of relief, Eowyn addressed him boldly, “I would
make a request of the Steward of Gondor.”
“Very
good, my lady. Allow me,” the big man said, as he placed her right
hand in the crook of his left arm. “I will take you to him.”
Her
feet would have slipped out from under her if the big man hadn't
quickly propelled her through the others. So swift and efficient was
he that Eowyn didn't have time to say, “But aren't you...,” when
they stood before a broad desk of ornately carved wood. Behind that
desk sat the Steward of Gondor, the stranger on the patio she had
seen last night, the very man with whom she had exchanged stare for
stare.
Dimly
Eowyn heard Narmar say, “My lord, here is
the Lady Eowyn of Rohan, who dwells now in my keeping.” She was far
more aware that the breath had gone out of her body. The Steward,
Lord Faramir, repeated his staring, seemingly taking even greater
measure of her now that they stood at the same level. Eowyn was sure
she felt his blue eyes unapologetically bore through her clothing in
an attempt to locate her heart.
Behind
her, Narmar continued, “She is not content and wishes to speak to
the Steward of the City.” Breathe, Eowyn told herself.
Breathe. You must make your case without gasping. This Steward
might be able to see into the hearts of men, but I wonder if he's
merely curious about what's beneath my chemise.
The
Steward raised his eyes to look above her, as though observing what
was happening with the others in the room. He did not raise his body
from his chair, to show Eowyn proper respect for her sex and her
status. He did, however, raise his arm in a sweeping gesture,
“Councilors, this is Lady Eowyn. We of
Gondor owe her a great debt, for she and Meriadoc
the Halfling rid Middle Earth of the Witch
King of Angmar.”
Did the
men actually say, “Hear, Hear?”
Disarmed
by the Steward's abrupt change from wordless interrogation to hearty
praise, Eowyn again found herself short of breath. She could not
allow herself to be distracted from her purpose. She gathered her
pride and said, “Do not misunderstand Warden Narmar. My care has
been of the highest quality but I no longer need caring. I looked for
death in battle, but it did not come. Now the battle rages on, far
from the walls of your city. I would be off to meet that battle now.”
“But
what would you have me do, Lady?” the Steward regarded her keenly
once more, though this time he seemed more respectful. “If it lies
within my power, I will do it.”
She
gulped. Then she spoke out, her voice struggling to keep from
choking, “I would have you command this Warden and bid him to let
me go. I ask for nothing more than the return of my warrior's
armaments and garments, a good horse, and a guide to help me find my
way through your country until we reach the great host.” Her voice
had a lonely ring.
The
Steward paused. His hard blue eyes softened. Could it be that he
would grant her request?
The Lord
Faramir motioned to the extremely tall man, “Beregond, I think
Narmar's presence here is a sign that it is time for my part of the
meeting to conclude. Can you escort the councilors
to my father's old offices, so that the planning can continue?”
The
towering Beregond, whom Eowyn had mistaken for the Steward, nodded
genially and shuttled the Rohirrim officers and Gondorian councilors
past the great desk. The real Steward spoke quickly to each official
as they filtered out the room.
In the
resulting commotion, Eowyn unobtrusively studied the Steward. She
concluded that the formidable and rather
rude Lord Faramir's complexion betrayed his outward show of strength,
with its washed-out, pallid cast. His red-tinged blond hair might
possibly have been quite beautiful in other circumstances; for now
it hung limp on his shoulders, clean but clearly lacking in health.
And yes, his close-trimmed beard was red, all the more striking
against his ashen cheeks. His deep blue V necked tunic partially
covered thick bandaging across his chest up to his neck. Perhaps she
should excuse his lack of courtesy, Eowyn thought begrudgingly.
Faramir, son of Denethor, was obviously fighting against a grave
injury.
When all
but Narmar had gone, the Steward addressed the Warden in an even
toned voice, “Leave us, my lord Warden, but please ask one of the
nurses to bring us some tea. Do you take tea, Lady Eowyn?”
“I
drink tea, if that is what you mean.” And tea would be really
nice, Eowyn thought. I'm thoroughly parched.
“I
don't drink tea, actually,” the Steward admitted. “But I do like
the food that accompanies afternoon tea.” Eowyn looked at him
slightly confused. The Steward clarified, “Sweet breads and breads
mixed with cheese, which I would rather have with cavay
than tea. Have you eaten lunch yet, Lady?”
She
shook her head and realized that she was exasperated. She was hungry.
She was thirsty. She was eager to state her case and leave. But now
the Steward had finally decided to remember the proper formalities
for visiting dignitaries-even those imprisoned in a hospital. It
seemed that she would have to endure the formalities before she got
an answer from the Steward.
Lord
Faramir raised himself slowly from his chair, gripping its top for
balance. The slightest smile moved across his small mouth as he said,
“My apologies, lady, for not being as gallant as my assistant
Beregond. Please allow me to show you the garden, where I would hear
your request in full.”
He moved
carefully from behind the desk to stand at her right side and raised
his left elbow. Eowyn did not understand the meaning of his peculiar
behavior.
“Ah,
you do not know,” the Steward turned slightly, reaching carefully
for her uninjured hand, which he placed in the crook of his left
elbow, repeating Beregond's earlier gesture. Something utterly
strange and unexpected happened as a result. Eowyn felt her skin
tingle where her hand rested on the fabric of Lord Faramir's sleeve.
They
walked slowly out of the large room, which was lined wall to wall
with crammed bookcases ,and furnished with massive desks and heavily
upholstered chairs. The Steward's gait was unsteady, almost as if he
should be relying on her to hold him up. Yet he held his own as they
passed through a wide door onto a cold patio, where a solitary
fountain bubbled. The Steward led her past the fountain to an opening
in the wall bounding the patio.
She
gasped inwardly, for before her was a small but delightful garden,
just awakening in the week before Spring. Eowyn recognized the scent
of tuberoses blended with other perfumes that she could not name. A
soft expanse of dry grass opened up beyond the patio wall. Pink and
yellow bushes arched over the colorless grass, peppering it with tiny
blossoms. Plants with thick, succulent leaves hid the edges of the
walls of the Houses of Healing. As Eowyn looked ahead, she saw the
garden end at a broad ledge, beyond which spread the levels of the
city of Minas Tirith and the plains beyond.
The
Steward gestured her to a stone table and chairs beside the ledge,
where they sat with the vista of Minas Tirith expanding in front of
them. The air was dry and crisp. Eowyn felt a swift coldness bite
into her, despite the heavy fabric of her dress. She was about to
shiver when the Lord Faramir said, “Like you, I am in the Warden's
keeping and a prisoner of sorts. I admit that something inside me
wants to rebel against his rules. Yet I realize that he knows far
more of the extent of my injuries than I do. I am glad that he has
allowed me to meet with the officials today, even though I have not
yet taken up my authority in the city. But had I done so, I still
would listen to his counsel.”
Eowyn
leaned in to him, “Let me explain myself plainly, then. I do not
look for healing. I want to ride to war with Eomer and the others.”
She managed to not stumble on her words as she thought of Aragorn.
“If this be my death, I'll have my death be one of honor, like my
uncle Theoden.”
Her
train of thought was momentarily broken as an elderly nurse entered
the garden with a tray crowded with foodstuffs. Two pitchers of
steaming liquid, cups, and a large bowl of breads and buns were
spread before them. The nurse served her with tea; for Lord Faramir
she poured a nearly black liquid with a wonderful
aroma such as Eowyn had never experienced.
“This
is cavay,” Lord Faramir lifted his mug in her direction. He poured
cream into the liquid and then added a teaspoon of sugar to the mix.
“It comes from the land of Far Harad originally, or so the tales
say.” He lifted the mug, looked at it, and sighed, “Sometimes the
cup of cavay in the morning is the only joy a Ranger gets in his day.
”
Then the
Steward leaned in to her, his wistful tone turning matter of fact,
“It is two days at least since the great host left. Already mid-day
has gone. You would need the rest of the day to prepare for your
journey. They would have been traveling
three days before you could set out in pursuit.
“It is
too late for you to follow the Captains, even if you had the
strength. I understand that your loved ones have gone to battle and
you wish to be with them and face what might be your end. But death
in battle may come to us all, willing or unwilling, whether before
the Black Gates of Mordor or here, in a desperate attempt to save the
White City. I council you to stay here and do as the Warden commands.
If battle comes to Minas Tirith, I would be honored to have a warrior
of your renown at my side.”
Eowyn's
plans were effectively stopped with a crash. She knew that the
Steward was right, but the knowing was barely endurable. Her ability
to fight was immaterial. Realistically, she could never catch Eomer
and Aragorn before they gathered at the Black Gate. She tried to
raise her head to show the Steward that her dignity
was still intact, but she could feel her insides slump. A solitary
tear dripped down her cheek as she said, “But Warden Narmer would
have me stay in my bed for another week. I cannot lie there with
nothing to do. And my window looks on a dull courtyard. Oh, that it
looked to the East, where the host goes.”
The Lord
Faramir leaned in to her, and it seemed that his face had softened.
He said, “Then I will command the Warden to give you a room with an
eastward view. If you will stay in this House in our care, and take
your rest as the Warden has ordered, then I give you leave to freely
walk within this place as you will.”
For a
moment, her deep disappointment lifted just slightly. She was still
condemned to her prison, but she was free to walk about unaccompanied
within its confines. A bitter consolation but better than isolation
in a tiny room.
The
Steward continued, “If it is your wish, then you can read the books
of the library, or come to this garden and enjoy the sun. Here you
will find me, walking and waiting, and also looking east, whither all
our hopes have gone. It would ease my care if you would now and then
join me here.”
Eowyn
was startled. This was strange talk indeed. “How should I ease your
care, my lord, for I would now prefer to wander alone and keep my
own counsel.”
“Would
you have my plain answer?” he asked.
“I
would,” she said and then restrained herself from drawing back in
surprise at the content of the veritable torrent of words that poured
from Lord Faramir's mouth. How was she supposed to interpret his
comments when he said:
“Then,
Eowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful.” On and on he
waxed poetically about her various virtues, hardly plain speech by
anyone's standards.
Ah, that
was it, she concluded. She had wanted him to listen to her words but
all the while he had been looking at her face. Or at her body. Or
perhaps even through her dress!! Yet his words seemed so sincere as
he concluded, “It may be that only a few days are left ere darkness
falls upon our world. It would ease my heart, if while the sun still
shines, I could see you still. For we have both passed into the
Shadow, but the hand of Lord Aragorn drew us back.”
Eowyn
gasped. At the mention of Aragorn's name, she could restrain herself
no longer. “My lord, the Shadow lies on me still. Its cold hands
grip my heart. I cannot give you healing. I am a shieldmaiden
with a broken arm. For healing two strong hands are needed. But I
thank you for permitting me to walk about as I will, by the grace of
the Steward of the City.” She got up from her chair, nodded in
deference to the Steward, and then turned on her heel, not even
taking a backward glance to see how he reacted.
She
realized then that she was overwhelmingly tired as she retraced her
steps up to her room. The terrible pain in her arm that she had
ignored no longer could be denied. Her plans were thwarted by a
practical dose of reality. What was left to her now except to wait,
here in a strange land, while all who remained of her loved ones rode
to their deaths? She found her room and felt oddly grateful as she
collapsed , fully clothed, onto the very bed that she had tried so
hard to escape.