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CHAPTER 5

Night

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In Minas Tirith it was never truly dark. When the sun began to set, young boys came out to light lamps along the streets, and so when Aragorn stood at the window at the end of a long corridor, he saw thousands of specks of light across the city. He missed the days of his life as a Ranger, when he could lie awake at night and count the stars. The stars were still clearly visible here, but it was different somehow.

Yet Aragorn's eyes did not rest on the stars above or the lights below for very long. Instead he looked toward Ithilien, where his steward was fulfilling his duties to his King. Aragorn felt somewhat guilty for having sent Faramir into the wild while he himself stayed at home with his wife. Faramir's sense of duty was strong, however, and he had left Éowyn behind without complaint.

From the corridor behind him he heard soft footfalls. Glancing over his shoulder he saw Éowyn, wrapped in a heavy robe and her hair bound. "My lady," said he, nodding to her.

"My lord," she replied, "it is late; I did not expect to meet you here."

"Nor I you," Aragorn replied. "Could you not sleep?"

Éowyn shook her head, then smiled slightly as she reached the window and stood with him. "I fear that I worry Mithlomi sometimes," said she. "I sleep in the day and walk about in the night."

The King regarded her in the moonlight. Indeed, she looked thinner and even paler than she had two years before when they had first met. "How do you fare, Lady?" he asked gently.

She pulled her robe tighter around her body and gazed out the window. "Lonely, my lord," she replied. "I miss my husband."

"As he misses you, I am certain," said Aragorn. "Yet I meant to inquire after your health."

Éowyn did not respond for a time. "Three weeks have passed in this house," said she at last, "and I am not yet well enough to join my lord."

"What ails you, then?"

"I do not know," said she, a hint of frustration in her voice. "Every day there seems to be a new symptom, just as another has finally left."

"Have you been to the Healers?" Aragorn asked.

"Aye, my lord, but they seem no more equipped to find a reason than you or I."

He pursed his lips in thought. "It is strange, then, that this should set in so closely with your husband's departure."

"I fear his departure may be the cause of my sleepless nights." She sighed. "I do not sleep well without him."

"Though that be the case, I am glad to have you stay with us," said Aragorn. "It has been too long since we were often in each other's company."

Éowyn smiled, a look that seemed a little wistful. "Not since last summer," said she.

The King suppressed a sigh. He wondered how much Éowyn knew about what had happened to her. It was possible that Faramir had seen fit to tell her little, but did she know that she had almost died? For all he knew, she had lost consciousness before the bleeding had started—it had been the blood which had frightened the steward more than anything else.

It was truly no wonder that Faramir had not mentioned anything about having children since then. He doubtless considered the risk too great. Aragorn did not fully blame the man; in his position, the King felt he would have done the same.

For her part, the Lady of Rohan seemed to know his thoughts. "What of you and your wife?" she asked. "Should we expect tidings of your heir's birth soon?"

Aragorn laughed softly. "Not as far as I know," said he. "My wife would be a far better source of news on that front."

Éowyn smiled, and continued to gaze out toward Ithilien. "Faramir suspected I was pregnant before I did," she replied quietly. "He notices everything."

"That he does," said the King. "He is an excellent steward, and an excellent man."

The woman smiled fondly. "I believe, my lord, that his being an excellent man makes him an excellent steward."

Aragorn nodded. "An excellent man, endlessly loyal and dutiful. I could not tell you how many times I called him away from you before your wedding, and yet he never once complained."

At that the lady of Rohan laughed outright. "I fear, my lord, that his devotion there was less from a selfless desire to serve and more from a wish to escape from wedding preparations," said she.

Laughing as well, the King replied, "I knew there was something else to it. No man leaves his fiancée so willingly unless wedding preparations are on the table."

The lady looked down, a broad smile on her face. "He often told me that the only thing keeping him from eloping with me was my brother's wrath." She finally met Aragorn's eyes. "Did you ever wonder, my lord, at my marrying him?"

"Often," said Aragorn. "Nothing I could have faced in all my life could have surprised me more than your betrothal to him."

Éowyn shook her head. "For so long I thought I loved you, but it was nothing to compare with what I felt for Faramir."

The King leaned against the wall, watching the Princess as she traced the delicate silver latches on the window with one finger. He had heard the tale from Faramir, of course, but never from Éowyn. For a time he had been arrogant enough to believe that the shieldmaiden had allowed Faramir's attachment to her because she knew that any hope of winning Aragorn's love was gone. Yet the tone of her voice just then indicated that that was arrogance indeed. "My lady," said he, "why did you love him?"

Éowyn looked over at him, a bemused expression on her face. "Why does anyone love?" she asked in return. "I can only say that Faramir saw something in me that perhaps even I had not seen. He saw me as a warrior and accepted that without question. Yet he also saw me as a woman, and accepted that as well." She smiled. "There are few men who would see both and not insist that one part overpower the other, and fewer still who would welcome such a contradiction."

"And you loved him for that?"

She shook her head. "I understood him for that. When I understood him, I knew that I loved him." She sighed. "And still do, in a way that keeps me awake deep into the night when he is away."

Smiling softly, Aragorn took her hand in both of his. "I will see to it that he is with you again as soon as he can be spared, my lady," said he. "It pains me to see you thus afflicted."

Éowyn shook her head. "If you told Faramir of my illness, he would send me to the Healers," said she. "Perhaps I should avoid that altogether by seeing them before he drags me there."

Aragorn looked at her curiously. "Does Faramir not know?"

"He knows I was not well when he departed, and that was why I did not accompany him." Éowyn sighed. "But I have not told him that it persists, let alone that it worsens."

A cloud passed from before the moon's face, and in the brightened light Aragorn could see that she indeed looked worse than she had when she had arrived at his house. "Perhaps it would be wise for you to rest, my lady, instead of walking about," said he.

"Yes," she answered simply, even wearily.

The King lifted her hand and kissed it. "Shall I take you back to your chamber?" he asked.

She snook her head. "No, my lord. There is no need," she replied. "Good night."

Without waiting for a reply, she turned away from him and floated down the corridor in silence. Aragorn watched her, as if a shaft of moonlight followed her path. He still did not understand her—which was why he never could have loved her—but with every day she spent in his house, he appreciated more and more why his steward so doted upon her. She was truly a remarkable woman, and well worthy of a man of such noble blood as Faramir.

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Every day Lord Faramir would ride on Nâlo as far as he dared into the forest, toward the glade through which no man had passed. Sometimes he would go alone, but usually he was accompanied. On this ride, he was accompanied by some dozen men, including Zabathân.

His horse was particularly edgy throughout the ride, but nervous did not begin to describe Nâlo's behavior when they reached the hollow which the workers had dubbed the point of no return. Faramir disliked the name intensely, feeling it gave a sense of hopelessness to the place. His horse needed no such encouragement. Nâlo was a strong, spirited horse, but also young and untested by war. As such he was easily frightened, a trait which Faramir was trying to break him of.

"Nothing new here, milord," said Zabathân. "Shall we turn back?"

Despite his horse's reaction to the words "turn back," Faramir was reluctant to leave. "No, stay a little longer," said he. "There is something strange here, Zabathân, something different."

"Aye, my lord," the master replied. "That is why I believe we should leave."

Faramir opened his mouth to speak, but there was a sudden rush of leaves, and a flock of birds appeared in the clearing from the trees. Crebain were unusual in Ithilien, especially in such numbers, and the steward ducked instinctively. Nâlo did not like this at all, but neither did any of the other horses. Several of them reacted violently, raising up on their haunches and giving their riders a hard time in keeping their seats.

Finally it seemed that the strange infestation of crebain were gone, but a lone bird swooped down at the head of a stallion some distance away from Faramir. The horse bolted, its rider still in the saddle, and Faramir cried out after him, as did the other men. But before he could say anything coherent, both man and beast crossed the glade, and they disappeared.

Suddenly all the shouting stopped, as if their voices had disappeared with the rider. But Nâlo whinnied loudly and began to buck. Faramir pulled at the reins, trying to control the stallion. Several times he had to dig in with his heels to keep his seat. Then Nâlo raised up once more, violently, and Faramir lost his seat, flying back. The last thing he remembered was cracking his head against something. Everything went black before he hit the ground.

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When Faramir awoke, he was on his back, but on a much softer surface than he would have imagined the ground to be. He groaned and rolled his head to one side, eyes closed. Nearby he heard a man's voice say, "Zabathân, the steward wakes."

Faramir heard footsteps, so he tried to open his eyes. That first attempt being less than successful, he opted for concentrating on breathing. Then the familiar voice of the master of construction spoke. "Lord Faramir, can you hear me?"

With great effort he managed to say: "What happened?"

He heard a sigh of relief, and Zabathân replied, "Nâlo threw you, my lord. The best we can tell is that you hit your head on a tree limb and then gashed your arm on a rock."

Faramir finally blinked his eyes open. "My arm?"

Zabathân nodded. "Aye, my lord. A nasty wound."

The man who belonged to the first voice Faramir had heard appeared in his vision. "My lord, it is time to treat this wound," he said. "Can you sit up?"

With the help of Zabathân, he was soon sitting up, and the man whom he assumed to be a Healer was applying some kind of poultice to his upper arm. It stung at first, but soon his whole arm seemed to numb. Then the Healer lifted a needle and a long thread. Faramir jumped, a little startled. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

The Healer did not back down. "I am sorry, my lord, but I must seal this wound. This is the best way."

"Sew it together as you would a torn tunic?"

"Yes, milord. It is the easiest way." The young man touched Faramir's arm, and he felt no sensation at the touch. "If I work quickly, you will feel none of this."

Unconvinced, but realizing that something had to be done to the gash, Faramir nodded. The Healer started to work, and the steward looked away. This, he decided, was one thing he would not be writing Éowyn tonight. In fact, with the way he was feeling, it was probably best if he did not write Éowyn much of anything newsworthy or of great substance. It was certainly a night to write to her of how much he missed her, and how much he wished to be in her arms again—despite the teasing he would get when she learned of how he had gotten this new scar.