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CHAPTER 7

Poems

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The day after receiving a cryptic note from Éowyn regarding poetry, which had piqued his curiosity to no end, Faramir was handed a stack of papers from the King, in the middle of which was a personal note. The short message, drafted in Aragorn's own swift, strong hand, read:

We have heard from the most reliable of sources that you have spent much of your time writing long letters of a poetic and eloquent nature to your wife. Since we must know that our steward is putting his time to good use, we request that you write a song extolling Lady Éowyn's virtues, to be performed at your earliest convenience.

Aragorn, King Elessar

Faramir laughed long and hard at the note. The royal we, the kingly request, and the very nature of the challenge had the makings of a wonderful story which would be told for generations around campfires of the Rangers of Ithilien. Faramir, Captain of Gondor, writing poetry for his wild love of the North. It was fitting, he supposed. There had been a time when he would have dearly loved to have been nothing more than a poet, and here was his chance to show a different quality than what could be proved in defense of a city.

Yet for some time he sat with quill in hand and parchment before him, and no words came. He pondered the possibilities of such an attempt. Praise her beauty? Éowyn hated it when he did that. Of course, he did it anyway and she had ceased to complain about it, but she would most likely not appreciate his setting his thoughts on the subject to paper.

The next obvious choice was to write a love song, and while he had many times considered it, he knew that such a thing would be for private exhibition only. His relationship with his wife was quite open and intimate, and to express his feelings on the subject in public, even in a song, would desecrate something very tender between them. No, that was out of the question. But what would he write?

With a sigh he arose from his desk and left the tent. The camp was relatively calm that night, but nearby he heard the sound of a lute. Following the hypnotic chords, he found a group of soldiers lounging about the fire. A few of them tried to stand as Faramir approached, but he held out his hand to stay them. "No need," he said, then turned to the lutist. "Please, continue."

The man obviously did not feel inclined to continue singing with the steward in his presence, so he merely played the old tunes of Gondor. Across the fire from the man, Faramir seated himself next to the master mason, Aramis. "You're only this contemplative after a letter from the Lady of Rohan," said the man, mirth in his eyes.

Faramir laughed slightly. "No, I have not had a letter from Éowyn today," he replied. "She told me in her last that she was not feeling well and that she was trying to rest more."

"Then why this expression of gloom?" Aramis asked. "I had almost thought you were becoming accustomed to the place before now."

Faramir took a deep breath and smiled. "What gloom?" he replied. "I am in Ithilien, the most beautiful place on this Middle-earth, and I have with me a company of men of Gondor. What cause have I for gloom?"

Aramis laughed. "That is a good attempt, milord."

Faramir shook his head and turned his gaze back to the fire. "Thank you."

From his left came the voice of a much younger man. "Marakal, can we not have a brighter tune?" he asked of the lutist. "You seem intent on drowning us in melancholy."

"Nay, Dethekan," the minstrel replied. "I only know the songs for the man away from his sweetheart."

Across the dancing flames, Faramir saw the look which Zabathân gave him, sympathy and amusement mingled in one. Yet it was another voice which spoke first, that of Beregond. "Perhaps another in our camp knows some tunes to liven our spirits," said he. "I have often heard from young ladies in Minas Tirith of a steward's younger son who would charm them all with songs on the lute."

Faramir looked up sharply and shook his head, smiling. "Nay, Beregond, my days of entertaining are long over—"

"But my lord," Zabathân interrupted, "you were saying only yesterday how much you missed playing the lute!"

The steward blinked, knowing that before all these soldiers, his brothers-in-arms, he could not falter. "Oh, very well," he conceded, and the minstrel gladly surrendered his lute.

He took up the instrument and settled back onto one of the marginally comfortable stones which had been set up around the fire pit. The feeling of the strings beneath his fingers brought back many, many pleasant memories; it had been too long since he had played. Briefly he wondered why, since his marriage to Éowyn, he had not touched his instrument. Perhaps the memories of life before the war were still too strong.

Absently strumming chords, he looked across the group. "What would you hear me play?" he asked.

"Sing a song of Númenor!" one man replied.

"We would be here all night, friend," Faramir replied, smiling.

"Then 'The Tailor's Lament'," said another.

Faramir laughed. "Aye, a good song, but not one to be sung without the ale flowing freely!"

The men laughed as well. Yet Beregond cleared his throat again and said, "Were you not once considered a proficient composer of songs yourself, my lord?"

Faramir turned a half-exasperated smile to Beregond, wondering if he should speak with the King concerning the man's punishment. "I suppose some might say that."

"Then sing a song of your own!" cried a soldier.

The steward shook his head, yet his fingers seemed to improvise a melody without his intent. "You would not wish to hear my pitiful attempts at songs of Gondor's past."

"Perhaps a song of our recent past," said Aramis. "Sing of the War of the Ring."

"Or of your own lady fair," added Marakal.

Faramir fell silent for a time, seemingly lost in thought and melody as he continued the melody he had found and perfected it. It was ironic that they wished him to sing of Éowyn, after his earlier challenge and attempt, and yet he kept thinking of their request for a song of war. They were soldiers, after all, as was his wife in her own way.

A song of war. . . .soldiers. . . .Éowyn. . . .

His fingers suddenly stopped upon the strings, and Faramir looked up. A small smile tugged at one corner of his mouth and he said, "Perhaps I shall indulge us all in a tale."

As he looked across the group, he saw several of the men smile, and so too did he. It had been a long time since he had done such a thing, but as he strummed the chords, the skill he had once prized in storytelling and singing came back, and he began to speak.

"Éowyn of Rohan," he began, "was the king's niece, and regarded as the fairest of those who dwelt in Edoras. Yet with this life she was not satisfied, for being the daughter of kings, she was a shieldmaiden, and wished to go to battle with the men who had taught her to fight, and then left her to tend her uncle." Then he began to sing, and hoped that he would remember the words when he came to write them down.

"In Edoras a flower grows,
The purest bloom of lily white,
But fairer than the winter's rose
Is she who took up sword to fight."

It was truly awful poetry, he knew, but the tune was lively enough to distract the men from the dullness of the words. Indeed, they seemed to be a rapt audience. Faramir wondered, as he continued, if any ale had been passed around before his arrival.

Yet as he continued, recounting the tale of Éowyn's defeat of the Witch-king of Angmar, he had the complete attention of the men at the fire. Many of them knew that Faramir's wife had been at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, yet few knew how instrumental her presence had been to their victory. Despite the fact that the lyrics themselves were halting, even cacophonic, Faramir knew that once he polished the verse, this would be a tale spun by storytellers for ages to come.

At the end of the song, he tapered off with a final chord and the men applauded. Faramir smiled, running his palm down the length of the lute's neck. Yet when Marakal asked for another song, the steward shook his head and handed the lute back to the minstrel. "None tonight," Faramir replied. "I fear I have used up all my creative energies for one evening."

He rose and left then, returning to his tent as the melody played through his mind again and again. Drawing parchment, quill, and ink, he began to write.

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Over the course of three days, Éowyn felt her condition worsen significantly. What had begun as a slight ache behind her temples was now a pounding agony, blinding pain at the smallest change in light or sound. Mithlomi was hovering, as a hen over her precious chick, and Éowyn felt very uncomfortable around her, as if that mother hen was also a hawk, ever watching. So for much of the time, she slept.

On the morning of the fourth day, the Princess arose and allowed her handmaiden to help her bathe and dress. Yet she insisted on going down for breakfast with Aragorn and Arwen, despite the ache she felt all over her body. Mithlomi was not far behind, and for the first time since they had come to this place, she accompanied Éowyn into the dining room.

The handmaiden, however, sought out a seat along the wall as the King rose. "My lady," said he, "are you unwell?"

"It is only a headache," she replied. "Please, do not trouble yourself."

Aragorn stood anyway and helped her sit down at the table. There was little conversation, as Éowyn felt very tired and Arwen seemed lost in thought and observation. Éowyn concentrated on her food, unappetizing though it was, and managed to stomach small portions before the daily messenger from Ithilien arrived.

To no one's surprise, a letter for her from her husband was found within the parcel of official documents. As was her custom when the messenger arrived during the morning meal, she took it, drained her glass, and rose from the table. But this time she stopped there; a wave of disorientation overtook her, and the King said, "Éowyn?"

She took a few short breaths, feeling the dizziness pass. "It is nothing."

Éowyn started toward the door, her hand upon her brow as she gazed toward the floor. Walking forced the dizzy feeling to return, and when she reached the door she stopped, resting her hand against the frame. Somewhere in the distance she heard her maid say: "My lady?" But Éowyn could not respond, for in that moment, her vision blurred, and weakness overtook her. Then everything turned to blackness, and she did not remember crumpling to the floor.

*~*~*~*

"My lady!"

The handmaiden's cry was almost a shriek, but Arwen knew immediately that Éowyn did not hear her. In a matter of moments, King, Queen, and servant were huddled around the Rohirric woman's motionless form, hoping for some sign of life in her. Aragorn turned her over to her back, but still she did not move of her own volition.

Arwen touched her forehead. "She is burning up," said she, looking to her husband. "How long has she been ill?"

"Since before Faramir's departure," he replied. He looked up at the handmaiden. "She has worsened lately, has she not?"

Mithlomi nodded, her hazel eyes wide as if in fear. "Aye, my lord. These three days have been worse than anything previous."

With thumb and two fingers, Arwen massaged small circles down Éowyn's neck, feeling some swelling. She then touched the woman's hand, and found it as cold as her forehead was hot. "We must draw the fever down," said she. "Mithlomi, hurry to the Houses of Healing and bring back the Warden of the Houses." As the girl stood and fled, Arwen looked to her husband. "Take her to her bed."

Aragorn needed no second suggestion; he scooped Éowyn into his arms immediately and headed to the second floor, taking the steps two at a time. Arwen stayed behind only long enough to call servants to clear the table and to instruct another to bring Mithlomi and the Warden to Éowyn's chamber. After that she hurried up the stairs after her husband.

When she came into Éowyn's room, Aragorn was seated beside the woman lying supine on the bed. He was holding her hand and rubbing the length of her forearm, trying to bring heat to her skin. Arwen sat opposite him, taking her other hand and doing the same. Lady Éowyn's face was almost translucent in its paleness. Mentally the Queen berated herself for not having paid enough attention to her guest's health over the last few days. She had merely assumed that Éowyn knew the limit of her strength.

Aragorn touched Éowyn's forehead with the back of his hand. "If the fever goes much higher it will kill her," said he, his voice very grave.

"I know," Arwen replied. "I know."

They stayed in silence for several minutes more before the door opened, and Mithlomi entered, followed by the Warden of the Houses of Healing. He bowed formally to the monarchs, and Aragorn stood away from the bed to allow the Healer to work. "How long has she been thus?" he asked, feeling Éowyn's brow.

Arwen stood and joined her husband. "She fainted but a few minutes ago, yet the King tells me she has been ill since Lord Faramir's departure," said she.

"Aye, she has been in the Houses several times in the last few weeks, yet those who attended her could not ascertain what was amiss." He looked to the handmaiden, who stood near the door, frightened and pale. "When did her health worsen?"

"Three days past she started to worsen at a frightening rate, Warden," Mithlomi replied. "She would not go to the Houses, and today I had resolved to apply to the King for help," she added with a nod to Aragorn.

The Warden returned to his work, and Aragorn laid a proprietary hand on Arwen's waist. She looked up to see a contemplative expression upon his face. "Do not fear," said she in a low voice. "They have helped her through far worse than this."

The King nodded. "I know, and yet I still feel I should not have sent her husband away from her when she was already ill." Slowly he placed his other hand at her waist and pulled her closer. "I fear I would not do the same, were I in his place."

"Faramir's sense of duty to you and to his people is strong, and though he loves his wife above all else, they both know when duty must overrule personal desires." She turned her gaze to him. "As do you."

Before Aragorn had a chance to reply, the Healer stood and turned to them. "This is a malady common to children here in Minas Tirith," said he. "Never in my years in the Houses have I seen it in a lady, nor have I seen a case so severe."

"What can be done for her?" asked Aragorn.

"We must let the fever run its course, my liege," said the Warden. "If I dare bleed her, it will finish her."

"Can we—" Mithlomi began, then stopped abruptly as the trio faced her. She bit at her lip. "Can we do nothing to ease her distress, Warden?" she asked. "My lady has not slept well in weeks."

The Warden nodded. "There are a few herbs which I will send you to settle her, but do not expect that they will give her true rest."

Mithlomi nodded. "We will take whatever help we can find."

With that the Warden turned and left, and the handmaiden took her place at her lady's side. A few minutes later Aragorn took his leave as well, as he had much to do during the course of the day. Arwen stayed behind with Éowyn, hoping against hope that the woman would wake soon.