Thy Mother's Glass

Faramir followed Éowyn through the door asking, “Why are we here?”

“Because of Éomer.”

“What exactly does Éomer have to do with the King and Queen’s bedroom?”

Éowyn sighed patiently “Faramir my love it is really very simple.  Éomer bedded the head maidservant last Middwinter and then insulted her by talking about the Queen.”

Faramir cocked an eyebrow at her, leaning against the doorjamb, his arms full of blankets.  Éowyn threw her arms up in frustration.  “Fine.  Éomer said that beside the Queen of Gondor all the women of Rohan are as mules beside a thoroughbred.  Let it be said, she was not the only woman in Meduseld looking daggers at my brother upon those words.”

Faramir looked at her in astonishment but only said, “Your brother is plainly blind my lady.”

A slight blush rose in Éowyn’s cheeks and she smiled at him, saying, “Sweet talk will not sway me Lord Faramir.”

“Truly Lady Eowyn?”

Despite the dry tone of his voice the moment hung between them and eventually Éowyn turned away from him, blushing.  He looked at her elegant form for a moment, saying, “But that still doesn’t explain why we are here with bedding.”

He could definitely detect irritation in her tone but she only said, “Éomer said it last night and so this morning when she changed the bedding, she put on the roughest blankets we have.  I would not have the King and Queen insulted, not in the Golden Hall.”

“I see.  Then, why am I here?”

“Have you no notion of how heavy a mattress is?  Shieldmaiden I may have been but even I cannot lift it alone.”

“So this is a test of my strength?”

“You could look on it that way my lord.  Who is to know if a Gondorian has the same manly strength as one of the Rohirrim?”

Her head was bent and he thought he could see her shaking in silent laughter.  “The Rohirrim measure manly strength by the ability to make beds?”

Éowyn’s voice was thoughtful as she said, “Well, beds come into it a little.”

“Éowyn!  I never thought to hear you say such…”

“And I never thought to see the Prince of Ithilien and the Steward of Gondor make beds like a woman.  It seems this is a day of surprises for us both,” she continued in a more serious tone, “Forgive me Faramir, I did not mean to…”

“Do not fret Éowyn.  The ladies of Gondor can hardly mention a bed without blushing.   I had forgot that Rohan is a nation of horsebreeders.”

“Indeed my lord.  You shall have the finest horses in all of Gondor if I have my way.”

Éowyn bent to strip the bed and Faramir copied her.  It was, he realised, a harder task than he had thought.  The furs and blankets were heavy, and it took several hard tugs to pull them from under the mattress.  Éowyn piled the discarded bedding beside the door, and they got to work on remaking the bed.  Faramir had to hold the mattress up while she tucked in the sheets.

They were almost finished when a young maidservant came rushing in.  Éowyn’s face was immediately clouded by irritation and she let out a small sigh.  They spoke rapidly in Rohirric and Éowyn’s voice became a little sharp before they were finished.  As the girl left she turned to Faramir and shrugged, her lips curving in a half smile.  “The cook does not want to salt the fish – but no one here likes smoked fish, and they do like smoked pork, and we don’t have a huge amount of salt…”

Faramir burst out laughing, leaning back on the bed and shaking with mirth.  At first Éowyn laughed with him but eventually she smacked him on the chest, saying, “What, pray tell, entertains you Lord Faramir?”

He managed to swallow his laughter and said, “Forgive me Éowyn it is just…from all the songs I have heard the Rohirrim sing of you, I never imagined that salted pork would cause you such worry.”

The corner of Éowyn’s mouth twitched and she lay down beside him, propping her head on her hand, and said, “Ah, but songs are sometimes deceptive.  At least they do not tell the entire story.”

He touched her cheek and brought her head down for a gentle kiss.  He could feel her smiling against his mouth, and he stroked her arm gently.  He moved to kiss her again but she pulled back saying, “I’m not…forgive me…this feels odd…it’s not…”

“Because it is the King’s room?” he said, he hoped sympathetically.

She looked at him as if the thought had not occurred to her and said, “It was my Uncle’s room.”

That he could understand; he did not imagine that he would wish to spend time with Éowyn in his father’s bedroom either.

She pushed herself off the bed and he wondered if perhaps she was a little annoyed with him, but she only said, “My hands are all dust.  I told them to clean the room thoroughly, I don’t know why…”  She made her way to the privy – presumably looking for a washbasin.

Faramir had just bent to pick up the fur that should cover the bed, when he heard a muffled cry from the privy.  Éowyn barrelled back into the room, her cheeks flaming and one hand covering her eyes, “Tell me I didn’t see what I think I saw,” she said, in a mortified tone of voice.

“Éowyn what?” but Faramir was interrupted when Aragorn Elessar, High King of Gondor and Arnor emerged warily from the privy, bare-chested.  Éowyn turned to face the other direction as he stalked over to a great chest and seized a shirt.  As he pulled it over his head Éowyn burst out, “I thought you were riding with my brother!”

“I was… We saw a convoy of riders approached with the last prisoners from Isengard.  Éomer returned to make preparations for them.  You can turn around now Éowyn.”

The White Lady of Rohan turned to face them and Faramir was surprised to see her grinning, though her cheeks were still pink.  “Honestly,” she said, “And Legolas had me believing that you never wash.”

Aragorn looked positively affronted, but Éowyn only laughed and came to stand beside Faramir, slipping her hand into his.  A smile broke across the King’s face and he said, “Why are you two here?”

“Well Éomer insulted a maid and she gave you bad sheets because she dislikes the Queen so we were changing them.”

Aragorn looked slightly bemused and raised an eyebrow.  Faramir shrugged and said, “It’s…complicated.”

“Actually I hoped to speak with you in any case Éowyn.”

“Oh?”

Aragorn searched briefly on the desk and then laid a stiffened cloth folder in front of them.  “Open it,” he said and Faramir felt Éowyn stiffen beside him.  She extended her pale fingers and flicked open the cover.

It was filled with sheets of vellum.  Éowyn gasped as Faramir lifted each sheet.  On every one there was an image of Éowyn drawn in charcoal.  Faramir could see her grow paler as the drawings progressed.  A feeling of revulsion filled his breast – no one should be stalked so.  No one should have such unrelenting scrutiny focused upon them.

Éowyn held one particular sketch in her hand – she was trembling.  Faramir looked at her, alarmed, and saw that her face was completely white.  For a moment he feared she might swoon and he caught her round the waist and sat her down.  He knelt beside her and put a hand on her shoulder.  She was shaking all over but she wouldn’t meet his eyes.  She held the sketch out so he could see it; in it Éowyn lay, seemingly in sleep, cushioning her head on one hand.  Her voice was low as she said, “That one.  Théodred gave me that nightgown as a Middwinter gift when I was eighteen.  He must have come into my room…at night…and…”

She turned eyes upon him that, scant minutes before, had been full of laughter, yet now were haunted.  There shadows of a terrible past in those clear, candid eyes that he loved so.  He reached up a hand to cup her cheek.  She smiled at him and continued, “He was always watching me, but I never knew that it went so far.”

“Éowyn love, he’s gone.  He can’t hurt you anymore.  I swear to you.”

Suddenly a smile broke across her face, like the sun coming out from behind clouds.  She kissed him – she had never kissed him before – and started to laugh.  “I’m sorry love,” she said, “Just once I would like to see you when my eyes aren’t red.”

She stood up and straightened her dress.  She held Faramir’s hand and played with his fingers as she said, “Where did you find these, my lord?” 

Aragorn looked mildly irritated at her formality but said, “I didn’t.  Arwen found it in a drawer of that desk.”

“Was there anything else there?”  Her voice was oddly brisk.  Aragorn looked confused but he handed her a sheaf of papers.  Éowyn looked through them quickly and said, “Ah, this what I thought.”  She answered their unspoken questions by saying, “I wrote to Diancecht in Minas Tirith so many times, and I never got a response.  I kept wondering – I knew it!”  Bizarrely she seemed almost satisfied by the discovery.

A young girl knocked on the open door, and curtsied when they looked at her.  She started to say something in Rohirric, but Éowyn coughed, and she continued in Westron.  “Lady Éowyn, the King, that is Lord Éomer, bid you come to the gates of Edoras immediately.”

Éowyn stood gracefully, saying, “Of course Modwyn.  Did he say why?”

“No my lady.  Just that it is important.”

“Very good Modwyn.  Can you bring these to my room?”  She handed her the folder of Grima’s drawings, “And go to the kitchens and get something to eat.  You look peaked child.”

The girl raced off and together they left the room.  Faramir couldn’t control his curiosity and asked, “Why did you have her speak in Westron?”

“I want to bring her South as my handmaiden.  Her foster-family died during the war, and she has no kin she knows, so I offered to take her in.  It is very hard to be an orphan.”  Éowyn’s voice was pensive and she seemed to rouse herself as she said, “I shall burn those sketchs this evening.  I wonder why Éomer wants me.  I hope nothing bad has happened.  Did he say anything to you my Lord?”

Aragorn rolled his eyes at her formality – behind her back – and said, “No Éowyn, though he was concerned about the prisoners.”

Éowyn walked quickly through the streets of Edoras, Faramir and Aragorn following in her wake.  She was truly glad that Aragorn bore no grudge against her; but she wished, an odd wish in truth, that he would not be so friendly.  She wanted to behave with absolute propriety towards him, so that all suspicions as to her heart would be put to rest; but he insisted on calling her by her first name, and seemed completely blind to all the hints she gave suggesting that it was not desirable.  Still, though it might expose her to some impertinent remarks, she could not bring herself to entirely regret that he treated her like a sister; and at least he was subtler than Éomer, though that was not, in itself, any huge feat.

They reached the gates quickly and she saw Éomer turn to look for her.  The look on his face stopped her in her tracks – he looked as worried as when she had first awoken in the Houses of Healing.  Aragorn, absorbed by his conversation with Faramir, nearly ploughed into her back but she ignored him.  Éomer walked over to her and as he turned she caught a glimpse of a body on a stretcher. 

Her brother squeezed her shoulder but said nothing until she met his eyes.  His voice was very gentle as he said, “Éowyn, the last prisoners of Isengard have arrived.”

“What does that have to do with me brother?” she heard the fear spike in her voice.

“Éowyn one of the prisoners…they took far more than we knew at the time sister.  All those men and women who disappeared were held in the caverns of Isengard.  Most did not survive.”

“And?  Éomer what is it?  What has happened?”

“Those that arrived today are the weakest of those who survived Saruman’s keeping.  Éowyn the woman on the stretcher – it’s Elfara.”

“Impossible!  Éomer what kind of joke is this?”

“No Éowyn.  They captured her and kept her.  She says Grima asked her many questions about you.”

“But she died, you all said, she died.”

“She barely survived it Éowyn.  The healers do not expect her to last the night – the journey was too much for her.  She wants to speak with you.”

Éowyn nodded, hardly taking in his words, and moved around him to approach the woman.  What she saw nearly made her cry out – the woman’s face was old and wrinkled, and somehow uninhabited.  There was no expression in her eyes, no life in her countenance – until her gaze shifted and she saw Éowyn.  Joy filled her eyes, joy and sorrow, and the woman spoke in a dulled, grave voice, “Éowyn is that you?”

“Aye Elfara it is I.”

“I would hardly know you, you have changed so.”

“Truly?”

“Aye my daughter.  They told me of your deeds Éowyn – you are a Shieldmaiden after all.”

“I am.”  Éowyn bit back a sob as Elfara spoke again.

“I knew I would see you again.  I always knew that my daughter.  You have grown so much – you are so beautiful.”

“Elfara – I missed you…”

“Hush love.  Are you happy?”

“Yes.  Very happy.”

“Are you wed?”

“Soon.”

Elfara shifted where she lay, and Éowyn noticed the iron-grey hair that covered her head – and she was not an old woman.  “Not that Poldon you used to like?”

“No.  He is of Gondor.”

“Is he handsome?”

“Very handsome.”

Elfara smiled and said, “And you love him?”

“Yes.  Very much.”

Elfara sighed and seemed to take a moment to catch her breath.  Éowyn was about to touch her when Cynefrid leaned forward urgently “No my lady.  She has the coughing disease.  You cannot touch her – it spreads…”

Elfara spoke again, “Where is Théodred?”

Éowyn’s heart leapt into her mouth and she spoke with great trepidation, “He died Elfara, in the war.”

The older woman sighed again, “I’ll see him again soon then.  Is there anything you wish me to say?”

Éowyn blinked back tears but said, “You’re not going to die Elfara.  There is a king in Gondor now, he will heal you I’m sure of it.”  She caught Aragorn’s eye and he shook his head – she dashed tears from her eyes. 

Elfara smiled at her, “No Éowyn.  It is my time.  I just wanted to see you before…what would you say?”

“Tell them I love them, and I miss them.  And I think about them.”

She desperately wanted to reach out and touch Elfara, to say goodbye somehow, but Cynefrid’s warning kept her mindful.  A sob tore out of her throat, and she watched as tears fell from her face to Elfara’s.  Her friend opened her lips one last time but could only manage a gasp.  Her eyes slid closed and the dreadful rasp that had been her breath ceased.

Éowyn stretched out a hand in disbelief but snatched it back.  She laid a hand across her chest, trying to control her breathing, which heaved within her.  Slowly she stood and straightened her dress; she was preparing to make her way back to Meduseld and her bedchamber when she turned and saw Faramir.  He opened his arms and she buried her head in his chest; he stroked her hair.  He was warm and solid and she could shed her tears quietly in the safe haven that he offered.

After a few minutes, she was calm, and she looked up in time to hear Aragorn ask Éomer, “Who was that woman?”

“She was a friend to me…a mother really.”

He looked as though he understood but she continued anyway, “Our mother died when I was very young, and I do not even really remember her, so Elfara was…”

“Why did she ask about Théodred?”

Éowyn looked at her brother in surprise and said, “She was in love with him.  Did you not know it?”

“No.  Théodred never said anything to me…”

“He didn’t love her.  He used her, but he didn’t love her.  At least not until she was gone.”

“Oh.”

Éowyn huddled once more in Faramir’s arms, unwilling to face Éomer’s curiosity or Aragorn’s courtesy.  He stroked her cheek and, at a cough from Éomer, said, “Shall we ride together my lady?”  She nodded, and they made their way to the stables together.  She was glad he did not ask her questions – he let her muse in peace and she was glad of it.  Yet when he extended a hand to help her mount her horse she was glad of that too – indeed she thought perhaps it was, that he was near, that filled her heart with gladness.

Author’s Note

The title is a quotation from Shakespeare’s third sonnet:

Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee.