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CHAPTER 12

A Woman Scorned

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On the following morning a note was found in Lothíriel’s chamber, explaining that she had left for home. Prodigiously uneasy that she had left alone, Imrahil gathered up his retinue (which was no small task) and followed her by sundown. All the way home, he thought on what he would say to his daughter for her recklessness. Certainly she had cause to be grieved, but leaving by herself and unarmed was not the wisest decision she could have made.

Faramir had planned to leave for Emyn Arnen on the day following, but Mithlomi continued very ill and prevented their return to Ithilien. Éowyn was deeply distressed by this, but the Healers said that she would recover quickly enough if she would get some rest. With the move to Emyn Arnen, Éowyn’s pregnancy, and the arrival of little Elboron, the handmaiden had had little time to rest. The Healers determined that the stress of her position had finally caught up to her.

And so they remained in Minas Tirith as guests of the king, though things were strained between Faramir and Éomer for some time. Éomer refused to give up his belief in what he saw, though with Lothíriel’s departure he began to feel more grief than anger. Faramir, on the other hand, refused to give up his belief in his cousin’s innocence, and so the two men were not on the best of terms. Éowyn did her best to stand as a mediator between her brother and her husband, but with the amount of time she was spending with either Mithlomi or Elboron, she could not always be with them.

Thus Faramir waited through the long days for word that his cousin was safe and well. He had been tempted to ride with his uncle, but Éowyn had counseled him against it. Then after some days had passed since Imrahil’s departure, a messenger arrived from the princedom by the Sea. He bore the news that Lothíriel of Dol Amroth was dead.

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In Dol Amroth every house faced the Sea which gave the city life. From the harbor the city rose up into the hills which had, in the centuries of its history, been terraced with paved roads and neat houses and shops. At the highest point, overlooking the city and the harbor below, stood the House of the Prince. The palatial building, with its cream stone walls and tiled brown rooftops, could be seen from any point in the city, and the road which began at its front gate led all the way down to the prince’s wharf at the very end of the docks.

It was an open, breezy house which seemed to have been built around the numerous gardens contained within its courtyards. Indeed, many of the courtyards had been built to enclose natural springs and ponds; a few had become home to swans who learned early that the scullery maids would bring them bread at the end of the day. But one courtyard was not lined with large arched windows and doorways as were the rest. It was the garden of the Prince of Dol Amroth himself, and there he and his children alone were allowed, so that they could have moments of the day in which they were not constantly surrounded by servants and attendants and counselors. In this garden, in the heat of the day, Lothíriel and her eldest brother, Elphir, walked together.

“I should go to Minas Tirith immediately,” said Elphir, after Lothíriel had related to him the whole of the events in that City ere she fled its gates. “King or no, Éomer had no right to use you in such a way, and he should be punished for this.”

“And what good would killing him do?” Lothíriel replied.

“More good than your supposed death, my dear sister,” said the other. “At least, in such a case, the proper person will be punished.”

“If I am right,” said Lothíriel, “he will be punished enough by this.”

Elphir took a step nearer and wrapped his arm about his sister’s shoulders. “You still love him, even after what he said to you?”

She hesitated, but nodded. “Yes, brother, I do. I love him, and I fear I always will.”

Elphir sighed. “I do not know if Father will allow him to marry you after this.”

“I do not know if I would wish it. I would love nothing more than to be his wife and to bear his children, but he would not trust me enough to know that my children would be his. That would make my life more miserable than it would be without him.” She frowned quite suddenly. “Kissing a man in King Elessar’s gardens, during such a feast. . .I would have thought that Éomer considered me intelligent enough to be more discreet than that.”

And Elphir laughed. “Oh, that more women would be like you, Lothíriel, and see so keenly!” he said. “Few would look at trouble such as yours and find its humor.”

Lothíriel smiled, for the first time in many days. “Father has always said that I have a fine sense for the inappropriate comment.”

“And the sharpest wit ever to grace the halls of our forefathers.” The elder brother shook his head. “So if Éomer King believes that you are dead and comes here. . .what then will you do?”

“By then I hope our father’s messengers will have found Lord Nadroth and heard the truth from him.” Lothíriel sighed. “After that, it will depend on my Lord Éomer. Provided our cousin Faramir has not already killed him.”

He laughed, and the siblings embraced. Ere either of them spoke again, their father entered the garden. “Elphir,” said Imrahil, “may I have a moment alone with Lothíriel?”

“Certainly, Father.” Elphir released her and briefly squeezed her hand. “If you need anything, do not hesitate to come to me.”

“I know.” Lothíriel kissed his cheek, and he left.

She looked to her father, whose face was weary with many cares. “My dear child,” he said, crossing over to her and taking her hands in his. “How do you fare?”

“Well enough, Father.” The two embraced briefly. “And you?”

“It does me good to see you in such spirits,” he replied. “I fear, though, that I would feel much better now had I not given my blessing to a certain Lord of Rohan.”

“Father, be kind toward him, for my sake,” said Lothíriel.

“He has shown no such kindness to you.”

“Is not mercy the mark of greatness, Father? Is it not best to show kindness to him who is least deserving?” she asked. “My Lord Éomer has wronged me greatly, but he would not have said such things if he did not believe with his whole heart that he was justified in doing so. And I am perhaps fortunate that he did not make his accusations before a judge, as would have been his right in Gondor.”

Imrahil shook his head. “I know not how you can speak so calmly of what you have lost, child.”

“What good would weeping do, Father?”

He touched her cheek. “I wept when your mother died.”

“But she was lost,” Lothíriel said softly. “And whatever has happened between us, whatever my head tells me, my heart tells me that hope is not lost.”

“Then I will give him the kindness he deserves not,” said her father. “And for your sake, I will hope.”

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The evening following the messenger’s arrival, Éowyn found Faramir cloistered in the king’s study. He stood at the window and wept, and Éowyn’s heart ached for him. Lothíriel had been very dear to her, certainly, but to Faramir she was so much more. And Éowyn knew his pain. She too had lost a beloved cousin to a violent and untimely end.

For the messenger’s words had been chilling. Lothíriel had not died of a broken heart, but had been found dead on the wayside, killed by bandits lurking along the road betwixt Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth. Had she not left the City alone after Éomer’s accusation, she would most likely still be alive.

Éowyn approached her husband and began to rub his back. Now he needed to know that those nearest to him were safe, and he soon turned to embrace her. “Where is our son?” he asked, for perhaps the hundredth time that day.

“With the queen,” Éowyn replied. “Lady Arwen has offered to keep him until the. . .period of mourning is over.” She pulled back a little, drawing his gaze up to hers. “You are weary.”

“With many troubles,” he said, and with those words he drew her back to his chest, holding her as though he feared she would slip away into the night. And he wept once more, mourning his cousin.

Éowyn did not try to offer words, for she knew they would bring no comfort to him. She was not a woman of oratory, so she offered her condolence in what manner seemed best: she stayed with him. In the three years of their marriage, she had learned that sometimes the best comfort for him, despite his eloquence, was her presence. And through the restless night, that was what she offered him.

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The official period of mourning began the following day, and for the first time since Théoden’s funeral, Faramir saw Éowyn dressed all in black. Indeed, even Éomer donned garb of mourning, much to Faramir’s surprise. He wondered at that, and he could see that Éowyn did too. Was it too much to imagine that Éomer was still in love with Lothíriel, despite what he had said and what he had caused?

Other than meal times, the two continued to avoid each other, until the sun was setting and Éomer sought him out. Faramir was surprised by the visit, as much as he was unsettled by it. For his wife’s sake he wished not to say anything to Éomer about Lothíriel; for had it not been for her unusually tempering influence he would have already challenged the man to answer for his cousin’s death. For this reason Faramir said nothing when his brother-in-law entered, and it was some time before words were spoken at all.

“Brother,” Éomer finally said, “I am sorry for your cousin’s death.”

Bitterly the steward laughed. “What do you know of sorrow, Éomer?”

“I buried a cousin once,” the younger replied.

“You buried a warrior, Éomer,” said Faramir. “You did not bury a woman who had done nothing.”

“Your cousin was not as innocent as you would believe, brother—”

“Do not call me that, my lord,” the steward replied. “You may be my wife’s brother, but you are no brother to me.”

Éomer’s countenance grew stern, and his hand rested upon the hilt of his sword. “I did not kill your cousin, Lord Faramir, and you would do well not to blame her death on my actions.”

“Would I?” Faramir replied. “You are quick to claim that, and quick to touch your sword.” His eyes narrowed. “You have killed my cousin. If you challenge me, you challenge a man.”

“If you believe she died upon my actions, then I have cause to touch my sword,” said Éomer. “Yet if it consoles you, I will remove it.”

The younger man set his sword aside, and Faramir turned his back. Éomer continued: “Her death is not on my hands, Faramir. I am sorry that she is dead—”

“What cause have you for sorrow, Éomer?” Faramir asked. “If you did not love her enough to trust her, why do you grieve?”

“I wanted to trust her!” he cried. “More than anything, I wanted to believe that she loved me, because I loved her!”

“Then why would you not?”

“I could not deny what I saw with my own eyes, Faramir. If you had seen what I saw, you would not be so quick to trust her.”

Faramir stared out the window. “Did you ever love her?”

“Do not ask me that.”

“Did you ever love her?” Faramir repeated hotly, looking at his brother-in-law at last. “Did you even know her? I held her three days after she was born. I knew her for her entire life. This was not in her nature.”

“Then you did not know her well enough,” the King of Rohan replied, his voice shaking, though Faramir could not tell what emotion made it tremble. “Do not say that she died at my hand.”

“Then by what hand?” The steward crossed the room to look Éomer squarely in the eye, his anger brewing. “You accused her of wantonness, but it was you who could not master your own passions!”

“I mastered my passions!” Éomer retorted. “Do you know how many times in the night I tried to convince myself that I had not seen her with that man? I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe what her kisses had told me, that she had never been so close to another, that she loved me. But I chose not to delude myself!”

Enraged, Faramir did something he had thought never to do: he shoved Éomer against the wall, throwing him several feet backward and causing him to hit his head hard. “I loved my cousin!” he cried. “And she is dead!”

The two men stood for some time staring in stony silence. Then suddenly there was a ring of steel, and both looked to the entrance to see Éowyn standing there, with Éomer’s sword in her hand. “Husband, brother,” she said, “do not be so rash.”

Faramir took a few steps back, and Éomer rubbed the back of his head. Both men knew that she was dangerous with a sword, and that either harming the other would be enough to anger her greatly. Then Éowyn spoke again. “There is something you must hear. Both of you.”

“What is it?” Éomer asked.

Éowyn hesitated. “Come with me.”