The Threshold

Éowyn held her head high as she picked her steps; she should at least look like she knew where she went.  She knew that leaving her room was probably ill advised, but cared not.  She had heard the housemaids gossiping, and would not have them think that she had secluded herself for Aragorn’s sake.  No one should think her heart was broken – the Lord Faramir least of all.

She shook her head at her own reflections; it seemed that pride was the only feeling she had left.  She could not even fear for Éomer; all she felt was a dull resignation to his loss.  She thought Éomer had spoken of some slight hope, but could not remember with any clarity.  For herself she could not see it – a few thousand swords could never be enough to defeat the great malice to the East.

At times an ache would come over her; she longed to see Éomer or Théodred or any of the folk of Meduseld.  All faces in this White City were strange and Éowyn felt lost among them.  One night she had dreamt of Théodred, dreamt that he lived still, and when she awoke hope had kindled briefly in her heart.  But it was not to be.  So many of the men she had known since childhood had fallen.  She could not think of them, save late at night when she was alone and none heard her.

At last she had reached the gardens, realizing that they had been so hard to find because she had gone in the wrong direction when she had begun her search.  Éowyn sighed at this reminder that she was far from the halls she knew, and stepped into the gardens.  Sunlight rested lightly upon them and Éowyn lifted her face to it with pleasure.  There was no wind and the light was gentle, not harsh as it was in her homeland. 

Slowly she made her way through the gardens, pausing briefly when she saw simbelmynë.  She could not dwell on it – she was not strong enough – were she to let her grief in she would never rise from under it.  She walked past the white flowers.

After wandering for several minutes she came across Lord Faramir.  He sat on a bench of white stone, his eyes fixed on a book, and yet Éowyn thought he was not reading what lay between its covers.  He had that sort of look, of a man whose thoughts are far from him.  The sun shone through the white blossoms in the tree above him, and he looked very peaceful.

She had hoped to avoid his sight but he happened to look up, and Éowyn could not with courtesy retreat from his company.  She sat beside him on and looked about her, or rather, she looked at everything save the man who sat beside her.  Though he did not sit any closer than propriety demanded she had the most curious sensation of his warmth beside her.  That side of her body seemed sensitive to his every movement.

To distract herself from that curious sensation, she asked him of the book he read.  Surprise, though she thought pleasant surprise, was evident in his tone as he said, “It is the tale if the fall of Gondolin and the Elf-maid Idril.”

Éowyn smiled and said, “That is a tale I know well.  My tutor taught to me when I was younger.  Tell me, for I have long wished to be satisfied on this point: Idril’s choice of Tuor was the correct one, was it not?”

He looked at her curiously and said, “I would think so, without any doubt, Lady Éowyn.  Has anyone ever told you different?”

“My tutor believed that had she chosen Maeglin, Idril would have been happier, and Gondolin might not have fallen.  I could never see it, however.”

Faramir looked at her with disbelief. “A most unusual tutor you had, to be sure.”

Éowyn attempted to smile but her throat had closed over.  It was no happy memory.  Silence fell between them, seeming to vibrate through the gardens.  Éowyn was unspeakably grateful to Faramir when he began to ask her about Rohan – she could not have borne that silence a moment longer.

The sun had worn past midday when he asked Éowyn of her childhood dreams.  At first she denied that she had ever had any such thing, but at last he prevailed upon her to answer.  Éowyn’s voice was almost dreamy as she said, “For many years I wanted to be a Shieldmaiden, like my grandmother Morwen Steelsheen.  And then when my Uncle fell ill, I began to imagine that some day I might live in peace in the Moonland.  But my Uncle did not recover, and my hope vanished with his health.”

The Steward was staring at her with such a look of shock that Éowyn blushed. “Surely you knew of Théoden’s illness?  The eyes of the White Tower are not blind, is it not so?”

All the colour drained from Faramir’s face and he said, “Indeed they are not my lady.  Did you not know the part it played in my father’s demise?”

Éowyn blushed again, but from shame, and said, “Indeed my lord I did not, or I should never have…”

“My father was goaded into madness by the Dark Lord and his own grief, and so set himself to be burned in a pyre and I along with him

“My lord… please…” The words broke from Éowyn’s lips unwilling – she did not wish to beg.

 “My lady, I would not have you weep for me.” 

The tears had come unbidden to her eyes, and Éowyn touched her cheek in surprise.

“I ought not have burdened you with my sorrows.  Will you accept my apologies?”

Éowyn looked at him in shock and tried to gather her thoughts,

 “My lord I do not disdain the office of a friend.  It is simply so… I am sure there are others who could be more kindly to your grief than I.”

“And yet it is only you who has ever seemed to understand, Lady Éowyn.  Other men, my friends, have tried; but they cannot know what it is to feel such grief, and I seek no man’s pity.”

Éowyn was dumbfounded, and she could not meet his gaze.  She felt transparent, and prayed that he would ask her nothing further - she did not have the strength of mind to know what ought not be said.  But Lord Faramir spoke no more of these things, and only offered her his arm as they walked about the gardens.