Upon the Brink

Éowyn’s arms clamped to her sides, in one last effort to keep herself from shivering.  A cold wind blew from the North, and with a kind of despairing pride Éowyn pretended that she did not feel it.  How could the wind injure her, the famous cold lady of Rohan?  Did she not set a chill in the flesh of all that kept company with her?  Her hair blew all around her, whipping in the wind and lashing her cheeks.  She wished it were not so dark; she wished she were not alone.  Faramir had stood with her for most of the morning but he had left on some errand or another, and though they had spoken little, Éowyn longed to have him by her.

But she would not flee; she would not allow the vapours shadowing her thoughts to send her back to the Houses in a flurry of hair and skirts.  If, as she somehow sensed, this were the day when their Doom would be decided, then she would see it; she would stand and face it.  At least if she stood to see the darkness she would know her fate – it would not be a shock.

She shuddered, remembering the words of the Ringwraith – “He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind left naked to the Lidless Eye.”  Could she stand such a thing?  Could she face it with honour?  That would not be the sweet oblivion she had craved, rather it would be a journey into greater torment, a death in which she would suffer more than ever she had in life.

Éowyn felt something like a shriek rise up inside her at the thought, but she repressed it.  Her denial counted for nothing – if her end were not now, well then it was still to come: the readiness was all.  She shrugged her shoulders at the thought and clung desperately to the thought of Éomer – her brother fighting perhaps even now, and with her no use to him.  If only she could die beside him, her life ending with the last of her kin!

She heard footsteps behind her, and clenched her arms around her waist.  Éowyn would not show any weakness in front of him, not again.  She ought to have learnt by now not to expose herself as she had that night in the gardens.  She could not stand to see the look in Faramir’s eyes as he looked at her, pained for her pain, grieved for her grief.  Éowyn would not be obliged to any man; she would not feign gratitude when the heart was absent.

He stood now behind her – it must be him.  She recognised the feeling – that sense of heat on her skin that came whenever he was near.  There was no other who could conjure such a sensation in her. 

“I have a gift for you, my lady.”

“I thank you, but…forgive me, but I care not for gifts.”

Éowyn shivered once more in the wind, and Faramir, stifling a laugh perhaps, said, “I think you shall care for this one.”

“If it is your will.”

She did not turn to face him, staring still at the darkness where her brother fought.  Éowyn could not look in his eyes – she dreaded his comfort, his kindness.  She was ice – though she might snap in two, at least she would keep her shape.  She could not melt.

Faramir came close behind her, his heat searing her back, kindling a fire in her flesh.  Oh, how she longed to push him away, to tell him that this heat was a danger to her, but she did not know how.  Her tongue sat heavy in her mouth, her lips stuck together.  He moved, and then she felt something soft and warm settle around her under his strong hands.  They lay now on her shoulders, and she nearly swooned beneath their weight, but distracted herself and kept some of her wits by looking at the mantle he had placed about her.  “It’s beautiful!”  She had not meant to say anything, and regretted it as she felt the rumble of his voice behind her.

“It was my mother’s.”

Éowyn was not unaware of the implications of such a gift, and would have said something, but Faramir was not finished.  “I would see you warm again, Lady Éowyn.  Forgive me – there is a clasp.”

His hands came around her to fasten the silver broach that would hold the mantle up.  She stood, a rigid column of flesh inside his arms, all but pressed back against his flesh.  His touch was lighter than any of the fighting men she had known, yet when his fingers caught in the hollow of her collar-bone, she could not restrain a slight gasp, that small portion of skin suddenly the focus of all her feeling.

Faramir paused, and Éowyn felt his breath come and go against her hair, some small part of it penetrating the mass of strands and touching her neck.  She was trembling, but could not pretend, even to herself, that it came from the cold.  Fear started to build in her; he had to let her go, he had to.  No good could come to her were he to hold her any longer.  The heat he roused in her skin would burn through, would reach her heart and melt the ice that had been her safety for so long.

Yet he said nothing and soon resumed his task, his fingers deft.  He did not touch her again.  He moved to stand beside her; Éowyn was limp with relief.  She had come too close to his heat; she had learned long before the safety that lay in the cold.  It was not only the body that became numb when chilled.  Her veins had been filled with ice for so long that the shock of warmth might kill her outright.

All this Éowyn knew to be true, and yet…she could not help a small feeling of regret that he had moved away.  Each way she turned she faced some danger, and at least within the circle of his arms it was not all pain.  Though she trembled and felt fear, there was a fragile anticipation weaved around her feelings, so that she knew not where one ended and the other began.

She would not stand the silence that stretched between them, and, in the grip of an icy dread that he would speak and tell her what she could not hear, she spoke, hardly knowing what she said.  “Does not the Black Gate lie yonder?  And must he not now be come thither? It is seven days since he road away.”

She was a fool – Faramir would not wait for an opportunity of her making, but would speak his heart whether she would hear it or no. 

“Seven days.  But think not ill of me, if I say to you: they have brought me both a joy and a pain that I never thought to know. Joy to see you; but pain, because now the fear and doubt of this evil time are grown dark indeed. Éowyn, I would not have this world end now, nor lose so soon what I have found.”

“Lose what you have found, lord?  I know not what in these days you have found that you could lose. But come, my friend, let us not speak of it! Let us not speak at all! I stand upon some dreadful brink, and it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me I cannot tell. For I cannot turn yet. I wait for some stroke of doom.”  She could have lied to him, she could tell him that he held her heart as perhaps she held his, but yet Éowyn cared too much for him, felt her own happiness to be too involved in his, to lie to him, even as such an extremity as this. 

His eyes were sad as he looked at her and said, “Yes, we wait for the stroke of doom.”

They stood in silence for moments unnumbered, the only mark of the time the instant when by some chance her hand met his, his warmth anchoring her to him.  The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and she waited, scarcely daring to allow breath cross her lips.  And then a great Shadow rose to the East, and the stones of the city heaved one great sigh, and Éowyn felt some whisper of life shoot through her, and wondered anew that she stood where she was.

“It reminds me of Númenor.”

His voice echoed in her ears, and she stared at him, a sudden fear grasping her.  “Of Númenor?”

“Yes, of the land of Westernesse that foundered, and of the great dark wave climbing over the green lands and above the hills, and coming on, darkness unescapable. I often dream of it.”

“Then you think that the Darkness is coming?  Darkness Unescapable?”  And it darted through her with the speed of an arrow that she did not want to leave this world, not yet.  She felt the warmth of his hand afresh and drew closer to him, to that heat that threatened to burn her until there was nothing left of Éowyn but what had joined with him – though she might fear such an end, at least it was feeling.  She would rather be seared by his nearness then blown away with the chill wind. 

“No.  It was but a picture in my mind. I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that great evil has befallen and we stand at the end of days. But my heart says nay; and all my limbs are light, and a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny. Éowyn, Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan, in this hour I do not believe that any darkness will endure!”  He smiled at her as he spoke, a great happiness in his voice – she could not but smile with him, though it felt strange on her face.  She was facing him, her front all but pressed against his chest, and she looked up at him, trying to siphon some part of his joy into her own self.  And then he stooped and kissed her brow.

They stood together on the walls a little longer, and heard the eagle sing of their victory, and voices rise in celebration in the city.  Yet Éowyn could feel no joy – what, after all, had she won? 

Faramir took her hand to lead her back to the Houses and she heard herself say, “It was not my wyrd after all.”

He stared at her, and she continued, avoiding his eyes.  “In the battle I thought it had found me at last…and I was happy.  It was over.  I do not know what I should do.”

She saw sorrow etched deeply on his face and said, “Forgive me – I do not mean to taint your joy…I am too accustomed to speak my thoughts aloud.”

He kissed her hand.  “I can have no joy,  my lady,  if you are not well.”

She smiled at him, smiling for him.  “I am glad of your friendship,  my lord – doubt not that it gives me happiness.”

“My friendship?”

His eyes darkened and Éowyn moved away from him swiftly, her fingers fumbling with the clasp of the mantle.  When at last she had removed it, she turned to place it in his hands, saying, “Now that the sun shines once again upon the White City I can no longer take advantage of your kindness.”

He closed her fingers around it with his own hands, and Éowyn shivered once again at the contact.  “I would have no other wear it,  my lady.”

Tears stood in her eyes and she said, “Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

He walked away from her then and she could not blame him.  Éowyn wished she could call him back, wished she could frame the right words, but none sprang to mind.  She could have wept as the hateful songs of joy echoed around her.

Author’s Note

Wyrd – Doom/fate.  A kind of monster.