Shadows in the Sun

By: Zephyraria

A Chance Meeting Leads to Another

It was not long before Merwen was justified in her assumption that Eowyn could not tell a patch of cloves from one of weeds.  The healer quickly assigned her newly-acquired assistant to relaying large buckets of water from the Main House to the Gardens, where many tiers of herbs stood waiting.  Eowyn accomplished that easily enough; the morning was airy and cool and she was outside, finally.

At the third bell Merwen dismissed her with a wry – for Merwen always looked wry – but satisfied nod.  While Eowyn protested that she had strength and stomach enough for whatever the healer was to undertake afterwards, she was relieved when Merwen offered – knowing she would be refused – duties in the kitchen.  It was likely a lie, but Eowyn allowed herself to be deceived.  Her arms were healed, but they were weaker than she thought; and after the morning’s small exertion they protested the idea of further labors.  Now Eowyn rubbed them surreptitiously as she ambled past the Main House on the elm-lined walkway. 

She took her time walking past the courtyard; Merwen’s pace this morning had left her little time to look around – though there was little to be yielded even on a second glance, she now decided.  Past the long enclosure of stone, another House stretched and curved around the corner, bordered – or rather, obscured – on either side by the trees.  The orchards, she decided, would stand behind that house, while the wooded walks covered all before.  Standing on tiptoe, Eowyn thought she could make out the twin branches of the center oak, and smiled to herself at the thought of the Steward hiding from the healers.  

Eowyn did not wish to go back to her chambers; for it would be some time before supper, and she could have a long walk in the general direction of the orchard and see what she may find in the deeper corners of the sixth level.  But the sun had moved to the west now, behind the towering crags of the Mindolluin.  The sky remained a bright and carefree blue, but the city was covered in the mountain’s shadow, and was cold despite the airy light.  Eowyn rubbed her arms again, now chilled, and was headed toward her room for a cloak when a voice directly behind her made her jump. 

“Eowyn!”

She spun around at the call, and realized who spoke when nothing but thin air confronted her startled glare.  Eowyn shifted her gaze downwards, onto Merry, whose face broke into a huge grin.  He, too, was dressed in the dark blue of the houses, his Rohirrim livery no doubt ruined by battle.

“Oh, Merry!  It’s so good to see you.”  The sight of Rohan’s esquire brought a smile to her face, and she did not know if she would offend his pride if she picked him up and hugged him.  But the affectionate creature saved her those doubts by throwing himself around her middle, and she laughed aloud.  He pulled away quickly, seemingly embarrassed. 

“How have you been?” He asked, now sounding very much like her older brother, “arm’s been healing alright?  I hope you haven’t been too bored, because I was, and it took quite a bit of persuasion on my part to get Ioreth to let me out of my rooms and around.”

Eowyn smiled broadly; but the day was cold still, and upon the offer of a share of her tea, Merry followed her to her chambers at a trot.

“The healers are awfully nice here,” Merry said around a mouthful of biscuit, as they waved goodbye to the nurse, who – upon his pleading – had given them three times the normal share of the tray.

Eowyn sipped her mug; the tea was a rich amber color, piping-hot, and strong.  “Though I doubt they will let you have your pipe weed, or whatever you were so enamored with.”

Merry laughed, eyes lighting.  “Can’t smoke it without Pip here, though, for he’ll likewise catch wind of it, and be rather put out.  I actually asked the Warden for some, but he blubbered a long time about westmansweed and finally said there was none.”

Eowyn smiled again.  His presence never ceased to put her in a good mood, no matter where she was, “So what troubles have you been into these past few days, Meriadoc?”

He had the grace to finish chewing before he spoke, “They put Ioreth as my healer, you know – since she was so keen to help, they figured I would be the easiest of the lot.  She’s a nice old gal, somewhat chatty and never gets to her point, but I’ve realized that if you let her talk and do exactly what you want, half the time she never catches on.”

Eowyn could only laugh.  From what Merwen had told her, Merry’s old gal was the most senior of the women healers; still hale after eighty-some years, Ioreth had spent at least the last sixty as a House healer.  While the wrinkles tell a whole different tale, Ioreth had a mind sharp as an elven blade, though the chatter – Merwen had conceded – the chatter may have been acquired with age.  The healer came from a family whose lineage was perhaps next to Mardil’s line most pure, and has outlived two husbands without breaking a sweat.

“But she’s not senile, oh no,” Merry was saying, “the old girl still can get me to dance to her pretty tune and take this medicine and act according to proper ‘patient etiquette’ without a break in her tirade.  I like her, anyway; she would do very well back in the Shire.”

 “I almost didn’t recognize you though,” Merry continued headlong, “with your hair tied back, and in a blue dress, but you had no difficulty telling who I was, but then I suppose I’m the only one here –”

He paused, and a thoughtful silence ensued for a few seconds.  “the old girl’s affecting me more than I realized,” Merry said finally, in revelation, “no wonder the warden drones on so too, he’s been too long with her.”

Eowyn spoke before he could start again, “but that doesn’t explain your outfit; have you been aiding the healers too?”

He nodded enthusiastically.  “There’s a flower garden out there, somewhere,” he waved a small hand, “next to the recovery wing, connected to the orchards.  She has me help Amrael water and plant sometimes.  Amrael’s the quiet one; she takes notes and draws nice pictures of the flowers for that book.” He clamped his mouth shut, “I’m going to stop there, really.”

Eowyn found his self-criticism amusing, and prompted him with another question, “They say she sings.”

He nodded, wordlessly, then, as if he couldn’t help it, “her father is makes them – viols and lutes and whatever you can name, down in the third tier.  But she’s shy.  She only hums when you’re watching.  I take lunch with them, usually – the healers, and every so often visitors drop by – the other day Faramir came by and sat with us for a while.”

Eowyn was taken aback by the familiar reference, and said, as neutrally as she could manage, “Do you know the Steward?”

Merry looked at her as if it was the most natural thing in the world, “Oh aye, he’s quite friendly, though he looks sad a great deal – but then so does everyone.  The healers were in an uproar over him, you know, when he came – all asking about his health and sleeping and eating habits and who knows what else, it made him quite embarrassed.  Funny, really, that Ioreth could jabber the noble look off of anybody, and make them seem like her great-great grand nephew who’s six.”  He laughed, a high lilting sound, “I’m so glad the war’s over.”

Eowyn, who had been privately amused at the thought of a discomfited Steward, put her hand on Merry’s shoulder, and smiled, “so am I, Merry.” I think, at least.

“Oh! And speaking of Faramir,” Merry continued, cutting short his heartfelt exclamation, “I’m supposed to have dinner with him today; he said he wanted to talk to me about –” he paused, and turned red suddenly “something or other, you know, that he talks about.  Want to join us?”

Eowyn didn’t know how to answer, so she asked another question altogether, “but you just had tea!” 

It was a feeble protest, really, and she knew it.

“It takes a while to get up to the seventh level, and I’m sure Faramir could use a break; he’s been at – whatever it is he works on – all day,” Merry’s glance turned pathetic, “you won’t come?”

Eowyn smiled, and wondered why she would wish to so badly, “But I was not invited.”

Merry sighed, “You know he’ll just come down and get you, after I tell him you won’t come because it’s not proper.”

She laughed now, and escorted the small figure on his way out of her door, “When he does do that, you two gentlemen will have earned a dinner partner tonight.” 

A knock on her door not a quarter of an hour later yielded the Steward of Gondor and his accomplice, with equally triumphant grins upon their faces.  Eowyn had no choice but to yield. 

The three of them dined in the large orchard that stretched behind the House of Recuperation, farther south of the Herb Garden that Eowyn worked in that morning.  The sun was fading with a dramatic display of orange and yellow, while from the East a tide of night blue rose to unveil faint stars.  They each wore their cloaks, his was green, hers blue, and Merry’s a deep wine red.

Eowyn heard the Steward laugh that night – loudly, deeply, and he smiled throughout at Merry’s antics.  He himself had – as she expected – a very dry sense of humor which surfaced in witty repartees, as Merry’s drawn-out stories of the Shire went every which way.  And she found she could join them, as rambunctious as Merry or as refined and pointed as the Steward.  It was not a dinner of politics or diplomacy, or of scholars arguing finer nuances of history; it was entertainment, pure and simple, and she had to eat quickly, in fear that the next comment would have send her into a choking fit of laughter.

And when Merry suddenly ran off, proclaiming that he saw Ioreth waving to him, she did not feel awkward being left alone with Lord Faramir. 

The bell suddenly rang seven, and he looked startled.

“Some ranger I am, to hardly know the passage of time,” he said with a rueful smile, “you must excuse my poor planning, Lady Eowyn – the tour of the Vaults must be put off until another day.”

“I understand perfectly,” Eowyn replied with sympathy to hide her disappointment, “is there much to be done in restoration of the city?” then, “of course there is; how you are faring, perhaps, is a more pertinent question.”

  “Tolerably well,” he said with a self-deprecating laugh, “but barely.  So far it is a question of priorities – food and water first, sanitation, and then the ceremonies and rebuilding – the healers, thankfully, can look after themselves.  The city must be scoured, then its residents welcomed back from Dol Amroth. There is also, of course, the feast to consider – one upon the battlefield, to honor those who fought, and one at the return of the king.” He smiled, and looked at her warmly, “long have those words been but wisps and shadows, tossed about to disappear.  But this return also requires a reorganization of affairs, to distribute court matters to the King and others to the steward.  Less work for me – I think that is supposed to be the end result.” He continued, “But I’m rambling.  What will you do now, that your name resounds through the land, Maiden of the Shield-Arm, White Lady of Rohan?” 

She should have expected that question.

And Eowyn knew now that she had no answer for it.

“I…” she could say I would return to Rohan, she should say, perhaps, meet my brother at the feast and then return to Rohan, but she did not want to, “I don’t know, not yet.”

He looked at her quietly, searching her face for a time then quickly pulling his gaze away, as if embarrassed to be caught trying to discern her thoughts, “there is much time left; though not for me today.” He stood reluctantly.  “I must return to my duties, they multiply even as we speak.  I hope you see you tomorrow?”

Eowyn stood also, and smiled as easily as she could manage it, “You may be sure of it.”

He sketched a small bow, and walked off with a smile, waving goodbye.  Turning a corner, he vanished.  Eowyn look up, at the enveloping flood of night, and gathered her cloak more closely about herself.