Chapter Six: The Stranger on the Patio

“You are really enjoying this, aren't you,” he grumbled as she handed him a bar of newly milled soap. It was no accident that she had taken up the art of soap making as a hobby, he thought. As if sweetly smelling soap would ever entice him into daily bathing.

Eowyn sat on a stool chuckling, remembering.

_____________________________________________________________

It all started when she woke up feeling so much better. She had been in bed for two days and certainly that was enough. Now she had to put her plans for departure into action. Unfortunately, when those plans included demanding her clothes, Nurse Gertrudis revealed their sad state. The warriors' garments that Eowyn had worn when she was brought to the Houses of Healing were essentially unwearble. Her leather armor was destroyed. Only her coat of mail had survived relatively intact, and it was at the armorer's being cleaned.

“And what of the clothes in my pack?” Eowyn asked, feeling very impatient. She thought, I need to speak to someone in authority and don't want to approach him dressed in a hospital chemise and blanket.

But when Gertrudis and her assistant, young Thera, brought in Eowyn's pack, all three gasped to see that it had been opened, most likely by scavengers on the Pelennor Fields. Most of the contents were gone, save the only women's garments that Eowyn had packed. Her brown surcote was ripped and blood stained. Her simple white under tunic had fared better, but the upper arm of the sleeve was too fitted to accommodate her accursed cast.

“I've got to get something to wear,” Eowyn muttered through clenched teeth. So that I can get out of here. So that I can be on my way to join Aragorn's host. Every moment I spend here is a moment lost.

Gertrudis looked at her with one skeptical eyebrow raised, “I don't understand, My Lady. You don't need more than hospital clothing for your bed. Are you expecting a high visitor today?”

“No. I expect to get out of here today,” Eowyn controlled the urge to stamp her foot in annoyance.

“But my Lady, the Warden's orders are for you to stay abed for a week,” Thera's timid little voice insisted.

Eowyn would have none of that. She sat up with great determination, steadied her muscles, and said in her most icy, authoritative tone, “Then you bring the Warden to me and tell him that I demand to be released from his cage. And find me some respectable women's garments, for which I assure you that you will be well compensated.”
Gertrudis and Thera gaped at her for moment, as though aghast that such words could come from someone who--no doubt from their perspective--seemed too fair or too womanly to have such resolve. Then they scurried out of the room as though all of Saruman's Uruk-Hai were in pursuit.

When they left, Eowyn hung her head. She was running out of time. The Captains of the West were moving farther and farther from Minas Tirith with every breath that she took. But that was no excuse for her behavior toward the nurses. Eowyn, you are acting downright haughty, just like a royal witch, she berated herself. The very type of person she had promised herself she would never become, despite her birth and her position. No reason to be so high-handed with the nurses, who have given you good care so far. They were just obeying orders, after all.

She got up from her bed and settled down on the window seat. Her view was of the courtyard below, surrounded on all sides by three-story buildings. To her left, a patio was raised about three feet above the courtyard level. Two nights ago, the courtyard had been filled with cots containing groaning bodies. Today, however, just a few unoccupied cots remained. Most of the wounded that she had seen earlier had either been released, or died, or removed to wards within the Houses of Healing. For a moment, her curiosity about the great hospital challenged her strong desire to be free of its stifling environment

Then Eowyn heard Thera at the door. In her hands, the nurses aide held a cream-colored garment. The nurses aide lowered her head and moved into the room cautiously. Eowyn got up as quickly as she could and went to Thera's side. “I am so sorry for my words before,” she apologized, “but I am in great unrest.” And as she said these words, Narmar, Warden of the Houses of Healing walked into her room, followed by Dame Ioreth and Gertrudis.

“Lady, you are not healed yet, for all that you say that your arm is at ease,” Narmar concluded after examining Eowyn's arm and listening to her entreaties. “I really cannot give my approval in the matter that you ask. You cannot mount a horse with your arm in such a cast, or ride any distance until you regain your strength.”

Eowyn sat upright on the bed, her back stiff and straight, refusing to be weighted down by his words or the unwieldy device on her left arm. “I will sicken far worse than I am now if I am forced to remain in this room, condemned to my bed,” she spoke coolly, though her words were defiant. “There must be something I can do within the City. If you refuse to let me join the Captains, then perhaps I can help Ioreth and the nurses?”

The chief nurse had been standing patiently behind the Warden, holding her tongue. Now Eowyn could see Ioreth's kind but mobile mouth spring into action, “You need two good hands to set bones and replace bandages, dearie. Give your arm a rest, or it will trouble you greatly later, when you need it for important activities.”

“Like embroidery?” Eowyn said archly. “My left arm IS at ease, as you must admit, my Lord Warden. It only troubles me when I remove the sling or jostle it the wrong way. All I need is a horse and an assistant to help me mount. Together we could find the path of the great host."

The Warden sighed and sat down on the bed beside Eowyn. “I am a healer. It is not my wish to also be your jailer. I only ask you before you go off is to be realistic about your own limitations with a large cast on your arm.”

“Well, then, tell me who commands in this City, that I might that I might take my request to him?”

Narmar paused for a moment, as though unsure of the proper response to her last question. Then he said, “So much has changed due to the siege that I don't really know. Under normal circumstances, by right it is the Steward of the City who commands.”

“Then will you speak for me to the Steward?” Eowyn said earnestly. Could it be that someone in this infernal institution was willing to take an action to do more to help her than to condemn her to that cursed bed? Freedom. A horse. And as far as the cast was concerned, she'd demand that it be replaced with a lighter sling.

Narmar cleared his throat. “I will not speak for you, Madam because I cannot support your mission. I would not have you set foot outside the Houses, let alone the gates of Minas Tirith. You must speak for yourself. The Steward is resident in this building. He was sorely hurt but is now on the path to health.”

Eowyn paused. The thought of actually asking the Steward to redress her complaint suddenly filled her with dread. Her uncle had told her much of the formidable Steward of Gondor and how he had let the alliance with Rohan fall into neglect. Would he think her a hysterical woman, not worthy of his time? Would he find her little more than a whining child, though she was years past her thirtieth birthday? Nevertheless, she would speak to him and do her best not to be intimidated, “Tell me of Lord Denethor.”

“Why Lady, he is dead,” Warden Narmar said, evidently with some surprise, as though he expected her to have been informed of this matter. “Lord Denethor fell in the siege some three days ago. His son Faramir is here. He was gravely wounded in battle, and in fact, like yourself, was healed by Lord Aragorn. By the laws of our country, Faramir is now Steward of Gondor. He is still quite weak, but insists that starting tomorrow he will meet with various officials of the city. Perhaps he will have enough time and enough strength to consider your request—if you have enough strength to speak that request in the first place.”

Eowyn noted the continuing look of disapproval on the Warden's face as he continued, “Really, My Lady, you tell me that you have long worked with the injured and sick. Would you advise someone in your condition to have a meeting with the Steward of the land, who is in even worse health than you are?”

She answered resolutely. “If it meant that she could be free to fight beside those she loved, then I certainly would. Warden, our very world could collapse in a matter of weeks. We could be dead or taken into slavery by Sauron. It is not always evil to die in battle, even in bitter pain. Would you be a slave? For myself, I don't expect to live long enough to see my arm thoroughly healed.”

Narmar seemed shocked at her words. He hesitated before finally responding, “Then I will take you to Lord Faramir. But I must warn you to be forthright and not use any method of deception to get your way. Faramir has the clear sight of the Numenoreans of old, which the old wives and Dame Ioreth insist has not been seen so fully in a man for many a century.”

These Gondorians have strange ways and obscure words in their Westron speech, Eowyn thought. What could the Warden mean by clear sight? She said, “I am a friend of Lord Aragorn, who, I might remind you, is of the highest Numenorean blood. If he too has clear sight, then he has not chosen to frightened me with this unusual gift.”

“Well spoken!” Ioreth applauded. “Well spoken, indeed.”

The Warden gave Ioreth a warning glance before continuing, “My wife and her company of gossips chatter about the Steward and his family day and night, for want of better entertainment. According to them, Lord Denethor considered Faramir's ability to perceive events at great distance as a weakness and despised his son for it. I personally have witnessed how Faramir can look deeply into the hearts of men. I warn you that he might be perceptive enough to understand the hearts of women, too, although such a feat is difficult, in my opinion. So heed my warning and do not use guile or women's wiles when you treat with him.”

“Hah,” Eowyn laughed and then winced, as her arm complained. “My mother died before she could see to my raising. So Theoden King had me educated in the ways of the soldier and the doctor. I do not know of women's wiles. I insist on seeing this Steward.”

“Then I will come for you mid-day tomorrow. You can take your petition to Lord Faramir.”

At last, at last. Eowyn thought. Someone will finally spring me from this trap. She got up up from the bed, about to head out into the hall, but the motion caused her shattered arm to complain again. Eowyn let slip a string of Rohirric curses upon the aggravating limb. Why, oh why, had she consented to remain in this prison for yet another day?

“Women's wiles? Of all the nerve.” Eowyn grumbled to the nurses. “Does Narmar expect me to simper and cry, or pout until the Steward does as I bid?”

"No doubt,” Ioreth laughed. “Still, the warden warns you true, when he says that Lord Faramir can see what lies in men's hearts. My husband was once Faramir's commanding officer. Supposedly, the clear sightedness scared poor Faramir as much as it did his fellow rangers. Nevertheless, I doubt sincerely that he can understand the hearts of women. Though, he probably thinks he can.” Gertrudis laughed as she carefully assisted Eowyn into the luxurious, cream colored robe that Thera had brought.

Ioreth continued, “Come, dearie, we do have something to keep you occupied as well as sufficiently rested, I should think. Right, ladies?” Thera giggled a little as Ioreth continued, “We have a beautiful hamam with gifted attendants who can pamper you with treatments so that you can go to the Steward looking beautiful.”

“I don't need to go to the Steward looking beautiful,” Eowyn stood riveted, not moving though the nurses were about to head down the corridor. “I want him to listen to my words, not dwell on my face or form...And what is a hamam? I've never heard of such a thing.”

“It's a bath, Lady,” Gertrudis said, wrapping a guiding arm around Eowyn's back and gently steering her down the corridor. “Or rather, it's a hall with two great baths that ten women can sit in at one time.”

This was more than Eowyn could possibly imagine. In Rohan, those of royal blood bathed in wooden tubs that their servants filled with hot water. The lesser folk had no such fine facilities. The thought of immersing herself in a hot bath filled Eowyn with delight, though she wondered how she could do this with a massive cast on her arm.

The nurses walked her outside the building in which she dwelled. Ioreth was quick to point out that the bath was part of the Houses of Healing complex. The day was so intensely bright that Eowyn's spirits began to pick up, despite her best efforts to remain impatient and remote. When the nurses took her inside the hamam, she marveled at its beauty. The walls were completely decorated with murals, painted scenes of people of long ago, walking in a breathtaking forest so real that the walls seemed to expand beneath the forest eaves.

The baths themselves were not enormous wooden tubs, as Eowyn had expected. Instead, they were pools of blue water sunken into the blue tile floor. Thera pointed out that the long, narrow bath contained cool water, “We often come here after work on hot days for a swim. But surely you want the heated pool for your bath.” This pool was shallow and shaped in a large square; steam rose from it in inviting wisps. The nurses helped Eowyn to disrobe and showed her how to immerse herself with her cast resting along the bath's edge.

Two attendants, one young and one middle aged, entered the room. The young attendant, who introduced herself as Selenet, poured a mixture of sweet smelling herbs into the water. “To soothe your aching muscles, my lady,” she said. The older attendant Visme introduced herself as the hamam's official hairdresser.

Eowyn resigned herself to enjoying the bath. Her muscles, which had been strained and wracked from warfare and her own frustrations, gradually eased and loosened. It felt as though they were saying, “thank you, thank you very much.” She closed her eyes.

Then she heard a man's voice speak rather loudly a short distance away: “What you are really saying is that I need a bath.”

Eowyn looked up but no man entered the building.

“Is that anyone interesting?” Visme asked. Eowyn noted with minor curiosity that Selenet was climbing a staircase to a narrow walkway above one of the murals. Along the walkway was a row of open lattice-work windows. Eowyn recognized Narmar's voice, apparently floating in from the other side of the windows.

Gertrudis seated herself on a stone bench beside the hot bath. She explained to Eowyn, “That wall separates us from the men's quarters.”

Eowyn was surprised. “Why don't they just come in here? Hmm, do the men have finer quarters?”

Before anyone could answer, Selenet hissed down at them, “Why, it's the Steward. He's there with the Boss and another man. Narmar's making him wear a towel rather than walk about in the nude, and Lord Faramir is protesting.” She began to chuckle. “Thera, get up here. The Steward is a fine sight to see, although he is rather bandaged up and not walking well.”

Eowyn grinned slightly as she watched the young nurses aide clamber up the stairs to take her place in front of the lattice work. Eowyn asked Gertrudis, “Don't they see naked people of all shapes and sizes and ages every day in this House? I don't quite understand all the commotion. We of Rohan don't have great baths such as these. Most ordinary people use the rivers or pools for bathing. In summer, whole families typically make a holiday of cleansing themselves in our lakes.”

“Without clothing?” Gertrudis eyed her curiously.

“Why of course. The object is to clean the body, not the clothing,” Eowyn shrugged and rose out of the water, whereupon Gertrudis quickly wrapped her in the enveloping robe and shuttled her over to the row of basins where Visme presided.

The hair dresser yelled up to the women on the walkway, “You aren't telling us about the Steward's most important characteristics.”

From the walkway, Selenet said, “I can't until he drops that towel. Ah, there he goes to cleanse himself in the fountain.”

Ioreth, who had been sitting calmly on a bench by the cold pool, smiled as she warned, “Lower your voices, ladies.”

Paying very little attention, Selenet squealed, “Ah, hah, from the distance he certainly is, ahem, larger than my husband. But then, I think that the Steward is far taller than my husband. So I would say, judging from the men I have seen pass through here, the new Steward is endowed in proportion to his rather lofty height, though no larger or smaller than one would expect.”

“Lady Eowyn, you must come up here for a good look at the Steward before you meet him,” Thera teased over her blushes.

“Is he so different unclothed from any other men, that I must sneak such a peak without his knowing of it?” Eowyn retorted. The steam had turned her muscles to jelly, quite dampening any desire she had for walking up a flight of stairs just to look at a naked man.

“Well, he is certainly different from Lord Denethor,” Selenet laughed. “Lady Eowyn, your husband must be a fine looking man for you to show such disinterest ...”

“Sssh, enough enough,” Ioreth pointed a finger at Selenet. “I believe that Lady Eowyn is unmarried, and so, Visme, note that her hair should be dressed as such.”

Eowyn could hear the audible astonishment from the other women, as if they wondered why a woman of her title and her appearance should not be married and a mother many times over. Suddenly she felt overwhelmingly sad. Young women like Selenet and Thera, easily ten years her junior, had families of their own. The pleasures and pains of marriage had not been for her, nor would they ever be if she rode out from Gondor tomorrow. But then, everything and everyone in this beautiful hall could be destroyed in a few weeks time.

Following Visme's instructions, she lay her head on the rim of a basin while the hairdresser poured water and then soap on her hair.

A minute or so later, with her shampoo complete, Eowyn was startled by a voice suddenly ringing out from the men's quarters. The protester sent forth a chain of particularly salty oaths, which provoked an even louder outcry from Narmar. What a fine, descriptive language Westron is for cursing, Eowyn thought. But the two women on the walkway put their hands over their mouths, their faces red as they tried to stifle laughs.

“Get down from there!” Ioreth whispered as loudly as she could. “Narmar knows what you are up to, and I'll have to answer for your silly behavior. Men can be excused for letting forth oaths from time to time, particularly those men who have fought in our defense.”

Ioreth got up off her bench and wandered up to Eowyn, who tried to sit still as Visme combed her three feet of soaking hair. “Ah, but we women know better than to stoop to such language, don't we?” Ioreth beamed at Eowyn.

Eowyn grimaced to herself, Oh, for the opportunity to land a few choice words on Visme, who shows no mercy while untangling a snarl.

Ioreth continued, in a jolly mood, “One of my unmarried daughters is about your weight, though probably taller. I'll see if I can borrow one of her dresses for you. You can't go to meet the Steward in naught but a sling and hospital shift.”

Eowyn sighed as she endured her hair being combed and oiled. She would certainly be sent to the Steward cleaner than she had ever been in her life, irregardless of her attire. Despite her discomfort over all the attention made to her appearance, she let the nurses fuss over her and finally return her to her room. At least the rituals made her day go by, and kept her mind off her dire situation, her aching arm, and tomorrow's encounter with the Steward.

When night came and she found herself finally alone in the modest hospital bed, Eowyn found at first that she could not sleep. So she let her imagination wander onto thoughts of Aragorn, as she had every night since he had returned her from the brink.

Could he see into the hearts of men, as this Steward was rumored to do? Aragorn had not seen into her heart, or he would have known of her love. Or perhaps she was wrong, Aragorn had indeed seen into her heart and knew he could not return that love. She thought of him as he left her, before the gateway to the Dimholt. She pictured his fine face, his sharply etched features, and his quiet voice saying, “I have wished you joy since we first met.” What joy, she thought bitterly, still picturing his face as she fell into a restless sleep.

A dim figure of a man penetrated her shallow dreams. A shadow, but she knew it was the Numenorean, he who had drifted in and out of her dreams since she became a woman. This night his face was agonizingly vague, but sometimes it took on the distinct features of Aragorn.

Some time later Eowyn's dreams were disturbed by the voices of men outside her window. It must be very late, she thought, long past midnight. Who might be up at this hour? She squirmed slightly, her eyes still closed, and tried to get comfortable despite her bulky cast and thick hair that had wrapped itself around her body. Yet the voices drew her from her attempts at sleep.

“I can't thank you enough,” one of them said. “I could not support my family without my guardsman's pay. And this position is far more than I could ever hope for.”

Another voice said, “I should be thanking you. I obviously need an assistant. And for now, you can also be my representative to the people. The blasted Warden won't let me out to represent myself.”

Eowyn grunted into her pillow and thought, Does everyone held in this house feel trapped like I do?

The first voice continued, now scarcely audible, “The people are afraid. I hear them whispering among themselves in the markets and on the streets. They saw a high and strong man leading a host of Gondor's finest fighters out on what to them seems a fool's errand. I heard a few say that he is the restored King of Arnor, now come to save Gondor in its hour of need. But most are skeptical. And many think that the Steward's line is extinct—that you are dead.”

Eowyn's eyes sprang fully open. A faint light filtered in from the window. Compelled by the half-heard conversation, she rose from her bed as she heard the second man let out a mirthless exclamation, “I can see that I still am alive and hope to remain so.”

She grabbed the creamy robe, hastily draping it around her as she went to the window. In the courtyard below, an extremely tall, heavily muscled man dressed in an elegant black tunic and cape stood on the cobblestone patio. A thick white bandage wrapped around his head, compressing curling black hair streaked with grey. A patch covered his left eye.

From behind this fellow came the voice of the second man, “At noon, then.”

The man in black gestured to his companion with a hand wrapped in a cast. Eowyn studied him carefully as he walked off with the limp of one suffering a back injury. Then she returned her gaze to the patio. The second man, who until now had been nothing more than a voice, was standing on the patio and staring up at her. Relentlessly.

Her first inclination was to toss her head at such an indignity and walk away. Then she told herself, take the measure of this impertinent lordling first. There was something about him that was oddly compelling. What could it be? This rude man too was tall, though not as lofty as the man in black. His coloring was not at all what she would have expected from a Gondorian. In the hazy torch light, his shortish hair waved barely past his shoulders and seemed to be the color of sundried grasslands. But indeed, it was his face that seemed so unusual--his beard. In the dim light it appeared to be red. The few Gondorians she had met so far were mostly olive skinned and dark haired. But here stood a fair one with a red beard.

The stranger stood there, humbly dressed in dark leggings and a plain blue shirt that could not completely conceal the heavy bandages at his neck and chest. Despite these modest garments, he emanated such a commanding presence that she almost was intimidated. She fought the to turn away, overcome by a shyness she didn't usually feel. Then he smiled just slightly at her. It was not a challenge to her own quick appraisal, but more of a gentle greeting. She felt her lips push into a grin before she turned away, having had more than her fill of this strange encounter.

Eowyn sank into her bed, her strength utterly drained and her arm feeling testy. I will speak to the Steward tomorrow. Now that I have seen him, I feel more reassured. But what of his operative, the Steward's assistant, who had given her such intent looks. Who might he be? I must remember tomorrow to ask the Steward.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This story was originally created as a challenge for the faramir_fics community on Live Journal. The challenge asked writers to write back story for the Faramir sequences that had been added to the "Return of the King Extended Edition." "Avoidance" is Movie Verse, which is why Faramir is a red head and why Eowyn, like Miranda Otto, is 33.

The word "hamam" is Turkish. It refers to the vast bathing halls that were common in the Ottoman Empire and can still be found today in Middle Eastern and North African countries. In my imagination, the hamams of Gondor are more like the great Roman baths. I was fortunate to visit the ruins of the Roman Bath of Aquae Sulis, which is in the British city of Bath (of course). From ancient communal baths to today's luxurious spa's, people soak in mineral springs for curative as well as cleanliness purposes.