Chapter Seven: When Éowyn Met Faramir

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

"Avoidance" is Movie Verse, which is why Faramir is a red head and why Eowyn, like Miranda Otto, is 33.

The "rwist" that occurs in this chapter relates to an incident that occurs at the end of the previous chapter. That sequence is my attempt to interpret the "balcony scene" encounter of Faramir and Eowyn, which only occurs in the films. If you haven't read that chapter, you might want to check out its last few paragraphs for illumination on "When Eowyn Met Faramir".

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“I didn't grab you when we first met.”

Faramir sat up to his chin in hot water as Eowyn worked his red-gold hair into a lather of bubbles. “Not like Lord Aragorn,” he continued. “He grabbed you the moment you met, so you have told me. Are you the kind of woman who likes to be grabbed?” he teased, and then whirled around clumsily, attempting to pull her into the enormous oaken tub. But she had anticipated his move and was out of his range before he swung his arms out to grab her.

She turned her back on him, feigning disinterest in any tussle. Then she wheeled about and advanced on the tub with a bucket full of cold water, which she promptly overturned on Faramir's soapy head.

“Wild woman!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs, making ready to splash her. But he stopped in mid move when he detected the abrupt change in Eowyn's mood. She carefully settled herself beside the tub, then reached in to place her hands on his slippery shoulders.

“When I first met you, you grabbed my breath,” Eowyn said gravely. “You weren't at all what I expected, 'Mir. I did not love you from the first moment we met, if that's what you want to know. But I admit that you grabbed my breath.”

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She stood by the bed, willing herself to stay frozen, as the women gathered about her, pinning, plucking, combing, and performing all sorts of unnecessary female rituals that under happier circumstances she would do for herself. On her body was the dress that Dame Ioreth's daughter had lent her. Not surprisingly, it was too big. It hung like a great gray bag--albeit a soft, decorative, and beautiful gray velvet bag--about her body and six inches beyond her feet.

A nurse named Nienor from the men's wards was recruited to raise the hem and tack the loose garment into pleats just below Eowyn's breasts. As if that Gondorian fashion were strange enough, the sleeves on the dress were equally unusual, bell shaped and wide at the arms eye. Fortunately, the large opening for the sleeve made it easier to slip a cast-impeded arm through the arms eye. The nurses' aide Thera had found modest slippers for Eowyn's feet. Nurse Gertrudis hung a simple gold chain around her neck. Then Gertrudis bound a clean sling around Eowyn's cast.

By this time, Eowyn was growing nervous, though she held herself steady and pursed her lips. It would soon be time to speak to the Steward and then leave. Leave!! Which would take longer now because she'd have to get unpinned from this voluminous, ill-fitting dress. And then, could she convince Gertrudis to break open and remove the cast on her arm?

The hairdresser Visme came in from the hamam, fully expecting to paint Eowyn's face.

“I don't want makeup,” Eowyn muttered, holding her temper in check. “And please roll my hair atop my head. I would do it myself if I had two useful hands.”

“Don't you want to appear at your best when you speak to the Steward, my lady?” Gertrudis gave Eowyn a puzzled look.

She always seems to be confused by my behavior, Eowyn snorted to herself. But she said evenly, “I want to dress appropriately, of course, and I appreciate the efforts that you have gone to. But why should that include makeup? My face is adequate enough. Visme, I'd prefer to have my hair pinned up, to preserve some sort of formality even in this institution. Just duplicate the style of Gertrudis.” Eowyn liked the way Gertrudis' dark brown hair was pinned in a tight, austere chignon with just a tendril loose at the back of her neck.

But Gertrudis shook her head adamantly. “My lady, you must wear your hair loose and down,” she insisted. “And wear makeup. Perhaps you don't understand our ways, but trust me that this is the proper way for a highborn woman such as yourself to approach the Steward.”

I want the Steward to listen to my words and not think me a helpless painted woman, Eowyn groaned inwardly, though she was careful not to let her feelings spill onto her face. She stoically endured Visme's makeup application and another excruciating hair comb out. By this time, the smell of lunches being delivered to the inhabitants of the women's ward had traveled into Eowyn's room. However, the scent made her nerve-rattled stomach sicken, rather than groan for food.

When Visme's ministrations were complete, Thera brought over a three-foot looking glass. Before Eowyn could see her reflection, Warden Narmar had come, ready to escort her to her fate. As they were about to leave, Eowyn caught a fleeting glimpse in the mirror. A lovely woman with a bright shaft of blonde hair, a shimmering pearl gray dress, and a tight, frigid face floated momentarily over the glass. That is not me, she thought as she lifted her head. Not me at all.

I am a daughter of Rohan's greatest family, she told herself, proudly raising her chin and trying to forget that she brandished an ignoble broken arm in a sling.

Narmar escorted her down the corridor, past the portico that opened onto the courtyard , and further, much further, past rooms filled with women patients, who most likely had been injured during the siege. They went past the large doors to the outside world and descended a wide marble staircase. The staircase opened onto an immense lobby, nearly the size of the Golden Hall of Meduseld. The lobby floors were entirely of marble, covered here and there by thick pile rugs embroidered in flowing designs. For the first time Eowyn was fully aware of the splendor of the Houses and the fading might of Gondor, even though they were displayed in--as she told herself--naught but a big hospital.

Few people were congregated in the lobby, save for a couple of women in modest woolen bliauts, who sat at a highly polished oak table. The Warden motioned Eowyn down another set of stairs. They passed through a wide corridor with walls of gleaming burnished mahogany. Decorative shields hung near the ceiling, bearing colorful standards. Eowyn briefly wondered at the significance of those standards as her stomach tightened. As they walked, Eowyn and Narmar passed various Gondorian men, clad in elaborate fur-lined robes, mail dully glimmering beneath the edges of soft wool surcotes.

And then, as they approached the wide glass door at the end of the hall, there was Bema, assistant to Erkenbrand himself. “My lady,” he exclaimed and lowered his head just briefly before he walked up to her eagerly. “We have heard that you were safely held in this House. And I must say that you look as though your health is restored.”

Eowyn shot a glance at Narmar before she said, “Good Bema, I am here to visit the Steward. I understand that he was meeting with officials of this city.”

“Why yes,” the high colored lieutenant flushed, as though thrilled to be addressed by the woman now second in line to Rohan's throne. “Erkenbrand sent me to make plans with Lord Faramir for the reinforcement of the great walls. It seems that our forces will be moving quarters into the lower parts of the city. My lady, it would be wonderful for everyone's morale if you were to visit us...”

She started to reply, and suddenly found herself choking back tears. She did not want to tell Bema that she had no time to visit with the brave warriors who had sacrificed all to come to this strange land. She said, “Before I can do that, I must speak to the Steward. Which way do we go?”

Bema gestured behind him, where two imposing men entirely clad in plate armor, stood sentry on either side of a magnificent doorway with a border of colored glass panels. Both guards wore audaciously decorative helms and black tabbards bearing the magnificent standard of a sinuous white tree. They held ornate steel pikes, which they struck on the ground twice in unison as Eowyn and Narmar approached.

Beyond the guards Eowyn saw several splendidly-appareled Gondorians who conversed excitedly with a few officers of Rohan. When she and Narmar approached, they all looked up quite abruptly. Eowyn nearly jumped out of her skin, for the very largest of the Gondorians was the man she had seen last night. He was easily distinguishable by the bandage around his head and eye as well as his considerable size, even more imposing now that she was but a few feet away from him. The large man was dressed in a luxurious velvet tunic the color of red wine, a heavy gold chain draped around his shoulders. It was clear that the others had been paying him particular attention.

Eowyn drew herself up proudly though she felt her knees tremble. Before she or Narmar could say a word, the large man stepped forward to her and said in a voice that rang like a bell, “My Lady of Rohan, well met indeed!” Eowyn heard the others express their approval as the large man gently took her uninjured arm and lifted her hand to his lips. Her utter surprise as he kissed her hand almost caused Eowyn to lose her high demeanor. It must be a custom, she told herself. It's a custom to greet a lady thus.

Though he clearly stood a head taller than her height, Eowyn willed herself to look up to the man with as much candor and strength as she could muster. He smiled down on her, a delightful smile that raised his thick black eyebrows and made his sympathetic dark eyes sparkle. With a slight sense of relief, Eowyn addressed him boldly, “I would make a request of the Steward of Gondor.”

“Very good, my lady. Allow me,” the big man said, as he placed her right hand in the crook of his left arm. “I will take you to him.”

Her feet would have slipped out from under her if the big man hadn't quickly propelled her through the others. So swift and efficient was he that Eowyn didn't have time to say, “But aren't you...,” when they stood before a broad desk of ornately carved wood. Behind that desk sat the Steward of Gondor, the second man she had seen last night, the stranger on the patio, the very man with whom she had exchanged stare for stare.

Dimly Eowyn heard Narmar say, “My lord Faramir, here is the Lady Eowyn of Rohan, who dwells now in my keeping.” She was far more aware that the breath had gone out of her body. The Steward, Lord Faramir, resumed his habit of staring, seemingly taking even greater measure of her now that they stood at the same level. Eowyn was sure she felt his blue eyes unapologetically bore through her clothing in an attempt to locate her heart.

Behind her, Narmar continued, “She is not content and wishes to speak to the Steward of the City.” Breathe, Eowyn told herself. Breathe. I must make my case without gasping. This Steward might be able to see into the hearts of men, but I wonder if he's merely curious about what's beneath my chemise.

The Steward raised his eyes to look above her, as though observing what was happening with the others in the room. He did not raise his body from his chair, to show Eowyn proper respect for her sex and her status. He did, however, raise his arm in a sweeping gesture, “Councilors, this is Lady Eowyn. We of Gondor owe her a great debt, for she and the Halfling Meriodoc son of Saradoc rid Middle Earth of the Witch King of Angmar.”

Did the men actually say, “Hear, Hear?”

Disarmed by the Steward's abrupt change from wordless interrogation to hearty praise, Eowyn again found herself short of breath. She could not allow herself to be distracted from her purpose. She gathered her pride and said, “Do not misunderstand Warden Narmar. My care has been of the highest quality but I no longer need caring. I looked for death in battle, but it did not come. Now the battle rages on, far from the walls of your city. I would be off to meet that battle now.”

“But what would you have me do, Lady?” the Steward regarded her keenly once more, though this time he seemed more respectful. “If it lies within my power, I will do it.”

She gulped. Then she spoke out, her voice struggling to keep from choking, “I would have you command this Warden and bid him to let me go. I ask for nothing more than the return of my warrior's armaments and garments, a good horse, and a guide to help me find my way through your country until we reach the great host.”

The Steward paused. His hard blue eyes softened. Could it be that he would grant her request?

The Lord Faramir motioned to the extremely tall man, “Beregond, I think Narmar's presence here is a sign that it is time for my part of the meeting to conclude. Can you escort the councilors to my father's old offices, so that the planning can continue?”

The towering Beregond, whom Eowyn had mistaken for the Steward, nodded genially and shuttled the Rohirrim officers and Gondorian councilors past the great desk. The real Steward spoke quickly to each official as they filtered out the room.

In the resulting commotion, Eowyn unobtrusively studied the Steward. She concluded that the formidable and rather rude Lord Faramir's complexion betrayed his outward show of strength, with its washed-out, pallid cast. His red-tinged blond hair might possibly have been quite beautiful in other circumstances; for now it hung limp on his shoulders, clean but clearly lacking in health. And yes, his close-trimmed beard was red, all the more striking against his ashen cheeks. His deep blue V necked surcote partially covered thick bandaging across his chest up to his neck. Perhaps she should excuse his lack of courtesy, Eowyn thought begrudgingly. Faramir, son of Denethor, was obviously fighting against a grave injury.

When all but Narmar had gone, the Steward addressed the Warden in an even toned voice, “Leave us, my lord Warden, but please ask one of the nurses to bring us some tea. Do you take tea, Lady Eowyn?”

“I drink tea, if that is what you mean.” And tea would be really nice, Eowyn thought. I'm thoroughly parched.

“I don't drink tea, actually,” the Steward admitted. “But I do like the food that accompanies afternoon tea.” Eowyn looked at him slightly confused. The Steward clarified, “Sweet breads and breads mixed with cheese, which I would rather have with cavay than tea. Have you eaten lunch yet, Lady?”

She shook her head and realized that she was exasperated. She was hungry. She was thirsty. She was eager to state her case and leave. But now the Steward had finally decided to remember the proper formalities for visiting dignitaries—even those imprisoned in a hospital. It seemed that she would have to endure the formalities before she got an answer from the Steward

Lord Faramir raised himself slowly from his chair, gripping its top for balance. The slightest smile moved across his small mouth as he said, “My apologies, lady, for not being as gallant as my assistant Beregond. Please allow me to show you the garden, where I would hear your request in full.”

He moved carefully from behind the desk to stand at her right side and raised his left elbow. Eowyn did not understand the meaning of his peculiar behavior.

“Ah, you do not know,” the Steward turned slightly, reaching carefully for her uninjured hand, which he placed in the crook of his left elbow, repeating Beregond's earlier gesture. Something utterly strange and unexpected happened as a result. Eowyn felt her skin tingle where her hand rested on the fabric of Lord Faramir's sleeve.

They walked slowly out of the large room, which was lined wall to wall with crammed bookcases ,and furnished with massive desks and heavily upholstered chairs. The Steward's gait was unsteady, almost as if he should be relying on her to hold him up. Yet he held his own as they passed through a wide door onto a cold patio, where a solitary fountain bubbled. The Steward led her past the fountain to an opening in the wall bounding the patio.

She gasped inwardly, for before her was a small but delightful garden, just awakening in the week before Spring. Eowyn recognized the scent of tuberoses blended with other perfumes that she could not name. A soft expanse of dry grass opened up beyond the patio wall. Bushes arched over the colorless grass, peppering it with tiny pink and yellow blossoms. Plants with thick, succulent leaves hid the edges of the walls of the Houses of Healing. As Eowyn looked ahead, she saw the garden end at a broad ledge, beyond which spread the levels of the city of Minas Tirith and the plains beyond.

The Steward gestured her to a stone table and chairs beside the ledge, where they sat with the vista of Minas Tirith expanding in front of them. The air was dry and crisp. Eowyn felt a swift coldness bite into her, despite the heavy fabric of her dress. She was about to shiver when the Lord Faramir said, “Like you, I am in the Warden's keeping and a prisoner of sorts. I admit that something inside me wants to rebel against his rules. Yet I realize that he knows far more of the extent of my injuries than I do. I am glad that he has allowed me to meet with the officials today, even though I have not yet taken up my authority in the city. But had I done so, I still would listen to his counsel.”

Eowyn leaned in to him, “Let me explain myself plainly, then. I do not look for healing. I want to ride to war with Eomer and the others.” She managed to not stumble on her words as she thought of Aragorn. “If this be my death, I'll have my death be one of honor, like my uncle Theoden.”

Her train of thought was momentarily broken as an elderly nurse entered the garden with a tray crowded with foodstuffs. Two pitchers of steaming liquid, cups, and a large bowl of breads and buns were spread before them. The nurse served her with tea; for Lord Faramir she poured a nearly black liquid with a wonderful aroma such as Eowyn had never experienced.

“This is cavay,” Lord Faramir lifted his mug in her direction. He poured cream into the liquid and then added a teaspoon of sugar to the mix. “It comes from the land of Far Harad originally, or so the tales say.” He lifted the mug, looked at it, and sighed, “Sometimes the cup of cavay in the morning is the only joy a Ranger gets in his day. ”

Then the Steward leaned in to her, his wistful tone turning matter of fact, “It is two days at least since the great host left. Already mid-day has gone. You would need the rest of the day to prepare for your journey. They would have been traveling three days before you could set out in pursuit.

“It is too late for you to follow the Captains, even if you had the strength. I understand that your loved ones have gone to battle and you wish to be with them and face what might be your end. But death in battle may come to us all, willing or unwilling, whether before the Black Gates of Mordor or here, in a desperate attempt to save the White City. I council you to stay here and do as the Warden commands. If battle comes to Minas Tirith, I would be honored to have a warrior of your renown at my side.”

Eowyn's plans effectively stopped with a crash. She knew that the Steward was right, but the knowing was barely endurable. Her ability to fight was immaterial. Realistically, she could never catch Eomer and Aragorn before they gathered at the Black Gate. She tried to raise her head to show the Steward that her dignity was still intact, but she could feel her insides slump. A solitary tear dripped down her cheek as she said, “But Warden Narmer would have me stay in my bed for another week. I cannot lie there with nothing to do. And my window looks on a dull courtyard. Oh, that it looked to the East, where the host goes.”

The Lord Faramir leaned in to her, and it seemed that his face had softened. He said, “Then I will command the Warden to give you a room with an eastward view. If you will stay in this House in our care, and take your rest as the Warden has ordered, then I will insist that Narmar allow you to freely walk within this place as you will.”

For a moment, her deep disappointment lifted just slightly. She was still condemned to her prison, but she was free to walk about unaccompanied within its confines. A bitter consolation but better than isolation in a tiny room.

The Steward continued, “If it is your wish, then you can read the books of the library, or come to this garden and enjoy the sun. Here you will find me, walking and waiting, and also looking east, whither all our hopes have gone. It would ease my care if you would now and then join me here.”

Eowyn was startled. This was strange talk indeed. “How should I ease your care, my lord, for I would now prefer to wander alone and keep my own counsel?”

“Would you have my plain answer?” he asked.

“I would,” she said and then restrained herself from drawing back in surprise at the content of the veritable torrent of words that poured from Lord Faramir's mouth. How was she supposed to interpret his response when he said:

“Then, Eowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful.” On and on he waxed poetically about her various virtues, hardly plain speech by anyone's standards.

Ah, that was it, she concluded. She had wanted him to listen to her words but all the while he had been looking at her face. Or at her body. Or perhaps even through her dress!! Yet his words seemed so sincere as he concluded, “It may be that only a few days are left ere darkness falls upon our world. It would ease my heart, if while the sun still shines, I could see you still. For we have both passed into the Shadow, but the hand of Lord Aragorn drew us back.”

Eowyn gasped. At the mention of Aragorn's name, she could restrain herself no longer. “My lord, the Shadow lies on me still. Its cold hands grip my heart. I cannot give you healing. I am a shieldmaiden with a broken arm. For healing two strong hands are needed. Right now my hands are ungentle. But I thank you for permitting me to walk about as I will, by the grace of the Steward of the City.” She got up from her chair, nodded in deference to the Steward's rank, and then turned on her heel, not even taking a backward glance to see how he reacted.

She realized then that she was overwhelmingly tired as she retraced her steps up to her room. The terrible pain in her arm that she had ignored no longer could be denied. Her plans were thwarted by a practical dose of reality. What was left to her now except to wait, here in a strange land, while all who remained of her loved ones rode to their deaths? She found her room and felt oddly grateful as she collapsed , fully clothed, onto the very bed that she had tried so hard to escape.