Chapter Nine: Her Fateful Charge

AUTHOR'S NOTE

"Avoidance" is movie verse with a healthy respect for Book canon.

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Later that evening, Eowyn rose from the now tepid bath. Her husband sat on a stool nearby, peacefully watching her. As she stepped out of the tub and dripped on the tile floor, he rose and wrapped a heavy blanket around them both. Agreeably bound to each other, they made their way slowly to the bedroom. She felt warm, very warm indeed.

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She had been sleeping, curled up in a heavily cushioned chair in the corner of the cold library. At some point she heard the heavy volume that Warden Narmar had left for her, “Basic Medical Practices,” slip off her lap and land on the floor with a thud. She was too weary with grief to even care. She huddled, shivering in her light weight chemise and cream colored robe. At home in Meduseld, the sharp cold of winter and the powerful winds of the plains used to invigorate her. In this dank library the cold caused a deep pain to penetrate her muscles and bones

She was aware of the soft murmur of voices. Though she was certainly awakening, she dreaded opening her eyes. Happily, the overwhelming chill had lifted. In its place was an unexpected sense of warmth and security. Evidently, someone had covered her with a heavy cloak while she dozed. Her chin rested on the rough wool of its outer layer, but her arms and torso were comforted by the luxurious smoothness of deerskin. It was some man's cloak; it bore a faint scent of him. A ranger cloak, she told herself, like Aragorn would wear.

Eowyn did not want to be in the library. However, the only way to assuage her deep grief of this morning was to once again speak to the Steward. After his strange outburst last night, he was the last person she wanted to see. Nevertheless, see him she must. As she very carefully and very slowly opened her eyes--wouldn't you just know it--she saw him sitting at his big desk down the end of the row of bookshelves nearest to her corner.

The Steward's head was bent over a stack of papers, seemingly intent on his work. He was dressed somewhat haphazardly, in a surcote of rich but worn fabric, with a single braid for trim at the neckline. His wispy, reddish gold hair partially obscured his features as he worked. Then he suddenly looked up, as though he felt the heat of her curious eyes.

“My Lord Steward, “ Eowyn started abruptly, only to hear the Lord Faramir simultaneously exclaim, “You are awake, my Lady!”

For a second, they both were speechless. Then the Steward cleared his throat and continued, “Ah, I hope that Narmar found you a room more comfortable than this, uh, basement, Lady Eowyn.” The well-spoken Steward from yesterday seemed awkward this morning, nearly as awkward as Eowyn felt. His face was still relentlessly grim, but he no longer seemed to be scrutinizing and analyzing her every move.

Eowyn rose slightly, “Well, yes. I slept there last night. The view is what I had asked for. And very beautiful, besides. The room is filled with flowers that are different than you find in the Mark. I suppose a woman in different circumstances might be cheered to wake up in such surroundings. But as for me, I have a sadness--that is, I have a matter to discuss. That's why I came down here earlier. I fell asleep waiting,” she finished, sheepishly.

The Steward got up from his chair and walked toward her. Eowyn immediately noted that his gait had steadied in comparison to yesterday, and that his face had lost its striking grey pallor. Then he stopped and said, “Why, your eyes are red .... I'm sorry, lady. ”

She lowered her head, not wanting him to hear her sniff. She mumbled, “It is what I have come to speak to you about.”

The Steward held out his arm to her, “Then come, let's talk. ”

Eowyn now remembered that here in Minas Tirith, a lady was expected to put her hand on the arm politely offered by a lord, and let him escort her. She rose from her chair, wrapping the thick ranger cloak about her. Though she had little patience for what she'd seen of proper Gondorian etiquette, Eowyn condescended to place her hand atop the Lord Faramir's forearm. For a second, the contact made her tremble. Or was it that she felt the Steward tremble almost imperceptibly as her hand rested in the crease of his arm? He looked down on her and then seemed to relax, as he led her to a seat by the big desk. At that moment, Eowyn was reminded of Aragorn. He was not quite as tall as this Steward and somewhat lighter of frame. Unlike Lord Faramir, Aragorn had never made her tremble.

She felt a little foolish, like an uncouth young girl from the countryside, being escorted by the greatest man in Gondor. Oh rubbish, he's the same age as I am more or less, and I'm the one here who is of royal blood. He's merely the Steward of Gondor. Aragorn is their rightful King.

“Perhaps I can offer you more hope today than I could yesterday,” the Steward said.

“Hope is not what I want,” she looked at him directly. “There is no hope for me. Still, I must talk to you about my uncle, Theoden King. I have put aside thoughts of his fate these past few days in my own selfish attempts to leave your city. Did my brother or anyone else make preparations for his burial? What has been done with his remains? Where do they lie? I would like to see him again, but I agreed not to leave these grounds.”

The last sentence barely escaped her lips before her jaw tightened and prevented more words from coming out. She remembered well her awakening in the new room, after evidently being carried there in her sleep the previous night. Her thoughts were of Theoden, his bravery in the great charge, and his words of comfort to her at Dunharrow. She had willfully ignored his wishes, and now he was gone. Her injuries and her frenzied activities of yesterday had pushed the thoughts of her uncle's death to the back of her mind until today.

But in her new room, Theoden's shade threatened to obsess her. No one was there to see her: no nurse or healer. She could safely cry at Theoden's memory, so the tears wouldn't stop. Surely Eomer hadn't left without making arrangements for the king? She had to speak to the Steward, even if she hadn't liked his final words to her. The activity would distract her from crying.

The Lord Faramir listened to her carefully and then said, “Yesterday, Marshal Elfhelm discussed these matters with my aide Beregond, who told me that King Theoden's body lies in state in the Great Hall, beside the Steward's chair.”

As he said this, Eowyn detected a tone of regret in Lord Faramir's voice. She remembered how his piercing stare had made her extremely uncomfortable yesterday. Today he seemed vulnerable. Lord Faramir's eyes were indeed cast down as he continued. “You need not worry that you might not be able to see King Theoden before he is buried. The Numenoreans cared very deeply about how their bodies might be preserved after death. Their art of embalming is remembered to this day in Gondor. I've ordered these arrangements for Theoden's remains.”

He looked up at her then, and she sensed that he was deeply troubled as he said, “I wish the Numenoreans had passed the secrets of their strength and their statecraft to us, as well. They were far more concerned with holding off death than dealing with living.” Then he seemed to brush the introspective feelings aside, “Elfhelm and the other Marshals will meet with me and the chief Gondorian Councilors at noon, tomorrow, to discuss these and other matters that concern the defenses of Minas Tirith. You are welcome to join us. Do you know Marshal Elfhelm?”

“I do indeed. My brother was Third Marshal before Theoden King's death. Through Eomer I got to know the other Marshals,” Eowyn grinned for the first time all morning. “In fact, Elfhelm it was who let me join his eored in secret so that I could ride with the Rohirrim in defense of your city.”

Lord Faramir paused for a moment and then said, “I have never heard of a Gondorian woman involved in a similar adventure. It's about lunch time. If you don't mind sharing another meal with me, then I would enjoy hearing your story if it does not trouble you to tell it in the full light of day.”

Eowyn drew a quick breath. Here it was, almost a week since her feat, and no one had asked for her story in full. Admittedly, the telling might be tough and troubling. Yet now she realized that telling her experiences to someone might alleviate the grief she felt over Theoden. Lord Faramir didn't really know her and would have no idea of what was acceptable behavior for a lady of the Mark. He might not ridicule her or be critical of her.

The Steward then rose and took a few steps to the grand door of the library. A massive guardsman quickly appeared and stopped him. Eowyn watched as they talked. A wave of coldness passed over her, making her pull the Ranger cloak more tightly over her shoulders. Shortly afterward, the Steward returned to his seat. He shifted his weight a little, cleared his throat, and said, “I am glad that you've decided to talk to me at all after my comments last night. I'm sorry for being such a boor.”

Eowyn squirmed a little, “Well, I confess that I didn't know how to react. It is flattering to hear a man proclaim your beauty, but I have never put much value into flattery. Especially when it would come at the expense of another.”

“At the expense of another?” Lord Faramir seemed confused. “Lady Eowyn, if I had known that you had a suitor, I never would have presumed to speak to you as I did. You wear your hair loose and have no rings on either hand.”

Blast those nurses for primping me up and making me unwittingly advertise my single state to this man . Eowyn was exasperated, but she calmly explained to the Steward, “I am unmarried, my Lord Steward. Women of the Mark have different symbols than Gondorians use to show their marital status. We do use wedding rings. And when a woman of my country is betrothed, her fiancé gives her a necklace in recognition for the dowry that she brings to their partnership. Dowry necklaces can be quite elaborate. As you might notice, my neck is bare.” Her last words were difficult. It is many a long year since my uncle entertained possible suitors for me, she thought bitterly, but that does not mean I do not love.

Then she said, “My Lord, let me speak plainly, for I do not like artifice or hiding behind true feelings. By 'at the expense of another,' I was thinking of your lady wife. Surely, she would be hurt to hear that her husband was flirting with the Lady of Rohan.”

The Steward seemed taken aback by her words. An uncomfortable moment passed as he lifted a hand to stroke his closely-trimmed red beard. Eowyn caught herself noticing his hands, well formed and long fingered, but not powerful, as you would expect from a man who wielded a broadsword or battle axe. Strangely enough, the Steward's hands brought to mind the Elf Legolas, who had become her friend on the long march from Edoras to Helm's Deep.

“Lady, I have no wife. Nor have I ever been betrothed,” Lord Faramir said ruefully. “I've been married, so to speak, to the Ranger bands that patrol our borders in secret.” His bow shaped mouth suddenly erupted in a smile that lit up his grim face. “It seems we have misunderstood each other. My mother died when I was a child, so I've never quite learned the proper behavior toward women—as my dear cousin Lothiriel would no doubt agree. My words were sincere, but the way I behaved to you was pretty typical for a lonely Ranger.”

Eowyn felt her muscles relax and a grin form on her face to echo the Steward's smile. “This is your cloak,” she stated rather than asked. “You must know somewhat of how to treat a woman who is cold because you covered me with it while I slept. It is a fine sturdy cloak.”

She looked directly into his blue eyes now, no longer afraid of revealing aspects of herself that she didn't wish him to know, sensing that a grain of understanding had passed between them. She dimly recognized that she found this Lord Faramir more than passing attractive, but she put those thoughts resolutely aside. A nurse came into the study and set an appetizing spread of steaming chicken, vegetables, and breads before them.

“And so, Lady Eowyn, tell me how it was that you got to ride in Theoden's host and bring down Angmar before the gates of our city.”

Eowyn reached out and grabbed a chicken leg. She tore the skin with her teeth and took a few bites. Delicious. Then she said, “Theoden knew nothing about it. He ordered me to take charge of the Mark, in his and Eomer's absence. He offered me the opportunity to be a steward in his place for a little while. But my choice was so different.”

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What kind of woman would run off with a huge cavalry, wield a sword, and slay all manner of monstrous fiends that Mordor had brought to the field that day? Great Eru, that included Angmar!

Faramir studied the Lady of Rohan as she leaned back in her chair. Slowly, bits of her story came out between munches of chicken. He ate, too, but scarcely noticed the food passing his lips. Instead, he noticed those deep sapphire eyes, candid eyes, cool eyes. This woman was nothing if not honest and surely not one to be trifled with. Her beauty was part of her straightforwardness--her unadorned hair and simple, hospital regulation garments. So pure, but somewhat stiff. He still could get no sense of the shape of her body, other then its overall strength and the sense of purpose in her movements. But did she have decent breasts? Did she have good, round hips for bearing children?

Red, stop thinking of her that way! She's a visitor, not a brood mare. An emissary of her country. Can't you offer her some respect in addition to speculating about her form?

Finally he said, “I find it amazing that you rode into battle and then commenced to bring down enemies. Such a thing takes years of training to do effectively.”

“And so have I trained since ten, when I first showed an aptitude for warfare,” she lifted a mug of water to her lips. “The Rohirrim have the tradition of training capable women as shield maidens, to act as assistants to the men in battle. So our old songs go—of long ago, before we settled on the plains of Rohan. Today there are about thirty of us who are trained as shield maidens. I'm of the highest birth, so my people name me Shield Maiden of Rohan.

“You see, my Lord Faramir, shield maidens have long been kept off the battle field. Instead, we are trained to protect our homeland while the men are away in battle. I'm the only one that I know of who attempted to ride with an eored.”

Faramir studied her face, enjoying her beauty, her freshness. He delighted at her audacity. He couldn't imagine a woman of Gondor joining the Rangers, although Boromir assured him that every once in awhile, a soldier in his standing army was uncovered as a woman in disguise.

The Lady of Rohan shrugged her shoulders, as if trying to chase away unwanted thoughts. She leaned in to him and said, “The women of the court accompanied the eoreds as they mustered in Dunharrow. I rode out, of course, and brought my armaments with me as a precaution. I was afraid we'd be assailed by roving Uruk Hai, which happened earlier when we evacuated Meduseld. Some events happened at the muster that made me decide to ride with our men to Gondor.”

"Even though King Theoden asked you to lead your people in his stead,” Faramir said, as he watched her face carefully. “I never met Theoden. What manner of man was he?” Eowyn answered his question with what seemed like great pleasure. Her love of her uncle was so evident. And it was equally evident that her decision to disobey the King's orders did not arise from a disagreement with him. Something else had happened to fuel her decision. Something she seemed to avoid telling him.

“I confided my purpose to Marshal Elfhelm. He found me a simple set of chain mail and leathers from a youth who lately had been killed. Of course, Elfhelm had no idea that I would be bringing Meriadoc the holbytla with me.” Her face lit up as she spoke of her utter defiance. “Theoden had ordered Merry to stay with me and the women, while his cousins rode off in battle. We both felt rejected, but I was determined that it wouldn't be for long.”

Her story went on, describing the vast numbers of mounted warriors that mustered—6,000 and more. Faramir doubted that there were that many suitable destriers in all of Minas Tirith. Though she did not speak of it, he could sense her pride in her own rebellion, her comradeship with Meriadoc, and yet he could also perceive that motivating her behavior was a terrible pain of her emotions. He couldn't quite sense the pain's cause.

Faramir asked about other, less sensitive subjects: what types of arms the cavalry carried and if they encountered any foes on their way to the Pelennor Fields. Then he said, “Mithrandir told me that Aragorn had fought beside Theoden in a great battle before you rode to Minas Tirith. But you make no mention of Aragorn's name.”

To his surprise, she bit her lip just slightly before she said, “Aragorn was a leader at the siege of Helm's Deep, our great fortress, where Saruman's armies were defeated. But he did not ride with us to Gondor.”

“That's strange,” Faramir said. “I can understand that with so many people on the field, you could not have known who was there and who wasn't. But surely Aragorn came to the Pelennor in time to heal you and me? I only saw him for a few minutes at my bedside when he brought me back. I would like to know more of him.”

The Lady of Rohan twisted several strands of her plentiful golden hair. Her tone, which had been so animated when she described the muster, became still and contemplative. She spoke with great care, “Lord Aragorn is like no man that I have ever met. He seemed to come from the tales of the Isle of Numenor that the visiting Gondorian minstrels would sing to entertain us at Meduseld. He does not revel in glory or in the death of his enemies, though his deeds, at least at Helm's Deep, have already spawned many songs among those of the Mark who were there.”

She sighed and continued, as though every word she spoke was a chore: “I participated in strategy talks for the Helm's Deep defense with Theoden and Aragorn and his companions. But I did not see Aragorn fight that day. As usual, it was my lot to lead the woman and non-combatants into the caves behind the Deep. We huddled against the horrible noises. Then, in the morning, we came out and heard the fighters' tales.”

The lady's words led Faramir to conclude that Rohan's king held Aragorn in high enough regard to involve him in planning a major defense of his country. Moreover, that defense held and the day was saved. That was reassuring, Faramir thought. But he must know more of this man who, if he returned victorious, would assume responsibility for Gondor from the House of Hurin. Could Faramir trust the strange wave of clear sight that overcame him when Aragorn called him back from the brink of death? Perhaps he could trust Eowyn's assessment of the Dunedain chieftain.

He asked her, “Is there anything you might tell me that could recommend Aragorn to me as Gondor's king.”

Eowyn's face colored as she said indignantly, “I was raised by a great king in a House that was often visited by the mighty of other countries. Aragorn is a brilliant and powerful man, indeed kingly, if that is the answer you seek, my lord Steward.”

She stopped suddenly, as though uncertain about her last words. Faramir wondered what deficiencies of Aragorn's character had given her pause.

Then her strong shoulders slumped as she said, to Faramir's bewilderment, “He left us at the muster to take the dark road under the Dwimorberg. Our legends say that the mountain is haunted by ghosts of men who had sworn allegiance thousands of years ago to Gondor's first king.” Lost in thought, she murmured, “I asked to join him and his companions, but he refused me. Just yesterday the nurses told me strange gossip: that he sailed to Minas Tirith at the head of an army of the dead! Evidently they swarmed the battle fields before sunset and destroyed the remains of Sauron's army.”

Faramir's mouth dropped open, but he managed to keep the expletive that he wanted to shout from bursting forth and offending the lady. Instead, he considered her words and watched her keenly. He perceived not one but two undercurrents in her conversation. The first gave him unimagined hope—that Lord Aragorn could lead both the living and, unbelievably, the dead in successful battles. Might his challenge at the Black Gate be enough to sidetrack the Dark Lord from discovering Frodo's purpose?

The second undercurrent—perhaps he should have realized it from the outset. He now knew why Eowyn of Rohan wanted to follow the Captains of the West to the gates of Mordor. It would be impolite to pressure the lady to speak openly of her feelings, so Faramir said, “When you speak of Aragorn's achievements, you give me great hope for Gondor.”

“For Gondor, yes,” she said, dropped her chin, and turned her head away.

“Lady Eowyn, I am sorry if our conversation has worn you out,” Faramir apologized. “You are the first person who was at the Pelennor to give me a detailed account. I'm hungry to hear your tale, but I understand how this can be deeply troubling. Perhaps we could speak tomorrow? I would enjoy hearing about the actual battle and the tactics King Theoden used.”

To Faramir's surprise, she straightened herself and replied, “No, I am quite prepared to tell you my tale. No one has heard it before and it wants to come out. Now, if I can figure out where to continue ....”

“We will have some wine,” Faramir interrupted her as he carefully rose from his chair. Predictably, Nom, one of the midday Tower Guards, strode into the library and took his order for a carafe of slightly sweet ice wine from last winter. “Perhaps the wine will ease your story's telling.”

For the first time, Eowyn appeared to relax, “Perhaps it will. Or perhaps it will make me embellish the tale.”

“Embellish it, then, for I would hear of how Theoden's army came to the Pelennor and how you felt at the time.”

She paused for a moment, as though taken aback. Then the flood gates seemed to open as she told of Theoden's enormous cavalry appearing at the ridge above the Pelennor Fields, just as the sun rose on the fated day that he never saw. She described the sights, the sounds, and the strange rush of battle lust that overcame her as her horse charged with the others into the hordes of orcs and Haradrim. Faramir experienced her great sense of triumph as she and Merry rode among them, the halfling guiding their horse as Eowyn hacked at enemies on either side of them.

Then she stopped abruptly. By this time Nom had returned and set the glasses before them. Faramir poured the wine for them both. He said, “Do go on, lady, if it does not trouble you too much.”

Eowyn shuddered. Then she brought the glass to her lips. “It's sweet and cool,” she said.

Like herself, Faramir concluded. He chose his next words carefully, for the thoughts that they provoked made his body start to burn. “Is this when you were confronted by Angmar?” he asked.

“This is when I saw that vile dwimmerlaik bring down Theoden, yes. Windfola, my horse, tripped and fell. I ran to my uncle when that evil...” she shuddered and stopped.

By this time, Faramir was certain that his fever had returned. But he said, “I've met the Witch King, myself, any number of times. He knew I was Denethor's son, and he definitely tried to harass me whenever he could find me.”

“Really? He was so horrible, he stopped me cold. ”

“It was well known among us Rangers that no man could slay Angmar,” Faramir said, feeling a great surge of defiance. “His mounts, on the other hand, had no such protection. Their very size makes them remarkably easy targets. My arrows have brought down a number of them. A few times they've flown so close that I would have seen the Witch King's features, had he any behind that mask of his.”

She laughed, “Well, I couldn't see his face but I heard his hissing. He mocked me and told me no man could kill him. Imagine that. While he was boasting, I saw Merry sneak up behind the fiend and ready his knife. That's when I tore off my helmet and let the Witch King have a good look at the Shield Maiden of Rohan.”

He whooped with delight, and then felt a stab of pain in his armpit where the arrow had pierced him.

“Valar!” Faramir let loose the mild oath, then relaxed as the pain subsided. What a delight to imagine the scene, as Eowyn narrated how Merry delivered a wound to the Witch King's invisible hamstrings. Angmar lost balance, at which time the remarkable woman sent her sword right into the mask, where the son of a bitch's evil mouth would be. Hearing of Eowyn's great victory brought cool relief to Faramir's body, as though her deed helped him in his battles with recurrent Black Breath. He raised his glass of wine in her honor, and they clicked the glasses together in triumph.

Faramir was feeling very good indeed until the Lady said, “My lord Steward, I have told you the tale that ends with me here in this place. And now I am totally exhausted. We have been here many hours. I need to return to my room for some rest. I would like some time to study this book that Warden Narmar gave me. It's so huge it may take six months for me to finish.”

He felt genuinely sad, having enjoyed her company fully, “My dear Lady of Rohan.”

“It's okay to call me plain Eowyn,” she interrupted.

“Then, plain Eowyn, I insist that instead of calling me 'My Lord Steward', you call me plain Faramir,“ he countered. “Please come to the council at midday. I would appreciate your thoughts on whatever decisions we make.”

Eowyn rose and said, “I will be there. But I ask one favor in return. After the council, if I am not too tired, I would have you tell me the tale behind your wounds.” She removed his Ranger cloak and placed it on the desk, then turned to leave. As she passed the door, one of the Tower Guards took her elbow and escorted her out of sight.