Chapter Twelve: While Looking Elsewhere

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Avoidance is movieverse with much respect paid to canon. My Éowyn is the same age as Miranda Otto when the “Lord of the Ring's” films were made, rather than the much younger age of Book Éowyn. I chose to adopt Miranda's more mature characterization for “Avoidance,” to give her issues on love, marriage, and childbirth that a younger woman would not have. In this chapter, these issues really come in to play.

Thanks so much to Raksha and Shieldmaiden of Rohan for their Beta reviews.

Their bedroom was dark and silent, except for her husband's slow breathing, his lips close to her ear. His erratic turning had awakened her several times during the night. Now he lay calm as she heard the song of the early Spring birds herald the dawn.

When had she fallen in love with him? Why was it so important to him to know that now? Had she fallen in love while looking elsewhere? She knew well that she had been looking elsewhere when she first experienced her great desire for him. Unfortunately, no one in her youth bothered to tell her that desire and love sometimes walk hand-in-hand. She would not have dreamed of discussing these matters with her uncle. As for her closest companions, her brother and cousin Theodred, they were males and easily as naïve in these matters as she.

When she first came to Minas Tirith, Éowyn had long believed that desire and love were separate entities. She considered love as the highest of all feelings. She loved her few family members, her closest friends, and the man once called Estel, the king of all their hopes. By contrast, desire was a simple bodily craving, needing no lofty explanation. As a girl in her teens, she desired the boys who stole her kisses when her uncle wasn't looking. Then, two Springs ago, while waiting in fear and wrenching anxiety, to her surprise she felt simple desire again. But this time, desire had kindled as she stood next to her friend at the garden wall.

Morning was nigh at hand. In an hour they would rise and prepare for the events in the Citadel. Perhaps Faramir would forget his demand, that she tell him when she first realized she loved him? Unlikely, she concluded.

Faramir walked past the first of the wards in the men's wing of the Houses of Healing. His mind churned with love, jealousy, and fear of the possible end of his world as he knew it. For tonight, Minas Tirith was quiet and unharmed, though how long that state would persist gnawed at his mind.

To drive away his anxiety, Faramir decided to visit the patients, many of whom had fallen in defense of the city. He circulated from ward to ward, listening to the stories of Gondorian and Rohirrim alike. To his utter surprise, his entrance brought a chorus of cheers, from all but the most gravely wounded. Some of the Gondorian soldiers even kissed his ring and swore fealty to the Steward of Gondor. While listening to convalescing Rohirrim, Nurse Nienor summoned him for his examination by the Warden.

Narmar's final assessment was that Faramir's wounds and general health had improved greatly, just in the past few days. Faramir quickly announced that he would leave the Houses on the morrow. The Warden begrudgingly gave in to his demands, if he agreed to wait one more day. Faramir agreed to abide by the decision if he could leave the hospital grounds for some hours the next afternoon.

Thrilled to be free at last, Faramir dressed and requested that the guards standing loyally outside his door go and locate the lady Éowyn.

“Why, I just saw her downstairs with Dame Ioreth in the dining hall,” Nienor said, as she was about to enter his room with the evening meal.

“I'll have my dinner there, then,” Faramir told her as he scurried off. The dining hall was easy to find; simply follow the strong aroma of onions and spices. Thick chicken stew was on the menu. He was still enveloped in the imposing Steward's robe of office when he entered the large room. To Faramir's discomfort, many of the nurses and healers rose to their feet to acknowledge his arrival. He took off the robe as he strode among the tables and tucked the bulky cloak under his left arm.

He found Éowyn and Ioreth sitting at a table with a woman called Visme, who worked in the hamam. Ioreth cleared a space on the bench between herself and Éowyn, and insisted that Faramir sit between them. The chief nurse then proceeded to regale her companions with embarrassing tales from the boyhood of the Steward's sons.

Certain that his already ruddy complexion was now the color of a beet, Faramir nevertheless enjoyed Ioreth's tales, particularly one about baby Boromir that he had never heard. For the time being, he rested his worries about the inevitable crisis in the days to come. He forgot the exhilaration and confusion from realizing that he was madly in love. He ate the stew calmly, yet aware that Éowyn sat at his side, no doubt oblivious to his strong feelings.

Ioreth and Visme eventually returned to their duties. Sluggish from eating the heavy stew, Éowyn and Faramir decided to take a walk. They headed to the library's garden, now bathed in twilight. One of the guardsmen came forward from the hallway and set the torches in the garden ablaze.

Éowyn stepped onto the short wall and faced East, out onto the Pelennor Fields. High above her head thin clouds drifted across the newly risen half moon. A strong damp wind blew in from the Ephel Duath. It tossed Éowyn's hair and whipped at the funnel-shaped sleeves of her dress. She turned to Faramir, shivering. “I'm cold again. I wonder if I will ever be warm.”

“You just need a cloak. Use mine.” He stripped off his father's massive robe as Éowyn stepped down from the wall.

“It's huge,” Éowyn remarked as Faramir draped the cloak over her shoulders. Her lithe frame almost disappeared within the robe's thick fur lining. The robe billowed out past her feet onto the patio.

“My father was a very large man, taller than his sons,” Faramir grinned. “This was one of his state robes.”

“Does it make me the Steward of Gondor?” Éowyn laughed as she lumbered along the wall, looking toward the East more often than she looked toward Faramir.

He said, “Aye, and I'd swear fealty to you except for one thing.”

“And what is that?”

“I'm wearing the Steward's ring. All who would ally themselves with the House of Hurin show their loyalty by kissing the ring.”

She tossed her head and sat down on a bench that was built into the wall. The folds of the robe spilled about the ground like a voluminous quilt.

She looks deceptively vulnerable, swathed in that robe, Faramir thought as he walked her. Wouldn't it be nice to join her inside that fat fur lining?

The robe was large enough to cover them both. But Éowyn might be put off by such a suggestion on his part. Furthermore, the thought of sharing a robe with her made him break out in a sweat.

A serving girl walked onto the garden terrace, bearing a tray with a flagon of wine, glasses, and fruits for dessert. “The Tower Guards must have sent her,” Faramir remarked as the girl left. “They excel at anticipating my needs. I only wonder what they did for my father.”

Éowyn grinned as he poured the wine. She said, “That little girl Rethe certainly was bold with her questions.”

“Mmmm, asking me to wait ten years so I could marry her,” Faramir gave her a full wine glass, then clicked his glass against hers.

“And yet, there was some wisdom in her words,” Éowyn took a sip and swirled the red liquid in the glass. “Why is it that you are not wed? I'm surprised that your father didn't marry off his sons when you were very young.”

Faramir considered her words for a moment and then sighed, “My father saw his sons as soldiers and rangers, not as guarantees for the survival of his line or pawns for political gain. Father didn't marry my mother until he was 46, older than my brother Boromir's age at his death. My parents were a love match, according to my uncle Imrahil. But rest assured that my grandfather Adrahil was quite pleased to marry his daughter to the Steward.

“Some years ago, Father did talk of finding a suitable wife for Boromir, though Boro never seemed particularly interested in marriage,” Faramir sat down beside Éowyn, resisting the strong urge to cuddle up to that blanket of a robe. The night was cold, after all. “In fact, your name might have been mentioned as a possible bride.” Was the level-headed, plain-spoken Éowyn actually giggling?

“As for me, when I was young I didn't think my father much cared what I felt or did about women. All he wanted was for me to finish my schooling. Then his bowman son could quickly be sent to the Rangers and quickly get out of his sight. I had a sad surprise in my eighteenth year. I found out that my father did pay attention to my choice of women. I fell in love with a ship builder's daughter from Dol Amroth, a friend of my cousin.”

“Ah hah,” those dark blue eyes teased, “you have been in love once.”

He looked away, trying to remember Gwynellor, daughter of Dirhavel. She was small and ripe with thick brown hair and a vivacious spirit. Gwyn couldn't have been prettier, although she certainly could have been more discreet.

“Every summer, Father sent Boromir and myself to stay for two months with my uncle's family by the sea. On my eighteenth summer, my uncle held a huge gathering for the leading merchants of Dol Amroth and their families. That is where I met Gwyn, some years before the curse of clear sight came to trouble me. I thought I was in love and should have used better sense. Gwyn was very forward in her behavior toward me, sometimes in full sight of my younger cousins. Later I found out that Gwynellor had boasted to her father that she was going to make me marry her.”

Beside him, Éowyn stiffened. Had he offended her by his frankness? She had emphasized her preference for plain speech so he had tried to be plain. Then the lady said, “Was her behavior considered unusual?”

“For a girl from a respectable merchant's family, I would say so, at least to older folks like my aunt Idris,” Faramir smiled. He was surprised when Éowyn huffed—her only response.

“Gwyn was my first woman, I her first man,” Faramir said, watching Éowyn carefully. Not the slightest twinge of shock appeared on her face, so he continued, “My blasted cousin Elphir had been spying on us in the woods. He told our secret to my uncle, who had a little talk with my father. After scarcely a month of what I thought was true love, Gwyn disappeared off the face of Arda, so it seemed.”

“That's awful,” Éowyn gasped.

Faramir chuckled. “Not really, when you consider what happened later to Gwyn. I was sent back in disgrace to Minas Tirith. But my father arranged for Gwyn to marry a wealthy landowner with huge herds of cattle in Lebennin. I was heart broken. Last I heard, Gwyn was fat and happy with three children, none of them mine.”

Éowyn laughed and loosened the robe. Faramir glimpsed the round neckline of her Rohirric-style gown peeking out from behind the furs. “So your father wanted to arrange your marriage after all,” she said, and moved closer to him on the bench.

“I doubt he was interested in finding me a suitable mate. He was more inclined to scare away women he deemed were unsuitable for me.” Faramir pressed against her just slightly, wanting to share the warmth of the robe.

“I wonder what Denethor would have thought of me?” Éowyn leaned into him. “Would he have deemed a Shieldmaiden of Rohan a suitable wife for his heir?”

“It's a moot point now,” Faramir answered, “but Boromir would have liked you. You're a fierce woman. He'd have appreciated that.” He raised the all-but forgotten glass of wine and drained it dry. She followed suit. Then Faramir said, “And what about you, Éowyn, why are you unmarried? Do the lords and ladies of Rohan have leave to marry whom they choose?”

Éowyn sat up and moved just slightly away from him. She said, “Our people don't have as many rules and niceties as you Gondorians. The folk of our settlements and rural areas marry by inclination or by family arrangement, usually by their mid-teens. If a boy and a girl lust after each other, their families see to it that they are married quickly. That's what happens most of the time among the common folk. Their lives are short and hard, by comparison to the lofty Numenoreans of civilized places like Gondor.”

Her icy tone continued, “But the same could not be said of the House of Éorl . We were raised with the knowledge that the king was going to marry us off to solidify alliances. My cousin Theodred, as heir to the throne, particularly expected to make a political marriage with a high-born woman of Laketown or Gondor. My brother told me he assumed he would be offered a Marshal's daughter. As for me, the only woman among Theoden's heirs? My bride price would be very high, unavailable to common men. To merit a husband who could pay such a price, I had to maintain impeccable purity. Looking back, I was a valuable trade commodity.

“When I was in my teens, my uncle promised to find me a husband among the highest born of our Middle Earth--if such a man even existed. But Theoden too often was preoccupied by the dangers at our door to think about his promise to his niece. Then he descended into dotage.”

Her shoulders hunched forward. To cheer her, Faramir rubbed her upper left arm vigorously.

“Oww!!” Éowyn exclaimed, distracted from her stories.

“I'm sorry,” he pulled his hand away quickly. “The robes cover your cast. I entirely forgot your injuries.”

“So did I,” she managed a faint grin. “Thinking about those times is trying. My life for many years was an endless, joyless circle of duty and defeat, without hope of a husband or family. ”

“But now you are in love and with the Lord Aragorn” Faramir said, then immediately regretted it. Éowyn shot him a stare that could freeze the blood. Instead, a trickle of sweat ran down the base of his neck into his hair. He stammered, “Lady, you have asked me to speak plainly. One doesn't need any special genius or clear sight to figure this out.”

She nodded, “I thought I kept my feelings well hidden. I was gravely mistaken. I can't hold a secret. The day nurse Gertrudis and Dame Ioreth have been teasing me about Aragorn for practically since I moved to my current quarters.”

Faramir's stomach constricted. He shouldn't have so blatantly burst out his suspicions, but he needed some confirmation of Éowyn's feelings. He respected her confession, and yet it produced such gnawing envy in his heart. Faramir son of Denethor next blurted, “So your wedding night can no longer be enhanced by your impeccable purity?”

She kicked him.

Her face flushed, as thoroughly insulted. The impact of her leg against his burned calf was muffled considerably by the heavy robes. Nevertheless, that kick made her feelings known. He raised his right hand to cover his mouth, all too aware that the arrow puncture beneath that arm was hurting him mightily.

“What a crass ...!” Éowyn scolded. “Aragorn has never so much as kissed my hand, unlike you and Beregond and two thirds of the Gondorians at your meeting.”

“The Dunedain of Arnor have forgotten how to be polite to women,” Faramir teased behind his muffled mouth but immediately regretted it. “I'm sorry,” he apologized. Nevertheless, he could not stop himself from studying her acutely. He perceived her distress, though her face had regained its calm. Finally he said softly, “You are a maid still.”

Éowyn spoke with great regret, “In Rohan, most women my age are busy planning their daughters' marriages. They aren't like me, who wonders why no one has married her. I am 33, with few child-bearing years left to me.”

“You are second to the throne of Rohan and still a maid, which would count in your favor with many high-born men.” Faramir tried to cheer her. “Not to mention that you are very beautiful,” he gulped, unable to stop those words from escaping his mouth.

“I am no longer a candidate for marriage, whether by arrangement or inclination,” Éowyn insisted.

“But why?” Faramir asked, though he suspected the answer. “I can't think of a better marriage candidate for you than the Lord Aragorn.” He had to hear her answer, even though Éowyn might kick him again.

Her free hand played with the broad edge of the Steward's robe of office. Her head hung down. Thick blonde strands of hair fell over her shoulders and hid her face. Faramir could barely hear her when she said, “Aragorn is not inclined to marry me, so I am not inclined to marry. He was betrothed for many years to an Elf-woman, the daughter of the Master of Rivendell. He never hid this from me, nor that he at last broke their engagement so that she could leave Middle Earth with her people.”

“So he is free to marry though his heart is still with this Elf?” Faramir asked cautiously.

“That is only half my story!” Éowyn sat up and looked at him directly. “While he was in Rohan, Aragorn treated me as a friend and often spoke with me. He flirted with me, or so I read his behavior. I thought he was interested in me as a woman. I know now that am a poor reader of men. On the day that he left Rohan with his companions, Aragorn made it very clear that he could never love me.”

Faramir expected to see tears form in her eyes, but instead Éowyn's face was composed and strong as steel. She said, “After his departure, my uncle told me that the Lord Elrond himself had secretly visited our encampment the previous night. Lord Elrond gave Aragorn the great sword of the heirs of Númenor. The Elven Lord told my uncle that he was sorely grieved. His daughter had chosen not to leave Middle Earth, and made the decision to become mortal. As a result, she was gravely ill.”

She took a deep breath and said, “So now you know why I chose to ride with my uncle's host to the Pelennor Fields. If I could not find glory as Aragorn's queen, I'd find glory for myself, on the battle field.”

Faramir was stunned. He felt her distress so deeply that his body shook for just a second.

Éowyn continued, “And then, after Aragorn called me back, I deemed the march of the Men of the West a hopeless situation. Though he did not love me, I loved Aragorn enough to want to die at his side. You cannot understand how deeply it hurts to love someone who doesn't love you.”

Faramir reached out his hand and put his fingers beneath her chin, raising her face for closer study. She did not pull away. Instead he perceived that she in turn took great measure of him. Was she trembling? He hoped he wasn't scaring her. Swallowing tightly, he finally said, “Nay, lady. I believe that I might understand how it hurts to love someone who doesn't love you.” His fingers tapped her chin playfully before he lowered his hand to his lap.

Regarding him thoughtfully, Éowyn said, “You continually surprise me, Faramir Denethor's son. How can such a grim war-captain have a such an understanding heart?”

“I know well how to protect my heart,” Faramir said. Grimly. He got up from the bench and eyed the bottle of wine. Only a few drops remained. Éowyn declined his offer to get them a second bottle. She pleaded weariness and the need to go to sleep early. He nodded and walked along with her to the Women's Quarters. The evening Guardsman Havel followed discreetly, about 20 feet behind them.

As they paused before the entrance, Faramir helped Éowyn free herself from his father's robe. Then he said, “Narmar has given me permission to leave the Houses for tomorrow afternoon only. I've ordered a wagon to take me to the City walls and perhaps beyond them. I also asked permission for you to accompany me--that is, if you want to interrupt your studies.”

Éowyn wrapped her free arm around her bound arm, as though chilled now that the cloak was gone. She said, “I would love to get out of here and see something of your city.”

“You will,” Faramir promised. “Be ready at the noon hour. We've got a long and hilly ride. I'll send the Guardsmen for you when the wagon arrives.” Oddly enough, her face looked confused, as she quickly turned and headed down the long corridor.

Faramir walked toward the stairs, where Havel patiently waited. “What time is it now, I wonder?” he asked the guardsman.

“About two hours before midnight.”

“Ah, too late. I would have liked to sit in the hot pool at the Hamam, but I suspect it is closed.”

“I don't know, my Lord,” Havel said, “but what difference should that make? You are the Steward. Any time you like, you can order it opened.”

“Yes, I guess I can. Let's see to it!”

Éowyn hurried down the hall, still clutching her bound arm. She passed Dame Ioreth, making her final rounds for the evening. The head nurse exclaimed, “Are you all right, dearie?” Éowyn nodded her head but didn't even look at the older woman.

Once inside her small quarters, she undressed quickly down to her chemise, extinguished the lone torch that provided lighting, and lay down on the cot. The evening was cold, as usual, but for once she felt overly warm. She lay on top of the rough wool covers and didn't give it a thought. She had more troubling matters to think of.

Her body felt extremely uncomfortable. She recognized some of her physical reactions. She had felt this sensation of longing in her teens, for those boys whom she kissed secretly with no thought of marrying. But never had she been strongly overcome. Why should she be tormented at this age with desire, when she had no hope of fulfilling it? In the end, she knew she had to leave the garden before Faramir perceived her overwhelming sensations.

I love Aragorn. But never have I felt such burning desire during all the times I spent with him... Well, perhaps that's wrong. I did feel a tiny bit of lust when he accidentally awoke me. That time when my uncle had the male visitors sleep in my quarters and made me sleep in the great hall. Surely all our talk of Aragorn this evening has made me lust for him even though he is a hundred and more miles away.

“Acck!!” Éowyn exclaimed aloud as she tossed over to her right side. Then she snorted as her bound left arm complained, for all that her right arm cushioned it. Lord Aragorn might have been in her talk much of this evening, but he was not sitting close to her in the garden. He did not share a drink with her this evening. He did not hold her chin in his hand and study her face. Aragorn had never held her chin in his hand and studied her face.

Her heart loved the great commander who had marched out in a desperate gambit. Didn't it? Her body, on the other hand....She had to accept what had happened this evening. Her body was trembling from a lust that she had never experienced, and, she must admit, a lust that had nothing remotely to do with Aragorn.

What had Faramir meant when he held her face this evening? Was he was trying to use his clear sight to read her mind? When he held her chin this evening, she was bound and determined that he not guess her suspicion that he wanted to kiss her. She especially did not want him to know that had he kissed her, she most certainly would have returned the kiss. Looking backward from the perspective of a hospital cot, the opportunity to respond to such a kiss was irresistible.

Éowyn squirmed. Once a formidable stranger, the Steward had become, in one week, the person who had made her hospitalization in Minas Tirith bearable and even enjoyable. Faramir had become her friend, and more of a friend than anyone in her life beyond her family. She so enjoyed their conversations, even if he had cajoled a few secrets that she hadn't wanted to tell. She'd gotten some amazing confessions from him, as well. This evening, Faramir's pale blue eyes were so warm and gentle, even when his words were probing and sometimes ill-considered. He Had cuddled so close to her—or was it she who was cuddling so close to him?

Éowyn, you are drunk! It's the wine talking. She groaned and chided herself. You know whom you love. You are merely lusting, lusting for your friend; the wine is doing this. That is all.

But is it? She tried to sleep. She tried to imagine the face of the Lord of the Dunedain but his features were blurry. The grave grey eyes that rejected her kept dissolving into the clear blue ones that looked on her with love. Éowyn quaked. She lay alone on a scratchy blanket, practically overwhelmed with simple lust. But Faramir, he was actually in love with her! She was sure of it. Blast it, what should she do?