Chapter 15: An Uncertain Future

AUTHOR'S NOTE

"Avoidance" is movieverse with much respect paid to book canon. I've borrowed Peter Jackson's actors to star in my book gap filler.

Thanks to Raksha the Demon for her betas and her support.

- Steff

Faramir carefully draped the bejeweled mantle over Eowyn's shoulders. Her loveliness in that magnificent cloak took his breath away. The glow of her pregnancy illuminated her cheeks and face, grown fuller over the months. The maid servant Bethene had braided Eowyn's hair and wrapped it below her thin gold circlet, making her all the more alluring.

But when his wife held out the coronet of the Prince of Ithilien, Faramir hesitated.

“It is but a thing of ceremony. I have never felt comfortable wearing it,” he confessed.

“Are we not going to be involved in a ceremony? And possibly more than one ceremony?” Eowyn countered, her pale eyebrows lowering as she scrutinized him.

“Aye,” Faramir said, “but I'd rather bear the symbols of what I do every day.” His hands ran nervously along the heavily jewelled chain of office that looped over the shoulders of his dark blue Steward's robe. By the time they reached Minas Tirith he would be too warm.

"Kneel, my Lord Steward," Eowyn chided," and accept your duty to become Prince for the remainder of the day." He sighed as she placed the coronet on his head and rearranged the hair beneath it.

His wife said. “Today I rejoice that I am Princess of Ithilien. And my circlet gives me more confidence to appear before those who might wonder about me--especially those who think women in my state shouldn't appear in public.”

He pondered her response as they left their comfortable manor and headed for the stables. More confidence? Eowyn always radiated an aura of confidence, all the more so when she actually jittered in her shoes. At least that had been Faramir's observation from the past few years by her side.

To this day he relied on his normally acute perceptions to determine what the woman of his heart might want. But the insight into human emotions that had served Faramir so well throughout his life failed half the time when applied to Eowyn, daughter of Eomund. Was this some trick that aided wives in outwitting their husbands?

He recalled how he had so misread Eowyn at the celebration on the day of the Dark Lord's defeat, to the discomfort and misery of them both. What if he misread how Eowyn might react to this afternoon's festivities when planning them earlier with the Queen?

At the stables, the grooms had saddled the couple's favorite mounts in the elegant formal tack necessary for affairs of state. Behind the beautifully caparisoned horses, two mounted Tower Guardsmen waited to escort the Steward of Gondor and the Princess of Ithilien. A lump of anxiety settled in Faramir's stomach as he remembered Eowyn's reaction to that fateful celebration a few years ago.

“My finest garments lie in a wardrobe 150 miles north,” Eowyn sighed in dismay. She briefly checked her appearance in the scratched mirror. Her brown hip girdle and now laundered white surcote were the only female garments she had packed for her trip to Gondor in disguise. The nurse Gertrudis created two braids from the side locks of Eowyn's hair and wrapped the braids around Eowyn's head. They made a crown atop the remaining tresses that descended unpinned down Eowyn's back.

“My lady, you look very much a Queen of Rohan,” Gertrudis chuckled appreciatively. “I think the people will like that.”

Earlier Eowyn had begged Warden Narmar and Chief Nurse Ioreth to come to this evening's celebration, or at least release the nurses from their duties so that they could join the festivities. Only Gertrudis received permission. The nurse doubtlessly had no idea that Eowyn merely needed her hair divided into two great, hanging plaits to achieve the look of a proper shield maiden. Did the warrior woman Eowyn saw in the streaked glass relect the Gondorians' image of a lady of the Mark?

Perhaps I should have worn one of the gowns borrowed from Ioreth's daughter? Eowyn thought wistfully. Self-consciously, she wrapped the sparkling blue mantle from Faramir tightly around her body, completely covering her shield maiden's garments. She hoped that the lovely cloak of the Steward's mother made her look more Gondorian, less strange and foreign to the people of Minas Tirith.

A Tower Guardsman appeared at the door of her hospital room, announcing the arrival of the Steward's carriage. Eowyn and Gertrudis followed him outside, where the carriage waited, flying both the Stewards' white banner and the white horse on green field that signified the Mark. Behind the carriage rode a column of Rohirrim, led by Erkenbrand. They burst into song when Eowyn stepped outside. Erkenbrand dismounted exuberantly and assisted the women into the carriage. Then he rode ahead, escorting Eowyn's entourage among the lively crowds on their way down Minas Tirith's winding streets.

At the third circle, yesterday's crowd of vendors in the open air market was replaced by orderly rows of tables laden with foods. In the rapidly falling twilight, people thronged together, chatting while eating and drinking mugs of beer and mead. The Steward's carriage with its train of Rohirric lords wove through the crowds into a narrow street, then halted beside a great building with tall windows alight. Between two torches, a sign above the entrance identified the building as “All Guilds' Hall.” A pile of stones was heaped on one side of the building where part of its roof had collapsed during the earthquake.

The hall was huge but simply decorated, lit by humble braziers and torches set in the walls. The gap in the ceiling where the roof had collapsed let out the smoke from all the fires and revealed the darkening sky. On either side of a wide aisle, jubilant men and women sat at rough tables and lifted overflowing tankards to their lips.

A blast of horns and a chorus of deep male voices tore through the hubbub, “The Lady of Rohan! The Commander of the Westfold!” In the fashion of Gondor, Erkenbrand offered his arm to Eowyn and paraded her down the wide aisle. To Eowyn's amazement, the people discontinued their activities, rose to their feet, and applauded.

“They greet me like I was a queen,” Eowyn murmured.

“As well they might to the one second in line to the throne of the Mark,” Erkenbrand proudly reminded her as they walked.

Eowyn's stomach tensed. She rejoiced in the defeat of the great enemy, but what of Eomer? She did not want to think that he might have fallen. Not on this night. As she passed the celebrating Gondorians, Eowyn thought she heard a persistent chatter, “They say she killed the Lord of the Nazgul. Yet she is beautiful, like Finduilas reborn.”

The aisle ended at a cleared space with a shiny wooden floor. To the left was a great fireplace, where long spits of meat turned and sizzled. A band of musicians gathered on the right and softly played pipes and lutes. The magnificently decorated head table stretched along the far end of the cleared space. It was covered by glittering glassware atop a cloth embroidered with silver stars.

Behind the table sat the Lords of Gondor: the Keeper of the Keys, the members of the Steward's Council, and their ladies. Interspersed among them were empty seats for the Lords of the Mark. Faramir stood at the center of the table, his smile beaming.

Erkenbrand escorted Eowyn to the head table. He took a seat as Faramir pulled out a heavy chair for Eowyn between himself and Beregond. Now well-schooled in Gondorian etiquette, Eowyn stepped forward and held out her right hand to Faramir. His deep blue eyes caught hers before he lowered his head to kiss her hand before everyone in the Guild Hall.

What happened next was a custom Eowyn found strange but wonderful. On holidays and on great victories in the Mark, the highest ranking lady present served celebratory mead to the honored guests in the Golden Hall. Eowyn remembered how she often filled the chalices of great warriors from the King's bejeweled ceremonial horn. While the great men ate, she would maintain her ceremonial position, standing behind their chairs and awaiting their bidding.

However, in Gondor, customs worked in reverse; the highest ranking man was in charge of pouring the celebratory libations. That lord, Faramir, gestured for her to sit and gave her an odd, tubular shaped glass. He remained standing and grandly raised high a bottle of green glass wrapped in a white cloth. “Bottled in Ecthelion's day,” he addressed all at the table. Then he took Eowyn's glass and poured out a golden beverage, which bubbled into a sweet smelling foam at the top. He then emptied the bottle's remaining contents into the glasses of everyone at the head table. Urging them to raise their glasses, Faramir exclaimed in a loud, deep voice, “To the people of Gondor, who risked their lives so that we might be here on this day, and to our friends of Rohan for honoring the alliance of Cirion and Eorl.”

Amid the chorus of cheers, Eowyn raised her glass and looked at the strange bubbles. Then she carefully sipped the stuff, enjoying the fruity sensation of the bubbles breaking against the roof of her mouth. “This is the most wonderful drink I've ever had,” she grinned at Faramir, who had finally taken his seat. “What is it?”

“Sparkling wine, Vintage 2975. I can't think of a better occasion to bring out the best of the Steward's wine cellars.” Faramir clinked his glass against hers. “Don't drink it too fast,” he teased.

Eowyn nodded politely, but inwardly she scoffed at his warning. The Steward of Gondor had no idea that the White Lady of Rohan was quite capable of holding her own when the ale flowed and the people sang. Now that she could relax as never before, her thirst was powerful. She quickly downed the glass of sparkling wine and then requested a tankard of ale.

When the serving lads brought out the breads and cheeses to start the meal, Eowyn's mind was already bathed in a golden glow. Her perceptions grew more fuzzy and her attitude more frivolous as the dinner progressed. The musicians stepped before the head table, and sang and played their instruments to accompany the meal.

Faramir's body leaned gently against her restrictive cast. He constantly nudged her and gave her glances that no doubt would be meaningful, if her brain had been clear enough to figure out their meaning. On her right Beregond also pressed closely, telling jokes and anecdotes. His wife Emerie sat at his other side. She leaned across Beregond and tried to start up a conversation with Eowyn. But neither woman could hear the other other above the din. Plate after plate of food arrived on the table. Eowyn's head spun at the sight of roasted beef, pork, and goose.

“This is more food than I've seen in one place since Saruman came to Isengard,” she heard Elfhelm roar at the far end of the table.

Emerie sighed, “This is more food than I have fed my family in the past six months.”

“Good thing that you ordered all those sides of beef for storing yesterday,” her husband chided Faramir.

“Good thing that yesterday the farmers finally returned to the city with beef,” Faramir grinned, “and that the cooks hadn't started to dry the beef before the earthquake struck.”

Everyone at the table found this jest the height of amusement. They banged their tankards and glasses on the table with such force that the empty plates rattled and jumped. The serving boys arrived with carafes of wine and honey mead. Eowyn eagerly requested a glass of the latter. Faramir raised her chin with his hand and addressed her grandiloquently, “Remember this occasion, my Lady, for today our lives change forever. I charge you with your sensible woman's wisdom to remember it well because tomorrow most of us won't remember it at all.”

Eowyn beamed at him and then at her empty glass. “I promise, my Lord Steward. Now I would like another glass of sparkling wine.”

“The White Lady wants more sparkling wine,” Faramir signaled to the serving boys. They brought out more bottles, accompanied by fruits and sweet cakes for dessert. Eowyn's stomach felt like it would burst from all the bubbles inside it. Faramir leaned across her comfortably and said to Beregond, “I guess it is time.”

“Aye, so it is,” Beregond sighed.

“Time for what?” Eowyn asked. Barely able to keep her balance, she felt herself sway across Beregond's chair as the tall man stepped behind it to rise. Eowyn hadn't realized that she had been leaning against Beregond. Faramir and Emerie caught her and righted her on her seat.

“Your attention this way!” the Steward's aide bellowed from his great height. The great thrum of chatter in the hall stopped reluctantly. Beregond was patient. Finally, he said, “The time has come to call out the names of everyone who has made this auspicious day possible and honor them by having a sip or two.”

“Just two?” a man's voice in the crowd heckled.

“The Steward has urged me to start us off,” Beregond burped happily. “And so I raise my glass to the honorable Elfhelm and his men, for their noble attempts at masonry and artistic expression. Their hand prints in the limestone by the Great Wall will live long after the Rohirrim leave our city.” The crowd roared and clapped. Eowyn took a sip of the sparkling wine.

After a slight pause at the end of the table, Elfhelm rose to the challenge several seats to the right of Beregond. "To Irolas, the terror of the first circle. I wonder who he drove harder, his soldiers in the seige or us who repaired the walls."

“Irolas is the Major in charge of ordnance,” Faramir whispered. “They man the catapults and trebuchets.” Eowyn nodded her head and sipped some more of the sparkling wine.

At first sight, Irolas seemed a rather humorless man in his early thirties. Yet he held up his glass and proclaimed, “To Mithrandir who isn't here. He pushed all of us free people onward when we doubted our own strength.”

All the men at the head table rose to their feet. Cries of “Mithrandir” and “Gandalf” rang through the hall. Emerie and the wives at the head table pulled on their husbands' cotes hardie until they finally sat. Then silence prevailed until Erkenbrand stood up.

“Somehow, I think Gandalf can hear us or can tell that we drink in his honor,” the Commander of the Westfold raised his tankard. “So I think he would be happy to hear me salute the Lady Eowyn. Her bravery and her beauty are an inspiration to us all.”

Several little girls slipped out of their parents' grasps and ran out into the cleared space. They squealed, “Lady Eowyn. We love you. Huzzah!”

“How is it they know me?” Eowyn gasped. Her cheeks burned from embarrassment and and too much wine.

“Your deeds are sung in the city,” Emerie said as she raised her glass in tribute, “You are a heroine, especially to the girl children.”

“Your turn,” Faramir said and helped Eowyn to her feet.

With the eyes of hundreds of people on her, Eowyn straightened her back and lifted her chin. The shock of having to represent her people, to speak clearly, and hopefully to be witty, forced her to comport herself with some sobriety. She raised the nearly empty tubular glass and swirled what remained of the sparkling wine. Then she sighed and said, “My toast is for those who are not here. For my uncle, Theoden King, who honored the pact of our ancestors and led us here to great deeds both our peoples will always remember. For my cousin Theodred, slain by Saruman's Uruk Hai. And to my brother, Eomer Eomund's son. May he safely return to us who love him.”

“Hail Theoden King! Hail Eomer King!” the Rohirrim bellowed and clinked each other's tankards so vigorously that ale spilled over the remains of their desserts. Eowyn lowered herself into her chair. She had not meant to introduce a tone of sadness into the ritual. But she had needed to mention those that she loved. They too had offered their lives to defeat the forces of darkness.

A hush fell over the crowd. Beregond sat down and gestured to a serving boy. An opened bottle of sparkling wine appeared on the table. “Well then,” Beregond said. He leaned over to refill Eowyn's glass.

Nodding to his assistant, Faramir rose slowly, steadying himself on the back of his chair. How striking he looks, Eowyn thought. Far more handsome and healthy than ever he looked in the Houses of Healing. Faramir's cheeks flushed into the redness of his beard; his blue eyes glistened from the affects of the wine. His freshly washed red-gold hair gleamed, shining in the glow of the torchlight.

Faramir raised his glass and held it out toward the crowd. He said gravely, “To some others not here I raise my glass. To Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the hope of us all. May he return safely to our city.” The Rohirrim cheered but the Gondorians murmured anxiously among themselves. Faramir grabbed a knife and hit it against his glass until the reaction subsided. Then he said, “And I personally hail two whose names are unknown to most of you but won't be ere long. More than anyone else, these two brought down the Dark Lord. To the halflings Frodo, son of Drogo, and Samwise, son of Hamfast.”

“To Frodo,” Eowyn mumbled. She tried to imagine what the holbytlan might look like, based on Merry's description, and immediately she was saddened. Did Frodo and Sam survive? Did Merry survive? She thought, We sit here drinking and cheering, but those brave fellows might be as dead as Theoden. Eowyn sniffed and swayed against Faramir, who had poured himself another drink. He put his arm around her and said, “I know. I know. Concern for them is heavily on my mind.”

His speech was interrupted by the sound of many knives tapping against glasses and mugs. Eowyn straightened and looked about. Hurin was on his feet, demanding attention. The Keeper of the Keys turned slowly so that everyone in the hall would note him. Then he said, “My toast is to Lord Faramir, and all the great Stewards before him, for sustaining our land. Because of them, Gondor's rightful king has a realm to return to.”

The response was thunderous. The people scrambled to their feet, crying out the names of Faramir, his father Denethor, Boromir, Denethor's son, and others Eowyn did not know. A tear streamed down her face as she rose carefully from her seat. “To Faramir,” she said softly, not caring whether the Steward heard her or whether his clear sight perceived her trembling thighs. She raised her wine glass and downed the whole contents in one gulp.

Suddenly all the wine and ale she had drunk rose to her head, melting the last of her defenses. The single tear turned into a torrent. She swayed against Beregond's side. He gently lowered her into her seat. She could see the Steward's steel blue cote out of the corner of her left eye. Faramir's comforting arm slipped around her. Eowyn sobbed, “To Frodo,” hid her face in the crook of his arm, and promptly fell asleep.

“Collapsed roof at Oldstone Mill, second level,” Faramir dictated to the city scribe.

The scribe added this latest entry to a scroll listing nearly 50 items, each with an estimated price of repairs in Stewards' coin. He shook his head, “The damage from the earthquake has taken a greater toll on the city than the siege.”

“Sauron wins in the end,” the Chancellor of the Treasury of Minas Tirith grumbled.

“Not really,” Faramir said optimistically. “He's gone. Our cost today might be great, but we can rebuild. Then we will have a fair and strong city, with no threat of a Dark Lord to destroy its future.”

“Look how well the new construction held out through the earthquake,” the Keeper of the Keys pointed out. “Men were thrown from the scaffolding but the new wall stayed in place.”

It was four hours and more since the rising of the sun. Faramir's head hurt; his sense felt thick as he carried out his first full day as Steward by listening to the assessment of damage done to the city.

Like nearly everyone in Minas Tirith last night, he had consumed too much food and especially too much drink. This morning, he regretfully remembered every thrilling, tedious, and better off forgotten moment of the previous day. When the Lady Eowyn suddenly collapsed and would not be woken, the urge to sleep nearly overtook Faramir's fuzzy brain. Powerful though the suggestion of sleep was, the Steward of Gondor could not curl up in a corner and take a nap. So his long evening ended hours later with a final toast at the Great Wall's construction site. Then the carriage dropped him off at Boromir's town house, where he collapsed fully clothed on the great bearskin rugs in front of the cold fireplace.

This morning after the day that changed his world, Faramir took up office for the first time in the modest black chair of the Stewards. He was surrounded by the surviving Gondorian Council members and representatives from the Rohirrim. They listened to an unending chain of damage reports from merchants in the third circle.

Faramir's weary mind longed to ponder on thoughts of Eowyn and her surprising behavior yesterday. He thought of her hair twining around him, her head resting against his shoulder as she sobbed. On the walls earlier, it was the wind that wove her hair through his. Last night it was the drink that provoked her tears. But what of the moment yesterday morning when she grasped his hand so strongly. Was she looking for reassurance from a friend? Or was the cool Lady of Rohan beginning to thaw in delightfully surprising ways?

The massive doors of the Great Hall opened with a flash of blinding daylight.

“A great beast circles in the air above the city!” a Tower Guardsman yelled as he ran down the broad corridor, evading petitioners lined up to see the Steward.

Faramir automatically rose to his feet. “A bow, someone fetch me a bow,” he demanded, not once questioning whether his arms had regained enough strength to lose an arrow. He ran through the quickly scattering queue. Did the Nazgul not perish when the Dark Lord fell? Or had the seemingly obvious signs fooled them, and Sauron still reigned in Mordor?

Suiadan of the Fountain Court met him at the entrance. “The people fear that a Nazgul survives,” Suiadan said as he trotted alongside Faramir. He pointed upward, “But look there, is that not an eagle?” They made their way to the fountain of the White Tree, where people who worked in the Citadel gathered, necks craning upward.

“Biggest eagle I've ever seen,” a modestly dressed woman said doubtfully.

By now, the bird circled lower and lower. Its enormous, golden-brown wings and white neck and head were more distinct. Suiadan gasped. “It's so huge that it could only be an eagle of Manwe.”

“Aye,” Faramir agreed. As the eagle descended, he could make out a shining figure astride the bird's shoulders. A thrill went through him as he said, “And see whom he bears.”

The crowd parted quickly as the eagle swooped down onto the plaza before the fountain, folding his wings against his body. "Mithrandir!" Faramir yelled like a child as the white-robed figure of the wizard slid from the huge bird's body.

Mithrandir bounded forward onto one of stone benches surrounding the fountain so that all could see him. A slight grin escaped from his lips as he surveyed the crowd, waiting for them to stop chattering and fidgeting. When there was enough silence to be heard, the wizard sang in a clear baritone:

Sing and rejoice, people of the Tower of Guard
for your watch has not been in vain,
and the Black Gate is broken,
and your King has passed through victorious

The tree that was withered will be renewed ...

Folk great and small cheered and clapped each other on the back. Faramir let out a sigh of relief, for here was direct confirmation of all he had thought to be true. The Dark Lord had fallen. Middle Earth was free of his terrible power forever. He raced to Mithrandir and gave the wizard a huge hug.

“My, my, Faramir, son of Denethor, the heart rejoices just to see you, my boy,” Mithrandir held Faramir at arms length, as though studying him thoroughly. “You are well recovered and Steward of Gondor, by the look of those outsized robes. That is good because I need to speak to you, your Council, and the Captains of the Rohirrim who are here in Minas Tirith. And the Lady of Rohan, of course, if she is well enough.”

“Suiadan, please tell the Tower Guards to summon these people as soon as possible,” Faramir said to the guard. “Tell them to have everyone convene in the Steward's Chambers.” Several of the elderly people gathered at the Fountain grabbed Faramir's arms, fawned about him, and kissed him. He was vaguely aware that Mithrandir continued to talk with Suiadan.The guard was gone by the time the jubilant people freed Faramir from their attentions.He turned to Mithrandir, but their conversation was interrupted by a loud squawk, followed by loud human screams. Some children had ventured a bit too close to the patient eagle, who swayed his head toward them to chase them away.

"I must see to Gwaihir," Mithrandir explained. He walked to the eagle and mumbled something that Faramir was too far away to hear. The bird shuffled his feet, then slowly flapped his wings. The curious people who had approached to take a closer look at Gwaihir pulled back in terror as the great eagle flew off into the air.

Faramir watched, astounded, “What an incredible animal,” he said.

"Yes, indeed," Mithrandir remarked as the two of them headed to the Tower of Echthelion. "He has come through for me on numerous occasions, the greatest of which came yesterday. When I was certain that the Ring had been destroyed, Gwaihir carried me to Mordor. We found Frodo and Sam still alive on a rock pinnacle surrounded by a river of lava. Gwaihir and his brother Landroval carried the hobbits to safety."

Faramir stopped in his tracks. “So they survived,” he murmured. “Against all odds. What wonders have happened.”

Mithrandir nudged Faramir to move ahead quickly. He said, “The eagles had barely snatched them away when Orodruin shook and one of its sides exploded. Yesterday was quite a day.”

They continued on to the White Tower and then to the Steward's Chambers. Mithrandir updated Faramir on the details of the halflings' rescue. “I've left them in Aragorn's hands,” the wizard said. “Practicing the healing arts seems to be a relief to the man. Aragorn has some minor injuries, though he never seems to let them stop him. He limps from an ankle sprain and bears some cuts and scratches. You missed all of that, Faramir, son of Denethor.”

“Instead, I had to crawl out of my sick bed and oversee the rebuilding of Minas Tirith,” Faramir winked. “You must tell me all, and especially about what happened to Frodo.”

“I don't rightly know all of Frodo's story,” Mithrandir admitted as they sat down in the two large chairs reserved for the Steward and any important visitor. While the two guards who currently served as Faramir's retinue assembled a circle of chairs around them, Mithrandir told Faramir of the halflings' injuries. Hurin quietly slipped in and sat on Faramir's other side. The wizard's story had barely begun when the Gondorian councilors filtered into the room and began to pepper him with questions.

Mithrandir brushed them off, explaining that he had not enough time to tell his story twice. “I must away to the river as soon as my story is told. I would see the land between here and Cormallen from the vantage point of the Anduin. Imrahil has given me leave to take one of his ships. I suspect he's impatient to return to Belfalas.”

“So be it,” Faramir nodded. “We'll have your message delivered among the people.”

“Mithrandir, did you know my nephew Andros? Did he survive?” the lord of the Keys interrupted, unable to contain himself and observe proper meeting protocol.

“And my son Labadil?”

“What about Hendarch, Sergeant at Arms? He's my sister's husband.”

The desperate councilors pulled their chairs out of the orderly circle and crowded around the wizard, Faramir, and the Keeper of the Keys. All thoughts of their country's future were driven quite out of their heads. Instead, they pleaded for news of kin and friends who had ridden out with Aragorn's host. Mithrandir raised his hands in an effort to silence them. “One matter at a time!” he cried.

At the peak of the chaos, the Rohirrim entered the Steward's chambers, led by Lady Eowyn and Commander Erkenbrand. The Gondorians abruptly ceased their noisy petitioning and pushed their chairs back. Faramir noted how Eowyn's face echoed the clear grey of her modest Gondorian gown. She was pale and controlled, her bearing resolute. Gone was the vivacious and vulnerable woman who had rested her body against his yesterday. When his eyes caught hers and tried to perceive the reason for the change, Eowyn raised her chin and turned away.

Erkenbrand's assistant Bema pulled over a chair for the Lady. The small group of Rohirrim clustered around her, but leaned forward expectantly in Mithrandir's direction. The wizard got up slowly, turning to take the measure of them all. He said, “The Dark Lord and his Nazgul minions are truly defeated. Gone forever from all of Arda.”

Eowyn rose from her seat, “What of Lord Aragorn?” she demanded. “How does he fare?”

A gasp escaped Faramir's lungs before he could control it. His fingers dug into the thick padding of the arms of his chair. He grimly observed how the lady's formerly ashen cheeks now flushed red with heat.

Mithrandir's face initially registered some surprise at Eowyn's boldness, but then he said, “Ah hah, that's the kind of approach I like, to the point and no evading the issues. But why do you not inquire for more news of your brother.”

Eowyn's face blushed a deep red. Nevertheless, she raised her proud chin and said, "Suiadan of the Fountain Court gave me the curt message that Eomer lived, but with injuries. Then he said that he must be off to gather the lords of the Mark. I knew nothing else."

Mithrandir leaned on his white staff and smiled, "Well then, the Lord Aragorn and those that survived the battle at the Black Gate are now camped north of here, on the Field of Cormallen. On the first of May, Aragorn will enter the city, to be crowned as King Elessar. He will be escorted by Prince Imrahil and his Swan Knights, and Eomer, King of the Mark, with his Marshals. I'm here to have the Steward spread the word and begin the preparations for the Coronation."

“We'll be too busy to repair the eight foot crack in the center of the Farmer's Market,” Tarcil, the Steward's economic councillor, complained.

“It will be fixed,” Beregond assured him. The Steward's assistant stood by the door, apart from the others, no doubt to better observe them. “We don't want that crack to swallow the King's retinue.”

The corners of the Lady Eowyn's lips turned up just slightly at Beregond's jest. But she gave no other reaction, and sat stiffly as Mithrandir related the story of the battle of the Black Gate. Sometimes Eowyn rubbed her bound arm as though it troubled her again. Faramir sighed. He tried to catch her attention, but every time she caught him looking at her, she turned away.

What had he done? he thought morosely. Or, more properly, what had she done? He could excuse her exuberance yesterday as simply behavior instigated by all the sparkling wine. But how about her sweetness in the garden in the rain? Or at the wall when he held her? Of course, he held her to keep her from being blown down. But did she run away? Nay, and she had smiled at him, and gave him such a look that only a green boy or a fool wouldn't recognize as ... Faramir sighed and tried hard to hide his feelings, in case anyone in the room might think the Steward's failed romantic notions more interesting than Mithrandir's heroic tale.

Why had she displayed what anyone who called himself a man could only interpret as growing affection for him, only to completely lose interest when she found out that Aragorn was alive?

Concentrate, Faramir admonished himself. He had so much to do, as leader of the effort to rebuild Minas Tirith for the Coronation. Women and the mysteries of their fickle behavior must take second place to the enormity of the tasks at hand. Still he couldn't help admire the Lady, even though she had openly shown the truth of her heart's priorities for the leading men of Minas Tirith to see. She rose as Mithrandir's story ended and the wizard gestured for her to walk with him.

How Faramir wanted to walk with them.

No, you don't, he scolded himself. She's proven her quality. She'd have no further interest in what little time the lowly Steward had to spend with her, now that the King was whole and soon to return. Faramir had thought Eowyn honest and straightforward, but his perceptions were all wrong. Either she had no idea how her behavior affected others, or she had merely been flirting with him.