Chapter 16: Torn

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

This chapter is currently in "Beta" state, awaiting comments from my Beta reviewer who is about to go on vacation.

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When the groom produced their riding horses, Éowyn shook her head sadly. The stable hands had automatically assumed she would be riding, though she was too far along in her pregnancy to do more than admire the animals' elegant trappings. Her conveyence would be the Steward's carriage, highly polished and ready for the departure for Minas Tirith. How difficult it was for one of her northern heritage to eschew riding and be content with a carriage for traveling. Her unborn child was more important than a brisk ride to Minas Tirith.

Éowyn was pleased that Faramir decided to keep her company and leave his mount to the care of the retinue of Tower Guards that followed behind the carriage. Nevertheless, she regretted that she could not make her entrance on this day of high formality astride a prancing mount in jewel-encrusted tack. She watched ruefully from the side window as the groom returned her mount to the stable. Strange how the ability to mount a horse had affected the major decisions she had made in her life, Éowyn reflected. If she had been able to ride shortly after her grievous injuries, would she have made different choices two years ago?

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Gandalf gently draped his arm across Éowyn's shoulders in a grandfatherly gesture. He escorted her from the hubbub of the Steward's Chambers to the relatively quiet main hall of the White Tower of Ecthelion. “I am pleased that the frost has gone from your cheeks,” the wizard remarked. “The Gondorian clothing becomes you, as well, but you seem to be in pain. Are you still quartered in the Houses of Healing?”

Éowyn nodded, “Yes, though not due to a need for further healing. The Warden and nurses are training me to be a healer of the Gondorian practice.”

“Excellent!” Gandalf replied, “We are in dire need of healers with medical knowledge from all the Free Peoples. I'm on my way to the Houses to speak with Narmar on this very subject. I gather that you are not riding yet?”

“Not for at least six weeks, as Narmar has warned me again and again,” Éowyn said ruefully as they headed out into the Fountain Court of the Citadel.

“Then a walk in this brisk air will do us both good,” Gandalf said with exuberance that was almost catching. His fine white garments seemed to glitter in the afternoon sun, though Éowyn could discern tears and discolored patches where blood and dirt had resisted scrubbing.

The light breeze carried the soft fragrance of newly blooming trees, celebrating the simple joy of a beautiful April day. Yet Éowyn's spirits drooped. She would rather not have left her modest hospital quarters to appear in an official capacity beside the very people with whom she had caroused the previous evening. She was glad that Gandalf give her a reason to not linger with the Steward's councilors and the captains of her own country.

“I admit to being very surprised when you first asked for news of Aragorn, rather than Éomer, in the Steward's Chambers,” Gandalf said. “Though I understand now that you already had news of Éomer when you arrived. I have much news about the Kings, and particularly your brother, that is for your ears alone, my girl. I'm glad that we can have this moment of peace together. Even Istari can get tired of conversations that dwell only on battles and warfare.”

Éowyn summoned the little bit of her pride that was left to her after the disastorous party. She lifted her chin and said, “Do not be shocked if I wince now and then, Mithrandir. I had too much sparkling wine last night.”

“Ah, hah, that's why you show a prickly spirit this afternoon,” the wizard chuckled as they passed through the Citadel gate.

“My head prickles,” Éowyn admitted. “My arm does more than prickle.”

They passed few people as they walked along the narrow, sloping street down to the sixth circle. “Your attitude toward pain is far easier for others to take than your brother's,” Gandalf's blue eyes twinkled. “He suffered two cracked ribs in the battle yesterday. This morning he made his friends suffer his bellowing about it.”

“Éomer was ever belligerent about his injuries,” Éowyn couldn't help but grin. “I think he hurts less when he groans loudly.”

“His sister by contrast, suffers her injuries in silence, I deem,” Gandalf teased.

“I defy my injuries to hurt me,” Éowyn said through gritted teeth.

“You must allow them to heal,” Gandalf said. “And I council you to treat your injuries with respect.”

He paused for a moment and then continued,“Éomer has asked for you to accompany me back to the Field of Cormallen. In fact, he was quite insistent. I believe he woke up this morning and realized that he now must function as king without being trained for such a responsibility. That might have caused him more pain than his ribs.”

“Éomer has always been a very effective Marshal,” Éowyn said as they passed along the rows of stately houses of the sixth circle.

“That is fine training for the warlord aspects of kingship,” Gandalf agreed. “But you have more experience in everyday governance. There has been so little peace in Middle Earth for thousands of years. Your lands need rulers who know how to lead a country in times of peace.”

Éowyn's stomach burned as she remembered Théoden's court, “Grima governed in Meduseld, much more than Théoden King or I, in the last ten years.”

“You watched them both throughout that time and helped whenever you could,” Gandalf said. They walked the final block to the gracefully porticoed entrance to the Houses of Healing. Éowyn was disappointed by how tired she felt, merely from walking the mile at most to the Citadel and back.

As they entered the Houses, Éowyn said wearily, “Aye, Mithrandir, I watched them and studied them with no thought that I could have a life of my own. Often I wondered how I would rule the Mark if I were its queen.”

Gandalf gestured to a stone bench along one of the lobby walls, where they sat, huddled together. He lowered his normally booming voice, “The night before the battle a number of us gathered in Aragorn's tent. Éomer, Gimli, Legolas, Imrahil, and Imrahil's eldest son Elphir all drank a toast and talked much as men will do on the eve of a great battle. They spoke of the great things they would do after the war was won.”

“I would like to have heard that,” Éowyn leaned her head back against the wall.

“I wonder?” Gandalf said. “Gimli spoke of exploring the Glittering Caves behind Helm's Deep. Legolas wanted a plot of land with rich soil, so that he could farm and garden to his heart's content. But Éomer did not think of himself. Instead, he said that he would see that you married well, so that you could produce an heir for Théoden's line.”

“Aren't heirs Éomer's responsibility?” Éowyn laughed though the news made her feel extremely uncomfortable. “Surely Éomer is brave enough and high enough to attract many an eligible woman. Who wouldn't want to be a queen?”

“I concurred and told him so.”

Éowyn shifted her weight on the bench. She asked, “What did Lord Aragorn have to say?”

“He was silent,” the wizard eyed her carefully and then rose abruptly. “Come, I must ask Narmar for that contingent of healers and nurses. As I told you earlier, Éomer asked me to bring you with me on the ship to the Field of Cormallen. But I will tell him that you were not healed enough for the journey, though it is short and by ship.”

“Thank you, Mithrandir,” Éowyn breathed a sigh of relief. “I am not ready to stand by Éomer's side. I need quiet still and prefer to continue my studies for the time being. I really like Minas Tirith. I've made good friends here.”

“You must talk a lot with them, judging by how many times you've called me Mithrandir.”

“So I have,” she realized and immediately was saddened. She followed Gandalf to Narmar's office, where the Warden canceled her training for the day. Gandalf's request for medical help would easily consume the remaining hours of Narmar's work day.

Éowyn was just as pleased to not deal with any more people. She climbed the flights of stairs to her little room, where she sat at the rough table and opened her beginning medical text. But her mind could not concentrate. Instead she dwelled again and again on the events of last night and the horrible gossip she overheard this morning, as she lay in bed with the headache that only an hour in Gandalf's company finally cured.

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She had woken abruptly, to the sound of Thera, the nurses' assistant, tapping at her door. Thera gently whispered, “Lady, the Warden has canceled your lessons for this morning, but will see you after lunch.” Éowyn recalled grumbling and pulling the blanket over her head to drown out the morning light. The movement of her right arm caused her bound left arm to burn with a pain that traveled down from her shoulder to the tips of her fingers. This was a different pain, not as severe as the first few days after her maiming, but troubling nonetheless. She thought that her arm was healing. Instead, she lay in bed, gritting her teeth and mentally yelling at her arm to stop hurting her.

Could she have injured herself at some point in last night's festivities? She did not remember how she had gotten to her room. Someone must have transported her to the Houses, undressed her down to her chemise, and tucked her into her bed. Perhaps her arm was re-injured as she was moved?

Had she fallen asleep in front of the combined Lords of the Mark and Councilors of Gondor? And where had she lain her head? On Faramir's shoulder? Oh that would have been awful—but far less embarrassing than if she had simply lain her poor head on the great table, between the wine glasses and the dessert plates. What had gotten into her, besides too much of that delicious sparkling wine?
Her tortured thoughts were interrupted by whisperings outside her door.

The lady sleeps still, " Éowyn heard Thera say.

I'd hate to be her when she awaks," Éowyn recognized the voice of Nellas, one of the morning nurses. "They say that she was very drunk last night and made a fool of herself."

"And who are 'they'" Thera retorted.

"Why, a bunch of nurses and orderlies at breakfast in the Hall this morning. I heard that she and Lord Faramir were snuggling up to each other all night. One of the servers said he heard that the two of them kissed during the toasts whenever the name of a hero was called out for recognition.

Éowyn gasped in horror. Could that have happened? She didn't remember it. She remembered toasting round after round of heroes, but no kissing was involved.

How could she have done such a thing? Thera said in Éowyn's defense. "That doesn't sound like the lady at all. Gertrudis, you were there, weren't you?"

"Aye, and I saw none of that, though I sat at a table nearby."

Good Gertrudis, Éowyn silently thanked the nurse. You are a true friend.

"The Lady did smile at the Steward and lean against him somewhat. What else might you expect? They have become good friends. They never kissed, not for a moment. Whoever told you that probably wishes that they could be kissing Lord Faramir."

“I'm glad to hear that,” Nellas said. “People's tongues waged like dogs' tails this morning. Those nurses and orderlies probably weren't even there. They called Lady Éowyn a wild shieldmaiden who drank too much and then wantonly threw herself upon the Steward. They even speculated about what she and the Steward might have done later that night.”

Éowyn cringed. What could she have done to make the people of Minas Tirith slander her so? She could remember nothing. How had she found her way to her hospital cot?

“Their tongues are cruel, indeed, to someone who doesn't deserve to be the butt of such gossip,” Gertrudis snorted. “Everyone had too much to drink last night. I certainly did. But I was sober enough to help Commander Erkenbrand remove Lady Éowyn from the table when she fell asleep. We took her to the Steward's carriage—and I assure you that the Steward was still in the hall, getting drunk with everyone else. I rode with Lady Éowyn the entire way here and put her to bed. If anything happened between the Lady and the Steward last night, he must have snuck into the Houses, right under Dame Ioreth's all-knowing nose.”

“Unlikely! Can you imagine what would have happened if she'd caught him?” Thera cheered and then was admonished with a loud “sssh” from her betters. Their voices then trailed off, beyond Éowyn's ears.

But she had heard enough this morning, Éowyn remembered, as she fingered the pages of “Basic Medical Practices,” spread out on her humble table. Facing Faramir this afternoon was difficult and embarrassing, in light of her behavior yesterday. She could not bear for his eyes to meet hers and try to read what was going on in her heart. How fortunate it was that she had never revealed to him her lustful feelings of the previous morning. How fortunate that the kiss she had longed for at the walls of the Citadel had been interrupted by the celebrating guards.

Now those feelings must be dampened and forgotten, she admonished herself and rested her head on the pages of the open text book. Last night she was an ordinary woman, celebrating an extraordinary event at the side of an exceedingly attractive, powerful man. Today she must return to her true self: Lady of Rohan, second in line to the throne, and for now, the injured but willing pupil of the Warden of the Houses of Healing. How had she started the illustrious path to a future of her own making? By leaning all over the Steward and by being defeated by her cups, and by giving the great and small of Minas Tirith enough food for gossip to last a month.

Despair threatened to overwhelm her, but so did her need for more sleep. Éowyn managed to haul herself from her chair to her bed. She needed to study, but on this day she could not bear to face anything, not even the welcoming pages of “Basic Medical Practices.” Mindful of her injured arm, Éowyn curled up within the blankets and willed herself into oblivion.

When Dame Ioreth awoke her, it was quite late. “Narmar told me your nerves and tendons have come back to life,” the chief nurse said briskly. “I have some herbs for the inflammation and some dinner, as well.” Éowyn sat up in her bed and toyed with the food on the tray Ioreth set before her.

“Lord Faramir sent a guard with a message at dinner time,” Ioreth continued. He asked for you but Narmar sent him off. The Warden wouldn't have your sleep disturbed. No doubt you had too much of a good time last night.”

Éowyn looked up into the older woman's face. The chief nurse was so effervescent and kind, yet also very interested in everyone else's business. “What have you heard?” she challenged Ioreth.

“Not much that I believe is true, by all Varda's stars.” Ioreth sat herself down on Éowyn's cot. “My old bones are tired these days, but I would have loved to have gone to the celebrations, had Narmar permitted it. Instead I've been subjected to the most outrageous gossip. I'll have none of it, though Narmar seems to believe all of it.”

“I never kissed the Steward,” Éowyn grunted icily. “I don't remember it, and Gertrudis said I didn't do it.”

“I believe you both, dearie,” Ioreth assured her. “However, people's nature is to gossip about their betters, from the foreman in the Carpenters Guild, all the way up to the Steward of Gondor.”

“And the Chief Nurse of the Houses of Healing?” Éowyn's spirits rose as she teased.

“Oh, certainly,” Ioreth beamed. “My gaggle of nurses start whispering every time they see me talk to an unmarried older man. They'd pair me off with Mithrandir, if only he would have me. The story of your victory over the Witch King of Angmar was on everyone's lips this past week. And now that folk have seen your glorious, unbound hair, their imaginations can't wait to pair your off with the highest ranked, unmarried males in Gondor.”

“So they talk of me and Faramir?”

“And several other military leaders you might have not met yet,” Ioreth said eagerly. “And when Lord Aragorn enters the city for his Coronation, why I can't wait to hear the speculation!” She raised her hands in delight.

“Don't speculate too much,” Éowyn said. Her head drooped. What of Aragorn? What was he thinking, now that all he had worked for in his life was about to come true? If he thought of a potential queen at all, surely he thought of his love Arwen Evenstar. Would he spare a minute to remember Éowyn, Éomund's daughter?

“Don't be glum,” Ioreth carefully draped her arm around Éowyn's shoulder. “You now are the most eligible female for thousands of miles.”

“I don't know now if I want to marry,” Éowyn gulped.

“You'll change your mind,” Ioreth said. “Meantime, I do not work tomorrow. I would love for you to come for dinner at my house tomorrow, and meet my daughters and their families.”

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In his office on the second floor of the Houses of Healing, the Steward of Gondor pondered the response to his missive in dismay. He had sent a courier with the small parchment, under strict orders to deliver it personally to the Lady of Rohan, and then wait for her response. His message was simple and direct, in compliance with her usual requests. He merely asked if she would like to accompany him to dinner that night at the Fool's Folly Pub in the fifth circle. She responded in Westron, rendered in runic style script:

I appreciate your invitation, my lord, but I have already promised to join Dame Ioreth and her family for dinner at her home this evening. I have borrowed her daughters' clothing since coming to the Houses of Healing and wish to meet the ladies who were kind enough to help me in this regard. I also long to see what life is like for regular people in Minas Tirith. I could join you for dinner perhaps later this week. My days at the Houses will be very long and full, when the contingent of healers and nurses leave for the Field of Cormallen.

That was it, Faramir sighed, a rejection of his second attempt to continue their friendship after the fall of the Dark Lord. She would rather sup with regular people, as if Ioreth's boisterous and formidable clan could ever be considered “regular.”

True, Éowyn's note contained far more information than one would expect from a woman who no longer wanted to hear from him. Moreover, if you studied it closely, she wasn't really rejecting him. She was merely postponing a dinner for another time. He wouldn't feel so despondent if she hadn't been so unexpectedly cool toward him yesterday. Perhaps Éowyn was simply hung over, like himself and two thirds of the people in the White City. Yet Faramir wondered whether the Lady's thoughts were now fixed on the man who prepared for his Coronation on the first day of May.

I won't let her forget me so easily, Faramir told himself. But he told Beregond, “I am going to take a break for awhile and go off for a walk.”

Beregond looked up from the scroll spread over his desk, “Are you off for some lunch? In that case, would you like company?”

“I don't plan to eat. I'm off for the home of Ioreth, widow of Mersin.”

“You are going to stop by, unannounced, for a friendly visit?” Beregond asked.

“Why not?” Faramir answered as he gathered his cloak. “Her husband was my commanding officer, after all. I spent many a happy evening there when I was in my 20s.”

“You are the Steward,” Beregond said. “The Steward of Gondor does not show up without ceremony at a widow's house, even if she was an old friend.”

“Even if she found the herbs that the Dunedan used to save my life?”

“Even so,” Beregond said.

“Then you must deliver my message for me,” Faramir eyed his assistant.

Beregond groaned, “I suppose that is the proper payment for me trying to educate you in the proper behavior for Stewards. Yes, I will go and visit the grand dame. What will you have me tell her?”

“Tell her to hire the best seamstress she can find to appear at the dinner she is throwing for the Lady Éowyn,” Faramir said, fully expecting the knowing grin that formed on Beregond's face. Faramir nonetheless continued, “Tell Ioreth to have the seamstress fit the Lady of Rohan for a gown for the Coronation. Anything that the Lady requests should be honored. Spare no expense.”

The look on Beregond's face at this announcement was worth the expected price of the Éowyn's proposed gown.

“The Lady is too far from the treasury of Rohan to finance such a garment,” Faramir explained. “So I will include her costs as part of the Coronation budget. Éowyn should only know that the gown is a gift from her friends in the Houses of Healing. And that would be appropriate. I found out yesterday from the Chancellor of the Treasury that the budget for the Houses comes directly from the Steward's purse. They were set up a thousand years ago as a philanthropic work by Mardil I himself.”

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Éowyn once again examined the fabric she had selected for her Coronation gown. Serindë the seamstress lifted the bolt in both arms to let the golden silk fabric cascade in thick folds onto the floor. Éowyn tried to imagine how the fabric would look with embroidered edges encrusted in red gemstones, as the seamstress had described. To Ioreth and her eldest daughter Uinéniel she said, “How can I thank you, and Narmar, and all the nurses for this gift,” Her hands swept along the luxurious fabric one last time before the seamstress folded it up.

“I will see that you all will receive proper gifts from the Mark when I go back home.” Éowyn own words saddened her. She loved her country but did not feel any compulsion, other than duty, to return soon.

“She'll make a smashing impression in that dress, don't you think, Nene,” Ioreth nudged her daughter.

“I am glad that you chose to have it cut in the style of Rohan, rather than in Gondorian fashion,” Uinéniel said. “Maybe you will start a new fashion here in Gondor.”

“I have to represent my people,” Éowyn said. “I love it here in Minas Tirith but I am more comfortable in the garments of the Mark.”

Ioreth leaned toward her and nagged, “Just wear your hair down.”

Éowyn sighed. She hadn't even considered how she would wear her hair. “In Meduseld I am not obliged to advertise my marital state by the style of my hair.”

The chief nurse winked, “As you wish. The highest man in the land knows you are marriageable. That's what is most important.”

“Did she ever tease you this much, Nene?” Éowyn asked Uinéniel. “Your mother knows he is betrothed and has been so for nearly as long as I am alive.”

Nene seemed confused, but Ioreth smiled and said, “Ah, Lord Aragorn, yes. And his Elven princess. Oh cheer up, Dearie,” Ioreth hugged her. “I apologize for being an overeager match maker. You are here with us for the time being and not about to be married in the near future. Still I deem that Nene and I could find you a far more suitable husband among our fine Gondorian males than your brother could from interviewing elligible lords in his tent.”

“You're incorrigible!” Éowyn laughed, happier than she had been in the past three days. The warmth shown to her by Ioreth's large family and the workers of the Houses of Healing tempered the sting of her embarrassment over her unseemly behavior at the ill-fated party. She vowed to put aside her growing anxiety about being forced by others into a future not of her own making, now that she finally could plan a peaceful future for herself.

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The following morning, Narmar examined Éowyn's arm prior to beginning the day's work among the patients in the Houses. The Warden declared the bones of her arm healing nicely. However, the nerves and tendons were inflamed as they came back to life after their great trauma. Not a serious situation, of course, but one that would make long trips by boat or wagon uncomfortable and horseback travel out of question for many weeks.

“Besides, we are about to become very short-handed,” Narmar confessed as he completed the examination. “The first contingent of nurses and healers sets sail today for the Field of Cormallen. I hoped you can help us in the children's ward. There is much you can do, even with the use of only one hand, to ease their pain and make sure they drink their teas and take their medicines.”

Éowyn was relieved. The Warden's diagnosis soothed any reluctance she might have about joining her brother or heading off on the long road to Meduseld. Moreover, her living conditions were about to improve. Her possessions were to be moved this day to the dormitory in the Houses of Healing complex for student nurses and healers. “It is but a dormitory, no different from the ones that are part of the great college of Minas Tirith,” Narmar explained. “Nevertheless, the rooms are larger than in the women's ward, and your neighbors are healthy students, not the injured or sick.”

Éowyn quickly engrossed herself in learning the healer's profession. She dogged Narmar's footsteps, listened to his lectures, and added an extra hand as he bound wounds and set breakages. Her afternoon hours were spent on the third floor, in the children's wards, working with the nurses.

Though some of the children were recovering from the various diseases common to childhood, like the adult patients most were injured in the siege. They had heard tales of the Lady Éowyn's great feat on the battle field. The children regarded her as a heroine out of the myths of the Elder days, reborn and now here to take care of them. The adoring light in the youngsters' eyes as she talked to them was sometimes difficult for Éowyn to bear. On the other hand, she did notice that the children minded her instructions more than the nurses', especially when it came to taking medicines without a fuss.

A day and then another day passed. Éowyn was so busy with her work during the day and her studies at night that she only noticed when she went to bed that her injured arm still prickled and burned. The proper treatment for inflamed nerves and tendons was to bathe the injured part in ice cold water—impossible for an arm enclosed in a cast. When Éowyn tried to sleep, a restless anxiety took hold of her. She thought, how wonderful to learn the healer's profession far beyond whatever knowledge was kept in Meduseld. How rewarding to be out among the people, rather than at the arm of a beloved but enfeebled uncle for years on end. How long could such goodness possibly last?

Four nights past the Dark Lord's fall, Éowyn's sleepless mind dwelled on thoughts of Aragorn. She imagined him embroiled in putting together his new government for the combined lands of Gondor and Arnor. Was he too busy for his mind to dwell on marriage and the need for a king to create a line of descendants? Éowyn tried to picture the Dunadan's, rough-hewn, weathered features, and dark, waving hair. How often in the past she had thought of him with love and high regard? But that night, installed in her small but comfortable dormitory quarters, her mind raced with questions:

What if Arwen Undómiel did not survive the fall of Sauron? What if Éomer succeeded in persuading Aragorn into marrying Éowyn instead? What might it be like to wed a man who regarded you tenderly but clearly spent the days of their marriage in mourning for the true love of his life? Was this the ultimate fate of Éowyn, Éomund's daughter?

Éowyn's anxiety grew as she pondered a fate that others might make for her. Was she destined for a marriage made for political purposes? If not Aragorn, who else might Éomer propose as a suitable spouse for her? Could she even bear children at her age?

Alone in her bed, she wished for someone she could truly talk to, who would console her and not divulge their secret conversations. She longed to speak to Faramir, but then realized that he had not contacted her for several days. Simply talking to him might help her to put her feelings in order, embarrassed though she still was about her behavior at the celebration. How proper would it be for her to contact the Steward? Her thoughts slowly stopped churning until she slept in a fitful state.

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At breakfast the next morning, an orderly told Éowyn that a messenger from Elfhelm had arrived and was waiting in the great lobby. Upon her arrival, the messenger gave her a scroll and news of greatest importance. He had orders from Éomer to withdraw from Minas Tirith. Elfhelm and Erkenbrand requested a meeting with her on this turn of events that afternoon.

Éowyn's heart froze. She had but a short while before she reported to Narmar for their daily rounds. She quickly found a bench and unraveled the scroll. The stiff paper rattled from the shaking of her nervous fingers as she read the flowery, unfamiliar script:

Sister, I miss you so. They were Éomer's words, but rendered in Westron. My heart sank when Gandalf told me you were not well enough to journey to us. Your friends miss you too, especially Gimli and Meriadoc, who transcribes this message for me. My cracked ribs are on the right, making writing painful. Please give whatever assistance you can to Erkenbrand and Elfhelm in the planning of the withdrawal. I hope that you will come to me as soon as you are able. I am sorely in need of your advice and quick thinking. Your loving brother.

Her love for Éomer and strong sense of duty to her land washed over her as she sat, isolated on the cold marble bench in the sixth circle of Minas Tirith. Then Éowyn rose, clenched the fist of her unbound arm, and determined to continue with her course of study. Narmar had deemed her unfit to travel. Moreover, she hadn't forgotten her promise to help in the worker shortage here in the Houses.

So off she went to assist Narmar in the damp herb cellar, where they created medicines and herb teas. In the afternoon she visited the ailing children, gave them the medicines, and listened to their stories of terrible dreams that haunted their nights and kept them from sleeping.

Late in the afternoon she bade farewell to her healer's duties and joined Erkenbrand and Elfhelm in the basement meeting room of the Houses of Healing. Éowyn sat down at the big table, back to the door, as the stoic old warriors unrolled Éomer's reports. The king ordered all eoreds to depart Minas Tirith within the next few days. The eoreds under Marshal Elfhelm were to return to Rohan, while the Commander of the Westfold's forces were to join the remaining Rohirrim on the Field of Cormallen.

The three bent over the reports and discussed the number of men that were healthy enough to march. Éowyn felt honored to be part of the discussion, yet slightly inadequate in her knowledge of military matters. She looked from the spread out reports to Erkenbrand, who often paused to look up, apparently deep in thought.

After careful consideration, Éowyn offered her opinion, “I suspect Minas Tirith's fighting forces have been heavily depleted. So many Gondorians are injured and here recovering in the Houses. I wonder how many uninjured soldiers are left to help rebuild Minas Tirith or defend it against attacks by retreating orcs or Haradrim? I suggest that you keep a small contingent of Rohirrim here to bolster the local armies.”

Erkenbrand said, “What do you think, my Lord?” His question confused Éowyn. She turned around to face the door. There stood the Steward of Gondor, leaning against the wall at the entrance to the room.

“I applaud the Lady's suggestion,” Faramir said in a low, even toned voice. Éowyn caught her breath. Though he spoke to them all, Faramir's eyes fastened on her as he said, “Why don't we gather at Erkenbrand's tent tomorrow afternoon. I will bring my ordinance officer Irolas. Your eoreds will need provisioning, especially those you send all the way to Rohan. If you keep a division of warriors here in Minas Tirith, I'll see that the eoreds bound for Rohan have adequate food supplies for their journey.”

“Done!” Elfhelm agreed. “Let's work out our plan tomorrow.”

“Agreed,” Faramir said. He still hadn't taken his eyes off Éowyn. Her humbling embarrassment returned, and Faramir's unrelenting gaze made her tremble. He was trying to gage her thoughts, deliberately or simply by habit, she decided.

“Lady Éowyn, why don't you join us. You give worthy advice,” Faramir said.

Duty. And responsibility. She had both of these to use an excuse. “I have to help Narmar in the children's ward during the afternoon,” she said. “There is a shortage of folk to work here in the Houses. Besides, the children mind me,” she offered lamely, looking away from Faramir's persistent eyes.

“That is an admirable occupation,” Faramir said. Then he spoke to them all, “I hope that you don't mind my stepping in. I'm doing some research in the library and heard your voices.”

Éowyn watched his departing form. She wrapped her right arm around the sling binding the left arm. She hugged herself in an effort to control urges that ordered her to run out the door after the Steward. Instead, Éowyn continued to listen to Erkenbrand and Elfhelm discuss the evacuation of Minas Tirith. Their conversation did not go on much longer. The logistics of the departure truly needed to be discussed with a full contingent of Gondorian officers. The marshals rose and bid her farewell.

No sooner had they left than Éowyn raced down the corridor to the library. So strong was her desire to see Faramir that she no longer understood her own impulses. When she arrived in the dusty archives, Faramir was not at the Steward's great desk. Éowyn moved from stack to stack, hoping to find him. But the only people in the dusty room were a few students whom she recognized from the dormitory.

In great despair, Éowyn finally sank down in the chair behind the Steward's desk. Pieces of blank parchment and a quill pen laid there haphazardly, as though Faramir had left them there but a few minutes ago. She picked up the pen and studied it. Then she took one of the parchments and wrote:

My dear brother, It is true that the Warden of the Houses of Healing has advised me not to travel beyond the gates of Minas Tirith. My broken arm prevents me from mounting a horse. I keep busy by assisting the Warden here at the Houses, which is much to my liking. I love you and hope to see you as soon as I can.

That night Éowyn had no trouble falling asleep. But in the middle of the night, she awoke screaming from a dream she did not remember.