Chapter 17: The Acts of the Last Ruling Steward

AUTHOR'S NOTE

"Avoidance" started out being movie verse with much respect paid to book canon but has grown into a personal merge of both. I've borrowed Peter Jackson's actors to star in my book gap filler.

Sincerest apologies for my slowness, especially for those who have been loyally reading "Avoidance" so far. This chapter was particularly difficult for me to write.

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Within the confines of the Steward's carriage, Faramir held Éowyn's hands, hoping that she would derive strength through his love and support. Perhaps her having a separate audience with Queen Arwen and her ladies was not such a good idea after all. The encounter might be too stressful, given her delicate condition. On the other hand, 'Éowyn would not like to be called delicate, whatever her condition was. The appointment had been made. It could not be cancelled.

They traveled down the newly graded Eastern Road and onto the Pelennor Fields. Faramir stood up to stretch his legs. Gardeners and farmers were busy restoring the fields to a condition far superior than any now living could remember. In their midst, a magnificent pavilion had just been erected over the incongruous hillock that marked the highest point on the Fields. It was an elven pavilion, similar in form to the tents of Legolas' Silvan people when they first moved to Ithilien. Yet this pavilion had the delicacy of pattern and color far beyond any that Faramir had ever seen. The banners and colors were strange, too. Foreign and exotic.

"I think some high elven lord has come for a visit," Faramir described the scene to Éowyn, who could not balance her weight well enough to stand in the swaying carriage. She looked up at him with glittering eyes. How could he have doubted her love? Why hadn't he noticed the start of it?

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Faramir stood on a hastily-erected platform atop the hillock that rose gently above flat grass lands. Around the rise spread the Pelennor Fields, now packed with people and horses right up to the scaffold-bedecked walls of Minas Tirith. Mounted Rohirrim gathered at the base of the hill, just below Faramir's position. They reined in their horses and sat them at strict attention.

To Faramir's left, a long column of supply wagons was assembled, ready for a slow but hopefully uneventful journey north to the recovering armies at the Field of Cormallen. Beside him on the platform were Beregond and the members of the Steward's Council. Intermingled with warriors and Gondorian officials, the ordinary citizens of Minas Tirith milled about, eager to hear their Steward's first official speech.

Raising his right arm gingerly to gain the crowd's attention, Faramir began, in his most stentorian, captain-addressing-the-Rangers voice: "On behalf of the people of Gondor, I thank the eoreds of the Mark for answering the summons of the beacons and honoring the treaty of Cirion and Éorl."

The huge crowd, perhaps ten thousand strong, roared and stomped in approval, though Faramir wondered how most could hear his words. He continued, "Marshal Elfhelm has left a force of 500 Rohirrim, to be quartered in the First Circle. They will patrol the city with our security forces and lend a hand on the repairs of the wall, if we can persuade them with enough mead."

"I will remember that part of the bargain," yelled Bema, now in charge of the Rohirrim in Minas Tirith. Faramir grinned and continued his speech, abiding by his philosophy of keeping brief and to the point. This was not the place for a philosophical or political speech. He concluded by bidding the huge group safe passage.

Erkenbrand spurred his horse before the patient Rohirrim, followed by Elfhelm on his dun battle stallion. Then the commanders urged their horses to one side, to make way for a golden haired figure who stepped out before the crowd. The Lady Éowyn, impossibly lovely in a white gown in the style of her people, carried a basket overflowing with yellow broom flowers. She entwined these in the bridles of the commanders' horses. Then she withdrew two scrolls from the basket, which she presented to Erkenbrand and Elfhelm. Faramir faintly heard her bid the Rohirrim farewell in their land's tongue before she disappeared back into the crowd.

Erkenbrand's great black horse reared as he shouted, "To the Steward and the people of noble Gondor!" He raised his arm. As one, the Rohirrim raised their voices in powerful song. They spurred their horses and commenced in orderly progression to the Great North Road. With considerable clanging and braying of mules, the Gondorian supply wagons started to move. The drovers held their teams in check to let the Rohirrim pass first, to give escort for the wagons on the road.

Faramir was filled with joy. So many warriors and supply wagons had gathered. Rather than mustering for battle, today, for the first time, they rode forth on a mission of peace--a peace none had ever imagined had come.

Without a word, Faramir nodded swiftly to the Council members and descended the little hill. His constant bodyguard of the Tower Guardsmen quietly appeared, leading his father's preferred riding horse, a roan gelding named Nahar. The younger guardsman Jarred gave Faramir a boost into the saddle. Faramir's upper body had not yet recovered sufficient strength to mount a horse unaided. Yet he felt it of utmost importance that the people see their Steward astride a horse, to give them more confidence in the continuity of Gondor's government. He traveled among the crowd, followed by the Tower Guardsmen and a standard bearer with the colors of the Stewards of Gondor.

Minas Tirith this past week pulsed with an energy such as Faramir had never experienced. The streets were cluttered with wains of refugees returning to their abandoned homes in the seriously depopulated city. Uninjured Gondorian soldiers were granted week long leaves to visit their families. Women who had hidden in their city homes or in the provinces finally returned to grace the streets with their beauty.

What do people do in times of peace? Faramir wondered, as his heels tapped Nahar's flanks. Rebuild their cities and the outlining towns? Till the fields? Become farmers and artisans, rather than soldiers? Marry and have children? Who knew how to govern them so that they could live out their lives in peace time? Faramir, the Steward, son of Denethor? Aragorn, the Dunadan, son of Arathorn?

At least I can set Gondor on its first steps in peace time, Faramir thought. His horse picked its way carefully through the slow-moving crowd. The gelding's gait was magnificently smooth, perfect for an injured man just returning to the saddle. The citizens walked and rode back to the city, singing and conversing. Faramir had declared this day a government holiday, for all Gondorians to rest from their usual toils. The markets, guild halls, and government organizations were closed.

What were the Lady of Rohan's thoughts about living without war? Faramir wondered as he and his retinue rode along. The people cleared a path for their horses and called out Faramir's name. He skimmed their faces, but Éowyn was not among them.

Convinced that finding her among all the people would be impossible, Faramir was about to give up his search when he spotted an open wagon drawn by two mules bumping its way through the crowd. At least ten young people squashed against each other in the vehicle, laughing and jostling among themselves each time the wagon rolled over a rut. In their midst, three lovely women captured Faramir's eye. One was a willowy woman scarcely past 20 with wavy brown hair. The second was the dark, statuesque nurse Gertrudis, whom Faramir recognized from the Houses of Healing. Between the two swayed Éowyn herself. She grasped onto the wagon's guard rail to hold her balance and tossed her long blonde hair out of her face.

At Faramir's signal, the guardsman Nem rode ahead and ordered the drover to halt the wagon. The jolt caught Éowyn off-guard. As she tried to regain her balance, her eyes caught Faramir's; then her cheeks reddened.

"Good afternoon," Faramir called as he rode up to the carriage. "Lady Éowyn, I was saddened to hear hat you are not recovered enough to join your brother on the Cormallen."

Éowyn's chin raised slightly, but otherwise her face remained perfectly still as she said insistently, "I promised to stay here and help Warden Narmar." Her companions gasped, surprised at Éowyn's abrupt retort--or so Faramir perceived their behavior.

"Begging your pardon, my Lord Steward," the brown haired girl twisted her body flirtatiously as she spoke. " Lady Éowyn loves Minas Tirith. Practically every day she makes us go for walks at lunch so she can learn all the neighborhoods."

"Hush, Nellas," Éowyn tugged at her companion's sleeve. "Please don't trouble the Steward with silly talk. He has much to do. He's responsible for my feelings for Minas Tirith. Lord Faramir was the first to take me on a tour of the city."

Faramir watched Éowyn carefully. He suspected that more lurked behind her reason to stay behind than wanting to experience life in Minas Tirith. She seemed tense and troubled, as though her mind was in torment. At least she seemed seemed willing to talk, rather than aloof and abashed.

What she really needed was for him to swoop her out of that wagon, set her before him on Nahar's sturdy back, and then ride off at top speed across the Pelennor

How impossible that would be on this particular day, the practical side of his nature doused his fantasy. Her broken arm would surely be re-injured from any form of swoop; as it was, he hardly had the strength enough lift a woman, even a lean and muscular woman like Éowyn. By now a crowd had gathered around the halted wagon, calling out for both the Lady and the Steward. Only now aware of their presence, Faramir gaped at them, momentarily distracted. Was his father ever being pursued by adoring crowds? he mused. He found the attention both embarrassing and affirming.

"Faramir?" Éowyn yelled out. Her voice pierced through his reverie and the increased noise from the onlookers.

Faramir flinched and said, "I'm sorry. I was thinking that I'd like to walk with you as far as the Houses of Healing and have a pleasant chat."

"What?" she held her hand to her ear.

"Let's walk back to Minas Tirith and talk. The guards can take my horse."

Éowyn laughed, "I doubt we could hear each other." Gertrudis frowned and nudged her slightly.

The wagon driver stood up from his seat and bellowed, "Begging your pardon, my Lord Steward, I have to get this wagon moving! I promised the Warden I'd have his lazy staff back right after the soldiers left."

"It's true," Éowyn sighed. "I'm assisting Ioreth in the Men's ward this afternoon. No day is a holiday for healers." The wagon suddenly lurched forward. The young woman Nellas giggled and pressed her hand over her mouth. Éowyn seemed grave, almost frustrated.

"I will come to visit you at dinner in the next few days," Faramir called after her.

To Faramir's surprise, Éowyn suddenly exclaimed, "Yes, please do." Gertrudis nodded her head, ostensibly in approval, and Nellas turned away, trying to hide giggles that Faramir none-the-less saw. He reined in Nahar and watched the women as the wagon moved off down the road. To his delight, Éowyn held his gaze and waved once before turning away. She had decided to stop avoiding him. In fact, she did want to see him again. He was sure of it.

What a woman! Faramir thought. He admired her so for quickly finding an important role for herself in the peace time to replace her battle capacity as Shield Maiden of Rohan. What would Faramir's role be in the new kingdom? He liked the responsibility of reordering Minas Tirith in time for Aragorn's coronation much more than he would have imagined, although some aspects were far more easy to handle than others.

These matters drifted through Faramir's mind as he rode slowly back to the city. Occasionally, he stopped to shake hands with eager citizens. More than occasionally, he reflected on the beauty and the puzzle that was the Lady Éowyn. Finally, his entourage halted outside the deserted town house on the sixth circle that was now Faramir's personal project.

Though the final battle had not reached beyond the second circle, the empty townhouse had some damage from last week's earthquake and the after shocks immediately following. Since finding the house three days ago, Faramir had hired carpenters and painters to make the place habitable. Now the painters were hard at work, happy to receive double pay for working on this public holiday. The building's former tenant had removed all the furniture, but the carpenters had moved in several benches. Faramir sat down in exhaustion on a bench and stared for a moment into the two foot hole at the bottom of the nearest wall.

"Have you found the mouse killer yet?" he called up to the painters.

"No, but we found four mouse bodies this morning," one of the painters answered. "Not eaten, though. The food that you left 'im was eaten. You know how those mousing animals are. Feed them and they think the vermin are playthings, not something to eat. They kill mice for fun but would much prefer to eat human food."

"He'll come out eventually," Faramir said, remembering the note that the tenant's son had written at the end of his father's letter with the final rent payment. A child's request of the great Lord Denethor. Faramir studied the gaping hole. He listened for the scratching sounds that announced the presence of rats and mice. Those animals had better get themselves out of the walls within the next few days.

In particular, Faramir was determined to coax the mouse killer out, be it ferret, or cat, or rat terrier; otherwise the carpenters would seal it in the wall with the rats. Any animal that kept a house relatively vermin free was held in high esteem by the people of Minas Tirith. Every day last week people visited his afternoon council with complaints about the growing infestation of mice and scarcity of cats, terriers, and other animals that preyed on rodents. Even the barn owls had fled the stables of the city; perhaps they feared sharing the sky with fell beasts.

When no animal slunk out of the hole, Faramir's thoughts eventually wandered back to the events earlier in the day. The supply caravan that headed out today ,in addition to food, bore his first messages to Aragorn. No words had yet come to him from the man who would shortly rule Gondor. No requests for a special observance at the Coronation, or for rooms for incoming relatives, or for magnificent garments to wear for the great event. Not even a request for supplies for the host at the Cormallen issued forth from the Dunadan.

True, Aragorn's host might have received supplies from the nearby Ranger forts, though no reports had yet come to Faramir from the Ranger strongholds. The victorious host could easily supplement their rations with game and fish caught in the Anduin. Still Faramir found it odd that he received no correspondence from Aragorn. Surely the Dunadan, Mithrandir, and the King of Rohan would appreciate the stream of food and drink coming their way from the Steward of Gondor.

Had Éowyn hoped for word from Aragorn but, like Faramir, heard nothing. Could that be the reason for unease, confusion, and discomfort he thought he read in her heart. Surely Lord Aragorn had sent her a message politely inquiring after her health. Could Aragorn's silence have dismayed her so that she wanted a future as a healer and no longer cared to marry?

Shrugging off the last thought, Faramir got up, brushed saw dust from his leggings, and walked toward the front door of the townhouse. Surrounded by the clutter that would eventually become his new home, Faramir accepted that he would love Éowyn, whether she became Aragorn's wife, some other man's wife, or the wife of none. If unrequited love were to be his fate, so be it.

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Every morning the next week Faramir worked with the council and planned strategies for huge housing projects for people who wanted to resettle the city. At lunch he worked through a new regime of exercises to rehabilitate his right side and build upper body strength. The sergeant-trainer assured Faramir he would soon regain strength enough to battle with a sword. The long bow, however, would take months to rehabilitate, if that ability ever returned to him. In the afternoon Faramir reviewed petitions from the people. And late in the afternoon, he returned every day to the Steward's House, to oversee its restoration.

Regardless of when Aragorn finally chose to communicate with him, Faramir accepted the responsibility for finding a home for the Dunadan, his family, and staff. The fabled King's House was long gone from the Citadel. Several public buildings sprawled over its former site, including the smaller Steward's House, where Faramir had grown up. No doubt it was less grand than the King's House, but certainly more than adequate for a monarch to live in, at least on an interim basis. Faramir oversaw the remodeling of the Steward's House so that it would be ready for Aragorn on the day of his Coronation.

Faramir doubted he would miss the Steward's House, which he left for the wilds of Ithilien fifteen years since. He had no desire to live there after his release from the Houses of Healing, much preferring his old rooms in Boromir's house, despite the ever-present memories of his brother. He knew he could always retire to his mother's substantial holdings in Dol Amroth, though his ultimate dream was to build a manor in Ithilien, an uncertain dream at best. In only a month, the remodeled Steward's House would pass on to the king, and the Stewards' thousand years of safe-keeping Gondor would pass into history. Faramir, son of Denethor, would need a place to live in Minas Tirith--one that belonged to him alone and not the spirit of his father or brother.

Spending any time in the dusty, neglected Steward's House was painful almost beyond endurance. Still Faramir rummaged through the rooms, packing valuables and mementos, ordering walls to be repainted, and furniture to be refurbished or replaced. In a locked chest in his parent's bedroom, he salvaged clothes that belonged not only to his father and mother, but also to his grandparents. Maybe a museum someday would display the garments of the Stewards.

In Denethor's desk he found a pile of documents ranging from deeds several hundred years old to ledgers that listed tenants' payments made scarcely a few days before the siege. Faramir had always known that his Hurin side owned major buildings and tracts of lands in Minas Tirith.

During the week following the Dark Lord's fall, Faramir inspected the buildings whose deeds he had found. Most were either occupied or in need of far more than one month's repair before he could move in. The unoccupied homes usually were rat-infested and stank of mold and mildew. But not the building that he now called his townhouse. When he first unlocked the door, he found it relatively clean, though not without problems mostly stemming for earthquake damage. The most recent tenant had left tacked to the inside door a final rent payment and a note of apology for removing his family to their farms in Lossarnarch. It was dated but two days before the start of the siege.

One evening, two days past his speech on the Pelennor Fields, Faramir returned to his townhouse to lend a hand to the workers, wherever he could. He brought a makeshift dinner of Anduin trout and roasted potatoes wrapped in a cloth, and a full wineskin. That evening the carpenters had left early, perhaps to take advantage of the fine weather and lengthening days. Though daylight still lingered, the Tower Guardsmen brought in lanterns before assuming their posts outside the front door. Faramir sat on the bench by the still gaping hole in the wall and took out his dinner. Loneliness suddenly overwhelmed him. Here he sat, Steward of all the land, bereft of father and brother, and soon to be out of a job. He loved fish but his grief made the usually appetizing meal tasteless.

Then he heard the scratching movements of the animals who hid in the walls.

"You and I are going to meet tonight," Faramir addressed the hole, grateful to be distracted from his mourning. He tore off a piece of fish and laid it on the floor several inches below the hole. Then he sat down on the floor and leaned against the wall, to the side of the hole. Several minutes passed. At last, a thin black leg reached out from inside the wall and yanked the fish into the safe dark interior beyond the hole. Excellent, Faramir thought as he heard the sound of a small animal eating. The creature had revealed itself. He then tossed another piece of fish onto the floor, about a foot from the wall.

The first morsel must have been particularly tasty because barely ten seconds later a blur of fuzzy blackness flew out of the hole, pounced on the fish, and leaped back through the hole into the wall.

"Aha, there you are, moggy," Faramir chuckled, amused by the animal's behavior. "Let's see what you think of people." He sat down cross-legged on the floor, about two feet in front of the hole, and placed yet another sliver of trout just in front of his feet. This time the animal waited a bit. Faramir could see its gold eyes gleaming in the darkness beyond the hole.

Finally, the starving creature gave in, walked up to Faramir, and sat a few inches before the tantalizing piece of fish. A young cat, totally black, a scrawny but muscular male no more than four months old matched Faramir stare for stare. Very carefully, he reached forward and touched the kitten's nose with his index finger. To his delight, the little fellow rubbed the top of his head against Faramir's knuckles. Then the kitten lowered his head to eat the trout.

"You miss your boy, don't you?" Faramir said. "He has moved away and asked the Steward to find you a home. Well, I am the Steward now and I would bring you home, if you will let me." He reached forward and grabbed the kitten, held him in the air for a second and turned him around, assessing the state of the animal's health. Poor thing was skinny and covered in grease where he could not reach to clean himself. Though the cat did not resist being held, he set up such an piercing stream of mews that Faramir set the animal down in his lap. In response, the cat quieted down and seemed relieved. He curled his dirty body up in the folds of Faramir's tunic and commenced a loud, satisfied purr.

"That settles matters. You're mine. Your first order is to have a bath in whatever I can find to clean a cat" Faramir said, beguiled as he stroked the kitten until one of the guards called out, "My lord, are you alright."

More right than I've been for awhile, Faramir thought as he picked up his cat and placed the animal on his shoulder.

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The next few days passed quickly as Faramir was inundated with plans, paper work, and people demanding his time. Between council meetings and endless sessions, Faramir hunkered down with mounds of paper work in the Steward's offices of the White Tower. He conversed mostly with Beregond and the black kitten, whom he took everywhere. He named the cat Cirion, in honor not only of the famous Steward but also for the boy who was forced to leave behind his runaway pet.

Messengers came frequently from the districts and fiefdoms outside Minas Tirith. At midweek a brief message came from Mithrandir thanking Faramir for the supplies and requesting even more food and pipe weed, if possible. The wizard cautioned, "Do not venture out to meet us yet. Stay in Minas Tirith. Mind your health and the people's health. Await the summons of the king.

The last sentence made Faramir extremely uncomfortable. He had to yet receive any message from Aragorn, son of Arathorn.

At the end of the week, Rangers from the Causeway forts arrived from the Cormallen. They brought news of a great ceremony honoring the ring bearers to be held there on the coming Sunday. They inundated Faramir with reports and scrolls full of news and requests for food and supplies. To his continuing dismay, none of these scrolls came from Lord Aragorn. What he did receive was a surprising and enlightening communication from the King of Rohan.

Éomer, son of Éomund, wrote:

Please accept my thanks, Faramir, Denethor's son, for the safe return of the eoreds who had remained in Minas Tirith. They look far happier and healthier than the last time I saw them. Erkenbrand and Elfhelm have been speaking their praise for the Steward and the people of Gondor non stop since joining us on the Anduin.

We all appreciated the sides of beef and pork and especially the kegs. You Gondorians brew some fine beers. I am sure you would also appreciate the robust beers we brew in the Mark. After we are through with all these ceremonies, let's you and I talk about a trade agreement between our countries for beer importation.

One more matter, a favor I would ask of you. Erkenbrand says that you have befriended my sister. I am worried about her health, for she is yet unable to join us here. In the past, she was never one to ignore her responsibilities. Can you inquire as to the true state of her injuries? Please encourage her to come to the Cormallen as soon as possible for I greatly need her help in many matters.

Faramir reread the scroll and hung his head. Last Sunday he had promised Éowyn to come calling at dinner time. Nearly a week had passed since then, but Faramir had not found time for a visit amid all his tasks.

When he read Éomer's note, his heart felt plagued with guilt. It was mid afternoon on Friday. The King of Rohan's note gave Faramir an ample excuse to put other duties aside and attend to this matter. He rose from his seat, nodded to Beregond, and grabbed little Cirion off the desk where he had been napping. Then Faramir headed out on foot to the Houses of Healing, doggedly followed by his trusty duet of guardsmen.

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"She's quite busy in the Apothecary," Warden Narmar explained as Faramir followed him down the broad hall on the basement level. "The Lady of Rohan has developed quite a talent for brewing medicinal teas. She is preparing a shipment of herbs for the armies on the Cormallen." Narmar slowly opened the door to the Apothecary and leaned in. He said, "The Steward is here to see you, Lady Éowyn." Faramir took a deep breath.

A moment later, she stood at the door, her simple, egg-colored healer's robes accentuating the ashen pallor of her cheeks. Her bound arm was barely noticeable within the folds of her garment. Éowyn smiled faintly. Faramir could sense the chill on her skin. He perceived that she was troubled and desperately wanted to take her into his arms. Instead, he politely gestured for the lady's hand; it was cold and dry. By contrast, her dark blue eyes were heated and intense when he kissed her wrist in formal greeting before they entered the Apothecary.

Vaguely aware that Narmar had closed the door behind them, Faramir followed Éowyn into the narrow, dimly-lit, windowless pharmacy. The walls were crammed with shelf after shelf of beakers, boxes, small vials, and great carafes. Strangely enough, the bleak, airless surroundings emanated a wonderful scent of orange blossom and cinnamon. Faramir felt enveloped in an eerie sense of cosiness. He sat beside Éowyn on a bench next to a broad table covered with sprigs of herbs.

"Lady, I am glad to see you," Faramir began awkwardly. She was so still, so silent, so stiff. What to say next? He finally blurted out, "I apologize for not visiting sooner. I am burdened down with so many tasks."

"Why is a cat in your tunic?" Éowyn said abruptly and then pursed her lips.

Faramir looked down to see Cirion's small black head poking out between the vee of the neck of his cote. He was so nervous about this encounter that he had forgotten the kitten, whom he had tucked into his cote right before entering the Houses.

"I found him in an abandoned townhouse that belonged to my father," Faramir said eagerly. "I've named him Cirion, though usually I just call him Cirry. I take him everywhere and wanted you to meet him."

"And that is why you finally came to visit?" Éowyn teased but Faramir detected a bite beneath her words.

Faramir pulled the struggling Cirion out of his clothes and deposited the kitten onto Éowyn's lap. He said, "I though all women liked cats."

"And so I do," Éowyn answered. "I always played with the cats in the stables. They are great companions for the horses, and children love them, too. Unfortunately, the last year or so most of the cats in Meduseld ran away or were killed. We have a terrible rodent problem as a result." Her hair, bound in two severe plaits, hung down her neck to rest in her lap. Cirion promptly attacked the braids and rolled in them, making the lady finally laugh.

"Here in Gondor, we keep cats in our homes to keep down the vermin," Faramir explained quickly, relieved to make small talk before he came to the crux of his visit. "It is said that the tabbies make the best mousers, and the black ones bring good luck."

Éowyn laid her hands down on Cirion, calming him until he curled up on her lap to purr. How Faramir wished he could put his head in that very lap. He was acutely aware of Éowyn's closeness. Her hip, thigh, and knee brushed just slightly against his leg.

She turned to Faramir, her beautiful face drawn and tired. "I am sorry for getting so drunk at the great banquet," she apologized. "I forgot that Gondorians are so circumspect. I'm afraid I wasn't a fine example of a noblewoman of the Mark."

"There were many drunk people in the hall that night," Faramir assured her. He sensed her great upset and wanted so to put his arm around her shoulders. The dim light and calming smell of the herbs made the world outside the Apothecary seem miles away.

Éowyn sighed and suddenly leaned against him, as though hungry for the warmth of his by now heated body. "I overheard some of the nurses gossiping about me. I'm afraid they found me nothing more than a wild shield maiden out of the barbarous North,"

"The wild shield maiden who helped to save our land," Faramir said, relishing her closeness, wishing he could slowly unbind her thick plaits and run his hands through the length of her fair hair. "You are a hero to the people of Minas Tirith. I'm told all the little girls in Minas Tirith want to be like the Lady of Rohan."

Her eyes flashed suddenly, and she pulled away from him, "Speak plainly, Faramir. Your words and your face are pretty, but I suspect you had more reason to come here than to cheer me up and show me your new cat."

He sighed long and deep. One did not skirt around issues with Éowyn. "I got a message today from Éomer King," Faramir said.

"As did I," Éowyn said, knitting her pale brows.

"He is worried about your health to the extent that he asked me to inquire..."

"And then he asked you to try to convince me to leave for the Field of Cormallen!"

"Well, yes," Faramir said, his languorous mood totally broken.

"No doubt Narmar would say I needed more rest in these Houses. If I really wanted to leave, I could travel out tomorrow, regardless of Narmar's opinions, on the same boat with this herb shipment I've been preparing," Éowyn retorted. "I want to stay here and learn what I can of the healer's profession in the time given to me."

The strength of her defiance surprised Faramir, although he sensed that she had arrived at this decision through great turmoil. His own uncertainty gnawed at his heart so much that he had to tell Éowyn what had been so much on his mind. "I sent Lord Aragorn a note last Sunday, but I haven't gotten a response," Faramir said, trying hard to be tactful. "Have you heard from him?"

"Not a thing," she said matter-of-factly, "though days ago I sent him a brief note of congratulations." Faramir's gut contracted. He had assumed that the lack of a summons from Aragorn was the cause of Éowyn's distress. Sitting here beside him, she seemed merely resigned

"I must give Éomer King some reason for your not joining him," Faramir said, "if your injuries are not troubling you."

"You have heard my reason," Éowyn said. "I would stay in Gondor and train to be a healer. My brother wants me to return to him so he can marry me off."

"If you were Gondor's queen, you could stay here and learn the King's healing practices, as well," Faramir barely managed to keep his voice restrained.

A calm expression formed on Éowyn's face. She twisted to lay her unbound hand on his arm and said, "So I once would have wished. If my brother had died, I would have been Queen in my own right, without benefit of marriage. Now I recognize that if others must die or be driven to grief and pain to make me a Queen, why I'd prefer to follow my path as healer."

The door to the Apothecary swung open. "Lady Éowyn?" Ioreth's voice whispered gently before she entered the room. And when she did, a somewhat disappointed smile curled her lips, as Faramir noted. Just what did that busy body expect to find?

"Might I remind you of your duties in the Children's Ward?" the Head Nurse said. She curtsied just slightly to Faramir, "Good to see you as ever, my Lord Steward. Please remove your cat from the premises. They make some of our patients sneeze."

Perhaps it was just as well as their conversation was interrupted, Faramir thought. Otherwise, he would have either skulked out of the room in a fit of melancholy or thrown caution to the wind and taken Éowyn in his arms. Surely she deserved to be kissed by some man, be it Aragorn or himself. The best Faramir, Denethor's son could do at the moment was gingerly remove his cat from Éowyn's lap, so that she could attend to her duties.

"Is there anything else I might tell Éomer King?" Faramir asked as Éowyn and Ioreth left him standing in the hall.

Éowyn called back, "Tell him I am needed to help heal the Steward and the people of Gondor."

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ON TOLKIEN AND CATS

I've heard it said in several places that Tolkien was no fan of cats. Certainly his "ficlet" of Queen Beruthiel gives that impression.

No wonder authors who write fanfic in the world of Middle Earth create tales that redeem the integrity of cats within that "verse." In the United States, black cats are considered to be bad luck. In the British Isles the reverse is true. Black cats are lucky symbols. I adopted the British tradition for my purloined characters' attitude about black cats.