Chapter 18: Putting Two Together

AUTHOR'S NOTE

"Avoidance" began its life as movie verse with much respect paid to book canon. As it nears its conclusion, the story has grown into a personal merge of both book and film. I've borrowed Peter Jackson's actors to star in my book gap filler.

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Éowyn leaned against Faramir's shoulder, trying to absorb strength from his resolve. Still she could tell that he was as nervous as she as their carriage approached the Great Gates of Minas Tirith.

"Recognize them Elven folk, Lord Faramir?" Calem the driver turned his head to ask. "Don't seem like Prince Legolas' people. Maybe Elrond of Rivendell has come to visit?"

"I don't think it's Elrond or his sons," Faramir answered. "I know their standards and colors. I've never seen pennants like these newcomers'." He squeezed Éowyn's hand, "It seems that more is happening today than the official return of the King and Queen"

"Especially since they've unofficially been here for over a month," Calem quipped.

"I doubt that these new arrivals were expected," Faramir said. "I would have been told of them."

The baby kicked gently. Éowyn's stomach churned. Now she must make a magnificent, pregnant appearance to mighty guests from the length and breadth of Middle Earth. For a moment she remembered her early training as a healer, when she worried herself to sickness over what her fate would be. She would never have imagined herself the guest at an informal reception with Arwen Evenstar, whom she once had considered a rival. She and Arwen as yet had had few words. Éowyn had never considered what to do or say at her audience. Now she had to.

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"Greetings, my Lord Steward. Peregrin, son of Paladin, returning to your service," the halfling said cheerfully as he kneeled before Faramir 's great desk in the Steward's offices of the White Tower. He wore the silver and black tabard and mail of the Tower Guard. In the halfling's hands were a small scroll and the highly ornamented helm that completed the largely ceremonial outfit that had been Faramir's in childhood.

"Ah hah! Many thanks for answering my summons," Faramir said. "Now get onto your feet. There is no need for you to bow to someone whose life you saved."

"But you look so, well, kingly. You've turned kingly since I last saw you," the little fellow's irrepressible green eyes danced as he spoke. "And I have some knowledge of kings now, being a friend of at least two of them."

"Kings lead armies and hold grand audiences and wear crowns on their heads. I bury my head in plans and parchments. I'm not a king, nor will I ever be," Faramir said proudly, but chuckled to himself. What would his uncle have thought about the halfling's assessment of his "kingly" appearance? "Please have a seat, Master Pippin. There is much we need to talk about."

"I must give you this first," Pippin said, "so that I don't forget it." He set the helmet on the desk and handed Faramir the tightly wound scroll. Faramir unrolled the parch immediately. Sue enough, his request for Pippin's return to the Steward's service had brought the results Faramir had hoped for. Written in a small, distinct script, was the first communication from the chief of the Dunadan to the Steward of Gondor:

Mellon, Faramir, son of Denethor.

I hear that your health continues to improve. That is good news indeed. I regret that I could not write earlier. I've had my hands full reordering the army, tending to their hurts, and seeing that the dead are suitably cared for.

Per your request, here is Pippin Took. Sending him to Gondor should do him much good. He sustained a mild concussion at the Black Gate but is healing well. He is lonely, though, without the company of his friends. Frodo and Sam are not quite up and about yet. Merry, on the other hand, is busy serving Éomer. I fear that Pippin grows restless without his friends and that might well prove dangerous. It is far better to put him to useful work than to let him wander freely to get into trouble.

Soon I will send for you. We need to discuss the upcoming activities and the general state of Gondor. Please extend my greetings to Eowyn, Eomund's daughter, whom Erkenbrand tells me has become your friend. I request your patience until you receive my summons to the Cormallen.

Pippin seemed about to rest against Faramir's desk when the halfling's hand touched the sleek curve of a snoozing feline body. "My cat Ciri," Faramir explained and gestured to the seat beside the desk. Pippin paused a moment, picked up the now awake kitten, and then sat on the chair with the squirming Ciri on his lap.

Beregond got up from his desk and greeted Pippin with a gentle cuff to his shoulder. The fearful, distraught expression that Faramir remembered from his first encounter with Peregrin Took today was replaced by an open, healthy grin.

"Now that you've got here, your first job is to tell us about the doings at Cormallen," Beregond demanded.

"Faramir's my superior officer and you're not," Pippin retorted. "At least I think you're not my superior officer. Are you?"

The very sight of the small halfling blithely defying the huge man made Faramir chuckle again. "You'll work for both of us," he explained. "I asked Aragorn to return you to the Steward's service because I need a page. You will run errands, serve as a messenger for Beregond and myself, assist us during council meetings, and do all sorts of duties that are needed in peace time. For these duties you get room, board, a stipend, and our company. Does that type of service appeal to you, Master Pippin?"

Pippin nodded eagerly. Brown bangs severely in need of a trim fell into his eyes.

"This service fulfills your oath to the Stewards of Gondor until Aragorn is crowned king," Faramir said. "Then he can decide on your further employment."

The halfling's broad, earnest face grew serious, "I agree, my Lord Steward. When can I begin?"

"Start by telling us how you got here so soon after the ceremony at the Cormallen. Behind whose back did you ride?" Beregond teased as he returned to his desk.

"I didn't ride a horse. I came in one of Prince Imrahil's ships," Pippin explained. "We left last night and got here at dawn. Or so Imrahil told me. I was asleep when we arrived."

"Imrahil came with you?" Faramir exclaimed.

"Indeed he did. But he had other matters to attend to in the city, matters that he kept saying were secret.

Though I must admit I was curious to know what kept him so closed mouthed. He did say that you should expect him for tea."

"In that case, your first assignment is to visit the cooks with instructions to serve a formal tea," Beregond said. "Imrahil wouldn't expect anything less than the best."

"Not yet," Faramir interrupted. "Tell us what happened at the ceremony yesterday. I would hear of Frodo, son of Drogo."

"He only woke up a few days ago and was rather shaky at the big event," Pippin said. "Aragorn had his hands full in tending Frodo. Between him and Gandalf, someone was always at Frodo's side--aside from Sam, of course."

"Of course," Faramir said. Could this explain Aragorn's silence until today? Faramir wondered. "Tell me more of Aragorn."

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Éowyn wandered through the library gardens, inspecting the area devoted to herbs. An immense weariness sat on her shoulders. Each night she had fallen easily asleep, only to awake drenched with sweat and shaking with fear. Food tasted like paper. Water burned her throat. She had chosen to remain in Minas Tirith, here in the Houses. The only joy she had found so far from her decision was learning the healer's profession.

She picked a sprig of basil and crushed the leaves between her fingers. The plant's scent was sweet and fresh, tempering her bitterness.

"Psst, Éowyn, you have a visitor," one of the orderlies poked his head into the garden. "A very impressive visitor."

Éowyn raised her head. A moment later one of the grandest men she had ever met--other than Uncle Theoden, of course--walked into the garden. She had to control herself from gaping in astonishment. Here at last among all she had met in Gondor was the embodiment of her childhood vision of a true Numenorean. The immensely tall and broad man in his richly jeweled, archaic knee-length tunic, and ornate silver breast plate could have stepped out of the Gondorians' ancient stories or the crumbling frescos depicting their Numenorean ancestors.

The knight strode across the garden with a grace not typical of one so powerfully built, an eleven grace. Yet he was certainly not elven, for all his great personal beauty. His black hair was streaked with grey and barely long enough to cover his rounded ears. His oblong chin was clean-shaven, not beardless, with the slight sag of the late middle years.

"Lady Éowyn, Éomund's daughter, I am honored to finally meet you," the man approached and gestured for her hand. As he politely kissed her fingers, Éowyn noted the his clear grey eyes.

"I am Imrahil, son of Adrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth," he introduced himself with a flourish, "and a great friend of Éomer King."

"You are Faramir's uncle," Éowyn said when Imrahil released her hand. "He has told me much about you. Why does the Prince of Dol Amroth make a special trip to visit a busy healer-in-training? Have you come with more pleas and entreaties from my brother?"

Imrahil grinned and said, "I can give you news of him, Lady, but he has sent no messages with me. I am on my way home. I greatly miss my wife any youngest children. I haven't seen them since I led my knights northward behind Aragorn and his ghostly army." He placed his hand gently on the elbow of Éowyn's cast and led her to a decorative seat near the bubbling fountain at the garden's center.

"So you see, your brother knows only that I have gone to see my family," Imrahil explained as they sat. "I had no reason to tell him the details of my itinerary nor that I planned to stop off in Minas Tirith. Still, I would have you know some news of your brother that affects you because it propelled me to make this visit."

"And how is it that you are privy to my brother's life and thoughts?" Éowyn asked, barely restraining her urge to be sarcastic.

"Éomer and I are both comrades-at-arms and advisors to Aragorn as he prepares for his kingship," Imrahil said. "Aragorn is an amazing military strategist, but he has no experience in the every day operations of a large army. Éomer and I both have this experience, so we have become Aragorn's advisors."

Éowyn's unbound hand kneaded the skirt of her healer's garment. This was the first full news she had of Aragorn's daily life since the downfall of Sauron. She was almost afraid of what Imrahil story might reveal.

The Prince of Dol Amroth continued, "And as you know, your brother shares his thoughts freely with those he loves and trusts--even thoughts you didn't care to know, like how his cracked rib has affected his digestion."

Éowyn could not help but laugh. The Prince defined her brother so perfectly. For all that Imrahil was an imposing, ostentatious figure, his candor and good humor had succeeded in disarming her suspicion.

"For the past week or so, Éomer has received a rash of proposals for your hand, Lady Éowyn."

She grimaced and then said, "So Éomer is already planning to marry me off."

"That is not quite the case, Éowyn. He is fielding requests from various nobles, mostly Rohirrim that you might even know. At the Cormallen yesterday, an entourage came by ship bearing messages from one of the Kings of the Northmen. One scroll was a proposal for your hand in marriage to his eldest son."

"And what did my esteemed brother say of all this?" Éowyn murmured.

"He was very clear that none of these men, not even the King of the Northmen's son, was worthy of you. Still he often mentions the need to produce heirs for Rohan. He told Aragorn and I in no uncertain terms that you must marry soon and to a man worthy of your station. He fears he will be inundated with proposals from far and wide for your hand."

"Why doesn't Éomer forget me and devote his energies to finding a spouse for himself!" Éowyn spoke up defensively. "He's the King. Heirs are his responsibility, and he can sire them for many years longer than the few I have left for bearing children."

"My dear Éowyn, your brother made it very clear that he prefers a match between yourself and Aragorn."

Éowyn clenched her healer's robes so tightly that her hand began to ache and sweat. "What said Aragorn of all this?" she gulped.

"Well, I perceived that they had had this conversation more than once," Imrahil said." Aragorn seemed a bit exasperated. He made it quite clear to Éomer that you accepted that he was betrothed and that he intended to stay bound thus while the Master of Rivendell's daughter lives."

"As I have suspected," Éowyn whispered. Most likely this explains Aragorn's silence, she thought.

"And that, young lady, is why I have come to visit," Imrahil punctuated his words with a sweeping gesture. "Éomer has decided that you won't come to him because Minas Tirith has seduced you."

Éowyn laughed, though she was acutely aware of how those grey eyes studied her reaction with an intensity that was uncomfortably familiar. "I do love what I have seen so far of Minas Tirith," she admitted, "though I've been so busy with my studies I've scarcely had much time to go outside and explore the city."

"If you love Minas Tirith, why not marry a man of Gondor?" Imrahil said. "That way you are assured of staying here. Many worthy, single Gondorian men still live even after the War. My purpose for meeting you was to propose such men to you personally before getting Éomer involved.

Please consider my middle son Erchirion as a possible consort for you. He is 30, a recent widower, so not a stranger to the ways of women. Not only that, he is heir to our family's shipping business and a fine looking fellow, if I must say so myself."

"I, I don't know what to say," Éowyn stammered. " I am honored that you would ask my feelings about a prospective union between myself and your son. I would be delighted to meet Erchirion though I cannot say if I would consent to marry him."

"I'm sure you would find him suitable. You can ask Faramir about Erchirion..." Imrahil paused suddenly. His grey eyes regarded her with such intensity that Éowyn had to look away. But then he laughed and said, "And while we are discussing suitable Gondorian men, what about that red-headed, benighted nephew of mine? You speak as if you knew Faramir well."

Suddenly Éowyn's throat constricted. The words came out of her mouth with great difficulty: "We spent a great deal of time together when Faramir was hospitalized here. But I have seen little of him since the day of the downfall."

"More's the pity," Imrahil sighed and clicked his tongue. "He's the perfect mate for you. Similar in age and station. Absolutely eligible. He's inherited much property from both of his parents. Never married. No by blows, either, to the best of my knowledge."

"Prince Imrahil!" Éowyn exclaimed. "I certainly consider the Steward my friend, but marriage? He has said nothing to me of marriage..."

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"Why haven't you spoken for the Lady Éowyn?" Imrahil said as he regarded Faramir over his cup of steaming tea.

"Spoken for?" Faramir stammered. "I speak to the lady. I just spoke to her for a bit last Friday."

"Spoken for. Not spoken to, though you have missed an opportunity by not speaking to her more," Imrahil said. Dressed to the nines, as ever, to Faramir he still seemed the war hero on his weary way home. Yet Uncle Imrahil was not too tired to resist a little side trip just to give his nephew the Steward of Gondor the usual piece of advice about his personal life. Faramir groaned. Imrahil was always subtle and always convinced that he knew what was best for Faramir. Often he was right.

"You are far too intelligent to not know what I mean," Imrahil continued. "Barely two weeks have passed since the Dark Lord fell, but Éomer, son of Éomund, has received more than ten proposals for the Lady Éowyn's hand."

"So I have heard," Faramir said. "This morning Pippin was only too happy to reveal that and all the other news about the Captains on the Cormallen. And you, I deem, have been to visit Eowyn on your way to the Citadel."

Imrahil chuckled, " Éomer did not send me here, if that is what you are thinking. I decided myself to meet the Lady. As you say, she was on the way."

"She is a fine woman, an amazing woman. Strong-willed but I like that," Faramir said.

Imrahil leaned forward and tapped Faramir just slightly on the forward. "Don't hesitate, Red. You are the last of the Hurins; your house needs an heir. Petition Éomer for Éowyn's hand."

Faramir gaped at Imrahil, amazed, as ever, at the outright nerve his uncle sometimes had. But then he sighed, "My house is soon to fade into obscurity. Surely Éowyn deserves better. No doubt you have deduced that the lady pines without hope for Aragorn."

"Really?" Imrahil's voice reeked with skepticism. "Mithrandir tells us your far sight helped him to track Frodo on his journey through Mordor. Why don't you use the sight to help yourself? The lady pines away but not for Aragorn. I humbly concluded that she pines because she misses you."

Faramir gaped at Imrahil in exasperation, "Honestly, Uncle Im, how can you know this? Why would Éowyn confess the secrets of her heart to you, a stranger?"

"She didn't, actually," Imrahil said. "I just did what you haven't been able to. I -saw into her heart. When I return from Dol Amroth in a couple of days, I can take your marriage petition to Éomer."

"Éowyn would reject any suitor that did not ask her first," Faramir felt his cheeks burn up.

"So ask her," Imrahil nudged him. "Everyone who has ever married has had to ask or be asked."

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Faramir gasped. Faramir balked. He rode with Imrahil down to the havens and there farewelled his uncle. Facing Éowyn as Imrahil had urged him at that moment seemed as frightening as facing the platoons of orcs who invaded Osgiliath. Every single doubt that Faramir had ever had about himself and about the lady raced through his head. His horse Nahar cantered smoothly up the circles of Minas Tirith as the sun set. On the sixth circle, Faramir passed his townhouse and then the Houses of Healing.

Speak to her! His inner voice pestered, a voice that this day sounded uncannily like Imrahil. Faramir balked and spurred Nahar on to the Citadel. The White Tower was deserted, except for the Tower Guardsmen. Little Ciri waited alone in the Steward's offices and meowed continuously when Faramir arrived. Got to get him home and feed him, Faramir decided. He was too tired and overwrought to do any more work.

A few hours later, in Boromir's house, Faramir stretched out on the fur rug in front of the broad fire place. In just a few days the basic furniture for his new home would arrive. He wondered what Éowyn would think of it. Think of it? She would not know of it unless he asked her to share it with him. Did he want to marry her? There was no question of it. Now the lady, on the other hand, she might have a totally different opinion. The only way to know was to ask, but he was terrified of asking her.

Faramir remained curled up on the rug, his mind churning, long into the night. He tried to envision Éowyn's face, her slim, muscular form, her long blonde hair floating out in a wave. Through the wave of gold he saw eyes, the eyes that shown like jewels and bore into him. In his vision he saw her clad in arms of a fine silver such as he had never seen in waking life. Yet the aura of nearly blinding light that surrounded her in previous dreams was gone.

The eyes cast down. Though she did not move her lips, the words of the Lady of the Golden Wood invaded his mind:

"The water in the mirror is cloudy. It has remained so since he was destroyed. I cannot see Elrond Half-Eleven and my grandchildren. Mithrandir appears but dimly. He is much closer to Lothlorien. Why is it that I can still see you, Steward of Gondor? My power fades slowly but nevertheless the fading commences day after day. I can only repeat to you now what I knew while the Ring of Adamant still flourished at the peak of its power. If the West overthrew Sauron, I saw that you would have an important place in Middle Earth's reshaping. You could have a family and children, but that is clearly up to you. Make your choice."

"Will I see you?" Faramir felt his lips moved.

"The mirror is cloudy," the Elven Queen's lips moved this time. "Whether we meet depends not on fate but on planning in the waking life. Even now, I fade."

Her image was gone. In his dreams, Faramir struggled to contact her again. Instead he awoke to bright light and a dead fire in the great room of Boromir's house. Ciri stood on his chest and gave him a baleful look.

"I'll do it," Faramir promised Prince Imrahil, the Lady of the Golden Wood, and his cat. "I must do it if only to have some peace of mind. If I don't I could lose her to some unknown princeling from Dale."

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The morning was golden. The air was clear and scented with blossoms from the blooming trees. Faramir briskly concluded the morning's Council meeting, checked his appearance briefly, and then walked out the door of the White Tower. He considered bringing flowers or some sugary treat to sweeten Éowyn's mood. She might need sweetening after hearing his declaration, if he managed to get the words out.

Faramir eschewed his horse, preferring to walk and enjoy the beauty of the day. His heart, though filled with fear, drew inspiration from the brilliant marble of the fine houses of the Sixth Circle and the happily buzzing people who passed on the street. The mounted Tower Guardsmen followed at a respectful distance, just in case a crowd formed to pester their Steward.

His arrival at the Houses of Healing was another matter. Faramir stopped at the Warden's office and nervously inquired of Éowyn's whereabouts. Instead Narmar upbraided him, "It's about time that you have come to visit. The poor woman wears herself down with work and study. She tells me that her sleep is troubled, too. I insisted that she take the rest of the day off. It troubles me to see her so sorrowful on such a lovely day. What I cannot decide is whether you are the cause or the cure for her anguish." Faramir turned on his heel guiltily and started for the basement library.

Sorrowful? Would his words today make her joyful or only serve to grieve her more? The only way he could know was to speak them to her. He could hesitate no longer.

Faramir hurried through the library and into the vast garden. There Éowyn stood at the wall, examining the yellow buds on a rose bush. She wore a form fitting white dress in the style of Rohan, with wide sleeves down to the wrists of both hands. Both hands! Her left arm was no longer bound in a sling. Though Narmar deemed her heart to be ailing, her arm clearly was improving. How beautiful she looked, with a thin braid of gold hair circling her head, while the remaining length of hair trailed down her back.

Éowyn looked up then. She gasped audibly in what seemed like very real surprise. But she simply said, "My lord Steward."

"May I? I will be gentle," Faramir asked politely as he carefully lifted her left hand to kiss it. Her dropping sleeve revealed the light cast on her arm.

"It is good to see you, Faramir," Éowyn's voice was soft. Her face was drawn and tired, though no more so than on his last visit. What to say? What to say to her?

Finally, Faramir said, "Your arm has improved, I see. Yet you stay with us in Minas Tirith."

"I am needed," she said and raised her eyes candidly.

"I understand, and I admire your efforts to become a healer," Faramir began lamely. The words that he wanted to speak kept evading him. "But I know now that they are only one reason why you have remained here."

"I'm sure your uncle has told you that my brother has received marriage proposals for me from many lands?" Éowyn's words were direct though Faramir detected a slight tremble in her voice.

"Yes, and I sympathize that you would prefer to decide whether to marry than to have your brother decide your husband for you," Faramir tried to grin but his voice, too, was trembling. "Éowyn, I cannot help but think there are more factors affecting your decision."

Éowyn reached up with her right hand and brushed a strand of stray hair over her shoulders. "Still you do not know? Does your far sight fail you now? You speak in riddles."

Faramir drew a deep breath. He placed a hand on Éowyn's shoulder and looked at her squarely. "Two reasons there are, in my estimation. I originally thought you remained here because you awaited Lord Aragorn's summons. Yet like me you waited without a word and your now your heart grows bitter."

He could feel her shoulder flutter just slightly beneath his hand. Yet strangely enough, her face remained calm, her mouth silent at his bold words. So continue he must:

"The other reason was the one that I dared to hope--that you remain here because I am here. But due to misunderstanding and too many responsibilities, I've left you here in neglect." At this, Éowyn raised her hand and placed it over his on her shoulder.

"Or maybe you stay here for both reasons. Two men pull at your heart and you cannot choose between them," Faramir's words finally flew from his mouth. He knew he could stop them no longer, "So I am here to speak my part and apologize for not telling you sooner what I suspect you might already know. I love you, Éowyn. Do you not love me, or will you not?"