A birthday present for The Karenator -I had a ghost story "almost" done, but RL intruded- and a belated one for Elliska. I hope you don't mind sharing!

If it is punishment indeed.  

“Is there anything else that I can do for you, my lady?” the maid asked kindly as she helped the wounded young woman take seat on the bench beside the window. She was still pale, the maid thought, but she looked calmer and comforted after her brief talk with the Lord Faramir. Tamer indeed, she observed with a brief smile. “He can control men and beasts,” her husband used to say about the Captain. And shield maidens as well, she thought amusedly.  

“The Warden said…” The voice came out softly, almost quivering. The proud, demanding lady that had confronted the Warden seemed now uncertain, thoughtful.  

“Did he shout at you? Do not take his words to heart, child,” the maid said eagerly, fearful for a moment that the serious Warden had offended the wounded lady. “He barks but seldom bites. He is a short-tempered old surgeon, but whatever he threatened to do to you, he wasn’t speaking seriously…”  

“On the contrary, he was kind to my curtness,” she answered softly, with the ghost of a bashful smile. “He said there is a Marshall in command of the Riders of the Mark that remained in the city and…” she began haltingly, “Is… Is there a way that I could send a message to him?” she asked hopefully.  

“I’ll try to find an errand runner that can be spared,” the maid answered, and then, at the dejected look on the pale face, “I’ll find one, my lady, there are few boys left for the job, and they are kept busy by the healers, but they are always eager to approach the warriors. I’ll go and see what can be done!”  

With an encouraging smile the maid poked at the logs on the hearth, lighted one of the lamps and took her leave, closing the door quietly behind her.  

***

A firm rap on the door brought Eowyn back to awareness. She was still sitting on the bench by the window, where she had sat after her stroll in the gardens. The day had faded away as she drifted in a fretful slumber, and she wrapped her cloak tighter around her as she straightened up, feeling the cold air that seeped through the thick stone walls despite the hearty fire that blazed happily…or was it the cold within her?  

Someone was still waiting outside, a double knock reminded her. A healer, most assuredly, or perhaps the night meal.  

“Come in.”  

A tall, straight, cloaked figure stood on the threshold.

“I was told that you wanted to see me, my lady,”  

“Elfhelm!” she greeted in joy. It was a voice she knew well, a voice that had comforted, encouraged, reprimanded, coaxed, taught, advised, teased and warned her for most of her life and since she was a terrified, orphan child in her uncle’s court.  “I asked for a messenger…did not want to make you come up here!” She stood up hurriedly, moved and comforted by the unexpected visit. “Just to let you know that I am back on my feet and that my arm is feeling much better!”  

“I am glad to hear that, my lady.”  

The voice she knew well, but never before had she heard frost on it, not towards her. She halted in mid-step and tilted her head, watching him searchingly, as a bird suddenly wary of unexpected danger.  

“Do come in, Elfhelm,” she invited cautiously. “There is no need for you to stand at the door as an unwelcome visitor…” 

In three strides the tall Rider closed the door and came to stand in attention before her. At the dim light of the fire she had a glimpse of the usually friendly, open face now partially clouded by a deep sadness that could not be passed for exhaustion.  

“Will you not take a seat?” she offered uncertainly, unnerved by his silence and his formal demeanour. “I…I wanted to tell you…” she began, seeing that he would not move. “I wanted to express my gratitude to you for…allowing me to ride with the king,” she ended in a pleading whisper. The Marshall shuffled uncomfortably on his feet, his gloved left hand fidgeting on the buckle of the leather belt.  

“Place your gratitude elsewhere, where it may be deserved and appreciated, my lady,” he mumbled in a hoarse voice. She shook her head uncomprehending, hurt by the unanticipated rebuke.  

“By the time I found out that you rode in my eored it was too late to give you away without causing worse trouble, so I chose the lesser evil.” He fixed her in his clear gaze, blue eyes hooded by lack of sleep, worry, anger. He shook his head briefly. “That you betrayed my trust I can accept. Friendships are stretched beyond their limits in harsh times, and you chose to disregard ours for your own motives, Eowyn, but to betray your king and your people, who looked up to the House of Eorl to protect and guide them!”  

His disappointment stung. She threw her head back regally and looked up at Elfhelm.  

“I owe you no explanations, Marshall,” she said tensely. “The King will judge my deeds, if it ever comes a time for judgment. I shall offer my apologies to you instead, that you were punished by my decision, being left behind in such a dishonourable position.” A gloved hand tightened on a buckle made her smile briefly, satisfied. She had drawn blood, it seemed. She rearranged her wards and waited.  

“If it is punishment indeed, then I will welcome it gladly, for it is just reward for my actions,” the tall Rider finally said in a harsh voice. He took a deep breath and shook his head heavily, his fists opening and closing as he fought to keep his anger under control. “But this is no time for punishment or reward, but for duty and selfless deeds, Eowyn. My King appoints me as guardian of the last treasure of his House, and keeper of what may yet survive of his people, were he to die even if the day is won, and you pretended to pity me? What greater honour can a Rider of the Mark be appointed, daughter of Eomund?” He advanced to stand before her, and bent to look her straight in the eye as he delivered the last blow. She had not expected a mounted charge. “There is no menial task when the World is at stake, my lady, and I for one will not rue my fate nor abandon my position in search of a vain glory that may yet reach me here…”  

She gaped, aghast. The Steward had made her feel like a fickle young soldier unable to complete a tedious task, and she had felt utterly inadequate under his stern gaze earlier in the garden. Now, with a single, well-aimed thrust, Elfhelm had hit her in her shield and cast her from her saddle, and she gasped for breath, stunned by the truth in his words.  

Daughter of a noble house, she bit her lip and groped for the shreds of her tattered dignity. She bent her proud head and conceded defeat.  

“It would have been fit that I had been killed in battle, as was my intent,” she whispered, “rather than dishonouring House and duty and friendship.”

“Let Béma be the judge of that, Eowyn,” and now the voice sounded concerned, though still hard with mixed emotions. “Your deeds shall be the subject of songs no matter how this war ends, but I would not have borne it, were I to blame myself for your death…too much has been lost already, child!” he sighed, his voice now harsh with tears.  

“I ashamed myself and my House, Elfhelm,” she admitted in a thin voice.  

“You have always been a pillar of hope and strength to our people, Eowyn, and you remained tall and strong by your king when even Théodred and I would despair,” the stern Marshall pulled her into a strong embrace, mindful of her wounded arm, and she rested her face on his wide chest, surrendering to the familiar comfort. “You must now rest and heal yourself, in body and soul, so you can serve your people in the times to come…”  

“But I sought death, I wanted to die, I do not think that I want to live…” she finally let escape in a forlorn call. He held her by her shoulders and looked her intently, sternly.  

“Do not say that, Eowyn,” he chided her. “You sought death and failed, now do not besmirch with scorn the gift that you have been granted! Not when so many valiant Riders who did not seek it met death without flinching, not when so many Riders lie in the fields of Mundburg, far from their green rolling lands…You are still young, my lady, and though we may be standing at the brink of destruction, they say there is still hope, and you may yet live to see a new sun shinning over a new life. Do not despair!”  

“I am lucky that you are here with me, Elfhelm,” she finally sighed, reassured by his stern but tender care, to which she was well used. “Although you would be better out there, protecting Éomer, but he already has Erkenbrand and Grimbold…” A strangled gasp caught her attention and she looked up searchingly. “Grimbold?” she hesitated.  

“And Hirluin, Guthalf, Dunhere, Deorwine, Herefara, Herubrand, Horn, Fastred….”  

She heard no more. Elfhelm sang the names in his strong, beautiful voice and the heart that had stood sternly before shame, rejection and guilt broke down at the mournful recitation that brought to mind beloved faces of friends and mentors and noblemen that had ridden to honour ancient oaths and would never ride back to their houses and families and the soft green lands of the Mark. She held tight to the Marshall as harsh sobs escaped her throat, burning tears finally making their way through her frozen heart. Her steady support swayed then, and she lifted reddened, worried eyes to him.  

“You are tired, come sit down!” she eased him to the bench hurriedly, and as he sat down a bundle that hung from his belt fell to the floor.  

“It is nothing, a scrap,” he said quickly, as she fixed her eyes on his bandaged right arm, which until now he had kept successfully hidden under his cloak.  

“You should have told me that you were wounded… I thought you had come to visit...” she chided him.  

“That too,” the Marshall grinned, bending down to pick up a couple of apples and a big chunk of bread that had fallen form the bundle.  

“What is that?” Eowyn asked, seeing that the parcel also contained dried fruits and a piece of cheese. Elfhelm grabbed it quickly with his wounded arm.  

“The men complain that the fare here seems somewhat…scarce,” he began doubtfully, “so I thought I could…”  

“Oh, Elfhelm!” She smiled amidst her tears, again moved that he would go to such lengths to care for her. “You needed not bother, they give me plenty of food…what?” she demanded, at the shy look on his face.  

“Well…it was...it is not for you Eowyn, but for the Holbytla,” he admitted reluctantly. “I was not too kind to him, and he was very brave in the end, standing by your side –and the King’s, and stabbing that fell creature…He also lies wounded in the Houses, and I thought I would pay him a visit… and show him the gratitude of the Riders. He was the King’s esquire, after all,” he added then in a lower voice, and then sighed. Eowyn knew well how hard it had been for him, and for Théodred and Háma to see their lord dwindling and behaving as a dotard under the treacherous machinations of Saruman, and how many bitter nights the three of them had spent outside under the stars, remembering tales of Théoden’s golden days and fighting not to lose their faith and their honour.  

She stood up with decision, dragging the tall Marshall on his feet after her. “If I am to redeem myself before my people, I can as well begin paying a visit to those who are wounded and sharing their grief, do you agree, Marshall?” she asked eagerly.  

“You have already begun, my lady,” Elfhelm nodded, bowing deeply before her, and there was a look of deep gratefulness in his tired face as he escorted the Lady of Rohan along the torch lit corridors of the Houses of Healing, where many Riders and an esquire of the King of Rohan still recovered from grievous wounds in the service of Gondor.   

They would have to wait to an uncertain outcome of that last battle, but they would be ready to meet whatever end with their heads high and their pride intact.