The Hall of the Tower, 28 March 3019 T.A.
Éowyn gazed upward, studying the lofty, gold-plated vaults of the hall. So this is the Hall of the Tower, the heart of the Citadel of Minas Tirith, she thought. The men of Gondor did have reasons for being proud and solemn.
It was a bright morning, fitting for the occasion. Éowyn stood alongside Marshall Elfhelm of the Riddermark, Lord Húrin of the Keys, an older lord whom Húrin had introduced as Lord Meneldil, the Lord Treasurer, and the Captains of the Guard of Minas Tirith. They gathered around the black chair of the Steward in the Hall.
When Lord Faramir entered the Hall, Éowyn felt her breath catch. She had noted his regal bearing from their first meeting. But the man who strode towards them now seemed a figure from the old tales—one who belonged more to the glorious ages sung in lays than to the weary days of the present.
He was clad in black, as he often was, but that day his garments were of even richer fabric, with the White Tree of Gondor embroidered in distinct silver upon the front of his black surcoat. Éowyn could not help noticing the craftsmanship—only the finest silver thread and the hand of a master embroiderer could produce such exquisite detail. Of course, nothing less would befit the Lord Steward of Gondor.
He wore a chainmail shirt and his sword was buckled at his side. It was the first time Éowyn had seen him armed. His solemn expression reminded her of a knight riding to a great battle. She thought again, as she had during their first meeting, that no rider of the Mark would outmatch this man in battle.
And he was comely, his face shaped with both wisdom and valour. An image of Faramir in full armour, astride a mighty steed, slipped unbidden into her mind. A faint smile touched her lips.
Faramir stopped just before the dais. A page handed him a bright white mantle, which he donned. Éowyn recognized it at once—the white mantle of the Steward, reserved for most solemn occasions. Steward Cirion himself had worn a white mantle when he accepted Eorl’s oath at the ceremony that had given birth to the kingdom of Rohan.
She watched as Lord Faramir knelt silently before the empty throne, rose, walked to the austere black chair of the Steward, then took his seat.
Lord Húrin stepped forward. Standing near the Steward’s chair, he turned to those gathered and briefly recounted the history of the Stewards of Gondor—how Mardil Voronwë became the first Ruling Steward, how his descendants had steadfastly safeguarded Gondor in the absence of the King.
Holding the white rod of the Steward, Húrin approached Faramir and intoned in the Elven-tongue, “I, Húrin son of Túor, Warden of the Keys of Minas Tirith, hereby pass the white rod of the Steward of Gondor, from our late Steward Denethor son of Ecthelion, to his son Faramir. Take now your oath.”
He passed the rod to Faramir, who accepted it and said, “Here do I swear, Faramir son of Denethor, to hold rod and rule in the name of the king, until he shall return.”
Húrin’s voice rang out again, “Thus begin the days of Faramir son of Denethor, Lord of Gondor, Steward of the High King. Long may his rule be, unless the king shall return.”
One by one Húrin, Meneldil, and the Captains knelt, offering their fealty. As each rose, they embraced Faramir.
When the last Captain had spoken his oath of fealty, Faramir rose, the Steward’s rod in his hand. Seeing him then, Éowyn was reminded of the images of the Kings of Númenór in the books her mother had read to her as a child.
When Faramir came to her, Éowyn curtseyed and smiled. “My Lord Steward.”
More than being awed by his dignity, she was moved by his defiance. As the sister-daughter of the King of Rohan, she had known of Gondor’s dwindling might in their long struggle against Mordor. And she had heard of Boromir’s departure and Denethor’s dreadful end.
The man before her, she knew, had many reasons to despair but did not; had every cause to be bitter but defiantly refused to yield.
At her side Elfhelm bowed. “My Lord Steward.”
Faramir returned her smile and nodded to Elfhelm. “I am glad to have you here. Did you know that the last time the House of Eorl attended the Steward of Gondor’s ceremony was back in Túrin II’s time? Prince Folcred was at Minas Tirith at that time.”
Éowyn's smile widened. She enjoyed history when it was told well, but she had never met anyone so eager to recount it as Faramir. It struck her how this solemn lord of Gondor could still find joy in such things, while living so close to the Shadow.
“Had it not been just after the battles, would you have had a grand celebration, lord?” Elfhelm asked.
“Nay,” Faramir answered. “We have gone to great lengths to remind all that stewards are not kings, and the oath taking is not a crowning. The lords of the fiefs and the captains will attend and swear their fealty, that is all.”
“But surely there will be a feast after the ceremony?” asked Elfhelm. In Rohan, less grand occasions would call for joyous feasts.
“There will be a feast, but it will be... muted, perhaps you would say that? Usually, the lords and captains gather for the previous steward’s funeral, and the new steward takes his oath a day or two after the funeral, thus the subdued tone of the feast.”
At the mention of funeral, Éowyn felt a pang of pity. There was no funeral for his father. She had heard, in whispered fragments, of Denethor’s tragic end.
“I see,” said Elfhelm. “So, it is customary to take the oath without delay? You did not wait for the lords and captains’ arrival.”
Húrin answered, “It is customary for the new steward to take up his authority as soon as circumstances permit. The lords and captains would usually already gather here for the funeral, so they would witness the oath taking. But according to our law, the presence of the Warden of the Keys suffices to make it official.”
Again Éowyn felt her heart stirred. She wished the Hall was full of lords and captains and their ladies, kneeling to this man. Yet she was also glad that she was among the few privileged to witness this solemn occasion.
“Some are wounded and are still under the healers’ care at Cormallen,” Faramir said. “I do not wish to press the battle-weary captains to attend to me. Yet I would like to take up my duties without delay and prepare for the return of the king.”
Éowyn was startled. The king? When she heard Faramir take the oath to rule ‘until the king returns’, she had thought the words mere ritual.
Back in Edoras, she had heard about Aragorn’s lineage, but during her time in Minas Tirith, she never associated Aragorn’s kingship with something that would displace the Steward.
What would become of the Steward when the King returned?
To her surprise she felt fiercely protective of this man whom she had known for only a few days. Aragorn had better treat him with the honour he deserved. Or better still, he could return to the North where he came from. Minas Tirith seemed well enough without a king.
In the days before the eagles brought the glad tidings of victory, she had witnessed how Faramir planned for another possible attack on Minas Tirith, along with preparations for escape, should it become necessary.
Her uncle Théoden had always held the Steward Denethor’s wisdom and command in high regard. From what Éowyn had observed, Faramir seemed to possess the same qualities.
“Lady Éowyn?”
She found him looking at her with that perceptive gaze. For a moment, she was certain he could see into her thoughts.
“Pardon, lord? I was deep in thought.”
He smiled kindly. “You were.”
Éowyn flushed.
“Shall we go now, lady?” Faramir asked again. “I will accompany you back to the Houses of Healing.”
Before Éowyn could answer, Elfhelm, being Éowyn’s nearest kinsman while Éomer was away, offered politely. “I am heading down to the lower circle, lord. I will walk with the Lady. You may have more pressing matters to attend to.”
Faramir smiled and held Elfhelm’s gaze. “I will walk with the Lady, Marshal.” He spoke kindly, but with authority.
Faramir stepped closer to Éowyn and offered his arm. He had replaced the white mantle with a simpler cloak.
As Éowyn quietly placed her hand on Faramir’s arm, she sensed Elfhelm watching them curiously. But the Marshall wisely kept his thoughts to himself.
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