The Houses of Healing, 2 April 3019 T.A.
Éowyn sat beneath a tree in the garden of the Houses of Healing, the one where she had often sat with Lord Faramir. It had been four days since she last saw him, the day he took his oath as the Steward of Gondor. She realized that when she walked in the garden now, her eyes often wandered towards the Houses, hoping to see him coming.
As she was heading back to the Houses, she saw him walking towards her.
“Lord Faramir?” She called to him, while inwardly she chided herself. She had spoken with more warmth than she had intended.
“Lady Éowyn.” He smiled when he saw her, but he looked wearier than she had ever seen him.
It unsettled her that this man—who bore his burdens with quiet resolve, and treated others who faltered with understanding—had weariness and grief of his own. But surely he did. Why had it taken her so long to see his sorrows?
He came and stood before her. For a long moment he looked at her. Then, without a word, he bent and rested his forehead on her shoulder. He said nothing. He neither wept nor sighed, but Éowyn knew that he was pouring out his sadness, his weariness, and it was to do this that he had come.
And she wondered as she realized that she did not mind it, that she wished for him to share his burden with her. She, who had once spoken bitterly of growing tired of waiting on faltering feet.
She could hear his breathing, feel his heartbeats, and catch the faint scent of his hair and body. She realized that she did not wish him to step back.
They remained thus for some time, standing together in silence, his head resting upon her shoulder, a presence more comforting than burdening. Her hands sought his and held them.
At length he straightened and looked at her. “Thank you, Éowyn,” he said softly.
He seemed a little less weary, less sad, and she felt she had accomplished a great deed.
He sighed and began to speak. But suddenly he seemed to check himself and stepped back slightly. He took her hand and kissed it, then let it go.
He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again, his composure had returned, though the weariness remained. It was once again the face of the Lord Steward—the grave, gentle man who had spoken so kindly to her in their first meeting.
He smiled at her and asked, “How fare you today, Éowyn?”
Éowyn wondered what had just happened. She was sure he was about to confide in her—about his grief, about many matters weighing his heart and mind—when he suddenly checked himself.
Did he think such matters too private to share with her? Did he worry she might think less of him if he revealed his troubles?
She wished to hold his hands (she wished to cup his face in her hands, if she was honest to herself) and assure him he could tell her anything.
But she remembered that bitter night in Dunharrow not so long ago, when she had laid her heart unguarded before another, at such great cost to her pride. She would not risk repeating the pain.
She settled for polite words. “It is no shame, lord, to confide one’s troubles to a friend from time to time,” she said. “Do not bear your burden alone.”
A silent disappointment crossed his face, but it was gone almost as soon as it appeared. He nodded and said, “I am leaving for Osgiliath tomorrow to meet with Lord Aragorn.”
“And this weighs on your mind?” she asked.
“Among other things. There is much to consider regarding his claim. I also grieve for my father and brother, and I have not yet grown accustomed to being alone in my house.”
They spoke for some time, but Éowyn sensed that he was not unburdening himself. They talked politely as two acquaintances would.
When the sun began to sink, they walked together towards the Houses. Stopping at the door of Éowyn’s room, Faramir bade her a good evening before taking his leave.
She stood there, watching his retreating figure until he disappeared from her view. As she stood there, she weighed in her mind whether to seek out Ioreth or the Warden.
Deciding that the whole City did not need to know of her concerns for the Lord Steward, Éowyn went to find the Warden of the Houses of Healing.
...
“I am concerned about the Lord Steward,” Éowyn said plainly as she took a seat in the Warden’s office.
“Has something happened, my lady? When last I saw him, his wounds were healed and he had regained his strength.”
“He was just here and he seemed so weary and alone,” said Éowyn. “Does he have any kin? Or does he dwell alone in the Steward’s residence?”
“No kin in the City now, not that I know of,” the Warden said, “but he is surrounded by faithful servants who have served his family for many years.”
“I have never seen him so burdened,” Éowyn said. “Perhaps he is too proud or too considerate to ask for company. Is there anyone who could keep him company, without him having to ask for it?”
The Warden considered her words for a moment, before replying, “I will send word to Lord Húrin. Between him and Mistress Meldis, they will know what to do.”
“Mistress Meldis?”
“She is the housekeeper of the Steward’s residence, though Housekeeper of the Citadel might be a more fitting title. Why, she oversees the maintenance of the Steward’s residence, the White Tower, even the vacant King’s House. She has held this position since the early days of Lord Denethor’s rule, and she is ... Ah, anyway, what I meant is that Mistress Meldis takes excellent care of Lord Faramir.”
“Would you send word to Lord Húrin now, Master Warden?”
“At once, my lady.”
He turned to leave but paused at the door. “Perhaps you could let him know that you care for him, my lady. I believe that would do wonders.”
...
“What were the Master Warden’s exact words again, Bergil?” Húrin asked.
“The Lady of Rohan is concerned for the Lord Steward and wishes someone could keep him company,” Bergil recited.
Húrin thought that the Steward had seemed well this morning. But then, perhaps one who loves more sees more.
If Faramir indeed needed company, whom could he send, and for what reason? Should he invite himself to supper?
Or perhaps send Saelond with some reports to discuss? The young scribe had long admired Faramir, and had been overjoyed to spend much time working together with Faramir this week. But Húrin doubted that admiration would comfort Faramir when he was distraught.
Then he remembered Faramir had mentioned he intended to speak with the Lord Treasurer but had not yet found the time. Húrin knew that old Meneldil had a soft spot for Faramir, not least because Faramir accorded the old dragon the respect that many in these days reserved only for men of arms.
“Could you deliver a message to the Lord Steward for me, Bergil? Go to the kitchen and get yourself a warm drink while I write it.”
“Is the Lord unwell, Lord Húrin?” Concern shadowed Bergil’s young face.
“I do not think so, Bergil, worry not.” Húrin placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
After Bergil had left to deliver the message to Faramir, Húrin made his way to Meneldil’s house. It was also located in the Sixth Circle, separated by several houses from Húrin’s house.
Meneldil agreed to join him and as they walked towards the Steward's residence, they met Bergil returning.
“The Lord Steward himself came out to see me,” the boy beamed with delight. “He said you are most welcome, my lords. And he seemed well.”
“Thank you, Bergil. Go home safely.”
When they reached the Steward’s residence, a servant welcomed them and led them to the dining chamber. A short while later Faramir appeared. He received them warmly, as though he had invited them himself. He did not question why they suddenly came to see him.
He ate well, Húrin observed. But then again, this was the son of Denethor. Even when he had no appetite, Húrin imagined he would force himself to eat, knowing the importance of keeping his strength.
Faramir did not speak much, but neither did he seem distant nor absent-minded. They discussed the food storage, the war expenses, and the connections between the treasuries of Gondor and Arnor in the days of old.
The supper was simple (everyone was still under food rationing), but Faramir opened a bottle of old wine. “After all, we won the war and rejoicing is in order,” he said. “I sent a few bottles of the same vintage to Cormallen.”
As the evening went on pleasantly, Húrin began to wonder if perhaps the Lady Éowyn (or the Master Warden or Bergil or he himself) had worried unduly.
But when he was about to leave, as Meldis handed him his cloak, she said discreetly, “Thank you, Lord Húrin. These past few nights he has sequestered himself in the library and I was beginning to worry.”
That night, Éowyn received a letter from Húrin.
Lady Éowyn,
All is well. I am pleased to inform you that the Lord Steward had his supper with pleasant company this evening. I shall ride with him to Osgiliath tomorrow morning. We will spend the night there and return the following day. When it comes to the Lord Steward’s welfare, my lady, I am ever at your service.
Húrin son of Túor
Faramir walked quietly back to the Steward’s residence. After Lords Húrin and Meneldil had taken their leave earlier that evening, he had ascended the Tower, seeking solitude beneath the vast expanse of stars.
He reached his home and made his way to the library, his chosen refuge in recent sleepless nights.
He entered the library and placed his cloak on the settee. An unusual scent caught his attention. It was lavender, and the scent grew stronger as he approached a corner table. On the table there was a bowl of water with a small burner beneath it, its warmth releasing the fragrance into the air.
He remembered reading that lavender oil could help ease the mind and invite sleep. He thought it mere sayings, but someone in his household clearly thought differently. Or perhaps they simply tried whatever means they could to help their lord find rest. The thought warmed his heart.
He settled onto the settee and closed his eyes. As had often happened, memories and thoughts stirred in his mind, weaving together the sorrows of the past and the worries of the days to come.
The sound of flapping wings and dreadful shrieks, the sight of his men slaughtered, the sorrow of leading them to a hopeless battle.
Nay, not hopeless, he corrected himself defiantly. Almost hopeless, perhaps. And necessary.
The sight of his brother in his funeral boat, followed by the image of his father engulfed in flames.
The line of the Stewards had failed. Was that not why the King had come at that very hour?
Nay, it had not failed, for here he was—the last of the House of Húrin—ready to do his duty. Was that not why he was spared, having come so close to death?
But was it not arrogance to think he could shoulder the weight of ruling Gondor—the very weight that had crushed his father, the noblest lord he had ever known?
Nay, he dared say it was not. For where his father had turned to pride and despair, Faramir would choose humility and trust.
O, was that not arrogance, too? To be so sure that his way was better?
The thoughts swirled and flowed like a restless stream. But that night, he neither pushed them away nor carefully weighed the wisdom of each thought, as he usually did.
Instead, he inhaled and exhaled slowly, and let the thoughts play out like scenes in a story he read or a lay sung by a minstrel.
In time, other thoughts came to his mind.
His wise uncle, pledging his love and trust to Faramir as Steward, despite his heart being drawn towards the King.
Lord Húrin, tending respectfully to Denethor’s ashes.
The beaming faces of the healers when they saw him use his recovered arm with ease.
And the fair lady in the Houses of Healing, who had given him hope amidst the ruin. Faramir had not known that a heart—his heart—could ache from too much tenderness. None of the poets he read had told him this.
The image of his father’s pyre returned—he had not seen it, but his imagination supplied whatever details were required.
He drew a deep breath, and with it the fragrance of lavender and of gentle care.
His thoughts turned to the simpler kindnesses—yet not less precious.
Mistress Meldis had thoughtfully prepared the library for her lord to sleep in, without Faramir ever mentioning it. She had even placed a blanket in the settee.
Mistress Erien had brought Faramir breakfast on his last day in the Houses of Healing, so that he needed not begin his homecoming in an empty dining chamber.
Faramir shifted and opened his eyes.
On the morrow he would meet the Lord Aragorn, the heir of Isildur through the male line, and heir of Anarion through the female line.
What was the best course for Gondor?
We are the Stewards of the House of Anarion, his father had said, not of Isildur’s...
He smiled faintly, letting his thoughts wander.
Folding his arms across his chest, he told himself, Take courage—this too shall pass.
Gondor was safe, and he was alive. What should he fear?
For some time the tempest in his mind continued, but he made no effort to quiet it. He had come to terms with his thoughts, like one who lives by the sea accepts that every now and then the waves will crash upon the shore.
Then, he knew not how, a welcome heaviness began to settle over him and he yawned. Perhaps there was some truth to the benefits of lavender oil, after all...
...