Chapter Text
They arrived at the City in the early evening, having pushed the horses hard to cross the final miles of the Pelennor before dusk. Despite her weariness at the extra distance they had travelled that day, Éowyn looked around with interest as they crossed the townlands. Much progress had been made to mend the devastation of battle in the year since she had last ridden this road, though it seemed there was still a great deal to be done.
The drivers of a plough team, plodding wearily home after a day of toil, called out a happy greeting to their returning Steward as they passed. Women rested their backs from tending rows of seedlings, leaned on their hoes, and waved at the procession. Dogs barked and children squealed in play in the yards of farmhouses, where new thatch glowed gold in the setting sun. In other places, fresh timbers gleamed palely alongside the old, and ladders reached to half-mended roofs.
Éowyn was reminded of the rich vales of the Westfold. As the shadow of the White City and the mountain mass behind it crept across the land, she hoped her duties would take her often out of the paved circles, where so little grew. It would be far pleasanter to travel the packed-earth lanes that, from time to time, branched off from the main road to run between hedges showing pink-tipped shoots and half-furled pale green leaves.
She turned from the fields and saw a look of quiet satisfaction settle on her husband's face as he also twisted his head from side to side, checking on how the work had progressed in the weeks he had been away. He had spoken often of their new home, but this one expression was more eloquent than all his words in conveying his love of his land. Her eyes felt hot with unshed tears as she considered once more how kindly fate had dealt with her when she had been so undeserving.
She edged Windfola closer to Neriend, the horse she had presented to Faramir soon after their wedding. She had made the gift after he had spoken to her of the new home he was building for them: white walls nestled in a long, gently sloping green valley that opened to the south and west among the hills of Emyn Arnen; a stream that chattered over upland rocks before being dammed into fishponds and garden ponds, after which its slid smoothly past pastures for their horses and cool groves of fruit trees. Then his face had clouded.
"I fear I must spend many days in the Citadel on business," he told her, as they lay curved together in a warm tangle of limbs and covers, savouring what they had shared. They had already fallen into the habit of talking of past and future between lovemaking and sleeping. He added, frowning, "'Tis not far if one has a fast horse and I shall return when I can. And you will visit with me often I am sure. But there will be many nights we must spend apart."
"Then I shall see that you have the swiftest and surest horse in all Gondor!" she had laughed, smoothing the frown away with her hand and kissing him to show him what he would be missing if he did not return.
The next day she had taken him down to the paddock and gifted him with the speediest of her stock. Now, a month later, she said to him, "I am sure everything progresses well in Ithilien also." Her voice was soft, meant for his ears alone and not those of their companions.
He turned a surprised face to her. "Did the elves give you gifts other than my scabbard, that you can read minds?" he exclaimed.
She laughed, glad to have caught him off guard for once. He read her too shrewdly for her often to have the chance to conceal her thoughts. "No. The only gift I have is that I love my husband. I know what he loves, and I hope I will come to love it too."
"You will." He smiled at her, reaching out to squeeze her fingers for a moment where they lay on Windfola's reins. As always, his touch seemed to her like the first warm sun of spring after the dark days of winter.
It was not long before the procession reached the Gate. There, Éowyn saw, wild flowers had sprung up between the new blades of grass, smoothing over the churned and trampled bare earth of the year before. They passed into the first circle and went on to climb the winding streets of the city. Scaffolding made the roads narrow; warm light, the smells of cooking and cheerful voices spilled out from windows, speaking of homeliness and comfort to her. At each level, the lords and ladies who had accompanied them turned away in small parties to their townhouses or to hired lodgings. At last only Queen Arwen and her retinue kept their party company as they came to the gates of the Citadel.
A tall, dark-haired man stepped out of the shadows. Éowyn, glancing at him briefly and taking in his fine but plain clothing before she swung round to signal to the maid who had accompanied her from Edoras, supposed he must be some courtier whose role it was to oversee their arrival. Then she turned back sharply as the Queen flung herself off her horse to be welcomed home by her husband.
Éowyn dismounted more slowly. How could I not recognise him? she chided herself. So many of these men of Gondor are much like one another, 'tis true–. It had taken her careful observation over several days before she could be sure of separating her husband's three cousins from each other and addressing them correctly. And I have not seen him in many months, nor did I expect him to be here. Yet did I not once think I would carry the memory of his face in my heart unto my death? It seems that, though he is become my king, he is now but one fine lord amongst many to me.
Unbuckling her saddlebags, and wondering at this change, she covertly watched the king's eager greeting of his wife. There had been a time when it would have pained her to see him bestow such affection on another; she had been glad there had been excuses enough to hold her in Rohan when Arwen's bridal escort had passed through Edoras. Now she found she did not envy the Queen those kisses, nor even that she had a husband who would display his feelings so openly.
Only once had Faramir kissed her with such passion in public: high on the walls and visible to all. Her memory of it was sweet yet muted by her surprise, lying over her recollections like fine gauze, at the abrupt change in his manner. Since then, he had been shy in company: apart from his natural reticence, she suspected he did not enjoy rousing passions in them that they could not then satisfy. And while others might measure his reserve against the king's, she had no need for Faramir to display the same passion in public that she had ample proof of in private. When all of Gondor has claims upon him, she thought with a smile, do I not rejoice that there is a part of my husband he keeps for me alone?
As she handed her saddlebags to the maid, she could hear Faramir behind her dismissing the guard to their barracks and organising the servants. She leaned into Windfola's strong neck for a moment, sorry that their journey was over and he must be sent to unfamiliar lodgings in this stony city. She reached up to scratch him gently under his mane. He butted his head gently against her while she reluctantly handed his reins to the groom who stood waiting to take him to the stables. She turned to watch them depart. Her heart ached a little that she would not be spending the next half an hour in the soothing rhythm of grooming and feeding, as she would have done arriving home at Edoras.
My home no longer. Faramir's gentle touch on her elbow roused her. As he led her over to greet the king, she pondered on the change as bride from one allegiance to another. May I still count myself of the Eorlingas or is that forever lost to me? And should I rue that loss when I have gained so much? While Aragorn welcomed them, she glanced between king and husband and wondered that she could have ever believed she felt for Lord Aragorn, admirable though he was, a tithe of what she felt for her husband now.
Soon the greetings were complete. They climbed the long lamp-lit slope to the Citadel. She and the queen went ahead, while her husband and the king followed behind: already holding conference about matters of state, it seemed. Éowyn was used to the business of government never being done, but she hoped they would not talk for too long tonight. She was aching from the long hours in the saddle and ready for food and bed. It seemed Aragorn was also conscious of the late hour, or eager to be alone in his wife's company again: as Arwen bade her goodnight and moved towards the King's House, Faramir came to lead her across the courtyard towards the Steward's home.
A single lantern hung above the door, swayed slightly in the breeze that was a constant presence so high up in the White City. Shadows gathered and flickered in the corners of the high, pillared portico. When the attentive porter swung open the carved panels and brighter light fell across white stone, Éowyn saw how the steps were worn by the passage of countless feet over many years.
She had viewed the house often from the outside the previous spring, yet she had never entered it. Faramir, laughing, had said it was not fitting until he had spoken to her brother and to his King. After he had done so, no more than a week had remained before she had left to help in setting Rohan to rights: a week filled with feasting and long hours of audiences at which Faramir's presence was required. When he was released from duty, he would come to her in the Houses of Healing and they would walk, or sit and talk, as the light faded.
Stepping forward, she looked upwards and glimpsed the soaring spaces of the hall, its domed skylight far above. Her husband's hand on her back gently guided her ahead of him as she faltered for a moment on the threshold. Lowering her gaze, she saw a rank of servants, liveried in black. They stood stiffly, quietly, their expressions polite or their eyes turned downwards: old men and women, or boys and girls scarce come into service. She thought of the cheerful, open-faced Eorlingas who served in Meduseld: a new mistress would be cause for shared glances and frank appraisal, even a familiar comment or two, perhaps.
While Faramir introduced her to the principals – his seneschal, the cook, the keeper of the wardrobe – she struggled against her weariness and tried to muster her warmest smile and find welcoming words for each of them. It seemed to her that Lothwen, the keeper of the wardrobe, could barely conceal a sneer as she ran her eyes over Éowyn's travelling garb. Thorondir, the seneschal, merely gave her a chilly stare. Only the cook, Eradan, seemed pleased. She supposed that he must welcome the chance to show his skills more widely now that there was a mistress again who would need to entertain.
As Thorondir made a shallow bow and presented her with the keys to the household, she tried to convince herself she might be mistaken in the resentment she felt radiating from him. While someone took her cloak, and another brought her a cup of warmed, spiced wine that she drank gratefully, she swept her gaze along the lines of the other servants. She wondered if their reserve masked equal dislike. I did not expect this! she admitted to herself. Those who worked for the healers had been unfailingly kind to their charges; and to the pages she had encountered in the Citadel last year, she had been an honoured guest, sister of the King of Rohan.
Difficult servants were not unknown to her: permanently drunken carters; serving maids who brought the men to blows with their flirting, or who found themselves in worse trouble; a smith who had been heavy-handed with his apprentices. Yet all in Edoras had seemed willing to serve their king and his court; she did not remember any who had questioned that she had been placed in authority over them.
Perhaps she simply read too much into their demeanour and it was no more than the Gondorian way, the same difference she saw between her husband and her brother. She straightened her back a little and took a deep breath as she felt the cold weight of the keys in her hand. These are my staff, she thought, as she and Faramir followed a footman into a small dining chamber panelled with dark wood and full of heavy furniture. It is now my place to shape their manners to those they serve. Should I blame them for being fearful of change, or for wondering if a wild shieldmaiden of the North will prove a poor mistress and bring shame upon their household? I must show them I am willing learn their customs and do what is fitting in my new home.
Yet, as the footman pulled out one of the chairs whose elaborate carvings would prove to dig into her painfully when she tried to lean back, she made one decision that brought a brief smile to her lips. Lothwen, at least, would have to accept that her mistress would not waste time being prinked out in full court fashion every day.
The meal itself brought further and not entirely welcome revelations. It seemed that, even when the hour was late and master and mistress were tired, there were to be many courses, and fare that required more effort to eat than the sustenance it provided. Eradan wishes to show me skills and welcome us home in his finest fashion, she reminded herself, remembering the warmth of the cook's greeting as she battled to part the flesh from the bones of some small game bird. Faramir appeared equally at a loss with the food: when she had time to spare from her own troubles, she caught a brief frown crossing his face as he wielded his knife.
They spoke little as they ate, exchanging only commonplaces about the food. As, with relief, she dipped her spoon into a dish of almond-flavoured custard, she at last had a chance to spare some thought for their gloomy mood. Do we have nothing to say to each other when not in company? she wondered. Looking across the table at Faramir, she observed how his face was blank, his thoughts apparently turned inwards. Her heart misgave her for a moment. They were no longer travelling in festival mood, but in their own home at last. Should we not be excited, happy, laughing? Will this be the way of our married life? Nay, surely it will not be so. We have not been so silent ere this when alone. He is as weary as I am, I think; surely 'tis nothing more.
When fresh fruit and cheeses were brought, she roused herself and reached for one of last year's wrinkled apples. "Will you show me the house tomorrow?" she asked, smoothing the dried leaf that still hung from the stalk. She watched Faramir pick up the small paring knife that lay by his plate, stare at it for a moment, and then put it down again with a slight clatter before he bit into the fruit he had taken. "Or must you work?"
Faramir glanced up. After a moment he gave her a small smile, but it seemed as forced as her own enthusiasm. "I will show you the house. The King was most insistent I should spend no more than an hour on the morrow on official business." He gave a small shrug. "You must decide how you wish it furnished and which staff to keep. I confess I have done little this past year, save lend some servants to the King's House."
"You have had a city and a country to set in order also." The leaf crumbled into small flakes under her fingers and she put the apple down, uneaten. She looked around at the forbidding furniture and cast her mind back to the unpromising staff. Maybe both would improve on better acquaintance. She wondered also that, despite the distractions of state, he seemed so indifferent to his surroundings. Do you truly care not if I were to empty the house and furnish it anew? Are there none here whom you feel have served you well and would be loath to see sent elsewhere? What kind of home is this? What kind of homecoming, my love?
Before she could pursue the idea further, Faramir's voice broke into her thoughts, answering her remark about city and country. "And I will show you those also." She looked back at him and saw that his face had lightened. His smile now seemed less strained. "Although not all of it tomorrow." He put down the rest of his apple and held out a hand to her. "Come. 'Tis late. Let us go up to bed."
The porter stared out from his cubbyhole as they crossed the hall. The many lamps reflected off the polished ironwork of the curving banister. A page, a lad of perhaps fifteen, stood stiffly at the top of the stairs, ready to run whatever errands his lord desired. Éowyn saw that he snatched several quick, embarrassed glances at them as they climbed the steps towards him. She was glad to discover that he still had some natural curiosity not crushed beneath the layers of formality, although this constant observation only made her long for the moment when she and her husband would be alone again. Faramir's hand was a warm promise against hers.
When they reached the head of the stairs, he led to her to a corridor to the right that gave access to the western side of the house. They had not gone more than a few steps when they were halted by a cry from the page.
"Lord Faramir." The boy's voice was filled with distress as he called out to them.
Faramir turned back towards him. "What is it, Hallas?" he asked. His voice betrayed none of the weariness Éowyn thought she detected in him. Thus he must have spoken to the youngest of the Rangers, she thought. Always kind, even to the most bothersome of his charges.
"Lord." The boy was standing on one leg, squirming awkwardly. "Lord," he stammered again, "there are no…." He caught Éowyn's eye and faltered. She turned away from him, hoping to ease his discomfort, looking instead towards her husband.
"It's all right, Hallas." Faramir spoke gently. "Take your time."
"They have made no rooms ready in the west wing, Lord. The state apartment…." The boy's voice trailed off again for a moment, before he continued more strongly, "We had no instruction and Master Thorondir said it was most fitting."
Éowyn saw no shadow cross Faramir's face – for, she reflected later, he must be accustomed to long years of receiving ill news with discipline – but she almost cried out herself as she felt his fingers tighten fiercely around her own. Her start drew his attention, and he relaxed his hold as he looked down at her, apology in his eyes. She shook her head to say it was of no importance: the sudden tears she held back were for his suffering – why do the boy's words cause him such distress? – and not her own temporary pain. He squeezed her hand again, more gently, and turned back to Hallas.
"Yes, of course," he answered. His voice remained quiet, betraying nothing of the tension that she could now feel resonating through him like a released bowstring. "Thank you, Hallas." He led her on again, this time to the left, where she saw a door stood open to greet them.
They still went hand in hand, but the bond with him that she had felt as they climbed the stairs had been broken. He had shifted his grip, and it seemed to her that he now held her fingers lightly and carefully, so as to be sure he would not again make the mistake of betraying his feelings to her. She thought to hold him back, to turn his face to hers and question the grief she knew she would read in his eyes; before she could do so, they were through the door, and he was stepping away from her.
A great bed, hung with black curtains embroidered with the tree of Gondor, dominated the room. Black drapes stirred in front of tall windows that, she supposed, must give a view towards the river during the day. She saw little else before maids came forward and hurried her into a side room, to be relieved of her travelling clothes, sponged of the dust of the day and dressed in her nightgown.
Seeking the comfort of familiar things, Éowyn dismissed the two Gondorian maids, leaving only Brynna to attend her, as she had done on the journey from Edoras. While Brynna's competent hands undressed her, Éowyn looked around the small room. There was much to see besides the few possessions of her own – carried with them on their horses – that were spread around. Faramir had spoken truth when he had said they could safely leave their baggage train to make its slow way into the city a day or two later.
A large clothes press dominated one wall, its simple panelling contrasted with the two elaborately carved chests that flanked it. Shelves held smaller wooden chests and hampers made of withies, which she guessed must contain gloves, or shoes, or undergarments. Cloaks hung from hooks: the sight of a corner of blue stitched with silver stars warmed her with memories of a cold but joyous day. To one side of the room, Brynna was pouring water from a pitcher into a basin that was set into a cunningly wrought iron washstand.
Turning her head the other way as Brynna began to wipe away the grime of travelling, she cast her gaze over a table burdened with neat rows of glass vials, orderly ranks of small china pots, brushes for clothes as well as hair. How could any one woman have need of so many things? she asked herself. In the centre of the table, her small travelling jewellery box had been set on top of a much larger one. The device inlaid into its lid in mother-of-pearl was half hidden, but she recognised it at once. It had been everywhere around her over the past few weeks as she travelled back to Gondor with her new family: the graceful curves of the wings of the swan of Dol Amroth.
She clenched her fists for a moment and swallowed hard as she grasped at last the reason for Faramir's unhappiness. "Brynna?" she asked quietly, using their own speech. "Did my husband's mother use this room once?" She suspected that, with her direct manners, Brynna would have not been shy in asking questions of the Gondorian maids, and would already know much about the ways of the place.
"Aye." The maid paused for a moment in her careful work with the damp cloth and gestured around the room. "They told me many of these things were hers."
"Yes, of course it would be so," Éowyn suppressed a shiver as she wondered if they had been brought out of storage for her use, or if they had remained in place for thirty years, untouched save for the careful tending of the servants.
Brynna smiled at her mistress. "But they have been busy in the still room for you. Lord Faramir must have told them of your tastes, for there is the heather honey lotion for your hands you told me you liked so much. It seems strange to me that a husband should notice such things, but I suppose nothing escapes the keen eyesight of a skilled Ranger–."
While Brynna dried her briskly with a warmed towel and talked on unheeded, Éowyn wondered what memories Faramir had of his mother, here in this room? What memories of his father, so much more recently departed? And would he wish her to preserve or sweep away those memories?
At length Brynna finished her ministrations, helping Éowyn into her nightclothes and brushing out her hair. When she emerged from the dressing room, Faramir was already stretched out in the gloom inside the black hangings. He lay on his back, his hands behind his head, staring up into the darkness under the canopy. He did not stir or turn to her in welcome as she approached. Climbing in beside him, she paused a moment, trying to read his face. His mouth was set in a hard line and his eyes were fixed and unseeing. She feared to make his grief greater, but she could not leave him to suffer alone. She slid herself under the covers beside him and pressed herself against him, willing him comfort; he finally seemed aware of her presence, and put out an arm to draw her closer.
She leant her head against his shoulder and rested her hand lightly over his heart: the heart that she had thought was hers and whole and healed, but it seemed not. She traced a pattern with her fingertips, trying to soothe his knotted muscles. His arm tightened around her, but when he made no other response, she tipped her head back to look at him.
"Faramir?" she began tentatively.
He turned his face down towards her and she saw his expression soften a little. "'Tis late, love. Let us sleep." He stroked the hair back off her cheek and dropped a gentle kiss on her forehead, then put his other arm around her and pulled her close, forestalling further questions.
They lay pressed together, tense and silent, for long minutes, while she wondered what she should do. A month and more had passed since their wedding night, but still she was struggling to make sense of the rules of this private place, what he wished from her and what would not be welcome.
While she had been ready enough return his embraces when they had retired at night on the journey back to the White City, never had she been the one to take the lead. Sometimes, tired with the exertions of the day’s travel, they had simply settled against another, at peace in each other’s arms. On other nights, he had reached for her with his hunger evident. The ease she had felt with him when he did not make love to her had, in its own way, brought her as much delight as the passion they shared on those nights when they had conducted their slow explorations of mutual pleasure. Yet there were times she had wished for more, but been too shy to demand what he did not offer, uncertain as to what he might expect.
Now he set her a new puzzle: she sensed a need in him for something, but perhaps no more than to hold her close. He might not welcome her troubling him with either questions or the necessity of declining a well-intentioned gesture. Even as she debated what course she should take, weariness overcame her, and she slipped into dream-filled sleep. When Faramir slept, she did not know; waking the next morning, she found herself alone in the great bed.