More than a month has gone by since the end of the Mordorian campaign, and still Eowyn had no message from Aragorn. Well, who knows what the circumstances are… If she had reached any conclusions already, she kept them to herself and her behavior had not changed a bit. The only difference was that she no longer asked Beregond daily for news from Minas Tirith. It also seemed to Faramir that her remarkable gray-green eyes have acquired a new, colder, bluish tint, but that would have been really supernatural. The girl treated the prince with genuine warmth and sympathy, but she had channeled their closeness into nothing but friendship from the very beginning, and he had to accept that.
They were sitting at the dinner table in the Knights Hall of the fort, unwelcoming because of its large size, when a Gondorian lieutenant in a dusty cloak showed up, accompanied by several soldiers. Faramir immediately offered the messenger wine and venison, but the man shook his head. His business is so urgent that he will only change horses and ride back. He has the King’s orders to pick up Eowyn from Emyn Arnen (the girl leaned forward and her shining face seemed to dispel the gloom of the hall) and escort her to Edoras, to the court of King Eomer.
He followed up with some Minas Tirith news of which Faramir had only consciously registered an unfamiliar name: Arwen. Arwen – sounds like the tolling of a gong, he thought fleetingly; I wonder what fight this gong announces… The prince looked up at Eowyn and his heart fell: her face was a bloodless mask of pain, her eyes seeming to take up half of it – a child who had just been cruelly and mercilessly tricked and is now about to be publicly mocked to boot.
But this show of weakness lasted for only a moment. Then the blood of six generations of steppe knights asserted itself: the sister of the King of the Mark of Rohan may not behave like a miller’s daughter seduced by the landlord. Smiling charmingly (although the smile held about as much warmth as moonlight upon a snowy White Mountains pass), Eowyn told the lieutenant that his orders were very strange, as she was not the subject of the man who called himself the King of Gondor and Arnor. In any event, they are presently outside the Reunited Kingdom, so if the Prince of Ithilien (a nod towards Faramir) does not object, she would like to avail herself of his hospitality for some more time.
The Prince of Ithilien had no objections, of course, and the only thing that really upset him about the situation was this: he was unarmed, so if Aragorn’s men were under orders to remove the girl forcibly if necessary, he would have to fight with only the dagger he has just used to cut venison. A truly fitting end for the last heir of the ill-fated Anarion dynasty! At least this tragic farce will be concluded in its prevalent style… The prince glanced at Beregond, who stood on the right side of the table, and was startled by an astonishing change that had come over the captain: his gaze was firm as in the old days, and his hand rested familiarly on the hilt of his sword. Neither of them needed any words to understand that the old warrior had made his choice and was ready to die by Faramir’s side.
Whereas the Gondorian officer was obviously perplexed: apparently his orders did not include any violence against royal persons. Eowyn smiled again – with real charm this time – and firmly took the upper hand:
“I’m afraid that you’ll have to stay after all, Lieutenant. Do try the venison, it’s especially good today. Your soldiers must need rest, too.” She addressed the butler: “Gunt! See the King’s men to the kitchen and make sure they’re well fed after their journey. Oh, and arrange for their baths!”
Eowyn had the fortitude to stay until the end of the meal and even keep up the conversation: “Please pass the salt… Thank you… So what’s the news from Mordor, Lieutenant? We’re quite cut off, here in the boonies…” It was clear, though, that she was holding on with the last of her strength. Looking at her, Faramir remembered some over-tempered glass he once saw: it looked just like a regular piece of glass, but shattered into tiny pieces with a tiny flick.
Of course he did not sleep that night; sitting by the lamp, he kept futilely wracking his brains, trying to think of ways to help. The prince was an expert in philosophy and pretty well versed in military and intelligence crafts, but to be honest, he knew little about the intricacies of the female soul. So when his door opened without a knock and there was transparently pale Eowyn, in a nightshirt and barefoot, he was completely bewildered. She was already inside, though, stepping like a somnambulant; then the nightshirt fell down at her feet, and she ordered, head held high but eyelashes down: “Take me, Prince! Now!”
He picked up her light body – goodness, she’s shivering like crazy, must be nervous shakes! – carried her to his bed and covered her with two warm cloaks. What else do I have here? He looked around – aha, Elvish wine, just what she needs.
“Here, drink this, it’ll warm you up.”
“Wouldn’t you rather warm me up in another fashion?” She spoke with her eyes closed; her body, taut as a bowstring, was still shivering.
“Certainly not now. You’d hate me for the rest of your life, and with good reason.”
Then she knew for sure that, finally, it was all right to cry… So she cried, with abandon, like a child, while he was hugging that shivering, sobbing, infinitely dear girl to his chest and whispering something into her ear – he never could remember what he said, nor did it matter; his lips were salty with her tears. And when she was done pouring out her pain and disgust, she crawled back under the cloaks, took his hand and asked quietly: “Please tell me something… nice.” So he recited the best poems he knew, and every time he stopped she would squeeze his hand, as if afraid of being lost in the night, and ask with an inimitable child’s intonation: “More! Please, a little more!..”
She fell asleep in the early morning, still holding his hand, so he waited by the side of the bed until her sleep grew deeper; only then did he kiss her temple gently and removed himself to the armchair. He woke up a couple of hours later from some small noise and immediately heard an angry “Please turn away!” and then a plaintive “Listen, give me something to put on – I can’t walk around like this!” a few seconds later. Then, standing in the door (with his hunting jacket on), she suddenly spoke quietly and very earnestly: “You know, those poems… It’s something amazing, I’ve never experienced anything like it. I’ll come this evening, and you’ll read me some more of that, all right?” To make a long story short, by the time Faramir sent a message to Edoras inquiring whether Eomer had any objections to his sister’s decision to become Princess of Ithilien, evening readings were an indispensable part of their family life.
“…Are you listening?”
Eowyn had long since washed up and dressed, and was now gazing at the prince, upset.
“I’m sorry, baby; I’ve been thinking.”
“About something sad?”
“More like something dangerous. What if His Majesty the King of Gondor and Arnor sends us a wedding gift? Your joke about arsenic and strychnine might just be prophetic.”
By saying this he had broken an unspoken commandment never to mention Aragorn inside these walls. Only once, at the very beginning of their romance, did Eowyn say (abruptly and with no connection to the preceding conversation): “If you want to know what he’s like as a lover,” she was looking out the window and did not see his gesture of protest, “I can utterly honestly say: nothing much. You see, he’s accustomed only to taking, all the time and in every thing; a real macho, you know…” Her lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Of course, most women want nothing else, but I’m not one of them…”
She looked at Faramir questioningly for a while, then nodded and said thoughtfully, as if
