The company was to stay for some few days, after the banquet; primarily so that the Lady Arwen could grow accustomed to her surroundings, and partly for reasons of conviviality. In this time, Eowyn walked as though in a dream, replaying in her head the conversation she had had with Aragorn. And into her mind came a wild fancy. She would beg her husband, would throw herself on bended knee before the king, to be allowed to accompany them. She would bow the head which had never known mastery, before a greater need, a more pressing desire. And if that failed, and their masculine implacability did not cease before her importuning, then she would return to the home which had borne her, would leave this place of fear, this prison. This cage.
She examined her resolve, and did not find it wanting. Gazing at her plain work-dress, she moved to her own dressing room, and there she rifled through the clothes she possessed. Most were new- commissioned by Faramir to be made to her measurements, but she ignored these, and passed to the scanty amount of clothing she had brought with her as a bride. There lay the masculine clothes she had worn as Dernhelm, the plain work dresses, and shifts that were the lot of a princess whose interests lay outside the palace. Not for the Eowyn of old, the clinging dresses, the restrictive skirts of silken cloths, rather her riding clothes and her rough tunics fashioned from heavy wool. She hesitated when dressing herself over whether to wear men's clothes to illustrate her resolve and her purpose, or women's to demonstrate that she was not ashamed of her . She finally chose female clothing, since it would do nothing to help her cause, if they merely viewed her as dressing up like a child who could do nothing to change its own fate. She was careful though to pick the most masculine clothing- the split skirt suitable for riding astride, the heavy woollen cloak to drape shoulders, and make their delicate width appear wider. She pinched her pale cheeks to rosy them- if she looked sickly it would be bad, and likewise she braided her golden hair back from her face in a severe warriors braid. Belting on her sword and knife, she pulled on heavy boots lined with fur. She noticed that the calluses on her hands had started to fade, since she had not done so much work with them, and on impulse pulled on riding gloves.
Thus equipped, she sallied forth to find her husband and the king. They were as she had expected within the counsel chamber, heads bent over maps. She had not expected Legolas or Arwen to be there either, and at the sight of them blind fury seemed to fill her veins, and give her, her own deadly implacability. They had the nerve to exclude her from matters of war? Had her days in the kitchen and the accounts room caused Faramir to believe that she knew her place as a woman now, and would be submissive to his command? The hot that filled her veins, even as it filled her brothers and uncles rose at this insult. She was not aware of what a picture she made as she strode in. Even in maid's clothing, she looked a warrior- every stride was a warrior's arrogant strut, and her head was tilted in a manner that should have warned Faramir, even before he opened his mouth. She did not notice Arwen's assessing gaze, nor the spark of admiration that lit in the other woman's eyes. She did not even notice Aragorn's puzzled demeanour. All she focused upon was Faramir's face. Unfortunately, her husband pre-occupied with matters of state, did not see the warning signs, and smiling distractedly, he enquired as to the matter. When she did not reply, he looked at her enquiringly.
"My dear what ails thee? Is something amiss in the keep?"
These words however innocuous made visible Eowyn's wrath. "My lord," she enquired demurely, even sweetly,- and yet still Faramir failed to perceive her rage. "My lord," she repeated, "am I a scullion?"
Faramir straightened, at last perhaps seeing something was wrong. "Of course not."
"Am I a seneschal, or bailiff? Indeed am I a housekeeper?"
"Eowyn, no," he replied.
She looked at Aragorn and Arwen briefly. "I crave a moment alone with my lord if you please." The words were a dismissal that was almost rude, and the 'my lord' was venomous rather than respectful. Yet neither Arwen nor Aragorn made a move to leave, though their manners were usually so exquisitively perfect. Eowyn took no further notice of them, but continued on what she had begun. "Then how my lord, if the answer is no, am I expected to know the intricate details of house-keeping? Indeed why expected to report to you, those details, or remedy them if matters fail? But I do not argue about my role within your household. That I accept as my duty, as your wife. What I do quibble upon though, is that you see fit, to hold what is obviously a council of war, without my presence. I also question your effrontery in assuming that I may not accompany you on this doing."
Faramir's face was tired. "Eowyn this is not a matter for women."
Eowyn's voice quivered with strain. "And where my lord is a woman's place? In the kitchen, or perhaps on her knees scrubbing, or tending to the children. I am not that woman, nor shall I ever be. s I have not, and my world has not yet shrunk to these walls. You assume, that you are the only one with any vision. You dare to presume, that I will obey you in all matters great and small, with no heed to my own judgement." She looked at the three spectators, face tight and drawn. "Again my lords, my lady, I would urge you to leave." When they made no sign of compliance, she walked to the door, and gestured to Faramir. "I would fain continue this discussion elsewhere." When he did not move, she raised her elegant eyebrows. "Do not think, that the presence of others will restrain my words," she said coldly.
"Eowyn you do not understand. I need you to remain here, not only for your own sake, but for the castle's safety and that of Queen Arwens as well."
"You mean my spirit is not broken yet, dear husband? I am not yet inured to the tragedy of common life. I daresay her majesty could defend herself if necessary. And if you care so much about the castle, then why do you not remain here yourself? Are my arms not strong enough or is my mind too weak mayhaps to bear the burdens yours can?" Her sarcasm was palpable, even to Faramir's ear.
"Eowyn," he said wearily. "I did not wish to trouble you in mind or spirit, by talk of war, when you so recently chose not to pursue that life. I believed it would distress you, to hear others talk of what I believed, no longer interested you. "
Eowyn paused her tirade, for a moment to think. How could she say to this good man, that when she had told him she would no longer be a shield maiden, that she had not spoken in peace but in bitterness. That she had said those words in sickness not in health, in despair not in joy. For truly his love stifled her. She knew now with a sudden clarity of vision that she should not have married, and yet she had not known what else to do. Eomer was King of Rohan now, and though he loved her dearly, an unmarried sister would be little but a fruitless burden to him, though she did in truth possess lands of her own. It had seemed so simple at the time. To put away hopeless dreams of glory, to encase them within the hard shell of marriage, children and cares, and yet at heart she felt too young to do such a thing. The security and safety that Faramir offered her, were not what her heart craved. She did not desire a love born out of hearth, home and familiarity, she wanted one that was conceived in the blaze of two minds and hearts meeting, a fire kindled by one look. She wanted a love from legend to strike her. It did not even have to be love at first sight, it just had to be something at first sight. Connection, even loathing or dislike. As long as she felt deeply about it. When she had first met Faramir she had not even noticed him, and when they had spoken, she had thought no more about it. He had been a handsome and kindly figure indeed, but there was nothing there that she could fight against, merely a solid wall of empathy and quiet adoration, that stifled her until she felt she could not even breathe.
"Faramir," she said more quietly. "I have deceived you. I cannot express the sorrow I feel, in not being the wife you deserve and want, but I cannot deny my own impulses. I am too young to begin bearing children, to begin a life of placid domestication, where even if I ride, it will be upon a fat dappled palfrey, where my sole interest is in whether the gooseberries are ripe yet, and if it is time to bottle the redcurrants. I come from a race, where the women are as fearless and hardy as the men, and only a few generations ago, rode into battle along side of them. What is more, I am a scion of its royal race, and even though it is neither as noble nor as ancient as your line, it is deserving of respect in its customs and ways." She paused and said sadly. "But you are a man you can not understand me."
A skirt rustled. "But I, Lady Eowyn am not a man, and I am in some small part able to share your understanding if not your reasons. I am not, and never have been a creature of war. I have not marched into battle with a banner, nor sounded the triumphant battle hymn, what little fighting experience I have, has been gained in skirmishes. But even so I know what it means when your heart beats to a different rhythm than those around you would have it beat. And so I ask you as one woman to another to remain here with me. Not in cowardice, nor love of home, but in simple understanding."
Eowyn's voice weakened. "My lady, I would fain do as you ask, would wish to please you in all but this. I cannot sit at home, and sew at a sampler, when I know there are deeds to be done, and names to be made, no more than a gently bred doll."
"Then I shall ride with you by your side, a sister in war."
Aragorn's response was immediate. "No Arwen,"
His wife turned on him almost angrily, her long dormant fighting spirit roused and ready to do battle, but before she could speak, Eowyn's voice cut in. "Peace, I bid you. I shall stay." Her shoulders stooped, and all the light and fire that had been in her voice and gaze was ed. She had seen the genuine agony on Aragorn's face when his wife had announced her intention to ride with him, and remembered that she had promised him to look after Arwen. They did not know that they were crushing her spirit between merciless hands, that she could see light and freedom diminishing into the distance even as they spoke. She sank down, suddenly wearied onto a chair. "I shall stay," she said lower, and burying her face in her hands she wept.
They had the decency to leave then, to leave her to the small comfort of salt tears, and despair.
The next morning, before she had properly awoke, they were gone. Faramir had kissed her cheek as she lay curled on her side in the bed, exhausted from the emotion of the previous day, and moments later they had ridden off, leaving her behind. She stretched, and stood somewhat later. She had told Alyssa that she would choose her own clothing today, and in bitterness she strode towards the small room that housed her clothes. Something to match her mood. Grey. Almost her favourite colour, the colour of tears and rainy skies. The colour of both her and Aragorn's eyes. Sea-grey, storm-tossed cormorants circling to find land. It fitted sleekly like a glove. Breakfast was served late, for Arwen had not risen early either, and they ate in silence, avoiding each other's eyes. Out of politeness, she asked Arwen her daily amusements, though her interest in the answer was non-existent. The first reply merely confirmed it. "Now I sew and I read. Before it was different. When I lived with my father, I rose early and ordered the household, then I would go riding. I had an interest in medicine, and on long rides abroad would often find useful herbs. Somedays perhaps I would train with the warriors, others I would spend with my father talking and learning." Despite herself, Eowyn found herself growing interested. It sounded so different from her own childhood. Her mother had died early on, and as a child both Eomer and herself had run riot. They could go for days without being washed or combed, and Eowyn as the younger, had stuck like a burr to her brother, copying him in everything. When he had begun to train with the older boys, it had struck her as entirely right and fitting that she should also, and apart from some friendly teasing no one laughed at her, pitying the motherless child.
Entirely on an impulse, she asked Arwen if she could teach her a little elvish, and silently cursed the words the instant she had said them. Eowyn had been no hand at schooling when young, and had often played truant from her tutor, with the result that the quick mind, which could remember the name of every man in her uncle's army, knew every piece of equipment in the treasury, and when given any mathematics problem dealing with army supplies could solve it in an instance, was woefully unschooled in the more prosaic of instances. But Arwen's face had lit up, out of all proportion until she appeared breathtakingly beautiful and alive. Eowyn had never noticed before, that in repose Arwen's face was sad. Arwen had assented immediately and even proposed that they start right away. Eowyn excused herself, with pleas of house work. Arwen insisted on accompanying her on her rounds, making Eowyn feel awkward and careless merely by her very presence. Beside Arwen she felt diminished, she even could feel herself shrinking in comparison. If Arwen noticed her companion's unease, she made no sign, but just before lunch, she excused herself to go to her room. If when she came back her eyes were slightly reddened, Eowyn also made no comment on it.
Meals were conducted in silence mostly, Eowyn wishing she could bring her accounting books, and lists to the table, but not wanting to appear an ill-bred boor, before the always self possessed Queen, she was forced to make polite conversation. It was after their simple dinner of partridge, that Arwen inquired as to where she could find writing implements and paper. Eowyn gave her a stack of the heavy stuff she used for list making, and some pens. Arwen immediately cleared the table herself, sweeping it aside, and seating herself next to Eowyn. Her perfume was unobtrusive, almost non-existent, a delicate flower scent that seemed to emanate from her very being. Eowyn's only perfume, was the rough soap she used for washing. She spread the paper in front of them, and opened a book before Eowyn. While she bade Eowyn leaf through the book- though the only thing Eowyn understood was the illustrations (the writing was in an entirely different language and script,) she herself wrote in a rounded, pretty hand some incomphrensible words upon the paper in front of her. While Eowyn stared unseeingly at the painted horse in front of her, Arwen finally finished her preparations. "This," she said brandishing a piece of paper in front of Eowyn's eyes, "is our alphabet. It is different from yours, we have some letters where you have none, and you possess a couple of letters which we have no equivalent for." With gentle hands, she picked up another book. "This is the only book I possess which has in it a translation of elven speech, into your tongue. It is neither a learning-book, nor easy, but it is the best I can do for you." Eowyn opened it, and her eyes flickered over the first words which were printed in elvish, then to the opposite page, where the equivalent was written, and read the first few words aloud.
"It's poetry," she said surprised. Arwen nodded.
"It was given to me by a very dear friend. I believe you had some doings with a compatriot of his Meriadoc Brandybuck."
Eowyn nodded. "Merry was indeed a friend of mine, and one of the bravest souls I have ever met." She looked at the title page, which was richly embellished. The Elvish book of Poetry, by Bilbo Baggins. Then she looked at the inside cover. A wavering hand had written the following words. 'To my dear Arwen, the most beautiful of all the elves, on her wedding day. With all of my love and regard, Bilbo Baggins.' There was a short inscription in flowing runes beneath it. She read the first short poem within it, and said in surprise. "Why it's beautiful!" She had never read poetry before, disdaining it as something idle women did to pass the time of day.
Arwen merely nodded. "But if only you could hear it as it should be read, in its original language spoken by a talented tongue. I can only give a poor approximation of such a feat." Eowyn merely leaned her chin on her hands, ready to listen. Arwen flicked through the book, until she came to one near the middle. Then her low, beautiful voice began to chant. Silken words flowed past her lips, and though Eowyn did not understand a line, she still felt it pull at her heart with grief. The refrain spoke of Elbereth and Gilthoniel, and the grief tore at Eowyn's heart for reasons that she could not understand. When it ended, she did not speak, for to speak seemed too mundane. "Like I said, I have but little talent," Arwen excused her performance.
Eowyn shook her head, still wordless. Then, "What was it about?"
"It was a lament," Arwen said simply. "A lament amongst my people," she did not elaborate and Eowyn did not press the subject, though one thing nagged at her mind. Arwen had spoken of her people. But surely she was not part of them anymore?
They returned to the lesson, and Eowyn bent her considerable powers to perusing all that Arwen laid in front of her. Arwen had constructed an alphabet, a simple list of grammar and pronunciation points, and Eowyn set her mind to memorising them. Though she was well aware, that eighteen was old to begin learning a language, she put her mind and will into it. This was something at least she could do for Aragorn.
Days passed in this way, all following mostly the same pattern, culminating in the language lesson at the end of the day. Arwen seemed to cherish this time, for she never got impatient with Eowyn for failing to pronounce something properly, or to remember a word that she had been told many times. She praised extravagantly, that which Eowyn did manage to achieve. Outside of their lessons, they said nothing to each other, that perfect strangers might not have said, commonplace pleasantries on the weather and food. Never did Eowyn let the unspoken words pass her lips why does he love you so passionately and me not at all? Nor did Arwen utter why can you not love what you have already? What is it in you that makes you yearn for the impossible? Gradually as days and weeks passed, Eowyn became more proficient, her mistakes fewer and her accent less thick. Still she struggled though to read fluently and gracefully, or to speak without halting, and one day in frustration she pushed the book from her. "Why can I not see it as connected?" she asked Arwen.
Arwen ruminated a moment. "It's like being in love," she said softly. "The words do not have to be thought over and pondered, they merely spring to your lips like poetry." Eowyn could have shook her. She wasn't in the love that Arwen meant, poetry could no more have sprang to her lips, than she could spout wings and fly. Suddenly the words looked senseless to her, and she could not understand it. Arwen seemed to understand her mood, for she too pushed away her book, and they sat there in silence. What could have been minutes or hours later, Arwen rose and bade Eowyn a soft goodnight.
Usually Eowyn followed straight up the stairs and to her own bedroom, not seeing the point in staying up late, when she had to rise so early, but tonight, she sat close by the fire and thought. As if in a dream, she walked to the table and opened the book, turning to her favourite poem, and for the first time attempting to read the elvish translation. Her dreamlike state seemed to enhance the words, and the difficulties to fall away, as she read softly out loud, almost without mistake. It was as Arwen had said, the words were more beautiful in their original language. Afraid the moment might be broken, she replaced the book carefully on the table, and walked up the stairs. As she walked past Arwen's room, she stopped. She was almost sure she had heard a whimper. Listening carefully, she was sure. A small, cruel part of her urged her to walk on past. But then she remembered something. Arwen was afraid of the dark.
Pushing open the door, she walked into solid darkness, with a lighter square where the window was. Lighting the candle on the table, with the one she carried, she looked towards the bed, face wrinkling and puzzled as she realised Arwen was not there. Then a soft whimper came from behind her. Arwen was curled up in the corner, her nightdress rumpled, showing pale, slender legs to the knee. She was crying, but when Eowyn called her name she did not awaken. She was asleep, yet dreaming. Eowyn knelt and attempted to lift her. It was difficult, but eventually she managed to half carry, half drag Arwen to the warm bed, and ease her between the covers. She winced as she pulled away. Arwen's hands were entangled in her hair, and she was still crying, her eyes now open, though unseeing. She began to speak. "I'm so cold," she murmured. "Mother, please, where are you? I am so cold, and where has father gone? It's all so dark." The words trailed off, and sobs shook Arwen's thin frame. Eowyn considered, then lifted up the covers enough to slip between them, fully clothed in her workaday dress. Arwen immediately quieted, the warmth obviously calming and soothing her. Eowyn had kicked off her shoes, and stretching her feet down to the bottom of the bed she felt Arwen's feet which were cold as ice. Though she planned to stay only until Arwen was quieted, she felt her own eyes drifting shut, as she pondered the mystery of the elven princess. A woman who during the daytime was the calmest, and most self possessed woman that Eowyn had ever met, and yet who at night was reduced to a shivering little -and without even realising it.
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