for veryfond
Oct. 11th, 2023 02:06 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shieldofrohanIt has been four days since the gates fell. Four days since the Steward of the City, maddened in his grief, barricaded the doors against all comers and tried to kill his own son; four days since Faramir's body was taken from the pyre and borne, with great care, back to the Houses of Healing. Four days since reinforcements came from the North, with the blowing of horns and the rush of hooves and the clash of spears against green-and-white shields, to meet the enemy before the walls of Minas Tirith; four days since the Witch-King was slain and the foe driven back. Four days since the King returned.
The city is reeling. The gates, shattered by the assault, are propped up and barred; the walls rebuilt where they may be. There is an uncertain silence throughout the streets and the Citadel: a silence waiting for resolution. The battle is won, but the war is not. The eyes of every person in Gondor are turned west, toward Mordor, waiting.
How many things can change, all in a day! Faramir, thought dead for two days, is alive after all. Gondor has a King again, and its Steward is gone. The King of Rohan is borne back dead and broken upon his shield. The most feared lieutenant of the Shadow is defeated; there is no body, but among the scattered corpses on the field, the great black mass of his wingéd mount lies beheaded. There are whispers, hushed and uncertain, of what happened: so far, no-one seems quite certain.
What is certain is this: the King has returned. If there was doubt of it from Aragorn's name, his bearing, how he is spoken of, then there is no doubt of it now. The word has spread like wildfire throughout the city. The hands of a King are the hands of a healer, it is said, and did he not save three lives that were thought past recovery? Did he not emerge from not one, but three rooms in the quiet halls of the Houses of Healing, having awoken the dead?
Of course, there were few witnesses to the deed itself. Ioreth the healer-woman, and her companion; and the King himself; and Gandalf the White. Prince Imrahil, who had led the sally to retrieve the man in the bed - to save his nephew. And Faramir's wife, who no-one would try to separate from him, now that it was known that he might live.
So she would know what few could speak to - how Aragorn knelt at Faramir's bedside, and placed his hand to the unconscious man's brow; and called Faramir's name, over and over again, as though to summon him; and how his voice had grown weaker and his skin almost as waxen as that of the wounded man, as if whatever he was doing was unbearably draining. How at last, he was brought dried leaves which, when he broke them in his fingers and dropped them into hot water, made a steam that was fragrant beyond all reason. How, when that steam was brought close to Faramir's face, his eyes opened. My lord, he had said, what does the King require of me? But the smile of relief, weary on a face made haggard by long fever and injury, was not for the King first, but for the dark-haired woman who stood nearby; and when the King and the wizard and all of the others left, she remained.
That, too, was four days ago. Whatever Aragorn did, it cured some ills, but not all; and Faramir has slept most of that time. It is sleep that claims him now, at least, and not the deathly unconsciousness of a few days ago; there is colour returning to his face, and he has taken a little food, and while he is rarely awake for more than a few minutes at a stretch, he does seem more himself each time.
Less than one day ago - that morning, in fact - things changed again. Not for Faramir, who still lies sleeping, but for the war, and for Minas Tirith. It is quieter than it has been in some time, now, and strangely empty. The commanders of the war - Aragorn, Éomer, Imrahil, and the Elven-commanders of Imladris - have set out for Mordor, to make an end of things, one way or the other. With them have gone most of the survivors still fit to seat a horse and carry a sword, a fraction of the number that stood in defence of the realm a week ago. There are still soldiers on the walls of Minas Tirith, guarding the shattered gates and ready to defend - but only a very few. There is that tension in the air, wherever you look. The end is coming, and soon. Nobody seems quite sure whether to hope.
In the Houses of Healing, the tension is no less, but it is, perhaps, better-hidden. This quarter of the city, at least, is well-populated. The halls are filled with the convalescent injured, men of all ages, lying in white-shrouded beds, sitting propped in half-raised seats, the fortunate few walking in the gardens. Men of Gondor, men of Rohan, men old enough to be grandfathers and men barely old enough to shave. Men with missing limbs and open wounds, with bloodied dressings bound tight. Men who gingerly attempt to walk, and who speak in whispers, and some who shout in pain, and some who sing. Men with hollow eyes and looks of grief.
And, stubbornly struggling out into the hallway, one woman.
She is as clearly a patient as the rest, and for the same cause. Her pale skin is mottled with healing bruises and half-healed cuts, and she walks stooped like an old woman, her face taut with pain, stopping every few steps to lean against the wall and catch her breath. Her waist-length golden hair hangs down around her, tangled from the effort of getting out of her room without the Healers' aid (they would not allow her out of the bed, but she is restless, filled with a deep and unbearable fear). Her left arm is bound in a tight sling, bandaged from shoulder to wrist, and it is difficult to see, under those bandages, but the shape seems wrong. It hangs limp from a broken shoulder, like it belongs to someone else.
Her right arm is whole, though, and it gropes along the white wall of the corridor, and the hero of the Pelennor Field, the fabled slayer of the Witch-King, lets out a low whimper of pain and effort as she fights past the complaints of her broken ribs to take another step towards Meriadoc's chambers. She exhales, shaky and triumphant, and looks up through the fall of her hair.
She sees a ghost.
Her grey eyes - bloodshot and one half swollen shut - widen, and she stares for a moment. Her mouth opens, and she seems to be trying to say something, to grope for words that will not come. The hand that holds against the wall flexes, grasping for purchase. She swallows, on a dry and rasped throat, and at last manages to speak.
"...Elia?"
The city is reeling. The gates, shattered by the assault, are propped up and barred; the walls rebuilt where they may be. There is an uncertain silence throughout the streets and the Citadel: a silence waiting for resolution. The battle is won, but the war is not. The eyes of every person in Gondor are turned west, toward Mordor, waiting.
How many things can change, all in a day! Faramir, thought dead for two days, is alive after all. Gondor has a King again, and its Steward is gone. The King of Rohan is borne back dead and broken upon his shield. The most feared lieutenant of the Shadow is defeated; there is no body, but among the scattered corpses on the field, the great black mass of his wingéd mount lies beheaded. There are whispers, hushed and uncertain, of what happened: so far, no-one seems quite certain.
What is certain is this: the King has returned. If there was doubt of it from Aragorn's name, his bearing, how he is spoken of, then there is no doubt of it now. The word has spread like wildfire throughout the city. The hands of a King are the hands of a healer, it is said, and did he not save three lives that were thought past recovery? Did he not emerge from not one, but three rooms in the quiet halls of the Houses of Healing, having awoken the dead?
Of course, there were few witnesses to the deed itself. Ioreth the healer-woman, and her companion; and the King himself; and Gandalf the White. Prince Imrahil, who had led the sally to retrieve the man in the bed - to save his nephew. And Faramir's wife, who no-one would try to separate from him, now that it was known that he might live.
So she would know what few could speak to - how Aragorn knelt at Faramir's bedside, and placed his hand to the unconscious man's brow; and called Faramir's name, over and over again, as though to summon him; and how his voice had grown weaker and his skin almost as waxen as that of the wounded man, as if whatever he was doing was unbearably draining. How at last, he was brought dried leaves which, when he broke them in his fingers and dropped them into hot water, made a steam that was fragrant beyond all reason. How, when that steam was brought close to Faramir's face, his eyes opened. My lord, he had said, what does the King require of me? But the smile of relief, weary on a face made haggard by long fever and injury, was not for the King first, but for the dark-haired woman who stood nearby; and when the King and the wizard and all of the others left, she remained.
That, too, was four days ago. Whatever Aragorn did, it cured some ills, but not all; and Faramir has slept most of that time. It is sleep that claims him now, at least, and not the deathly unconsciousness of a few days ago; there is colour returning to his face, and he has taken a little food, and while he is rarely awake for more than a few minutes at a stretch, he does seem more himself each time.
Less than one day ago - that morning, in fact - things changed again. Not for Faramir, who still lies sleeping, but for the war, and for Minas Tirith. It is quieter than it has been in some time, now, and strangely empty. The commanders of the war - Aragorn, Éomer, Imrahil, and the Elven-commanders of Imladris - have set out for Mordor, to make an end of things, one way or the other. With them have gone most of the survivors still fit to seat a horse and carry a sword, a fraction of the number that stood in defence of the realm a week ago. There are still soldiers on the walls of Minas Tirith, guarding the shattered gates and ready to defend - but only a very few. There is that tension in the air, wherever you look. The end is coming, and soon. Nobody seems quite sure whether to hope.
In the Houses of Healing, the tension is no less, but it is, perhaps, better-hidden. This quarter of the city, at least, is well-populated. The halls are filled with the convalescent injured, men of all ages, lying in white-shrouded beds, sitting propped in half-raised seats, the fortunate few walking in the gardens. Men of Gondor, men of Rohan, men old enough to be grandfathers and men barely old enough to shave. Men with missing limbs and open wounds, with bloodied dressings bound tight. Men who gingerly attempt to walk, and who speak in whispers, and some who shout in pain, and some who sing. Men with hollow eyes and looks of grief.
And, stubbornly struggling out into the hallway, one woman.
She is as clearly a patient as the rest, and for the same cause. Her pale skin is mottled with healing bruises and half-healed cuts, and she walks stooped like an old woman, her face taut with pain, stopping every few steps to lean against the wall and catch her breath. Her waist-length golden hair hangs down around her, tangled from the effort of getting out of her room without the Healers' aid (they would not allow her out of the bed, but she is restless, filled with a deep and unbearable fear). Her left arm is bound in a tight sling, bandaged from shoulder to wrist, and it is difficult to see, under those bandages, but the shape seems wrong. It hangs limp from a broken shoulder, like it belongs to someone else.
Her right arm is whole, though, and it gropes along the white wall of the corridor, and the hero of the Pelennor Field, the fabled slayer of the Witch-King, lets out a low whimper of pain and effort as she fights past the complaints of her broken ribs to take another step towards Meriadoc's chambers. She exhales, shaky and triumphant, and looks up through the fall of her hair.
She sees a ghost.
Her grey eyes - bloodshot and one half swollen shut - widen, and she stares for a moment. Her mouth opens, and she seems to be trying to say something, to grope for words that will not come. The hand that holds against the wall flexes, grasping for purchase. She swallows, on a dry and rasped throat, and at last manages to speak.
"...Elia?"
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Date: 2023-10-26 12:19 am (UTC)Though there is pain, in abundance. Her head spins with it, and it lances through her, making her grunt as though struck, when she moves to stand. It had seemed so much more manageable on the battlefield, when adrenaline pushed it into the background, when all she had needed to focus on was one movement, one last rally. When she had been certain that it would be her last, and so all that mattered was one instant.
It means that she must put more of her weight on Elia than she would wish, especially as she has only one hand to steady herself. It has struck her often, since she awoke, how strangely the loss of an arm can echo out into everything - into walking, and standing, and sitting, and every movement. Everything is out of balance.
(Though, perhaps, that is not because of the arm.)
Standing is a labour, and one that takes almost a full minute to accomplish. For the first time since waking, too, she is fully aware of how she must look: her hair a tangled cloak around her, her face shiny with sweat and tears, her shift clinging to her everywhere that the bandages do not wick the sweat. Her feet are bare. She cannot think why that should seem to matter, but it does. It is a particular cruelty, to see again the only lover she has ever known - the only true friend - and, when she would most wish to be beautiful, to be as ugly as she has ever been.
She wheezes, catching her breath, and looses Elia's hand to steady herself against the wall. The wall, at least, will not struggle under her weight.
"I did not think," she says at last, her voice thin and strained, "that I would ever see you again." It is all that she can think to say, in the moment, and it is as much as she can say, before she has to pause to catch her breath again. "Are you certain you are not a dream?"
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Date: 2023-11-06 02:58 am (UTC)Still, if any time, why not now? Her children are far from her, and while that grieves her immensely, there is nothing she can do besides hope the realm is one day safe again so they can reunite. Faramir sleeps while she frets over him. Éowyn is alive and here before her, and Elia may not know all that happened since they last saw each other, but she knows when someone needs help that can't be provided by a healer. When they need someone, anyone, to take notice and see them.
Faramir had done that for her. Their marriage hadn't been perfect, but he had always tried, and she had appreciated that more than she had ever told him aloud. Surely he would forgive her for leaving him this one moment- if he even wakes before she returns. She must hope that.
"No, I am not a dream." She stands by her side, fidgeting slightly, unsure whether to move her hands away or press closer. Éowyn must have a room somewhere- though the thought of escorting her back when she's in this state makes her anxious. "I'm real. I'm here." Though what she is beyond that, and how exactly she wound up in Gondor, is something she's not quite sure how to explain.
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Date: 2023-11-06 09:19 pm (UTC)"You should not be." Here, that is. It is no place to be, this battered city, this bastion against a falling shadow. This is a place that seems, in its own way, as heavy with waiting as Edoras ever was; this is a place of darkness and grief. She cannot shake the knowledge that, somewhere in this city, her uncle's body still lies in state, awaiting a homecoming that may never come; that the men she rode with lie beside him; that she should have lain there, too. She cannot forget that it is not over.
No, Elia should not be here. Elia should be in Dorne, in the bright sunshine, with the light reflecting off the water and shining in her dark eyes. Safe, as nothing here is safe. Happy, as Éowyn has forgotten how to be happy.
"Still," she continues, her voice hoarse; and this time, when she fumbles for Elia's hand, it is not to support herself, only to touch her: "I am happy to see you."
Selfishly so, foolishly so, but it is so, all the same. She sniffs, clearing her throat. Meriadoc will wait; she cannot hold much conversation with him in her current state, in any case, and his friend is no doubt with him, as she has been told he so often is. What strength she has is gone, and she needs to turn back to her own quarters, to her bed, to rest and recover. Her own weakness horrifies her.
"Will you stay with me a while?" Knowing, as she says it, that she has no right to ask: knowing, in her heart, that it has been too long, that their lives are too separate now. Elia was not here alone, or for nothing; even knowing no more than that, it is enough to know that things have changed, and her duty is not to a long-lost friend. And yet, there is a plea in Éowyn's voice, all the same. Do not leave me alone, not now. I am afraid you will disappear. "My room is nearby." Then, with more than a hint of bitterness: "I could not walk here if it were not."
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Date: 2023-11-10 05:03 am (UTC)"Thinking of what should be has never gone well for me." It's spoken matter-of-factly, with only a trace of bitterness. She makes do with what she has. And has she not found peace in this city, whenever she lay next to Faramir? Had she not found a swell of happiness even in the darkest of times, when he opened his eyes and smiled at her?
And there is some tender emotion spurred in her chest when Éowyn takes her hand, the plain honesty of her words almost too much to bear. She shouldn't go. What if Faramir wakes, and wonders where she is? What if someone else sees, and finds it odd two apparent strangers are so close? This is hardly a time or place for gossip to spread, but that doesn't mean it's impossible. Even as she thinks of these valid concerns, a part of her knows there is no way she is leaving Éowyn in this hallway in this state.
"Of course I can sit with you for a time." Her voice is kind, her tone is warm. She gives Éowyn's hand a gentle squeeze, and for a moment her eyes flit back to where she sat mere minutes ago, to the bed where her husband lies. He is just the same and yet for her much has shifted. "I- I have missed you, my friend."
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Date: 2023-11-11 12:46 am (UTC)Instead, she pulls her gaze back to Elia, and her smile, if wan, is real. "I have missed you, too. You cannot know how much."
How lonely she was, all that time, with Théodred and Éomer gone, with the sickness heavy in the air and Théoden ailing more by the day. How cold her bed had been, in the dark watches of the night, when fear and grief were nearest and loving warmth felt farthest. How, under the heavy weight of a city rotting from its heart, she had thought more than once to the princess of Sunspear, and wondered how much easier it might be to bear if she were there. Dorne is so far away, and that has been its magic - but, with Elia here now, it is clear that her magic was not only in memory and distance. She is still, even in her sorrow, so beautiful.
Éowyn clears her throat, wincing at the jarring of her ribs, and looses Elia's hand so that she can start the long, long journey of a few dozen paces to her chamber. The effort of that, for the time being, robs her of thought, and of any chance of conversation; and perhaps that is no bad thing.
The room is much the same as Faramir's, as all the private rooms here; save that the bedclothes are in far worse disarray, because getting up was a terrible trial and not a neat one. The other difference is that, where Faramir came dressed for his own funeral, Éowyn was still armoured, and there is no place else for it to go: the chair against the wall is laden with a battered and bloody suit of mail, and, beside it, her sword and shield. Not that there is much left of her shield: the white horse that once ran on the painted green wood has been thoroughly decapitated, and all that remains is a fragment of splintered wood and leather straps around a deeply-dented boss. That, no doubt, explains the sling.
Éowyn sinks down onto the bed, flushed and sweating, her breath rasping heavily, and looks up at Elia. It is a moment before she can find breath enough to say, in a low tone, "Will you tell me how the Lady of Sunspear comes to Gondor? Or is it better left unsaid?"
Hoping against hope that there is some answer, however unlikely, that does not include the man in the bed.
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Date: 2023-11-15 07:24 pm (UTC)In her heart, she knew it was unlikely, but she still could not have expected this, to see Éowyn sapped of her strength, seemingly more alone than ever. She should not be here any more than Elia should. How had she even gotten onto the battlefield? Women do not fight here any more than they do in Westeros, and Éowyn, Elia recalls, has a brother as protective as hers are. Why would she put herself in such danger? The horror shows on her face as they enter the room, and she notices the bloody armor, the broken shield. For a moment, she's not in the House of Healing, she's finding out that Faramir-
But no. No. It's fine. He is alive, and she is alive, and Éowyn is alive, even if they are worse for wear. She forces herself to relax, sitting down in the chair next to the bed, hoping that Éowyn had not noticed her expression change. Unfortunately, there is no way to hide the way she stiffens anew at the question, glancing at the door as if she's worried they'll be overheard. How long has it been she has heard the name of her birthplace spoken? She's always been vigilantly careful not to name any specific locations when asked. And very few have asked, with Faramir to act as her shield.
Her eyes dart back to Éowyn, her voice hushed . "I am not the lady of Sunspear anymore. I am no one important." Just a wife, just a pitiful foreign-born widow forced to marry for safety. "There is no home for me in Westeros anymore. I had to leave- they were, they would have-" Her voice goes increasingly tight and fraught, and she realizes with horror that are once again tears in her eyes, ones she attempts to swallow back, forcing herself into a more stoic tone. "I had to. For my children."
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Date: 2023-11-15 10:50 pm (UTC)And yet, she is surprised. And yet, it hits her like a blow, sinks into the pit of her stomach like a boulder into water. Your children. Your life.
She reaches out, her good hand shaking a little, to take Elia's hand, to squeeze it as tightly as she can. She saw no children in that room, but that means nothing; who would bring a child here?
Who would bring a child here, to the centre of the war, to the edges of the world? She cannot have known, and yet, there is a lump in Éowyn's throat to think of it, to imagine fleeing one shadow only to find another.
"I will say no more of it," she promises quietly, and if her eyes are a little too shiny when she looks at Elia, she will not be ashamed of that. It is all that she can do not to weep again openly; if her voice is a little choked, then they must both live with that. "Of any of it, if you do not wish it. But of all places, of all the world, I would that you had not found yourself here at such a time."
No matter how glad she is to see Elia, how much it warms the heart which was frozen under the Witch-King's shadow. No matter her own selfish desire to forget all the time and distance that has come between them. No-one should be here, at the end of everything.
There is another question; and like the question of the man in the bed, it is one she does not at all want to ask; but unlike it, she feels she must. "Your children, are they...?"
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Date: 2023-11-19 02:51 am (UTC)Now she recalls how Faramir had found her questions about his marital status bemusing, his explanation that during war such things fell to the wayside. Odd, considering wartime weddings were hardly uncommon in Westeros, but she had accepted it, and now she accepts again that she was wrong, that Éowyn and her had lived very different lives indeed.
"We cannot change the past." Her eyes are shiny too, but she has been reminding herself of what her husband told her months ago, that she should focus on the present, and the future. The belief that there will be a future at all, a real one with no grim darkness, is hard to imagine at a time like this, but she has to, or else how can she survive? She has lived life with the certainty she would soon be dead, and she cannot do that again. What's coming will come whether or not she worries about it.
"My children?" She isn't sure what question is being asked of her, shaking her head slowly. "No, they are not- I had their maids take them, when the city was evacuated." Being raised on the tale of Queen Nymeria, she has more faith in a band of women and children surviving in the direst of situations then many, but she still shivers despite a lack of chill in the room, and sadness pervades every word. "I am not used to being without them, I'm afraid."
There are certain questions she is unconsciously avoiding. The man in the bed. Why she is still here, at what may be the end of all things. What she is hoping for- that she is still able to hope. She would like to share all of this with someone, but she doesn't know if anyone would understand, even an old friend.
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Date: 2023-11-19 03:16 am (UTC)Her hand still on Elia's, she shakes her head. "I am sorry."
What else, after all, is there to say? There is no soothing those fears, for they are justified; there is no claiming that she understands, for she knows that she does not. She could say that it will end soon, for that she does believe: but she does not believe that the end will be any improvement. But she knows that she is sorry - sorry to have left Elia to find herself at so bitter a pass, sorry for the grief that life has brought upon her, sorry that she can offer nothing more than sorry.
She swallows, and, loosing Elia's hand with another squeeze, begins the difficult process of rearranging herself and the covers so that she can lie down. Now she is no longer exerting herself, now that the sweat on her skin has cooled, she is shivering.
"We cannot change the past," she repeats, more to herself than to Elia, and sighs. "Would that we could. Would that I never left your side."
Except that knowing all that would come, all that it would cost, would have changed nothing. Her duty would have remained the same.