Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: Pyres of Illusion (#2635)
Author: Tindomiel
Chapters: 3

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Archive: Tolkien
Category: Lord of the Rings
Description: As Eowyn of Ithilien prepares for a turning point in her married life, politics from afar and fears of madness threaten to destroy all that she has created. She must battle against her nightmare turned reality: a vision of her father-in-law.
Published: 02 Apr 2006
Updated: 16 Apr 2006
Warnings: violence, mild
Type: Drama
Characters: Eowyn; Faramir; Eomer; Legolas


Chapter 1 - Prologue: The Madness of Denethor

Summary: As Eowyn of Ithilien prepares for a turning point in her married life, politics from afar and fears of madness threaten to destroy all that she has created. She must battle against her worst nightmare turned reality: a vision of her father-in-law.

Prologue: The Madness of Denethor


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In times of peace and plenty, few remember history.

Real events, battles and coronations that happened decades ago become just another historical fact as the next generation are born free of the memories. Victories, defeats, strife and turmoil turn into another statement on a scrap of parchment. History records facts meaningless to those who do not know them.

Facts become legend: tales and sagas of the days that were Great, told from mother to child until an entire generation is imprinted with the stories in their head. These are the children who know nothing save what they are told, and believe it all. From reality is born legend; fairytales and myths that no one will try to disprove or contradict.

And the tale passes from scroll to scroll, from mouth to mouth. And what were once interesting facts become little yarns, told by the fireplace, with added horror to scare the young and exaggerated romance inserted for unmarried girls. These are the 'tales' the simple folk know and love, and they eventually and always inevitably reach the lips of the Old Wife.

Who then tells it to the Crown Prince of Gondor.

"But Mamee, why is he up there?" Eldarion asked his nurse as she wetted his hair with water on a comb, pulling it through his soft black hair.

She was a large figure, big and cuddly, and much more fleshy than he own mama, he always thought. His mama was pretty, but the only stories she knew were about Elves that had been told to her by her father, Eldarion's grandfather, and were always about times long ago in a land he'd never heard of.

"Alas, my child! The poor soul spent his life striving, and his death was only a struggle of a mad soul. His ghost haunts the tower forevermore..." Mareth, or Mamee, as Eldarion called her, knew lots of stories. She had been a young girl during the legendary War of the Ring, and knew hundreds of stories from that time. He liked her stories because there were always interesting deaths in each one.

"So what did he do with the Black Ball?" the boy asked, eyes shining, knowing the whole tale, but wanting to savour it once again.

"'Tis called a Palantir, my sweet." Mamee cooed gently, and continued with the story, "The Steward used it to find out things in the world like a far- seeing eye – he thought he was strong enough – but he was sadly fooled. The Dark Lord knew all that went on, and cruelly used the ball to show him images of evil," here she lowered her voice into a conspiratal whisper. The young boy edged nearer, excited by the tale, "And the Steward was strong at first..."

"And then what happened Mamee?"

"Aye, a poor, terrible thing," the old nurse shook her head, as if herself saddened by the tale, "The Steward's own son, who had so valiantly guarded his land, had left to seek counsel from the Elves. The son had quested to save the world from Sauron –but alas! – He was killed tragically. He was a noble man, and a comrade to your own father, but his mind was led awry, and he committed a bad deed. In guilt, the son died; died to save his friends and comrades."

Eldarion's eyes shone, as in sympathy for the renowned man. He felt smug, that his own father had known this man, but he knew his father was also very great, oh yes. He said nothing, waiting for his nurse to proceed with the tale.

"The poor Steward, already mightily troubled by the Dark Lord's forces, sank even deeper into depression. He loved his elder son, very much so. Perhaps he should have showed equal love to his younger child; but he became hard, and cold, and misjudged. He would not relinquish his power, and knew he was fighting a losing battle."

"How did he die? How did he die?" Eldarion cried, showing far more morbid enthusiasm than was healthy for a child of four.

"Before he died, he did something terrible. For you see, now the elder son was gone, it was up to the younger son to lead the armies against the oncoming Darkness. Ay, young Faramir was strong, and brave, just like his brother – but it was never enough to his father, the Steward. Denethor sank into the Palantir more and more, and his mind was clouded by black lies. When Faramir was wounded in battle, his father believed it was fatal, and the grief took away the last of him."

Eldarion held his breath for what was coming.

"Denethor built a pyre – a burning grave. He took his son's unmoving body, and placed it on a pyre of wood - not realising that his son was still alive! He poured oil onto his son and himself, and ordered the pyre... alighted." The nurse's wrinkled eyes flashed, and the child-prince gasped.

"But what happened to the son? What happened to Faramir?!" the boy cried. Mamee laughed.

"Fear not. Faramir lived, due to some brave men who arrived in the nick of time. Pippin brought the wizard Gandalf just in time, and Faramir was saved." Eldarion nodded, relieved. He knew the familiar names, even though Pippin was actually Peregrin, and Thain of the Shire. The hobbit had sent him birthday presents on a fair few occasions.

"...But this act enraged Denethor. And though his son was rescued from the flames, he would himself burn... and burn he did. He threw himself on the fire, and there was nothing anyone could do by then. All that time, he clasped the black orb of the Palantir tight in his hands... and he burned."

If Eldarion's eyes were any wider, there would have been danger of him losing them altogether.

"Faramir lived happily ever after, and still is. He fell in love with a brave shieldmaiden, the white lady of Rohan."

"Aunt Eowyn?"

"That's right. And he's coming to visit you today, so don't mess around and don't get your clothes dirty."

Thus, the soft atmosphere of reality returned to the nursery.

The nurse stood from her nursery chair, and finished what she started with, before the story: combing the boy's hair.

"Don't ask inappropriate questions, and don't always stare at the floor, understood?" the young prince nodded, and the two stood up. Silently, they waited, and Mamee bent down every now and then to straighten his boots, or his collar.

The door opened, and a tall man came in. He was middle aged, broad of shoulder, and dressed in rich robes, with a leather tunic bearing the tree of Gondor. Eldarion smiled because uncle Faramir was always kind to him, and usually brought presents.

"Eldarion!" Faramir chuckled, and ruffled Eldarion's just-neat hair, "You will love what I have brought today."

"Is auntie with you?"

"No, I'm afraid Auntie Eowyn stayed behind this time. I am sure she misses you. You must come to ours, and tell your parents to bring you. But she has sent her own gift too. Here is mine first..."

Seemingly from nowhere, Faramir produced a miniature bow of a mock-Elven design, with horsehair for string and a small quiver of arrows made from paper and reeds. He watched the happy smile on the child's face, and let him play with his new birthday present.

"Do you want to see Auntie Eowyn's gift too?"

Eldarion nodded, and Faramir brought out a small box of sky blue. He opened it and took out a small lamb, made completely out of wood, with the head and four feet painted black, and curly designs to imitate wool. Instead of the tail though, there was a wooden bead. Faramir pulled the bead away from the sheep, pulling out a length of string. The bead was pulled back by a mechanism, and as the string moved back into the sheep, a strange noise was emitted.

"It's baa-ing!" Eldarion cried in delight, "Baa baa!" Faramir laughed at this. The nurse was astonished, and Faramir had to explain that no, it wasn't magic, merely clockwork, and a few gears made of polished willow bark for the sound effects. He let the child play with the toy, and watched his happy, carefree face. Later, there would be conferences held, and things discussed in Elessar's hall. But now, he enjoyed this little conference with Elessar's son. But the child had put the toy down.

"Uncle Faramir?"

"Yes, Eldarion?"

"Why did your father try to burn you?"

From behind the boy, Mamee squeezed her eyes shut in exasperation and despair. Faramir did not answer, feeling a hot sharp sensation on his face he would rather forget.

There was silence in the nursery. Faramir wondered exactly how to reply, and decided he had better not. Instead he picked up his cloak .

Eldarion didn't understand why Faramir was leaving so suddenly. The kind man went to the door, a pained expression on his face. At the doorway, he turned. His features were streaked with grief. He gave Eldarion a pitiful look.

"Because he was mad, Eldarion. Because he was mad."

The door shut.


Chapter 2 - Black Visits

Chapter 2: Black Visits

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Eowyn skipped lightly over the marshy ground; to her guards, she appeared like she was dancing over the soft earth. Who’d have thought such a graceful woman could be so powerful?

This area of Ithilien was prone to flooding this time of year, and she took care as she descended the grassy slope to the riverbank, not bothering to wait for her guards in their armoured uniforms. They were loyal and obedient, but still grumbled around having to follow her out here so far from the Steward’s Palace at such short notice. Their master would not like this. The last thing he wanted was his most beloved wife getting into danger. He would die for her. Eowyn knew that well.

This was important to her though; Faramir would have to know about it later. She would tell him when he came back from Minas Tirith. Poor man; he spent far too much time away from home, and she was determined to treat him well when he returned.

Before Eowyn was the vast camp, filled with shacks, makeshift huts and crudely built temporary homes of gypsies and travellers. This land belonged to the Prince, but he let it for public use. The abundant wood and river meant it was an ideal ground to live off, but only in the warmer months. In the winter, the whole area froze, and became a treacherous and dangerous land. In the warm season though, gypsies and roamers camped here often, and the townspeople traded with them.

Smoke from many fires rose into the clear afternoon sky. Campfires littered the ground around both banks of the river, but here and there, chimneys protruded from neat huts, aromas of freshly hunted pig or deer lunch spreading over the plain.

She pulled down the hood from her heavy cloak, and entered the camp. Small children ran amok, getting themselves quite dirty, while their parents sat around fires, preparing vegetables and meat for a light repast. She avoided them, and they did not recognise her, navigating between shacks and tents until she reached one, and stopped. It was large, above head height, and heavily covered with faded but heavy red carpet.

She knocked gently on the wooden pole doorframe, and swept aside the curtain door.

“Is this the residence of Master Maradif Ar-Shahrazad, renowned healer of Harad?” she called in gently. There was a fire lit stove in one corner, gently propelling smoke through a tube in the carpet ceiling. There was a solitary figure there, but the interior of the tent was void of light, and she could not see him clearly.

“Wait here,” she told her two guards. The older and more experienced of the two, Halandil, half-wanted to object. He was dubious of his mistress’ mysterious actions that she so desired to keep secret. He was a loyal servant, but his number one priority was her safety.

Eowyn watched his face carefully, and then said calmly, “I will be inside. If anything should happen, I will be quite capable.” Here she smiled almost knowingly to herself. She predicted his doubts though, and continued, “But if I ever require your urgent assistance, know this. If ever in unknown danger that I cannot cry for help, I will call out: ‘By the leaves of Athelas!’ and you will know that I am in danger. That will be our secret code, is that understood? If I am ever among enemies, with no way of communication, a simple exclamation will speak much to those who know its inner meaning.” And then she went inside.

Halandil sighed, content, and stood his post outside the door. Lady Eowyn, simple ‘healer’ though she claimed to be, had much more history to her than met the eye. He knew very well she was quite capable – to have the imagination to think of that code, for example, just showed the fringes of her sharp mind. And too well did he remember the Pelennor... he shivered, despite the warm day.

So why on earth was she coming here, of all places? This place had an ill reputation. She was seeking a healer, but there were plenty of medics in her own home. Here were all gypsies and foreigners: all ploughing at their foul trades. There were sure to be whores and gamblers, and sly men intent of robbing others of their hard earned money.

He spat miserably into the marshy earth. Now, with Elessar controlling the land from Umbar to Eriador, former enemies from Rhun and the South were flooding in to cash in on the wealth of the new Western Empire. He was serving the Reunified Kingdom, and that was how he got his wages. But now with all these immigrants coming in...

Looking down onto his Gondorian sword, with that familiar arched bronze crosspiece, he remembered how he’d used it in the siege of Gondor. Great days they were... terrible, yes, but great. He felt a surge of what could only be patriotic pride.

And now... this was the time of peace. Hah!

He spat again. Politics! Sometimes he thought Middle Earth would be better with dragons.

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The scent of spices assaulted Eowyn’s nostrils as she entered the dark tent, and she felt faintly nauseous. The props holding the tent up were made of bamboo, and there were a few cushions and chairs scattered around the tent.

“Master Maradif?” she called, suddenly catching a whiff of a scent that made her head swim. Lavender. The scent of lavender permeated through the entire tent.

“He will return in a moment.” Drawled a voice from the corner. Eowyn peered into the shadows, seeing the silhouette of a seated figure, poring over a book from the light of a gap in the wall. He didn’t turn to look at her, speaking only quietly. He was impertinent; he probably didn’t recognise her as a Lady, but something about him unnerved her. She saw only the side of his face. His eyes were lowered onto his page, teeth biting a dark lip. In his brown earlobe glistened a sapphire.

Eowyn sat down on a bamboo chair stiffly. Smoke hung in the tent along with the lavender, and it made her head swirl. The young man in the corner didn't bother to speak to her, and she endured several minutes of silence, punctuated only by the noises outside, her own tender coughs, and the occasional crackly sound of a page turning.

She felt guilty, slightly, for doing this behind Faramir’s back. It was not a huge crime that she was committing, but she knew her husband would rather she find a... safer alternative to this. But she had her reasons. She would tell him. Soon. And so she sat, sighed, and waited.

When Master Maradif finally did return, he recognised her immediately.

“Lady Eowyn!!” he cried, bowing low, “What brings you to my service, O noble one?” his tone was clipped with a soft, stretched accent, but his command of the language was astonishing. He was dressed in dark crimson, and his head was wrapped in red cloth. His shoes were leather, and his sleeves were richly embroidered and heavy. All his attire spoke wealth, but Eowyn saw the darned holes, the discreet cloth patches and the clumsily stitched seams of his cloak.

Before she could reply though, he had brought up the boy in the corner by the ear, and smacked him over the back of the head. The boy bowed nervously.

“Show more respect!” Maradif reprimanded, and then turned back to the white lady, a dazzling welcoming smile plastered to his dark toned face.

“You will forgive my apprentice, lady. He is rude, but he is a good boy. I will make sure he eats nothing tonight!”

“Do not trouble yourself - no offence was taken.” She replied graciously. Maradif seemed relieved beyond belief – perhaps he feared she could use her position to evict him or such – and gestured her further into the tent. The boy rubbed his ear and returned back into his niche, glaring behind him as he left. Eowyn felt a jolt run through her at that glance, but could not understand why.

The inside of the tent was more spacious than previously thought. Eowyn sat, at his request, at a comfortable padded chair beside a hardwood folding table, whose surface was scored with intricate patterns and lines that she could make no sense of. Opposite her, the swathed medicine man of Harad sat.

“Now, lady,” he said kindly, his black eyes shining, “Before you tell me what ails you, please tell me: what brings you here, to me in such a strange and obscure place?”

Eowyn smiled at the remark, but didn’t reply, as he went to the stove, and poured boiling water into a cup filled with tea leaves, handing her the drink as if it were a diamond.

“You are a great lady,” he continued without a trace of sarcasm, only curiosity, “And your great deeds are known far south. You are rich, and are married to a wealthy ruler. You have a whole army of healers, medics and wise men and women with knowledge of health and herb lore, and many more at your access, all in your own palace. Why do you come here, so far, to seek a travelling medicine man who treats this only as his temporary home?” he gave her a critical look.

Eowyn took a draught of the hot minty tea, and placed it down, smiling gently at him.

“Because, Master Maradif,” she said, “Palace medics are talented and skilled, but they are also tremendous gossips. I need confirmation of my... condition before I hear it spoken of behind closed doors. Tongues will wag, and word will reach my husband before the sun is up. My personal maid, who is of Haradrim descent, has spoken of a skilled medicine man of the south currently residing near Lossarnarch. I decided to pay him a visit. If I find my suspicions are false, then there is no harm done. If they are confirmed, I need not fear the gossip that could spread.”

“What have you done that you should fear rumour reach your husband?” Maradif asked, a smirk on his face.

Eowyn laughed, “If anything, it is what he has done to me. If I am right, I do not think I want him to know about it just yet. I would rather I tell him than have him hear from giggly maids or medics. This is not my first time, Master Maradif. The previous... caused much grief. I do not want to cause my husband unnecessary concern.”

“I understand. I understand what you are referring to. You are with child?”

“That is what I want you to determine.”

The healer nodded.

“Give me your wrist. I wish to feel your pulse.”

“How may that discover whether I am with child or not?”

“Ah, but the intricacies of the human heartbeat can reveal much about the health of an individual,” he said shrewdly. He took Eowyn’s white arm and laid it across a small cushion of rolled velvet. Pulling back his sleeve, he placed his dark fingers on her pale wrist. Then he sat pensively, unmoving, concentrating.

“So what brings you to this area of Ithilien?” Eowyn asked lightly, making conversation.

Master Maradif opened his eyes and gave a hearty laugh, “I am headed for Eriador, lady. This is only a temporary stop.”

“Eriador?”

“Aye. I wish to set up trade in Bree. I have read many, many books on that mysterious land, and now I can finally see it for myself. I hear that Halflings have been known to traverse there?”

“Indeed, though you would be lucky to meet one. They are seclusive, by nature.” Eowyn nodded, “I wish you luck, wherever you travel, and your apprentice too.”

“His name is Noraliwi, and he is an idiot! Why did I ever pick him up? Just another mouth to feed, and nothing in his skull!” The medicine man spoke vehemently, shaking a fist at the dark figure of his apprentice in the tent corner. Eowyn laughed, and told him to be less harsh, but the man in the corner scowled at her more despite her kind words.

Maradif shouted something at the apprentice in his own tongue, and the boy turned back to his previous work. The medicine man turned back to the white lady, and bowed, before returning to feeling her pulse.

Eowyn waited in silence and his fingers remained on her wrist, sensing all the subtle irregularities with the regular beats. His eyes flickered, and his fingers twitched on her wrist, and she could feel her whole heartbeat coursing through her body. After a while, he straightened up, removing his hand, and smiled widely at her. Then he snapped his fingers at the apprentice, barking orders in his own language. The young lad bustled around the small tent, taking several bottles of colourful liquid and medicine and mixing them into a small, clear flask.

“I know what you have come to seek.” He said, “You need not fear. I have a special brew that has been beneficial for many pregnant women in your situation. You will not lose this child.” He took the flask from the reluctant apprentice, “Do you have any preferences for the baby?”

“Faramir always wanted a girl, I think.” She said wistfully. The lavender was making her sleepy. She wondered how people from harsh southern climes came across the plant.

“Then you will be pleased to know there is definitely a half-half chance of that!” Maradif cried. He took the flask, swirled it around, and presented it to her, “Drink this in your tea - three spoonfuls every evening. My lady, your previous attempt failed, but I will do everything within my power to ensure this child lives!”

Eowyn laughed with joy, and the black southerner joined in her happy chorus; and even Noraliwi the apprentice smirked to himself, but it was the smirk of someone happy about something for all the wrong reasons.

She called in the guards in, and they didn’t understand why she was suddenly so glad; and she did not tell them. She drank the a dose of the flask in one gulp, paid the medicine man, and left for her home, apprehensive, but in a way, greatly relieved.

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“Eowyn...”

There was a voice.

Eowyn spoke to herself mentally, no, it was not her husband, he was not due back until tomorrow, and that was not a voice she recognised.

She stirred, and blinked. The last time she checked, she was supposed to be asleep in her private bedchamber.

“Eowyn...”

And she was.

Wasn’t she?

“My daughter...”

Yes, her mind said, this was definitely her bedchamber. So why was her mind so confused?

Images swam before her eyes: a blur of colours, rushing by like wind down a river valley. She blinked, and rose from her cotton sheets, but her bed seemed coarse to her tender skin. Her head felt hot, and cramped. She blinked again, and wondered if she had gone deaf.

“Eowyn...” And there was that voice again. No, she definitely wasn’t deaf. She walked a few steps, but her feet were suddenly numb, and cold, and seemed so far away. She stumbled slowly out of the room. The world was a blazing red haze.

“My daughter...”

Looking in front of her was like trying to see a gale. Was this a hangover, or was she dreaming of a hangover? Dream... it was a dream. It had to be a dream.

Everything around her was hazy; her eyes wouldn’t seem to focus, but she thought she could recognise the arched ceiling of her drawing room, her favourite room in the house. By the large paned window was her favourite armchair, and there was someone sitting in it.

“Eowyn!” the man in the chair said spoke harshly. His hair was grey and bedraggled, and in one hand he cradled a black, shining orb. The palm of his other hand was stroking the head of –Eowyn blinked and rubbed her eyes - a young girl, no more than ten years old. The old man’s palms were a raw red. His clothing, like his face, was grey and old.

From a distant ear, she thought she could hear a crackling sound, an urgent, roaring sound of burning.

Where? There was no fire – she could see none.

Eowyn began to cry, out of confusion and fear. The girl who sat at the man’s feet looked as if she was about to cry too. She looked terrified, and was mouthing ‘help me’ at her – but she could do nothing. Her feet were numb and unmoving, and she could hardly stand up. The girl’s hair was a golden blonde, just like Eowyn’s own, and her eyes were a deep green-grey ... the same colour as Faramir’s eyes. Eowyn looked back up at the old man in the chair, and thought saw the same green in those eyes.

And then the girl cried out “Mama!” and Eowyn suddenly understood.

The man in the chair was Denethor.

She cried out, and felt a sharp pain in the back of her head.

Eowyn fell.

Darkness enveloped her mind, and she sank down, down, down.

From the far reaches of consciousness, she heard the blonde girl crying over and over again.

“Mama! I want my mama!”

And all was black.


Chapter 3 - Homecoming

Chapter 3: Homecoming

It was a dream.

A bad dream. Eowyn put it down to bad food, and tried to shake away the memory of the terrified girl-child, but still the feeling of fear and confusion remained.

"My lady, you are sure?"

"I am quite well, I am sure." She replied to the worried frown hovering over her, "Please tell Cook to keep a light breakfast this morning; my appetite is not what it was."

She had told no one about the dream, only mentioning it to her maid, who was now in a state of permamemt concern as a result. Shaliwar, a young girl not yet twenty, was originally from Rhun, and was now employed in the Prince of Ithilien’s household. After living in the gypsy camp for five months, she had been hired because of the lack of labour in the city, and had risen up to the ranks to ‘personal attendant’ . That morning, she had noticed Eowyn’s ill pallor, and offered to call a medic, but Eowyn declined. It seemed like betrayal to call a house doctor after she had been to consult an outside one. They would fuss and fret, and if they knew she was with child, would probably forbid her from ever leaving the house. They meant well, but the reason she went to see a gypsy doctor was because she didn’t want to worry those healers of her own home.

Eowyn ate her breakfast; she washed her face and hands and put on a green linen overdress for a day of gardening: normal things she did on any other day. And this was a normal day. She drank a good dose of the medicine prescribed by Maradif, feeling guilty towards the midwives of the palace as she did so, and went into the small courtyard-garden.

It was an ordinary day; she repeated to herself over and over again, you do not have a daughter –yet.

The courtyard was a peaceful place, on the side of the palace that overlooked the city. She had it paved with stone slabs when they moved in, with flowerbeds encircling it that she had planted herself. Young trees grew further down, oaks and conifers and vegetation that only hinted at the natural wealth of the realm of Ithilien. Eowyn sat down on a stone bench. From here, she could look down over the town centre. This was her realm. These people were her people, and she would nurture this land like she would nurture her child.

People walked through the streets below, merchants and workers. She saw a stable boy nearing manhood teaching his little brothers to ride a horse – the stable boy himself was employed in her household. Halandil had introduced him as his nephew to her one day, because the young boy’s mother had died and the boy needed money. Later, Eowyn found out that the child, Galendir, was in fact just a regular orphan off the street and Halandil had said he was his nephew so Eowyn would have accepted the boy. She would have done anyway. But then she gave Halandil a raise too.

There was a horn call at the palace gates, and as one the mass seemed to raise their heads in understanding: Faramir and his entourage had returned. She spotted a train of horses and a wagon entering the town gates, and felt a surge of relieved happiness. The train wound slowly over the streets; she would greet Faramir when he came home.

From her viewpoint, Eowyn saw beyond the lush valley, green and plentiful, churning out crops to feed a kingdom. And it was good. And it was boring.

How she wished she could swing a sword again! She had promised Faramir since they were married that she would never wield weaponry again, unless, he said, ‘it was really, really, and I mean really, my love, important. I do not want you to get yourself in danger needlessly. I will protect you if anything should happen. I will always be here’.

She believed him, she honestly did. He would protect her with his life.

But what was the point? She didn’t want him to die for her, especially when she could protect herself so easily.

Ah, yes. The last time he had said those words to her was when they were expecting their first child. It never came.

The doctor had told Eowyn it wasn’t her fault, but she never truly believed him.

_______________________________________________________________


An hour later, after preparing his chambers and greeting the Steward's train minus a Steward, Eowyn found her husband in the herb garden, accompanied by several youngsters: healers-in-training. It had been an idea of his, and he was a good tutor who never missed a lesson. Faramir looked worn from travelling, still in his riding gear though without the formal armour and tunic. He led the small group around the courtyard where Eowyn had wandered not long ago, and she followed in stealth, sighing mentally to herself. He had returned home for barely minutes, and already he was busy. Teaching, of all cruel labours upon this world!

“Now, how many of you know which of these is the plant athelas?” the prince of Ithilien waved a hand over a few weedy looking plants in a small sheltered flowerbed behind him. No one answered.

“It is also known by the name of ‘kingsfoil’.” Faramir hinted. A few students put their hands up shyly. Faramir indicated for one, a shy looking girl, to come forward and pick some.

“Athelas,” he started again, with the air of a professor, “Is an antidote for many poisons and even magic. As well as disinfecting physical wounds, the fumes of the athelas leaf can clear the mind. Does anyone know any specific natural poisons Athelas can counter?”

The boy next to the girl who picked the athelas put his hand up, “Um... hemlock, nightshade, magic mushrooms and foxglove and um... that plant, that type of leaf from hot places...”

“Yes, that is correct. Athelas can cure many poisons, which, untended, can be fatal. It is also good for the very sick and those... deranged in the mind, serving as a remedy for hallucinations and many other venoms.” Eowyn smiled at his little lectures, and decided to come forward.

“Sir, I have a problem on the homework you set on aloe vera” a young wiry boy said, but he was ignored, as a few of his fellow students prodded him.

Faramir saw her instantly, and the students were dismissed, filing our obediently, leaving the couple alone in the garden.

“My love, how fare you?”

“Tired,” Faramir admitted with a laugh.

Eowyn kissed him and put her arms around him. He smelt of a recent bath and, for some reason, roast potatoes.

“Have you been near the kitchens?” she asked him.

“Cook had to consult me about a household matter.”

“He could have come to me. You work far too hard. From now on, I forbid you to do any strenuous work or labour than can be easily delegated to another’s workload.”

“-That is rather unfair, my princess...”

“Hush. I have something I need to tell you.” She kissed him again, and the two of them walked back to the house, through the rose garden. Their hands met, and clasped.

“So, how was your conference in Minas Tirith?” she asked as they walked back together, hand in hand.

Faramir did not expect her to tell him her news immediately, and continued casually, “Extremely tedious. Elessar himself was bored out of his mind over this –forgive me for saying - pointless treaty. Harad is weak now, but we must not put a condition on our peace together. I do not know how he can cope with that every week – every day perhaps. My burden of work is light compared to his.”

Eowyn snuggled against his chest, “Your kingdom is light compared to his.”

“Nevertheless, as sworn allies, we must delegate our responsibilities to each other. The kingdoms must stand together to support this treaty, even if it is a little uncomfortable. The implications for trade, beneficial alliances perhaps, are too- ”

“Did Eldarion like his gifts?” She interrupted as they entered the hall corridor. The walls were painted extravagantly – Eowyn had hired an artist specifically for that task – and portrayed scenes from the Great Years.

“I am annoyed to say he appreciated your sheep more than my archery set.” Faramir replied, as they passed a muriel depicting four short men with curly hair hiding from a cloaked rider on a black horse.

“What did he say to you?”

“Not much.” Faramir said sheepishly.

“Not much?” Eowyn laughed, “The last time I visited him, he talked without halt, from the rise of the sun to the ascent of the stars. His mother was quite worn, I remember.”

“-Well, I didn't stay for very long with him you see-“

“Surely Elessar’s business was not that urgent?”

Faramir became very uncomfortable, “It was what he said to me. Probably that nurse Mareth telling him her old stories again. After I gave him his gifts he asked me... he asked me why my father tried to burn me.” He forced a wan smile at this remark.

Eowyn beamed condolingly, “And that was why you felt uncomfortable and had to escape an innocent four-year-old? My dear lord, you have suffered worse than that.”

“It is different when spoken by a child. I wish to honour my father’s memory, but how can you explain that to one of his age?” Faramir said quietly. Eowyn embraced him again, but his recount had awoken memories of her experiences last night that she would rather forget. She bit her lip. She couldn't tell him about her dream. It would only worry him.

“Perhaps I will employ that Mareth from Arwen. She seems a very useful character to have around children.” Eowyn said, to try and change the subject.

“What children, my wife?” Faramir said forlornly. Eowyn stroked his stubbly chin, and brought his face toward her own, gazing piercingly into his green eyes with her own.

“Our children, my lord.”

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One of the students of Faramir’s, who had returned to find his master to ask him about the work set on aloe, found his and her highness laughing and embracing in the rose garden, as if nothing else mattered in the world. The boy coloured, and decided not to wonder what they were doing. They had not noticed him; a nearby rosebush gave him some cover. The prince had stood up, and was saying something to her, and she was nodding, and beaming hugely. Both had their clothes on, and looked merely ecstatically cheerful rather than... anything else. Prince Faramir was now kissing his beautiful wife, and laughing, and embracing her, and both looked happier than he had ever seen them. In a swoop, he took her by the waist, and swung her around him in an arc. She laughed, and he laughed, and the watching boy suddenly felt that he had interrupted something that he shouldn’t have. But it was a lovely sight, to see the ruling couple thus.

The student, from behind a rosebush, sighed thoughtfully, and left. The aloe work would have to wait until tomorrow.


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When the glad couple had calmed a little from the good news, they sat down on a bench in the necessary task of fevered discussion.

“How did this happen?” he asked, overjoyed and breathless.

“In the normal fashion, I should hope.”

He was flustered, nervous. Faramir stood up, and then sat down again. He took his wife’s hands, and then let them go suddenly, rubbing the hair away from his face.

“How did you find out?”

“I went to see... a medicine man.”

“Who? Hador?”

“No, he was not of the palace. He is not from Ithilien either. He is from Harad, and currently residing near Lossarnarch awhile before travelling to Eriador.”

“You went to Lossarnarch? To see one of the Haradrim? Alone?” he was beside her again, clasping her hands tightly.

“No,” she soothed him, “I was not alone. Why are you worried, lord? I was well protected, aye, well protected against horses, traders, gypsy mothers and fathers and their young.” She gave him a smile, which he returned sheepishly, “Shaliwar recommended him to me. I did not want to find a palace healer or midwife because... I feared their lightning tongues would reach you before mine. You know how they talk. I know how you would react, and if it turned out... badly, I would not want you to suffer. I do not wish to face their pitiful smiles again. I would hope to hav a first child, but I do not want to remember there was a predecessor. That is why I have not revealed this to you until now.” Eowyn paused again, “I never want to put you through that again, nor myself.”

“But surely that was not the only reason?”

“The medicine man gave me a... concotion, of sorts. It is a medicine he makes himself. It is made from herbs that cannot be grown this far north and is especially good for young women and mothers and their unborn. He said it would help. Shaliwar told me he had prescribed the same thing to her aunt and now she has seven cousins!” she was talking fast, babbling, but she had to convince him.

“Eowyn, there are so many options! Why would you experiment with such dubious folk? That drug you spoke of could be dangerous. Why do you need such a remedy? You are not ill – a child is not an illness!“

“Faramir, I want this child.” Eowyn stopped, her hands curled into docile fists. Her eyes were pricking, and she had to calm herself, choking back a sob. Hormones, it was hormones. But he didn’t understand. She couldn't go through another miscarriage – one was enough. She would try anything, "I want a child. Motherhood has been stolen from me once already..."

Faramir hushed her with a finger, “I do too.” He held her close to him; stroking her soft hair as joy elevated his soul.

“Then I want to give our baby life," She whispered into his shoulder. His warm arms tightened around her. The day was overcast and grey, but how? In his mind, the sun was shining like a silmaril. Those people below, the people around them, they knew nothing of the joy that he knew. Nothing could remove this light from his face. He turned and kissed his wife again on the forehead, and they both laughed gently.

Before them was the world, a beautiful jewel of a future; even more so now, for there was something in that future.

A baby.

“Hello, my child.” Faramir whispered, his hand upon his wife’s abdomen. Eowyn smiled, noticing how he said ‘child’, rather than ‘son’, as rulers in need of heirs were apt to do. But the smile faded, because in her mind, she couldn't shift the blonde girl with the terrified green eyes.


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She dreamt of Denethor again that night.

Faramir was out with the guard, despite her commands that he not work, and she was alone in her bed.

It felt so real, like walking in her sleep with a pounding headache: back to the drawing room with the painted arches and the flowers outside and the girl with the green eyes.

The child was playing on the carpet, with a doll and a little wooden sheep, small fingers deftly stroking the doll’s woollen hair, and pulling the cord on the sheep, making it bleat mechanically. The noise was strange and hollow to Eowyn’s ears. She noticed the girl’s manner was disturbed, as if unnaturally forced to play for her. Terrified green eyes constantly met Eowyn’s own, and it tore her heart.

She tried to reach out to the girl, pull her back instinctively into a protective embrace, but the she ran.

Straight into the arms of her grey grandfather.

Without thinking, Eowyn curtsied.

It was Denethor. She had never met him before – though she’d had a distant memory of being told about the court of Gondor as a child by her uncle, about the moody successor of Ecthelion, with his wilting wife and proud children. He had not been so old then.

Now, she would not recognise him, had she not heard his memory described by the women of the palace.

The figure grinned at her.

He laughed. Eowyn shuddered. It was a coarse, hollow, inhuman sound, and it made her feel physically sick. He picked up his palantir and threw it hard at her feet. She heard the sounds and felt the pain: tinkling fragile glass smashing. Blackness.

Eowyn retched.

There was sharpness in her throat. And she was in her bed. Alone. The sheets were tangled around her, her back feeling like she had been thrown against the bed several times. She must have tossed all night, and so Faramir did not disturb her. Light was peeping through the covered windows, and she heard the muffled sounds of her husband changing in his private garderobe.

Her stomach convulsed again, and she scrambled out of bed for the privy.

There was that twisted feeling again, the sick feeling of fear and worry for the green-eyed girl who had no name. It was a nightmare, and she was shaking, but she calmed herself.

It was only a dream.

But that didn’t explain the bruise on her foot, and the scratches from broken glass upon her skin.
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