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

Title: More Than Memory (#463)
Author: Fionnabhair
Chapters: 8

Archive: Tolkien
Category: Lord of the Rings
Description: The story of Éowyn's life and death after Return of the King, told through flashback.
Published: 16 Dec 2003
Updated: 16 Dec 2003
Warnings:
Type: General
Characters: Éowyn;Faramir:Aragorn:Arwen


Chapter 1 - Into The Dark

Into The Dark

It was the morning of Midwinter’s day when Bergil, Captain of the White Company, awoke Aragorn Elessar and the Evenstar his Queen. He knocked and entered almost entirely without ceremony, explaining that his message was urgent. He brought tidings from the Steward. The White Lady was dead.

When Aragorn heard the news, it hit him like a hard punch to the stomach. He sat heavily on his chair, barely hearing his own voice asking Bergil to leave. His wife sat transfixed on the bed for many moments, only moving when the sound of sobs echoed through their chamber. It was only when she sat on his lap and wrapped her arms around him that he realised it was he who wept.

He held his Evenstar close, burying his head in her shoulder, drawing what strength from her he could. Finally he drew away from her. Looking deep into her ever-youthful eyes he said, “I must go to Faramir. Will you be all right?” His wife shook her head, but said, “It matters not. Go to him.”

He dressed himself swiftly, pulling on clothes that were warmer than usual. He needed to feel the warmth. He looked in the mirror as he did up his collar and noticed that his hair was now an almost equal mix of black and white strands. He had ruled the throne of Gondor for eighty years, but only now was he starting to age.

He remembered a conversation he had with Éowyn only a few weeks before. She had arrived in Minas Tirith to spend the winter, but had been too exhausted by the journey to see anyone for three days. When she could finally see him he had swept her into a hug as he always had. Yet when he set her down – for she was a tiny woman, much smaller than Arwen – he could not help but exclaim, “Éowyn, what happened? Have you been ill?”

Éowyn had looked at him with patience and said softly, “No Aragorn. I am just old.” Her words had pained him, for they seemed to accept death. And he had looked at her and seen that she was right – her skin was wrinkled, her eyes pale and her hair a mass of thin silver strands – yet to him she would always be the Shieldmaiden he had met in Rohan.

Yet he had found the strength to doubt her and said heartily, “You’re not old Éowyn, what are you, seventy years old?” She had met his eyes steadily and said, “A hundred and four. The Rohirrim do not live as long as those of Númenor. I am an ancient by the standards of my people.” She placed her hand with skin like cool paper on his, “I am dying Aragorn.”

He had stood, furious with her, “How can you accept it? Do you want to leave us?” For a moment she was silent, but then she said, “I cannot fight it anymore. I can feel it in my body my King. I am so tired I can barely breathe. Only death will rest me.” He looked at her softly and said, “I do not wish to lose you yet Princess.” She said fiercely, “You could never lose me. You are my oldest and dearest friend Aragorn – you cannot lose me ever.”

She paused and looked at him piercingly, as only she could. “I must ask you to promise me something. When I am dead, and Faramir is alone, take care of him for me. Please. I know that if you promise you will keep your word. Only twice in my life have you sworn to me, and both times you fulfilled the vow.”

He could not but ask, “When?” She smiled, “On the way to Helm’s Deep, when the Wargs attacked. You looked at me, and I knew you were promising to return. And you did.” she paused and said, “And when you drew me from death all those years ago. You swore to me that I would not die, and I did not”.

They had embraced, and he had held her tightly, fiercely afraid that she would slip away from him in an instant. He held her for many minutes, and said softly into her hair, “I love you.” She had whispered back the same words.

Aragorn had savoured the last few weeks with Éowyn, realising now that their time was limited. He could not pretend to be surprised by this morning’s message, but it ripped him apart all the same. She was but the most recent in a line of losses that started with Frodo. Éomer had died barely two years earlier, and Lothliriel had swiftly followed him. Imrahil had been dead many years, and Elrond and Gandalf had departed with the Ringbearer.

He arrived at Faramir and Éowyn’s chambers, and was let in by Bergil. The news of Éowyn’s death had not yet spread, but it could not be kept quiet for long – Aragorn would give his Steward as much peace as possible.

When he entered, Faramir was sitting on his bed, a hand on his wife’s cheek. As Aragorn approached, he said softly, “She died in her sleep. It was what she wanted. She did not want to pass in sickness.” Aragorn put his hand on his friend’s shoulder, but said nothing. After many minutes Faramir said, “I thought you would want to see her, though I knew the Queen would not.”

Aragorn nodded as his Steward sat in a chair. He sat beside the Princess of Ithilien, and looked into her face. The beauty of shape and outline remained although Éowyn was greatly aged, and Aragorn saw again the Shieldmaiden dressed in white on the steps of Meduseld. He bent and kissed her chastely on the lips, and said softly, “Goodbye”

The White Lady, Princess of Ithilien and Stewardess of Gondor was dead. His friend of a lifetime – his sister. His loss was beyond words.


Chapter 2 - Beyond

Beyond

He had known it would not be long. He who watched her so carefully always had seen the inroads time had made on her health. She had fought against it with a courage he had never seen before – surpassing all efforts on the battlefield. Éowyn had not wanted to leave him alone, but even her will was not enough to contend with death.

Faramir awoke on Midwinter’s morning to her still body clasped in his arms. He had not cried, but pulled her close to him. Softly he called to his servant and asked him to ensure word was sent to Elessar. The King would come as soon as he heard Faramir knew, but he wanted these precious moments alone with his wife.

Her skin was soft against his hand, and not yet cold. She was so beautiful. Even now, after all her years, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Long ago, when they were first engaged, she had feared that, as she aged quicker than he, his eye would stray. How foolish the fears of the young were – when they looked back on the past, they both seemed like children. And he had once feared her friendship with Elessar – the one other man who would feel her loss as deeply.

He did not regret his marriage for a moment – the thought had never even occurred to him, though he had known it haunted Éowyn at times. It seemed too soon for him to lose her – though as she often said, he could never lose her. Still he wished sometimes that he had taken pause, to savour the moments as they passed, for she was gone now, and they would come no more.

He felt a great wave of sorrow build up within him, but he was weak beneath the surge and could not even express it. Only his Kings hand, warm and steady on his shoulder, held him secure. He knew that he spoke, but could not even remember the substance of what he said.

He was glad she had died without pain, for she had feared the loss of dignity sickness would entail, more than anything. He had seen it in the way she had refused to accept her age for so long. It had been hard for her to accept, that at last she had come to the twilight of her life. All the harder because those closest to her still had many years left. Faramir had been with her the night she raged against fate for its cruelty. He had held her in his arms as she wept, saying she didn’t want to leave him, not so soon.

He alone had been privy to her fear of death, of passing into the shadow at last, and being forgotten. And there was the rub truly he knew. Éowyn feared that those she loved would forget her, would barely even feel her loss. Faramir had told her how wrong she was many times, but it was not until Aragorn knocked over a chair in their chambers, nearly breaking it, when she spoke of her death, that she believed him. She had needed to hear it from someone other than her husband.

His wife was dead. He still could hardly believe it. That a woman of such courage, and beauty and with such a strong will could be dead – how could she be lost from the world? How could her spirit simply fade away into the shadows?

He remembered feeling the force of that will once. They had been preparing to ride to war in Harad, and he had been debating with his King whether or not he should go. Someone needed to be left to rule Gondor in the King’s absence – and after the attack on Ithilien, the King was certain to leave with his army. Arwen and Éowyn had been listening to the debate as the two men weighed the pros and cons of Faramir leaving. Aragorn wanted Faramir in the field needing a trusted second.

After over an hour of talk Éowyn had exploded. “Am I not Stewardess of Gondor my King? If you wish to take my husband to Harad, I could fill his office. Not perhaps as well as he, but surely you do not think me incapable of succeeding in the office you granted me?” Aragorn had turned pale (which, as Faramir reflected later had to be one of the most comic sights he had ever seen – Aragorn Elessar shrinking before a tiny woman) and sputtered a bit, and Faramir had stupidly attempted to defend him.

Even now he shook his head at his own arrogance. He had suggested, delicately (or so he thought) that perhaps Éowyn was a mite inexperienced for such a difficult task. She had turned on him with all the force of a summer storm, “I have not watched you perform this task for nearly ten years without realising what it entails. I did not spend all those years in Rohan as my Uncle’s right hand in Meduseld without learning something. Think you that I am incapable husband? For you shall find you are sadly mistaken. And even if I were ‘inexperienced’ the Queen shall also remain in Minas Tirith. I trust you do not consider Arwen, ‘inexperienced’?”

And so it had happened. Éowyn had performed his office in his absence, and had brushed off any suggestion that, after the attack in Ithilien she was too weak to perform it. Instead she had recovered her strength and satisfaction in the work, and he had found her new bloomed when he returned.

She had always been the best judge of her own abilities, he thought. And of her own strength. His King stood from where he sat beside her on the bed; he spoke roughly, his face haggard, “I will inform our people.” Faramir merely nodded, and moved to sit beside his wife again as Aragorn left, glad that Aragorn had relieved him of that duty. A few tears flowed down his cheeks, though he knew that Éowyn would never be dead to him, but just around the corner, in the next room. He merely prayed that he might see her again.


Chapter 3 - The Weight of Choice

The Weight of Choice

Arwen sniffed as she rummaged through Éowyn’s wardrobe. Someone had to choose what the Princess of Ithilien would wear in her grave, and for some reason Arwen felt compelled to do it. Éowyn’s daughter Morwen, had elected to help the Queen, and though Arwen was determined to complete the task, she was glad for the support.

Her fingers trailed over the gowns, the sensations delighting her – the slight drag as she touched the velvets, the smooth slip of the silks. She had helped Éowyn choose many of them down through the years – and it seemed a terribly cruel irony that now she would choose for her friend even in death.

Morwen moved silently about the room, gathering items – for what purpose Arwen knew not. She had never known this child of Éowyn’s particularly well, though as for that, this child was a woman grown, married and a mother. In many ways Morwen was the most like Éowyn of the three – or at least the most like what Aragorn said Éowyn had been while still a Shieldmaiden. Not in appearance, for she had black hair that only have come from her father, but in manner. Fair and cold, her manner had had all the elegant hardness of a court lady by the time she was fifteen. Arwen paused as she considered the woman in front of her, for she remembered Éowyn telling her once, that “It is a ploy my dear Queen – she does not wish others to know how much she cares”.

Arwen had not understood at the time, it was not until many years later, when all Morwen’s work in Gondor for the good of the unfortunate had been revealed, that she understood what Éowyn meant. Morwen wanted neither praise nor notice, but to do what she did without unwelcome attention – like her mother she was a healer.

Arwen looked at the dress she now held – yellowed with age the white lace still fell magnificently to the floor. Tears gathered in her throat, Éowyn had kept this dress through all the years. Her memory brought her back to that golden day when Éowyn and Faramir had been wed, and the happiness they had all felt, and she came close to weeping. Why must it end like this? Why had the White Lady been given such a short span of life?

She moved to the next dress, her fingers tightening convulsively on the sleeve. It was velvet, in a deep, royal blue. She knew instinctively that this was the gown. Softly she pulled it from the wardrobe. Éowyn had always loved that colour – many years before she had told Arwen that it was the colour of the mantle Faramir gave her on the day the shadow fell.

Morwen looked at the gown, “She would have liked that one”, she said softly. Coming to stand beside her Queen, she said, “She left this with me for you.” She carried a letter in her hand, the name written in Éowyn’s smooth, flowing script. Arwen took it, and sat upon the bed, saying, “I thank you”. Morwen nodded, and left the room, hugging herself. Arwen remembered absently that it is no easy thing to lose a mother, be you elf or mortal.

She opened the letter, breaking Éowyn’s seal – a horse rearing in front of a waterfall. It was a short missive, barely covering a page. She read.

“My dearest friend, for dearest thou wilt always be, I write to thee now, knowing that my time will soon be spent. I would reassure thee if I could, but I know that there are no words for a grief such as yours. Your husband tells me that when we die, we go beyond this world, to a place where there is more than memory. I do not know if this is true, but I do know that not even death can destroy the love I bare thee. Arwen Umdomiel your friendship is one of the greatest blessings I had in my life. Thou were more than my Queen to me, a sister and friend I never thought to have. Never think that thou hast lost me, that because I have gone beyond I have forgotten thee, I think of thee ever. My hand begins to shake and soon I shall put down my pen for the last time, but my dear friend, remember me! No woman could ever have dearer or truer friends than you and your husband, and I thank theeu from the bottom of my heart for all your kindnesses.
Fare thee well my sister.
Éowyn”

Arwen sat upon the bed for a long moment. Faramir entered the room, as she took a long breath. Tears started to stream from her eyes as she looked up at him. Faramir too had aged – his hair was softly snowed, and his figure, once tall and proud, was starting to bend. Must she lose him too?

He wrapped his arms around her and held her as she wept, and she could not but think it strange that he comforted her. Yet he seemed glad to hold someone, and that at least she understood.

Eventually she looked up. Her husband stood in the doorway, and she could see the grief he bore. She stood and went to him. Aragorn opened his arms to her, and she buried her head in his chest. The sobs she had attempted to restrain came pouring out, and she wept in his strong embrace.

* * *

Aragorn had gone to the Silent Street. There Éowyn would be buried, beside the great of Gondor. It seemed that truly she did belong to him after all.

He remembered the day clearly. The Harad delegation had arrived for negotiation. In the eighth year of his reign, there had seemed to be an opportunity to avoid the war that had been brewing. During one of the banquets, the Harad Ambassador, Madoc, had spoken to him.

Watching Éowyn as she danced Madoc said, “She is very fair your Princess. I see why they call her the White Lady of Ithilien.” Aragorn had felt obliged to protest, “She is not my Princess. Faramir’s, or perhaps her brother’s, but not mine.”

“Who is her brother?”

“Éomer, King of Rohan.”

“I see, in any case Elessar, she is one of the Rohirrim is she not. You are her king. Does that not make her yours till death?”

Aragorn had agreed, an acquiescence he would come to bitterly regret. He said, “It is for those such as her that we wish to avoid another war. Once was enough for the Shieldmaiden.”

Their efforts at peace had failed, and Éowyn had paid the price for it, Aragorn thought as he found the place he sought. There was only once, tiny grave. Éowyn would lie beside it – her son, Mardil. It had been many years since Aragorn had thought of that poor babe, but his current quest had reminded him. Many years had passed, and most had forgotten the tragedy that had befallen Ithilien. But he would not think of it now.

He returned to the palace after giving orders to the workmen. Morwen met him on his way, and recommended that he seek his wife. He thanked her, and went swiftly to Faramir’s, not Éowyn’s any more, chambers. What he saw nearly tore his heart. His steward held his wife as she wept. Arwen was attempted to hold her sobs in, but the pain was too great, and when she saw him she broke down completely.

He wished that it did not have to be this painful. As his fingers stroked her hair he wished that the price of friendship was not such loss. But he could not change the loss and silence, nor make them any easier for Arwen – he could only hold her through the grief. Aragorn hoped that was enough.


Chapter 4 - Love and Memory

Love and Memory

Aragorn laid his head back, taking deep and even breaths. Soon he must go before the assembled great of Gondor and give a funeral oration for Éowyn. He had no love for the task, but it was his duty. His duty must be done, no matter how bitter a weight it seemed.

How many times had he sat in this library with Éowyn? How many hours had they spent talking of all that mattered, and much that did not? He wondered how he could even begin to sum up what she had meant to him, what part she had played in his life, for all words seemed too small.

He remembered.

* * *

It was late evening, and he and Faramir were reviewing a trade agreement together when a messenger called for the King and the Prince urgently. He came from Emyn Arnen. An army of Harad was attacking the settlement, and Éowyn had sent out riders.

Aragorn had never seen his Steward so close to a complete loss of composure. Faramir had blanched, leaning heavily against his chair, as the messenger continued, “My lord Steward, there is worse. They are seeking the White Lady.” Aragorn questioned harshly, “Where is she?”

The messenger’s voice shook, “She defends the children with a few others in the refuge. She is too heavy with child to do more. The Haradrim asked us to give her up, but her people would not.” Aragorn asked, “How many?”. The young man met his eyes, “A thousand at least, perhaps more. The White Lady told me to say that this is no Helm’s Deep. She does not know how long they can be held off. She sent a rider to the elves as well – he would have reached them already, I had to go around for many leagues.”

Aragorn nodded to his Steward, “We will call out the guard,”, speaking to the messenger, “Word must be sent to Rohan. See to it.”. Together the two men left the messenger behind, Faramir’s face set. His people, his children and his wife were under attack, and he was miles away – Aragorn could not imagine what he felt.



When they reached Emyn Arnen the elves had already swept to its defence, and the guard of Gondor did little but help in the clean-up. When the tide had finally turned, and the remnants of the Haradrim were in flight, Beregond and Legolas approached the Steward and the King. Faramir’s face was eerily reminiscent of that of Denethor.
When the captain of the White Company spoke it was with a heavy weighted tone Aragorn had never heard him use, “My lord the invaders are beaten back. Casualties are minimal. Your children are safe.”

Faramir looked at him carefully, “And what of my wife? Does she live still? Tell me now!”. Legolas put a hand on Faramir’s shoulder, “I got there too late my friend. Eowyn lives, but she lost the child. She was delivered of a dead son and lies now in a fever – the healers can do nothing.”

Faramir stood stock-still, his eyes fixed on the point where his home burned. His hands shook by his sides, and a tear fell from his eye. Legolas gripped Aragorn’s elbow and said urgently, “Estel! The healers said that perhaps you could save her. But it must be quick!”

Two children ran to Faramir – Elboron and Morwen. He held them close, as the eight year old Elboron said, “Where’s mother? We can’t find her. Father?”. Morwen simply buried her head in her father’s shoulder.

Aragorn felt fury race through him. After all they had fought for, after all the strain and effort and heartbreaking work of the last twelve years, Ithilien burned. He would not allow it. He would not allow these children to be orphaned – they had all lost enough, it would not stand. He walked to his friend and said, “I am going to her. I make no promises, but what can be done I will do.”

Faramir nodded, holding Morwen’s soft shoulders tightly, his hand smoothing Elboron’s hair. He spoke softly, “We will be waiting.”



Aragorn had laboured for many hours in the sickroom, calling Éowyn forth from the darkness. When at last she awoke she had looked at him with frightened eyes, “Am I going to die?”. He had stroked her cheek gently, “No Éowyn, I swear it.” His heart was in his voice, and yet her face crumpled. Her voice was little more than a rasp as she gasped, “Aragorn, where is my baby?”. His heart breaking with each word he said, “He is lost Éowyn.”

She was too tired to do anything but accept his words, and she gasped anew, “And the children?”. He smoothed a lock of her hair “They live. Faramir is waiting.”. She had battled the fever, and had exhausted all her strength to say those few words, “Tell him I will return.” Her head fell back on the pillow, and she slipped into sleep. Those were the last words she was able to say for almost two days.

When she awoke she requested that they name the babe Mardil. When Legolas asked her why, she said softly, “He gave his all for Gondor. At the least he deserves a name, and I would have it one that would honour that sacrifice.” For many weeks she was too weak to move, and she would barely speak. There was a dreadful bruise hidden in her eyes, and Aragorn was inevitablely reminded of the Shieldmaiden of Rohan. He had never wanted to see her as she had been, and his fury was intensified.

But it was only when the reason for the attack was discerned that he felt the full weight of his anger. Arwen had put it most clearly, “She is sister to the King of Rohan, wife to the Steward of Gondor, niece to the lord of Dol Amroth, and the world knows of your friendship by now Estel.” It had been a warning – if Gondor attacked Harad, the retaliation would hit those whose loss would be most devastating – wives, mothers, sisters – not the men of war. Aragorn would not let them destroy his renewed kingdom – they had brought war on their country. And all the free nations of the West would join him.

* * *

He tightened his collar, and stood. Arwen came to walk beside him, and they made their way to where the procession started. At its head were Faramir and his three children. Elboron held a hand out to his father, but Faramir walked straight and tall, his eyes fixed on the bier.

Arwen clutched white flowers in her hand, and tears flowed down her cheeks. Aragorn felt her hand clutching his throughout the service. Finally the time came when he stood forward. Hardly knowing what he said he started. At first he mentioned the long years of loyal service Éowyn had given his kingdom, the successes she had nurtured into being, but finally he spoke from the heart, “Éowyn was possibly the bravest woman I ever knew. She led without seeking to lead, she inspired others unknowing. I have known her all her life, and I can say truthfully that I never knew a truer friend, or a more loyal servant. Her courage, her strength always inspired me to do more, to be more, because she, she deserved nothing less from her King. But she was also my friend, my sister – her heart was full of love, of kindness, warming all who came near. I cannot imagine life without that heart.”

He pulled Arwen’s hand close to him, and hung on to it till the end. Finally all words were spoken. A stone slab was slowly slid over the grave. Arwen laid the white flowers on it, and let out a strangled sob. Faramir stared at the grave for many minutes, until his daughter took his hand and drew him into the warmth. Aragorn wiped the damp from his cheek, and walked back to the palace. He would be King.


Chapter 5 - Fare Thee Well

Fare Thee Well

Arwen came from the room and beckoned him. She smelt of death and flowers. Slowly he stood. She took his arm and led him to the room. Eowyn lay now on her bier, clad in a deep midnight blue. Her silver hair cushioned her head, and she clasped a lily in her hands. Her hands were light as paper and veined. He grasped at one as he touched her hair. He bent his head down to touch the edge of the table, and sighed. His breath swelled against his throat.

Arwen placed a hand on his shoulder and said softly, “Do you want me to leave you alone?” He gasped, “Not yet. Please, stay awhile”. He straightened himself up, “She is fair is she not”. Arwen looked at Éowyn and said, “Yes, she is fair.” Stroking Éowyn’s cheek he said, “When I first saw her it was like seeing my first sunrise, or the brightest star at night. I had never seen anything so beautiful. I never understood how I came to be so blessed.” Arwen nodded silently, “I understand.” She bent and kissed Éowyn’s brow, “I will leave you now.”

She walked almost silently from the room, the faint swish of her skirts giving her movements away. Faramir looked at Éowyn’s face once more, “My beautiful wife. You are still so fair. Everything is ready now. You would be amazed how many came. Morwen, and Lalaith, and Elboron. Elfwine and his wife have come. I’ve never seen Arwen and Aragorn so sorrowful. Legolas and Gimli have come as well, and Merry and Pippin. Merry wept for you. I wish you were here to comfort them, I wish you were here to make it all right. You always did. It was always you who held us together, who taught us to accept our pain. I do not know what to say to make it better.”

He paused for a moment, and then continued, “They will plant the simbelmyne in a pot beside you. It was Arwen’s idea and I thought you would want some. The people of Ithilien wish to build a statue to remember you. They all love you so much, Éowyn. They need you. I need you”. He gathered her in his arms, and he started to weep as he rocked her back and forth, “How can I do without you? How can I live when you are not there to speak with and to touch? How can I live without you my love? I do not see the way. I cannot let you go, you are wrapped around me, you are the best part of me, how can I spend my years in this world without you?” Faramir wept into her hair, clutching her body to him for the last time on this earth. Sobs wracked his shoulders as he held her. He wished he did not have to let her go.

Finally he could let go of her. He kissed her cheek, her eyelids, her nose, and finally her lips. A fresh wave of weeping threatened to engulf him but he held strong against it. He would be strong, he would live, and he would see their great-grandchildren grow – for her. He had promised to survive, not to let the grief break him down. He had never yet broken a promise he made to her. He stood, and went to open the door. He would let the others in to say their goodbyes.

* * *

Arwen stood outside with Éowyn’s children. She looked at them with affection – she had known each from the moment they were born. Elboron, who had always been Aragorn’s favourite, much like Boromir of Gondor had been – but wiser and less ill fated. Married now to Erendis, Elfhelm’s daughter. Morwen – whom Legolas had preferred, saying that the elven blood of her father shone most truly in her. She had married into the family of Lossarnach. And last of all Lalaith. A golden girl, shining in the palace. She had wed Arwen’s son, Eldarion and was greatly beloved by all in Gondor. Éomer had claimed that she was much like Éowyn had been before the shadow had fallen on her, and certainly Arwen could see the similarities.

She remembered Lalaith’s birth vividly. A few weeks after Faramir and Aragorn had returned from war in Harad, Éowyn had joyfully announced that she was with child. The healers had been unsure if she or the baby would survive the pregnancy – and she herself had had doubts, but she had borne the child.

No day had ever seemed so long to Arwen as the day of Lalaith’s birth. She and Aragorn had waited nearly ten hours in the Houses of Healing with Éomer, and she had never seen her husband pace for so long. Though Éowyn was strong, and had recovered much of her health, her old injuries might make the strain of birth too much. Faramir had insisted on being present – which had nearly caused Ioreth to have apoplexy so shocked was she – and as the day drew on he had ceased to send them messages of how things progressed.

Finally a healer arrived and called them into the room. Éowyn lay all but spent on the bed, and Faramir cradled her shoulders. She held a tiny bundle in her arms, and they were both crying. Arwen had come to stand beside them, and had looked at the child. Éowyn allowed Arwen to hold her, and had said, smiling, “Look at her, she is so beautiful, just look.” Both parents smiled widely, and yet there was bitter-sweetness to their joy, for this birth brought to mind Mardil, and how he had died. The thought of that poor babe had been in all their minds, until the girl had started to bawl, proving just how alive she was. Éomer had grimaced, and said, “She has your lungs anyway Éowyn.”

His sister scowled at him and said, “And how would you know brother dear?” He smirked and said, “Believe me sister I shared a room with you, I remember all too well.” Éowyn had smiled at the child in her arms, and Arwen had seen the last lingering pain of Mardil’s loss flicker and die in her eyes. Truly Lalaith’s birth had been a blessing.

That woman now stood to say goodbye to her mother for the last time. Arwen decided to leave them to their grief, and went in search of Aragorn. She found him in the library, tears coursing down his cheeks as he prepared his funeral oration. She found the simbelmyne she had procured to for Éowyn’s grave and went to him. She held his hand. Just before the funeral procession began she felt him bend and say, “Are you all right?” She nodded, but truly she did not know. All she knew was that she could not bear seeing Éowyn’s body lowered into the cold ground – to think of the ice that had taken her flesh.

As each speech was given, and Elfwine sang a lament of Rohan, she felt suddenly bereft, as if half herself had been entombed. They could not tell half there was to say about the White Lady, and it cut Arwen deep to think that her true story might be lost to all that followed. As the slab slid across Éowyn’s face, Arwen bid her friend a last goodbye.


Chapter 6 - Time Dims All

Time Dims All

Aragorn looked at the tapestry. Over twenty yards long Éowyn had worked on it for many years, creating a work of supreme artistry and beauty. When he finally asked her why she had spent so long on it, she had only laughed saying, “The realm of Gondor does not have enough tapestries my King”. ‘My King’ – only she had ever referred to him by that sobriquet. No other had ever dared to speak so personally to him – yet he had always felt, even in their few periods of estrangement, that it was a fitting term for the friendship between them.

* * *

Éowyn sat in the shadows, two soft lamps illuminating the tapestry board in front of her. She was thin and pale, and her deep eyes contained hints of a great sadness. Aragorn came to stand behind her, “You’ll destroy your eyes my lady”. A half-smile curved her lips, and she said softly, “There is no need to fuss my King, I can see clearly.” He looked at her face – hauntingly beautiful, yet sorrowful in the dim light, and his heart was swollen with regret.

He sat beside her, straddling the bench on which she sat. “What is this of my lady?”. Her hand moved carefully across the board, her fingers pausing to pick a loose thread. “It is a set of images of the war Aragorn. From the forming of the fellowship, to Frodo’s departure”. He sighed deeply, and she turned to look at him, “What ails thee Aragorn?” His hand reached up to cup her cheek, and he said, “You are wasting away Éowyn, and I cannot bear to see it. You must look to your health.”

She turned her head from him and said, “You do not know the pain that tears at my heart with each day Aragorn. I have not the strength to face it – I look at my husband and I see my son, I touch my little boy and I think of Mardil. It is taking me.” He could have wept to hear her words – for there was naught in her voice to speak of her pain, it was dull, as if her sorrow had worn it away.

He found the strength to say the words that had tormented him ever since the attack, “I am so grieved Éowyn. If I had not been so foolish, you would never have lost your son.” She looked at him with sarcastic curiosity, “How so Aragorn, did you ride to Emyn Arnen with sword and flame?” He flushed, but said, “No but I allowed the ambassador to see how much I, how much we all care for you Éowyn. You would not have been attacked if he had not known.”

She turned to look at him, and suddenly she seemed angry. “You blame yourself for this Aragorn? Was it you who fired an arrow into my body? Was it you who ordered the attack on Ithilien? Did you kill my son? No? Why then do you gift me with this burden? It is not your fault, you cannot blame yourself – and I cannot hold the weight of your absolution in my hands Aragorn.” He cursed himself for ever having spoken, and watched as she buried her head in her hands. She spoke brokenly through them, “I have not spoken with Faramir in weeks. I cannot even touch him – it hurts too much. And now you tell me this. What would you have me say?”

He reached out for her, murmuring endearments under his breath. She came softly, burying her head in his shoulder. He could feel her sobs, as her shoulders jerked against his hand. Finally she straightened up, her head mere inches from his face. He stroked a lock of her hair, and said gently, “I am sorry, Éowyn”. He kissed her brow, and looked into her eyes – and for a brief moment a tension bristled between them. She was nestled in his arms, her lips moistly parted, her face close to his – the seconds beat with possibilities. Her eyes flooded with comprehension, and she pulled away from him with a low cry. She stood and ran from the room. His hands were still warm from cheeks. He stared at them for a minute, trying to understand what had happened, and then stood, swearing to chase after her.

He had not found her. Éowyn disappeared that night – riding for hours in the rain, until Legolas’s scouts found her. She had returned the next day, and for the first and last time in his life, Aragorn was forced to give an account of his behaviour to the elf Prince.

Once he found Éowyn he tried to apologise, but she had cut him off sharply. “There is no need my King, I understand now. It was nothing. I was just grieved, and when you attempted to comfort me, and it seemed..well it was too much. Do you understand?” He held for a moment and said, “I apologise my Lady.” All she had said was, “I want my husband back Aragorn. I want to look at my children without grief. I do not want to be like my mother. I want to live.”

She clutched at his arm, and looked into his face. Her voice was softly intense as she said, “You cannot blame yourself Aragorn, you cannot. You are my King, and I need, I need you to be strong. You must bear this, for me. Faramir is as broken by this as I, and Arwen does not understand. You are almost all I have to lean on, for Éomer is far away. I need you Aragorn, please, do this for me”. He said no promises, but held her tighter. For himself, he swore that he he would be the kind of king Éowyn needed him to be. No tears touched her cheeks, but she was too pale, and a chill seemed settled about her.

It had taken her own strength, and the love of her husband to dispel that chill. Aragorn had breathed a sigh of relief when they had returned from far Harad, and she had been plump and full of spirits. He did not like to see her thin and pale – it brought back far to many memories, and grieved him. If any one he knew deserved happiness, it was Éowyn. He never told Arwen what had happened between them, and as far as he knew Éowyn had never mentioned it to Faramir – he was glad it had been forgotten, and that it had not grown beyond a moment. Truly Aragorn regretted that it had even occurred – even if he could not entirely restrain a slight wondering as to what it was that had been between them in that moment.

* * *

He gestured to one of the serving maids – this tapestry would be given a place of high honour in the White City. He did not want anyone to forget the White Lady, and her deeds. He did not want to forget her.


Author’s Note

I know my flashbacks are not appearing in any kind of chronological order, but they will provide one once this is finished. Agus, níl Fionnabhair Nic Aillil is ainm dom, ach ceapaim is ainm an deas í! Go raibh míle maith agat


Chapter 7 - Loss

Loss

Aragorn had placed Éowyn’s tapestry along a corridor that connected the King’s chambers, to the Council Hall. Legolas remembered seeing her slender white hands pulling threads through the heavy brocade for almost twenty years. Éowyn had used silks, cottons and other fibres to paint the story on cloth. The embroidery was delicate and detailed, yet the elf knew that the tapestry was so heavy it required six men to carry it.

He looked it over with Morwen, Éowyn’s eldest daughter. He remembered teaching this child of the songs of trees and plains – she had run in joy in the long grasses of Ithilien, her black plaits streaming behind her and coming undone. She stood, her thick grey hair pinned into a heavy bun. She searched for loose threads now, and breaks in the pattern.

It had never struck Legolas that the pain of immortality might not be to see a place fade and die, but to see a people come to nothing. To lose all to whom his heart was attached. There could be few pains so bitter – and at last he understood why so many of his kindred had chosen to depart rather than seek a place in this new world of men.
They could find no faults in the tapestry.

* * *

He was hunting with some of his lords, when Nanaur brought a dripping Éowyn to him. She had been found by his elven sentries – though the threat in Mordor had been defeated, Legolas believed that it never hurt to be vigilant. She was soaked through, shivering in the breeze – and it had been a moment before he realised that some of the liquid on her cheeks had not come from the rain clouds.

He had brought her to the nearest shelter, and attempted to warm her in front of the fire. Her long, golden hair had hung damply down her back, and her small feet had peeped out from beneath the nightgown one of his maidens had given her. She seemed very childlike and he had been loath to question her as to the cause of her flight from Minas Tirith.

Finally she had looked into his eyes, with an almost perfect trust. He smiled at her gently, and she started to speak, “I am sorry for invading your colony like this – I did not intend to. It is just, I had to leave the city – I could not stay any longer. I was suffocating.” She sighed deeply and looked into the flames in contemplation. Some instinct warned him that there was more than she had revealed, and he said, “What happened?”

She looked at him with pain filled eyes, and said, very quietly, “I was talking with Aragorn, and he was comforting me..and for a moment, I know not what madness took me, but I thought he was going to kiss me.” She took a deep, shuddering breath and continued, “And it, it was all too much. I could not stay in that stone city, feeling all those eyes on me. I needed to be alone with the wind and the plains. And then your scout found me.”

Legolas felt some anger swell within him, but said nothing. He laid an arm across Éowyn’s shoulders, and said in one soft breath, “Oh my Lady”. And tears sprang from her eyes, like a sudden thaw in winter, “I cannot bear this, I cannot bear his loss. Why was it taken from him so quick? My poor son. He never even had a chance at life Legolas. He never had even a moment of the life that should have been his. How can I bear this pain? When all I have ever known of him was his absence?”

He said nothing, for in truth, who could comfort such sorrow. When her tears had dried, he scooped her up easily, and carried her to a bed. Tucking her in gently he touched her cheek, “Sleep now, Lady Éowyn.” Her eyes fell drowsily shut, and he knew that she had drained off some of the poison that had weighed her down.

The next day he rode with her back to the White City. He would never forget the look of relief on Arwen’s face when she greeted them. She had launched into a lecture that reminded Legolas of Elrond at his most furious. “Éowyn? Where were you? How could you go off like that, without informing any of us? We were terrified you had been caught in the storm? Anything could have happened to you?”. She started to lead Éowyn away as she continued, “We had to send word to Faramir, we hoped you had gone to him, he will be worried now.” He heard Éowyn say softly, “I am sorry Arwen; I just needed some peace, I did not mean to upset you.” The Queen was determined to bring the Lady of Ithilien to the Houses of Healing, whether she liked it or not, and Éowyn acquiesced.

Legolas was left standing by Aragorn, who could barely meet his eyes. The great King spoke quietly, “I am glad you found her. She is all right?” Legolas stood squarely in front of him, “Aye Elessar, she is fine. I however am perturbed.” Aragorn turned to face him, “She told you.”

Legolas couldn’t keep a note of irritation from his voice, “Aye she told me. Éowyn is very quick to absolve you mind; she has always believed the best of you. I however would like some further explanation.” Aragorn took a deep breath, and for a moment the Elf Prince thought he was angered, but the King spoke again, “I do not know what happened Legolas, but I greatly regret it. I was attempting to comfort her, and then, well it is past now. And I swear to you it shall not occur again.” Legolas spoke quietly, “I believe you, but I think it is not my forgiveness you need.”

As events would show Éowyn forgave Aragorn immediately. Their friendship however had not recovered for many months – not until the King had returned from Far Harad, and Éowyn had regained all her former strength.

* * *

Legolas sighed. His friend had been a great lady – the last great lady he would know. It would not be long before he left Middle Earth, and the world of men. And though he might at the end of all days see her once again, he would prefer to remember her as she been in her strength, not in her sorrow.


Chapter 8 - Silence

Silence

Faramir stood by his beloved’s grave. He felt as he had that long ago spring evening when he returned to the White City and found his lady open to him, as she had not been since the death of his son. She had been sitting at her tapestry board, her hands moving slowly with needle and thread, when he sat beside her.

He had been heavy with a leather jerkin and travelling gear, but she had turned and clung to him, her hands caught in his shoulders, her face buried below his neck. He touched her soft hair with his fingers, and said, “I’m sorry.” Her voice was harsh as she pulled him closer, “I missed you so much.” Tears started from his eyes as he finally felt Éowyn close enough to comfort, and he buried his head in her shoulder. He whispered, “I know, I ached for you”. He had missed her – for even when she had been by his side, her spirit had been far from his, and unable to touch him.

He did not know how long they clung to one another that night, nor how many tears he had shed, he only remembered the tranquillity he had felt at its end. She was his home – once he had thought that a city or a house could give could provide it for him – but in truth only this wonderful woman had ever been able to give him a home. He sighed, and ran a tired hand through his hair. A twinge ran down his back as he lifted his arm – he was old now – as he whispered his hope that he might return home soon.

* * *

They sat in the gardens of Emyn Arnen, glad of peace. It was the mid-afternoon of an early autumn day. The air was very still as Éowyn and Arwen spoke softly. Eldarion and Lalaith were wondering the grounds in a haze of young love – Morwen and Elboron had elected both to go riding with their spouses – so the ‘old’ ones were free to observe the young couple at length.

Arwen asked her friend, “What think you of them?” Éowyn seemed to consider for a moment, “I think they will make each other very happy my Queen, but it is a little strange.” Éomer looked at his sister quizzically “Why? She is very like you when you were young. I mean, that young.”

Éowyn said, “Perhaps, but this maiden is happy”. Faramir knew why she found it so disconcerting – for Eldarion was as like to Aragorn, as Lalaith was to Éowyn herself. It must be odd to see a wish of your past played out in present, but he detected no hint of wistfulness in Éowyn’s face, and determined that it was that strangeness alone that bothered her.

Aragorn said softly, “It puts me in mind that I never saw either of you before your betrothal. Was it like this?” Éowyn laughed lightly, “No indeed my King”. Faramir glanced at her sharply, but she continued, “When I first met Faramir I was afraid of him.” Faramir sat up sharply, “What? You never told me that.”

Éowyn smiled and grasped his hand with hers, “I did not think it important my love. It was a long time ago.” Arwen looked at Éowyn, and couldn’t help but ask, “Why were you afraid of him?” Éowyn smirked and said, “You will find this hard to understand my Queen, but the only other man who thought me beautiful was Gríma. I was very foolish, but that is why.”

Aragorn and Éomer snorted as she spoke; when she asked them for an explanation Éomer merely said, “Éowyn are you so foolish as to think that the only men who ever thought you fair, were those who said it?” Éowyn sighed as she said, “I think that is a little beside the point is it not brother? I was not looking for compliments – I was merely explaining. It is good to see two young ones in love.”

They all turned as she spoke, to watch as Eldarion escorted Lalaith into the woods for a walk and, knowing their children, probably a few stolen kisses as well. The leaves were starting to turn, and Éowyn leant back against her husband in thought. She smiled up at him, and brushed a few hairs from his face, but then turned to say to her Queen, “There will be another wedding for you to prepare Arwen – how many of us do you intend to drive to insanity this time round?” Aragorn answered for his wife, “Only as many as is appropriate Lady Éowyn”. The lady snorted and turned back to her husband, “I am so glad we caught the turn of the year – it lasts such a short time, but it is most beautiful to see. Am I not right?”

He reached a hand up to stroke her hair away from her face, and said, “Aye, you are right Éowyn.” She smiled, and he could not but smile back.
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