Story [Tolkien] Cloaked in Conspiracy | Éowyn/Faramir Epic

Pairing: Éowyn/Faramir

Title: Cloaked in Conspiracy

Trigger Warning: references to past self-harm and suicidal ideation.

Summary: Éowyn survived the battle of the Pelennor Fields, but she has woken to despair. Éomer fears for the survival of his sister so a conspiracy is formed to save her life. But will Faramir carry out his King's command in order to save Éowyn, or will true love blossom on its own?

Notes: There are intertextual references to Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem "Lancelot and Elaine" within this chapter. Scopa is plural for scop (bard/minstrel).

Chapter One:

In the night skies above Minas Tirith, the stars of Varda shone down faint hope upon those who lay hurt and sick in the Houses of Healing among the falling tears of light rain. Gandalf spoke of healing and hope to the newly awoken Éowyn, yet as he left her room he sighed quietly for her response left him in doubt.

Éomer still sat beside his sister’s bed; with his right hand he held Éowyn’s hand, while with his left hand he gently stroked her golden hair.

Softly he chanted snatches of verse, songs of half-forgotten scopa that once graced Meduseld with harps in their hands and honey on their lips that went like mead to the heart. Éomer stayed thus by his sister’s side until her weary eyes finally closed in sleep. He still grasped Éowyn’s pale hand; he feared to let go lest he should suddenly awake her, or worse lose her with their physical connexion broken.

Yet Éowyn’s breathing was steady and she seemed in some sort of peace as his eyes gazed upon her face. A young girl she looked to him, her nose and cheeks sprinkled with freckles. “Sun-kisses” their grand-mother, Morwen, used to call them. Éomer counted them now as he remembered his long-dead grand-mother. Éowyn did not look like her, save in the depths of her stormy eyes, but they were much akin in temperament. “Steelsheen” Morwen had been surnamed, and he could see it now in Éowyn: graceful as a swan, yet hard and proud as the White Mountains. But was it only a reflection? Would she disappear if he turned away and left? Tears started in his eyes again. They were all gone: father, mother, grand-mother Morwen, Théodred, and Théoden King. Would Éowyn follow them to Béma’s feasting hall? She had awoken to despair.

‘How long?’ thought Éomer, for it seemed not if she would die, but when.

Now he noticed again the angry red scars fading to white lining her inner forearm that lay outside on the coverlet. When he first saw them earlier that night, he had gasped as he beheld the physical signs of his little sister’s pain. Some of the cuts were fresh, healing over with crusted scabs. Éomer had asked the healers what the cuts were; the women replied that sometimes maladies of the mind were accompanied by physical self-inflicted injuries. Cuts covered all four of Éowyn’s limbs. They had been tended to with care, but even so Éomer did not understand.

Gently, he ran his fingers across the bumpy red ridges upon Éowyn’s forearm. What story they told was yet to come to light. Gandalf and Aragorn did not provide any explanation, or even acknowledge the wounds’ existence. Did they ignore them on purpose? Were the cuts too fresh to discuss their origin?

Éomer needed some air; this was all too much for him to bear. As he stood, he gently let go of Éowyn’s hand; and though misty tears clouded his vision, he bent down and kissed her forehead. Then he left the room.

The cool breeze of night blew through his tawny hair as he steadied himself against the closed door. He tried to quiet his thoughts by closing his weary eyes and steadily breathing. But then it hit him like a wave crashing to shore: all around him there were the screams and groans of wounded and dying men. He wanted to scream, sharing his pain with them. But now he was king, so he pulled his hood over his head and silently let his tears fall.

It seemed an age that he stood thus. But he was startled suddenly by the touch off a hand on his shoulder. Éomer’s eyes flew open and he reached for his sword, but a firm yet gentle hand stopped him.

‘Éomer, it is just me,’ said the friendly familiar voice of Prince Imrahil, ‘How fares your sister?’

‘She lives,’ replied Éomer, ‘but for how long I do not know.’ He reluctantly removed his hood, and then he acknowledged the Prince by giving him a brief glance and nod. Upon seeing the grief in the young king’s eyes, Imrahil embraced him as if Éomer were his own son.

‘She’s all I have left,’ Éomer sobbed, and then parted from Imrahil. ‘How is the Steward?’

‘Faramir is healing well from the wound caused by a poisoned Southron dart that I drew forth. His fever begins to abate. He too was afflicted by the Black Breath, but the Lord Aragorn has brought him back.’

‘I believe my sister would not have come to the battle if it were not for the Lord Aragorn,’ Éomer cut in bitterly, ‘I do not blame him, yet even so it was he who tipped her over the edge.’ He paused, and then continued: ‘Forgive me; I know not what I say.’

‘You are torn between anger and love, I perceive. I know not why you speak of my Lord thus, yet come, let us find a more private space and tell me this tale if you will.’

Éomer consented, so Imrahil took him aside into an unoccupied alcove.

‘Éowyn deems herself in love with Aragorn. Yet he is betrothed and his heart has long belonged to a woman in the far North, in Rivendell. What my sister feels is but a first flash of infatuation. Aragorn tried to dim it or snuff out her passion completely without discourtesy, yet even so she jumped to a seemingly honourable death.’

‘It grieves me, friend, to hear this news. Yet still there is hope for us all. It’s true that my dear nephew was nearly murdered in madness twice, but he will keep living on in hope. Fortunately, Faramir remembers neither the flames nor the blade. Yet the full tale of his father’s ill deeds will come to him soon I fear, either by the wagging tongues of gossips, or by his own perception. Mayhap in dreams and nightmares too.

‘I cannot speak about it in full, but Denethor’s death is not all ill news. Let me just say that we have avoided the threat of a potential civil war.

‘As for your sister, and all others, I pray for her healing. May Varda wrap her silver arms of hope around Éowyn, and may Nienna turn your sister’s tears of grief into diamonds of wisdom.’

‘My sister only prays to Béma. “Oromë” you know him as.’

‘Come, you are weary. Let us not speak more tonight, let it rest. Sleep will do us all some good.’

Imrahil put his arm around Éomer’s wide shoulders and walked him out of the Houses of Healing. Outside the doors of the Houses, Imrahil bid Éomer ‘good-night’. Then Imrahil returned to his lodgings in the citadel, while Éomer made his way down the City circles to his tent on the fields below.

To be continued...

 

Beautiful POV from Eomer full of anguished worry over his sister. Loved the support and empathy from Imrahil. You have a wonderful grasp of these characters and their motivations.

 

@WarmNyota_SweetAyesha thank you so much for your comment and like I know the characters so well because I used to read LotR every year, I did so for 16 years. I feel very well acquainted with the characters, like dear friends to me.

@pronker thank you for your like

Note: hobytla and perian are other words in Rohanese and Sindarin respectively for 'hobbit'.

Chapter Two:

Early the next morning, Éomer arose and went up into the City. There he met the Prince Imrahil, who came from his lodgings in the citadel, and together they entered the Houses of Healing to check in upon the wounded men of Rohan and Gondor. No one blamed the Prince for spending more time with his swan-knights than with the other Gondorian men. Once they were satisfied with their soldiers’ care, both men took a brief moment to check in upon their close kin.

Éowyn was still deep in sleep when Éomer quietly entered her room. He was happy to see her still breathing. Despite this good sign, her bed clothes were strewn here and there revealing the scant shift she was dressed in that deigned to cover her striped thighs (though these were clearly scars and not fresh cuts), while her bare right forearm was flung across her forehead. Why would she do such a thing to herself? At the sight, tears glinted in the corners of Éomer’s eyes. He quickly drew the coverlet across his sister’s sleeping form. Now that she was more presentable, he kneeled at her bedside and prayed softly to the Valar for the healing of her body and mind. Then he left her to rest and went in search of the Marshall, Elfhelm.

* * *

Faramir, on the other hand, was awake. Imrahil entered Faramir’s room to find him being tended to by a healer. Faramir seemed to be in the middle of an anxiety attack, his breathing was shaky and he was drenched in sweat. The healer bathed his brow with a cool cloth; as she did so, she soothed Faramir with calming words: ‘It was just a nightmare, my lord. You are safe now with us in the Houses of Healing.’

Just then another healer entered the room, nearly bumping into Imrahil.

‘What is the Steward’s situation?’ Imrahil questioned the healer.

‘My lord, he awoke screaming and yelling. We came in to find him seemingly still feverish, sweating and half awake,’ she replied, ‘we took his temperature, but it is nearly down to normal. Once he is calm, we will bathe him with cool water and change his bandage.’

Imrahil went over to his nephew’s side.

‘Faramir,’ he said, ‘all is well, I am here.’ As he spoke, Imrahil stroked Faramir’s long black hair away from his pale, sweaty face. Grey eyes met grey eyes and Faramir calmed as he beheld his dear mother’s brother. His breathing steadied as Imrahil softly hummed familiar sea shanties of Dol Amroth for a couple of minutes.

‘Better?’ asked Imrahil

Faramir nodded and replied: ‘Thank you, uncle.’

‘Good. I will come in and check on you again later, if I have the time.’ Imrahil farewelled his nephew and went in search of Éomer.

* * *

It did not take Éomer long to find Elfhelm; he was in the garden. Anyone could have heard him a mile away. Éomer turned a hedged corner to find Merry and another hobytla (who was obviously Pippin) sharing a pipe with Elfhelm who was laughing quite loudly. Merry was the first to notice Éomer.

‘My King,’ said Merry and bowed after removing his pipe from his mouth.

‘****!’ muttered Elfhelm under his breath, quickly passing the pipe back to Pippin before standing, turning, and bowing to Éomer King, ‘My lord, I did not expect to see you here so early, said Elfhelm.

Éomer was not impressed. He towered over the Marshall, his arms crossed and a frown on his face.

‘I hope you did not swear like that in front of my sister,’ said Éomer.

‘We tried not to, my lord,’ replied Elfhelm.

‘So it’s true, you snuck Éowyn into your éored,’ Éomer’s nostrils flared as he spoke, ‘You knew her duty and how she felt, and yet you still let her join you! She nearly died, and might still die of despair because of your insolence!’

‘She threatened to slash her wrists open if I denied her entry. What was I supposed to do?!’

‘To inform either me or Théoden King.’

‘She said that if I told anyone, she would kill herself regardless and blame me for her death. She was in a fey mood, my lord. I thought that I was doing the right thing.’

Éomer now turned his green-brown glare on Merry: ‘Did you know, Meriadoc?’

‘No, my lord,’ he replied.

‘How could you not know?! You rode on Windfola with her!’

‘I thought she was a man named Dernhelm.’

Éomer bent down and lifted Merry up by his shirt: ‘Are you lying to your king?!’ he said though gritted teeth, ‘Just like how you deceived Théoden King?!’

‘My lord!’ cried Elfhelm, ‘It’s true, he didn’t know. Only I did. Please, put the hobytla down. Punish me instead.’ Elfhelm kneeled at Éomer’s feet with his head bowed.

‘Put down the halfling, Éomer,’ said a familiar voice, ‘They are of more import than you know.’

Éomer lightly dropped Merry into the hedge and turned to find Imrahil standing behind him. Éomer looked into the steady grey eyes of the Prince and knew that he was right. Ashamed, Éomer cast his eyes down and began to walk away, but Imrahil took him by the arm and said: ‘We are needed down at the Lord Aragorn’s camp. They are waiting for us.’ Éomer nodded and slowly walked off.

‘Are you alright, perian?’ Imrahil asked Merry.

‘Yes, my lord,’ replied Merry.

‘You and Peregrin will be accompanied by two friends soon. Elfhelm, I suggest you get back to your men. Farewell.’ With that, Imrahil followed Éomer. They passed Legolas and Gimli on their way out of the Houses of Healing, greeted them in passing, and then made their way down to Aragorn’s tent on the Pelennor Fields.

To be continued...

 

I understand Eomer's reaction and assumption that Merry knew of Eowyn's disguise, but no one could've stopped her from her decision regardless of who knew, as Elfhelm asserted.