Story LotR Fanfic: Cloaked in Conspiracy

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.