I stumbled upon this old LoTR fanfiction on my computer and I had to share it. It’s pure Éowyn/Faramir fluff, but it’s a light, humourous read.
Lastly, I’d like to point out, I did not write this; I found it on a LoTR fanfiction forum nearly 10 years ago and saved it on my computer to reread. I’ve forgotten who wrote it, so if anyone knows, please message me and I will happily put up their name. Full credit goes to the original author, and of course, J.R.R Tolkien.
The black and silver standards flew high from every tower of Minas Tirith. The streets were crowded with peasants and nobles alike, all in their finest clothes, many holding multicoloured banners aloft. Musicians played sprightly tunes on every street corner. Children of the fourth level were recruited to climb atop the roofs and scatter a steady stream of flower petals over the stone lanes.
King Elessar had a son. Gondor had a male heir.
Seventeen years after the Fall of Sauron and the liberation of Middle-earth, Gondor celebrated as never before. Already the Halls of the King rang out with the laughter of many daughters, but many nobles murmured of dissent, should the time come for the eldest to choose a King-consort. But at last Queen Arwen had given birth to an heir all of Gondor could support. And ten days after the Prince’s birth, the nobility of Gondor and Rohan gathered in the Citadel to celebrate his naming day.
Éowyn, White Lady of Ithilien, examined her reflection in the mirror carefully. The ceremony began in little over an hour, and as wife of the Steward, she would be at a place of honour at the right hand of the royal family.
The Queen had known for months, with her Elven intuition, that this, her seventh child, would be the long-awaited son, and Elessar had invited every royal house in the known world. Dwarves, Elves, Halflings, even Men of Rhûn and Near Harad hungering for peace treaties, all would be there. Conscious of the image she must present, Éowyn took great care in her appearance. She was the Lady of Ithilien, and all must see the prosperity and nobility of her wooded land.
She smoothed her hands over her silk gown, making certain it hung well on her hips. It was a dusty pink colour, which flattered her rosy complexion and fair hair. Bands of gold embroidery traced lines from her shoulders to her waist in a V-shape, accentuating her fuller bosom while diminishing her somewhat stouter wait.
Her eyes drifted up and down the reflection critically. Five children had thickened her once trim figure, and the life of a healer, stateswoman and mother left her little time to exercise. It had been years since she had taken Windfola on a good long run across the plains.
Not that the horse minded. Though the Eorlingas bred their horses for exceptionally long life and stamina, Windfola was showing his age. At nineteen he could manage little more than a gentle walk around the stables, bearing one of the younger children.
The past seventeen years had added subtle lines to her face. Her hair, once so bright and gold, was slowly growing ever lighter in colour. She found new snow-white hairs every few weeks. In another decade, she would truly be a White Lady.
She had turned forty in Midwinter. She scarcely looked it, everyone said, and she had to agree. The blood of Numenór flowed in her veins too, through her grandmother Morwen, and she would indeed live long for a maiden of the Riddermark. But it seemed to Éowyn that her last birthday was a turning point. Now there was truly no going back to the old days, when she felt light as a feather and free as the wind, when she could race on horseback for hours without tiring, when she could be up and about from dawn to midnight without tiring.
Still, she decided that she was wearing her new body well. The few extra pounds she had earned over her many pregnancies had settled quite comfortably about her body, adding a softness to her shoulders and arms, a fullness to her bosom and a bloom to her face.
Her hair was still radiant, and she was infinitely grateful that it was turning white, not grey. The golden ribbons her ladies had woven in her mane only made the white strands more striking. Yes, a stranger would peg her age at mid-thirties, no more. With a mildly guilty twinge of vanity, she decided that at least one of the foreign ambassadors would be quite taken with her as she stood near the King.
Still, she envied the Queen. The perpetual youth of the Elves. Arwen was mortal now, but she did not age. Though her bones might ache as the years wore on, her skin would never lose its tightness, and her hair would never grey. She would be as beautiful on her deathbed as she was now.
Éowyn tried to push such thoughts from her mind, and she reached for the ornate necklace that awaited her on the little vanity table next to the full-length mirror. It was a delicate filigree of the rarest mithril, crafted in the Elven style, holding five precious white-blue diamonds.
She held the necklace up to her throat and a smile graced her face as she remembered the day Faramir had first given it to her, a week after Elboron’s birth. It had been a simple chain then, with one bright diamond hanging in the centre. But as the years passed and their family grew, Faramir always asked for the necklace back, so he could add new gems to the growing silver web.
“A poor exchange for the gifts you have given me,” he had whispered in her ear after the twins were born.
She seldom wore the diamonds about Emyn Arnen — it was too fine for day-to-day wear. But whenever business called them to Minas Tirith or beyond, the priceless necklace always came out of its sealed jewel box.
She reached behind her neck to fasten it in place, and her fingers fumbled with the delicate clasps. As if by magic, Faramir appeared behind her in the mirror, gently taking the necklace from her hands and fixing the clasp in place. He dropped a tender kiss to the nape of her neck where the necklace settled, then slipped his arms about her waist and joined her in her gazing into the looking-glass.
“Admiring yourself, my lady? I thought that was my duty.”
Éowyn smiled. How striking he managed to look in his simple scholar’s coat, dyed in browns and deep greens to echo his Ranger heritage, the White Tree of Gondor embroidered on his chest in silver thread.
“Have a care, husband, or you’ll outshine Elessar in your humble vestments,” she teased.
“Only in your eyes, my love.”
She drank in the sight of him in the mirror, the smooth planes of his face, the richness of his long hair, the smoky depths of his grey eyes. And then her smile faltered slightly. He had not aged a day since their first meeting.
Faramir sensed the path her thoughts had taken. He always could.
“You are beautiful, my love,” he said simply, and bent his head to kiss her neck again.
“Will you always think so? Even when I am bent over a cane, crippled with gout? When I am confined to my bed, all white hair and tortured skin, and you are still strength and beauty?”
“Even then,” he assured her. “For I will see the wild maiden of the North who saved me, all those years ago.”
“You saved me,” Éowyn corrected. “My life was... emptiness before you.” She let her head fall back against his shoulder. “Mm... are the children ready?”
“The children?” he chuckled against her hair. “Our children?”
Éowyn laughed lightly. “No, that would be too much to expect.”
Reluctantly, she disengaged herself from Faramir’s embrace.
“Well, I suppose we had best marshal the Éored.”
Elboron was already dressed in a smart coat and trousers, embroidered, like Faramir’s, with a silver Tree of Gondor. The fifteen-year-old bore a typical scowl on his face, and his grey-blue eyes darted about the room critically. Everything about Minas Tirith was wrong to Elboron, and he wasted no opportunity to unfavourably compare a chair or a tapestry to those in his beloved Emyn Arnen.
“Are you ready yet?” Éowyn asked.
“Again? Elboron, you had dinner less than an hour ago.”
“I cannot help it if they feed their noblemen air in the White City. I’m off to the storeroom for a bit of something.” He brushed past Éowyn, his shoulder bumping against hers in a petty display of adolescent defiance.
“We’re already running late. Will you be tardy to your cousin’s naming day?”
“He’s not even my real cousin,” Elboron threw back over his shoulder.
“He’s the King’s son and your future liege-lord, and you will show the proper respect!” Éowyn called to his receding back. She glanced over at Faramir, who could only shrug helplessly.
“He’s the spitting image of my brother at that age. Everyone says so.”
Éowyn rolled her eyes. “Perhaps we made a mistake naming him after Boromir,” she muttered under her breath. It was a common jest they shared, whenever Elboron tested their patience.
The nurse came into the common room of their royal apartments, chubby baby Heledir in her arms. “Mama!” the two-year-old exclaimed in his chirping voice. He reached out with his plump hands, and Èowyn took them in hers before he could seize a hank of her hair.
“He’s been restless,” Ioraen laughed. “Barely let me dress him.”
Éowyn smoothed out a wrinkle in Heledir’s silk suit, embroidered with his namesake, striking blue kingfishers. “Oh, Ioraen, best put the star-sapphire pendant on him. It was a gift from my brother the King.”
“Oh, yes, my lady. I completely forgot. Come along, Heledir. We want your Uncle Éomer to see you dressed in your finest.”
“Mama!” Heledir protested. “Wanna stay with Mama.”
“You will, but not just yet. We have to prepare for the ceremony. You’ll behave yourself for the ceremony, won’t you, Heledir? Will you be Mama’s good little man?”
Heledir grinned and nodded. Éowyn leaned in and kissed his cheek, still holding his hands in hers; Heledir had developed the unfortunate habit of chewing on her hair. Ioraen shifted him on her hip and carried him back to the nursery. Éowyn smiled wistfully. Old Ioreth had died shortly after Cúrana’s birth, but her great-niece Ioraen had stepped in as nursemaid to the growing brood, and the children all loved her. She even had a knack for tempering glowering Elboron’s moods. Éowyn imagined she and Faramir would not survive a fortnight without Ioraen’s help.
Cúrana was the next child to enter the common room and Éowyn’s eyes lit up to see her eldest daughter dressed and ready to depart. The twelve-year-old was clad in a shimmering silver gown that bared her milky-white arms, her coal-black hair caught up in an intricate silver net decorated with little crescent moons. Rana was every inch Faramir’s daughter; with impeccable poise, a scholar’s mind, and a flair for a diplomatic occasion. Marriage proposals from all over Gondor were already pouring in for the dark beauty, as princelings and knights envisioned her grown into a lady as beautiful as the late Lady Finduilas.
“Has the Moon come down to rest in Gondor, my lady?” Faramir teased and Cúrana blushed prettily.
“You look beautiful, Rana,” Éowyn beamed with approval.
Cúrana grinned. “So do you, Mother. You’re wearing the diamonds again! And mithril! Oh, I love mithril!. May I have a mithril necklace for my thirteenth birthday? May I?” When Éowyn only smiled, she glanced over at Faramir hopefully.
“We’ll see,” Éowyn said gently, before Faramir could promise Cúrana the entire world. “Mithril is very rare. Even a Prince of Ithilien cannot afford more than a few ounces.”
“Elboron got that beautiful ring for his twelfth birthday laced with mithril and he never even wears it! Where is Elboron, anyway? Off stuffing his face again, I’m sure.”
Éowyn grew serious. “I don’t want you both teasing each other today.”
“Tell that to him and Elfwine. They’re always mumbling bawdy jests and making fools of themselves. Don’t let them make eye contact at the ceremony, Mother, or they’ll be making faces across the procession, you’ll see.”
“And you stir the pot enough yourself, Rana. I’ve seen how you delight in tormenting them both.”
“Elfwine’s a barbarian and a spoiled brat in the bargain.”
“He’s your cousin and the King’s son.”
Faramir drifted out of Éowyn’s sight line as Cúrana bowed her head slightly and feigned attention. Éowyn sensed she was already planning new ways to annoy Elfwine with her haughty ways. Familial loyalty reared its head, and Éowyn thought that Rana wouldn’t torment him nearly so much if Elfwine would learn to control his temper; Éomer’s only child wore his emotions on his sleeve, and Rana’s cool demeanour never failed to frustrate him.
She heard a muffled cry, and a hard thud of a body hitting the floor, and she jogged around the corner. Faramir lay spread-eagled on the ground, two blonde girls laughing in his lap.
“Oohhh,” Faramir lifted his head. “Fie, ladies. Where is the honour in such a dual ambush?”
“But, Father,” one laughed. “We’re playing ‘Halflings’ today, and Halflings always attack in pairs.”
“That’s right,” the other said. “Uncle Merry and Uncle Pippin taught us that.”
“I think you pay a little too much attention to your Uncle Halflings,” Éowyn reprimanded, and the little girls got to their feet bashfully. Morwen and Wynnfara, irrepressible eight-year-old bundles of energy; Éowyn shook her head wearily. Both their fine dresses were wrinkled, and Wynnfara’s white-blonde hair was slipping out of its careful braid.
“Look at you both. Is this how Ladies of Ithilien carry themselves? Wynnfara, your hair is a mess, and Ioraen doesn’t have time to braid it again.”
Wynnfara reached behind her back and undid the braid. Before …owyn could stop her, she shook her mane out. “I like it down better anyway.”
“Ooh, me too,” Morwen followed suit, and soon her ash-blonde hair was scattered over her shoulders as well.
Éowyn moaned. Faramir got to his feet and finger-combed his daughters’ hair out. “Now, Éowyn, it’s not nearly so bad.” He glanced down and saw their bare feet. “No more playing ‘Halfling’ now, ladies. Go find your shoes. The hour is late indeed,” he intoned gravely, and they both giggled.
“Why do you always make me the villain?” Éowyn asked as the twins ran off.
“Because when it comes to children I’m a coward, like all men,” he replied smoothly, and kissed her cheek. Éowyn slapped his shoulder softly.
“You’ll find yourself in a pit you cannot talk yourself out of one day, my love.”
Ioraen returned with Heledir, the baby’s ash-brown hair freshly combed, the sapphire pendant prominent around his neck. Cúrana picked up a little book and paced back and forth, reading to occupy herself. At length Elboron reappeared, a goblet of wine in one hand, a thick slice of black bread in the other.
“Bookworm,” he sneered at Cúrana.
“Glutton,” she shot back.
Suddenly the twins came barrelling back in the room; Wynnfara leading and Morwen trying to catch her. Before Éowyn could cry out in warning, Wynnfara ran straight into Elboron, and the goblet went flying, scarlet wine splashing all down the front of Rana’s beautiful silver gown.
Elboron and Wynnfara leapt back. Morwen ran behind her father for safety. Cúrana stared at the stain rapidly spreading across her gown and her body trembled with rage.
“CURSE YOU!” she howled. “Curse you both! Stupid, scatterbrained, glutton-” she lapsed into Rohirric and her curses grew ever more colourful. “My new dress! You’ve ruined it! It’s not even fit for rags now! I hate you! I hate you both!”
“She ran into me!” Elboron pushed little Wynnfara forward as a sacrifice.
“It was his wine!” she shot back.
Cúrana let out a scream and lunged for them both. Éowyn caught her shoulder and steadied her.
“Enough, Rana. The damage is done. Go and change into your pretty blue silk, quick.”
“But Mother! Everyone’s already seen it!”
“Go!” Éowyn ordered and Rana stalked out of the room, hissing in Rohirric all the way. Elboron rolled his eyes and looked over at his mother, expecting to see her smiling at Rana’s profanities. He flinched visibly at Éowyn’s hard stare.
“It’s not my fault,” he murmured feebly, but both Éowyn and Faramir glared at him ruthlessly. Éowyn indicated the doorway to the kitchen and Elboron grudgingly made his way back with his now-empty goblet and crust of bread.
“I’ve aged about five years,” Éowyn murmured to Faramir as they stood side by side at their place of honour in the Tower Hall. The vast audience chamber was filled with guests. A woven black runner extended down the centre of the room, and the procession slowly continued to file towards the King’s throne.
Across the Hall stood King Éomer and Queen Lothíriel of Rohan, their fourteen-year-old son and heir Elfwine standing to Éomer’s right. Sure enough, Elfwine and Elboron were already trading secret messages in their code of blinks and facial tics. Faramir leaned over and gave Elboron a chastising poke in the small of the back.
Just down the line from the Rohirrim contingent stood the two Halfling knights: Meriadoc the Magnificent and Peregrin, Thain of the Shire. Wynnfara stretched a little and waved to Pippin, and he grinned and gave her a little wave back before Merry gave him a nudge in the ribs.
“Mama?” Heledir murmured, clutching Éowyn’s skirt.
“Shh, Heledir. Be a good man for Mama and stand up straight.”
Heledir obligingly thrust his little shoulders back and stood tall in front of his mother, but Éowyn imagined he would start to fidget again before long. She wished she could send him back to their rooms with Ioraen. He needed a nap. But the naming of the royal heir demanded the presence of the entire family.
Éowyn scanned the Tower Hall: her brother seemed tired; she could spot little lines about his eyes that had been there the last time he had visited. Prince Imrahil stood just down the line from the royal family of Ithilien, and Éowyn noted the new strands of grey in his black hair. His eldest son Elphir was in attendance as well, the head of his own little family. From her place in the crowd Éowyn could not see Beregond, but she knew their trusty captain stood nearby with his wife Sîrfinn and their three children, Bergil and Borlas — both born before in the Third Age — and Serindë, born four years after the fall of Sauron. Bergil, the young boy who had fought alongside Pippin during the Siege of Minas Tirith, was now married with his own infant son.
Everyone was growing ... old.
The procession of standard bearers and pages was drawing to a close. The trumpets sounded and the entire congregation straightened at attention; it was time for the royal family to enter.
The princesses came first; six white-clad girls gracefully drifting down the aisle in file. First came Celebrîn, born a scant ten months after the marriage of Elessar and Arwen, her hair a radiant honey-brown delicately gathered in pure white ribbons, a single pendant at her throat her only adornment. Next was dark Gilraen, fourteen, a budding maiden with coal black hair and luminous eyes. Niphredil followed, then Mirarîn, then Tathara, and finally little Sinyë, a plump four-year-old with huge grey-blue eyes and rosy cheeks. Six Elven beauties all in white, each wearing a different gemstone at her throat.
Now came Elessar and his Queen, and like a wave, the guests all bowed deeply as they passed. The past seventeen years had not been without grief and battle, and the stress of kingship had turned Elessar’s hair a steely grey. A few extra lines graced his face. But all told he was in remarkable shape for a man of one hundred and five.
And how old was Queen Arwen, as dark and lovely as the summer twilight? Three thousand years was the rough estimate gossip gave. Éowyn found it hard to believe that she was now mortal; she radiated the eternal youth of the Eldar. And even mortal, she would outlive all her new peers. She might even outlive her children, depending on the mix of blood she and Elessar had given them.
Éowyn felt the ache in her bones, the pain in her knee that always flared up when she was under stress. And in a moment she hated Arwen with a dark passion.
But the moment faded, and when she caught Arwen’s eye, Éowyn smiled. No, she could not hate her. Indeed, she could not really envy her. Not after seventeen years of friendship and heartfelt conversations. Not when Éowyn thought of the great sacrifice Arwen had paid to marry her King.
“To live without any conception of death, then to become mortal and live every moment knowing your life is ending, one moment at a time. How do you go on, Éowyn ... knowing it’s ending ... with each heartbeat?”
So Arwen had wept a lifetime before, when the first blush of married delight wore off and the “blissful Queen of Gondor” realized the enormity of her choice.
But now she was smiling. As Elessar and Arwen passed before them, Éowyn and her family bowed. Again she caught the Queen’s eye, and saw nothing but joy shining within.
Elessar and Arwen took their places between their daughters and the trumpets sounded again. Arwen’s brothers, Elladan and Elrohir, strode down the aisle, the little Prince in their arms. Éowyn could hardly see the little pink face among the yards of silk and lace that wound around him. The baby was quiet and still, little hands primly clenched around the silk wrap.
It had been so with all of their children. Celebrîn had never cried as an infant. Gilraen had weathered her teething without complaint. Éowyn could not imagine Niphredil spilling wine on Mirarîn’s new gown, nor Mirarîn cursing out her sister in language better suited to a stableboy, before trying to throttle her. No, Tathara did not eat with her mouth open, scattering crumbs all over her best clothes, nor did she misplace her shoes at the last moment nor decide to play hide-and-seek in the middle of a banquet. Even little Sinyë never so much as squirmed during the interminable rituals of the City.
Elladan and Elrohir gently passed the baby to Elessar, and he cradled his infant son in his arms. For a moment Elessar gazed down at the child, as if bewitched. The entire Hall held its breath. Then Elessar held the baby up high. “My son! Eldarion Telcontar! Heir of Gondor!”
The Hall erupted into celebration. “Eldarion! Eldarion!” they cheered. Hundreds of dignitaries roared and clapped their hands. Baby Eldarion did not make a sound, not even when Elessar, overwhelmed with his own pride and inspired by the cheers of the crowd, spun his son around in the air.
The excited was too much for Heledir, who clenched a handful of his mother’s dress and whimpered to be picked up.
“Mama... Maaammaaaaa!” he sobbed into her skirt. Éowyn scooped him up and held him close. “Shh, shh... don’t be afraid. They’re all happy, see? It’s joyful noise. Don’t be afraid.”
Heledir took to sucking on a strand of her hair, and Éowyn did not have the heart to stop him. Now Elessar was handing the baby to Arwen, who hugged him to her breast. Elessar saw Éowyn’s predicament and chuckled softly. Éowyn checked a sudden urge to break a few teeth from his smug smirk and instead gave him a weary smile in return.
Her gaze drifted longingly to the six princesses, all poise and quiet dignity, and little Eldarion, blissfully quiet and composed. Such perfect children.
“Perfectly boring!” Elboron had snorted once. “They’ve nothing in their heads, but statecraft and ancient rituals. Oh so beautiful and so elegant! They’ve not an original thought between their ears! Why can’t they be more like Rana and Wynn and Morwen?”
“Impossible, you mean!” Éowyn had shot back, for she was then heavily pregnant with Heledir and in no mood for Elboron’s constant complaints.
“Exactly,” Elboron grinned, choosing to ignore her anger.
Éowyn smiled softly. No, she could not imagine Tathara’s face covered with fresh jam. Nor could Sinyë possibly fall on the stairs and skin her knee in a race to throw herself into her father’s arms. Niphredil and Gilraen surely had never cut up a household ledger in an attempt to make a paper sculpture for their mother’s birthday.
A laugh built in her throat, and she pressed her face against Heledir’s soft hair to muffle the sound.
Now at last the day was over, and the White City was slumbering. Heledir was fast asleep in his nursery, and Cúrana had long since retired to bed with a good book, mollified after Ioraen promised her that the ruined silver gown could easily be tailored into a long underskirt for the more mature gowns she would be wearing come her thirteenth birthday.
The twins had exhausted themselves an hour ago and Faramir had carried them up to bed himself. Elboron was still awake somewhere in their rooms, most likely raiding the pantry, but at least he was not out carousing with Elfwine.
Éowyn dressed for bed and combed her hair down over her shoulders. She lovingly wrapped the mithril and diamond necklace in a silk kerchief, and then put it away in its wooden case. Shaking the folds out of her long night trail, she got up from the chair at her dressing table. She smiled wryly at the loose cut of the heavy silk gown. Once, ages ago, she had worn delicate little night rails, when she had worn them at all.
Faramir was already in bed, his eyes closed. She thought him asleep as she walked to the window to draw the curtains. The night air was fresh, infused with the delicate scent of wildflowers. A multitude of stars shone overhead. Éowyn smiled at the faint breeze. She was always happiest in springtime.
She drew the curtains, and blew out the last flickering candle. She climbed into bed next to Faramir and lay down with a weary sigh. Faramir rolled over, slipping his arm about her waist.
“I thought you were asleep,” Éowyn murmured as he nuzzled against her shoulder contentedly. Even through the heavy silk nightgown, she could feel the warmth of his skin against hers.
“Not... quite... yet...” came the faint reply. “Is the Éored abed?”
“Elboron’s still stalking, but,” she yawned softly. “He’ll tire out soon.”
“And how is my White Lady?”
Faramir chuckled against her throat. “Nay, you’re as ageless as the spring.”
Liar, Éowyn thought, but she smiled nonetheless.
“I’m sorry for today,” he murmured. “It could have gone better.”
Éowyn laughed lightly. “No... no.” She snuggled closer under the blankets and slid her arm about his shoulder, twining her fingers through his hair. “It was perfect.”
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