Well Met by Moonlight

Minas Tirith, the night before the Coronation, April 3019 TA

Faramir, blissfully unaware of the encomiums being heaped on him by well-meaning friends and family, was, with great contentment, leading his lady back across the Pelennor to the City. The waxing moon, hanging high overhead, shone down on them. Hand-in-hand they wove their way through tents and pavilions, lamps and laughter, music and merriment. This night, Éowyn, thought; it was like dreaming. How was it possible to be here, now, with this man? How was it possible to be this happy?

"I think," he said, as they left the camp behind and drew closer to the city walls, "that your brother liked me."

The walls were hung with lanterns and, from behind, rising up throughout the city, they heard the beat of rhythmic drums, the swirl of flutes and viols, clapping hands, voices raised in song.

"I think," she said, "that my brother had no choice in the matter."

"Ah, so if he had forbidden the match—?"

"I ran away once," she said. "He would be wise not to test me again."

They were coming to the gap in the wall where the gates had been. Crowds of people were flowing in and out, hastening to some dance or celebration or other. He moved closer to her, resting his cheek against hers. She leaned inwards. How was it possible that a man this beautiful walked under the sun? How was it possible that he was hers?

"What did I do," he murmured into her ear, "to earn you?"

"You did everything right," she replied.

They joined the flow of people entering the city. He raised the hood of his cloak; she followed suit. There was a chance, perhaps, that they might slip through unnoticed…

But no – at the barrier, two of the guards recognised him, and jumped to give their salute: fists held to their hearts; head bowed. A murmur rustled all around. The Steward… The Lord Faramir… She felt his grip tighten on her hand. The Steward… And then: The White Lady… The flow of people stopped; the crowd pulled back, leaving them isolated. Men bowed; women dropped into curtsies. He lowered his hood, and bowed his head gravely.

"Quick," he murmured, as they passed through the gateway. "While we have the chance."

Holding her arm, he guided her across the courtyard towards a narrow side street. It was a little darker here; quieter. She felt him become easier once again. "You joke a lot," she said, "about your imminent retirement. How serious are you?"

"Serious?" He led her along a covered passage and up some narrow stone steps along the side of an old house. They came out onto a walkway that ran around the east-facing wall. She looked out back across the fields to the encampment: the fires; the lamps; the dark clustered shadows of the tents.

"I mean, given the choice," she said. "What would you do, given the choice?"

He answered promptly. "Serve Gondor and marry you."

"Ah," she said. "I see my place in the scheme of things."

"Gondor was here first," he said.

"But in a few hours, becomes someone else's business."

"Oh, I'll always keep an eye on it. Habit, if nothing else. There were Stewards before there were Ruling Stewards. Also, we should not forget that I do have a title in my own right, and thus a place on the council. I am the Lord of Emyn Arnen," he said, grandly. "A fine name for a huge swathe of wilderness and a heap of stones. I'll take you there next week. As soon as I've retired."

They saw people ahead, coming towards them, laughing and singing. He grasped her hand and they took flight down a narrow lane, tripping over cobblestones in their haste, hurrying up and up. They stopped to catch their breath in a quiet court, sitting on a low wall beside a little fountain. The houses around were quiet and shuttered. The water bubbled up and splashed down into a shallow stone bowl. The moon was reflected in the water. She ran her hand through it and the light rippled.

"And what will we do there?" she said. "In the middle of this wilderness?"

"Build a hut. Keep chickens. Perhaps in time a goat."

She burst out laughing. The shutters of a nearby window opened and someone called out, Quiet! They looked at each other, and laughed, and moved on. Soon they reached the upper levels: the grand town houses of the old families, the high walls of the Houses of Healing. Even here there were signs of merrymaking; doors and windows thrown open; lanterns lit and garlands hanging.

"So a steading in Ithilien does not appeal?" he said.

"It might appeal more than court life."

They walked up the long passage that led up to the Citadel. The Tower guards saluted him as they went past. The Lord of Gondor… for a few more hours yet.

"We could rent out the town house," he said. "It's in a very desirable location." He pointed ahead to his home. "We could easily live on that income alone. It would not be long before we could acquire the goat. Are you worried, love, about what life at court might entail?"

He did this sometimes. Wandered way down some absurd digression or other; snapped back to his main point in a split second. It would be disconcerting to be on the receiving end, if one was also subject to his displeasure. He had tried a variation on this tactic several times with her, in the Houses of Healing. Her evident ability to parry him had plainly only added to her charm.

"Worried? No."

They walked slowly through the Court of the Fountain. Here everything was quiet. Here, everything was waiting for the morrow. She thought, as she walked, about the court of Minas Tirith. She had observed it closely over the past few weeks, standing at his side. These cool and calculating people held no fear for her; in fact, they seemed like kin. Steelsheen's part in shaping her had been strong. She believed she would relish the life. Besides, he would be there. "They should surely be more worried about us."

He stopped. He turned to face her, and bent, slightly, to rest his brow against hers. "Have I said," he said (his voice was shaking a very little), "how much I love you? How… defended I feel with you beside me? It's been a lonely road over the years, Éowyn…"

She slipped her arms around him. They held each other close. A lonely road indeed. "Here I am. Don't let go."

He kissed her hair. "Never."

They looked out east and, as they watched, a great blaze of fireworks rose up above the fields of the Pelennor. Tomorrow, she thought, would be a day of ceremony; of public faces and pronouncements; all that was necessary for a great sea change. But for now, they might be themselves. Overhead, Éowyn saw the fireworks ray out, resolving into a huge white and silver tree. And the last ruling steward and his lady slipped, hand-in-hand, away into the night.

Altariel, 17th December 2019