Deeper Waters

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DEEPER WATERS
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Chapter 9


Éowyn crooned quietly to the infant at her breast, then gently detached him as his eyes fluttered closed. She adjusted her gown, shifted the tiny sleeping form to her shoulder, and walked around the bedchamber with him, rubbing the warmly swaddled back as she went. After a minute or so she was rewarded as the child belched and murmured.

“That’s it, my little prince,” she whispered, holding him in front of her and kissing his forehead. The grey eyes opened for a moment and the baby smiled at her before drifting into sleep once more.

Laying little Boromir down in his crib, Éowyn felt tears of fierce love pricking at her eyelids. There were those amongst her women who had insisted she find a wet-nurse for the infant, but Éowyn had not entertained the thought for a moment. After so many years of hoping for the blessing of a child, when her son finally arrived in the world she had no intention of handing him over to another. Every second with him was a miracle to be cherished.

Faramir entered the room quietly and came to stand at her side. He bent to stroke the baby’s cheek. “Goodnight, my son,” he said, then stood up and turned to take his wife in his arms. Éowyn let her weight fall against him as her head rested on his shoulder, and enjoyed the simple warmth of his embrace. The baby had made things right between them again, cured her restless heart and allowed her to feel the joy of her husband’s steadfast love once more. She would never forgive herself for the pain her despair had brought him, but at least she knew now how greatly she had been blessed.

Éowyn pulled back to look into Faramir’s eyes, and smiled at the love she saw there. He was such a gentle, handsome man; she would never hurt him again. She kissed him slowly and felt the desire begin to build between them as his hands moved across her back. Tonight he would forget that grief had ever existed, the bad memories burned away in the fire of their love.

In all likelihood, theirs would not be the only chamber filled with cries of passion on this night. The thought made her smile. “That was an interesting evening,” she said.

Faramir understood her at once. They had not lost the ability to say much with few words. “Well, now at least we know why my uncle has been so happy of late.”

Éowyn nodded. “Aye. Do you think he realises how like his son he is? It would be hard to say which of them is more besotted.” She kissed his cheek before disentangling herself from his arms and crossing the room to her dressing table. “Does Legolas return his love, do you think?”

“There is definitely something there,” replied her husband with a laugh. “When they arrived today I could feel the currents running between them. I’d wager they did not spend the whole day on horseback.”

A vivid picture of the golden man and the silver elf entwined on the forest floor came unbidden into Éowyn’s mind. She was taken aback by the sudden flash of heat that consumed her, and quickly moved the conversation on. “Celaeren is not happy about it, is he? He works hard even to be civil to Legolas.”

Faramir unlaced his tunic as he spoke. “It is hardly surprising. His life has been shaped by his resentment of his father and brother for the elven blood that has been denied to him. It cannot be easy for him to accept that Imrahil’s lover is an elf, let alone a male one.”

Éowyn thought back to the dark days of the War, when the silver prince had arrived at Edoras in the company of a different man. “Do you know,” she said carefully, “Legolas told me tonight that he plans to go on to Minas Tirith with your uncle.”

“He does?” Faramir turned to face her, staring at her questioningly. “The thought troubles you?”

“I suppose he must know what he is doing,” she said slowly. “But Aragorn . . .”

Faramir came to stand behind her as she sat at the table. His hands massaged her shoulders gently and he gazed at her in the mirror. “It is in the past, Éowyn my love. Thirteen years have gone by, and he has Arwen now.”

“You did not see them together as I did, back then. It was no passiffaiffair,” she sighed. “And I watched them together at Boromir’s naming feast, you know. Aragorn fights to hide his feelings, but they are still there. And Legolas, he simply withdraws into himself, becomes so distant and polite, I cannot believe he is not in pain. What does he mean by taking Imrahil there? Do you think your uncle knows the truth?”

Her husband considered for a moment before replying. “Legolas is not always forthcoming, but I cannot imagine him being deliberately deceitful. Have some faith in him, Éowyn; he is both wise and sensitive. He has surely thought this through.”

“It is Arwen I feel sorry for,” Éowyn brought out suddenly, surprised at her own vehemence. “Thirteen years of marriage, the third child expected, and she has to watch her hnd gnd grieving over another.” It was herself she was angry with, she realised; and Faramir knew it too.

He bent to her and pulled back her hair to kiss her neck below the ear. She felt tears form at the tenderness of his touch. “Hush, love,” he said. “All is well between us now; let others find their own way. Now, will you undress and come to bed, or shall I have to carry you?”

She twisted around to smile at him directly. “You know that I love you, Faramir,” she said simply.

“As I love you, my wife.”

“Will you talk to Imrahil?” she asked.

”About Legolas? I am not sure. I think he realises that I know, but whether he will wish to speak of it directly is another matter.”

She nodded, and rose from the chair. Willing herself to put thoughts of all but her husband from her mind, she began to unfasten her gown.************************

Éowyn found herself observing Legolas carefully across the table at breakfast. He was certainly a pleasing sight: the ageless, fine-boned face; the deep blue eyes fringed with long dark lashes; the shimmering hair; the elegant clothes covering pale, perfect skin. It was small wonder that Imrahil was entranced by him.

She watched as the elf, unasked, poured a goblet of mead for his lover. The lightest of touches on the man’s arm drew his attention from his conversation with Rosalind, and he turned to face Legolas. The elf pushed the goblet towards him, and Imrahil reached to take it. Their fingers touched around its stem and the two exchanged a smile that raised the hairs on Éowyn’s neck. How could she have asked Faramir if his uncle’s love was returned? The answer was quite startlingly obvious.

She wondered for a moment how an immortal being such as Legolas could come to be in thrall to a short-lived human for a second time. How much pain must he be gathering to himself? Not that Imrahil was anything but a prize amongst men; Éowyn could hardly deny it. Both Celaeren and Faramir had inherited some of the family’s long-limbed grace, but Imrahil had something more. His height, the smooth hairlessness of his skin, his wide high cheekbones and the slight exotic tilt to his eyes, all betrayed his elven ancestry. Then there was his glorious mane ofr anr and the tremendous vigour that infused his every word and action. All in all, her husband’s uncle was the most extraordinarily attractive man she had ever seen. Legolas, it would seem, was not immune to such charms.

The idea of the two of them together was the stuff of pure fantasy. Once again she tried to banish the thought from her mind, but to no avail. What would they look like together, as the elf’s long-fingered hands slid the man’s clothes from his body, and the man held the elf to hn stn strong possessive arms? Éowyn stared down at her plate as she pictured gentle touches becoming passionate, hungry caresses, the magnificent naked bodies moving together towards fulfilment . . . her face flushed hot, and a spasm of pleasure wracked her belly, leaving her tellingly damp between her legs. Looking up, she found Legolas’s eyes upon her, an expression of benign amusement on his face, and she knew her blush was deepening to the crimson of shame. Gods, surely he could not read her mind? She turned quickly to Celaeren, but not before she had noted the elf’s wry smile.

Éowyn and her cousin were deep in an innocuous conversation about horses by the time Faramir pushed his chair back and stood.

“I think,” said her husband in a tone loud enough to hold the attention of all, “it is time we retired to my study to discuss the matter at hand.” His glance swept around the table and alighted momentarily on Legolas.

“You have made some improvements to your gardens, Faramir,” said the elf amiably. “I shall take a closer look at them this morning.”

Before Imrahil could protest, Faramir spoke again. “Nay, Legolas, by your leave; if Celaeren and Rosalind are in agreement, I would like you to join us. Your wit is as sharp as your fabled hunting knivmy fmy friend, and you often see through the clouds of emotion that confuse us.”

Clever Faramir, ever the diplomat. If Imrahil had made the suggestion, Celaeren would have resented it wholeheartedly, but coming from her husband the proposition could hardly be refused. She smiled to herself as Celaeren glanced at his lady, read her assent, and nodded.

“As you wish,” said Legolas, and rose smoothly to his feet.

Éowyn chose a seat at one side of the study, where she could observe the discussion unobtrusively. She would say her piece when the moment arose, but for now she was content to listen and watch.

Imrahil sat back in one of the great winged chairs, his posture relaxed. Concern was written on his face, however; and when he spoke his voice was authoritative.

“It is a father’s dearest wish to embrace his son and congratulate him on a match well made. I want nothing less for you, Celaeren. If circumstances were different, I would certainly be applauding your choice,” he nodded slightly at Rosalind, who sat straight-backed, her face nearly as unreadable as the elf’s, “although I would be advising patience. A week is hardly enough time to make the most important decision of your life.”

Celaeren, his dark brows knitted in a frown, interjected, “I know what I want, Father.”

“As do I,” added Rosalind quietly.

“I do not doubt that your feelings are genuine,” Imrahil continued. “And were Rosalind free to accept your suit, I would give you my blessing to proceed in the conventional manner. But there is nothing conventionalut tut this situation.”

For a moment, nobody spoke.

“Rosalind, you are betrothed to another man, are you not?” asked Imrahil at last.

The young woman inclined her head. “The man was not of my choosing,” she said.

“It is not unusual for a family to arrange a marriage,” Imrahil said gently. “But it is against all laws and customs for another to interfere when such an agreement has already been reached. Should I aon aon all such considerations purely because the matter concerns my own son? That is not my way, and Celaeren knows it.”

“I cannot go back there! I will not marry him!” Rosalind cried, suddenly looking very much younger than her age. Éowyn regarded her sadly, her heart full of pity.

“Imrahil,” Faramir was troubled. “I gave Rosalind my protection here as I feared for her well-being. I believe her when she says she would not live to see this marriage through.”

“It seems to me that there is more to this tale than is at first apparent,” Imrahil leant forward in his chair, his gaze fixed on Rosalind. “Exactly how did you come to be here in Emyn Arnen, dressed as a boy, hiding from your family?”

“Her situation was intolerable! You must seet,” t,” Celaeren cut in.

Éowyn could see the way this conversation was likely to lead. It was time to intervene.

“Rosalind,” she said. The younger woman turned and stared at her, the clear blue eyes beseeching. How well she remembered that look. “I think it is time you told Prince Imrahil your story. It is better that he hears it directly from you.”

The room became very quiet as the two women gazed at each other. Éowyn tried to communicate her love and support through her eyes; perhaps she succeeded, for after a long pause Rosalind nodded, and said quietly, “Very well.”

“My father, as you know, was Aldwine of the Mark, a great lord and warrior. My mother was a woman of Gondor; he loved her passionately. My elder brother was named for my paternal grandfather, but when my twin brother and I were born, my mother gave us names from the south, Rosalind and Beremund.”

Éowyn glanced around the room as the young woman paused to compose herself. It was clear from the expression on Imrahil’s face that this was the first he had heard of Rosalind’s twin. Les tos too sat slightly forward in his seat, his beautiful eyes fixed on Rosalind.

“From the first Beremund and I were inseparable. After our mother’s death when we were seven, we became closer still. I suppose that Fréadren felt excluded by the strong bond between us, or maybe it was Father’s indulgence of us that first caused his resentment. Whatever the reasons, a distance developed between ourselves and our older brother very early on.

“Father did not believe that the place of a noble maiden was exclusively in the home. He encouraged me to train in the arts of war and riding alongside my twin; this suited my temperament and allowed me to be with Beremund as I wished. I can honestly say that even after Mother’s death, the years of my childhood were happy ones. Fréadren had no such love of physical pursuits. His skills were with words and numbers; he always enjoyed the politics of Father’s realm, and Father nurtured his interest. He believed in each of us celebrating our natural talents and inclinations, not fighting against them.”

Imrahil said, “He was indeed a great man, noble and wise. et het him, Rosalind, after the war.”

Rosalind nodded at him, her eyes glistening with tears. “When I reached my sixteenth birthday,” she continued, “the time came for me to go to court. I did not want to leave my twin behind, but it is the custom of our land, and I knew it would only be for a year or two. So I went to Edoras, and was presented to Queen Lothíriel. She was gracious towards me, and did what she could to ease my distress at thetingting from Beremund and my Father.

“It was at that time that I met the Lady Éowyn.” Éowyn kept her eyes fixed on the girl, although she knew the others in the room were looking at her. There was not one amongst them who did not already know of the fifteen months she and Faramir had spent apart, that terrible time when grief at the loss of the fourth baby had turned to despair, and driven her afromfrom his unintentionally oppressive sympathy. The mention of it shamed her still, but it was part oe ste story and thus must be told. She indicated, with the slightest movement of her head, that Rosalind should carry on.

“She came to spend some time in Edoras with her brother the King. She showed me kindness, and before long Queen Lothíriel arranged for me to serve her as lady-in-waiting. Gradually I overcame my homesickness and settled into life at court.”

This was not, of course, the half of it. Éowyn recalled all too clearly the long rides over the plains, the extended sessions with bow and sword, the laughter and the earnest conversation. Then there were the pleading glances, the supposedly accidental touches, and finally the passionate declarations of love. How could she have let things progress so far? Had she been blind, or too wrapped up in her own concerns to care?

“Half way through my second year at court the news came to Edoras of the death of my Father and Beremund.”

Rosalind paused, looking down at her hands, no doubt trying to control her tears. “They were travelling to our summer home when the party was attacked by brigands from the East. They fought to defend the women, my father’s sister and her children. Beremund was ever headstrong; he leapt to the fore and was outnumbered. He died swiftly. My father was wounded coming to his defence, and died within the week. Most of the rest of the party survived to tell the tale. They say that Fréadren held back and watched Father fall; he carries the guilt of it to this day.

“I cannot speak of my grief when I heard the news. Fréadren did not send for me until it was too late; I did not even see my twin and my father buried. I thought I might die myself of the overwhelming sorrow. Only Lady Éowyn’s kindness kept me from self-harm.”

A line had been crossed in her attempt to comfort the distraught girl, one that should have been respected. She had not known what else to do but to take Rosalind into her arms and hold her. What happened after should never have come to pass. It had been no act of love, but a result of the body’s desperate need for solace and assurance of the continuation of life, through the sharing of hard, fierce pleasure. For Rosalind, it had been quite understandable. What shocked Éowyn still was the depth of her own response.

Éowyn forced herself to remain calm, and turned towards Celaeren. A wave of relief flooded through her as she saw his expression, full of sympathy and insight. He closed his eyes for a second, then inclined his head towards her with a slight smile. She knew then that Rosalind had told him everything, and that Celaeren had understood, and accepted. She felt a surge of admiration for the young man and a sudden strengthening of her resolve. This unlikely match must be allowed to flourish; she would do whatever she could to ensure it.

“Eventually Fréadren did send for me, and I returned to my home only to find that he had plans for me. If he had resented me before, it seemed that now he could not bear the sight of me, and wanted me out of the way as fast as possible. Yet sending me away was not sufficient; he had arranged for me a marriage with a man three times my age, a man who was repulsive to me. I remonstrated with him, but he would not be moved.”

Rosalind sighed, and looked directly at Imrahil. “Prince Imrahil, my brother is not a wicked man, but he is full of guilt and anger. He has built a wall around himself and devotes himself to intrigue and the pursuit of power and wealth. I wonder if he can even see why I should object to a union which would bring both. He has no room for love in his own life, so why should he think it a consideration in mine?

“Seeing no way around it, I agreed to meet the man once. I had hoped to speak to him directly, to convince him that I could never be the wife he wanted. But that was not how the meeting went.” Again the young woman looked down, but this time she seemed unable to compose herself to continue.

A heavy stillness hung in the room, as if the occupants were somehow spellbound. Éowyn realised that she should say something, and tried to find the appropriate words.

Unexpectedly, it was Legolas who broke the silence. “Lady Rosalind,” he said gently, “You do not have to speak of it, i is is too distressing.” Rosalind raised her brimming eyes to the elf, who continued, “He tried to force his attentions on you, did he not?” She nodded. “And you resisted him.”

Celaeren could clearly bear it no longer. He rose from his chair and went to stand at Rosalind’s side, his hand on her shoulder. “Legolas is right,” he said roughly. “You need not continue.”

She looked up at him and covered his hand with hers. “No, it is better to tell it, I think.” Celaeren frowned, but stayed where he was and kept his peace.

Rosalind breathed deeply, and apparently found her balance once more. “How I stopped myself from killing him I shall never understand. I had my dagger, and I know well how to wield it. As it was, I dealt him a blow he will not readily forget when he thinks of such matters again. I ran to my chamber and bolted the door, and lay there shivering and weeping for some time. When Fréadren came to me, I welcomed him. Surely now my brother would realise that this marriage must be called off.

“But that was not what Fréadren had come to tell me. He shouted at me, called me a fool for insulting my suitor so. The man, he said, was only trying to taste what was already his. I should think myself lucky that he admired my spirit and looked forward to taming such a strong-minded wife. A lesser man would have broken off the engagement and demanded recompense.

“I knew then that only three options remained to me. I could kill the man and face the consequences, kill myself, or run away from my home for ever. That night I held my dagger before me and stared at it for a long while. I discovered, to my shame, that I had not the heart to choose the warrior’s way.”

“No,” said Imrahil suddenly, “There is no shame in choosing life. Never think that.” Éowyn glanced at him and saw how moved he was by Rosalind’s tale. Warmth spread through her. He would not let the girl go back to meet her fate in Rohan.

“I made my decision that night, and left before the dawn. The rest ofstorstory you know.” Rosalind looked slowly around the room, then sank back, exhausted, in her chair. Celaeren crouched beside her and took her hand.

Faramir shifted in his seat. “You will understand now why I had no wish to send Rosalind back to her brother, Imrahil,” he said.

“Of course. None the less, it is not yet clear to me what is to be done,” the older man replied.

“I cannot understand it!” Celaeren burst out. “Surely by now they must believe Rosalind to be dead. The engagement must already be broken.”

“Unfortunately, that is not thws fws from Rohan.” Faramir spoke quietly. “Word has reached Fréadren, I know not how, that Rosalind is alive and travelling in disguise through the South. I have no doubt that he will know before long exactly where she is, and then he will send men to fetch her. This alliance is too important to him and to Haleth, the suitor, to let it go.”

Rosalind let out a small exclamation at the sound oe mae man’s name and Faramir turned to her. “I am sorry, I know you do not wish to hear his name mentioned, but it is important that we know who we are dealing with.”

“Then can we not ask Éomer to intercede on Rosalind’s behalf?” Celaeren asked. “As King of the Mark, his word is law, surely.”

“This is a matter of blood and family honour,” said Éowyn. “Much as my brother might wish to help Rosalind, as I am sure he would, it would be against our custom for him to impose his will. The lords of the Mark are powerful, and he must be ever mindful of their wishes. If he were to force a decision on Fréadren and Haleth, it would cause a great deal of unrest. He cannot afford that.”

“Éowyn,” Legolas said, in measured tones. “How would Fréadren view an alternative proposal, one that would bring wealth and power from a different quarter, and might carry with it a substantial incentive?”

“If he was a reasonable man, an accommodation might be reached. A prince of Dol Amroth is a good match by anyone’s standards, in my land as much as here. But I for one do not believe that we are dealing with Fréadren’s reason alone. He is a deeply stubborn man, and he will see this marriage through by force if necessary, rather than let his sister best him.”

“Then we have a serious problem,” said Imrahil gravely. “We cannot have Fréadren’s men riding to Emyn Arnen or Belfalas to recover Rosalind by force. We would have to hand ove over or meet them at arms, and neither option is acceptable.”

Rosalind’s voice chilled Éowyn to the core. “Perhaps it would have been better if I had chosen the dagger,” she said. “My disguise cannot hide me, and there is no one who can help me now.”

Once again it was Legolas who spoke into the stifling silence. “There is one,” he said.

All eyes were upon the elf as he sat, still and calm, his hands folded in his lap. “King Elessar could intercede for Rosalind,” he went on. “He is not bound by the customs of Rohan, and no lord of the Mark could turn against him; it would be unthinkable.”

“King Elessar?” Rosalind gasped, “Why should he wish to take my part?”

“You are amongst his friends here, Rosalind,” Faramir said, but his smile was for the elf. “I believe Legolas is right. The king would hear your story, and may well choose to speak for you.”

“Would it not cause unrest if he were to overrule Fréadren?” Rosalind asked, puzzled.

“You do not know Arag – King Elessar,” Éowyn heard herself saying. “If he agrees to help you, he will not make it seem as if Fréadren has been overruled. He will find a way to make your brother happy with the proposition.” She wondered why they had not considered this before. Perhaps they needed Legolas’s assurance that the man he knew better than any of them would wish to involve himself in this matter.

The atmosphere in the room had changed, and the discussion moved on to the practicalities of the visit to Minas Tirith, and the petition to be placed before the king. Éowyn said little, but found her eyes riveted to Imrahil. The prince was clearly relieved that a possible solution had been identified, but his manner was far from carefree. When his gaze fell on Legolas, Éowyn saw the anxiety on his face, and she understood. Imrahil did indeed know of the elf’s history with the king; it could not be an easy knowledge to live with. She wondered again what had prompted them to make this trip together, and what might lie ahead for them in the royal city.

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It was late by the time Boromir had been settled and Éowyn climbed into bed beside her husband. He reached for her and pulled her close, holding her quietly while his hands soothed her back and arms. They had talked over the day’s events while she fed the baby and undressed, but there was one thing left to say, and she had waited long to say it.

“Faramir,” she began.

“Yes, love.” His voice was sleepy.

“Thank you.”

“For what, love?” He opened his eyes, dark in the candlelight.

“For being so kind to Rosalind, when you must have felt . . .” she grasped for words and found none.

“When I should resent her for what happened between you? I do not.” He was fully awake now.

“I cannot understand how you can be so forgiving,” she sighed.

“She was young and impressionable, desperately lonely, and you were kind to her; it is no wonder she developed feelings for you.”

“And I was older, married, and should have been wise enough to stop it before it became something else,” Éowyn replied bitterly.

“You must let it go. You had your own grief to bear, and it is in the past now,” he said, then pushed himself up on one arm. “Is it not?” he added, “Do you still want her?”

“No! It is not that,” she exclaimed.

“But?” He was far too skilled at reading her mood. “Tell me, Éowyn, whatever it is.”

“I would not have it happen again, but . . . but the memory still warms me. I am ashamed.”

“It still warms you?” To her astonishment, Faramir laughed. “That is what is distressing you?”

“Why do you laugh?”

His hand slid down her arm to her thigh, and slowly across to her belly, then lower still. It rested there, the slightest of movements causing her eyes to open wide and her breath to catch.

“Perhaps you should tell me more,” he said.

“Faramir! That would be . . .”

“Here, in the privacy of our bed? Tell me how it was between you.”

“I cannot . . .”

“Éowyn, listen. This memory that worries you so much. If you were to let it warm me as well, might it not draw us closer, rather than push us apart? Try it, my love.”

She stared at him, the love and humour and lust in his eyes, and felt his fingers urging her on. Her gentle, handsome husband whose sensitive exterior concealed such astonishing passion beneath. She would do anything for him.

Éowyn closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and began to speak.


To be continued...

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Author's note: There are three more chapters still to come. I shall be away on holiday for a few days, but the chapters will be posted as soon as I come back, that is, from the 14th of August onwards. Thank you to those who have taken the time to review. It is always greatlyappreciated.