A Garden for the White Lady

The wind that swept across the Westfold plains carried the scent of freshly turned earth and greening grass, a perfume of peace. From her vantage point on a low rise, Éowyn watched the signs of Rohan’s slow mending. New homesteads, their timbers pale against the endless green, sent plumes of smoke into the vast sky. The rhythmic clang of a blacksmith’s hammer echoed from a nearby settlement, a sound of creation, not of war. This was the future they had bled for. This was victory.

Her mare, Windfola’s spirited daughter, shifted beneath her, impatient. Éowyn soothed the horse with a practiced hand on her neck, but she understood the animal’s restlessness. It was a mirror of her own. A familiar ache had settled deep in her bones, a humming tension beneath the skin that had nothing to do with the healing scars on her arm. Her days were full. She oversaw the distribution of grain from Gondor, mediated disputes between families resettling the ravaged lands, and spent long hours in the houses of healing, her knowledge of herbs and tending wounds now her primary purpose.

It was good work. It was needed work. And it was slowly driving her mad.

Her hands, resting on the worn leather of the reins, felt empty. She remembered the weight of her sword, the jarring shock of its bite into orc-flesh, the desperate strength it took to hold it aloft. She remembered the terror and the fire of the Pelennor, a feeling so vast and absolute it had burned away everything but the moment. There, she had been a vessel of pure, terrible purpose. Here, she was the Lady of the Shield-arm, a title of honor that felt more and more like a gentle cage. She was Éowyn, wife of the Steward of Gondor, a healer, a leader. All true. All hollow.

A gust of wind whipped a strand of golden hair across her face, and she closed her eyes, breathing it in. It was the same wind that had billowed her cloak as she rode to her near-death, the same wind that had carried the Witch-king’s shriek. Now it carried the laughter of children from the village below. She should have felt only gratitude. Instead, a treacherous part of her, a part she tried to crush down into silence, yearned for the storm.

She thought of Faramir, of his quiet strength and the gentle reverence in his hands. His love was a garden, a place of peace and careful cultivation where she had found a shelter she never knew she needed. But even in his arms, in the warm safety of their bed in Minas Tirith or here in the Golden Hall, the restlessness lingered. She loved him with a depth that still surprised her, a fierce, protective love born in the shadows of the Houses of Healing. Yet, she felt a chasm opening between the woman he saw—the noble, healing lady—and the wild thing that still paced within her. She craved not the horror of war, but its clarity. Its demand.

With a sigh that was lost to the wind, she turned her horse. The sun was beginning its descent, painting the western sky in hues of rose and gold, the same colors she’d seen reflected on fields of blood. Her duties awaited her in Edoras. Ledgers to be balanced, reports to be written, a life of quiet order to be lived. As she nudged her mare into a canter, the smooth, powerful rhythm of the horse’s gait was a bittersweet reminder of a different kind of ride, a charge into a battle that had defined her, and from which, she feared, she had never truly returned.

His arrival was announced not by a war-horn, but by the keen eyes of a watchman on the gate. "A company from the south, my lady! Bearing the White Tree of Gondor!"

A jolt went through Éowyn, sharp and immediate. She was standing in the main hall of Meduseld, discussing the state of the granaries with her brother, Éomer. The King of Rohan turned, his expression one of polite, sovereign interest. But Éowyn felt a flush rise in her cheeks, a private warmth that had nothing to do with statecraft. Faramir.

She met his party in the courtyard, her brother at her side. He came not as a husband stealing a visit, but as the Steward of Gondor on official business. His escort was small but formal: a dozen swan-knights in their gleaming mail, their presence a stark, elegant contrast to the rugged Rohirrim guards. Behind them came two men laden with scrolls and satchels, looking utterly out of place amidst the stables and the sparring yards. Scribes. Only Faramir would bring scribes into the heart of Rohan.

He dismounted with a fluid grace, his dark hair ruffled by the wind, his grey eyes finding hers across the space between them. For a moment, the titles and duties fell away. She saw only the man whose quiet strength had been her anchor, whose gentle hands had tended the wounds no one else could see. He saw, she knew, the woman he loved. But then Éomer stepped forward, and the moment was sealed away.

"Lord Faramir, Steward of Gondor. You are welcome in my halls," Éomer boomed, his voice full of genuine warmth as they clasped arms.

"King Éomer. I thank you. I bring greetings from King Elessar and the people of Gondor," Faramir replied, his voice calmer, more measured, yet carrying its own authority. His gaze returned to Éowyn. "My lady," he said, and the simple words were laden with a meaning that was for her alone. He took her hand, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles. It was a formal, public gesture, yet the touch was a spark against her skin, a private current that ran straight to her core.

"My lord," she answered, her voice steady despite the sudden quickening of her pulse. "Your journey was swift, I trust."

"As swift as I could make it."

Later, in the great hall, the purpose of his journey was laid bare. The scribes unrolled a massive, beautifully rendered map across a trestle table, weighting its corners with polished stones. Faramir stood before it, not with the bearing of a warrior outlining a campaign, but as a scholar presenting a thesis.

"The war has bound our peoples in blood and victory," he began, his voice resonating in the hall's high rafters. "It is my hope, and the hope of King Elessar, that we may now bind them in prosperity and peace."

He spoke of a trade route, but in terms the Rohirrim had seldom heard. He spoke of "reciprocal economic benefits," of "cultural exchange," and of establishing a "center for shared learning" at the route’s midway point. He pointed to projections of crop yields, calculated potential tariffs on wool and timber, and outlined a plan for a joint library to house the histories of both their peoples.

Éowyn watched her brother and his lords. They listened with respect due the Steward of Gondor, but she saw the familiar signs of their practical impatience. Their brows were furrowed. They shifted their weight. When Faramir paused, a grizzled lord named Gamling, his face a roadmap of old battles, spoke the thought that was in all their minds.

"It is a fine map, my lord. But this road you speak of crosses the Isen. It is land that has been contested for generations. It will need guarding. How many spears will it take?"

Faramir inclined his head, his expression patient. "The defense of the route is paramount, of course. I have schematics for a series of watchtowers..."

"And a library?" another lord muttered, just loud enough to be heard. "What good are Gondorian books to a Rider whose horse has gone lame?"

A faint flush touched Faramir’s cheeks. He was not accustomed to such bluntness in the council chambers of Minas Tirith. Éowyn felt a pang of protectiveness for him, mixed with a reluctant understanding of her kinsman's view. Faramir saw the world as a grand tapestry of interwoven threads, a thing of history and potential to be studied and shaped with careful thought. The Rohirrim saw the world as a horse to be ridden, a field to be plowed, a foe to be met.

Stepping forward, she placed her hand on the map, her fingers tracing the proposed route through the foothills of the White Mountains. "Faramir’s vision is a grand one," she said, her voice cutting through the rising murmur. "But Lord Gamling speaks true. A road is only as good as the men who keep it safe. And a library is of little use if the people it serves are hungry." She looked from her brother’s wary face to her husband’s thoughtful one. "The idea has merit. Great merit. But it must be built on Rohirrim soil as much as on Gondorian parchment."

Éomer nodded slowly, his gaze on his sister. "Aye. Well said." He looked at Faramir. "We will feast tonight and speak more of this. A plan forged in stone and ink must first be forged in fellowship."

The feast was a boisterous, roaring affair, as all feasts in Meduseld were. The air was thick with the smells of roasted meats, spilled ale, and damp wool. Men with braids of gold and grey hammered their fists on the heavy oak tables, their laughter echoing off the gilded roof-beams where carved horse heads watched with silent, painted eyes. It was the sound of life, loud and defiant, a sound Éowyn had once craved. Tonight, it felt like a shouting match against a silence only she could hear.

Seated beside her, Faramir was an island of calm in the churning sea of Rohirrim fellowship. He ate with a quiet deliberation, his grey eyes observant, missing nothing. He had answered their lords’ blunt questions with unflagging courtesy, listened to their boasts of horse and herd with genuine interest, and now, as the ale horns were refilled for the third time, he leaned toward her, his voice a low murmur beneath the din.

“They do not trust what they cannot see or hold,” he said, not as a criticism, but as a simple statement of fact. His gaze was on Gamling, who was loudly arguing the merits of a particular breed of warhorse. “My maps and figures are just shapes on a page to them. Ghosts.”

“They are a people of the earth, not of parchment,” Éowyn replied, her own voice low. She turned a silver goblet in her hands, watching the firelight swim in the polished surface. “They trust the feel of a good horse between their knees, the heft of an axe, the look of the sky before a storm. The war… it did not change that. It carved it deeper. Anything that feels less solid than a shield is a luxury they fear they cannot afford.”

“And a library?” His lips curved in a small, wry smile. “That must seem the greatest folly of all.”

“To some, it is a sign of softness. A city that looks to books for its strength is a city that has forgotten how to fight.” She paused, then confessed, “There is a part of me that understands them. My body remembers the battle. The shock of it. The clarity. This peace… it is a quieter thing. Harder to grasp. It leaves too much room for thought.”

Faramir’s smile faded, replaced by a look of profound understanding. He set down his own goblet and turned more fully toward her, creating a small pocket of intimacy in the crowded hall. His hand came to rest beside hers on the table, not touching, but close enough that she could feel its warmth.

“In Gondor, it is the opposite,” he said, his voice barely a whisper now, meant only for her. “We were besieged for so long, staring into the darkness, that we nearly forgot the sun. We fought to defend stone, to protect a history that was becoming a tomb. My father… he looked into the past and saw only ruin, and it drove him to madness.” He drew a slow breath. “I want to build libraries and schools not as a luxury, but as a defense. A defense against despair. I want to give our children words for hope, to fill their minds with knowledge and beauty so there is no room for the shadow to take root again.”

The raw honesty in his voice struck her to the core. She saw it then, the invisible wound he carried. He fought the memory of his father’s burning flesh and shattered mind with scrolls and scholarship. He fought despair with ink and reason. Her people fought their ghosts with swords and sweat, he with wisdom and foresight. But they were all fighting the same war.

A profound shift occurred within her, a settling of the restless spirit that had plagued her for months. The chasm she’d felt between them—his scholarly calm, her warrior’s heart—was not a chasm at all. It was a valley, and they were standing on opposite sides, looking at the same horizon.

Her fingers uncurled from her goblet and found his. She laced them together, a firm, possessive grip. His hand tightened on hers, a silent answer. The roar of the great hall seemed to fade to a distant hum.

“The war left scars on the land that we can see,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “But it left deeper scars on the people. A phantom ache. A fear that the peace is a dream from which we will wake.” She looked into his grey eyes, finding her own turmoil reflected there, but also her solace. “You are right. Your vision is not folly. It is a different kind of shield.”

His thumb stroked the back of her hand, a slow, soothing rhythm that sent a shiver of warmth up her arm. “And your practicality is not blindness,” he countered softly. “It is the anchor that will keep my vision from floating away on the wind. A shield is useless if the soldier carrying it starves.”

In that moment, in the heart of her brother’s hall, surrounded by the ghosts of her past and the clamor of the present, Éowyn felt a sense of purpose click into place, sharp and true as a sword locking into its scabbard. It was not his purpose, or hers, but theirs. The path forward was not one she had to walk alone, nor was it one he had to map in solitude.

A king’s will could be forged in fellowship, but a future, she now understood, was forged in moments just like this. The warmth of his hand was a tangible thing, a point of stillness in the swirling currents of her own heart. The roar of the great hall was a distant sea. All that mattered was the solid presence of the man beside her, the quiet strength in his grip, and the shared understanding that flowed between them like a silent river.

She drew a deep breath, the air tasting of wine and woodsmoke, and let her gaze drift from their joined hands back to the sprawling map on the trestle table. The elegant lines and calligraphic names no longer seemed like the fragile dreams of a scholar. They were a challenge. An invitation. A path waiting to be trod.

“A map is not the territory,” she said, her voice clear and steady, cutting through the haze of their private moment. “Parchment cannot tell you where the ground is soft after a rain, or which hills offer the best view of the crossings. It cannot show you where the wind bites hardest in winter.”

She turned to him, her eyes, the color of a stormy sky, holding his with a new intensity. “This road cannot be planned from a hall in Edoras or a tower in Minas Tirith. It must be known. It must be walked.” She paused, the full weight of her conviction behind her next words. “We should ride the route ourselves. You and I. Together.”

It was not a suggestion; it was a declaration. A challenge to meet her on her own ground, to join his vision to the reality of the earth itself.

A slow smile spread across Faramir’s face, reaching his grey eyes and filling them with a light that made her own heart leap. He saw it all: her need to feel the wind on her face, to have a purpose that was real and solid beneath her feet. He saw the invitation to build this not just for their people, but for each other.

“There is no one,” he said, his voice low and rich with feeling, “whose eyes I would trust more to see the truth of the land.” He squeezed her hand, a firm and final seal on their unspoken pact. “And no one I would rather have as my guide.”

They rose as one, their hands still linked, and approached the high table where Éomer sat, watching them with a curious, discerning gaze. The King of the Mark had seen the shift in his sister, the quiet fire that had been banked for so long now rekindled.

It was Éowyn who spoke, her voice ringing with the authority of a Shieldmaiden and the grace of a Lady of Rohan. “My lord King,” she said, addressing her brother formally, though her eyes were warm. “Lord Faramir and I are in agreement. This plan has the strength of both our peoples in it. But it must be founded on rock, not parchment. We will survey the proposed route ourselves, to find the best path for the road and the most suitable site for the outpost—a place both defensible and welcoming. We will leave within the week.”

Éomer looked from his sister’s determined face to Faramir’s steady one. He saw their linked hands, a symbol of the very union Faramir had spoken of. He saw in Éowyn a light he had feared extinguished forever, a purpose that was not born of battle-fury but of hope. He raised his horn of ale.

“So be it,” he boomed, a grin splitting his beard. “A journey to lay the first stone of a new age. To the Steward and the Lady! To the road they will build!”

The hall roared its approval, and the horns were raised in a final, thundering toast.

Later, when the last of the lords had departed and the servants were clearing the tables, a quiet peace settled over the great hall. The fires had burned down to glowing embers, casting long, dancing shadows on the carved walls. Éowyn and Faramir stood alone before the map, the world shrunk to this single space, to this shared intention.

He turned to her, his expression tender in the dim, warm light. He raised his free hand and gently cupped her jaw, his thumb stroking the high curve of her cheekbone. “A warrior’s heart and a queen’s mind,” he murmured, his gaze searching hers. “Rohan is fortunate. And so am I.”

The simple, profound truth of his words undid her. The last wall around her heart, the one she had unknowingly kept against the quiet onslaught of this man’s gentle love, crumbled to dust. She leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment. When she opened them, she lifted her face to his.

His mouth met hers, softly at first, a question and a discovery. The kiss was not the fierce, desperate claiming of a warrior, but the deep, soul-affirming union of two people who had found their other half in the most unlikely of places. It tasted of wine and promise. His lips were firm and warm, moving over hers with a slow, deliberate passion that spoke of reverence. She answered with a need that surprised her, her hand sliding from his to rest over his heart, feeling its steady, strong beat beneath her palm. He gathered her closer, his arm wrapping securely around her waist, pulling her flush against the hard lines of his body. The kiss deepened, a silent vow exchanged in the embers’ glow, a pact sealed not with words, but with the undeniable truth of their bodies and souls finally, completely, finding their way home to each other. The journey had already begun.