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‘A book?’ Éowyn repeats. ‘On the history of my people?’
‘Yes,’ Faramir says, and he sits beside her on the bench. There is an eagerness in his eyes and in the way he leans forward ever so slightly, and Éowyn feels the pull of it. ‘We could do it together, you and I.’
‘Ah, so this is why you married me,’ Éowyn says. She straightens and raises her chin proudly. ‘It was all an elaborate scheme in pursuit of knowledge.’
Faramir smiles crookedly. ‘Why else?’
Éowyn leans back against the wall of the house and laughs, lifting her face to the sun.
Autumn arrived early this year, bringing with it damp mornings and sharp winds. Today, though, the fleeting remnants of the summer shine down on the garden. It is quiet, save for the gentle rustle of leaves at the far end of the wall, and Éowyn turns to Faramir to find him watching her, his eyes still bright, if now a little softer.
‘It would be wonderful,’ she says carefully, her eyes not leaving his, ‘but it isn’t needed.’
‘Men are forgetful,’ Faramir says. ‘The archives of Minas Tirith are full of accounts of the old days; without them, our days now would be darker.’
‘I know,’ Éowyn agrees, ‘but you forget the Rohirrim do not read or write, nor do they feel the need to learn.’
Faramir lowers his gaze. ‘You learned.’
‘And I do not regret it,’ Éowyn says, ‘but I am not ashamed to have not known before. We are oral storytellers, and we have great respect for our minstrels and our legends. We have not forgotten the deeds of the past, and we will not forget in the days to come, either.’
The memory of her people runs deep, carved into the very stones of the land, even if time is a swift stream that springs over it.
She says it to reassure him and save him the trouble, but it does not seem to soothe his mind.
He smiles quickly at her and nods before turning to the garden before him. He looks first at the carefully planted and labelled bushes and saplings, and then beyond at the hills of Emyn Arnen, as though watching for a storm on the horizon. That is when Éowyn understands.
She grasps his hand.
At his touch, an image rushes through her mind: a grey, mutinous sea; a thunderous roaring and distant screams; and all about her, an overwhelming sense of loss. Among the froth and the fury, she sees sodden books, orphaned heirlooms, and a tapestry that will never again be seen or re-made. Both story and skill are lost to the devouring waters.
The water washes over them both – she gasps – before quickly receding, leaving only a mist that she blinks away, and the distant glint of the Anduin to the west as it flows down to the Sea.
‘Have I ever told you of Eorl the Young?’ she says. Her voice is rough; she clears her throat.
Faramir does not answer for a moment. ‘We know much about Eorl in Gondor,’ he says at last, and his voice, too, is tight. Brittle. ‘His friendship with Cirion and his aid in our time of need was great.’
‘And what about after?’ Éowyn asks. ‘What does Gondor know about that?’
Faramir hesitates before turning back to her. He has composed himself once more, and he says with a wry smile, ‘Very little.’
'Would that you had someone to teach you a little history.’
The mirth in Faramir’s eyes mirrors her own.
'Would that I did.’