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Lótessë, Fourth Age 18 — Dol Arandur
The late spring sunshine illuminated the steward's study for a long moment before fading into dullness behind the clouds that raced across the sky. Faramir stood, determined to find a candle so he could have at least some consistent light as he worked, but turned at hearing a knock on the door. “Enter,” he called.
The door opened and Beregond stepped into the room, resting one hand on the jamb. “Sir, there is a – a situation that would benefit from your attention.”
Faramir glanced at the stack of documents on his desk and picked up the first few sheets. “You know I have confidence in your judgment. Can you not see to it?”
The former member of the tower guard shifted his weight. As the years had progressed his duties at arms as captain of the White Company had lessened while his role in the fief's management grew, but the matter at hand was not one he wanted to be caught in. “It has to do with Lady Éowyn. The housekeeper is wringing her hands in a dither.” The man paused as Faramir's eyebrows came together, then finished in a rush: “To put it plainly, her ladyship has brought your horse into the sitting room.”
The papers fluttered back down onto the pile. “She has done what?”
Beregond again shifted on his feet. “Come and see, sir.”
With long, quick strides Faramir reached the door and followed the messenger down the corridor and to the other side of the house. As they neared the sitting room they encountered the housekeeper pacing and indeed wringing her her hands.
“My lord, forgive my boldness,” she said as he appeared, her voice then dropping to a whisper, “but this is daft! Beasts belong outdoors, not in the houses of men. It is going to make a frightful mess. I am sure of it.”
Faramir put a hand on her shoulder. “I will take care of this before any such thing happens,” he assured her. With that, he strode into the sitting room and suddenly halted, dumbfounded at the sight before him.
Of course he had believed without question what Beregond had told him, but actually seeing the large bay stallion standing patiently in the center of the room with lengths of green, blue and gray cloth draped over its back and around its neck was another matter. At the horse's head stood seven-year-old Meriadoc, who held the rope halter with one hand and with the other gently scratched the stallion's cheeks and jaw. Five-year-old Elerrína sat on her knees on a cushioned chair with a pencil stub in her hand, intently bent over the paper on the tea table in front of her as she sketched the scene. Faramir then saw Éowyn's still mostly golden hair bobbing on the far side of the horse's neck.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked. At the sound of his voice, the horse pricked its red-brown ears, turned its head and nickered a greeting.
Éowyn straightened to peer over the animal's withers and smiled at her husband. “I am fitting Abrazân for a new breast collar, saddle cloth and other adornments,” she stated cheerfully. “The ones you use for him now are more suited to his sire's coloring, and they are getting worn out.”
“But, Éowyn, you cannot bring a horse into the house,” Faramir protested weakly.
She pinned two pieces of cloth together atop the withers and then looked back at him. “Why not? His feet and shoes were clean when he entered, which is more than can often be said of certain offspring of yours.” She gave Meriadoc a pointed look. A tinge of red appeared on the boy's cheeks as he grinned and glanced away.
Faramir turned to Beregond. “Have you noticed how they are always declared my sons and never hers at such times?” The steward's steward allowed a smile but made no remark. “You could have taken the cloth to him,” Faramir continued.
“To the stables? No, there are too many opportunities there for it to get dirty before the pieces are even finished.”
“To the clean grass of the meadow then.”
“Where the wind today would make it flap and perchance spook him? No, the house was the best option, and he has been a perfect gentleman. Meriadoc seems to have inherited your way with animals and has kept him quiet.” The horse stood with its eyes half-closed as it enjoyed the scratches, and other than the greeting, the only movement from the stallion that Faramir had noted was an occasional swish of the black tail.
“But –” he began as Éowyn came around to the horse's near side.
“I am almost finished,” she insisted. “Then Meriadoc will take him back to the meadow and Idril can end her fretting.” She pulled a piece of chalk out of the sewing basket on the floor, brought the strip of dark blue cloth higher on the horse's back and made a mark along the spine. She looked over her shoulder. “I would not have brought him in if I did not trust him to behave,” she said softly. “Do you doubt my judgment?”
“Of course not,” he answered in the same tone, stung by the accusation. “Carry on.”
Her smile returned, and she pulled the green and gray strips off the horse's back. “I think I will use the blue and trim it with gray and white, if it pleases you,” she said.
“I am certain that whatever you choose will only increase his handsomeness.”
Her smile broadened, and soon she had all of the cloth put back atop the sewing basket. She took a soft-skinned apricot out its hiding place in the basket, sliced it in half and plucked out the pit before offering the rest of the fruit to the horse, who eagerly snatched it from her palm. “A good boy indeed, Abrazân,” she murmured as she rubbed his neck. “All right, Duck, return him to the meadow.”
“Yes, mother,” her son replied before clicking his tongue as he stepped toward the doorway.
Faramir patted the muscled shoulder as the stallion passed – hooves suddenly loud as they left the rug and clattered on stone – and in a low voice told Beregond, “Go with him, please. Even without flapping cloth it would not take much to spook a horse in this wind.” The man nodded and left.
Faramir walked farther into the room and took Éowyn in his arms, resting his forehead against hers. “I had thought that given time my wild shieldmaiden would learn something about propriety, but I fear I was mistaken.”
She chuckled. “You forget, my dour lord husband, that you have joined with the House of Eorl, which has its own beliefs about what is proper.”
“Nay, I have not forgotten, nor would I have you forsake such traditions. But promise me something.”
“Yes?”
“Remember to warn Idril before you bring a horse into this house again.”