The White Lady of Rohan
by Soledad Cartwright

Part One of my Aragorn-storyline ''Fall Before Temptation''

Disclaimer:

None of these wonderful characters belong to me. They belong to JRR Tolkien and him alone. I'm just borrowing them, because it is a great honour - and great fun - to play with them a little. I've been an avid Tolkien fan for at least twenty years (which shows how old I have already become, without noticing it), and simply want to share my pleasure about his creation with other people.

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

Originally, this used to be the second story of my Boromir-storyline, called ''Fall Before Temptation''. For some reason I cannot understand myself, I decided to make it a flashback story, in order to explain some hints in ''Forgotten Song'', which was meant to be the first one. After some thought, I realized how distracting this might be and decided to swap the two stories, adjusting the timeline to become linear. Also after some time the need arose to write more about Boromir's long and perilous journey between Minas Tirith and Rivendell, so I decided to add more chapters and make ''The White Lady'' a rather lengthy tale.

I've been planning to write an Éowyn story ever since I read the books at the first time some twenty-odd years ago. (Yes, I am actually that old!) Back then, I had an idea to a Faramir-Éowyn romance, but it never worked, mostly because I couldn't understand how she transferred her attraction for Aragorn into love for Faramir so quickly. Then somewhere, not so long ago, I read the idea that she might have a love affair with Boromir. I couldn't quite accept that idea either, but I found the thought that she might have known Boromir interesting. Then I came upon Dwimordene's excellent story, ''From The Other River Bank'', where it is mentioned that the Lord Denethor wanted Boromir to marry Éowyn, thus ensuring the loyalty of Rohan. When I started writing my Boromir-storyline it seemed a good opportunity to consider, how Éowyn might have reacted to such a proposal.

I quote the description of Meduseld almost word-to-word from ''The Two Towers'' - first to create an authentic feeling by the launch of my story, second, because I follow the books, and who else than the Great Maker himself could know better what the Godlen Hall looks like? The same is true for the Rohirrim themselves. Basically, I took the part with Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli and Gandalf visiting Edoras and re-wrote it, inserting Boromir and his story into it. So be not surprised when something appears strangely familiar. It is meant to be.

3) There won't be any speech in the tongue of the Rohirrim (or Old English, actually). Sorry, folks, the challenge to write a proper English is hard enough, even without messing it up with other languages.

Chapter One: Meduseld

It was the 10th of July - almost a week since he left Minas Tirith, haunted by his father's cold rage and his own guilty feelings. The day before he had ridden on through sunset and slow dusk and gathering night. When he at last held on and dismounted for a few short hours of rest, he felt stiff and weary, and sleep seemed to flee him. So he just lay in the deep, soundless night, under the cold moon, until the stiffness in his limbs eased a little and his horse rested. Then he rose again and set his journey forth.

On the eve of the eight day he finally reached the outskirts of Edoras, seat of the Rohirrim rulers. He planned to take his first somewhat longer rest in the Golden Hall of Meduseld, where Théoden son of Thengel, King of the Mark of Rohan dwelt. This was not the first time he visited the Riddermark, having come here on different errands from the Lord Denethor, his father, buit the magnificent beauty of the city still filled his heart with awe, chasing away his gloomy thouights for a while.

So very diffferent it was from the seven stone rings of Minas Tirith, so open, unrestrained and free, that even he felt like a caged bird set free again when he took in the majestic sight unfolding before his very eyes.

He held on his tired horse and looked forward, where the grasslands rolled against the hills that clustered at his feet and flowed up into many valleys already dim and dark, untouched by the light at the setting sun, winding their way into the heart of the great mountains. He chose the widest of the glens that opened like a long gulf among the hills and followed it. Far inmward he glimpsed a tumbled mountain-mass with one tall peak. About its feet there flowed, as a thread of silver, the stream that issued from the dale. It ran down swiftly into the plain, and beyond the feet of the hills turned across his path in a wide bend, flowing away east to feed the Entwash far off in its read-choked beds.

Over the streem there was a ford between low banks much trampled by the passage of horses. Boromir passed over and came upon a wide rittled track leadfing towards the uplands. And there it was that he run into the Horse-lords for the first time since he had passed Rohan's Gap. It was a small company of two dozen mail-clad men, but the simple fact that Rohan felt the need to guard the ford - for the first time in at least a century - showed how perilous the ways had grown in recent times.

Boromir always loved the Riders of Rohan - their bravery, their fierce love of freedom, their unshakable loyalty, their skill with weapons and horses, their high spirits. Every time he was sent to the Mark, he thoroughly enjoyed talking and singing and drinking with them, listening to their rich and slowly rolling language, their fierce and powerful songs. It made him feel a lot younger, just to be in their company.

And their horses! The heart of every true warrior would swell at the sight of those magnificent creatures! Great they were of stature, strong and clean-limbed; their grey coat glistened, their long tails flowed in the wind, their manes were braided on their proud necks. More than anything in his youth had Boromir wanted to ride such a wonderful steed, but the horses of Rohan could not survive in the closed, stone stables of Minas Tirith, nor would he have such free spirits jailed among lesser beings.

The Men that rode them matched them well: tall and long-limbed; their hair, flaxen-pale, flowed under their light helms and streamed in long braids behind them, their faces were stern and keen. )n their hands were tall spears of ash, painted shields, white and green, were slung at their backs, long swords were at their belts, their nurnished shirts of mail hung down upon their knees.

With astonishing speed and skill they checked their steeds, wheeled and came charging around. Soon Boromir found himself in a ring of horsemen moving in a running circle, up the hill-slope behind him and down, round and round him, drawing ever inwards. It was a customary tactic of the Rohirrim, distracting and frightening for enemies - moreso for the afoot-travelling orcs of smaller stature -, but Boromir knew it well already and did not even flinch.

Without a word or cry, suddenly the Riders halted. A thicket of spears were pointed towards Boromir who held back his frightened horse with an iron grip; and some of the horsemen had bows in hand, and their arrows were already fitted to the string. Then a laughter was to hear, deep and pleasant, from behind the line of the Riders, and one of them rode forward - a tall man, taller than the rest and strong and handsome; fromh is helm as a crest a white horsetail flowed as it was custom for all the Marshals of the Mark, but his was framed in atiny golden crown on top of his helm. For the Rider was no less than Téodred son of Théoden, crown Prince and Second Marshal of the Mark.

''Hail Boromir, heir of Gondor!'', he greated the stranger in a friendly manner; for no strangers they were for each other, though few and ashort their meetings had been in the past. Still, quickly had they detected a kindred spirit in each other, bound by the same duties and burdened by the same responsibilities, albeit the Lord Denethor was not called a King. They even were about the same age, Théodred being born only a few years later than Boromir.

The Prince of Rohan signaled his men to lower their weapons and lasped forearms with his rarely-seen friend in the manenr of warriors.
''Welcome to the Mark, my friend, it comforts my heart to see you safe and sound. Dire news have been coming from the South lately, and I have been worrying about your fate.''

''Great is our need, indeed, for the strength of Gondor is weakening by every new assault'', Boromir answered gravely. ''But it seems that Rohan has been threatened, too, if you feel the need to guard the ford of Edoras. Do the orcs dare to intrude the Mark this deeply?''

Théodred glanced at his men uncomfortably and lowered his voice.
''No, not the orcs... no more than other times, at least. To tell the truth, my main concern is at the moment is not Mordor that is far but Isengard that is close.''
''Isengard?'' Boromir frowned. ''Has Saruman the White turned against his allies? Surely we would have heard about that?''

''He did not turn against us, not openly at least, not yet'', the Prince of Rohan replied glumly. ''but something is going on in Isengard, something that is not right. There are orc-packs all over the Merk, we can hardly catch up with them and our forces are already spread too thin'', he lowered his voice even more, almost a whisper. ''But what I fear most, and my cousin Éomer agrees with me in that, is a league between Orthanc and the Dark Tower. Should that come together, Rohan would be caught between two fires, bot of which is much too strong for us to estinguish.''

Boromir shook his head in shocked disbelief.
''Could that really happen?''

''I do not know'', Théodred sighed, ''but the omens are not good. Had your brother not come to Éomer's aid several times recently, we would have lost the only other male offspring of Éorl's House with all the men of his own household. Hard it is to fight a wizard, moreso one as powerful as Saruman is. His evil birds are always in the skies, spying, watching. Black smoke is rising from the mines below Isengard and who knows what evil things he is breeding in them? Were it not for the strength of Gondor, however weakening it is, I would fear that the fate of the Mark was sealed.''

''And yet is the King of the Mark hesitating to take the Steward's advice in matters of war'', Boromir said, remembering the last council in Minas Tirith that accidentally revealed his brother's dealings with Éomer of Rohan and raised the wrath of the Steward towards his younger son again.

A great sadness clouded the handsome face of the Prince of Rohan; his ice-blue eyes darkened and became almost grey in pain.
''My father is not the man he used to be'', he answered sadly, ''not any more. Age seems to lie heavily on his shoulders nowadays, though he is many years younger than the Steward of Gondor. But there are those who whisper soft words of doom to him in the darkness in his halls, and he falls more and more under their spell. Were it not for Éowyn to watch over him, I would not even dare to leave him behind for a day.''

The name of Éowyn, tho whom his father wanted him to be wed, made Boromir's heart ache again. He longed to know whether the Steward had made his proposal already, yet the time was not proper for such uestions - nor could he bne sure that Théodred would know of it at all. Still, the news of the weakened state of Théoden were disturbing, even if it explained a lot about Rohan's strange politics lately.
''These are dire news, indeed'', he said. ''Do you believe that I would still be welcome in your father's halls? For a long and tiresome journey is before me, and I hoped to make a well-deserved rest in Meduseld ereI continue towards the North.''

''Those that come from Mundburg are always welcome in Meduseld'', Théodred smiled. ''And many of us, including myself, will be glad to have you in our mids again, even if it is only for a short while. For more like the swift sons of Éorl than to the grave Men of Gondor you seem to us, and we are proud to call you our friend. Éomer will be devastated to when he hears that you came to Edoras without him being here - he always admired you. Come now. I will escort you to Meduseld myself.''

He instructed his second, a middle-aged, scarry-faced man to take command of the guarding company and rode forward, Boromir accompanying him, relieved to be in the company of someone who never showed anything but honest friendship towards him. It was to rare for him to spend time with someone who didn't demand anything from him - who simply liked him. Sometimes he thought the Prince of Rohan and his young cousin were the only people who did like him for the person he was, not for the powers he Would wield.

At the foot of the walled hill their way ran under the shadow of many mounds, high and green. Upon their western sides the grass was white as with a drifted snow: small flowers sprang like countless stars amid the turf, and Boromir bowed his head respectfully, for he knew that those were the resting places of the former Kings of the Mark. How much more gentle and natural they seemed than the tombs of the Stewards long gone on the Rath Dínen, dark and damp and cold like prisons, enclosed in dead stone...

''Look!'', said Théodred, and his eyes became strangely thoughtful. ''How fair they are, the bright eyes of simbelmynë in the grass! Comforting is their brightness for my heart, for their blossom in all seasons of the year where dead men rest; and even when I am gathered to these same barrows where all my sires sleep, I will be remembered by them, forever.''

''Seven mounds upon the left, and nine upon the right'', Boromir murmured, counting them. ''Many long lives of Men it is since the Golden Hall was built.''

''Five hundred summers had come and gone since then'', Théoden nodded thoughtfully, ''which is but a little while in the eyes of the Men of Westernesse, I guess, for you measure your history in thousands of years rather than in hundreds. But to us, who we are such a young folk, it seems so long ago that the raising of this house is but a memory of song, and the years before are lost in the mist of time.''

''And a good thing that is, believe me, my friend'', Boromir said. ''A young folk you called your people, and justly so, for young you are, indeed, young and powerful and of high spirits; but my people dwell in the past, mourning over lost battles and lost honour and lost glory, the bitter fight against the One whom we do not call by name remaining the only heirloom that has been left from our long-gone greatness. Be glad that you are not burdened with such a grim legacy.''

For that the Prince of Rohan had no answer, and they passed the silent Mounds. Following the winding way up to the green soulders of the hills, they came at last to the wide, wind-swept walls and the gates of Edoras.

There sat many men in bright mail, who sprang at once to their feet and greeted their Prince with raised spears, but looked upon the stranger in his company with wonder in their eyes. For well had they known the White Tree of Mundburg ever since they sworn in to the fight, but rarely they had seen one who would carry it on his shield.

''Hail, Théodred son of Théoden!'', they said. ''Glad will be the heart of the King that you have returned to his halls safely. But what name shall we report for the one who came with you? And what shall we say of him?''

''Tell my father that the heir of Gondor has come, passing through the Mark on his journey, seeking for a short rest'', Théodred answered. ''A guest of my own shall he be and shelter shall he take in the guest room nedt to my own chambers. For the hour has already grown late and it would not be proper to keep the King from his much-needed rest. But early in the morrrow I shall escort our guest to his halls myself.''

One of the guards bowed and went to report the King the arrival of Denethor's son. Another one took their horses and brought them to the stableto give them something to eat and to drink; the others swung the dark gates open and Boromir entered, walking beside the Prince of Rohan. They followed the broad path, paved with hewn stones, now winding upward, now climbing in short flights of well-laid steps. Many houses built of wood and many dark doors they passed. Beside the way, in a stone channel, a stream of clear water flowed, sparkling and chattering.

At length they came to the crown of the hill. There stood a high platform above a green terrace, at the foot which a bright spring gushed from a stone carved in the likeness of a horse's head; beneath was a wide basin from which the water spilled and fed the falling stream. Up the green terrace went a stair of stone, high and broad, and on either side of the topmost step were stone-hewn seats. There sat other guards, with drawn swords laid upon their knees. Their golden hair was braided on their shoulders; the last rays of the setting sun were blazoned upon their green shields, their long corslets were burnished bright, and when they rose to greet their Prince properly, taller they seemed tan mortal Men.

''Hail, Téodred son of Théoden!'' they cried with clear voices - and they turned the hilts of their swords towards the guest in token of peace. Hreen gems flashed reddish in the fading sunlight. Then one of the guards stepped forward, bowed before the guest and spoke to him respectfully.

''Welcome in the halls of Meduseld, Boromir son of Denethor'', he said. ''I am the Doorward of Théoden. Háma is my name. The King of the Mark has been told of your arrival and given you leave to rest in his halls. But I must ask you to appear before him right in the morrow as Prince Théodred promised. For he is eager to hear trustworthy news from the South were all our worries lie.''

''That I will do; to pay my respects to the King'', Boromir replied, and the guard stepped aside and gestured him to enter, not through the doors of Théoden's Golden Hall but through another one on the right side, which, as Boromir had already known of former experience, led directly to a wide corrider, from where the entrances to Théodred's chambers opened.

One of those was the guest room that the crown Prince had mentioned earlier: a rather large one with wide open windows, for the Rohirrim, not unlike the Elves whom they feared and mistrusted, welcomed the caresses of wind and sunlight on their faces, even inside the house. There was a small bath attached to the sleeping chamber, and Boromir sank gratefully into the wooden tub of hot waer, scented fragrantly with herbal oils. After a week of horseback, it was heaven on earth. The only thing he missed was a good birching after the bath, but the Rohirrim did not follow that Elvish custom, so he accepted what he had and was content.

After he had finished his bath, servants came and brought him a late supper. And Théodred came, too, to accompany him by his meal and brought some very fine red wine to devour, for as all the high-spirited sons of his people, the Prince loved a good drink and a good song in the company of a friend. So they shared the food and the wine and talked about Gondor and the Mark, about their families, about bloody skirmishes with orcs and other foul creatures like old friends that they were, despite the rareness of their meeting. But they did not sing in this night, for the news that they shared were rather dark, and they did not feel like jesting, either, turning the words to their worries rather than to merry things.

Théodred spoke with gtreat fondness of Éomer whom he loved like a brother (but not the same way you love yours, the cruel little voice in Boromir's heart said), for indeed, they had grown up together after the untimely death of the younger man's parents, and Théodred had always been Éomer's mentor and protector and friend. Then their talking turned to Éowyn, whom Théodred seemed to love and admire just as much as he did her brother - or mayhap even more.

''That is a true daughter of the House of Éorl'', he said, ''the daughter of Éomund and Théodwyn, my father-sister! Fearless and high-hearted she is, a shieldmaiden who can ride a horse and wield a sword better than most men of her age - and beautiful she is as the raising morning sun. All love her. Were she born to my father instead of his sister, she might become the first ruling Queen of the Mark, and bring more glory to it than many of its Kings long gone. For tall and slender she is, aside of being brave and strong, with a grace and pride that came to her out of the South, from Morwen of Lossornach, our grandmother, whom the Rohirrim had called Steelsheen in her youth.''

He told many other things about the Mark, but after these words Boromir became distracted and followed his own thoughts, not really listening any more. What he had been told about Éowyn of Rohan made him believe that she would me more than a match for him, in both nobility and stubbornness, but albeit he wanted to know badly whether his father had, indeed, made his proposal already, he did not dare to ask, fearing that he would reveal his true feelings and hurt Théodred's who seemed to be very proud of his cousin. And so Théodred left after another hour, and Boromir lay in his bed awake for a long time, cursing bitterly his own cowardice.

* * * * * * * *

End notes:

1 To Théodred's age: It is said in the ''Unfinished Tales'' that Théodred was 13 years older than Éomer. According to the timeline in the Appendix of ''The Return of the King'', Boromir was born in the year 2978 of the Third Age and Éomund in 2991 - which makes him exactly 13 years younger than Boromir. So I only had to chose who of the two friends was a few months older, and I opted for Théodred, because I wanted to give Boromir some sort of 'older brother'.
2) As I said in the review section: Birching is a health practice that was very popular among my own people in the early Middle Ages. People would go to the sauna and sweat thoroughly. Then came a person (usually a servant or someone who worked in a public bath, depends on the place) and hit their backs with flexible twigs (tough they used willow twigs by us, if I remember correctly), to relax tense muscles. It was akin to massage. Finally, they would pour cold water over the bath guest and he would feel like re-born.

Chapter Two: Steelsheen

The next morning Théodred came for him as promised and escorted him to the Golden Hall of Théoden. This was not Boromir's first time to visit the long and wide hall filled with shadows and half lights, mighty pillars upholding its lofty roof, but - as always - a strange feeeling of awe overcame his hearts when entering it. For though the Golden Hall of Meduseld was uncountable years younger than Minas Tirith, it gave one the feeling of having stepped into an ancient tale from far before the written word; with the rich carvings of its pillars, gleaming dully with gold and half-seen colours; with the stones of its pavement, stones of many hues, branching runes and strange devices intertwined beneath his feet; with its many woven cloths that were hung upon the walls, figures of ancient legends marching over their wide spaces, some dim with years, some darkling in shade.

In the mids of the hall there was a long hearth and a clear wood-fire burning upon it. Boromer, flanked by the Prince of Rohan, went forward, past the fire, and came to the far end of the house. A dais there was, a dais with three steps; and in the middle of the dais was a great gilded chair. Upon it sat a man, built painfully with age; but his white hari was long and thick and fell in great braids from beneath a thin golden circlet set upon his brow. In the centre upon his forehead shone a single white diamond. His beard laid like snow upon his knees, but his eyes still burned with a bright light, glinting as he gazed at the heir of his strongest ally.

Still, Boromir, whose last visit in Meduseld had been many years ago, was shaken to see the weekened state of this once high and proud man. He knew the Rohirrim did not share the lognevity of his own Númenorean race, but seeing the burden of age upon a man who was eighteen years younger than his still strong, proud and shrewd father, was sobering and remainded him how fragile the life of Men truly was.

For a while, there was silence among them. The King did not even ackwnogledged his presence yet, and it would have been rude for Boromir to speak first, being not only much younger but a guest in the King's halls as well. Finally, the old man looked up to his face and greeted him and said:

''Hail, Boromir son of Denethor! Always welcome our trustworthy allies from Gondor are in my halls; in these times of doubt more than ever. Tell me about the news from the South and about your errand that sent you out this far from home.''

''Alas! Little have I to tell, and most of it would give your heart little comfort, King Théoden'', Boromir said. ''By our valour the wild folk of the East are still restrained, and the terror of Morgul kept at bay; but if the passages of the River should be won, what then?''

''What indeed?'' Théodred murmured softly. The small, puny, pale-faced man thatwas sitting upon the steps at the King's feet lifted his heavy lids for a moment and gazed at the Prince with dark eyes full of mistrust, but said nothing.

''Yet that hour, mayhap, is not far away,'' Boromir continued, well aware of the strange, wordless interlude between the Prince and the King's counselor of old, who the small man no doubt was; he remembered having seem that pale face at time during his earlier visits. '' The Nameless Enemy has arisen again, and our folk were driven from Ithilien, though we kept a foothold there and strength of arms. But this very year, less than a month ago, sudden war came upon us out of Mordor and we were swept awaí, outnumbered, for Mordor has allied itself with the Easterlings and the cruel Haradrim - and defeated by some unknown power, a nameless shadow that filled our foes with battle-madness but with mindless fear even our boldest men; and we have lost the ruins of Osgiliath and were forced to destroy the last bridge.''

''Strange it is that in these dire times the heir of Gondor's Steward wuld leave his realm unguarded to travel to the North'', the counselor said in a soft voice, without looking at them.

''Desperate steps need to be taken in desperate times'', Boromir replied, wishing for the first (but not for the last) time during his journey that his brother had been sent out on this errand in his stead. For Faramir, well-versed in lore and poetry, was much better with words than him; and also did he possess some of their father's merciless wit and put it on good use if the need emerged. ''I have been sent on an errand by my father, the Lord Denethor: to seek out the dwelling place of Elrond half-Elven, the greatest lore-master of this age. I am to ask him for counsel about a strange dream that not even my father, who is wise in the lore of Gondor, was able to unravel. I have to find Imladris, the valley where Elrond is said to dwell.''

''Imladris!'' The pale counselor at the King's feet laughed quietly. ''Elven-valleys and songs and dreams! Do you want to defeat the Dark Lord with the pretty lies of the fair-faced folk, Denethor's heir?''

Boromir looked down at the small, bent man whose thin face revealed naugh of the thoughts hidden behind those dark, heavy-lidded eyes and shuddered faintly. It seemed him as if he would glare at a small but very poisonous snake. And for the corner of his eyes he glimpsed for the first time a woman, clad in white, standing behind the King's high chair.

''The Steward of Gondor who has seen many strange things, good and evil alike, felt this dream meaningful enough to send me out to heed it'', he said, directing his words toward the Kind rather tahn his counselor, ''and I obey the will of my father as I have always done and as I always shall do.''

''And why do you believe that - even if you might found that valley, which I very much doubt, for Elves keep hiding in these times and do not interfere with the dealings of mortal Men -, that this Elrond would be ready to help you?'', the counselor insisted.

Boromir furrowed his brow.
''The Men of Gondor do not share your mistrust towards the Elder Kin, Master counselor'', he said in a voice that clearly told he was not ready to discuss this. ''And Elrond, might he still dwell in Middle-earth, is bound to help our case. His own brother was the first King of Westernesse and the founder of our whole race.''

The counselor seemed about to answer, but the old King raised a wrinkled hand and ordered him to be quiet.
''When are you taking your leave from my halls?'' Théoden then asked. ''You are welcome to stay and rest as long as you wish.''

''I do thank you for your courtesy, my good lord'', Boromir said, ''But my errand does not bear any dely. I shall be leaving in the next morrow.''
''You may do as you wish'', the old man slowly rose to his feet, leaning heavily upon a short black staff with a handle of white bone. ''I need to return to my chambers and think over these news. Should we not see each other in the morrow, I am thereby saying my farewell to you right here. May your jurney be safe and successful.''

As he left his chair, the woman hastened to his side, taking his arm; and with faltering steps the old man came down from the dais and paced softly through the hall. The councillor rose as well and hurried after them and reached the side door they were approaching at the same time.

''You can leave the King with me, lady'', he said. ''I shall care for him.''
''Go, Éowyn, sister-daughter!'', said the old King, seeing her reluctance. ''I need to speak with Gríma alone.''

The woman turned and went slowly to the other end of the Golden Hall, likely in order to return to her own chambers- As she passed the doors that led outside she turned again and looked back. Grave and thoughtful was her glance as she looked at the King with cool pity in her ice-blue eyes. Very fair was her face, and her long hair was like a river of gold. Slender and tall she was in her white robe girt with silver; but strong she seemed nevertheless and stern as steel - a daughter of Kings if there ever was one.

Thus Boromir for the first time in the full light of day beheld Éowyn, Lady of Rohan, whom his father wanted him to wed, and found her fair, fair and cold like a morning of pale string that is not yet come to womanhood. And the thought that she might become bond to a man like himself filled his heart with guilt and sorrow, for he feared that her poor, untouched beauty would fade in the stone cage of Minas Tirith, taken by his uncaring hand, just as his mother faded away into early death under the cold hand and even colder heart of Denethor.

Ere he had thought of what he was about to do, Boromir hurried along the hall, reaching Éowyn before she could hafe left and approached her, saying:
''Lady Éowyn, may I ask for a word with you?''

She turned her clear, blue eyes to him in mild astonishment and said:
''Speak then.''
''Not here'', he answered, ''For my words are for your ears only, and I do not wish anyone else to listen.''

Éowyn seemed unsure for a moment, then she thought about it and nodded.
''It is no custom of the daughters of Éorl's House to speak with strange men alone. But as long as we stay in plain sight of everyone, I believe it would be allowed. Follow me, Lord of Gondor, and I shall bring you to such a place.''

''Call me not the Lord of Gondor'', he said, ''For it is not my right yet to be called in that fashion; nor do I long for the day when it shall be just. My father is the one who deserves that title of honour and I hope for the sake of Gondor and of us all that he would proudly bear it for a long time yet. But I shall follow you to whatever place you find appropriate for us to talk in private.''

With that they left the Golden Hall, not noticing the two pairs of eyes that followed them: full of gentle appreciation those of Théodred, crown Prince of the Mark, but full of jealous hatred those of Gríma son of Gálmód, councillor of Théoden King.

Éowyn led him to the porch upon the top of the high terrace from where they could see beyond the stream the green fields of Rohan fading into distand grey. The sky above them was darkening with the clouds of an upcoming storm, but far away the river glitted like shimmering ice, and the sunlight shone up on Éowyn's golden flow of hair like fire. Fire and ice, gold and silver she was, the White Lady of Rohan; more beautiful, indeed, than any fair maiden Boromir could remember - and his heart was full of regret for not being able to let her in. But it is one of the oldest truths that one cannot choose whom they fall or fall not in love with - and honour demanded that he be honest to her.

''We are alone'', Éowyn said in that deep and soft voice of hers, speaking the Common tongue with the slight rolling accent of her Kin. ''You may speak freely - no-one can hear us here.''

Boromir hesitated. Now that they finally came eye-to-eye, he did not know how to begin. Éowyn of Rohan, shieldmaiden of the North, was naugh like the women of his own Kin - not that he would have talked in any length to any woman in his whole life.

Seeing his anguish, the Lady Éowyn smiled - a mirthless smileit was that looked so strange on her fair face - and said:
''Do not feel the need to speak in circles around me the way your people seem to like so much. For I am of the House of Éorl and used to face any sorts of peril. I do not fear either pain or death.''

''None of which I wish to gift upon you'', Baramir answered, ''yet I fear that happiness shall elude you because of me, should the plans of my father, the Steward of Gondor, bear good results.''
Éowyn frowned, playing with a long lock of her golden hair absently.
''Dim words do you speak, son of Denethor, and the meaning of them escapes me. What plans are you talking about?''

Boromir sighed. The directness of the Lady Éowyn was refreshing, yet it almost frightened him at the same time. Never had he met a woman of such nearly brutal honesty - he almost wished he could feel in love with her, for she certainly was worthy to sit on his side in the Great Hall of Stewards as well as to ride into battle with him. But since cruel fate - and his own traitorous heart - made it impossible for him to love her as she would deserve to be loved, the least he could do was to return her honesty in equal measure.

''It is the wish of the Lord Denethor that his heir be wed to the White Lady of Rohan'', he announced with the stiff formality Gondor's rulers always used when dealing with important matters.
Éowyn seemed untouched by those words. As if it were not her life they were talking about.
''But it is not your wish, I presume'', she said with cold detachment. It was not a question.

Boromir shook his head, ashamed. How he regretted to wound the pride of this noble woman! But honesty and openness demanded to be met with equal measure of the same, and he could not have lied to her, even if he would wish to.

''What I might or might not wish is of little consequence. My father decides about my life, as did his father for him, and his father's fathers had done, back to Mardil Voronwë, the Good Steward and founder of our House. For I am his first-born and his heir, and my duty is to our House and to the people of Gondor, and the longings of my own heart have naugh to say in this matter.''

Éowyn watched him for a moment, her ice-blue eyes melting a little, and there was sympathy in her glance.
''I regret that the decision of the Lord Denethor broings you so much pain'', she said, her voice much softer now. ''But I need to tell you this: Should your father make his proposal to Théoden King - and I hope he shall do it, soon - I shall beg the King to give his blessings to this wedding.''

This unexpected announcement nearly knocked Boromir off his feet. Never, ever had he thought that Éowyn might find such an arranged marriage desirabel - nor could he imagine her begging for anything at all.
''So you would be willing to become my wife?'', he asked, unable to hide his disbelief.

Éowyn raised a fine eyebrow.
''Why should I not? Or do you not find me a worthy consort for the future Steward of Gondor? I might not be called a princess, but I do have the blood of Kings in my veins nevertheless. Or do you not feel up to the task of taming a wild shieldmaiden of the North? Am I not fine enough for your tastes?''

It was hard to tell if she was only jesting or downright insulted, for her face remained unreadable. Boromir shook his head in despair.

''Éowyn, it is not you who is unworthy, it is me! Not only am I far too old for you, I also gave my heart utterly a long time ago to someone who would not, cannot ever love me the way I do; to someone I should never have fallen in love with; to someone whom I would never be able to forget, not even if I lived a thousand years... or longer. A forbidden love it is, doomed from the beginning, bringing naugh but shame and pain for me; a guilty secret that I only ever shared with my brother - and now with you. How could I bind you to me, knowing well tha I would never be able to give you the love and happiness you so richly deserve?''

Éowyn did not give him an immediate answer. For a short while she just stood there, quietly, listening to her own heart. Then she looked up into Boromir's tormented face, smiled sadly and said:

''Rarely are the children of the ruling Houses allowed to follow their own heart. We all have to fulfill our duty towards the people we have been chosen to rule. And though my heart has not yet been touched by love to any man, your secret does not repel me, son of Denethor. If there is a chance that we might become friends, I still would be willing to wed you.''

''There is, indeed'', Boromir answered, stunned. ''In truth, I already feel great respect for you; and I admire you, for you are noble and brave - and more beautiful than I would be able to tell it, even with words of teh Elven-tongue. But why would you wish to take upon you a loveless marriage is beyond my udnerstanding. Surely, there has to be more than your sense of duty.''

''There very much is'', Éowyn said, and a shadow darkened her fair face, much too young to bear such grief. ''There could be a fate waiting for me, far worse than a marriage spent in mutual respect and friendship, albeit without true love. You did notice the King's trusted councillor, I believe.''
This was not a question, either.

Boromir thought of the small, pale, weasel-like man whose heavy-lidded eyes seemed never to look straight at anyone - and shuddered.
''Is he harrassing you?''

Éowyn, too, shivered involuntarily.
''Long has he watched me in secret and haunted my steps'', she answered in a loathing voice. ''I was but a child, had only seen thirteen summers when I first noticed the way he looked at me... it made me want to retch. For many nights I híd in my brother's chambers, pretending to have nightmares, in fear that he would come to me unnoticed. Then I grew tired of being afraid and chose to become a shieldmaiden in order to protect myself - for I knew him to be a coward.''

''Could your brother not protect you?'' Boromir asked with a frown.
Éowyn let her guard lower a little; she sighed.
''I do not want him to confront Gryma about me. For his place in the King's good graces is weakening already. Not do I know which spell Gríma Wormtongue had casted upon our King, but it holds tightly... and he murmurs soft words of doubt in Théoden's ear about Éomer in the darkness of the Golden Hall. Were it not of Théodred who is more like a brother than a cousin to both of us, Éomer might be rotting in the deepest dungeon below Meduseld as we speak. The only one the King still listens to, aside of Gríma, is his son.''

''Did you at least tell Théodred about the councillor's tresspassing?'' Boromir demanded.
Éowyn shook her head.
''No, I did not. Delicate is the balance of power between him and Wormtongue, and his influence over Théoden's heart is needed for more important issues. I am but one woman, even if one of orl's House... keeping the Mark safe is more urgent than my safety. Besides, I am also a woman who can defend herself rather well.''

Boromir looked down upon her fair face and could not help but admire her selfless bravery; and he stooped and kissed her brow in great fondness and said:
''Heavy with sorrow and guilt had been my heart when I came to Théoden's halls, and heavier even it shall be when I depart in the morrow. For it pains me to leave you behind, alone, to the mercy of a worthless enemy... you, who would be worthy to take your place among the greatest queens renown. But his i promise you? Should the Valar allow me to return from this perilous journey, I shall come for you and take you with me to the white City, if that still should be your wish and if your King gives his blessings. And I swear by my honour and by the sacred bones of my ancestors that I shall give you every happiness I can, however little it might be.''

''And I shall hold you to your sworn oath, my good lord'', Éowyn answered. ''Do not fail me!''
With that she grabbed Boromir's face with both hands and kissed him on the lips hard, almost bruising - not the kiss of a lover but the kiss of oath a warrior gives his or hersworn leader it was, as it has been custom among the Rohirrim when they swore themselves to a case of utmost importance.

Making sure that all the guards on their stone benches had seen what she done, the Lady Éowyn released Boromir, turned away and retreated into the house with no hurry.

Denethor's heir looked after her, sad and guilt-ridden once again. So much more noble than him she was, so solemn, fair and valiant. She did not deserve the only life he would be able to offer her. She deserved someone not only of strong arms and a keen mind but of gentle heart and wisdom as well. Sopmeone who could love her and still be able to earn her respect.
Someone like Faramir, the cold inner voice added.
The bitter truth rammed through his heart like a dull knife.

* * * * * * * * * *

End note:

Originally, the tale would have ended here, with a short passage about Boromir’s departure from Meduseld. Now that I finally gathered the strength to continue this story, there will be some more interesting encounters, ere he leaves. <g>

go to parts 3 and 4

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