The Muse, Amused (penmage) wrote in slashfreelotr,
The Muse, Amused


Name: Healing
Author: Penmage
Characters: Eowyn and Faramir
Slash: None
Rating: G
Feedback: I'd love feedback.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Tolkien. I'm just playing with them.


She is uncertain. You would not expect it, from a shieldmaiden of Rohan, from the woman who had faced a Nazgul in battle and had won, from a woman who had fought a being that had defeated most men, and had survived. You would expect her to be proud, defiant, willful, and she is all of this, and more. But she is also shy, and uncertain, and this you did not expect. She is beautiful, too, but this comes as no great surprise to you. She was beautiful in your mind, when you heard the stories, so you do not lose your breath to her beauty the way some of the men have. She does not seem to notice her ability to make men lose their breath.

She is restless, cagey. There is a darkness about her, a shadow resting on her spirit, and it frustrates you. A dark cloud, you cannot break through it to reach her, though you find yourself desperately wanting to try. She comes to you for help, to be released, but you claim you have no authority over the House of Healing, for you do not want her gone, out of your sight.

She is shy. You talk to her, and slowly, reluctantly, she lets you bring her out of her shell. She does not tell you everything, but you begin to see, you begin to understand, and what you understand is this: your stories are the same, hers and yours. The details are different, the wounds are not the same, but they are not unalike, either. In truth, you suffer from different shades of the same disease. You see it, but you know she cannot, and you do not dare burden her with your own sorrows. She has enough of her own.

She loved him. You know this, though she is never bold enough to say it straight out to you. You see it in the way she strains her eyes northward, hoping against hope. She does not say who it is she seeks like a beacon in the dark – it might be her brother, and in part it very well may be, but no woman has ever looked like that for a brother. No, she loves him, and the very thought hurts you to the quick.

But she does not hate you. You thought she might. You thought she might be too proud, too lofty and untouchable and splendid to deign to care about a worthless second son, wounded in battle, a failure to his father and his people – but in talking to her, you begin to see that perhaps you are not so. Perhaps you did not fail, after all. You see yourself differently, through her eyes, and you begin to like what you see. And you hope that maybe, just maybe, she is able to see differently through your eyes.

For the first time since your father sent you to die, you are able to see the sun, and you see it in the gold of her hair.
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