A Memory is Worth Everything
By Voldie on Varsity Track

I was originally going to put this in one of my bazillion stories, Desire, but then I realised the obvious truth that if both Éowyn and her child were dead, the story could not go on. And so I have made it into a separate AU story. I apologise if I keep littering your inboxes with author alerts, but I couldn't resist this one. :sigh: I don't think I can ever resist the possibility of a bittersweet and angsty Faramir/Éowyn story, so bite me.

I am not J.R.R. Tolkien and I do not own anything I write about. I own Elrandir and Haradgil. I wish I owned Faramir (but I don't), so please refrain from suing me. I hate barristers, and I really don't want to put up with them in court.

This is a little present for Jenny (Lariren-Shadow). I promised I'd write something for you, and I did. I love you bunches, Jenny:)

"And I will beat you, Haradgil!"

The two lads began to sprint down the corridor in the Steward's home in Emyn Arnen. After a long, boring day at lessons, Elrandir and Haradgil, the grandsons of Bergil, were desperate to do something slightly amusing, and racing each other, they thought, would at least cure some of their boredom.

The elder boy, Elrandir, looked to be about thirteen, with thick black curls and bright blue eyes that made the lasses swoon. At ten years old, Haradgil was the spitting image of his brother, save only that his eyes were a chocolate brown colour instead of blue. And so they sprinted as fast as they could, and as usual, Haradgil was winning.

He turned around to face his brother, who was several metres behind him, and grinned. "You cannot win, brother!"

Smack. Haradgil ran into a door he had never noticed was there, and he fell to the ground, slightly dizzy. The door creaked open and stood ajar; it must not have been closed properly when the last person left it.

"That was brilliant, Haradgil," Elrandir said, rolling his eyes. "And I suppose you have found another place to explore?"

He helped his sore brother to his feet and entered the room. It looked like it had been undisturbed for centuries; boxes were stacked against the stone walls, several spacious trunks occupied one side of the room, and chairs were scattered about.

"Oh, we must explore this!" Haradgil gasped, opening the box closest to him. A musty smell rose from it, and he pulled out a midnight blue mantle made of velvet. "Elrandir, look at this! Pure velvet, and it is exactly my colour! If I were to try it on..."

"Haradgil, I do not think you should touch those," he warned. "They are not ours. I suppose we could look around, though."

"And look at that!" he said, stuffing the starry mantle back into its box and pointing to a portrait hanging on the opposite wall. "Is that the Steward?"

The portrait of a young man who resembled a much-younger Faramir hung on the wall, and Elrandir was surprised that he didn't notice it before. The man stood behind a heavily pregnant woman with golden hair, his hands resting on her swollen stomach, both of them smiling at each other. This was not the Faramir Elrandir knew; now, many years later, Faramir seemed distant, never joyous like in the portrait.

Haradgil grinned."How much do you think it is worth?"

"What? Why?"

"I was just wondering, and it is not like anyone would notice if it disappeared. And I need a new pony..."

"Elrandir and Haradgil!" a voice boomed from behind them. The boys quickly turned around and came face to face with the Steward, Faramir. Frightened with shock, Elrandir and Haradgil backed up against the wall. They had never seen Faramir angry before.

"What are you two doing in here?" his concerned grey eyes found their way to the picture above Elrandir's head. "And what are you doing near that picture?"

"We were... we were racing down the corridor, my lord," Haradgil started. "I know it was wrong to do so, but we could not help it. I accidentally ran into the door and it opened into this room, and the portrait intrigued me."

"We did not do any harm!" Elrandir put in.

"Nay, you did not," the Steward said, glancing from Elrandir to his brother. "And for that I am grateful, for you do not know how much this portrait means to me."

Elrandir bowed his head, and Haradgil did the same. But he could not contain the question he had been dying to know.

"My lord," Haradgil said. "Who is the woman in the portrait?"

"She was my wife, Haradgil."

"I did not know you had a wife, my lord," he mused. "No one has ever mentioned her, but she looks familiar."

"I have seen her, too," Elrandir said. "In a statue on the seventh level of the City, I think. The one with the War of the Ring, and the Hobbit Meriadoc."

"Then you must know that she was the Lady Éowyn of Rohan, then."

Elrandir nodded. "My tutor in history told me the story of the Battle of Pelennor Fields today, my lord, and he spoke of the Lady Éowyn and her valiant deeds in battle. But neither Aurdil or I knew that you two were once wed."

Faramir sighed and brought over three chairs near the trunk next to the window and sat down in one. "Hardly anyone is aware of that fact, Master Elrandir," he said, gesturing for them to sit in the sturdy mahogany chairs adjacent to his. "We were wed for no more than two months before she passed. But if you are willing, I shall tell you the tale."

"I would like to hear it, sir," the elder boy said, taking his seat. "If you truly do not mind, that is."

"And I as well," Haradgil added.

"Very well," the old Steward hesitated, his teary grey eyes travelling over to the portrait of himself and his wife. At length he spoke again. "I met Éowyn several days after the battle while we were in the Houses of Healing. King Elessar, though he was not known by that name then, healed her and commended her to the care of the Warden. But Éowyn was unhappy, for she had once desired the King's love, and she had not fulfilled her wishes of perishing honourably in the battle.

The Warden brought her to me. We talked in the gardens that day, and all the days following it. At first Éowyn was hesitant to bare her soul to me, yet soon she did, revealing that all she desired now was comfort. On the day Barad-dur fell, the world was at a standstill, and we both thought that this dismal day would be our last. And so I comforted Éowyn and made love to her. I had fallen in love with the most amazing woman in Middle-earth. I do not doubt that she felt the same way about me.

About a month later, Éowyn realised that she had conceived our child. Truthfully, I knew not what to say, yet I offered her my hand in marriage. It was, in that situation, the most honourable thing to do, and I did not simply ask for her hand because she was with child. I did love her with all my heart. Éowyn accepted my offer, but we could not be wed until the summer, for we needed time to plan the occasion."

Faramir paused and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his ivory tunic, then continued. "Éowyn returned to Rohan with her brother, King Éomer, while I stayed in Minas Tirith to attend to my duties. I feared for both her and the child she carried; she had not been feeling well before she left the City, and I could not stand the thought of losing her. As soon as she arrived at Edoras, Éomer told me, Éowyn felt well, and I was relieved. I came to Edoras that August and we were wed. That was only the beginning."

"You must have really loved her," Haradgil whispered.

"I did and I still do, Haradgil. Nothing will ever change that," Faramir answered. "There is not a day that goes by that I do not think of Éowyn and what could have been. My memories of her will never leave me, even if I tried to erase them from my mind. Time does not forget."

"My lord, will you go on?"

"As you wish, Haradgil, but it is not such a pleasing tale from now on," the Steward said."I wished to return to Minas Tirith after our wedding, but since Éowyn was already in her second trimester, it was not my intention to harm her or the babe, nor did she wish to leave in the first place. We stayed in Edoras and planned to remain there until the spring of the following year. This portrait was painted by a man named Banloca there in Meduseld in late September.

Only two weeks after that, Éomer invited me to hunt with him, and I agreed to leave Éowyn for the day and join him. Éomer and I went to the stables and we were ready to depart when Éowyn entered with the canteen I had forgotten. I had forbidden her to go near the stables during her pregnancy, but I figured that nothing would happen in the minute she was there..."

Faramir trailed off and stared at his feet for a while, and it was only then that Elrandir noticed the tears streaming down his stern face. Neither he nor Haradgil could say anything; they knew that whatever they said could not replace the sadness the Steward felt. So they too stared at nothing in particular while he wept.

"One of the stablehands captured a wild stallion the previous night," Faramir whispered. "The stablehand, Éowine, thought he could control the horse, but it broke out of its stall and galloped down the corridor at full speed... Éowyn did not have enough time to get out of its path... Éowyn fell to the ground, clutching her stomach, and... and I could not help her...

She was losing more blood than she could afford to lose, and not only that: she was having the babe two months early. Éomer ran down to the village in search of a midwife while I carried Éowyn to her chamber. I... I was soaked in her blood, lads, soaked in my own wife's blood. I remember sitting there next to Éowyn when she lay on her bed, squeezing my hand every time a contraction came, and I thought that perhaps, if she was this strong now, she could survive the ordeal. But I was wrong... terribly wrong.

My daughter was born at sunset. Éowyn named her Léafa, which means 'faith' in the Rohirric tongue. Léafa was a beautiful child; she had hair so pale it seemed as if she had none, and she had my eyes, but she was very small. Éowyn... Éowyn lived long enough to hold and nurse her once, but she died as soon as she said her final farewell to me.

Long I sat by Éowyn's side, though I knew she had passed. I simply could not leave her, for I felt that my spirit left with hers. But the midwife, Folcwyn, brought my daughter to me. Since Léafa was born so early, she was struggling to breathe and she could not swallow..." Faramir trembled as he spoke. "Folcwyn said she would not survive the night. And so I rocked Léafa and sang to her through the night, and she died in my arms as the sun rose in the morning."

Faramir rose, walked over to the old trunk in the corner, and opened it. He pulled out a small, musty green blanket with a white horse on it. "Éowyn made this for Léafa," he said. "And everything else in this trunk and in this room belongs to my wife and daughter."

"Then we apologise for disturbing it, Lord Faramir," Elrandir said. "We did not know."

"I know of what you were saying before I entered, boys," the old Steward said. "You were discussing the price this portrait would fetch at a market. But the truth is that it has little value in silver or gold, nor is it worth an innumerable amount of words. But to me, it is my life, a part of me I will never forget. A picture may be worth something tangible, but the memory that comes with it is worth everything."

Peace out and save the trees,
Christie