Wife of the Second Steward of Gondor, Princess of Ithilien, and Lady of Emyn Arnen

Eowyn kept her shock to herself that Aragorn’s Dwarven companion was a woman. There had been hints enough, she realized as she looked back, but no outright statement. The tears which had fallen so freely from Gimli’s eyes, the long tales about the legends of Dwarf women, the sadness in Gimli’s eyes when telling Eowyn that Aragorn seemed to have fallen, the intricately braided beard—far more lovely than any beard Eowyn had ever seen on a Dwarf. 

Sitting in the gardens of healing, high in Minas Tirith—watching Gimli look out at the city, perched on the rampart after not a small struggle—she felt jealousy stir in her chest towards the other woman. Gimli had been allowed so much more than Eowyn herself had—namely, men keeping their noses out of her business and allowing her to fight when she felt the need to fight. Eowyn had been allowed only one glorious battle, and had nearly managed to lose her life in it. She was happy with Faramir, he was a great and caring man—the first to not look sideways at her for having a sword, if she let herself admit the hurt she had felt when Aragorn’s disapproving eyes had seized on her weapon of choice—but he would probably never give permission for her to fight ever again. Things were done differently in Gondor, after-all, and it was a mark of pride for a man to defend his family. In Rohan it was a mark of pride for a parent to defend a child, with women basking in glory far more than men—both were duty-bound to defend when called. 

But Gimli, son of Gloin—a term which still caught Eowyn by surprise, even as it was explained that all Dwarves were addressed this way in Common—looked forward to a life of continued adventure. Continued service through combat, and continued recognition of valor. Eowyn wondered if her own prowess would be thus praised. 

Something caught her companion’s eye, far down in the city, and generated an excited buzz but Eowyn chose not to ask. Gimli would tell her, the Dwarf had great difficulty in not sharing her thoughts with the world around her. This morning, in particular, had been marked with many lamentations about the destroyed stonework found throughout so much of the city. It had annoyed her, for the most part—a great many good horses had been killed or ruined during the last battles of the war against Sauron, but no one saw her lamenting their loss—but the sudden silence was almost as annoying as Gimli’s lamentations had been. 

“Gimli?” Walking slowly, with the barest hint of a limp, the Steward of Gondor came into the garden. Eowyn watched, forgotten by Gimli and unnoticed by Boromir, as the Man spoke softly to his Dwarf counterpart. Into Gimli’s hand he dropped a small handful of beads. The Dwarf woman was stunned, unable to speak, instead cuddling up to Boromir’s chest. Her shoulders quaked, either crying or fighting tears. Eowyn looked away, even as Boromir took a step back and held out his hand to Gimli. She didn’t look at them as they left, her thoughts on Faramir. He obviously planned to marry her, and she was as okay with the idea as she could get, but still he said nothing about it—and here was his brother, back from death’s door, dragging himself halfway across the world and back for Gimli. 

She jumped when a pair of hands settled onto her own shoulders, followed by Faramir’s barely-there laugh at her expense. The Second Steward, Prince of Ithilien, and Lord of Emyn Arnen, knelt beside her seat. He made barely a sound, even as his knees obviously crushed old, dried leaves and aggravated the small stones of the walkway. Eowyn tried to tamp down the frustration she felt, that he treated her like a delicate princess rather than a trusted comrade—it wasn’t his fault, she tried to tell herself for what felt the hundredth time, it was his people’s.

“The House of Stewards obeys the tradition that the younger sons will not marry before the eldest, and cannot even speak openly of marriage before the heir of the House has declared his own intent to marry—and found a woman suitable for that marriage. Gondor has not been known for common-sense traditions for a long, long time I think you’ll find,” he murmured, his eyes fastened on the doorway the couple had probably taken. Eowyn’s mouth twitched a little at Faramir’s words—he had been shoved to the side so much of his life. 

“But with two women such as Gimli and yourself, I believe that Boromir and I will be able to change a few things. The first being, Ithilien is largely unexplored by those who would make it better,” he paused, still not looking at her, “You have probably heard the most awful things from the healers about what is expected of the wife of the Second Steward, Eowyn. But now that Boromir has declared his intent for Gimli, a woman who appears to the eyes of Men to be a man, I think that my actions will again not be as renowned as my brother’s.” He took one of her hands, the good one, the one not plagued by phantom agony. 

 

“When you are recovered, my Lady Eowyn, will you come with me to Ithilien—with an eye towards making it better?”