DilettanteFeminist

It had happened during another of those dreaded meetings. Lords Aragorn, Imrahil, and Faramir, along with Éomer, were gathered with representatives from cities across the realm. While the men delved deep into discussion, Lady Arwen had quietly led their female companions from the council chamber. Much to Éowyn’s surprise—and outrage—those women were to be “entertained” by the High Queen and herself.

This meant she would not attend the discussion that would shape their peace efforts. Bristling with barely contained anger, Éowyn followed Lady Arwen and the host of perfumed women. She knew her duty, of course, and would not make a scene—certainly not before the High Queen, who remained ever serene and gracious.

With the deliberate grace of attentive hosts, they guided the wives, sisters, daughters, and aunts of those men through the city. They lingered at artisans’ shops, where eager craftsmen demonstrated their skills, and explained the history and architecture of Minas Tirith. All day Éowyn found herself surrounded by a flock of vividly colored butterflies, who exclaimed “oh!” and “ah!” at every new discovery. At last came refreshments, and the women were only too glad to sit after the long walk, to eat, drink, and rest.

Looking at those pampered dolls and at the High Queen walking regally among them—offering a smile here, a kind gesture there—Éowyn felt the anger coiling inside her all day grow tighter. Then the Queen turned toward her and, with the same composure, gestured discreetly toward the nearest balcony. Éowyn nodded and, summoning the last reserves of her calm, followed her out of the reception room, offering polite nods to the seated women as she passed.

The air felt fresh, whispering promises of a sunset ride beneath open skies. As she joined the High Queen at the balustrade, a flock of birds swept past, their cheerful chirping a welcome relief after the mindless babbling she had endured all day. The two women stood in silence for a moment, gazing down at the White City and listening to the voices of its people rising from the streets below.

The Queen turned to face Éowyn, her eyes dark and serious.

“I hope you will trust me when I say I understand how you feel about this affair. I, too, would rather be at my husband’s side, listening and seeing through the words and thoughts of those men.” She looked intently at Éowyn, who answered with an arched eyebrow.

“We have our own duties—toward our guests, and toward our husbands.”

Éowyn’s nostrils flared, her lips pinched, and her back went ramrod straight.

“Do not speak to me as if I do not know my duties.”

At those words the Queen’s face became a mask. Yet the fury held in check within the shieldmaiden’s heart refused to be cowed. If anything, Éowyn stood even straighter.

“And what duty can I fulfill if I am set aside merely to entertain baggage? What insight could they possibly offer when they barely know the ways of the world?” she charged on. “We cannot even weigh in on the exchange now taking place between our husbands and those men… All because we are women.”

The last words were spat with anger and the sting of old wounds. The Queen did not answer at once, but her eyes softened with compassion. The Princess of Ithilien bristled beneath the Elven maiden’s gaze. She certainly did not need the Queen’s pity.

The Queen turned her eyes toward the horizon and leaned against the balustrade. Behind them, the hubbub of the women’s conversation continued, punctuated by exclamations as they discovered new delicacies or embroideries.

Éowyn felt a fresh wave of resentment. Was she expected to act like them? To become a pretty flower, an ornament on her husband’s arm? She glanced back at the Queen, who still gazed outward.

No. That was not what the Queen—Lady Arwen—had said. And if she were fair, the High Queen, like her husband, often meant more than the simple words she spoke. What, then, could they achieve?

Éowyn drew a few steadying breaths, trying to calm her racing heart. The rays of the setting sun caressed the Queen’s face, lending her an air of melancholy.

She remembered that Lady Arwen was a woman like herself, not merely a queen. She came to stand beside her in silence. The sounds of the city were slowly ebbing as people returned to their homes and loved ones, while night spread her velvet wings.

“No decisions will be made today,” the Queen said quietly. “Aragorn is humoring them for now, letting them preen like young stallions, issuing challenges and demands as though they held the power. Showing disrespect to those who fought to free them from darkness while they hid… or worse.”

Éowyn turned a curious eye toward the woman beside her. Anger trickled through Arwen’s words like mice beneath blades of grass on the plain.

“And he will let them. Estel is far more than a mere ranger. Though it is not a burden he sought, he has accepted it. He will let them speak. He will let them believe they command. This whole play may take a day or two.”

Éowyn knew how long and treacherous such meetings could be—this delicate, dangerous dance. Faramir had always found them amusing. He had told her how she had become a symbol, and she had replied that he could wield her presence if needed; she quite enjoyed the discomfort it caused those men. She smiled at the memory.

“Lord Aragorn has Prince Imrahil and Faramir beside him. Both men possess the same observant mind as he. I suppose I should not worry so much.”

“It is much more than mere observation for dear Faramir.”

Éowyn’s eyes narrowed, but Arwen continued to look away, lost in memory. Something twisted in her heart—a fear she had never thought to know.

“Faramir is a good leader of men, like your husband…”

“He is indeed. With a kind and generous heart. It is easy to love him.”

Éowyn’s hands balled into fists. Surely this was a misunderstanding…

“Estel relies greatly on your husband, for the people trust him far more easily than they do the High King.”

“Not only the men.”

The words tasted of acid. This time Lady Arwen turned to her, puzzled. Then understanding flickered across her face and she smiled, clearly amused. Éowyn’s anger flared anew.

“You cannot imagine how relieved I was that, in the end, Aragorn chose me.”

The sudden change of subject unsettled Éowyn. She blinked, confused.

“Forgive me, Lady Arwen, I do not…”

But the Queen’s smile turned mischievous, and Éowyn’s mouth fell open in a perfect “O.” Then Arwen chuckled, a touch bitterly.

“I do not think there was ever any doubt about whom he would choose—with all due respect, Lady Arwen.”

“I think there was. For one moment… when all seemed lost and you shone like a bright flame. But I am glad that moment passed and that, in the end, he returned to me.”

To say Éowyn was baffled would be an understatement. Aragorn would have chosen her? The silence stretched between them for long minutes.

Éowyn searched her own heart and found nothing—no regret for the path not taken. If she were honest, there was only… relief. Slowly she shook her head, golden locks slipping free of the silver circlet on her brow.

“With all respect to the High King, I will say this: there is no regret in my heart that Lord Aragorn chose you. I am happy at Faramir’s side—whether as princess or ranger in the woods.” She looked at the Elf-woman before her. “I have no wish now to stand in your stead.”

Lady Arwen regarded her, and the sadness in those grey eyes stabbed Éowyn to the heart.

“Faramir is not the only one able to read the hearts of others.”

Maybe Éowyn was still a stranger in Gondor, but she was human, with the same understanding of human woes. Lady Arwen, with her otherworldly beauty and air of agelessness, seemed more a figure from ancient tales than a mortal woman. Many admired her; many feared her strangeness. It would forever set her apart.

“Faramir has become dear to my heart, it is true. And though he is younger by many long years, he reminds me, in his wisdom and kindness, of my father.”

“You miss him.”

A laugh escaped the Queen—bitter enough to surprise Éowyn. The Princess of Ithilien was slowly discovering the fragility of the woman before her.

“I have dreams: the flowers of my father’s garden, the golden trees of my grandmother’s forest, the voices of my people singing… So many whom I love and miss…” Lady Arwen drew a deep breath and glanced back toward the room where the other women still rested.

“But this…” She gestured toward the city. “This is my place. Where I was meant to be.” She turned to face Éowyn. “By my husband’s side.”

Éowyn nodded. She knew the ache of loneliness, how it could devour the heart. She sighed.

“I still think we should be there with our husbands.”

Arwen hummed in agreement but pointed to the stones beneath their feet.

“Yet here we are.”

Then she gestured discreetly toward the room behind them.

“Like us, not all those women are mere baggage—” Éowyn grimaced “—so do not let them deceive you. Some study every gesture we make. Many are simple dolls, but others possess sharp minds and sharper tongues. They are the ones who will carry our words back to their husbands. They are the ones we must learn about—and, if possible, win over.”

Éowyn sighed and looked down at her hands. She did not like this feeling. The ghosts of her past had left wounds that could fuel righteous anger, yet she must not let them blind her.

“Nonetheless, I owe you an apology.”

“An apology?” Éowyn’s eyebrow rose in surprise.

“You kept your composure admirably. I admit that when I saw your anger simmering, I feared you would unleash it. But you were a most gracious host.”

“I know my duties,” Éowyn replied, her tone still sharp. The Queen half-smiled.

“I see that now. And that is why I owe you an apology. I misjudged you. It is not a mistake I will make again.”

Both women stood straight, facing each other like two blades ready to clash. Then Éowyn smiled with genuine mirth.

“I suppose I owe you an apology as well… and to those women.”

It was Arwen’s turn to arch an eyebrow. Saying nothing, she smiled and bowed her head slightly.

“Shall we return to our guests?”

“We had better. Or they will have tales to tell their husbands.”

“About the High Queen and the Princess of Ithilien’s apparent strife.”

Éowyn giggled and held out her arm.

“Then let us sow some confusion, shall we?”

Arwen nodded with a soft laugh and took the offered arm. Together they returned to the room, faces once more perfect portraits of serenity.

* * *

It had been like a dance—an intricate one—of subtle moves and hidden smiles. Éowyn did not like it much, but she had grown skilled at it after years of practice hiding her true thoughts and feelings.

Sometimes she spoke her mind. Sometimes she listened, measuring her opponents, whether men or women. To her surprise, Éowyn came to admire the bright minds among those women—Arwen’s most of all. Her serene bearing and quiet smile had a way of quelling even the most confrontational guests.

Often Éowyn and Arwen walked together, speaking of the women who showed promise as allies. Frequently the High Queen deferred to her judgment.

Once, when they were alone during a brief respite in a tiring day, Arwen seemed agitated. Éowyn wondered what could unsettle the Elf-maiden so deeply that her mask of serenity cracked.

“Some of those men… they threaten everything we fought for—” she glanced at Éowyn “—that you fought for, while I remained hidden in my father’s house.”

Éowyn shrugged the remark aside.

“While you were not present with a blade in hand, Aragorn kept hope alive for the love he bore you. You had everything to lose, as much as any of us.”

Arwen nodded her thanks, though her hands remained cold in Éowyn’s.

“They do not want this vision of a unified realm at peace. They would rebel, fight tooth and nail, and bring about another war.”

“Do you truly believe our ways are the best and should be imposed upon all peoples?”

The Queen turned to her. There was no challenge in her eyes, only wonder.

“Not always. But more often than not, our ways are better. And we remain open—we wish to hear others…”

They continued walking arm in arm, silent for a time. Then Arwen turned to Éowyn with an enigmatic smile.

“You know of those conversations one may have with a husband—or wife—late at night?”

For a moment Éowyn was speechless. Then a sheepish smile appeared.

“I believe I do…”

“Maybe that is where our true battle should be fought.”

“In bed?”

Both women burst into giggles.

“Well, not ours, but… our allies’. Those women could share our ideals and then spread them… like sparks upon dry hay.”

“Burning people is generally frowned upon,” Éowyn said dryly.

Arwen raised a delicately arched eyebrow, her eyes dancing with laughter.

“You have a point.” She sighed, and Éowyn squeezed her hand. “But we should use every manner of persuasion if we wish to avoid another war.”

“With only our pillows as witnesses,” Éowyn replied, voice full of mirth. Arwen laughed.

“So our husbands hammer the ideas while we…”

“The hand in the silk glove, which caresses and nurtures…”

“…and yet holds the reins.”

“I am convinced Estel would not love that comparison…”

Éowyn arched an eyebrow at Arwen, who giggled.

“But we won’t tell him.”

* * *

As the last guests departed Minas Tirith, carrying with them gifts, cautious hopes, and a few new ideas, Éowyn and Faramir returned to Ithilien. Yet even in the comfort of their home, surrounded by the restorative work of rebuilding their land, Éowyn found her thoughts returning often to the High Queen.

When they next came to the White City, Éowyn sought Arwen out and was pleasantly surprised by how warmly the Queen greeted her.

“I must admit, the seamstresses’ circle is dreadfully dull… and yet—”

“Oh no. Are you trying to win them over as well?”

Arwen smiled. “No. This time I simply sit and listen. They are noblewomen of Gondor. They speak freely among themselves—about their lands, their daily lives, the troubles brewing… and everything else.”

“I cannot imagine myself sitting there, sewing embroidery,” Éowyn said, wrinkling her nose.

“It is not my favorite pastime either. I would much rather lose myself in the Great Library, among its countless tomes of history.”

“I never imagined you as an avid reader.”

“When one is as long-lived as I, one must find ways to occupy both mind and time.”

* * *

Éowyn would have gone mad with boredom, trapped in that room with women focused only on needlework and idle gossip. Knowing Arwen as she now did, she could not bear to leave her friend in such a position. And so, playing the perfect Princess of Ithilien—poised and graceful—she came to the Queen’s rescue, not with a sword, but with a request.

That afternoon, Éowyn joined Arwen and the ladies of the embroidery circle: high-born women of Gondor, all confident in their pure blood and refined manners. Strangely, Éowyn felt less alienated than Arwen. While many were openly admiring (and some envious) of the High Queen, she did not miss the sidelong glances and veiled smirks they exchanged.

Arwen, of course, noticed everything but chose not to show it. She listened quietly, gathering news of the realm: who was discontent, what rumors were spreading, which houses might yet prove troublesome.

Many of the women dismissed Arwen as little more than a beautiful Elven maiden—good only for bearing children to the High King, lovely but empty. Éowyn could not understand how her friend endured it.

“I have you at my side, Éowyn, and others as well—Lothíriel shall come, and Aragorn, of course. Yet it is necessary that I heed those who murmur with discontent, for they are the ones most like to betray the King.”

“But I still do not see how you can live like this—your whole life revolving around a people who may never fully accept you.” As she spoke, Éowyn recalled the old tales of Vidumavi, the Northmen princess who wed Valacar but never ruled as Queen, and the rebellion that rose against her son Eldacar for his mingled blood.

Arwen’s expression softened. “My friend, I sense you are restless today.”

“It is nothing. The heat is simply harder to bear when one is enclosed by stone walls.”

Éowyn hated how the marble made her feel small and trapped.

“Then I have a quest for you,” Arwen said, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “I need a certain book. But you will have to wander through a labyrinth to find it. Will you accept this quest? There will be a prize at the end.”

“There is no need for any prize if it means I may escape this room for a while.”

Arwen gave her that enigmatic smile, and Éowyn chuckled.

* * *

Éowyn’s simple errand quickly became a true quest. The Master of Lore was thoroughly confused, consulting registers and archives for what felt like hours. Finally, the librarian handed her a candle and pointed her toward one of the furthest and oldest chambers.

Éowyn frowned. What kind of book required such secrecy?

The deeper she went, the more the world seemed to fade. Dust lay thick on forgotten shelves. Candles long abandoned had melted into strange shapes. Spiders scurried away from her flickering light.

Though she could read well enough in the common tongue, Arwen’s hand was another matter entirely—flowing and graceful as the branches of a silver birch, but altogether too full of loops and flourishes for her liking. It was as if the letters themselves were dancing, and she kept missing the steps.

When she had confessed as much the first time, Arwen had laughed—a bright, musical sound like water over stones. “Alas,” the Evenstar had said, smiling, “I fear I cannot write otherwise, even if I wished it. The hand remembers what the heart has learned.”

Éowyn still did not know the exact title she sought.

If I die here, buried under dust and cobwebs, I will haunt her, she thought with dark amusement.

At last she reached a small, sturdy shelf of dark wood. Despite the haphazard piles of books—Faramir would have been appalled—it stood solid. After some searching, Éowyn found the volume.

It was a beautiful old book, bound in worn leather with faded gold lettering. A book of recipes.

Éowyn blinked in confusion. Arwen did not cook. Why send her all this way for recipes?

Puzzled, she turned to leave—only to find herself facing someone she knew very well.

In a shadowed corner stood a marble bust of Faramir as a young man. The candlelight gave the stone a warm, golden glow, almost godlike. He looked so young, with unruly curls and the faintest curve of amusement on his lips, as though he knew a private joke.

Éowyn stepped closer, mesmerized. She had seen many statues of Boromir throughout the city: proud, noble, heroic, displayed in places of honor. Yet this was the first likeness of Faramir she had ever encountered—and it was hidden here, forgotten among dust and cobwebs.

Without thinking, she reached out and gently brushed her fingers across the stone curls. A small, fond smile played on her own lips. Only when hot wax dripped onto her fingers did she startle back with a laugh.

Before the candle could gutter and die, leaving her to grope her way among the dusty stacks, Éowyn hastened back to the brighter, more public chambers of the library. She returned the candle with a hurried word of thanks and gave the librarian a vague, somewhat distracted wave—keenly aware that the Princess of Ithilien must have seemed rather odd in her sudden flurry.

When she returned to the sewing room, now empty except for Arwen, the Queen was quietly reading.

“I am most curious to taste whatever recipe you intend to try,” Éowyn said, setting the old book down. “How ancient is this volume?”

Arwen looked up and laughed, the sound like clear ripples of water. “Very old. I heard goodwife Ioreth speak of it once. Even in her youth it was already considered ancient.”

“I wonder what our hobbit friends would make of it.”

“They would no doubt regale us with half a dozen of the recipes before the week was out,” Arwen replied, eyes twinkling.

Éowyn studied her for a moment then added, more softly, “And I believe I found the prize you spoke of.”

Arwen looked up, her eyes twinkling with quiet pleasure. “Ah. So you discovered the bust.”

“I did.” Éowyn hesitated and stayed silent for a long moment, the image of the marble face still vivid in her mind. “Thank you,” she said at last, voice thick with feeling. “It was a kinder prize than I expected.”

Arwen smiled gently. “I am glad.”

Éowyn glanced at the recipe book, “How did you discover its existence?”

Arwen’s expression grew wistful. “When Faramir and I first spoke of the Library, he mentioned how much knowledge had been left to decay under the old Stewards. The librarian gave me a map and… well, one thing led to another.”

Éowyn laughed. “How many hours?”

“Too many, even for an Elf!”

They shared a laugh, warm and easy. The two women spoke a while longer of recipes and hobbits, of stories of olden time and overlooked hearts, as the golden afternoon light slowly turned golden and purple beyond the windows.

Éowyn gazed outside, thinking of Faramir. When she returned to their chambers, he would ask about her day. She wondered whether she would tell him about the bust, standing quiet and noble in the shadows.

Perhaps not. Some secrets were best kept between friends.

—but here she is strung up, spread-eagled, and Elwing’s tongue is just at that spot over her pubic bone, flat and rugged, slick and slim by turns, and she whimpers into the gag, spreads her legs even wider, as wide as the ropes permitted. This then, was the woman who sired and bore Elrond, who had begged to be strapped to the headboard on their first night and last, and Elros, who had loved wine and women and the hunt, who had sunk into them eve after eve.