The Houses of Healing

- jan-u-wine

I.

Ioreth
Éomer
Aragorn
Eowyn
Faramir


Ioreth:
 
 
The hands of the king
are
the hands
 
of the healer......
 
Much in need are we
of healing,
 
king-handed or no.
 
And this maid,
this bright-haired
 
child
of horse-masters,
 
in need most of all.
 
Like unto the perian,
her wounding,
 
the breaking of her limbs
naught
 
to the breaking
of that which is within.
 
In night they wander.
 
Only the hands
of a king
 
might
reclaim them.
 
Only the hands of a healer
may
 
bring them
 
back
to us.
__________________________
 

Éomer:
 
 
Did I not speak to you,
sister,
 
did I not say
war
 
does not abide
women?
 
Before me
stays
 
the grievous
proof.
 
 
In sorrowful
twilight
 
did I find you,
 
the golden curtain
of your hair
 
secreted no longer
beneath a soldier's
 
helm*,
 
the fair shield of it
flowing,
 
like bright water,
upon the still'd breast
 
of the fallen.
 
 
It was a great deed,
my sister,
 
a deed
 
no man
should have accomplished.
 
A brave deed,
 
as noble
and shining
 
and worthy
 
of remembrance
as any done
 
beneath bright sun
or cloud-caged moon.
 
But....
oh, my sister,
 
still
you are
 
before me,
 
breath
dim'd mist upon a mirror's
 
silver'd face,
the small curve of your
 
hand
growing cold
 
within my own.
 
 
In lands I cannot see,
lands
 
beyond night,
 
you wander.
 
Beneath the weight
of this darkness
 
I fear you shall,
 
at last,
 
fall.
 
 
Tell me.
 
Tell me
 
what purpose shall I have, then,
sister,
 
what road might I ride
 
if you,
too,
 
depart away?
 
Stay.
 
O my sister,
fair maid of Rohan,
 
soldier of heart and helm,
 
stay.
 _______________________
 

Aragorn:
 
 
Many years have I seen,
tethered by time's hard wheel,
 
many the battle,
endured,
 
caught by hot yellow sun
or moon made
 
red
 
with blood.
 
No deed has held my heart
thus,
 
no fair act,
 
wrought by fairer hand,
 
brought me such
knowing grief.
 
Born of grief,
this deed,
 
despair
over-throwing a heart
 
burdened beyond
bearing.
 
But not beyond recall.
 
What lies within a warrior's heart,
 
these
things I know.
 
That which lives within
this
 
brave heart,
the misplaced love
 
of proud maid,
 
this,
too,
 
I know.
 
The pledge
of her desire,
 
 
I cannot give
her.
 
Only the quiet
sweep
 
of her life,
the beat of blood
 
within veins,
the sweet in-and-out
 
of breath
might I restore.
 
This deed,
fair maid,
 
the soldier
that I am,
 
the King
I shall be,
 
promises.
 
Return
to those
 
of whom
you are
 
beloved.
 
Return to find the world
renewed.
 
___________________
 

*the name Éowyn took as a Rider of Rohan, Dernhelm, means "helmet of secrecy" (The Thain's Book)

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II.

Eowyn:
 
 
Grey is the dawn this day,
 
grey the tattered cloud-heads
pressed
 
like an ancient,
 
angered sea
against mountain-scarred
 
eastern sky.
 
That is where
 
he
has gone.
 
That is where our hope....
 
my hope,
has departed.
 

As grey as the day,
 
quiet and sorrowful
as the distant veil
 
of fog-shroud,
 
a morning dove
keens.
 
This
 
mourning,
I fear,
 
shall not pass.
 
At last,
I know,
 
I
know
 
what it is
that has beat
 
like a heart
within me
 
all my maiden's years:
 
not a warrior-song,
not
 
the rejoicing at the sweet music
of a blade,
 
passing
through light air
or
 
marrow'd body,
 
or the swift pound
of unshod hooves,
 
tinctured red
from that upon which
 
they have trod.
 
Oh,
 
small
and
 
silenced
heart.
 
A maid-child's
heart,
 
dreaming ever
upon death,
 
quiet'd ever
by the constancy
 
of despair.
 
 
These are all I know.
 
These are my
 
kin,
 
my dwelling,
 
my
beloved.
 
These,
the cage of
unreason'd pride,
 
the winter-thorn'd
home
 
of a heart
overthrown,
 
at the last,
by fearsome
Shadow.
 
 
To the East,
it waits,

wraith-fingers
stopping the breath

of all who
must

march beneath it....

into it.


I desire naught
but to flee from it.....

I desire
naught

but to flee
to it.

At last,
 
then,
I should know
 
peace:
 
a shield-maiden
ending

in the way
of all warriors,

unremarked
and
 
gladdened
to find rest
 
beneath the
bloodied Sun.
 
To the East,
my hope has gone.
 
To the East
stays
 
the only healing I might
 
desire.
______________________________________________

 
Faramir:
 
 
My father should have called it
folly
 
to dream upon the Moon,
 
to await,
with sweet
 
unspent breath,
the dawning Sun.
 
Of no consequence
the leaden
 
clouds
which veil Her.
 
Of small matter,
the crow-wing,
shadow'd East.
 
Spring,
hidden beneath Winter's
guise,
 
has come
to The City.
 
And my heart grows
quiet
 
with the gentle beauty of her,
the soft,
 
spreading
light of moon upon snow-fall
 
pale-painting her brow,
 
the depthless enfoldment
of the unending Sea
 
mirror'd in solemn eyes.
 
Like unto that enfoldment,
I cloak her in a queen's
garb.
 
The gold of her hair
 
rides
upon the back
 
of the rain-wind.
 
A hand,
fearless til now,
 
rests,
like a fright'd bird,
 
within the cage of mine.
 
Oh, secret Lady.
 
Lady of sorrow.
 
Does not your heart
 
speak
to you,
 
White Lady?
 
Does it not
whisper
 
and
warm you
 
with joy
unlooked for,
 
with hope
remade?
 
My Lady:
 
in this moment,
you are no warrior,
 
sworn to sword
and deeds
 
and death.
 
You are a maid.
 
You are
beloved.
 
Oh, Lady,
 
White Lady,
put away your warrior's helm.
 
Stay.
 
Within the circle of my city,
 
within
the circle
 
of my arms,
 
stay.