The Last Ring-bearer - Kirill Yeskov [54]
But this show of weakness lasted for only a moment. Then the blood of six generations of steppe knights asserted itself: the sister of the King of the Mark of Rohan may not behave like a miller's daughter seduced by the landlord. Smiling charmingly (although the smile held about as much warmth as moonlight upon a snowy White Mountains pass), Éowyn told the lieutenant that his orders were very strange, as she was not the subject of the man who called himself the King of Gondor and Arnor. In any event, they are presently outside the Reunited Kingdom, so if the Prince of Ithilien (a nod towards Faramir) does not object, she would like to avail herself of his hospitality for some more time.
The Prince of Ithilien had no objections, of course, and the only thing that really upset him about the situation was this: he was unarmed, so if Aragorn's men were under orders to remove the girl forcibly if necessary, he would have to fight with only the dagger he has just used to cut venison. A truly fitting end for the last heir of the ill-fated Anarion dynasty! At least this tragic farce will be concluded in its prevalent style… The prince glanced at Beregond, who stood on the right side of the table, and was startled by an astonishing change that had come over the captain: his gaze was firm as in the old days, and his hand rested familiarly on the hilt of his sword. Neither of them needed any words to understand that the old warrior had made his choice and was ready to die by Faramir's side.
Whereas the Gondorian officer was obviously perplexed: apparently his orders did not include any violence against royal persons. Éowyn smiled again – with real charm this time – and firmly took the upper hand:
"I'm afraid that you'll have to stay after all, Lieutenant. Do try the venison, it's especially good today. Your soldiers must need rest, too." She addressed the butler: "Gunt! See the King's men to the kitchen and make sure they're well fed after their journey. Oh, and arrange for their baths!"
Éowyn had the fortitude to stay until the end of the meal and even keep up the conversation: "Please pass the salt… Thank you… So what's the news from Mordor, Lieutenant? We're quite cut off, here in the boonies…" It was clear, though, that she was holding on with the last of her strength. Looking at her, Faramir remembered some over-tempered glass he once saw: it looked just like a regular piece of glass, but shattered into tiny pieces with a tiny flick.
Of course he did not sleep that night; sitting by the lamp, he kept futilely wracking his brains, trying to think of ways to help. The prince was an expert in philosophy and pretty well versed in military and intelligence crafts, but to be honest, he knew little about the intricacies of the female soul. So when his door opened without a knock and there was transparently pale Éowyn, in a nightshirt and barefoot, he was completely bewildered. She was already inside, though, stepping like a somnambulant; then the nightshirt fell down at her feet, and she ordered, head held high but eyelashes down: "Take me, Prince! Now!"
He picked up her light body – goodness, she's shivering like crazy, must be nervous shakes! – carried her to his bed and covered her with two warm cloaks. What else do I have here? He looked around – aha, Elvish wine, just what she needs.
"Here, drink this, it'll warm you up."
"Wouldn't you rather warm me up in another fashion?" She spoke with her eyes closed; her body, taut as a bowstring, was still shivering.
"Certainly not now. You'd hate me for the rest of your life, and with good reason."
Then she knew for sure that, finally, it was all right to cry... So she cried, with abandon, like a child, while he was hugging