Caught between the waning and waxing shadows of Osgiliath and Minas Tirith, filled with tall grass and budding flowers, lies the White City’s barrier against the outside world. Pelennor fields surround Gondor’s heart like a green scythe, the verdant blade designed to keep enemies at a distance. The land itself has no blight, no outward reminder of the carnage once wrought here. In these times of peace, crops grow in soil once watered with blood of orcs and men. Children from outlying villages play hide and seek in the meadows where warriors once drew their last breaths.

Eowyn needs no reminder of what occurred in this place. In her mind, Pelennor Fields remain forever stained with blood as they were the day Théoden King lay broken upon them.

There is pillar of stone that marks the grave of Snowmane and falling place of the King of Rohan. In the past, this was the first spot where Eowyn would pause in her travels and dismount. This journey will be no different. The Queen reins in Windfola for she would linger in this place once more. She knows not when or if she will pass this way ever again.

The carving on the stone has weathered since the day it was carved, yet the epitaph is still legible for those who come to view it:

Faithful servant yet master's bane,
Lightfoot's foal, swift Snowmane.

The stone itself is cold and damp for although the sun has risen in the sky, morning's dew still clings to its sides, making homes in the nooks and crannies time has fractured upon its surface. The drops of moisture catch on Eowyn's fingers as they graze the inscription. This is the place where she almost lost her life; where Théoden lay crushed beneath his steed.

Weariness overcomes the Queen. The wounds dealt to her by those who dwelt in Minas Morgul still ache though the tower crumbled to dust long ago. Her shield arm, shattered when the Witch King struck, pains her on occasion, yet the physical blow she received during the war is a mere trifle to the blow the Nazgul dealt her heart. The loss Eowyn still suffers for the man she thinks of as her true father cannot be mended with herbs or healing prowess.

"Theoden," she says out loud, staring past the stone. It is time's bitter trick that she can no longer recall the timbre of the King’s voice nor the sound of his laughter, yet time spent delirious, reeling under the Black Breath remains crystalline in memory. It takes little effort for Eowyn to recall the darkness of those fevered dreams; it takes even less to remember who brought her back and why she hearkened to his call.

"He came to me and bade me wake. The shadow parted and I saw him standing before me, dressed in silver with a white tree engraved upon his breastplate. He held out his hand, then smiled and bade me wake again so I may walk with him and be his queen. I placed my hand in his and—"

At this point in the story she had always paused to drink in the rosy faces of her children gazing up at her for their wide eyes and rapt expressions were as a tonic to the Queen's soul.

"And?" one of the girls would inevitably ask.

"And I have walked by his side ever since; all the way to you."

This had never failed to draw deep sighs from the children. "You loved father so that you returned just for him?" they had always chimed, already in possession of the answer, unable not to ask.

What if they should ask her now that they were grown? If one of her children posed the same question now, would she tell them the entire tale? Could she?

After all this time, the Queen still cannot say. As she leans against the monument, Eowyn understands that even with time's passage, it is the nature of all complicated tales to possess no simple answers.

A shadow passes over the bright sun. A chill goes through Eowyn as she traces memories with a fingertip.

"You shiver, Lady. Are you in need of care?"

Eowyn shakes her head. Her gaze turns away from the marker towards the sound of the Steward's voice. "It is nothing," she says. "My heart lies elsewhere. I would be with it."

Theoden King lies within Rath Dínen, the Silent Street, among the Kings of Gondor; a captive guest far from his own land and people.

Faramir leans forward. He sits in a heavy wooden chair, surrounded by the tall meadow grasses and early spring flowers that bend and sway in the steady breeze. His green mantle is pulled around him and his dark hair stands out in contrast to the paleness of his skin.

"Lord Aragorn would not be pleased to see you up and about so soon," he muses.

"Lord Aragorn goes about as he pleases," Eowyn retorts. "I would do the same."

"You are not well."

"I am well enough."

The world is in chaos, all existence fragile as glass. The man the Halflings call "Strider" and the White Rider storm the Black Gate. Smoke from Mordor still rises in lethal curls to darken the eastern spring sky.

A strange expression crosses the Steward's face. The wind ruffles his long hair. "He will return, Lady."

"What?"

"Lord Aragorn. He efforts will prove victorious. The will of free people must triumph in the end. In the interim, I shall try to be a better companion to you."

Eowyn sinks to the meadow's floor, her back pressed against Snowmane's marker. "You misunderstand me, my Lord. I do not pine for the company of Lord Aragorn but of Theoden King. He is alone in the Silent Street and I would go to him. If hope fails, I may not have the chance again."

At the thought of Theoden lying cold and alone among the Kings of Gondor, Eowyn must close her eyes. When she opens them, Faramir is still there, leaning forward, chin resting on his tented hands. He smiles at her. When he smiles, he is blindingly beautiful.

"You are right, Lady. I did not understand," he says.

There is another that has traced around the outskirts of her heart; another man of Gondor, upright and true. He is a leader in his own right, possessing neither the hands of a Healer or bloodline of a King.

Faramir studies Eowyn as if trying to discern a particularly complex puzzle. "If you will forgive my boldness, it strikes me that you and I have much in common." Hesitation lies thick within his voice. "I, too, have met with grief."

Although his tone is light, pain is visible in his eyes. Eowyn must stop herself from reaching for his hand for it would not be meet. She is betrothed to this man's sovereign lord and king.

Still, the warmth of his gaze cannot be denied. "Your loss is great, my Lord," Eowyn murmurs, not knowing what else to say.

"My name is Faramir, Lady. I would have you call me so."

"Faramir, then." Eowyn marvels at how easily the name falls from her tongue. "And you shall call me Eowyn," she adds, surprising herself with such spontaneity.

The Steward's face lights up at the suggestion. "So be it, Eowyn."

He is so informal, so different from what she thought the men of Minas Tirith to be. Aragorn, of course, was a different cipher for he was raised among the elves, but she had always heard that these gallants of Gondor embraced their formal graces as seriously as they did their letters; both customs that men of Rohan did not hold as dear.

A comfortable silence settles upon them. Faramir gazes off towards the rising sun. When he speaks again, his words are slow and measured.

"If there is to be truth between us, I would tell you, Eowyn, that I would mourn my father and my brother if I could. I would do obeisance at their tombs and prepare them for their final rests." He sighs and rubs a hand over his mouth. "Yet, these things are not within my reach for Rauros took Boromir to the sea and my father—" Faramir's smile is bitter aspic. "Of my father, there is nothing left to mourn."

"My Lord—"

His eyes contain flecks of blue. "Faramir."

"Faramir, I am sorry—"

He interrupts her with a gentle wave of hand. "Offer no words of pity, Eowyn. My brother and father are gone. I must go about the business of living. Gondor will need a Steward in the days to come."

Eowyn leans forward in the grass. "You speak truth, sir," she says, her voice low and soft. "The King will have need of your service for it will come about as you said: good must bear witness and triumph in the end."

"We must believe so. It is all we can hope for, Lady. It is all we have left." Faramir shakes his head. "Besides, you and I are of a mortal strain. We must make our peace with death for it will come to us and to all we love. Yet, I thank you for your kindness and your company. Grief is a burden that is best not borne alone."

His gaze is tender. Eowyn casts formality to the spring wind and reaches out to take his hand.

Her fingers close upon themselves for she is alone in the field, with naught but flowers and birds for company. From behind Snowmane's stone, she can hear a gentle rip as Windfola crops the long grass.

"What—"

Eowyn runs a hand over her face before glancing around again. She is alone in the field. "I must be dreaming," she mutters and forces a thin laugh.

The strain of leaving Minas Tirith must be upon her for it is not possible that she just saw this shadow from her past. Faramir sat with her in the Houses of Healing long ago, not in this meadow. That man is not part of this time and place, indeed no longer any part of her life for she and the Prince of Ithilien have not spoken true to each other in years.

"You must make amends," a voice whispers in her ear.

Eowyn whirls around, but she remains alone, "I have," she says, bewildered. "I have made my amends."

Out of nowhere, the ground beneath her feet begins to rumble, then quakes with the pounding of thousands of hooves. A fierce wind stirs once still air, blowing cold against the Queen's face. Windfola shifts against the loose tether and as the neighing of a legion of horses grows in volume and strength, the mare rears up, her hooves pawing the air.

The Queen pinches the flesh upon her withered cheek with a force that makes her eyes water. She is not dreaming. Pressing her palm against the pain, she rises with difficulty from the ground. "I am ready," she calls, unable to hear her own voice over the rumble of the approaching herd. "I am here."

"Make amends."

The voice is as close and intimate as a lover's, purring in her ear.

As quickly as it began, the ground and air grow still and in the place of the approaching stampede, an eerie silence now descends upon the meadow. The hairs rise upon the back of Eowyn's neck. "Eomer?" she calls. "Is that you?" She hears the pathos within her voice and the sound frightens her almost as much as the figure that comes towards her.

Faramir approaches, carrying the lifeless body of Aragorn. Blood streaks the Steward's face and his eyes glitter with a fever borne of determination. He stops an arm’s breadth away from where Eowyn stands beside the marker, the King cradled gently in his arms. "I kept my promise, Lady," he whispers. "I have returned."

Eowyn's hands fly to her mouth. A strangled noise escapes her as she steps backwards. Her feet tangle in the tall grass and she falls to the ground, landing full-weight upon her hand. White-hot pain shoots from her wrist and she squeezes her eyes shut to keep from crying out, shuddering in her self-imposed darkness. "What is happening to me?" she cries.

The only answer she receives is the thin piping of the meadow's birds. Chiding herself for fear, the Queen reopens her eyes.

The figure that stood before her has disappeared and the sky above has returned to brilliant blue. From all signs, it is turning into a beautiful day.

Panic blossoms inside her like the wildflowers that had surrounded the place where Faramir sat. "I am overtired," Eowyn says through gritted teeth. "It was naught but a dream."

She tries to stand, but although the pain has faded, her wrist will not yet bear weight. Wincing, she switches to the other hand and pushes back to her feet.

She has been injured, she cannot deny it. Her hand serves as proof that something greater than a mere dream occurred. The voice told her again to make amends, but hasn't she done all she could? She has said her farewells to her family; the small matter of her estate has been put to rights. What more is left to attend?

I kept my promise, Lady. I have returned.

Faramir? Is this the matter of which the voice speaks?

The Queen's mouth draws downward in a frown. No; whatever might have been between her and the Prince of Ithilien was settled long ago. There is nothing left of that matter but a dried chrysalis of memory that belongs to the girl she once was, not to the woman she is today. The Steward and she have kept their peace. It must be something else.

With the idea soundly rejected, Eowyn scowls, puzzling over what the voice could mean. She must solve this riddle for she would heed the Riders. She has beheld them with her own
eyes—

But has she? Could it have been a dream?

Eowyn's mind gnaws upon the thought as a yearling at a paddock rail. Her body and spirit have declined as of late; this is not folly but fact. What of her mind?

Unnerved by her own thoughts, Eowyn goes to Windfola and strokes her mare's neck. The action calms her. No, this is no elder fool's errand she is on. She saw the Riders in Gondor. Of that she has no doubt.

But does she? What if all of this was but her own feeble attempt to find meaning at the end of life? Theoden King believed the legends false. Theoden King had believed—

—had not believed—

Theoden King had not believed.

Eowyn turns once more to face Snowmane's stone and the thought that has danced around the edges of her heart and mind since she saw the Riders for her own eyes charging the streets of the White City, since Elfwine's cry echoed in her ears months before, comes clear at last.

If she believes in the Riders and accepts them in faith, she must also accept that she had failed to summon them for Theoden. Without the call, Theoden's spirit would be lost in the twilight between life and death, separated forever from the Eotheod. It was not enough she could not save the King in his hour of need; she has also failed him in securing his eternal peace.

Eowyn's nails dig into her palms. Although the morning's chill is slight, her teeth chatter. She shall become mad if she stays in this place any longer. She may be mad now, she can no longer tell.

"I must go," she whispers and mounts her horse with as much haste as her failing body will allow, wincing at the pain that lingers in her wrist. Her heels dig into Windfola's side and the mare, unaccustomed to such prodding, shoots across the field as an arrow from a bow.

Horse and rider speed eastward as if pursued by the long-fallen Nazgul themselves. As the wind blows in her ears, Eowyn tries to dam the flood of doubt that threatens to overwhelm, yet the image of Theoden King, lost in the shadow between life's wake and sleep, returns again and again to torment. Bitter tears fly behind as the Queen rides; Eowyn's own salted rain falling as memorial to those who fell and those who may not yet rest.

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Galloping under the midday sun, the frantic clanging of Eowyn's own thoughts cannot be drowned out by the sound of Windfola’s hooves as they beat a steady rhythm on the hard-packed ground. The horse is as fleet as her predecessors, all fine mounts; still, no matter how much speed the animal musters, Eowyn's grief keeps pace. It grins and cavorts inside her, summoning images at will: Theoden carried into the tomb, Aragorn bleeding in the arms of his Steward, Elfwine raising his head to the sky, Eomer lying in state. The memories compound, one on another, until the shaking in her hands forces the Lady of Rohan to slow her mount to a walk.

The ride has not been great in length, but already the terrain has visibly changed. The country grows hillier and as the path becomes more established under the budding branches of trees, the open spaces begin to narrow; all clear signs that the Queen has arrived at the edge of upper Ithilien. A few leagues further west, the forest will thin and divide. There, flanked by guard towers, lies the bridge that spans the fast-flowing Anduin, built wide and strong to last the ages of men to come, and beyond continues the road that leads to Osgiliath.

A short distance into the thickening woods, a clearing bisects the path, calm and quiet. Here Eowyn reins Windfola to a halt and dismounts, knees shaking, eyes blurred with tears. While the patient mare stands by, the Queen of Gondor leans against the nearest tree. There, she lets loose the sorrows of her heart, weeping silently, head buried in her hands.

The day is oblivious to the Lady of Rohan's grief. The air is crisp but not bitter, seasoned with a hint of the warmth to come. Early flowers peek from the wayside foliage, for winter will be driven from this land before the next moon.

For all her life in Gondor, spring held a special place in the heart of its queen for the season is always rich in its renewal. Minas Tirith is never lovelier than when its trees and flowers are in bloom. The White Tree sends down rains of blossoms that are borne on the wind throughout the city, lading the streets with golden petals. Leaning against the rough bark of tree, the memory of Aragorn, coming towards her, blossoms catching in his dark hair, hand outstretched, appears before her. Eowyn's tears flow harder for the memory is almost more than she can bear.

She cannot go back. She has known it all along but now with only the wind in the trees for witness, the truth stands as stark and defined as the branches above. Spring will not come again for the Queen of Gondor. Since the night she beheld the flash of spears charging towards the Citadel, she knew.

Eowyn drags a hand across her face, clearing her cheeks for more tears to fall. Her own demise she can accept; her mind has bent to this and she chose the path she treads now of her own free will. It is the other that haunts her, the mere idea that because she had no faith, Théoden's spirit might wander lost. Her heart rails against the possibility for Theoden had been a good King, a great leader of men during a dark time. It would be too terrible a fate for a man such as him.

With all her heart, the Queen of Gondor wishes that she could speak again with her husband, to take his counsel. Yet, even as she makes the wish, she knows what the King would say.

Theoden has surely gone on to his reward, wife, you must not think otherwise. The Valar would not fail to honor one such as him. Rest easy for there is nothing certain except that no more can be done.

Yes, the King would say just that, speaking from a heart filled with compassion and a mind set in reason. He would tell her she should search out what is left for her to attend for naught can be done for Theoden now.

A wave of anger courses through Eowyn. Only one raised in the traditions of the Rohirrim would ken the meaning of what she has seen, could ever uncover its truth. It is not meet that Theoden may not rest. "I accept this as if I were born and bred in Gondor," she growls. "I am a descendant of the House of Eorl."

She must act; she must do something to rectify this, both for Theoden's peace and for her own. She has put her faith in the Riders. It is her right to call them and she will claim it here at the end of her days. Perhaps this is her final atonement; the last duty she must perform before what lies beyond the veil that separates the living from the dead is revealed to her.

If only she could recall the words, for she had been numb in her grief the day Eomer died, oblivious to things she now has cause to remember. She shuts her eyes to block all distractions. Elfwine stood in front of the tomb and said—

She cannot remember. Still, the Queen will not be hindered by something as inconsequential as phrasing. This is a rite, not a spell.

The thought bolsters her spirits. "Theoden King was a great King and worthy man," she begins, eyes searching the sky as she tries to speak what lies in her heart. "He was as a father to me and I claim the right to call the Riders to bring him home at last."

Slowly, the Queen of Gondor steps away from the tree and stands in the middle of the path. "Theoden King brought great honor to the House of Eorl," she calls into the stillness of the clearing. "Long has he wandered, separated from the Eotheod. In the memory of all the good he wrought in the name of Rohan and its allies, I summon the Riders to come; to bring him to live in glory among his ancestors, to find his rest at last."

Eowyn takes a deep breath and lowers her head. She thinks on Theoden, concentrates on the man she remembers. Suddenly, she finds she can recall the gravity of his smile, the way his hand wrapped around her smaller one, his eyes as he rallied the people at the Deep and then again led the Rohirrim out against the armies of the Enemy to save Gondor, to save them all. She remembers his valor, his kindness, his goodness and as she thinks upon these things, a cry grows within her that can no longer be contained. Her head tilts back at the vault of blue above and she releases the sound that seems to generate from every part of her. All her love, all her longing, all her pride in the man she knew as father rings in the trees, in the sky and echoes back again and again and again.

When the last remnants of the cry are carried away upon the spring wind, Eowyn shuts her eyes. A great feeling of relief sweeps over her. It is done. Truly, she has made her amends.

"Eowyn?"

In a vista that was naught but fallen leaves and trees, a woman now stands dressed in the white of a shield maiden, a spear of the Eorlingas held in her slender hand. As she gazes upon the apparition, the peace Eowyn feels vanishes and is replaced with a tangle of emotions she is hard pressed to name.

It is her mother.

"Do you know me, daughter?"

Eowyn nods, able to manage little more. As she stands before her mother, the years fall away and despite her age, she feels as a child again. She takes a step towards the apparition but Theodwyn stops her with an upraised hand.

"It has been long since we last beheld each other." Theodwyn's voice is huskier than her daughter's. The gentle breeze blows tendrils of golden hair around her face.

"You died," Eowyn says. It seems to her that her voice comes from far away. "I was very young."

Theodwyn's eyes reflect the great sadness her daughter remembers so well. "No so young that you could have not paid me honor. You valued my memory little throughout your life, seeking instead your own way among men."

The rebuke is more painful to the Queen than any physical blow. "I did what I must," she replies, swallowing the lump that has appeared in her throat.

Theodwyn's expression is grave. "You did what you wanted. You always did, even when you were a little girl."

Tears sting Eowyn's eyes. The desire to run to her mother is overwhelming, but Theodwyn's words are too harsh to allow for such sentiment. "You were not there," she chokes, not trusting herself to say more.

Theodwyn shakes her head. "Yet, you could have remembered me. Instead you made it your purpose to forget, as you do all things that pain you. You have forgotten me and you have forgotten that which happened long ago. For this, you must make your amends."

A tear slips down Eowyn's face. "I know not of what you speak."

"You do. You must make for Osgiliath. The Prince waits there."

Hot blood floods the Queen's face as her temper flares upwards. "There is no business unfinished between Faramir and myself," she snaps. "There is nothing at all."

Her mother's eyes gleam, grey as storm clouds. "Do not speak falsehoods, Eowyn. You must make haste and you have little time."

Eowyn's expression turns stony. "I tell you: there is nothing to amend," she mutters between clenched teeth, then slowly turns her back on the apparition.

In the blink of an eye, the clearing vanishes. Eowyn stands upon the balcony of the Houses of Healing where smoke rises in the east from vanquished Mordor. In front of her, the girl she was so long ago catches Faramir's hand in hers. A wave of despair washes over the Queen as she sees the younger version of herself look up into the Steward's eyes then back down to his hand clasped within her own.

"It is so, then," young Eowyn chokes. "You would leave me in ignorance of this, bereft of one I value so greatly? This is your idea of friendship?"

Faramir pales. "I do not know what to say for I would that day had never come. I would have remained in silence to keep this from you."

"Why? So you could suffer? Was it not you who told me that some things are better not borne alone?" The maid's eyes blaze with fury. "I am not a child to be protected, Faramir. When told the truth, I am able to make my own decisions."

Faramir casts his eyes towards the ground. "I did not mean to treat you with disrespect, Lady. My silence had reason."

"Eowyn. My name is Eowyn. Or is that no longer between us as well?"

Watching the scene, grief stabs through the Queen once again, sudden and sharp as the blade of Narsil. She watches her younger self struggle. "Why did you not make yourself known?" the girl cries, burying her face in her hands.

"Must I explain, lady?"

"You should have—"

Faramir tilts the maid's face that she might look into his eyes. His tone is stern. "You are betrothed to Lord Aragorn. He is a good man; he is my King and my sovereign lord. I have pledged my honor and my fealty to him and yet, I cannot take you from my heart. I have tried, but there you remain against everything I hold to be true, to be honorable. Surely, Eowyn, you can fathom why I kept this to myself?"

His tone grows rough and for a brief instant, his eyes blaze with anger and frustration. His hands encircle the maid's wrists with the grasp of a drowning man. Eowyn watches her younger self stare up into the Steward's face, horror and loss reflected in her delicate features.

The instant passes and with a face pale as snow in winter, Faramir's hands fall to his sides. "I am sorry, Lady—Eowyn," he murmurs. "I am sorry."

Her mother's voice sounds in the Queen's ear. "Do you still hold there is nothing you must account for?"

A pall seems to have fallen over the world. "It was long ago," Eowyn chokes.

"Yet it lies upon your heart, daughter. You cannot ride with this any further."

The balcony disappears and once more, the two women so alike in bearing face one another in the clearing; one cut down in her youth, one grown old, a victim to the ravages of time. After a long moment, Eowyn breaks the silence.

"I must to Osgiliath, then? That is what the Riders would have?"

Theodwyn sighs. "It is not the Riders' will, but your own, daughter. You must resolve this in the time left."

"It ended badly."

"It matters not. You still must go."

Eowyn looks at her mother, studies the high cheekbones so like her own. "I did not forget you, mother," she whispers. "I was a good Queen and a good mother in my own right. I learned compassion from your brother, your son taught me to laugh, a King taught me to live. When the war came, I found I could be more than what the ways of our country would have me be. Tell me, mother, if you look upon my life in this light, would you have had me live other than I did?"

Theodwyn's face is rife with pity. "You misunderstand, daughter. It is not what I would have, but what troubles you still. You have been action's advocate all your years, Eowyn, yet you still have not learned that love is as noble as any act of valor. I would see you acknowledge the heart's quiet sacrifice and not just acts of selflessness which occur upon the field of battle."

A long moment passes. "Faramir," Eowyn whispers. Her face crumples.

Her mother reaches out to stroke her daughter's aged cheek. Eowyn gasps for her mother's hand, which is warm, has weight and texture. She reaches up to clasp her mother's fingers and finds the flesh to be solid against her own.

Theodwyn opens her arms. As if in a dream, Eowyn sinks into her mother's embrace. The feel and smell of her mother, long ago faded and forgotten, floods over her like rain in drought. She lays her head against Theodwyn's shoulder. If they come for me now, I will not leave, she thinks, and holds her mother tighter.

Theodwyn pulls back. Her eyes now contain the kindness Eowyn remembers from her childhood. "The Riders approach, Eowyn," she says, wiping her daughter's tears with her sleeve.

A tremor begins in the earth beneath Eowyn's feet and a wave of panic courses through her. "Mother, did they come for Theoden King?" she gasps.

The rumble intensifies as Theodwyn smiles upon her daughter. "Make your amends," she counsels, laying her hand against Eowyn's cheek. "Find your peace."

A legion of horses can again be heard floating on the wind. Once more, the ground begins to shake; pebbles dance along the forest path, jarred from their sedentary rest. The sound of horses and riders is deafening and Eowyn's hands per force fly over her ears.

Theodwyn's face shines with joy. "Hurry, daughter," she calls. Eowyn tries to respond, but it is too loud, it is…

When the Queen of Gondor wakes, the sun has climbed down towards the west. Windfola grazes nearby, and somewhere in the nearby forest, a bird is singing a song more beautiful than Elven lays.

Eowyn sits up, ignoring the pain that shoots through her joints from lying so long upon the damp earth. Slow and careful in movement, she stands. Exhaustion blurs her vision, making her want to fall back upon the forest floor and stay forever. She would be content if her life would stop at this very moment, ending this madness and doubt. She raises her head, and for an instant, thinks that perhaps she will stay just a short while and rest until she feels stronger or perhaps until her bones crumble into dust and mingle with the earth. Both would be welcome in light of what lies ahead.

A glimmer catches the Queen's eye in the fading light and her mouth opens in astonishment. There, leaning against a nearby tree is the spear her mother bore, shining in the diminished light, elegant and deadly. After an eternity, Eowyn approaches the place where it rests. Her hand shakes as she extends one finger and runs it down the weapon's shaft.

The spear is real.

A shudder of relief passes through Eowyn. Her vision clears, sweeping away the cobwebs of doubt that have shrouded her judgment since she fled from Pelennor Fields. With a firm hand, she grips the weapon, taking joy in its tangibility, in the weight within her hands. The underlying ache of living falls from her weary bones. Holding the spear, she feels more herself than she has felt in months.

She hefts the spear to her side, noting the familiarity of the gesture after so many years. There will be no rest. She must head on to Osgiliath while there is still light in the sky. She must make her amends.

"Come, Windfola." Eowyn's command is quiet in the growing dusk. "We must be on our way."

Carefully, Eowyn settles into the saddle, spear held upright. She gives a slight pressure to Windfola's sides and the horse, ever obedient, breaks into a trot.

Faramir waits in Osgiliath. This day has been many years coming. Eowyn sees no reason to keep him waiting any longer.

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^{Thus leads the path from meadow.}

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