Disclaimer:

I hereby disclaim (?) that Faramir and Eowyn are not mine.  They live in a more exciting universe and prefer to stay there.  Sigh.

Shadows in the Sun

By Zephyraria

Chapter I : Shadow Abates

Ten knells issued from the deeps of the stone city.  The resounding echoes passed hollowly through the empty streets and halls, slow mournful waves that stirred the hair on her neck.  The day had grown dark despite the hour and Minas Tirith was deathly silent, every tree and stone in soundless anticipation.

Upon a narrow path in the Gardens of Healing, a figure of white flew between the shadows of the towering evergreens.

Eowyn’s House slippers slapped discordantly against the age-worn cobblestones as she tore headlong through the gardens.  A chill grew beneath her feet, which clawed its way up her calves then her knees, locking her veins with icy tension.  Her breath came in strained gasps, and she felt almost that some filmy substance had descended over her head, invisible and suffocating.   She ran faster even as the wind grew stronger and the cold numbed her left arm as well as her right, but the path stretched on.  It wound endlessly between opaque groves of wild plants and shrubs, and despite her efforts Eowyn could discern no end to it.

Panic enveloped her like the heavy cloak that covers a starless night.  Her rational mind tried another futile reassurance; the gardens are vast, it spoke to her insensible limbs; she had wandered long and deep before foreboding overcame her thoughts, and doubtless she could not have returned to the walls - not yet. 

Eowyn ignored it, running faster, her lungs forcing strength from the lifeless air.  She did not think once that she might be lost.  She could not – thus she would not.  She cannot have lost her way.  Not now. 

At long last she caught a glimpse of leaden sky beyond the trees to her right.  Without the barest sign of slowing Eowyn crashed through the leafless copse.  Sharp twigs and pine needles struck her flesh, scratching her hands and the soft skin at her temples, but she paid no heed to it.  After a short struggle she was free of the encumbering woods, and stood before the walls.

The wave of granite rose before her, pristinely white beneath the low clouds and the darkening sky.  Eowyn looked around.

A lone figure stood against the breakwater of stone, a focus of unrelenting black between the iron skies and the ivory walls.  Dark hair stirred in the North wind as the man turned at her intrusion.  They regarded one another for a while in the stillness, and Eowyn recognized the Steward of Gondor.

After brisk strides Eowyn was beside him.  Without preamble, she asked, “what news?”

The wind snarled again, winding around her throat, making her shiver despite the woolen cloak around her shoulders.  The steward was quiet for a second as Eowyn looked at him.  It was his eerie calmness which disturbed her, she decided at last.  Even in this hour he bore the same unperturbed expression that he wore upon their last meeting, as he listened patiently to her demands to follow the host.  He now spoke with the same steady tones which issued from his lips on that day. 

“None, lady, save what little the wind might tell.”

Eowyn too turned her senses upon the hissing malice on the air, as if to discern a challenge in its wordless cries.  She scowled.  “It is a six day’s ride to the Morannon,” she said, her hands clenching about the wall’s rough surface, “and seven days have passed since he rode forth; doubtless it is they.”

“Yes,” came the steward’s laconic reply, and she heard something in his voice which she did not expect.  Impatience, perhaps, and anger.

Eowyn stole a glance at the immovable form to her right.  A mere glimpse of her eyes caught what her haste had not noticed; the tensed jaw, the heavy frown, the fatigue that was incongruous to those steely eyes.  White-knuckled hands braced expectantly on the walls, and it seemed that he, too, breathed with difficulty.

No one, not even the impervious Steward of Gondor, whose quiet words so frightened her with the depth of their comprehension and pity, could stand impassive to the ending of the world. 

For the first time in a long time Eowyn regretted the rashness of her judgment.  Or rather it was her intrusion which most discomfited her; that she could not leave this man alone to his accustomed silence on this day of all days, and would take from him what little peace he may have salvaged from his solitude.

Silence grew about them.  The northern wind wavered in strength, though the undercurrent of fell whisperings ever followed in its presence.  Eowyn felt the dread knot in her throat, smothering her sanity, leaving naught in her mind save the worsening prophesies of doom and destruction. 

She had to say something, make some movement, to break the unbearable strain.  Something to remind her that she, Eowyn, Eomund’s daughter, breathed still the air of Arda.

That the words would be in apology was a surprise.

“Milord,” she addressed the steward, but spoke into the wind, “I regret to have interrupted your reflections; please, if you should desire to be alone, I would –”

Her words ground to a halt as she realized what she had spoken, and turning, she observed the astonishment on his face.  She looked at him, wordless now.

And then, in another gesture which surprised them both, the lord Faramir smiled at her, a genuine smile of such heartbreaking sincerity that it pierced her clouded heart, and made the air seem lighter.

“Rest assured, Lady Eowyn, that your presence is welcomed,”  His gaze became rueful again as the steward seemed to remember himself, and his smile vanished.  She sighed, imperceptibly.

Staring into the mists before them, he continued, in a voice that could not have been called steady, “Now begins our longest wait.  I only fear that it may end too soon.”

They stood for some time together, senses straining to pierce the enshrouding mists.  Time wore on.  Eowyn felt it in the tightness of her neck, the pressure upon her knees, and the unpleasant prickling at her fingertips. 

Suddenly the east wind leapt upon the city, a predator that at last bared its claws.  Eowyn felt it tug her head back, baring her throat to the blade of some unseen knife.  Her head spun suddenly, and under the wind’s assault her knees turned to water.  Then she was falling. 

Eowyn’s right arm shot out - an action of pure reflex, for she had already lost the sense of balance and the sky and ground ran into one another. 

To her surprise, her hand made solid contact with the Steward’s forearm, which had flung back in surprise at the first gust.  His outstretched hand grasped her elbow with the same nervous ferocity with which she clutched at his cloak, and Eowyn was able to haul herself upright.

The wind, spurred on by their concessions, strengthened with a vengeance.  Eowyn and Faramir both staggered, but with the link of arms between them and his anchoring hand at the walls neither fell.  They held together, bent knees straining against the gales, but dared not close their eyes for fear they would miss that one sign, the smallest indication of the aftermath.  Eowyn’s cloak flew back in the wind, and she grasped tighter to the Steward’s anchoring arm.  His dark hair blew back in her face and her eyes watered.

Upon tower of Ecthelion, the silver banner of the Stewards strained against its flagstaff.  The fabric snapped taut and edges frayed further in the relentless wind, but moments passed, and it held. 

Then abruptly the wind ceased.  A hush fell upon Eowyn’s deafened ears, and covered the city in unceasing silence.  Not a sound was heard save what the ears conjured up in its eerie absence. 

Nothing moved, either; and it seemed to Eowyn that the very fog had frozen in the eternal passing of time, that, to prevent the rise of Sauron the gods had commanded the world to hold still forever.  And she, too, would be a fixated object in this everlasting tableau, waiting by the walls for all time.

In the petrifying silence a clear voice rang out, strong and unwavering; it spoke those words of valor which were instilled in Eowyn since infancy:

Hige sceal þe heardra,      heorte the cenre,

mod sceal þe mare,      þe ure mægen lytlað. *

It was she who had spoken; in the dark, it seemed, in a void of sound.     

At her voice the steward turned his transfixed gaze to her, grey eyes clear to their innermost depths, and translated:

Thought shall be harder,    heart the keener,

Courage the greater,    as our might lessens. 

Blue eyes gazed breathlessly into grey ones as the silence reasserted itself, and the two observers attempted to recall what had spurred their words.

At last, Faramir startled out of his mesmerized speechlessness, and he spoke again, searching her eyes, “There is so much to fear in this world,” his voice was soft, and sad.  “Withering, and destruction, without hope of rebirth.”

Eowyn replied, in a strong voice, “Never will we yield.”

Then he shook his head, and she was confounded; but understanding shone behind his eyes.  He smiled at her once more, and grasped her hand in his. 

“Beyond the paralyzing fear,” he said, and the warmth of his voice pulled at her heart has nothing has done these last joyless days, “Beyond fear, is life.” and here he looked again into the veiled mists before them.

“Life,” she repeated, entranced by the profound ring of hope upon his voice, and looked out beside him. 

And the world was changed.

** from the Battle of Maldon