Chapter Ten: A Similar Fate

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This chapter took so long because it was so very difficult to write. It is an attempt to fill in gaps, not only in what Jackson didn't show in the films, but also in what Tolkien didn't describe in the books. That this chapter ever was completed owes much to my Beta readers, Raksha and SMOR, without whom ......I hope you enjoy my interpretation of Faramir's famous charge.

Of course, "Avoidance" is movie verse with a healthy respect for Book canon.

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She slept with her head nestled up against his shoulder, her huge belly pressed against his torso. But he couldn't sleep. Eowyn's reaction to the invitation from the King and Queen frankly surprised him. So much of her anxiety was based on events several years in the past. Nevertheless, Faramir was acutely aware of the strength of his wife's former infatuation with the man who was their liege lord and now his superior officer. Eowyn seemed to purposely avoid all but the most formal visits with the King of Gondor.

And why? Faramir wondered as he turned his head to nuzzle his wife's disheveled hair. Aragorn Elessar and Arwen Undomiel were away more than a year in the Northern Kingdom and only now were returning to their residence in Minas Tirith. Faramir genuinely liked and respected Aragorn. He was just beginning to establish a working relationship with the King. So Eowyn's refusal thus far to attend any private audiences with Aragorn, and especially with Queen Arwen, made Faramir very uneasy. Just how deep were Eowyn's feelings for Aragorn, son of Arathorn? And why did she in just a few weeks switch her scarcely concealed affection for the Dunedan to a rather more open affair with the last ruling Steward of Gondor?

He placed his cheek on her head and closed his eyes, remembering those difficult times.

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She's cooler than the snows on Mindolluin, yet her face burns with fire as she describes her deeds in the great battle. She delights in her tales of combat and triumph. And yet she wants to curl up with a big medical text that would put the greatest of scholars to sleep in five minutes. Does she know what a bundle of contradictions she is?

What a woman, Faramir sighed as the past day's encounter with the Lady of Rohan kept invading his memory and disrupting his concentration. What would she think of a man whose entire life was spent under the shadow of war, but who has ever yearned in vain for peace?

Eowyn's image threatened to consume his thoughts while Beregond helped him plan the strategy for tomorrow's Council. Later, as they ate a spare dinner, Faramir wondered whether Eowyn would truly attend the Council.

Two nights ago, when he first saw Eowyn at her window, an obviously distressed figure with a broken arm, Faramir had pitied her for her injuries and her confinement. Today he understood that his pity did the lady a grave injustice. He sensed that her life had been one of thwarted ambitions and desires. Then something must have happened recently to make the lady desperate to grab as much of life as she could, while her world was still free of the Dark Lord's hand.

Put her in the back of your mind, Red! While you are supposedly recovering from injuries, your mind must be at rest, not churning, particularly with idle speculation about a woman.

His wounds were starting to itch and burn. Faramir returned to his bed early. How long had it been since he was wounded? Six days? Surely not a week yet. Narmar would certainly insist that it was far too soon to be passing his hours in friendly talk, let alone holding a Steward's Council. He ordered the early evening shift of guards to bring him wine to take the edge off the pain of his healing wounds. At times like these, he was grateful for the Tower Guard's inevitable presence.

Faramir needed to clear his head and concentrate, as Mithrandir had taught him long ago. Another day had passed with no word of the great host. His odd vision of last night, with its revelation of messengers en route to Minas Tirith, had amounted to nothing. Was his vision naught but madness? Or perhaps his farsight was faulty, as he had suspected all along.

He must try again tonight, even if his attempts were, indeed, bouts of madness. It could be that on this night he might get a sense of Frodo's travels. He'd had more success so far in perceiving the halflings' journey than the journey of the Captains of the West.

On this night, he wanted more than ever to perceive Aragorn's forces. If only he could communicate with Mithrandir. If only he could learn more of Aragorn, the Dunedain Chieftain. Was he indeed the great hero and returned King worthy of Gondor's hopes?

And was he the lover to whom Eowyn had given all her hope?

Though she had not said it, Faramir was certain that Eowyn wanted to join the host at the Black Gate, not only to die grandly in battle, but also to die gloriously by Aragorn's side. Did Aragorn love her? Did he turn her away for her own safety, when she would have followed him into that haunted mountain? Or did he spurn her affections for another reason?

What would Eowyn think of a man who could never be king? Faramir wondered. A man who had never seen a ghost in waking life, let alone lead an army of three thousand year old spectres? What would she think of a man who led cavalry on a mission that had little hope of success? A man who put the lives of 200 riders in mortal danger out of duty to a severely disappointed, perhaps even deranged, father?

The Guardsmen returned with his wine, which Faramir downed far too quickly. His stomach burned, reminding him that one chugs ale, not wine. He bade the guards to snuff out the lamps, yet leave the brazier burning to warm his room. Then he slipped under the covers and closed his eyes.

Eowyn had asked to hear his story after the Council met. Faramir had told no one his tale; telling it to the Lady of Rohan filled him with dread. To dismiss her presence from his sleepy thoughts, he visualized the broad road that paralleled the Anduin. His dreaming mind searched along those familiar trails, looking for the host, looking for isolated Ranger bands. The road was roughened by wagon tracks and the footprints of men and horses.

Yet his footsteps turned, as they had for several days, to the East. This is the wrong road, he told himself, but was unable to change direction. At some point he realized that he was sleeping fitfully, wrapped in grimy hides and rough fabric that bit at his skin. All around him he heard the hideous accents of Mordor orcs. Common sense told him to get up and flee, but he couldn't open his eyes. Hands shook him, and the voice of Samwise Gamgee whispered, “Get up now. We're moving. If we're careful, we can give 'em the slip. Give me your hand.”

With great determination, he tried to wake. In response to these efforts, he found himself in an unfamiliar forest. He saw her, standing in the center of a road where he had never walked, her back toward him. Her long blonde hair draped over the hood of her silvery cape. A rush of oddly comforting mist penetrated Faramir's skin. He stood a few feet behind the mysterious woman in a heavily forested glade that seemed to be lit by tiny stars.

“Who are you?” he gasped.

Her melodious voice was kind, though she did not turn to face him as she said, “Do not doubt or fear your clear sight, Steward of Gondor. You are neither mad nor foolish. In you clear sight rings true. Even now you help your friends from afar.”

“But I don't understand,” he protested to the back of her luminous cape. In response, a familiar and comforting odor permeated the deep of the glade. Another woman's voice answered, “I have bacon, seeded bread, and strong cavay, as you have ordered.”

Faramir groaned as the image of the spectral woman disappeared in an instant. His stomach grumbled; now he truly was awake.

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The Steward's Council was far different than equivalent events that Eowyn had witnessed in the Golden Hall. It was held in a large but bare meeting room within the Houses of Healing. The participants sat at a vast dark table that took up most of the available space. The Marshals of Rohan and their seconds occupied an upper corner of the table. Some rather self-important Gondorian councilors sat opposite the men of the Mark. At the lower corners were representatives from the various trade guilds of Minas Tirith, to whom would fall most of the responsibility for designing, rebuilding, and refortifying the city.

The Steward Faramir and his assistant Beregond sat quietly in the center of the table, dividing the Gondorian councilors from the tradesmen. In the Golden Hall, it was expected that Theoden King would sit at the table's head, though Wormtongue clearly dominated the proceedings during the past few years. By contrast, in Minas Tirith, the head of the table was occupied by a middle-aged man identified as Hurin, Keeper of the Keys, whom Eowyn assumed was responsible for managing the city.

During the proceedings, Eowyn sat at the end of the table, by Hurin's left hand and with Marshal Erkenbrand on her other side. As the only female present, she was not sure what her role was to be. She was content to be an observer. Everyone received two rolled parchments, outlining a plan drawn up by Faramir, with Beregond's assistance. Rather than presenting his plan as orders to be acted upon, Faramir asked for comments and additions to the basic outline. All present were happy to oblige, and some were loud and opinionated.

Interestingly, the participants appeared to agree with the Steward's plan, but took what Eowyn considered petty pot shots at each others' additional contributions. After several hours of brainstorming and bickering, all agreed to put aside their opinions and put the plan in place. They also agreed to meet the next morning to discuss their progress.

As the council ended, the men's voices melted into the general hubbub as they left the meeting room and filtered into the main lobby. Eowyn realized that many still had questions, and not necessarily about the best way to refortify Minas Tirith. She watched them—Rohirrim, councilors, and tradesmen—wander off in each other's company. She was forgotten, an injured woman uninvolved with their preparations.

Feeling forlorn, she went to the library to browse through the medical manuscripts. The vast room was dusty and packed tight with moldy documents. Nevertheless, it seemed almost pleasant, with light flooding in from the large windows that looked out onto the gardens. Eowyn had forgotten that it was mid-day and the sun was shining. She wandered through the stacks and found a book, “Collected Wisdom of the Elder Women of Gondor.” Removing it, she settled down at a table near one of the windows.

Her eyes descended to the pages, which were written in a careful hand. She had found an encyclopedia of common remedies used by mothers and nurses, supposedly since Numenorean times. Her interest totally captivated, Eowyn read on until the words blurred. To relieve her burning eyes, she looked out on the garden.

There the Steward stood alone by the wall. As he turned his head and caught her glance, his features tensed , as though disrupted from particularly distressing thoughts. He sat down on the wall, proud shoulders hunched, and gestured to her.

Eowyn swiftly walked out into the garden, and sat on a bench beside Faramir. She noticed that the grey pallor on his face had returned. “Did the Council trouble you, my lord?” she asked, willing herself to be gentle.

His bowed mouth relaxed only for a minute before tensing up. He said, with what Eowyn thought was some difficulty, “I do not understand why they want me to lead them. Surely Gondor deserves better?”

Faramir's eyes sought hers for a second, then lowered as if in shame. His shoulders flinched. He spoke slowly, as though considering every word, “What would you think, Lady Eowyn? Would you want your country to be governed by a Steward's lesser son, who had just led 200 men to their deaths in an futile endeavor, out of a sense of duty to a man he knew was going mad?”

“I would hear his story first of all,” her own response surprised her.

Again Faramir paused, shifted his body on the wall, and regarded her. The charismatic strength that had impressed Eowyn during the Council was totally gone, replaced by the simple anguish of self-doubt.

“Tell me the story behind your hurts,” Eowyn repeated calmly. “I promise not to judge you for good or ill until the tale is done.”

Faramir slipped off the wall and sat down beside Eowyn. “Very well,” he sighed and began his story, often pausing as though the memories were too painful for words to express. “The councilors look to me to lead as their Steward, most likely because they think Aragorn's mission is pointless and futile. They have no idea that Aragorn's purpose is to distract the Dark Lord from his own lands. They do not know about Frodo, son of Drogo. Did you meet him, Eowyn?”

Though she had not met this particular holbytla, Eowyn knew that he was on a perilous mission. From Aragorn, she learned that Frodo bore a heavy burden. She did not know the burden's true nature until her journey to the Pelennor with Merry. Fearing that Frodo and his companion Samwise were dead, Merry had spilled out his grief to her and told her of the Ring of power.

“Frodo is alive and has crept into Mordor undetected—or so I think.” Faramir seemed to brood as though considering events at a distance. “We found him and his party traveling through the borderlands, where my father had decreed all strangers should be killed. By law, I should have ordered them killed on the spot. Instead I had them seized. Frodo bore what my father wanted, the very Ring that the Dark Lord sought. It's just a plain ring, on a chain round Frodo's neck. But when I saw it, I thought I heard it call out to me.”

From that point onward, Faramir's words flowed, no longer carefully considered, as his speech had been thus far. As his tongue unloosed, Eowyn decided that the Steward was not a simple, plain-spoken man. He used large words to explain large concepts; he had large emotions that she could easily tell were bottled up. No doubt he bottled up his emotions to protect himself.

Faramir's eyes glistened slightly as he told her of his father and brother. The Steward Denethor knew that the great Ring had been found before receiving an invitation to a council called by the High Elves to discuss the matter. He sent his beloved heir Boromir to the council in Rivendell, far to the North. From there, Boromir had traveled with the holbytlan, Gandalf, and Aragorn and his friends. Faramir choked up when he mentioned that his brother had died during that fateful journey.

“I didn't know the details surrounding Boromir's death until we discovered Frodo's party when we ambushed some Southrons,” Faramir explained. “The halflings were evasive. Frodo even threatened us. I caught them lying, particularly about their suspicious looking guide Gollum. Still I learned worthwhile information from Frodo and much more from Samwise. It took awhile, but I finally understood why Frodo acted as he had. I wish I could meet him and Samwise again, to explain why I treated them so roughly.” He shook his head and looked away from her.

“I doubted that they were responsible for Boromir's death. I believe that they were shocked to learn of his death. However, I was right that Frodo was withholding information,” Faramir sighed. “Sam revealed that Boromir had forcibly attempted to take the Ring from Frodo. They fled just as their companions were attacked by Uruk Hai, during which Boromir was killed. ” Faramir had his men bind the holbytlan, so that he could bring them, and the Ring Frodo bore, to his father. These plans were rudely interrupted by one of the lesser Nazgul at the ruined city of Osgiliath.

“I wanted to trust Frodo but couldn't completely. I still had so many questions. I remember watching him by a wall some 20 feet away. He held up the Ring and was about to put it on when a Nazgul on his beast rose up right behind Frodo. What I saw next was even more amazing and horrifying. Samwise pulled Frodo down from the wall. I managed to loose an arrow that pierced the Nazgul's gruesome mount in the neck. That beast took off as though all the eagles of Manwe pursued it.

“While the Nazgul flew off, the halflings rolled over each other, fighting. Frodo pulled out a dagger and aimed it at Sam's throat! I was appalled. I had perceived these two to be long time friends. Frodo's utter madness had convinced me that the Ring did not belong in my father's hands. I feared what such a mighty talisman might do to my father—and to my country.

“I did not kill these trespassers. I did not take the Ring, though I easily could have seized it. Instead, I loaded Frodo's party with supplies and sent them on their way, thoroughly disobeying my father's wishes and the laws of our land. So for defying the Steward's laws, his son condemned himself to death. ”

Eowyn shuddered. She had disobeyed Theoden's orders and thought her situation desperate. Nevertheless, she knew that her life would not be forfeit for refusing to stay home and lead the Rohirrim in Theoden's stead. Faramir's choice in regard to the Ring was understandable to her, but he seemed terribly conflicted about his decision.

Faramir turned away, as though reluctant to continue. He shifted his position, gave her a rueful glance, and then resumed by describing the next day's battle. The Rangers were overwhelmed by a huge force of orcs that invaded Osgiliath in the hour before dawn. They fled the ruins, harassed by several Nazgul. Faramir estimated that they'd lost perhaps 50 before arriving in Minas Tirith. The news of his decision to release Frodo's party did not sit well with the Lord Denethor.

Eowyn noticed how Faramir grew increasingly agitated as the next part of his tale enfolded:

“My father called a Council and ordered me to retake Osgiliath with the cavalry regiment. The plan had little chance of success. I knew it, as did Mithrandir and most of the other councilors. Perhaps my father hoped that my uncle of Dol Amroth would to sail up the Anduin to our aid, with his army of 800 Swan Knights. They would have swelled our numbers, possibly enough for the plan to succeed. We did not know that Corsairs besieged Imrahil's ports while the Dark Lord's forces drove us from Osgiliath.

“My brother had trained over 300 cavalrymen, who stood ready in Minas Tirith. Knowing how slim our chance of our success was, I insisted that any fathers with young children be excused from duty. That left about 150 knights to ride with me. 50 Rangers who I had specially trained as mounted bowmen also joined the force. I estimated that about 2000 enemy forces had overrun Osgiliath by the time of the our earlier retreat.

“My father insisted that I mount a charge directly on the Western district of Osgiliath, through the collapsed sections of the city walls. The Rangers know the ruins well; we could take on the enemy on familiar territory.

“A cavalry can cut down ten times its number of foot soldiers, as I am sure you know. I'd seen first-hand how terrified orcs are of mounted soldiers. I did not know how the enemy numbers had swelled after our retreat, nor that evil men had joined the orcs.

My strategy was to have the cavalry kill as many as possible and seize the city. If we could not overtake the enemy forces, then myself and three captains would each lead a division through several hidden gates the Rangers had built into the cisterns. That tactic would enable our escape through secret passages to the Ranger strongholds above Osgiliath. You shiver, lady. Perhaps I should arrange for you to get a cloak.”

She clutched her shoulders, “I tend to feel chilled since I was hurt.” She did not tell him that his story made her shiver in excitement. “You are a good story teller. I can imagine myself there, preparing for the charge.”

The Steward's pale eyebrows arched. He seemed to be studying her as he said, “Were you excited, Lady Eowyn, when Theoden's warriors lined up into their battle formations?”

She paused, remembering, “I was thrilled, but I was terribly frightened. Part of me couldn't wait to have at the enemy. But when we assembled before the Pelennor Fields, I doubted my sanity for choosing this course. My uncle rallied us on, and I heard the voices of the Rohirrim fill with rage and battle lust. Their rage was contagious and drove away my fear.”

Faramir's response was silence and a return to his usual grim expression. Finally, he drew in a shallow breath and said, “I was filled with dread just before we charged. Please understand that as a Ranger captain, I planned and led stealth operations, where we ambushed our opponents. I had limited experience in facing an enemy head on, whether on foot or on horseback. I dreaded what I might find at Osgiliath. I feared our contingency plans offered us little hope of escape, should we be overwhelmed. My misgivings turned out to be true.”

He rose from the bench, looked out at the Pelennor Fields, then faced her again, “I admit that when I yelled for the charge and our great destriers thundered across the field, battle lust did overtake my sense of fear. My mind was consumed with driving forward and slaughtering whoever got in my path. I hardly noticed that a volley of arrows was loosed from the walls of Osgiliath as we approached them. The sky turned black, and I heard the sound of arrows pinging off everyone's armor.”

His words drew pictures in Eowyn's mind. She imagined Faramir and his soldiers as they gathered speed, kicking up a great cloud of dust, and making a thunderous amount of noise. Would they appear to the enemy as a gleaming blur heading relentlessly to the ruined city?

Faramir continued, “Looking backward, the huge cloud of arrows was the first indication that something had happened in Osgiliath after the Ranger's retreat. Orcs are poor archers and poorly equipped. Why had their arrows carried so far from the city walls?

“I understand what you mean completely when you speak of battle lust. When the charge began, I felt that nothing could stop me. I felt as though my destrier could run down a herd of Mumakil. When the sky cleared of arrows, I spurred my mare ahead of the line of the charge so I could see how we had fared. Remarkably few riders had fallen, no doubt due to the skill of Boromir's armorers.

“One more arrow cloud came forth from Osgiliath, but we kept going. Some arrows struck me but they fell away harmlessly as we rode toward our goal. Then the sky cleared, and I saw a regiment of warg riders less than a quarter mile ahead, lined up beneath the city walls. I gave the order for the divisions to split.”

“You rode ahead of the cavalry line?” Eowyn asked.

“I had to be seen by as many men as possible,” Faramir explained as he recreated the scene. “The cavalry had developed hand signals for their maneuvers. I gave the signals, and they were relayed down the line by the division captains.”

Eowyn's teeth sank into her lip as she listened. Faramir was harder and harder for her to understand. He feared the charge before its start and questioned his own leadership abilities. Yet his own words spoke of him heading the charge, giving orders, and pressing forward as the cavalry out carried his commands.

Faramir continued, “When the wargs came, the bowmen split off to either side of the main cavalry. I commanded the left division while my captain Anborn led the right. Haldad and Kell, my brother's captains, led the cavalry onward to face the warg riders.”

He returned to the bench but gazed off at the distant river he continued, “I think that's where we took our greatest casualties—when the cavalry and wargs collided. Suddenly, every sort of enemy charged forth out of the city—in far greater numbers than the 2000 orcs that I estimated from the previous morning. They'd been joined by Haradrim and Mordor Uruks and other Human fighters from who knows where. I signaled for the divisions to split, in hope that each could hack through the edges and reach our exit routes.”

She noted that the Steward's face gleamed with sweat as he recreated the scene, “My division was to enter Osgiliath through a major break in the north side of the wall. I led the charge. I cleared the way through the vermin, shooting my arrows and mowing the foe down. When we passed the wall, at least 30 of my division still charged with me.

“At that point the first of the Nazgul swooped down upon us. His beast grabbed men off their horses and tossed them against the battlements like they were mere mice in the claws of a lion. I was terrified but still managed to launch enough arrows to bring down the vile beast. Then we entered the city to face the doom that awaited us. The walls, the courtyards, the streets, were filled everywhere with enemy scum, blocking our escape route. We cut down some of the rabble, but more always arose in their place. I pressed on towards the hidden gates, fully aware that if I reached them, I'd have to plow through at least 50 enemies.”

When he turned to face her, his eyes like cold blue steel, “You know what this feels like, don't you: the madness of the melee. My destrier was surrounded by every sort of creature known to Mordor. I put aside my bow, drew my sword, and swung at whatever slime blocked my path. Oddly, I was always on the attack. No one confronted me.”

Eowyn just then realized that she had sidled closer to Faramir. Failed leader? How could he so berate himself? His courage astounded her. She was about to reach with her unbound hand to touch his elbow when Faramir said, “I'd been purposely separated from the others and intentionally drawn deeper into the ruins.”

She quickly held her hand in check. It would be unseemly for her to make a comforting gesture to this man, however much Faramir deserved it. Instead, she asked him plainly, “How did you know this?”

“The enemy fighters ran from me, rather than standing and fighting. In fact, they lured me on and also cleared a path before me—but not in my chosen direction. They split me from my men. Still, I remarkably untouched.” His words stopped abruptly.

She shifted nervously, waiting. Finally she said, “And that is when you were wounded.”

Faramir let out a gasp, as if racked with pains far worse than battle injuries. Several beads of sweat descended his cheek into his beard as he said slowly, “That's when I turned into a blind courtyard and saw Angmar standing on a wall, not 15 feet beyond, waiting for me.”

Her body stiffened involuntarily as she remembered the horrible sight of the Witch King on his beast in her path. A great chill froze her once more as she awaited Faramir's next words—which didn't come.

After an increasingly uncomfortable pause, Faramir collected himself and said: “It's hard for me to continue. My memories are jumbled up and confused.”

“You will feel better if you can untangle them,” Eowyn suggested.

“But Lady, you are still cold. Let me call the Guardsmen...”

“You have stopped your story. You must go on,” she insisted, “for both of our sakes.”

Faramir drew a hand through his wavy, red-gold hair, as though gathering his thoughts. Then he spoke, strong and defiant:

“I was suddenly, very keenly aware that the orcs who had forced me into the courtyard had not followed. Instead, they milled around behind me. Either they feared Angmar too much to come further, or they were under orders to block my escape.

“Angmar hissed at them, something like, 'Leave, you worthless maggot turds, this wretched lesser son of an insane Steward is mine.'

“By the time he spoke, I had my bow raised and arrows at the ready. I sensed that other enemy fighters were lining up along the wall to my right. I think that I yelled, 'I can't take you down, excrement of Ungoliant, but I'm pleased to remove your lackeys.' I turned quickly and saw three Harad archers on the wall near to me. I remember firing an arrow, felling one. When I raised my arm to draw my bow, the gaps between my hauberk and the other pieces of my armor must have been exposed.”

Eowyn gasped, imagining the young Steward all alone, his soft mouth set hard, expecting imminent death.

Faramir whispered, “I don't remember being hit.”

“What!?” Eowyn jumped.

“I don't remember their arrows piercing me. I do remember hearing the Witch King say, 'Take my message back to your craven father—that Angmar has taken Osgiliath and is ready to come for the rest!'

“I must have turned back to defy him then. That's when I saw the lone Southron crouching in a corner about ten feet away. A tube of some sort was at his lips. He launched a dart. It pierced my neck. It surprised me more than hurt me.”

Faramir swallowed. When he spoke next, his voice was little more than a mumble: “Things started to fade, though I'm sure I heard Angmar say, 'Send him off to the Steward.' And that's it, unless you count plagued dreams until Aragorn awoke me.”

Eowyn clutched her shoulders, remembering the icy grip of the Nazgul on her heart. “You don't remember how you returned to Gondor?”

Beside her, Faramir's sinuous, muscular body leaned forward, spent. Sweat dampened his hair and the bandages below his neck. He said, “I remember having horrible dreams but not what those dreams were about. Aragorn's host had already gone when Beregond told me how I returned. My horse dragged me to the main gate of the city. I must have fallen from the saddle. One of my feet was caught in a stirrup. Beregond said that a note written in blood was tucked into one of my vambraces. It claimed that all the Gondorians had died but me, spared to be the Witch King's messenger.”

Faramir slid away from her, “I'm sorry. I must stink, Lady. The fever has come upon me again. Angmar is gone, but I still suffer now and then from the Black Breath. As do you.”

“I don't understand,” Eowyn wanted to move closer to him, feeling a strange urge to touch him. Instead she stayed in her place, respecting his need for distance. Could Gondorian custom dictate that men not impose their normal active scents on poor, delicate women? Such scents wouldn't bother bold women like me, she thought.

“Didn't the healers tell you that you suffer from the Black Breath, from exposure to the Nazgul? You seem to freeze while I burn.”

“They did not,” Eowyn said. “And I don't understand why you doubt your bravery or worth as a leader. Why do you wonder that the men of Gondor want to follow you even after you led a doomed mission? My dear Steward, Theoden's mission was doomed, too. When we rode from Dunharrow, everyone of us doubted we would see our beloved homeland again. And though you lost all your men, the Rohirrim lost many more, though Erkenbrand told that two thirds yet survive. Our King it was who fell.”

She was about to cry. Then she composed herself and said, “I don't doubt for a minute the survivors' loyalty to my brother. You shouldn't question Gondor's loyalty to your house. The Stewards have kept Gondor safe and well-governed for a thousand years.”

Faramir smiled gently. He had a soft, gentle mouth, this tough, conflicted Lord of Gondor. “You have heard my tale. Now, Eowyn, what is your judgment of the Ranger who risked a cavalry because he felt his life must be forfeited as a pawn to his father's command?”

She hesitated. He seemed almost afraid to hear her words. But Eowyn was not afraid to say, “I find Faramir, Denethor's son, honorable and exceptionally brave, one who cares about the people he leads, be they his Rangers or other folk, the great and small of his land.”

The blue eyes widened. Faramir reached for her unbound hand and held it for a moment. He lowered his face to brush the hand with a kiss. Then he released her hand as he fastened his cryptic gaze on her face.

The gesture's sweetness surprised Eowyn. She was uncertain what it meant. No doubt Faramir appreciated her support. What kind of a life could he have led thus far to have such self-doubt?

Time for contemplation ran out when one of the Steward's huge Guardsmen walked out onto the patio. He announced that dinner was ready. Again, Faramir asked her to dine with him. This time Eowyn agreed.