Chapter Thirteen: Time Stands Still

Faramir awoke to the crackle of wood burning in the fireplace. Per usual, his manservant had crept into the bedroom an hour after dawn and set the fires blazing. Now the warmth tickled Faramir's cheeks, lips, and hair, making him relax rather than motivating him to get up.

Ah, to remain in bed in peace for the rest of his life, with his wife cuddled beside him and a warm fire crackling in the hearth. Ceremonies and festivities normally did not cause him concern, yet a strange dread weighed upon him as he thought about the upcoming events in Minas Tirith.

Faramir gently dragged his big toe down Eowyn's calf. She refused to even twitch. His mind wandered back to that eventful day, two years ago, when Minas Tirith seemed to hold its breath before heir lives changed forever.

Eowyn followed the Tower Guardsman along a colonnade that opened into a balcony above the street. A stiff wind blew into the hallway. Her skin prickled beneath the soft grey wool of the dress borrowed from Ioreth' s daughter. It was the warmest garment of the few she had besides her hospital gowns, though it clearly could not keep her warm outside.

She walked onto the balcony and craned her neck to check the sky. Variegated grey and white clouds pushed against each other, with no trace of blue peeping through them—not a promising start to a journey outdoors. She heard men arguing in the street below. Leaning over the ledge, she spied Faramir standing beside a carriage. He heatedly discussed some matter with a Tower Guardsman and another, much shorter man wearing the black and silver tabard of the Stewards of Gondor.

Faramir's reddish gold hair whipped back from his face, emphasizing his broad cheeks and adamant expression. Even at a distance, Eowyn was acutely aware of his presence. He looked up. Immediately his perturbed demeanor brightened. He raised an arm from beneath his heavy cloak--the same Ranger cloak that he had spread over her some days ago--and greeted her enthusiastically.

Once outside, the full blast of cold air pierced through Eowyn's dress. Her teeth chattered and her body trembled. What was going on? Certainly Rohan was much colder in March.

The carriage resembled an elaborately carved box, open on the side facing the horses. Windows were carved into the side walls to afford the passengers a view. Two impeccably groomed, dapple-grey horses were harnessed on either side of a pole attached to the carriage body. The animals tossed their heads impatiently. The shorter man, with whom Faramir had been arguing earlier, stood beside the closer horse, affectionately scratching its neck.

Faramir reached into the vehicle and withdrew a bundle wrapped in white muslin. As he removed the flimsy fabric, he said, “Here, Lady, you need not be cold again.” A great length of deepest blue velvet adorned with shimmering clear jewels spilled out from beneath the wrappings. Faramir held it up for her inspection. Then he draped the mantle over her shoulders, securing the ends with a delicate brooch at her neck.

The garment's soft fur lining calmed Eowyn's shivering muscles. She grasped the cloak's edges, admiring the intricate design of beads and pearls adorning its borders. “I've never seen a cloak quite like it. Why, it's fit for an elf-queen.”

“Not an elf-queen,” Faramir laughed. “Fit for my mother. It was her winter robe of state.” He placed his hands on Eowyn's shoulders and rotated her to face him. Those blue eyes studied her, but today she did not try to defy him. She instinctively knew that he was merely deciding whether the garment suited her, not probing her inner thoughts, or speculating on what lay beneath her dress.

She broke the silence, “Your mother must have looked magnificent in this cloak.”

He shrugged sadly, “I don't remember seeing her in it. I barely remember my mother's face. Some years after she died my brother and I delved into my father's great armoire, and I found this mantle. We assumed that my father had a secret lady friend.”

Guiding her into the carriage, Faramir steered her past the driver's seat to a bench for passengers that was wedged between the carriage's side walls. As they sat down, he said, “I asked my father about it, though I expected him to cane me for being so bold.” Faramir said, sitting down beside Eowyn on the passengers' bench . “Instead, Father brought me back to his rooms and told me the mantle's history. He also showed me some other hanging garments and a trunk of clothes that had belonged to my mother. I remember to this day how gentle and dreamy he seemed then, not short-tempered and annoyed, like he usually was with me.”

The short man climbed into the carriage and took the driver's seat. “Calem and Nem are most annoyed with me,” Faramir said. “I slipped out through the gardens, while the guards were in the hall. I went to my father's quarters, just to get this mantle. That's more than I have walked since I was wounded. But it was worth it, just to see you in the mantle. It is yours to keep, from the son of she for whom it was made.”

“I'm honored,” Eowyn thanked him softly as Calem the driver cracked the reins. The wagon lurched slightly. The horses' hooves clattered on the stone pavement. Oh, to ride again, Eowyn thought, all the while knowing that she could not mount a horse until her broken arm healed. She watched Calem's back and the view of the white stone street beyond the horses' heads, then slid down the passengers' bench to look out the left window.

Their way was shadowed by graceful buildings of white marble or smooth stone. Domed turrets towered over the street corners. The white walls were tarnished by patches of black grime, no doubt from the recent smoke of war engines and the gathered accumulation of dirt from years of neglect

Nevertheless, the buildings' ageless beauty stupefied Eowyn, who had never seen a city of more than 30,000 people. Their entrances were bounded by columns or arches. Some doors had ornamental shrubbery at either side. Ornate balconies surrounded wide, curved windows on the second or third floors. A woman stood on a balcony, hanging wet clothes over the balustrade. Yet the scene was rather eerie. “Where are the people” Eowyn asked. “Don't they ever stand in their doorways or walk down the streets?”

“I hope that we will see most of the people who still live here down at the first circle, helping to rebuild the gates,” Faramir explained. “We're in the sixth circle, home for most of the wealthy and high born. Not long ago my father ordered everyone not directly involved in the city's defense to evacuate. People who live here typically have property in the farmlands or the seaside where they could go to escape the summer's heat. Or war.”

Then he added grimly, “The folk who live on the lower circles have less money and no country homes to flee to. Today we shall find out...But look here, Eowyn!” Startled, she slid across the bench toward him.

“That's my brother's town house,” he put his arm around her shoulder and leaned backward so that she could see out the window on his side. “I stayed with him whenever I visited Minas Tirith.” A narrow, three-story building with arched windows passed by. She caught a glimpse of statues sculpted into the niches that decorated the building's walls.

Trying not to fall into Faramir's lap, she said, “It seems very fancy, not the sort of thing I could have imagined your brother living in, from what you have told me of him.” She sat up quickly, regaining her decorum, as he chuckled and straightened himself on the bench.

They passed through an ornate, turreted gate and then headed upward on a curving stone street. Then the narrow road opened onto a vast space, part lawn, part broad avenue. Eowyn was captivated by the enormous vista of terraces, mountains, and ominous grey clouds beyond the heads of the driver and the horses. They had come to the top circle of the city.

“This is the Court of the Fountain, the center of Gondor's government,” Faramir told her.

Eowyn strained her neck as she looked ahead. Few people walked about, save hulking guards wielding pikes as tall as they were. The guards would have terrified her, had they not been wearing absurdly grandiose winged helms. The carriage stopped outside a great building. Only when Faramir helped her out did she realize how immense the building was. Its right side abutted a great tower with an intricately carved base. Opposite the great building spread a panoramic view of the snow-capped mountains rising behind broad walls.

Before she could ask to be pointed to the East, Faramir gestured toward the immense building. The Tower Guardsman Nem, who had followed behind on horseback, held open the heavy brass and inlaid ivory door. As Faramir bounded forward, Nem spoke softly, “This is the Great Hall of Minas Tirith and White Tower of Ecthelion. Tomorrow, in this place, my Lord Faramir officially takes up the Steward's rod and his office in our land.”

The Great Hall was the biggest enclosed space that Eowyn had ever seen. Two buildings the size of the Golden Hall of Meduseld could easily fit inside. She recalled fondly how the Golden Hall was warm, active, crowded with people petitioning the king, people feasting, celebrating, and carrying out the business of life in the Mark. This place, by contrast, was silent, sterile, empty, except for Faramir, Nem, and herself. Instead of living, yelling, sweating Gondorians, the central corridor of the Great Hall was populated on either side by beautiful, cold statues.

Eowyn stopped at the first statue, ignoring the men who by now were far ahead of her. Here was an immense, heroic figure, taller than anyone, fair or foul, that she had ever seen. The figure wore a strangely cut tunic and a swath of stone fabric draped diagonally across his shoulders. Though exceptionally fair of face, this hero was most definitely human, by the look of his bearded face and rounded ears. At the statue's base a highly-polished brass placard proclaimed, “Isildur Elendilion, Aran, SA 3209-TA 2.”

“Here begins the line of the Kings of Gondor,” a man's voice said. Beside her stood one of the huge guards with the feathery helms. “I am Suiadan, guard and afternoon curator,” he said gravely, without honoring her by a bow. “Would you like to hear their stories?”

Eowyn nodded. The statues of Isildur and his brother Anarion reminded her of how she imagined the great heroes of her ancestors to look. How lofty they were, vastly superior to anyone alive in the present day. She could not take her eyes off the parade of statuary and the stylized, indulgent fashion in which the sculptors had represented the Gondorian kings. As she and Suiadan walked along, the appearance of the statues subtly changed. Their faces became less heroic, their poses less formal, their costumes less arcane.

“Here begins the line of the Stewards,” Suiadan said softly. “Here is Mardil Voronwe, first ruling Steward, of the House of Hurin.” Whereas the statues of Gondor's earliest kings seemed unreal, almost elf-like, the Stewards were more realistically represented. The placards on their pedestals were in the Westron tongue, not Sindarin Elvish.

At the end of the column, Faramir waited. “This is my grandfather Echthelion,” he said.

“He looks like he could jump off his pedestal and have a conversation with us,” Eowyn grinned. “The statue is so life-like. He even looks a little like you. He must have been a formidable Steward.”

“So I've been told. This statue is all I know of him. He died when I was an infant.” Then Faramir chuckled, “Mithrandir used to take Boromir and me here for history lessons. The old wizard always emphasized the might of the Numenorean kings. He was much less enthusiastic about the House of Hurin. Even as a boy, I insisted that the Stewards had better sculptors, but I don't think Mithrandir appreciated my taste in art.”

Then he said, “Two of our best sculptors yet live. I've commissioned them for a statue of my father, before his memory fades too much for a realistic portrayal. That's the best I can do for his legacy, as his unintended heir.” He turned abruptly and walked past her into the reception area dominated by an imposing ceremonial staircase to a canopied throne. Faramir stopped beside a simple black chair at the foot of the stairs.

“I will sit here tomorrow to take up my office,” he said. “The investiture of a new Steward usually calls for great pageantry and weeks of celebration throughout the country. But I've asked the Keeper of the Keys for just a basic ceremony.” He cast his eyes downward and said, “I did not expect to hold this office and must assume that it won't be mine for that long.”

Before Eowyn could respond, Faramir gently took her unbound elbow, his face now an inscrutable mask. He led her past the Steward's chair to an immense, highly polished mahogany bier atop an elegantly carved marble pedestal. The casket came to just above her waist. Its arched glass lid enabled passers by to view the deceased while protecting the embalmed body from the unforgiving air.

Eowyn peered inside. There lay the body of Theoden King, preserved for the ages in the manner of the great Numenoreans. Theoden's face was not resigned and wracked with pain as she had last seen him on the battlefield, his crushed body beneath her daughterly embrace. No, here was the noble face of her beloved uncle. The embalmers had opened his eyes and replaced them with clear blue glass. She stood transfixed for what felt like many minutes until she collapsed on top of the casket lid.

Uncle! Uncle! I miss you so, her heart sobbed though no sound escaped her lips. Oh, to hear his voice and the words that guided her through so many places in her life. All she felt was the glass between herself and her uncle's embalmed body. She lay unmoving, her free arm outstretched, her bound arm trapped between her body and the smooth, cold glass. Above her, she heard Faramir say, “When I saw you in the library, mourning your uncle, I promised myself that I would bring you to him as soon as I could.”

How long she lay there, prostrate in her grief, Eowyn could not tell. Finally, her broken arm started to trouble her. She sat up slowly and drew the sleeve of her borrowed dress across her eyes. On the other side of the casket Faramir leaned, his expression troubled. He said, “I wish I could have met Theoden King in life. I am grateful to see him, even in death.”

Swallowing the urge to sob outright, Eowyn raised herself. She looked about the vast hall and saw no other biers but Theoden's. She was about to suggest that they visit Lord Denethor's resting place, but quickly remembered the grisly rumors of the late Steward's final end, though she did not know the entire story.

Faramir stiffly offered Eowyn his arm, “I have forgotten my manners, Lady. Come, those still among the living are waiting for us,” His expression was bleak.

He whisked her down the hall with Nem following behind. Suiadan flung open the ornate doors; a brilliant light flooded the Great Hall. When they stepped outside, Eowyn raised her hand to shield her eyes against the glare. The huge clouds had parted, giving way to warm sunlight that was reflected by the white buildings and glittering cobblestones. The sun's mild, early Spring heat and the sheer beauty of the Court of the Fountain cheered her.

As Faramir helped her into the carriage, he sighed, “I promise to stop brooding on the past and the future, at least for the moment, and enjoy what I can have right now.” Eowyn nodded solemnly and pressed against her side of the carriage.

She recalled her lustful fantasies of last night as she observed the morose object of her silly desires. In the reality of a beautiful afternoon, these memories embarrassed her. Faramir stared out the window, oblivious to her presence. So much for his trying to be happy, Eowyn thought. I wish I knew what troubles him.

The carriage wound downhill, through the circles of the city. Below the sixth circle, the streets and alleys were more populated with people, carts, and animals. After her isolation in the Houses of Healing, Eowyn enjoyed simply watching the everyday aspects of life in Minas Tirith. She noticed the breeds and health of the horses and mules; the variety of buildings and how they were used; the look of the people's clothes. What a joy it would be to explore the streets on foot by herself, but she held her peace. On the opposite side of the bench, Faramir still brooded silently.

At the third circle, the carriage was momentarily trapped among wagon after wagon, in the square that Calem identified as the Farmer's Market. Eowyn prepared to jump out of the carriage and sample the produce. Faramir shook his head, and signaled to Nem whose horse had pulled up beside them. Just as the clatter of carts and wains unsnarled, the guardsman returned with a sack filled with early season fruits and vegetables. “I'm relieved that the farmers could produce an early Spring crop despite all the destruction so close to their lands,” Faramir commented bluntly.

They continued their circuitous route, lower and lower. Here many more people were on the streets, going about their business. They were simple folk, plainly dressed. Most were clean, though it was clear to Eowyn that they were poorly fed, even emaciated.

As they approached the lowest circle, she saw caved-in store fronts, collapsed roofs, and walls reduced to cracked masonry around gaping holes. The carriage rumbled through the remains of a gate into a vast courtyard. Wood scaffolding and filthy cloths covered the surrounding walls. People crawled over the scaffolding, plastering, painting, and cleaning up debris. Here were many more mounted riders than heavy carts and covered wains For the first time, Eowyn recognized mounted Rohirrim among the crowd.

The carriage approached the huge gap that revealed the Pelennor Fields, the remains of the great gate of Minas Tirith Again they were caught up in choking traffic. The driver Calem bellowed, “Make way! Make way for the Steward!” The horsemen and cart drovers moved aside to clear a path. Some of the people on foot tried to gape inside the carriage.

Bracing himself against the carriage's vibrations, Faramir stood up. Holding on to the carriage wall, he said, “Let's stand up. The people would be heartened to see us.”

Eowyn rose to her feet, then stumbled when the carriage suddenly bounced. She lost her balance and swayed hard against the driver's bench. Faramir caught her in his free arm, grabbing her protectively just when the carriage heaved over a fissure in the cobblestones.

She lost her breath momentarily from the unexpected warmth of Faramir's body against hers. Eowyn squeaked involuntarily and heard Faramir laugh in her ear. Then the carriage flew into the air as it hurled over a rock. Calem grabbed onto the reins as he slid down the bench into Eowyn. Faramir hung onto the carriage frame with one arm as he clasped Eowyn tightly. The two swerved and almost toppled out of the vehicle before the carriage swayed in the opposite direction, and tossed them back against the driver's bench.

“Sit down!” Calem ordered. Eowyn obeyed immediately, settling down beside the driver, but Faramir remained standing while the carriage passed through the collapsed walls. Eowyn wondered how his injuries fared from all the tossing. He turned his head about, as though assessing the amount of the city's devastation and the state of its reconstruction. The sunlight burnished his red-gold hair. He didn't take me on this ride just to get fresh air and a change of pace. Or to know me better, Eowyn concluded.

“Here it was where I first learned to shoot a bow and ride a horse. Now it's devastated, ruined for any children who might want to play here,” Faramir said above the din of carriage wheels and horses' hooves.

Eowyn's only prior memory of the Pelennor was of mutilated corpses piled one upon the other, of giant Mumakil bellowing, and of the reek of orc, horse, and human blood. Now the debris of war and endless columns of enemies was replaced by a village of tents and pavilions, most flying the white horse pennant of the Mark. In her mind, the healing of the Pelennor was underway, despite Faramir's gloomy conclusion.

The carriage lurched forward over ground viciously raked and torn by battle and stopped beside an unremarkable beige pavilion. Four warriors of the Mark and a Gondorian foot soldier walked out, carrying a large bundle wrapped in sack cloth. One of the Rohirrim raised a small cask and deposited it into the carriage. Nem dismounted and helped the Gondorian toss the bag beside the keg.

The air was immediately permeated by the odor of roasted meat. Eowyn's stomach churned. She hadn't eaten lunch, and it was way past noon. She wanted to tear into that bundle and devour whatever slab of beef put forth that scent. And what about the fruits the Guardsman had bought at the farmer's market? Where could they possibly be bound that required a store of food? These provisions had obviously been ordered for them earlier.

Calem slapped the horses' reins and the carriage pulled away, heading past Minas Tirith. The city's white surface was speckled by shadows of patchy clouds. When Eowyn had arrived last week with Theoden's host, she had paid little attention to the city the Rohirrim travelled a hundred miles and more to protect. Now the beauty and power of the cityscape enthralled her. Minas Tirith's image was startling, a picture of magnificence basking in its own decay. Only now did she truly appreciate that the city was built on a mere foothill, at the knee of a huge mountain with a snow-covered peak. She must walk the streets of Minas Tirith by herself, to explore its corners and learn its secrets.

“Do you see that great wall rising above the gap where the main gate once stood?” Faramir asked suddenly. Eowyn 's heart thudded once against her chest. Composing herself, she leaned forward to view the sheer wall that curved gracefully to the top circle of the city.

“It's the Embrasure. Its design represents the prows of the ships that bore the Faithful from Numenor,” Faramir continued. “I was told that my father set himself ablaze on the funeral pyre he intended for us both. When Mithrandir and Pippin tried to stop him, Father ran out into the Court of the Fountain and hurled himself over the Embrasure. His body was consumed by flames before it could hit the ground.” An enormous sadness hung on his shoulders as he said, “I cannot visit my father's remains for they are nowhere and everywhere. His ashes lie here, on the Pelennor Fields.”

“I'm sorry,” Eowyn drew closer to Faramir and laid her unbound hand on his forearm. At last she understood why he was so withdrawn since they left the Great Hall. She said, “We've suffered such losses in the past few weeks. Having someone to talk to about it helps.” He nodded solemnly but didn't look at her. As she touched him, the peculiar thrill from last night returned again to torture her. She wanted to comfort her grieving friend and not have such a basic, lustful reaction.

The carriage headed onto a wide road that turned past the city and climbed into a bleak landscape of the skeletons of recently burned trees. The smell of charred wood hung thick in the air, irritating Eowyn's throat and making her cough. To cover her mouth, she attempted to remove her hand from Faramir's arm, but he took it gently. He lifted her fingers to his mouth and brushed them just slightly with his lips. His eyes were sweet and thoughtful, though he teased, “There, I've had so much on my mind that I forgot to greet you properly this morning.”

Her breath caught as he released her hand, which she then laid politely in her lap. By all the ancestors in their great halls, beyond all doubt this Steward of Gondor was most certainly in love with her. Eowyn leaned against the back of the carriage, aware that it was growing cold. She breathed deeply, not knowing what to say and so saying nothing. The stand of burned trees gave way to a healthy, living forest that cast deep shadows across the road. At last she said, “Where are we going? You've avoided telling me our destination.”

Faramir chuckled softly, “I've seen what I needed to. Now we can go on our picnic up the slopes of Mount Mindolluin.”

For about an hour, the carriage climbed without encountering another vehicle. The air was cool and still. Eowyn clutched the beautiful blue mantle about her shoulders, appreciating its warmth. Riding behind the carriage, Nem the guardsman began a lovely ballad in an arcing, slightly nasal tenor. Faramir's voice answered, harmonizing at a slightly lower pitch. Then they sang some popular drinking songs that Eowyn joined in with until the carriage stopped before a clearing.

The driver and the guardsman spread out a blanket on the grass and set out the food. Eowyn helped as best as she could with only one functioning arm. Faramir insisted that everyone partake of the meal. Nem grumbled about how the Lord Denethor would never dine with his staff, to which Faramir replied, “When is the last time you ate?”

The meal of roasted beef cuts, freshly baked bread, and spring vegetables from the market was delicious. They drank tankard after tankard of mead, until the sunlight dimmed beneath the forest canopy.

“Come, we must see the sunset.” Faramir helped Eowyn up. They walked down a short path through the trees to a cleared area at the mountain's edge. A wall of stones about four feet high bordered the curving mountain side. Beyond the wall spread a panorama of mountains and gathering clouds. It was quite late in the day.

Faramir led her to the southernmost edge of the wall and pointed downward, “Look, there's the great river. It empties into the Bay of Belfalas, where some of my uncle's fleet is harbored. Belfalas is too far away to see from here.”

Eowyn peeked over the wall, then drew back quickly “How high up are we?” Faramir explained that they were 6,500 feet above the Pelennor Fields, at the end of the road. The mountain would rise to over 9,000 feet, where a river of ice covered its summit.

“Time seems to stand still. I wish today could last forever.” Eowyn said, feeling dizzy and slightly inebriated.

“All the West holds its breath,” Faramir agreed. “But everyone must exhale at some point so they can go on living.”

Straightening herself, Eowyn confessed, “I love what I have seen of Minas Tirith and want to know it better. Perhaps I can have a future like none I would have imagined but a month ago. Dame Ioreth has appointed herself the mother I never had. And when I found myself separated from everyone that I loved, the Steward became my best friend in Gondor.”

“Indeed he has,” Faramir said gravely. Was that a trace of cynicism in his voice? Then he straightened himself and smiled, “This is the place for the best views of all eastern Gondor.” He guided her along the wall and showed her various sights, like the ruined city of Osgiliath, split in two by the Anduin. Fading into the distance beyond Osgiliath, Faramir identified the Ephel Duath range, which marked the boundary of Mordor. Black clouds boiled above those distant mountains, preventing keen eyes from seeing further into the Dark Lord's lands.

As they walked northward, Faramir pointed out the island of Cair Andros. “To the east of the island lie the Rangers' hidden forts and our chief stronghold. Somewhere in that region, the Captains of the West have hopefully ambushed the orc bands.”

She drew in a hissing breath between her teeth, “Then that is the direction of the Black Gate?”

“A few days' march north of there,” Faramir's voice trailed off.

A rush of doubt overcame Eowyn. While she had amused herself with lustful thoughts about the Steward, Aragorn's host might be assembled at the gates of Mordor. They could be dead, or, against all hope, they could have triumphed. She gripped the dark mantle across her shoulders, trembling in shame. She had forgotten them, those she held most dear, in her desire to live only for the moment.

Eomer might survive the inevitable battle and then what? Most likely he would force her to return home and marry a lordling of his choice. And what of Aragorn? If he returned to Minas Tirith, it would be as its king. He would seek to marry his betrothed, but what if Arwen Undomiel did not survive? Where does this leave me? she thought. A suitable match for a king, she reminded herself, but now her previous dreams of marrying Aragorn troubled her.

“Faramir?” she said before realizing that he was gone. She spun around and saw him standing at the wall a distance away, his body turned East. A red crack split the ominous black clouds that covered the evil lands. Then a bolt of lightening rent the sky with a flash that illuminated the clearing with more brightness than the sun ever could. Faramir cried out and doubled over, as though he'd been struck by a pike through his gut.

Eowyn screamed and raced to Faramir's side.

He straightened slowly, his face ashen in the gathering twilight “I am unharmed, Lady,” he grunted brusquely. “We must leave right now. Nem! Calem!” He took Eowyn's elbow in an uncharacteristically rough fashion and rushed her down the path. They were met by the carriage driver and Tower Guardsman, bearing torches.

“Make haste as quickly as your beasts can travel,” Faramir ordered the driver as they helped Eowyn into the carriage. “We must return to the city immediately” Once in the carriage, he leaned forward on the bench, intent on the road ahead.

“Did you see them, the Captains of the West, in a vision?” Eowyn asked carefully.

“Their way has always been hidden to me,” Faramir muttered through clenched lips and refused to speak more.

Eowyn huddled against the carriage wall. The vehicle bumped and swayed furiously with the horses' quickened gait. Her stomach roiled and complained. Not a word passed between anyone in the party for the entire descent of Mindolluin. When the road finally straightened out, it was fully dark on a night without stars or moon. The torches mounted on the carriage sides provided paltry light. Eowyn could hold her peace no longer, “What happened to you at the walls, Faramir?”

He sat up slowly and spoke with a tight, low voice, “Did you not feel that bolt of red, Lady of Rohan? Perhaps the Eye only tracks a few unfortunates, like whoever might be the Steward of Gondor? You wonder why I have not married?” His broad, handsome features twisted with bitterness. “Then tell me what woman would have a man who is plagued with visions of the world beyond his door that torture his sleep and now his waking life?”

“Only a woman with no knowledge of the world beyond HER door,” Eowyn retorted. “In the past few weeks, I've met Elves, Dwarves, and Holbytlan, races I thought only existed in tales. Tree herders destroyed Isengard. Warriors 3000 years dead invaded Minas Tirith and scoured the battlefields of enemies. That a man of high Numenorean blood has inherited their gift of far sight is hardly remarkable, given what I have experienced. I am not afraid of a man who has visions; I only fear what the visions might have told him.”

Faramir breathed deeply before he said, “I saw Frodo. Frodo and Samwise. I saw beyond the clouds of Mordor for the first time in my waking life. I saw them so clearly I felt that I was there with the halflings. They lay exhausted at the foot of Orodruin, the great volcano. If the visions are true, they have succeeded beyond all expectations, though the most difficult part of their journey lies ahead.

“As I watched them rest, the Great Eye stretched his gaze along the black lands, searching, skimming the top sides of the volcano, barely missing the halflings. He must have sensed my presence, for his Eye lifted and bent West. The force of his gaze found me and probed my mind, but only for a second. Her eyes intervened and protected me.”

“Her?” Eowyn gasped, as did Calem seated in front of them.

“The Elven Queen who has been in my dreams for the past few days. I thought her a figment of my imagination.”

“It must be the Lady of the Golden Wood!” Eowyn exclaimed. “She's quite real, and extremely powerful, from what I've been told. She gave shelter to Aragorn and his friends. Gimli, Gloin's son, is decidedly in love with her.” Her heart lightened, just to think of Gimli. How was her dwarven friend faring?

The torchlights from the tents before the great gates of Minas Tirith lit their way as they returned to the city. Faramir shuddered, “Once more I have called myself mad, only to find out that my visions are real and must be acted on. Nem, lead us to Erkenbrand's quarters.” His eyes locked with Eowyn's, “The Elven Queen begged me to cease looking into Mordor, as I have done in my dreams since Aragorn called me back. The Dark Lord has discovered that the Lady saw into Mordor through me. She warned that the time of great deeds lay just ahead, and that she had to defend her own lands.”

Calem steered the carriage through the maze of tents to the pavilion bearing Erkenbrand's shield on its side. As Faramir got out, he told Eowyn, “I must leave you in the care of Calem and Nem. Tomorrow morning we will speak again, if the city survives the night.”

“Thank you for showing me your lovely city,” Eowyn farewelled him politely, not wanting him to see that she shuddered at his dire predictions.

Calem's reins struck the horses, and the carriage lurched forward. Any thoughts of lust for the Steward, love for the great Captain of the Dunedain, or fear for her beloved brother were dimmed by a real fear for her life. If the city survives the night? Can I sleep this night? Eowyn wondered as the carriage passed through the gaping hole and entered the city of Minas Tirith.