Chapter One
Faramir was determined.
He would find out the manner in which his father died, no matter how much it hurt him or the person telling it. He wanted to know the meaning of the flames that came to him in his sleep, of the voice that called out his name. He needed to know.
A hesitant knock sounded on his door. “My Lord?” called a faint, familiar voice.
“Come in,” Faramir invited, doing his best to summon up a smile as Beregond entered. He could not bring the smile up to his eyes, however, and they remained dull and emotionless. Beregond noted this worriedly.
“You called for me, my Lord. Are you well?”
“Aye, I called for you,” Faramir answered softly, motioning Beregond to sit on a chair by his bed. “I have something to ask of you,” he continued as his comrade sat, choosing not to answer the inquiry of his health. Beregond looked up at his Lord expectantly, even though he already had a pretty good idea of what that something was.
“I want you to tell me, please, of the way my father died.”
It was a statement, not a question.
Beregond could do naught but stare. Of course, he had known this was coming, but now that he was faced with the prospect of relaying the information, he knew not what to say. Gandalf had bid him keep his silence until Faramir had begun his work, but his Lord was in such apparent misery—how could he hold this from him? Doing so would only hurt him more.
Though it would pain him, Beregond thought he could tell of the death of Faramir’s father, but he was hesitant to relay his Lord’s own part in the matter—that, Faramir would not expect, and Beregond was afraid of how he would react.
“I…I do not know, sir…”
“Please, Beregond,” Faramir interrupted, desperation evident in his voice, “Tell me the truth. Tell me—I do not want to have to pull rank, but I will not hesitate to order you to speak. I will not hold it against you. I cannot stand the sympathetic looks, the reluctance to speak to me, less too much be revealed—I must know. I am counting on you to tell me. Please…”
Beregond sighed heavily, feeling guilt creeping up his insides. “Gandalf did not want me to tell you until you were working again, my Lord. But…as it is your wish…”
Faramir listened, cold dread filling his heart. His father, his proud, strong, stoic father…driven to madness…so much so that he would burn himself on a pyre…a pyre…burning…the flames of his dream…
Beregond paused in his telling as his voice choked. He had not told his Lord yet of how the Lord Denethor had tried to take his own life.
“Are you finished, Beregond?” Faramir asked, his voice flat, trying to remind himself that he had wanted this. Any pain he felt now was his own fault. He had brought this upon himself.
Beregond thought for a moment. He could hide this—but the news was bound to travel around the City, and it would be far more painful for his Lord to gain the knowledge of it in a rumor, without having heard it from him…
“N-no, my Lord, there is more…”
Faramir continued to remain attentive, the initial dread turning to shock and numbness. This he had not been prepared for, that his father had tried to kill him.
His father had tried to kill him…
When Beregond had finished, Faramir did not speak. He stared straight ahead, his eyes dead and unseeing. He was falling, falling, falling…spiraling down into a dark abyss he knew not how he would be able to return. His father’s death, he could have endured. But this—
“My Lord?”
“Beregond…I am sorry that you had to tell me this. Thank you.” Even to his own ears, the words sounded trite and empty, but he lacked the will to care.
“Is there anything else I can do…” Beregond began to ask, feeling intense anxiety for his Lord’s welfare.
“No, thank you—I have asked enough of you. You may go, take some rest. Worry naught over me,” Faramir said, wanting nothing else but to be alone. He was going to break—he did not desire anyone to witness that.
“Aye, my Lord,” Beregond acquiesced hastily, and casting one last worried glance at Faramir, he slipped out of the room, closing the door gently behind him.
Once by himself, Faramir let his head fall into his hands.
“Oh, father…” he moaned miserably, feeling his shoulders begin to shake, “…why? Why did you do this? Why?”
Yet, despite his distress, and the trembling of his body, his eyes remained dry, empty of tears.
She was caged.
The walls were closing in around her: she would soon be left with no way out.
If she had to spend another moment in this room, Éowyn would loose her mind.
She could not imagine being contained within the white walls of her hospital bed in the Houses of Healing for a minute longer and she had not even been there a week. Her arm, although it still pained her much, was on the mend. She did not see why she had to stay, especially when the king and her brother would soon be marching for the Black Gate. How much she wanted to go with them! She saw no reason why she could not—she would die anyway, whether she waited here or perished on the battlefield.
She should have been slain on the fields of the Pelennor. What a glorious death that would have been! Yet the end that had been granted to her uncle had been denied her. She highly doubted that her brother and Aragorn would return—they were surely marching into inevitable doom. Whether or not she went off to battle, the darkness would find her. It already had. At least, if she went to war once again, she would meet her doom with those who mattered most to her.
Her mind resolute, she was determined to find her brother, demand he let her go with them, and command the Warden to release her. They would be leaving early tomorrow—this left her with little time.
She pushed the sheets back and stepped out of bed, disregarding the orders of her brother and the healers to stay put. She was just about to go down the hall in search of Éomer when sounds of voices down the way caused her to stop.
Poking her head she saw the Warden talking with a man she did not recognize. Being careful to remain as quiet as possible, she strained her ears to listen to what they were saying.
“I am worried, my Prince Imrahil,” the Warden said, shifting nervously.
Ah, Éowyn thought to herself as she studied the tall, fair-haired, regal-looking man, so this is the Prince…
“He is withdrawn and reticent,” the Warden continued. “Several days ago, even though he would not talk readily, he would if it were required. Now I cannot even get him to speak. He will not eat. I can tell he does not sleep. He refuses medicine. I just do not know what to do!”
“Peace, good Warden. I will see if I can be of any aid. Perhaps, as his uncle, I will be able to talk some sense into him. You do not think he was told…?” the Prince asked suddenly, looking at the Warden sharply as this new possibility was considered.
“If he was, he did not receive the tale from my mouth. While I do not know of who would have told him, I can see of no other explanation for this change in his behavior…”
Imrahil sighed quietly. “Well, no matter what the case may be, I must show him that he is needed here. I think he knows this, even if he will not admit it to himself. I will see what I can do.”
The Warden bowed politely. “Thank you, my Prince. I wish you luck.”
Imrahil smiled thinly; they turned from each other walking in opposite directions, and Éowyn could hear the Prince mutter, “I may need more than that.”
She took care to conceal herself as the Warden headed in the direction of her room, and did not walk out until the sound of his footsteps and those of Imrahil’s died away. She wondered briefly who it was that they were speaking about, but could not bring herself to summon up enough curiosity to find out. All that mattered to her now was going off to battle.
She would go off to battle.
Eyes filled with cold resolution, Éowyn went in search of her brother.