A/N: I am so sorry for the delay in posting, I really am! I post at ff.net as well, and have only just started posting here, and have quite forgotten about it at this site! I will try to be better about remembering, I promise. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, and I hope you keep on enjoying it!
Chapter Three
Eowyn felt betrayed.
She swiped at the hot, bitter tears that had sprung up unwelcome to the corners of her eyes, and as she angrily opened the door to her room, the conversation that had taken place between herself and her brother came back to her.
"You do not know of what you are speaking, sister—my answer has to be naught else but no," Eomer had said firmly, staring at his sister with a mixture of disbelief and concern after hearing the nature of her request.
"The only one who fails to understand is you, brother," Eowyn had countered, her voice laced with resentment and hostility. "I know full well of what it is I am speaking. There is no more reason for me to live, since we are all going to die in one way or another now. I would much rather go out and face it than wait here, powerless to control my fate. This desire was denied me on the Pelennor Fields—do not refuse me now."
Eomer was not going to be swayed. It pained him greatly to hear her speak thus, and he wanted nothing more than to help alleviate her suffering. Despite this, he could not place her in the front of danger, even if it was her wish. It was his duty to protect her. He had already failed in this once—he would not do so a second time. With great difficulty, he had insisted, "I am sorry, Eowyn, but I cannot and will not allow it, and I would have the support of the Lord Aragorn and the Warden in this decision. You must see—I want to help you, sister…"
"Nay, you do not, for if you did you would allow me to follow you," Eowyn had returned, her anger at being thus denied controlling her, smothering her reason and leaving her unaware of the words she was speaking. "I had thought that at least you would have understood my desire, but it appears that this thinking was wrong. Very well—I will escape by my own means. Farewell, brother."
He had called after her. She did not answer, but had walked out on him coldly and stiffly, not slowing until she had reached her room.
As the vision cleared, the tears threatened to return again, and in anger she blinked her eyes rapidly. Why had she gone to him for his approval anyway? She did not need to ask others about the way she governed her own actions. Filled with a new sense of resolve, Eowyn strode over to her bed, upon which she had laid her sword in its scabbard. Eyes burning, she gripped the hilt firmly with her right hand and drew the shining silver blade swiftly from its sheath. No sooner had she done so than a sharp, stabbing pain unlike any she had known shot mercilessly up her sword arm.
The hurt had been unexpected.
Releasing a sharp gasp of pain, Eowyn sank onto her bed with her right arm clutched in her free hand, the sword falling to the floor with a harsh, bitter clang.
For a moment, she could not think. She felt numb. How could this have happened to me? She thought, still filled with disbelief. Was that real?
Yet, because of the intensity and unexpectedness of the pain, she was slightly afraid to test her sword arm again. She eyed the blade suspiciously on the floor, as though it were the cause of all her troubles. And, in part, she supposed it was.
But Eowyn knew she could not stay in this room, this horrible, suffocating, white room.
If she was unfit to go to battle, she would go to the Warden and demand her release.
She, Eowyn, a Shieldmaiden of Rohan, would not be kept in a cage.
"Faramir."
Through the darkness and gloom penetrating his mind, he heard someone calling his name.
"Faramir."
The voice came again, desperate, anxious.
He turned, feeling startled and frantic as he tried to find its owner. Yet he could find no one—blackness greeted him everywhere he looked.
Was he going mad?
"Faramir."
No, there it was again. Pleading now, trembling with desire. It wanted to be found, to be heard. And as Faramir listened harder, it sounded like—
But it could not be. He was dead and gone.
Dead and gone…
"...forgive me, Faramir, forgive me..."
Faramir awoke with a start; breathing hard, sweat snaking down his face in tiny, glistening drops.
Forgive me…Faramir…forgive me…
He shuddered as the haunted words lingered in the clouds of his memory.
It was becoming harder and harder to recover from the after effects of the dreams. Perhaps this had something to do with his mounting exhaustion, which made his body and mind more vulnerable and easier to penetrate. He sighed deeply, and turned weary eyes to his bedroom window, where the blossoming, luscious garden beckoned. Peace and tranquility, it seemed, were waiting for him only a little distance away, yet, Faramir found it difficult to conceive ever feeling those emotions again. While his uncle's presence and consolation had helped somewhat, the knowledge that Imrahil would be torn from his side today and called to march upon the Black Gate had not been much of a comfort. It would have been better, Faramir had decided, if he had not come at all. That way, there would have been no parting to hurt so much. It was foolish and hopeless to count upon his return—Faramir had already convinced himself that his uncle would not be coming back. He had lost his father and brother…what did one more matter, anyway?
He had tried to convince himself, too, that his own death would be of no consequence, although he supposed that, deep in his heart, even before his uncle had come, he had known this to be a falsehood. His people would need him. Gondor would need him. And he had promised the king that he would be ready to serve him if the occasion arose.
He would live—if, for nothing else, because of his duty.
For now, at least, that was enough of a reason.