Yes, I know what you're all thinking—ANOTHER Faramir/Éowyn in the Houses of Healing story? Well, a few years ago, I wrote for this fandom in another name, but my writing has changed so much that I no longer wanted to be associated with my old work. One of these stories I'd begun was a Faramir/Éowyn romance, but it was never finished, mainly due to RL things. But I've always wanted to write my own interpretation of their story—there is a reason why there are so many of them, I suppose lol—and I've had yet to come across one quite like the story I am about to tell. This will be a blend of book and movie canon: for example, to simplify things a bit, there will be no Beregond in this story, much as I love him. Faramir, however, was never tempted with the ring and he did not loose all his men because I love some of his rangers too much, Merry does remain behind in the Houses and book characters like Imrahil are present. As things appear, I'll do my best to clarify them!

I hope you all will enjoy, and reviews are much appreciated!

Many, many thanks to my lovely beta Arahiril—your help means the world to me!

Disclaimer: I own nothing, and am merely playing in The Great Professor's Sandbox! If he were alive he'd probably have a thing or two to say to me, but ignorance is bliss?

Walk No More In Shadow

by alexa johnson

I

March 19th, 3019

He dreams of fire and does not know why.

Faramir knows he needs rest but each night the nightmares accost him and he fears their coming, although he is no closer to deciphering their meaning than he was than when they first began. He has asked everyone he knows for answers—the Warden, Ioreth, other servants, even—but they tell him they are as clueless as he. Yet he can discern from their downcast expressions that they are keeping something from him, but this reticence alarms more than angers him.

On the eve before the Host's departure for the Black Gates, his uncle Imrahil told him of his father's death, but had been careful not to disclose the manner of his passing.

"He fell." The words were simple, sorrowful. "I am sorry, nephew, and wish I could say more to ease your suffering. Yet all I have are these words, and even they feel empty in the wake of this tragedy."

Faramir's heart had twisted, but with what, he was not sure. "How? When? Why would no one tell me?"

"You were very ill, and we did not wish to burden you with yet more grief. You are still recovering, but I felt that to go any longer without giving you this news would be more of a cruelty than a kindness." Imrahil had looked repentant, but Faramir still had the feeling that his uncle was hiding something from him, and had not failed to notice that the older man had neglected to answer his first two questions.

The thought that had occurred to him then remains with him still: if the whole truth was too terrible for anyone to reveal, did he even want to know?

So he had let it lie, but now he thinks that this not knowing will drive him mad.

It is quickly becoming an obsession, but dwelling on the reasons for the fire is a far better alternative than thinking about Boromir.

Oh, Boromir…

His shoulders shake threateningly, and he fiercely suppresses the tears that have been struggling to break through his barriers ever since he saw the vision of the boat. As Captain, he cannot afford to lose himself in grief, and even though he cannot hide behind his rank now, he forces the memories away because he is afraid that once he starts crying he will not be able to stop.

Crying means acceptance, and he does not know if he will ever be able to face this pain.

The words he'd asked his lord and father come back to him now, words he still wonders how he'd found the strength to voice: "You wish now that our places had been exchanged. That I had died, and Boromir had lived."

Perhaps it is a selfish thought, but now he is close to agreeing with his father if only to spare him from this torment.

Éowyn awakes to the soft murmuring of voices outside her door.

She does not know what time it is, for she has been dozing on and off for the majority of the day, and feigning sleep when servants enter her room. Even thinking of opening her mouth to form words seems like too much of an effort, so she just lies in bed, praying she will be let alone. Soon the idea of spending so many hours in sloth will vex her, but right now she cannot summon up the energy to care.

"…does not eat unless I practically force food down his throat myself, and I know he is not sleeping even though he tells me he is—the darkness around his eyes is more honest than he! I fear he is sinking into a depression that none of us here will be able to banish!"

"Maybe…" A pause. "Maybe we should tell him."

She does not like to eavesdrop, but their words have been drifting into her awareness in spite of her efforts to ignore them, and quite against her will, she finds that her curiosity is growing.

"Have you taken complete leave of your senses" Ah, thinks Éowyn, having finally put a face with the first speaker. Ioreth. "It is enough he knows the man is dead! To tell him more would crush him even further! I know he has been asking, but we mustn't, we have been strictly forbidden—"

"Peace, Dame Ioreth. I do not question their reasoning, only I would rather he find out from us instead of hear rumors that I am sure are already spreading."

"I know this." There is a sigh, broken with despair. "Yet I would rather wait until his uncle the Prince Imrahil has returned, who may be better able to pull him out of his grief than you or me."

"We may not have that luxury. You know as well as I how hard it is to keep secrets from him. All I want to tell you is to prepare yourself in case we are left with no other choice."

There is another silence, this one longer than the first, and Éowyn finds herself wishing that she knew of whom they are conversing, if only to put a name to this stranger.

"I understand, but let us try to delay the telling as long as possible. Now if you will kindly excuse me, good Warden, I have patients to whom I must attend."

Éowyn resists the urge to groan, for she desires neither company nor victuals, and whatever reply the Warden gives is lost to her as she hears her door open and shut.

As Ioreth's steps increase in volume, Éowyn finds her earlier interest disintegrate into apathy now that the discussion of the mystery man has ceased, and she evens out her breathing in an effort to simulate sleep so she will not have to face the pity and concern which will no doubt be laced into her expression. Ioreth is a good and kind woman, Éowyn knows this, but she has a propensity for verbiage and sentences that never end, and suddenly the thought of facing both those traits is almost unbearable.

She wants her brother Éomer, but he is not here, and it is probable that she will never see him again. And they had not even parted on the best of terms…

"I have never been as scared as I was when I found you on the Pelennor. I thought—I thought I had lost you…" It was the day after Lord Aragorn had healed her, and she and Éomer had managed to find a moment of intimacy. He was holding her close, and she was too relieved to see him to resist, even if the thought of still being alive did not fill her with much joy. "I mean—what in the name of the Valar were you thinking Éowyn?"

Her body stiffened and she pulled away, looking him in the face. "The same as you, I imagine. I would have preferred to ride out to face the end than sit and wait for it to come to me."

"I told you that war is the province of men, Éowyn! Why did you not listen? Do you not know what your death would have done to me?" Anger was coloring his voice now, as it often did when Éomer was upset.

"And what if I had lost you?" she demanded, her own frustration rising to match his. "Did you think of what it would have been like for me, waiting at Edoras and not even knowing if you were alive? I assumed you were all riding to your doom, and I could not have borne that pain alone."

Éomer lowered his head and let go of her. "We may yet be, Éowyn."

She stared at him, her breath bated. "What do you mean?"

"We're marching to the Black Gate, to provide a diversion for Frodo and Sam so that they might have a chance to journey to Mt. Doom unnoticed by Sauron. We will be outnumbered—there is no doubt about that. I do not have the gift of foresight, but even if I did I am not sure I would want to see the end that we would come to." His voice had dropped so low that Éowyn almost missed his words, but when he was finished she almost wished that she had.

Despair gripped her even more than it had before, and if she had not been beyond tears she might have cried. "Then let me come to face it with you. Let me fight!"

Éomer was already on his feet. "No."

If she could have risen, she would have done so, but instead she pursed her lips and clenched the fingers of her good hand into a fist. "Éomer—"

But he cut her off before she could get any further. "No! You are wounded, and should not even be here in the first place! No, Éowyn, you are not to come. If by chance I do return, I want to see you well again, not lost beyond all healing. You will stay here."

At this point, she did not know which was greater: her anger or her hopelessness. "You cannot order me about as though I were some errant child—"

"Oh, but I can: for after—" Éomer paused to swallow deeply, but it did not take him long to recover, at least superficially. "Now I am King in all but name. If you will not listen to your brother, you shall listen to him: as King of Rohan, I order you to stay here, in the Houses of Healing. If I find you have disobeyed me—I am not sure I will ever be able to forgive you."

Her mouth was open, poised with an answer, but she was in too much shock to voice it.

Éomer closed his eyes, breathing now not quite so ragged. "I—goodbye, Éowyn."

He had gone before she had even registered his leaving.

If only my body had not been spared. Yet it has, and now I am all alone, trapped in my greatest fear: I am locked in a cage…

Feeling completely miserable now, she does her best to keep her body still and her breathing quiet so as not to alert Ioreth to the nature of her thoughts.

Please, just let me be…

"My Lady?"

Éowyn ignores her, hoping Ioreth will respect her silence, and when the healer sighs softly, Éowyn thinks she can hear understanding in her tone. "I am not fooled by your ruse my Lady, but I will honor your wishes. I have here some supper in case you desire to eat, and a sleeping draught to aid your rest. If you need anything at all, all you need do is send for me, and I will serve you. Take care, my Lady."

She waits until Ioreth's gentle footsteps have faded and until she hears the soft click of her door closing before releasing an almost strangled sigh and rolling over to look at the tray that Ioreth has placed upon the table by her bed. There is a bowl of steaming soup, a glass of water, and the promised sleeping draught.

She has no memory of the last time she has eaten, but the promise of an empty sleep is now more tempting and she downs the draught in one desperate swallow, almost hoping that she will never wake.

To Be Continued

We loves reviews, yes we does precious, precious my love! Erm, sorry—that was the Muse! g But reviews are very nice—I am quite nervous about this, and anything, especially constructive criticism, will be cherished! Flames will be used to torment Faramir in his nightmares—so if you are going to give one, at least think of him? Hee. I have just started my junior year of college, but hopefully I will not keep you all waiting too long for chapter two!