Prologue: The Sun Shines

Stained with blood the last battlefield of Middle Earth is. Never in all my days did I dream of standing on the final field of war. I am surrounded by the dead and dying of this battle, and the haunting cries of the wounded tear at my heart. My sword glistens with blood, the blood of former allies. Indeed, I did not expect this battle to be fought.

I cry helplessly, not for my enemies, nor my own painful wounds, but for a man who lies but a few feet before me. His bearded face is pale, his silvery eyes glazed over in mortal pain. His breathing is short, desperate, and every breath is a battle in itself. His chest is crimson red; his wounds are far more grievous than mine. One greying hand weakly grasps a brilliant sword darkened with the blood of his former friends. The other is held by a beautiful woman, skin fairer than the white clouds of summer, hair as golden as the sun rising in the morning. Her blue eyes are filled with sadness, and her crystal tears slowly slide down her fair cheeks to land on the dying face of her husband.

"Boromir," the dying man rasps, blood trickling down his chin. His time draws near.

"Yes, my lord?" I say, wiping the tears from my eyes. My king needs me to be strong. He murmurs something, too softly for my ears to perceive. I kneel next to him.

"You must take Anduril," he whispers again.

"Nay, my lord! You will live-" I exclaim, but he silences me.

"You must!" he insists. "Gondor will fall without a ruler." He grabs my hand, and places it on Anduril's hilt.

"I declare you Steward of Gondor, and of all land gained in this foolish war. Give this sword to my son, when he is old enough to hold it. Boromir, please… please take care of Eowyn. I love her so." His last words are soft, but filled with love and pain.

"Aragorn, I am here. I am here, my lord." Eowyn grips his hand tighter.

"Eowyn?" His eyes shift to look upon the queen's tear-stained face. He smiles, as if seeing her for the first time. "Why do you not smile, my love?"

"Because I have failed you, my lord, and you pay the price for my failure," she says softly, her voice choked with sorrow as her tears increase.

"Nay, Eowyn. You have… you have not failed me. Smile for me, my love. I have not seen the sunshine for an age, it seems." Eowyn smiles, and strokes her husband's hair gently.

"Ah, my Eowyn. I can feel the sun now, warm upon my face." She bends down, and softly kisses him. His hand, grasping my own and Anduril, slips to the ground lifelessly.

"Aragorn?" I call out, a tear falling down my face. Eowyn lifts her head, and realizes what has happened. Aragorn is dead.

Oh, Aragorn. How we loved you. You were champion of Men, the scourge of our enemies. No man, Elf, or any other creature, could defeat you in a battle of swords. But your heart was conquered. Not by sword or spear, but by the singular beauty of the woman who now mourns for you.

She weeps for you now, Eowyn, the Wraithslayer, the Ice Maiden, the captor of your heart, and the woman who brought Middle Earth to its knees.