March 17th
Faramir's Diary
Buggeration. I have just made the biggest fool of myself imaginable. How Boromir would have laughed if he'd been here to witness it. At least it has proved a slight moment of light relief. My first day out of bed, still feeling rough, walking in the garden to see if the fresh air would clear my head. Suddenly I heard the Warden, calling out to me, and I turned and (Boromir would definitely laugh at this) found myself face to face with a woman so beautiful I thought I would pass out. Or perhaps I had passed out and was hallucinating.
It didn't take any great mental agility to work out who she was (which is just as well, because my reserves of mental agility seem to be at a singularly low ebb right now). Hair that blonde – so blonde it seemed like someone had trapped the rays of the sun and turned them into hair – it had to be the Shieldmaiden of Rohan, the slayer of the Witch King. Glad someone got the bastard in the end. Though from the look of utter desolation on her face, I'm pretty sure she got a dose of his breath too.
We talked for a while, and it was one of the most depressing conversations I've ever had. She wanted (broken arm and all) to ride off after her brother and the heir of Isildur – not because she thought she could achieve anything, but because she wants to die. It seems somehow a sin against the very fabric of Illuvatar's creation that one so fair should want nothing other than death. Not only was she in despair, she was also very difficult to talk to. The slightest attempt at sympathy on my part got interpreted (if the look of disdain on her face was anything to go by) as my being patronising. Still, I managed to persuade her that it would be futile to attempt to follow them. Ever silver tongued, I consoled her with the thought that we might all die anyway (never let it be said that I don't have a way with the fairer sex). And placated her with the offer of a room that faced east (where some men might have offered pearls and rubies and rare perfumes from southern lands, I offered a small casement that opens over a battlefield).
Actually, no, scratch that. Let it be said loudly and frequently that I don't have a way with the fairer sex. Because then I had a fit of what can only be described as verbal dysentery. There I was, confronted with a sublimely beautiful, suicidally depressed, and very prickly, defensive woman, and what did I do? Started spouting all manner of crap about "flowers fair and maidens fairer..." The look on her face! Just as well (by all accounts) her sword disintegrated after she'd used it to kill the Nazgûl.
As I say, Boromir would have laughed fit to burst. He always used to tease me about how hopeless I was with women, but even by my customarily low standards, this was a spectacularly bad reading of the situation. But it just goes to show how truly desperate she is – somehow, she has agreed to meet with me in the garden tomorrow. Elbereth alone knows what I will find to talk to her about. Not "flowers fair and maidens fairer..." She might well have acquired a dagger by tomorrow, just in case. Or if she hasn't, the embarrassment might spur me to throw myself off the battlements.
Her hair is beautiful, though. And I would do almost anything to find a way of taking away that look of despair.
Éowyn's Diary
Well, I have escaped the confines of my bed. But I am still denied the chance of an honourable death in battle. The warden will not allow it. Of course I tried to argue my case, so he referred my case to higher authority – the Lord Steward of Gondor, no less. Who will not allow it either. And who turns out to be an unctuous bastard.
The most annoying thing is that the unctuous bastard is probably right. Dammit. I couldn't ride and wield a sword one handed.
I suppose I shouldn't call him an unctuous bastard. He was really very civil. Though I could have done without the pity. But that last comment about fair flowers and maidens! I can't decide whether he meant it or not. If he didn't then he's a smarmy bastard who thinks I'm some sort of foolish, vain, empty headed woman whose head can be easily turned by flattery. If he did mean it, then he's even smarmier. I do not like men who flatter.
Béma, what will the warden think of that? Further evidence of my fey mood? Fortunately, since as far as I know he does not understand my tongue, I suppose he will not be able to read this diary. But I have very good reason not to like men who flatter. And I suppose therein lies another reason why my fey mood is in fact not evidence of some weakness of mind on my part but rather evidence of my rationality.
Fairness dictates that I record that the unctuous bastard did not offer his comment unsolicited. I did ask, after all. Ask why he would want to spend time with me. And perhaps I put him on the spot – he could hardly say that he wanted my company to fill the boredom while we waited to die.
At least he was honest about that. Everyone else seems to think pretending all will be well will somehow jolly me along, like telling a child happy fairy stories to take its mind off a nightmare. He was prepared to admit that the situation is doomed.