Disclaimer: Tolkien the genius owns all, I own nowt.

Notes: Phew, ok, sorry this chapter took so long to put up.  It is a pretty long one, and Eowyn and Faramir actually meet in it (!), and some other stuff happens… Um, and I did work very hard on it.  So I really hope you guys enjoy it.  I certainly enjoyed writing certain parts... Other parts not so much… I'm a bit worried that you might not like my interpretation of Faramir.  I worry about a lot of stuff like that.  I even worried about whether anyone would mind if I made Faramir have black hair like in the books instead of reddish hair like Daisy Wenham.  I still picture Faramir as Daisy when I write.  I guess it just seems important to me for him to be described as raven-haired.  Hmmm.  Anyway, remember that I appreciate all criticism.  Thanks a lot for reading.  Oh, and thanks so much again for all the reviews.  One day I will actually get around to writing review responses…   

Dedication: To Sean 'Seen' Bean, on-screen brother of Daisy.  As a fellow Northern Bastard, I can truly appreciate his loveliness and brilliance in the role of Boromir.  I think his was probably the best performance in FOTR (Yes, even better than Serena McKellen).  Oh Seen, just because I love Daisy too, it doesn't mean I love you less! 

The Patient

Chapter 4: Feast On His Flesh

"Feast on his flesh." 
"I will kill you if you touch him!"

"Do not come between a Nazgûl and his prey." 

"You fool!  No man can kill me!  Die now…" 

Her eyes were closed, and the bracing wind blew into her lungs and filled them, and she breathed deeply, as if to air out all her troubles. 

"Eowyn…"

Eowyn was stood in a far corner of the Gardens, staring out Eastward towards the Black Gate, or at least to where she thought it must be, somewhere far off in the distance.  She was thinking about how she might break away from this place and be free to do as she pleased. 

However, the presence of another person was weighing heavily on her mind, and she couldn't keep to her train of thought. 

He was stood a little way off, a tall, raven-haired man. 

Lord Faramir. 

He too was staring out into the open space beyond the city boundaries, albeit in a different direction to her. 

Eowyn scowled. 

Perhaps it was the way Lucia had spoken of him, or the way he was intruding on her thoughts, or perhaps it was the far-away look he wore.  But something about him caused her to feel deeply irritated at that moment.  She glared at him, but he didn't appear aware of the existence of anyone but himself. 

That did it. 

Not knowing exactly what she was going to say, Eowyn walked up to him.  Only at the last possible moment did he turn his head to face her, squinting slightly, as if to say tiredly 'Yes?'

Eowyn was still angry, but standing this close to him she couldn't seem to remember if she had a reason or not, let alone what it was. 

He was a tall, proud figure of a man, with his tousled raven hair falling about his face in the breeze.  It was not like Eowyn to find herself speechless, but he had a commanding presence that made her doubt herself. 

Then he turned back to look into the distance once more, and her veins coursed with fury again. 

She would not be ignored by him. 

"Lord Faramir," she began, her eyes shining in defiance of she knew not what.  "Did you seek to interrupt my privacy in coming to stand here?"

He looked at her again, one eyebrow slightly raised incredulously.  She felt sure he would ask her what she was talking about, but instead what he said was;

"Who are you?"

Just as bluntly as that, although not unkindly. 

She almost faltered, but mustered enough dignity to say "Eowyn, of Rohan."

His apparent disinterest was infuriating. 

Looking away again, he said, "Well, Eowyn of Rohan, I have come to this corner to look out on far away places for many days now, and as I have not seen you in this place before, I did not realise it was reserved for your privacy."  His voice was tired but courteous, and it had a clipped Gondorian note to it. 

She did not know what to say to that.  She felt mildly ridiculous, and she didn't like it one bit.  She took in a lungful of air, and steadied her mind. 

"I am sorry.  This is the first time I have walked in the gardens.  I am afraid it did not occur to me that this might be the chosen thinking place of another."

She knew he was listening, but still he looked out over endless leagues.  He was staring North and West with eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun. 

Now suddenly seemed as good a time as any to bring up what she had been thinking about a just few moments ago, getting away from this place

"My Lord, I heard tell that the rule of this city was yours, for the moment at least.  It is not my desire to remain idle in this city whilst others have ridden to a war in which I would greatly wish to fight.  I would ask you to grant me freedom from this place, to bid the Warden let me go." 

And even as she said it, it seemed a ridiculous request, and she felt like a child, too unsure of herself to go on.  For now she couldn't help but wonder if she really wanted to leave the fragile safety of this city and embark on a futile quest of her own, all the way to the Black Gate and into the beyond.

In a way, it seemed her only choice. 

What other path was there for Eowyn, shield-maiden of Rohan?

"The rule of the city may be mine, for the moment, but I too am the Warden's prisoner.  I cannot do as I wish, else I would surely have followed the Captains into the East, and to war, but it is too late to do so now, and all who were left behind can do nothing save wait for death to come to them."  There was such depth and bitterness to his voice, yet it was not threatening, still retaining a civility that many had long forgotten.  "I fear I have not the power to grant you freedom, even if I did judge such a course to be wise.  It is the Warden with whom you must take up this quarrel." 

As she listened to his words, her grief and helplessness suddenly overcame her anger, and she turned swiftly away to hide her face, for she did not trust it not to betray her.  The pity of this man would be far worse than his indifference, therefore she must retain her appearance of coldness.  Tears threatened to sting her eyes as a distance came again between the two of them, and they both turned to look out once more in the direction that most preoccupied their thoughts. 

* * * * *

That night Eowyn paced up and down her room, glad that no one could see her.

She felt even more restless than before, and certainly more frustrated.

She could see the truth in what Lord Faramir had said.  She knew it would be futile to follow the captains now.  She had to stay here and be fully healed and await whatever fate was hers.  She hated being so helpless.  She had never felt so much at fate's whim. 

She had to stay here, now she felt more sure of that.

But she still didn't have to like it. 

And why didn't her window face East, like the window of the patient? 

She paced more quickly.  She did not want to think about the patient again. 

Meeting Lord Faramir had taken her mind off him, but now he crept back into he troubled thoughts, and she rubbed her temples.

She did not think she could cope with the irritation of both Faramir and the patient at the same time. 

Her restlessness was suddenly overwhelming, and she knew she had to do something. 

She decided she would walk around the houses again, her head held high this time. 

Why should she not walk about as was her will?

She was no serving-woman. 

* * * * *

When she set out, she did not know where she was to go.  She came to the staircase again, and after some hesitation, decided to go up it and see what lay beyond the doorway to the patient's room.  After all, she had never gotten much further than it, and she should feel curious about what was up there.

When she came to the patient's room, she did not look in, even though the door was slightly open, and her stomach was constricting painfully.  She kept on going, looking straight ahead and breathing steadily.  She got a little way up the staircase when she heard a snippet of a familiar voice.  

She stopped dead. 

She knew the voices of the healers by now.  It was the patient speaking, she felt sure of it.  Her stomach muscles tightened a notch.

Go on, go on up the stairs, she silently cursed herself. 

But her feet wouldn't move.

She had never heard the patient speak before. 

Why should his voice be familiar? 

"I should think I am quite capable of washing myself, thank you." 

It was the patients voice drifting up to her, clear and calm and unmistakeably Gondorian. 

"Very well my lord, I shall return to you in a little while, though it seems against my better judgement to leave you, when you have all the makings of a fever."

"What difference could it possibly make, whether I am to be bathed in cold water by you, or I am to bathe myself in it?  I have the strength to do it.  I am no invalid." 

There was resentment in his courteous voice. 

"Sir, I've never called you one.  I take my leave of you for the moment, Lord Faramir." 

Eowyn's insides all seemed to melt into each other.

It can't be him, it just can't.

But of course it was him.  How had she not guessed already?  The voice was unmistakeable. 

Of course it was him. 

Yet still Eowyn felt unsteady.  Her head was clouded and confused.  This was an almost typically infuriating turn of events, and she should have seen it coming.  Why did she feel so shocked and dismayed?

She heard the healer leave his room and descend the stairs. 

She stood stock still where she was for approximately two heart beats, facing ahead into the unknown reaches of the staircase.  Then, utterly unable to help herself, she moved swiftly downwards to the patients door and stood for a moment, faltering. 

Then in haste she peered around the doorway, her heart quivering and her hands tremouring. 

He stood there silhouetted in the moonlight, his back to her, washing himself with cold water from a shallow basin. 

Her heart had now stopped. 

She looked upon him, and her eyes seemed to devour his bare flesh. 

She could not tear her gaze away, though he was completely naked and she knew she should not look.  Strange sensations of warmth arose within her.  When her heart began to beat again, it was very fast, almost a murmur. 

The patient – could it really be Lord Faramir? – was tall and narrow in the pale light.  The curve of his back was smooth, and light shone over the globes of his buttocks. 

To feel this sort of heat was something new to Eowyn.  Her cheeks had coloured a deep red.  Her lips, too, felt warm and full.  The strange sensation she felt began in her bowels and tingled its way upward through her weakened body. 

Her mouth was dry. 

His skin looked so soft and warm.  She wondered how it would feel to the touch – perhaps rough, like a warriors weather-beaten skin.  For this man had seen his share of battle.  He was so very pale in the moonlight.  Almost translucent.  His hair was so dark against his skin. 

Eowyn felt something.  A longing…

He was turning around now, and her breath caught. 

Her eyes were torn from his muscular arms to a large wound on his chest.  It was almost completely healed, yet he would bear a terrible scar from it all his life.  Like a crevice, it ran under the left of his breast, a deep cut that marred the smooth, supple lines of his body. 

How strange and unfair that his face should be that of Lord Faramir. 

She had almost overlooked that detail, until now. 

Eowyn recoiled suddenly, slipping behind the doorframe, as a halt in his movements made her fear the worst. 

Had he somehow sensed her presence?

She made no sound. 

She was on the wrong side of the door, so she ventured swiftly up the stairs again, getting further this time.  She sat down on the cold stone steps, warmth seeping from her like milk from an upturned jug. 

It seemed that she waited there with baited breath for a long while before the healer came back to the patient's room.  Even then Eowyn did not dare to creep down the stairs, for she felt shaken and her hands still trembled.  Instead she leant against the pillar of the staircase and closed her eyes, the cool stone soothing her weary head.