Chapter Five
Just a Dream
Thoroughly overwhelmed, Éowyn slumped down on her bed, looking at the wall but not seeing it. Her mind was flooded with too many emotions for her to keep track of, much less control. A tear slid from her eye. Hurriedly she wiped it away with the corner of the blue cloak.
As she brought the fabric away from her face, she stared at it. Could she keep it now, now that she had pushed him away?
And speaking of that, how could she ever face him again? Would he scorn her for not surrendering to him? The thought would have made her angry if she had thought there was any truth in it. But she knew him better than that.
The people were singing in the streets, but all Éowyn could think of was Faramir, his eyes, his face, his hands. The captains return, she told herself, trying to divert her mind. Aragorn returns. We've won. But victory meant nothing if the King and her brother did not return.
Unbeknownst to her mind, Éowyn's hand began to stroke the cloak, fingers entwining in the thick, soft cloth. She continued to stare at the wall. Despite her efforts, her mind returned to the Steward.
What did it mean? Did he love her? The idea, to her chagrin, frightened her.
No, it was simply pity, pity that she did not want. Pity that she detested.
There was a stirring in her heart and she fought to ignore it, to not think about what it was. It was nothing.
Éowyn buried her face in Faramir's blue cloak and wished that Aragorn was there with her. She needed to be loved, now. For the first time in a long while, she was out of her own control. It was not a pleasant feeling.
'Like a queen,' he had said. What had he meant? Surely he hadn't meant Aragorn's queen. Did he know . . .?
Twining her fingers together, Éowyn forced herself to stop thinking about it. There was no point to it. To many questions and no answers, that was all she had. With a sigh, she lay down, using the cloak as a pillow. Within moments, she was asleep.
When she next opened her eyes, it was night. Strangely, it felt as though there was something behind her on the bed. She tried to remember what it might be, but for some reason her memory was fuzzy.
Was it just her imagination, or had something moved behind her? But before she could turn around and see, she felt arms encircle her waist, and felt herself drawn into what was undoubtedly a man's embrace.
She smiled to herself as gentle lips moved over her neck and shoulders. He had come at last. She had known he would. She loved him.
Comfortably warm, she rolled over to see his face, framed by dark hair. A pair of gray eyes met her own, but what she saw pulled the smile from her face.
It was not Aragorn who looked back at her. Where Aragorn's face was weathered and rugged, this one was younger and clean-shaven. It was kind where Aragorn's was strong, its pride, though no less, was hidden where the other's was evident.
And the eyes . . . Gray, yes, and keen, but warm and compassionate, rather than cold and distant. And filled with a love so strong she wondered why it had not killed him to express it before.
She knew that face, but never would she have thought to see it here. Yet she did not pull away, felt no surge of disappointment. And as he tenderly took possession of her mouth with his own, her heart lifted for the first time in so long . . .
Éowyn's eyes snapped open, and she sat up abruptly. Looking down, she saw that her hands were shaking violently. She clutched the nearest thing to her to stop them, then released it instantly when she realized it was the cloak.
Her mind was flooded with the images from the dream. Remembering, she flipped over to make sure there really wasn't anyone beside her. To her relief-and maybe, just maybe, a hint of regret-there was no one.
She realized there was a name unspoken on her lips. But she hesitated to say it aloud, afraid of what that would mean.
No, it was just a dream.
Still, she could not say the word, did not want to admit that she had dreamed of him. Because that was all it had been. Just a dream. Just a bizarre, twisted, and altogether meaningless dream. It meant nothing, except that she longed for Aragorn to return, to love her. She had heard the eagles' message. He would return. And as for the man whose name hovered on her tongue . . .
Just a dream.
So thinking, Éowyn lay down again, but she did not hang up the cloak. Instead she pressed her face into the material and inhaled. It smelled of him, strongly. That was where the dream had come from, she reasoned.
As she drifted off to sleep, Éowyn thought for a moment that she could hear a young boy's laughter in the wind outside her window-the one that now faced eastward. And as her eyes closed, she was sure there was happiness close by.
***
The night was cold, and the rock he lay on was colder. There were voices screaming in his head, and the sounds of waves crashing, and of something whispering poisoned words. With a moan of pain he cried out, for his father, his brother, even his long-dead mother, anyone.
Before, no one had ever responded. But this time, a voice somewhere said his name. For a moment he thought it was nothing more than another lie, the fever voices speaking to it. Then he recognized it.
Painfully he forced his eyes open, trying to focus on the pale face above him. Unable to speak, he reached for her, mouth moving wordlessly. She smiled and laid a slender finger on his dry, cracked lips. Who needed words, in any case?
Suddenly his heart clenched. It was coming; he knew it. And it seemed she knew it too, for she pulled her hand away and looked apprehensively about.
No, he thought, no, please, don't leave me . . . Reaching out, he seized her wrist with a thin hand, begging her to stay.
Then it began.
Heat blossomed around them, shadows dancing on the walls in evil delight. She cried out and tugged, trying to get away. But he wouldn't let go, couldn't let go. She was all he had; if he let go, she would be gone forever.
Please, don't go . . .
Flames began licking at the hem of her dress, sparks catching in her golden hair. She screamed, desperately trying to free herself, but to no avail. He felt his own clothing aflame, but still he did not release her.
Please . . .
With one final shriek of agony and terror, the flames consumed her. Fire rippled down her arm until his own hand was so burned he no longer knew if he grasped her or not. Was it someone else laughing, or was it him? No, it couldn't be him, for his heart was wrenched, and his eyes stung with tears that he could not shed.
Please . . .
This time Faramir did cry out, and when he woke his face was wet with tears. It took him longer than usual to realize where he was. When he did, he stared at the far wall, reality seeping back in. With a small moan he fell back onto the bed.
Just when I thought it was gone. It occurred to him that he hadn't had the dream since meeting her. In fact, he was startled to realize, he hadn't had any of his vivid nightmares since then. But now, now he had scared her, and in doing so would not sleep until he knew she was at peace. That was all. He was just upset about that.
But Faramir could not lie to himself. He would not lose her in war, that at least was certain now. Yet would he himself drag her down in his own troubles? Did he deserve her?
The thought of walking the gardens now brought no peace, and when he looked out the window-the east window-the sun was rising. Even that did not lift his heart as much as it should have.
Deciding that the odds of him falling back to sleep were rather small, Faramir stood and dressed, then slumped down in his armchair by the window and watched the sun rise over the mountains. But his thoughts were not of the Captains, and though he looked out the window, it was not the sun he saw.
*
~
*
~
Hey guys, this chapter has been updated because I got my dates wrong! No dessert for me tonight. =D
Just a Dream
Thoroughly overwhelmed, Éowyn slumped down on her bed, looking at the wall but not seeing it. Her mind was flooded with too many emotions for her to keep track of, much less control. A tear slid from her eye. Hurriedly she wiped it away with the corner of the blue cloak.
As she brought the fabric away from her face, she stared at it. Could she keep it now, now that she had pushed him away?
And speaking of that, how could she ever face him again? Would he scorn her for not surrendering to him? The thought would have made her angry if she had thought there was any truth in it. But she knew him better than that.
The people were singing in the streets, but all Éowyn could think of was Faramir, his eyes, his face, his hands. The captains return, she told herself, trying to divert her mind. Aragorn returns. We've won. But victory meant nothing if the King and her brother did not return.
Unbeknownst to her mind, Éowyn's hand began to stroke the cloak, fingers entwining in the thick, soft cloth. She continued to stare at the wall. Despite her efforts, her mind returned to the Steward.
What did it mean? Did he love her? The idea, to her chagrin, frightened her.
No, it was simply pity, pity that she did not want. Pity that she detested.
There was a stirring in her heart and she fought to ignore it, to not think about what it was. It was nothing.
Éowyn buried her face in Faramir's blue cloak and wished that Aragorn was there with her. She needed to be loved, now. For the first time in a long while, she was out of her own control. It was not a pleasant feeling.
'Like a queen,' he had said. What had he meant? Surely he hadn't meant Aragorn's queen. Did he know . . .?
Twining her fingers together, Éowyn forced herself to stop thinking about it. There was no point to it. To many questions and no answers, that was all she had. With a sigh, she lay down, using the cloak as a pillow. Within moments, she was asleep.
When she next opened her eyes, it was night. Strangely, it felt as though there was something behind her on the bed. She tried to remember what it might be, but for some reason her memory was fuzzy.
Was it just her imagination, or had something moved behind her? But before she could turn around and see, she felt arms encircle her waist, and felt herself drawn into what was undoubtedly a man's embrace.
She smiled to herself as gentle lips moved over her neck and shoulders. He had come at last. She had known he would. She loved him.
Comfortably warm, she rolled over to see his face, framed by dark hair. A pair of gray eyes met her own, but what she saw pulled the smile from her face.
It was not Aragorn who looked back at her. Where Aragorn's face was weathered and rugged, this one was younger and clean-shaven. It was kind where Aragorn's was strong, its pride, though no less, was hidden where the other's was evident.
And the eyes . . . Gray, yes, and keen, but warm and compassionate, rather than cold and distant. And filled with a love so strong she wondered why it had not killed him to express it before.
She knew that face, but never would she have thought to see it here. Yet she did not pull away, felt no surge of disappointment. And as he tenderly took possession of her mouth with his own, her heart lifted for the first time in so long . . .
Éowyn's eyes snapped open, and she sat up abruptly. Looking down, she saw that her hands were shaking violently. She clutched the nearest thing to her to stop them, then released it instantly when she realized it was the cloak.
Her mind was flooded with the images from the dream. Remembering, she flipped over to make sure there really wasn't anyone beside her. To her relief-and maybe, just maybe, a hint of regret-there was no one.
She realized there was a name unspoken on her lips. But she hesitated to say it aloud, afraid of what that would mean.
No, it was just a dream.
Still, she could not say the word, did not want to admit that she had dreamed of him. Because that was all it had been. Just a dream. Just a bizarre, twisted, and altogether meaningless dream. It meant nothing, except that she longed for Aragorn to return, to love her. She had heard the eagles' message. He would return. And as for the man whose name hovered on her tongue . . .
Just a dream.
So thinking, Éowyn lay down again, but she did not hang up the cloak. Instead she pressed her face into the material and inhaled. It smelled of him, strongly. That was where the dream had come from, she reasoned.
As she drifted off to sleep, Éowyn thought for a moment that she could hear a young boy's laughter in the wind outside her window-the one that now faced eastward. And as her eyes closed, she was sure there was happiness close by.
***
The night was cold, and the rock he lay on was colder. There were voices screaming in his head, and the sounds of waves crashing, and of something whispering poisoned words. With a moan of pain he cried out, for his father, his brother, even his long-dead mother, anyone.
Before, no one had ever responded. But this time, a voice somewhere said his name. For a moment he thought it was nothing more than another lie, the fever voices speaking to it. Then he recognized it.
Painfully he forced his eyes open, trying to focus on the pale face above him. Unable to speak, he reached for her, mouth moving wordlessly. She smiled and laid a slender finger on his dry, cracked lips. Who needed words, in any case?
Suddenly his heart clenched. It was coming; he knew it. And it seemed she knew it too, for she pulled her hand away and looked apprehensively about.
No, he thought, no, please, don't leave me . . . Reaching out, he seized her wrist with a thin hand, begging her to stay.
Then it began.
Heat blossomed around them, shadows dancing on the walls in evil delight. She cried out and tugged, trying to get away. But he wouldn't let go, couldn't let go. She was all he had; if he let go, she would be gone forever.
Please, don't go . . .
Flames began licking at the hem of her dress, sparks catching in her golden hair. She screamed, desperately trying to free herself, but to no avail. He felt his own clothing aflame, but still he did not release her.
Please . . .
With one final shriek of agony and terror, the flames consumed her. Fire rippled down her arm until his own hand was so burned he no longer knew if he grasped her or not. Was it someone else laughing, or was it him? No, it couldn't be him, for his heart was wrenched, and his eyes stung with tears that he could not shed.
Please . . .
This time Faramir did cry out, and when he woke his face was wet with tears. It took him longer than usual to realize where he was. When he did, he stared at the far wall, reality seeping back in. With a small moan he fell back onto the bed.
Just when I thought it was gone. It occurred to him that he hadn't had the dream since meeting her. In fact, he was startled to realize, he hadn't had any of his vivid nightmares since then. But now, now he had scared her, and in doing so would not sleep until he knew she was at peace. That was all. He was just upset about that.
But Faramir could not lie to himself. He would not lose her in war, that at least was certain now. Yet would he himself drag her down in his own troubles? Did he deserve her?
The thought of walking the gardens now brought no peace, and when he looked out the window-the east window-the sun was rising. Even that did not lift his heart as much as it should have.
Deciding that the odds of him falling back to sleep were rather small, Faramir stood and dressed, then slumped down in his armchair by the window and watched the sun rise over the mountains. But his thoughts were not of the Captains, and though he looked out the window, it was not the sun he saw.
*
~
*
~
Hey guys, this chapter has been updated because I got my dates wrong! No dessert for me tonight. =D