Dear readers, have I mentioned that I adore you all?  My deepest apologies for the tardiness of this chapter.  Writer's block is to blame. ^_^;;

There is a ton of symbolism in this chapter—from the storm to the fire to the…well, just look for it.  It's fun.  :)

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"And as [Denethor] held [the palantir] up, it seemed to those that looked on that the globe began to glow with an inner flame, so that the lean face of the Lord was lit as with a red fire, and it seemed cut out of hard stone, sharp with black shadows, noble, proud, and terrible.  His eyes glittered.

"'Pride and despair!' he cried."

--J.R.R. Tolkien, Return of the King

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The Stone and the Steward – Chapter Six

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Dark clouds were gathering ominously in the eastern sky, encompassing the full moon as they hastened towards the city.  There was a distant roll of thunder, and the fleeting smell of rain danced on the breeze.  Standing at the edge of the Citadel's embrasure, Faramir watched in silence as the storm gathered its strength.  It would likely be quite a squall when all was said and done, and for that, he was glad.  He loved the rain and the echo of thunder, for he knew both to be cleansing.  It was a welcome distraction after the grueling Council session and the meeting with the King that followed.

But standing still in silence also allowed unpleasant thoughts to drift through his mind, and that would not do.  He desired peace, for the moment, and it occurred to him perhaps this was not the best place to find it.  Besides—peace was rather difficult to find when he was desperately trying to ignore the fact that the ghostly apparition of his father was standing beside him.  Faramir could not see it fully—only a fleeting shadow on the edges of his peripheral vision—but he knew Denethor was there.

"If there is a point to all of this, father, I pray you come to it," Faramir said quietly.  "I grow weary of these games."

A sharp gust of wind stirred Faramir's hair, and he shivered.  Turning abruptly on his heels, he started for the tunnel that separated the Citadel from the rest of the City.  It was high time he headed home; Éowyn would most likely be worried.  But even the quick pace he settled into did not help to ease his troubled mind, for the shadow was never far behind.

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The rain was coming down in torrents by the time Éowyn spotted his silhouette in the distance.  She frowned deeply and turned to the servants.  "Bring the master's supper, and see that it is hot."  Under her breath she added, "If he has forgotten his cloak again, I shall give him an earful he will not soon forget."

The servants bowed and departed unnoticed.  Éowyn opened the door but shied away as raindrops blew into the room upon a particularly strong gust of wind.  Faramir's lips were like ice when they brushed across her brow.  "Yes, love, I remembered my cloak."

Using most of her weight to close the heavy door against the wind, Éowyn scowled, annoyed by the fact that he was always able to read her thoughts.  "But you forgot that it was raining, I see.  You are soaked through."

"And then some, I believe.  Do not worry.  I've not caught a chill yet."

She pulled at the fastenings of his sodden cloak and said, "Let's get you by the fire to see that you don't."

Faramir allowed her to lead him to the chair before the hearth without complaint.  He knew that she enjoyed taking care of him, and though he felt he did not need it, he would not protest.  He sat and watched in silence as she patiently removed his boots.  His hand smoothed her hair away from her face and lifted her chin up.

"The servants are bringing your supper," she said, glancing cautiously at his grave face from where she knelt, wondering if he was willing to share his thoughts.

"Thank you, love.  Will you not sit with me?"

Smiling shyly, she let him pull her into his lap, though not without a small amount of protest.  "The servants will talk…"

He pressed his face into her hair, and said, "Let them.  I have missed my wife today."

"You are quite weary, I see."

"The meeting lasted longer than I would have liked, but it was necessary nonetheless."

"Éomer stopped by briefly almost an hour ago, saying Council had broken.  I worried when you did not come as well."

"The king asked that I remain behind," Faramir explained, carefully skirting around certain details.  "We discussed a few matters."

"Éomer said he will take leave of the City tomorrow, if the weather permits," Éowyn said with great sadness.  "He will be missed."

"He will, indeed."

"Are we to leave Minas Tirith soon, as well?" she asked, with a small amount of hope in her voice.

Faramir turned curious eyes upon her face.  "Are you unhappy?"

"You know that I enjoy being in the City," she said, shaking her head.  "I found a great deal of healing within these gates, once upon a time.  But I do not think my husband finds the same joy.  He has many memories of this place that I do not share."

Faramir fell silent.  Together they listened to the rain drum on the roof.  She busied herself by combing out his wet curls with her fingers, while he closed his eyes and rested his head on her shoulder.  When the servants returned with steaming dishes, Éowyn wriggled uncomfortably, but Faramir's arms held her fast as supper was laid out upon a table set before the fire.

Faramir thanked and dismissed the servants but did not reach for what they had brought.  Éowyn saw that his eyes were warily fixed upon the shadows in the corner of the room.  She followed his gaze but saw nothing.  "Is something the matter, my lord?"

Faramir seemed startled at her words and more than a little unsettled.  But a moment later, the fear was gone from his eyes as he quickly masked the emotions.  "It is nothing.  I thought I saw something, is all."

"Will you not eat something?"

"In a moment," he said, suddenly gripping her tighter.  It was obvious he was inwardly debating whether or not to share something with her.  A moment later, he added quietly, "You told me yesterday to come to you if I was troubled."

Éowyn could not keep the slight smile from her lips, pleased that her long-suffering husband had at last begun to open up to her.  "I did."

"The king told me something tonight that I did not want to hear," he said reluctantly, "but his words were truth.  I do not particularly desire to go into the details of what he said to me."  His words were even and devoid of emotion, as though he was attempting to discuss the matter objectively.  "Yesterday you suggested that I cannot grieve for my father because I have yet to forgive him.  Today the King implied that I blame myself for my father's death."  He shifted his eyes slowly from the fire to her face.  "You are both right."

Éowyn's lips parted in astonishment. "How is your father's death remotely your fault?"

Faramir's gaze fixed again on the fire burning in the hearth.  "It was despair that took the life of Denethor.  I cannot think of anyone else who caused him more grief than myself.  To begin with, I created the great rift between us.  'A wizard's pupil,' he called me.  He did not think me loyal to him, like Boromir.  Perhaps he was right.  I was the one who sought Mithrandir and his counsel, against my father's will.  The death of my brother is also on my shoulders.  It was I, not Boromir, who originally had the prophetic dream.  I should have been the one who journeyed to Imladris.  My father was loth to see him leave.  His loss was most unnecessary."

Éowyn shook her head, and her brow creased in distress.  "It was Boromir's decision to go.  You cannot hold yourself to blame for that."

Faramir seemingly did not hear her.  Words had begun to tumble rapidly from his lips, as though he was suddenly realizing, himself, all that he said.  "And then the defeat at Osgiliath followed news of Boromir's death.  My brother had long held the river garrison in tact.  Again I proved a disappointment.  When I fell in battle, Denethor's despair was complete.  His line ended.  Because of my mistakes and weaknesses, the House of the Stewards had failed in his eyes."

"Mistakes?  Weaknesses?" Éowyn gasped.  "You discount the role the palantir had in your father's decline."

"That is beside the point.  The things Sauron was able to show my father through the palantir drove him mad, not into despair.  That falls upon my shoulders."

"I disagree, Faramir.  Though I did not know your father, I have lived before in the house of a man whose reign fell into ruin—or almost did.  Lies are always at the root of despair, and that is precisely what the Dark Lord fed your father—lies.  Lies with a grain of truth, and those are the worst kind."

Éowyn lifted his chin so that he was forced to look at her.  "You speak of weakness and error, Faramir, but I do not see either.  When you sought the counsel of Gandalf, it was not a mistake, but a show of great wisdom on your part.  If your father had done the same, he would probably still be alive."  Seeing that he winced at her words, she quickly added, "Forgive me, Faramir.  I know I speak my mind too frankly at times, but it is truth.  Because of your wisdom and Gandalf's loyalty to you, the line of Stewards persists.  It did not fail.  It was, after all, Gandalf that pulled you off the pyre, was it not?"

When Faramir offered no response, she continued.  "And I say again that it was Boromir's decision whether or not he would follow the words of the dream.  Do not forget that he had the dream as well.  And the defeat at Osgiliath would have still occurred had Boromir been there.  It was an unfortunate but inevitable defeat.  You cannot blame yourself for these things."

As she spoke, Faramir closed his eyes and shook his head slowly.  "No, Éowyn.  Your words are kind and well meant, but there are things you do not understand.  I am at fault."

"If that is what you truly believe, Faramir, then you will never find peace," Éowyn said, tears stinging the corners of her eyes.  "The same despair that claimed your father will come for you.  It will haunt and destroy you."

"Perhaps I deserve no better," he said quietly.

"Every one of these terrible thoughts of yours center around you, Faramir, and that is most dangerous.  I see Denethor's pride shining through your countenance."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a dim memory surfaced—words that had echoed once through a great hall as he lay dying upon cold stone.  His father's voice.  Pride and despair.

Faramir suddenly became very uncomfortable.  He rose quickly to his feet, taking Éowyn with him.  "Forgive me," he offered as he steadied her on her feet.  "I suddenly do not feel well.  Perhaps I should retire."  And with that, he quickly strode from the room, leaving Éowyn confused, frustrated, and alone.  Biting her tongue, she glanced dejectedly at Faramir's untouched supper.  In the hearth a log crumbled, and flames quickly leapt up to devour it.

Closing red-rimmed eyes and bowing her head, Éowyn whispered a desperate prayer.  "Please…please, do not let this happen.  I cannot watch him do this to himself…not after my uncle.  Please…let him see through this deception.  Give him peace."

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In his chambers, the exhausted Faramir fell quickly into sleep and impossibly quicker into dreams.  It seemed as though he had only just closed his eyes when the cruel nightmare claimed him.

In his dream, he lay paralyzed upon the pyre in the Houses of the Steward.  He felt the vaguely familiar burning of poison in his veins.  The sharp smell of wood and fragrant oil roused his senses, and Faramir's eyes opened slowly in confusion to gaze into the face of his dead father.  Denethor's gloved hands gripped Faramir's face almost desperately, as if he was seeing his son for the first time—only too late.  The old man drank in the sight of his dying child with longing and piercing sorrow.

"My son…burning…already burning…"

Faramir tried to speak but found he could not.  Indeed, he could barely keep his eyes open.  Was this a nightmare?  Was this real?  He could not tell.  Faramir's head swam in confusion, his eyes rolling from side to side as he struggled to maintain his weak hold on consciousness.  Something warm and wet hit his face.  Denethor was weeping.

"Pride and despair," the old man whispered.

Faramir winced at the words.

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After clearing away the uneaten supper, Éowyn dried her tears and hastened towards their bedroom.  As she approached the door, however, it suddenly opened, and the ghostly pale face of her husband emerged from the shadows.  Éowyn gasped in surprise and leapt back.

"You frightened me, my lord!" she cried when she recognized Faramir's face.  "I thought you would be asleep by now."

He seemed not to see her, though she was directly in front of him.  Calmly, Faramir passed her and continued slowly down the hallway.

"Faramir?" she asked in concern.  "Are you all right?"

He did not answer.

Somehow Éowyn immediately knew that something was deeply wrong.  She followed him into the darkness, the lone candle she held in her hand the only light.  "Why do you not speak?" she persisted, following closely at his heels.  "Are you ill?"

No response.

"Faramir?"

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Still caught in the nightmare, unaware that he roamed the halls of his house, Faramir believed he was still upon the pyre in the Houses of the Steward.  He tried to speak, but only a small moan escaped his lips.  Something glowed like fire beside his prone body, and he saw that the palantir was upon the pyre as well.

"My jewel," his father said, hands still upon Faramir's face, "touched by shadow, fire, and death.  These things will come back to claim you if you remain here.  Why do you not rise?"

The smell of sulfur pierced the air and mingled with the oil.  Somewhere a fire was burning.  Above them, the great dome of the Houses of the Steward cracked.  Smoke and flame curled upwards toward the sky.  Faramir strained to sit up, but he found he could not move.  Insistent hands shook his shoulders and gripped his face urgently.  "You must rise.  Do you not understand?"

Faramir felt the rising heat in the room and began to panic.  The cracked dome was on the brink of collapsing upon them both.  'Where is Mithrandir?' he wondered desperately.  'This is not how it is supposed to happen…'

"Wake up, Faramir!" Denethor pleaded, his voice suddenly becoming high and thin.  "You must wake up!"

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"Stop it!" Éowyn was screaming.  "Please, Faramir!"

His clouded gray eyes blinked in confusion when he woke.  As Faramir regained his senses and emerged from the nightmare, he felt for the first time the small fists pounding mercilessly upon his chest.  Completely disoriented, he gazed in panicked confusion into the tear-stained face of his wife.

"What are you doing?!" she screamed with anger and fear he did not understand.  "Put it down!"

Suddenly, he noticed that his skin felt somewhat sticky and wet.  Looking down, he realized in horror that he was drenched in oil.  A shallow basin lay empty at his feet.  In his hand, he held a torch.  Éowyn was desperately trying to pry it away.  Gasping in terror, Faramir dropped it onto the stone floor.

"What-?  How-?" he stammered, recoiling away in alarm.

"Oh, God…" Éowyn cried.  "You didn't even know what you were doing, did you?"  Throwing herself into Faramir's arms, she burst into fresh tears.

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To be concluded.

Yes, I know that technically Éowyn probably wouldn't say "God"—perhaps Eru or Iluvatar—I've used the more generic title (oh, that sounds horrible! I don't mean it as such!) for a diety since I figure the concept of "God" is part of Middle Earth.

One more chapter to go!  Please, please, please review!

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