The soft sound of a bird and the sweet smell of a new spring rose
penetrated the hazy confusion that surrounded Faramir's mind. His
confusion was deep, for a moment he did not even know who he was. Then it
all began to come back to him, he remembered his father hunched over a desk
reading the last letter that his brother Boromir had ever written. In his
grief over Boromir's death Faramir had tried to reach out and be comforted
by his father. Yet he had not received comfort that day, instead the harsh
knowledge that he was not the beloved son was made even clearer to him. For
it was on that fateful day that his father said the words that had remained
unspoken for so long. Faramir finally realized that there would never be
any hope for a better relationship with his father for the bitter truth was
that Denethor wished that Boromir had lived and Faramir had died in his
stead. As the memory came back to him a tear escaped from his closed
eyelids and slid slowly down his cheek. Faramir cried silently until his
tears finally carried him into the peaceful oblivion of a dreamless sleep.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
The healers had never seen anything like this ever before. The girl had no visible wounds, yet was freezing to the touch and could not awaken from her frigid slumber. All of the wise ones had been consulted, and the decision was unanimous. There was nothing to be done for this poor woman. The black breath was upon her and it was merely a matter of time until she too was dead, like so many innocents who had fallen on the Pelennor Fields. They said that she had sacrificed herself nobly, for hadn't it been she who had wielded the sword that finally destroyed the witch king of Angmar. Hadn't it been she who had done what no living man could do. Still their rationalizations fell upon weak ears and even they were not convinced that she could not miraculously recover. The king certainly believed that she would live, for every day he would come and bathe her brow with a brew made from the ground up athelas plant. The brew did nothing to awaken her from her deep and frozen slumber. The only effect it had was to slightly ease her harsh and labored breaths. The healers had taken to avoiding the room that the dying Eowyn lay in, they could not stomach the harsh looks that King Elessar directed their way or the wracking sobs of Eowyn's brother Eomer. "For her" they said, "there was no hope."
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
He awoke again, this time in the dead of the night, the clear and pale moonlight floated in and rested on his pillow, and through the partially open window the stars twinkled like millions of diamonds in the dark navy blue sky. Faramir saw none of it. His eyes glazed, and saw only the memory of the doomed siege on Osgiliath. He had ridden out with banners and trumpets. He was determined to regain the river and prove to his father that he had worth. Instead of riding back in victory he had watched as his friends were slaughtered by the orcs. Faramir had stayed and fought until the end, like a true warrior of Gondor he had not given into his fear. He had been the last man to fall, and even in the face of defeat he had stood proud and tall. It was not until the arrow shot by the witch king himself penetrated his armor that he was wounded. Even as the poison of the witch king's dart seeped through his blood Faramir fought to get back to his father and his home. He was seized by the memory of the death and horror, and his screams echoed through the silent halls. Finally his own private torture ceased and Faramir fell back into a deep sleep, only this time he dreamed.
He dreamed of an angel. She had long golden curls that swirled about her face and caught the light. She was leaning over him and whispering something. He strained to hear the sweet tones of her voice but he couldn't. All he heard was the screams of his friends as they begged for the sweet release of death. She reached to touch his face and suddenly her hand turned into the leathered clawed fist of an orc. She leaned to kiss his brow and all that Faramir could see was the fanged and rotting mouth of an orc, coming towards his face. He gasped and the dream disappeared, leaving him to rest in peace.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
The healers scurried like rats from one room to another. There had been a fire in one of the only remaining sections of the city and most of the people trapped in there were severely burned. The healers needed every spare bed that they could get, so they made the decision to move Eowyn into the Steward's room. Since there was only one bed, the head healer tucked Eowyn in next to Faramir and left. The only sound in the quiet room was the harsh and labored breathing of Eowyn. Faramir slept peacefully as Eowyn struggled to draw each new breath.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
Faramir awoke as the sun rose, the pale golden light of morning seeped through the open window and soaked into the white blankets covering the bed. For the first time since he had been dragged into the streets of Gondor, Faramir was free of the memory of what had been done to his friends. He turned lightly on his side and stared at the beautiful vision lying next to him. He reached out a trembling hand and laid his fingers over Eowyn's lips. Eowyn's ragged breaths quieted and for the first time she drew a deep, long breath. Faramir's face was as still as stone as two tears slipped out of the corners of his eyes and rolled silently down his cheeks. The woman lying next to him was the angel that he had seen in his dream.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
The healers had never seen anything like this ever before. The girl had no visible wounds, yet was freezing to the touch and could not awaken from her frigid slumber. All of the wise ones had been consulted, and the decision was unanimous. There was nothing to be done for this poor woman. The black breath was upon her and it was merely a matter of time until she too was dead, like so many innocents who had fallen on the Pelennor Fields. They said that she had sacrificed herself nobly, for hadn't it been she who had wielded the sword that finally destroyed the witch king of Angmar. Hadn't it been she who had done what no living man could do. Still their rationalizations fell upon weak ears and even they were not convinced that she could not miraculously recover. The king certainly believed that she would live, for every day he would come and bathe her brow with a brew made from the ground up athelas plant. The brew did nothing to awaken her from her deep and frozen slumber. The only effect it had was to slightly ease her harsh and labored breaths. The healers had taken to avoiding the room that the dying Eowyn lay in, they could not stomach the harsh looks that King Elessar directed their way or the wracking sobs of Eowyn's brother Eomer. "For her" they said, "there was no hope."
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
He awoke again, this time in the dead of the night, the clear and pale moonlight floated in and rested on his pillow, and through the partially open window the stars twinkled like millions of diamonds in the dark navy blue sky. Faramir saw none of it. His eyes glazed, and saw only the memory of the doomed siege on Osgiliath. He had ridden out with banners and trumpets. He was determined to regain the river and prove to his father that he had worth. Instead of riding back in victory he had watched as his friends were slaughtered by the orcs. Faramir had stayed and fought until the end, like a true warrior of Gondor he had not given into his fear. He had been the last man to fall, and even in the face of defeat he had stood proud and tall. It was not until the arrow shot by the witch king himself penetrated his armor that he was wounded. Even as the poison of the witch king's dart seeped through his blood Faramir fought to get back to his father and his home. He was seized by the memory of the death and horror, and his screams echoed through the silent halls. Finally his own private torture ceased and Faramir fell back into a deep sleep, only this time he dreamed.
He dreamed of an angel. She had long golden curls that swirled about her face and caught the light. She was leaning over him and whispering something. He strained to hear the sweet tones of her voice but he couldn't. All he heard was the screams of his friends as they begged for the sweet release of death. She reached to touch his face and suddenly her hand turned into the leathered clawed fist of an orc. She leaned to kiss his brow and all that Faramir could see was the fanged and rotting mouth of an orc, coming towards his face. He gasped and the dream disappeared, leaving him to rest in peace.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
The healers scurried like rats from one room to another. There had been a fire in one of the only remaining sections of the city and most of the people trapped in there were severely burned. The healers needed every spare bed that they could get, so they made the decision to move Eowyn into the Steward's room. Since there was only one bed, the head healer tucked Eowyn in next to Faramir and left. The only sound in the quiet room was the harsh and labored breathing of Eowyn. Faramir slept peacefully as Eowyn struggled to draw each new breath.
♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦
Faramir awoke as the sun rose, the pale golden light of morning seeped through the open window and soaked into the white blankets covering the bed. For the first time since he had been dragged into the streets of Gondor, Faramir was free of the memory of what had been done to his friends. He turned lightly on his side and stared at the beautiful vision lying next to him. He reached out a trembling hand and laid his fingers over Eowyn's lips. Eowyn's ragged breaths quieted and for the first time she drew a deep, long breath. Faramir's face was as still as stone as two tears slipped out of the corners of his eyes and rolled silently down his cheeks. The woman lying next to him was the angel that he had seen in his dream.