Why do I have the feeling that there are a great number of spelling mistakes in this part that I just don't find no matter how often I reread it? Writing it just went to smoothly...


@Alaize: Wow, that is a compliment! I confess that every time I try to write a chapter I start by reading some english novel for an hour or so... just to get into the flow (and by the way – I had to look up the word 'thaw' in a dictionary, didn't know it ;) )


@PictureGirl: Now I do feel flattered, since I think there are quite some better stories around but thanx anyway


@everyone else: Thanx really for reviewing...I hope you enjoy the next chapter



Have fun

Spirit



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In every fear there is peace

In every storm sleeps a crystal...




How long since they have been gone?


His eyes scanned the horizon, knowing it was in vain. The king and his army were long gone, far beyound the sight of even the White Tower of Gondor, whose proud glitter surely had bidden them a final farewell before the shimmering tip had vanished behind them.


How long since the last march of Gondor began?


He began to stride in the morning sun, ten steps to the next barrier on the wall, twenty to the other side. Thirty paces marking the corners of his world.


Will we know, when you fall, Elessar?

They must have passed Osgiliath by now... must have crossed the Anduin.


His thoughts treaded the paths he knew so well, paths, that had been his life and his destiny for so long. The path through Ithilien, the Crossroads. He wondered briefly, if they had yet passed Morgul Vale... whether the place, that surely had been the doom of two small hobbits would also put an end to the desperate quest of the King Elessar.

Ten steps to the end of the wall.

He stopped and took a deep breath. For a brief moment he wondered, what it would be like, when the end finally came. Whether it would all end in fire, in destruction and flame, foreboding the age of Mordor, that would reign upon Middle-Earth, or whether everything would just... stop.

He hoped to face the end steadily, he had said, and so he hoped indeed, but still, every hour he spent in the false peace of the gardens of the Houses of Healing made him fear the end more.


Will you grant me a quick death? Or will I be doomed to live, as I have been, will I be doomed to see how everything around me dies...?


"My lord Faramir?"

He froze, torn out of his thoughts and welcoming the disturbing voice more than he would have anything else. For a moment, he closed his eyes, grateful that she was there, grateful she had kept to her words. The blackened fear wrenching his heart turned a paler shade of grey, as the smallest of smiles touched his lips.

"Lady..."

He turned around to see her. Eowyn stood in the pale spring sun, her hair unbraided, toy to the wind that ever blew up here on the walls. The threatening darkness had already captured her gaze, as she was staring out to the East, to Mordor. Carefully, he stepped to her side, hoping not to shy her away, but if she even noticed, she gave no hint of it. In silence they stood for long, neither of them being able to ignore the clouds, but both of them feeling, that even though they had been left behind, this was the only way they could be facing equal darkness as those, whom they cared for. Standing on the walls of the White City, the Steward of Gondor and the Lady of Rohan would not yield to Mordor, not until their last breath was utterly spent.

"Let us go back to the gardens."

Her voice breaking the unsteady silence between them would almost have made him flinch, but there was no harshness in her words, only a notion of fatigue, as if standig up here had spent what strength the lady had left. He nodded, automatically in a polite gesture offering her to step before him, and she did, her walk hardly causing any noise on the withered stairs. He followed at a calmer pace, only to find her sitting on the lawn, when he finally reached the bottom.

This part of the gardens was secluded, awayt from the carefully tended lawns and bushes, a little hint of something wild, something pure. He doubted that anybody came here often. The way was a dead end, leading only to the stairs, to the wall. And few people mustered up the courage to stand on the wall these days.

She looked up to him, waiting for him to join her in the grass, her white skirts scattered about her like the waves of a bright pool. Faramir felt himself reminded of spring, the first day of spring after an endless winter, and yet, the pale blossom of snow still so present in her every breath.

He sat next to her, even less at ease than she was, and silence fell again over their heads, but it was a silence he did not regret. Her hands moved restlessly, tucking at her skirts, impatiently wiping away strands of glorious gold, fingers playing along one another, as of in great unrest.

"Would you tell me about Rohan?"

Carefully, Faramir uttered the question, softly, even hesitating. He was unsure of whether the thought of her home would soothe or unrest her, and how she would react on his boldness. She stayed silent for a while, her gaze dropping to her hands idly tucking at a tiny twig, and when she spoke, once more it seemed all of a sudden. Her words came hesitating, as if she did not really know where to start, or what kind of tale he expected of her. In a moment of almost sarcastic clairvoyance, he realized, that he did not know either. But with every word of her tale, he knew all too well, why he had been asking. Her voice, clear and cool, at times stern as the shieldmaiden from the north, at times soft, almost halting as a flower not daring to bloom, cut through the thickets of his fears and worries, as a ray of sunlight piercing the dark.

He rested his back against a trunk and closed his eyes, letting her voice consume him whole, as he conjured the places she spoke of... the endless plains of the horselords' land, Edoras, rested on a hilltop, like the Rohirrim, proud and free, Meduseld, pride of her people, home for so long. She was not very skilled at telling tales, but there was a simple earnest tone in her voice that reached him more deeply than maybe a bard would have. In these days, the feeling of reality was precious, when the end of all things lingered over the town like a predator waiting, and real she was, and real was every word of her tale.

Her voice faded away, as her tale drew to the late masters of the Golden Hall, and he did not press the matter, knowing and feeling the hurt in her tone. Instead he smiled, whistfully, as he opened his eyes.

"I would very much like to behold your land myself one day, my Lady."

She made a small tone of disgust, as she turned away her head.

"It has been long since your folk came to the Mark, my Lord. Is it not true that Gondor deems the Rohirrim of lesser worth than themselves, for the blood of Numenor does not run in our veins as it does in yours?"

He let his head drop. She was right - to some extent, and many in this city would agree. But Faramir had never cared much for the stupidity of self-chosen isolation, and this one time, he was not willing to take the blame for something, that did not happen by his bidding.

"No it is not", he answered, his voice still soft but the tone firm nonetheless. "None that saw the Rohirrim ride onto the Pelennor could think such a thing."

"As far as I am told, you did not see the Riders arriving." Like an arrow, her words struck, for one, dreadful moment reminding him of countless other arguments, each of which hat left him hurting and defeated. Denethor had been especially apt of turning his own words against him, of shattering his dreams so aptly with the weapons Faramir himself unwillingly handed him. He was at loss of what to say for the moment, und so he just held the gaze of the steel-blue eyes of the Lady of Rohan, knowing not, what else to do.

She looked at him sternly, a slight frown entering her features before she relieved him of her gaze, looking back to her hands in her lap. A sad smile began to touch her face, as she momentarily closed her eyes, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

"I am sorry, my Lord. I am being injust."

He felt the same smile touching his lips, relief flooding him like the tide as the ghost of Denethor passed away. He was not sure whether he would be able to find words for what she had done, for the hurt, and for the reliese, like an absolution Denethor had never given him... but she could.

"Let us not dwell on that", he answered softly, glad that his voice did not betray how much she had shaken him. She nodded, slowly only, the faintest hint of color rising to her white cheeks. For a moment, silence enwrapped them once more and this time, they did not even notice for a long time. Once more it was Eowyn, whose clear voice broke it, causing a bird, that had dared to move close to her white gowns to examine the strange color, to flutter up and away, chirping angrily at the disturber. She smiled at the sound, even as she still spoke, as a flower bravely breaching the last snow of the winter.

"Tell me about Gondor."

He looked at her, lightningstruck. It was not often, that his opinion was called, even less, that his opinion was wanted, and he had not really counted on her asking him about his homeland she obviously did not care for very much.

"My Lady?" The words were out before he could hinder them. She turned around, the remnants of her smile still on her lips, as she raised her brows to eye him wonderingly.

"Well, my Lord Stewart, as far as I can recall, I have spoken at length about my homeland to you. Forgive me if I am mistaken, for I lack the courtesy of your folk, but would it not be appropriate for you to return this favor?"

It took an instant or two for him to realize that she was teasing him. Still hidden beneath the sharp sting of her words was a hint of humor, and she had cared to show it to him. Involuntarily, a smile touched his lips, the first, open, earnest smile he had dared in what felt to be years. A soft echo of it even lighted Eowyns face, as he began to do what she had asked of him, telling her of the proud city of Minas Tirith, of the lands around, of Osgiliath, the city of music and poetry, these arts being so close to his heart. He told her of Ithilien, of the incredible, warm, flowering lands that, even though being the border to Mordor, had never lost her beauty. He told her about the strength that lay in this beauty, that the lands had never withered under the towering shadow, and he managed not to tell her that in this, Ithilien reminded him of her. Her gaze was ever on him, earnest, cool and blue, never wavering and never betraying what she thought of his tale. He continued nevertheless, letting the memories of his land consume him, as he told her of the marvels of Gondor.

"You do love this land", Eowyn said softly when at last, he fell silent. A weary smile passed his lips as he nodded. "Listening to you..." Her voice was careful, even soft, the wind daring to tear away the sound before he had the chance to hear it. ".. some, I deem, would learn to love it too."

He was at loss for words, breaking eye contact the moment she had uttered her sentence. How often had he heared, that he lacked the devotion this land needed... the fierce, rough devotion his brother always showed.

He was not used to somebody understanding that his devotion was of a different type.

And in the silence that fell, it was the smile that he could not help showing, that unsettled him most....