Yes, yes, I know...

I have taken my sweet time to produce an update and I confess that I have been having trouble writing this chapter. Somehow I found that writing some story around Tolkien dialogue is by no means as easy as it sounds, at least as far as I am concerned.

However, now I produced a version that at least I think is not complete rubbish, so I hope you will find it worth the waiting...

@LadyLeBeau

Well took some time there, I hope you like it nonetheless

@Earendil5

I was surprised that I find Eowyn easier to understand than Faramir, as a matter of fact I would have thought it would be easier the other way round – well these are the things one realizes writing ;)

@everyone else

Thanx for reviewing... of course I love any reviews I might get ;) So keep up even if you have something to criticize.. otherwise I cannot do better next time!

But now, enough of my chatter – enjoy the next part...

Spirit

The sun is gone

Eowyn, shieldmaiden of Rohan stood amidst the flowers of spring in the garden of the Houses of Healing, looking around and feeling the chill

The sun is gone... for good?

A shiver ran through her, shook her violently as she wrapped her arms around her chest in a search of warmth that seemed to elude her the moment that she looked for it. The last days had carried in them a notion of a last goodbye, a final glory before the end, and as she looked up to the grey skies, it felt as though the end had already come. It was early still, the cool morning breeze gliding through her gown as if there was nothing to hinder it, while somewhere, behind the endless clouds of Mordor, a sun was bravely rising.

If it was rising still...

She had gotten up early as she always had, not even in illness denying her old habits.

The morning sun in Rohan was full of glory, while mornings in Gondor seemed to hold nothing but woe.

She resumed her stride that she had halted for reasons she could not name. It was vain to try and find ease for her concerns somewhere in these gardens, as impatience and the cold drawing near to speak of the end seemed to be everywhere, overwhelmingly so. The silence of her own thoughts enfolded her as the hoofbeats receded, leaving her alone, bare and naked when even the last glitter of hope was gone.

It feels like losing myself...

She closed her eyes, if only for a moment. With time crawling by as some turtle trying to cross an endless, grassy plain, darkness had begun to gnaw on her, ever shaking her resolve. The urge of the first days of imprisonement was gone, the urge to run and race, the urge to feel the wind and listen to the sound of the ever-present hoofbeats, to join the wild ride of the Rohirrim, and if it were to the destruction of them all.

The wind toying with her soul had receded to what could only be called the softest of breezes, barely noticable against the gaping silence that was the hoofbeats having left the maiden of Rohan.

We are the horse-lords, and riding is like living

A dogma of childhood, broken in the last days of the world, as the maiden of the Golden Hall was lost in the shadow of a stone city.

And so it is I am truly dead...

She wondered if going up to the wall to watch the plains that people here called the Pelennor fields and – beyound them – the shadow of Mordor would ease her heart but she decided against it. The pain soothed the part of her that was the rider, the part of her that longed for freedom..

But the pale bird now striding the gardens had almost given in to its prison.

She wondered, half-absently where Faramir was. He was never out as early as she had been, but it would be almost time for him to appear, to speak to her.

She would not admit that maybe he would be able to do what standing on the walls of Gondor could not, because this would leave her with the question why he was able to do so. And this was a question she felt not fit to answer.

They had spent the last days in comfortable companionship, neither intruding on the other more than allowed, and the beginning hostility had transformed to something that might be called if not friendship, then common sympathy of two souls in the same peril. It was true that talking kept the demons away, her own as well as his, if his expression when talking to her was anything to judge by.

She was honest enough to hope for him to come soon, while the cold wind running through her made her shiver. She was used to the cold, Gondor was much warmer in climate than Edoras had been, but the gowns that she had been given here were thin, fit for a lady of the court of Minas Tirith, and not for a maiden used to the sword. She could not help admiring the fine, delicate fabric of the white robe she wore, but still she longed for her finespun wool that would be better to keep the cold away.

My lady?

She froze, her arms, wrapped around herself for the benefit of keeping warm, came down to her sides and she straightened her back before turning around. She had recognized the voice at once as the one she had been, admittedly or not, waiting for, but she was not so much at ease to show him she was glad about his arrival. And so she only recognized his presence when seeing him, standing at some paces from her, eyeing her with the calm respect he always showed, an expression almost never waving, as he carefully produced a smile.

My lord Faramir, she replied, softly bowing her head to him in recognition. It is good to see you. She kept her voice formal and courteous, not to show that she really meant what she was saying beyound the demands of court. He nodded, his eyes softening ever so trifly beneath her words. I shall surely say the same, my lady.

He took some steps towards her, hesitantly, as if unsure what to do. There was a bundle of blue fabric hanging over his right arm, he held it with some care, even though he seemed to have forgotten it for the moment. Eowyn shivered as another blow of the cold northern wind caressed her with his icy breath, despite herself wrapping her arms around her chest in search for warmth.

Lady, you are cold., Faramir softly stated the obvious.

I am fine. Pride forbid her to be honest, to admit to the man of Gondor, of the people that the Rohirrim often called thin-blooded, not fit for the harsh weather of Rohan's endless plains, that the weather was also causing discomfort for her. A smile lightened Faramirs face, softly, carefully, knowing that he still treaded dangerous waters.

Nonetheless, I pray you wear this mantle, my lady, if not against the cold, then for a pleasure of mine...

Eowyn eyed him suspiciously as he held out the rich, blue fabric.It was difficult to tell, what he was up to, although the calm manner of his eyes betrayed nothing but the soft smile, that also touched her lips. Cold it was indeed, and she had not the heart to turn him away. She had done so frequently, and the hurt in his eyes had been plain to see. Even though she was not sure about how her relationship towards the Steward of Gondor could be called, she did not want to cause him pain.

I will, then, she said softly, reaching out her hand to take the mantle. Her fingers brushed his, as she took the cloak, and from the corner of her eye, she caught an almost startled expression on his face that vanished in a matter of a twinkle of an eye. It was only shortly after, that she realized that where he had touched her, the skin seemed to carry a strange warmth of its own.

Slowly, Eowyn unfolded the mantle, startled, as its glory became plain to see for her. It had the color of deem summernight and silver stars were set around hem and throat, glittering in the sunlight, that only meekly passed through the dark clouds that hung over the city like an enemy threatening. She briefly wondered at this gift, seemingly so glorious and kingly, turning around to Faramir as to enquire the reason for this. She caught his expression of wonder, a smile that seemed to fragile for the moment, like a fleeting expression on the wind.

Where did you get this from? she asked, intrigued. Quickly, he lowered his eyes to the ground as he so often did when talking to her, but what distance might have come between them by this gesture was mended by the tone of his voice.

It has been my mother's, once. She thought about declining the gift, as her breath seemed to be taken away at the magnitude of its significance. Faramir had scarcely spoken of his mother during their walks through the gardens, but whenever the topic had been touched, his adoration and love for her had hung in the air like an elven spell. She could by no menas understand how she had come to deserve such a gift – however, some part of her told her, that it would not be exactly wise to decline.

It was, strangely the same part, that felt honored and, stranger still, glad.

I do not know what I can say to thank you she said, instead, allowing a careful smile to touch her lips. Faramir lifted his gaze to look at her.

Just wear it, if you please, my lady. This will be... more than enough.

Hesitantly, Eowyn complied, and as the cloak softly decended upon her shoulders, a warmth almost settled immediately, driving the chill out of her bones. It truly was a wonderful garment, heavy and warm, keeping out even the wind. Following an urge she did not understand, she softly bowed to Faramir, an unspoken thanks that was rewarded with a genuine smile.

You are most welcome, Eowyn. Most welcome, indeed... He held out his hand to her, invitingly, daringly even. Will you walk with me to the walls of Gondor, my lady? Softly, Eowyn let her cool fingers settle on his, still warm from the shelter of the mantle they had been in until shortly and he led her up the stairs carefully until both of them came to rest as they had done so often, looking out over the endless plains beneath them.

Silence settled between them, a silence not uncomfortable for the company but for the coat of threat, that seemed to settle upon them as they stood there. Eowyn shivered, even under the starry mantle, catching Faramir's eye as he looked at her worriedly.

What do you look for, Eowyn, he asked, knowing that the question was vain but having to hear it anyway.

She knew he was asking not out of curiosity but for the need to hear himself speak, to hear her speak, to have their voices add fabric to the reality that was trying to tumble apart around them. She inwardly thanked him for doing what she had not archieved. Nonetheless his question brought her gaze back to the plains again, softly musing.

Does not the Black Gate lie yonder? she asked, still softly, as her thoughts travelled far away to this place of utter destruction and death, to where her brother was, her brother and... he. And must he not now be come thither? It is seven days since he rode away.

Faramir perfectly knew she was right. Knowing Ithilien like the back of his hand, he had marked their progress the best he could. And still... she was thinking of him.

Seven days... He nodded, steadying his voice with a nearly inhuman effort. He knew, hoping was as vain as talking, for what she did not want to see, no words of his could bring to the light – and the Valar knew he had tried, not only with her, but also with others. Fate had taught him, that some things could not be mended and such, he feared, was the affection of the White Lady for someone that was far from her grasp... as far as she was from his.

Everything was coming to an end...

And at the end of all things, nothing mattered any more. And thus he continued, still sorftly, still carefully, as he allowed himself the utter luxury of being honest.

But think not ill of me, if I say to you, they have brought me both a joy and a pain that I never thought to know. Joy to see you; but pain, because now the fear and doubt of this evil time are grown dark indeed. Eowyn, I would not have this world end now, or lose so soon what I have found.

He watched her face eagerly as the softest of frowns entered her feature. His words needed some time to thaw on her as they echoed around unspokenly between the two of them. She was not sure whether there was mockery in them, but the tone carried the illusion of real affection, an hand outstretched as she felt his gaze on her.

The far hint of horses hooves in her head reminded her of freedom, of the utter, the primordial instinct of a horse to run and flee, to face all evil and all fear with the endless thundering along the endless plains. Something in her felt the urge to give in, to spin around and flee, however, she did nothing of that sort, since the instincts of beasts are not made to rule men.

Lose what you have found, lord? she asked him, softly, feeling afraid, flattered and careful at the same time. I know not what in these days you have found that you could lose. Retreating, slowly, to safer, stabler grounds, she still could not bring herself to offend him, as she usually would have done to counter such a statement. The hurt in his eyes, as much as he tried to conceal it, could be more than she could bear. She could see herself in it. But come, my friend, let us not speak of it. Let us not speak at all! I stand upon some dreadful brink and it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me I cannot tell. For I cannot turn yet. I wait for some stroke of doom.

Briefly, Faramir closed his eyes, exactly knowing, what she was talking about. The air seemed to be ladden with danger and fear as if all living things held their breaths to wait for tidings from the east, where all hopes and fears lay, where their destruction was as real as the blood in their vains.

, he whispered, feeling how right she was. We wait for the stroke of doom...

And as they waited, silence fell once more as the air began to thicken, began to gain substance as the cold northern wind died down, leaving them bereft of all air, bereft of all thoughts bereft of everything, that would remind them, that they were still alive. The world was breathing no more, and neither was the sun, as its light failed to kiss the lands beneath her, lost somewhere in the air and the clouds as the world hung on the edge of falling forever.

There was nothing left in the endless sea of silence, nothing real that would remind them of how to breathe, how to speak, how to live, and the only thing that still felt true was the warmth of their fingers, entwined without them realizing it, holding on to each other as the only thing of substance in the world.

And then, the heart of the world began to beat again...

It reminds me of Numenor, Faramir whispered, despite himself, his voice nearly failing.

Of Numenor? So strange, so out of place his words had seemed and Eowyn found her voice to be somewhat unsteady, as she realized that she was shivering, from cold and toil and pain.

, Faramir whispered, as if the wounded air could not bear sounds any louder than this whisper lest it would simply fall apart. Of the land of Westernesse that foundered, and of the great dark wave climbing over the green lands and above the hills, and coming on, darkness unescapable. I often dream of it. So true, so fitting were his words that Eowyn found their meaning taking her heart in an icy grip. She tightened the hold of her fingers around his, clinging on to the only warmth around her, seeking it even more, as she took a step towards him, feeling the warmth of him enter her bones, drive away the cold.

So you think that Darkness is coming? she asked softly, as she felt his intake of breath against her back, wondering what had happened for her to end up standing like this. But for once,she did not care, too close the cold was still, and too tempting, much too tempting was the warmth of his steady strength. Darkness unescapable?

, Faramir said, ever so softly, as his eyes had taken on a soft expression, looking down on her as she carefully leaned against him, hardly touching and yet, almost closer than he could bear, much closer, than he had dared to hope. She half turned to look at him and neither found the strength to break the gaze as he continued, still feeling the utter surreality of the moment, being able to chase away all thoughts and fears for now, nothing, nothing mattered. It was but a picture in the mind. I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that great evil has befallen and we stand at the end of days. But my heart says nay, and all my limbs are light and a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny. Eowyn, Eowyn, White Lady of Rohan, in this hour, I do not believe that any darkness will endure. There was a soft trembling tone in his voice as it took on strength and intensity, his eyes still meeting hers, none of them being able to look away. She could have found the world in these eyes, in this moment alone, as she could see in there the hope and adoration that she had deemed to leave the world long ago. It came like a shock to her, the one moment of complete honesty that Faramir allowed her to see, the eager expression in his eyes that she had never seen before and would never forget. Suddenly she felt as though she knew why she was wearing Finduilas mantle.

He took a sharp breath, as if hurt or on the verge of something he tried to avoid as it was finally him, who broke the gaze by closing his eyes. The loss of his gaze was tangible, and while she still mourned it, not truly understanding what hat happened, she felt his lips grazing her brow ever so softly, more a reverence than a kiss and yet... she thought she could feel his hands softly trembling on her own.

As the walls of the world came down....

And as Mordor fell, as Middle-earth began to breathe again, as the great Eagles passed through the lands proudly bringing their tidings to all shores of the earth, they dared not to breathe, they dared not to speak, since everything of it would have destroyed the spell that whispered of a gift that could not be for them...