The sun was shining brightly, its warm light painting slightly moving spots onto the wooden office table, slowly moving with the swaying of the curtains in the soft wind, yet failing to remove the remnants of cold from the room. Faramir, leaning back in the chair, carved and wooden, not offering much comfort, since this was a working office, not a private chamber, closed his eyes and tried to shield himself off from memories coming unbidden.

Yet, the memory of where he was, as well as why he had come here, refused to leave his mind, like a soft whisper in the back of his head, never fully abandoning him. Uneasiness did not fade, not even in the brightest of sunbeams.

Rarely he had ever been admitted to these rooms before. Denethor preferred to hold council even with his sons in the great hall, under the eyes of the memory of stewarts and kings of old, as if to remind them of the burden and the promise, that put them in the place they were now. For like Faramir, Denethor had hardly ever done anything without a purpose to it.

So this had been the chamber of quiet reprimands. The chamber, where happened what was not for the court to see. He had never spent a tear inside these walls, but for a moment it seemed as if the pain was still present, hanging like a spell in the air.

He took a deep breath and braced himself before he opened his eyes. For a fleeting instance, he seemed to catch the sight of grey eyes, a smile, careful but brighter than the sun might ever be, and couldn't help wishing she was there with him, her strength helping him stand when he was falling.

It was only this morning that he had half been released, half declared himself fit to quit the Houses of Healing. The city was bustling with every turmoil thinkable as rumor of what had happened at the Black Gate of Mordor spread throughout the city as fire would through dry wood. Celebrations filled the city as people began to believe that the shadow that had covered the city for so long might have gone for good after all.

There was much to do, since where there were celebrations and drinks flowing freely, there always was trouble, and every man capable of wielding a sword had departed with the captains. Aragorn, or Elessar, as he should probably call him, would be back soon from the Black Gate, willing to take over the city from the hands of the stewart, and Faramir would not have the city in disorder when the king came, after the stewarts had for so long taken care of Minas Tirith and the realm of Gondor the best they could.

It was his sense of duty, that had brought him here, a duty he was raised to fulfill. If his heart would have its way he would never have returned to Denethor's study. In fact, if his heart would have its way, he would have stayed in the Houses... stayed with her.

She had not given the slightest indication that her wishes lay in the same direction, bidding him a courteous goodbye as he told her of his duties, of his obligation to return to the citadel. Her smile as she had watched him leaving had been polite as well, polite and made to pierce his heart, that still felt open to her after the moment of closeness they had shared standing on the walls of the city.

But it seemed that she remained a dream, nothing more, nothing less, like a ghost, touching his soul for the briefest of moments, promising a stray of hope but not fulfilling it, when his heart leaped at the possibility.

A soft sigh escaped his lips as he leaned forward, elbows placed on the writing table, his head buried in his hands. Stripped of everything the truth was that it was no use. Dreaming would not help him now, not as routine would.

And so Faramir opened the drawers of the writing table, calling for his father's secretary and beginning to dig himself through the paperwork his father had left.

-----

Breathe...

Breathe, and if it pains you more than you can bear....

She walked the gardens of the Houses of Healing, step by step, taking a breath with every footfall, walking without goal and without reason.

Just one more... always one more...

Never look at the whole way, think of the next step, the next step only...

She did not turn around because she knew there would be nothing to see. She did not know what she was waiting for, which was making it harder to go on walking, since any glitter of hope seemed to have left far beyound the horizon.

I cannot hear the horses any more...

For a fleeting instant she wondered at the mood she found herself in, because, not so long ago, it had seemed as if there had been a tomorrow. But she had lost that feeling she did not know when.

Yes...

Eowyn halted in her stride, even stopped breathing as if the pact had been true to keep breathing as long as she kept walking.

I know when I lost it...

It had been about the time Faramir had told her he would leave for the citadel. It had been the hour, where the fabric of reality had taken on another level of paining intensity, as she fully understood where she was, who she was... and who not.

She was the Lady of Rohan, shieldmaiden, sisterdaughter of the king... the late king of Rohan, sister to Eomer, new king of the Mark. She was cold, stern, harsh. She had been weighed, she had been measured, and found wanting despite her deed in slaying the witch-king.

For in Aragorns eyes, there still was nothing but kind pity.

For she was not allowed to ride with the captains.
For bitterness was her clothing and death her garment.

And what of Faramir?

She placed her hands against her temples, trying to shut out her thought.

He had left... left her alone to fall back to her own demons.

Where are you, friend? Can't you hear me calling?

Of course he could not. And she could not call, for proud shieldmaiden she was and proud shieldmaiden she would remain. She did not have the strength to abandon this, for if she would, she would be left with nothing. And so she would have to do without him, his support withering away as every other support in her life had. She had to rely on herself. She had done it before...

"Lady Eowyn?"

She turned around at the timid voice of a page boy, barely ten years old. His gondorian accent was heavy, more pronounced than even Faramirs, who had the tendency to overemphasize his pronounciation in the way the court seemed to approve, even though she had never gotten rid of the idea, that he tried to speak less courtly for her sake.

"Yes?"

Her temper was short, even though she tried not to make the pageboy feel it. Even the small reminder of Faramir made her feel pained.

"There is a rider asking for you." He seemed to be intimidated by her harsh behavior, and she did not feel like softening his impression.

"What does he want?"

"He... he has word of your brother, mylady. Eomer of Rohan asks you to join him on the field of Cormallen, for celebrations there are beginning."

She swung around to avoid even the boy's gaze and shook her head violently. Where Eomer was, Aragorn would be.

"Tell him I cannot."

"My lady..?"

She clenched her hands to fists, strong enough to hurt. Even the thought of going there, hearing the cheers, seeing the smile, answering the questions of her brother, seeing Aragorn in his triumph.

"Tell him, I will not." She almost snapped at him.

The boy nodded. Timidly only his voice came.

"I will."

She felt the tears stinging in her eyes as she heared him leave.

And so it is, I am now truly dead...