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Morithil.

III

"Time, bring back the rapturous ignorance of long ago,

The peace, before the dreadful daylight starts,

Of unkept promises and broken hearts".

John Betjeman, Norfolk.

He was so real I could not help crying out, shooting bolt upright, out of sleep and confronting the apparition in the entrance of our tent.

My brother stood there, as bold and vivid as he was in life, his grin so broad it would have cut me less had he drawn his sword and smote me with it. These dreams will haunt me forever, I fear. It is not of our father that I dream, though fire and madness consumed him before my very eyes. It is of my brother, whose death I did not witness, who appears every night, tall and laughing his own husky laugh, emerging from behind his knowing grin. Sometimes we are in Osgiliath again, and we embrace, shoulder-to-shoulder, full of the relief and celebration that accompanied our victory against the enemy.

In my dreams my brother is always smiling.

Except, of course, in one particular dream, where he is still, silent, and lies in a barge drawn gently along by the soothing currents, as if they know the great heart of the warrior they carry, as if they know the great deeds of his life.

My brother, the hero.

Eowyn was worried, of course. She sat up amid the blankets and placed a smooth hand on my shoulder as I gasped for breath, staring at the space where my brother had stood not moments before. Concern was etched all over her lovely face, her hair loose about her pale shoulders.

"My lord?"

The tenderness in her voice began to calm the chaos in my brain.

"Faramir"

I love how she says my name. I had turned then, and looked at her, grateful that she was there to sooth my mind but regretting that my dreams should be the cause of the worry in her eyes. She took my shaking hands in hers and held them tightly, leaning in to rest her head against my neck. Her touch is remarkable, so gentle, and yet so firm. Something secure for me to hold on to. I cannot share these dreams with her. I would not have her think her husband a weakling, who screams like a child whenever he has bad dreams. I would not shame her, fearless warrior that she is.

"Faramir, what is wrong?"

I had swallowed, pushing down the swell in my throat.

"Nothing. Just a dream"

She pulled back then, and I feared I had offended her with my dismissal. Then, to my surprise, she threw off the blankets and wiped a hand across my brow, which, to my dismay, was damp with cold sweat.

"It is more than just a dream, Faramir"

There was silence between us for a while. I wished I could tell her, but told myself that this was something I had to deal with alone. I would not trouble her with such fickle, intangible things as dreams. Even if they do recur, and have done ever since-

I forget when they started, but I am sure they foretold my brother's death, even before that unforgettable dream, the only one in which I saw him - dead. After that, he is alive, boisterous and joking as I remember him, so real I could reach out and clap a brotherly hand around his back, only for him to laugh and ruffle my hair with a callused hand as he did when we were children.

Something clutches at my tunic, over my heart. It is her hand. Slowly, she pulls me down to lie next to her, and I cannot but do her bidding. A white arm brushes my shoulder as she draws me in close, the pale skin of her throat gleaming as I brush a faint kiss on it. My arms no longer listen to me, and wind around her. We lie, facing each other in the quiet of the dawn.

I cannot utter the simple, "Thank you", revolving in my mind, and can only sigh into her hair. There are no words for the peace she brings to me. I pray these dreams cease tormenting me so that I may enjoy more such moments as this without the prelude of pain and unshed grief.

I can but hope.

"Will you not speak of it to me?" she whispers.

My heart aches. She is so selfless.

"I would not worry you with petty issues".

"They are not petty when they concern you", she returns. I have no answer for this.

"Faramir, you can tell me. Whatever troubles you, I will do what little I can to help"

Gods, I have made my wife plead for me to talk to her. What have I done? I should have said nothing.

"I can wait".

She pressed a kiss on my fevered brow and nestled her head on my chest. What have I done to deserve her?

Moments pass. Her breathing grows steady and relaxed.

"Thank you", I whisper haltingly, but she is already asleep.