DISCLAIMER: All things LOTR belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm just attempting to wax lyrical with them.

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed this so far.

Dimfuin and quillon - You guys are crying?? Your reviews are making me go all misty-eyed! I'm so amazed at your response to this story – Thank you so much.

I've got to warn you that after this update it might be a week or so till the next one – Faramir was driving me insane the other night (spurred on by kind reviews) so this is why this chapter has followed the last one so quickly.

Morithil.

VII

"And so, admitted through black swollen gates

That must arrest all distance otherwise, -

Past whirling pillars and lithe pediments,

Light wrestling there incessantly with light,

Star kissing star through wave on wave unto

Your body rocking!

and where death, if shed,

Presumes no carnage, but this single change, -

Upon the steep floor flung from dawn to dawn

The silken skilled transmemberment of song;

Permit me voyage, love, into your hands..."

Hart Crane, Voyages (III)

The wind whipped briskly on the higher rolls of the slopes, and looking down from the earthy ascent of the scrub-covered hill this force blows my hair into my eyes.

I am at Minas Tirith again, and in the grey light of this cold morning the tower of Ecthelion glimmers subtly with muted shades. Even through the blizzard of my hair brushing my eyes I could see her, the White City, resplendent even in these days when war is a way of life. My heart has grown heavy within me, as I know today is but a brief respite from the continuing battle we fight on the borders of our land.

My brother rides up the hill, his weighty cloak rippling from the high winds, and even now, as we are both men now roughened by years of war and the strain of combat, my admiration for him is undimmed. He runs a gloved hand through his windswept locks as he joins me.

We stand together in silence for a while, looking intently at our home and straightening our backs against the now aggressive winds.

"She is as beautiful as ever, defiant and shining even in these unfortunate days"

"Well said, brother"

Boromir looked a little pleased at my approval of his newfound eloquence. A grin flashed across his face as I smiled at him. From time to time my brother would surprise me with these concise and thoughtful truths, as I, and many others, were more familiar with his rough cursing and straightforward manner of speech than his little revealed expressivity. Today his face is a little preoccupied, his expression a little dark, and the lighter strands of his hair cannot hide the ill-concealed discomfort he feels. I nod at the expanse before us.

"One day all this will be yours to govern"

My brother's jaw became taught. Through the shrill winds I could have sworn I heard him grit his teeth. He turned to me.

"Today all this is ours, to defend with our lives -" he returned, an affectionate smile beginning to hover around his mouth.

" - Though you'll forgive me entering the fray before you, little brother, as I would have to ensure your safety first before allowing you to follow me"

I love the joking banter we often lapse into.

"Allow me?" I counter, mock-offended, "And what, pray tell, prevents me from reaching this fray before you?"

"My arm, little brother, around your neck, like this-" and Boromir, catching me off-guard, has leant over in his saddle and encased me in a fearsome headlock, nearly pulling out of my own saddle in doing so. As when we were children, all I can do is tug uselessly at his forearms or cuff wildly at his head. Either way, we both collapse in laughter.

When our moment of merriment ceased we both turned back to Minas Tirith in comfortable silence.

"When you are Steward - "

"I do not wish to be Steward, Faramir", my brother sighed, a sound that contained more weariness than I was sure I liked. That, coupled with his use of my name, made any potential affectionate jibe still in my throat.

"I wish to remain as I am, now. I wish for us to remain Captains, though," and here his proud face became troubled, "that is not to say I wish for these days of war to continue, only for us to stay as we are now"

I swallowed the stinging harbinger of tears that grew in my mouth.

"One day-"

"One day we shall see the glory of Gondor restored, little brother"

The wind howled over the sharp edges of the mountains, a mournful song in the cold air. I shivered, pulling my warm cloak about me to combat the icy temperatures. I looked at my brother, sitting tall in the saddle, his gloved hands holding the reins loosely but with effortless control, his profile held upright in defiance of the winds, a trace of sadness in his eyes. His presence puts words in my mouth.

"Would we could stay like this forever"

"Well said, little brother"

I woke up heated, but strangely cold. The blankets around me fell into disarray as I sat up groggily, wiping my eyes free from the drowsiness of sleep. No sooner had I done so but I fell back onto the blankets once more, the harsh reality of day bringing back the lucidity of last night.

I could not stop myself last night. Eowyn before me, behind me, surrounding me with her bright hair and her persuasive touch, her lingering kisses still tangible, if only to me, on my face and neck, her soft mouth beneath mine driving me on, pulling me in deeper - her touch is a keen double-edged blade. It heals while it burns. I could barely refrain from begging for more.

What little strength of will I had left to resist her led me out into the night and into solitude again, unfulfilled and cursing myself for using her so. She is my wife, and last night I nearly allowed myself to forget my grief in her white arms, lose myself in selfish love at the cost of her own needs. Never again. I must fight this, though I do not know how to begin. When I recovered from the returning slap of shame that followed the remembrance of last night, I looked to find the space beside me empty and cold, as if it was she who spent the rest of the night pacing outside, only returning to our tent in the first hours of the morning when the other lay sleeping.

"Eowyn?" I asked the morning silence tentatively. No reply soothed my mind. I sat up again.

"Eowyn", a little strained this time, panic showing in my voice.

I stood up hurriedly and staggered out into the day. The ashes of the campfire lay grey and dull, scattered here and there a little by the slight breeze. I spun, terrified on my heel, encompassing our campsite, and did not find her there.

Terror struck me, and I strode this way and that, round our tent again, into the copse that partly sheltered us.

Nothing.

Hardly a sound but the sigh of the wind in the trees.

I stumbled out from the bushes and, still in the grip of that heady mixture of drowsiness and fear, ventured down the slope, staggering slightly as my booted feet adjusted to the uneven descent.

Now I progress down the hill, every breath growing ragged in my lungs with every step that does not lead me to her. Oh Gods, what have I induced her to do? Her horse is still tied beside mine, but she is not to be found. Surely she did not venture out into the wilderness alone after I returned to our tent? Surely she would take her steed to -

To flee from my coldness and my selfishness. And what man would blame her? Fair, brave and wonderful woman she is, to remain with her aloof dotard of a husband? Who would blame her? I sink to my knees in the grass, damp with the remnants of the morning's dew.

It is only the unmistakeable swing of a blade through the air that stirs me now from these grievous thoughts. That sharp, but heavy whistling sound as a sword slices downwards.

Eowyn. What has happened, is she -

I stand up again, and awkwardly make towards the sound, which travels up from the bottom of the slope, away and to the left of me. I fear attack, I fear my wife is left alone to defend herself, I fear all manner of dark things. What greets me there stops me dead in my tracks.

She swings at nothingness, her sword slashing out at the thin air, her hands expertly turning and rotating the blade as she strikes, first to the right, then she spins, turning on her slim booted feet, her hair flying wild around her, and I behold my wife for what she is in battle, ferocious, graceful and undoubtedly my equal if not my better in swordsmanship. Her feet step out confidently as she changes her arm positions to deflect and parry with this invisible foe, and it is only when she cries out as she swings downwards with a blow of terrifying strength for one so beautiful that I see the fresh tears stain her white face.

Her cries of frustration increase, emerging with every new blow, until she finally sinks her blade into the unlucky carcass of the dead tree near her, sheathing the sword up to the hilt in the decayed wood. The dry sound of the stab has a sickening resonance.

What have you done, Faramir.

My wife turns to me, and looks me quickly up and down as if she has been aware of my presence all along. The tears shine along her proud face. My tongue cleaves to my mouth. I can see the frustration in her eyes but that is not what silences me. It is the sharpness of the love in them that bores into me, the knowledge that her love for me is driving her to this. She finally speaks, and afterwards her words ring like alarm bells in my ears for hours to come.

" Your silence tells me nothing of this enemy. I must fight the shadows for both of us the only way I know how"

The woman I adore withdraws her sword violently from the bark and sheaths it, avoiding my eyes as she stalks back up the hill. She is hurt by my surrender to this melancholy. She seeks to fight it herself if I cannot.

Oh, Eowyn. If only I knew how to fight it, I would. If only these dreams would cease to torment me. If only the past would loosen its grip.

Would that we could spend our nights in love, and not desperation.