Chapter Six: Confession

"Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you may

have against one another. Forgive as the Lord forgave you."

-Colossians 3:13

I am not going to say that my nightmares ended after that night, for they did not. I still suffered from dreams dark and fearful (though none quite as bad as on the night my daughter found me). However, they became less and less frequent. Instead of every night they came perhaps three times a week, and then twice a week. After a while they were coming barely once a week. That sounds terrible, perhaps, but in reality it was not bad. I had six out of seven nights when I got a good rest.

Morwen slept with me at night a few more times, until I told her that she should go back to her bed. She was sad, I knew, but I made a solemn promise to her that if my nightmares should get extra bad again, I would rouse her. I am not quite sure I intended to keep that promise---I have never been known to break my word. But thankfully they never got that bad again, and I was able to keep my promise.

In short, my life seemed to be returning to acceptable. I could eat a healthy amount of food, and I was able to sleep soundly on most nights. Work consumed my time, and when I was not working, in Minis Tirith, or patrolling Ithilien, I spent time with my children.

The three of them got on remarkably well without their mother. True, they had a nurse, but nobody can ever, ever replace a mother. I tried to be there as often as I could for them. I made it a habit of mine to come to their rooms at nighttime, and watch them sleeping for a few minutes. Their rooms (Morwen in one, the boys in the other) faced each other across the hall, and oftentimes Sililian left the doors open so they could be nearer to each other. I came in now and then, tucking in a cover here, brushing a kiss on a soft cheek there, and smiling as I observed my little children. My heart protested these nightly watches, chastising me for being too sensitive. They can be taken from you in a snap, it would wheedle. Just like Éowyn. Do you wish your heart to be broken again? I would shake my head. I am training myself, I argued. If times of trial come again, I will be ready. Perhaps I would have been, but most likely I would not have. I know this now, but maybe...maybe it was better for me to live securely in the make-believe game I played? I do not know.

On one of these nightly visits, as I came down the hall I could hear Sililian's voice floating across the air. She was singing a lullaby in her deep, soothing voice.

Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee,

All through the night.

Guardian angels God will send thee,

All through the night.

Soft the drowsy hours are creeping,

Hill and vale in slumber sleeping,

God, His loving vigil keeping,

All through the night.

All night, all day,

Angels watchin' over me, my Lord.

All night, all day,

Angels watchin' over me.

When I lay me down to sleep,

Angels watchin' over me, my Lord.

Pray the Lord my soul to keep,

Angels watchin' over me.

All night, all day,

Angels watchin' over me, my Lord.

All night, all day,

Angels watchin' over me, my Lord.

Angels watchin' over me.

Sililian looked up as the last words died away and smiled as she saw me leaning against the doorframe. "Don't you worry, my lord," she whispered. "They're safe as safe can be, bless their hearts."

I nodded, a lump rising in my throat. Éowyn used to sing that song to our children. I stepped into the room of my sons, staring down at their still faces. Feomir had one hand curled under his pillow, and with a half smile I pulled it out. Yes, it was clutching a book. So like myself, I smiled as I gently closed the book and put his hand back upon the bed. I re-tucked him in and brushed some hair away from his face, then turned to Elboron. He lay on his back, legs wide apart. He was so like his uncle I was oftentimes taken aback. Twelve really was much too young of an age to be acting like a man, but Elboron obviously thought it was his job to be mature for the younger ones. I smiled and kissed his forehead, feeling a bitter-sweetness as I did so. He is not your brother, I told myself. He is your son.

Then, turning, I walked back over to Sililian who was snuffing a candle that she had been using to sew with. "May I have a word?" I asked. She looked up at me quizzically, but nodded.

"What is it, sir?" she asked.

I clasped my hands behind my back, unconsciously taking a military stance. "That song you were singing...what was it?"

She smiled. "All Night, All Day, sir," she replied.

I nodded briskly. "Please, don't sing it anymore."

"What?" she asked, momentarily confused. Then she regained composure and added, "Sir."

"It is wrong to be filling the children's head with fiddle-faddle such as Angels," I said shortly. "They do not exist."

"Sir?" she asked. "How do you know?"

I eyed her sternly. "Sililian, angels and God do not exist. If they DO exist, they are most likely not on our side."

She shook her head, murmuring, "So it's true, what they said."

I cocked my own head. "I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing, my lord," she replied. "I will do whatever you wish."

"Good," I smiled. "Now, make sure they each have an extra blanket, so they don't catch a chill." And with that I went back to my chambers.

I can only speculate what might have been if what I am about to relate never came to my attention. I might have healed easier. I might have stayed bitter forever. Often I look back and wish I had never known, for pain and sorrow are bitter companions in the dark watches of the night. But I think---I am sure that it was all for the best. I know this now, but I cannot even begin to describe how awful it was then.

A full six months after my wife's death I was visited by my youngest son, Feomir. I was in my office, working late as I was wont. It had just gotten dark, and a candle burned brightly on the desk, licking toward the ceiling and shedding light on my face.

Suddenly, I heard a gentle knock on the door, and I looked up to see my son peeking his head in. "Father?" he asked. "May I speak with you?"

I smiled and nodded. "Of course, Feomir."

As he entered, I was immediately aware of how agitated he seemed. His hands shook fiercely, and he kept casting his eyes toward the door. I laid my pen down and beckoned him to myself. "Whatever is the matter, Feomir?" I asked. "Are you troubled by dreams?"

He shook his head...then checked himself and nodded slowly. "Yes, father. Almost every night I dream the same thing."

Aha, so that was it. I had passed my curse on to my son. The poor lad. "What do you dream?" I murmured. If there was one thing that I was striving for, it was to be all the things my father was not when I was a boy. He was so like myself, my son, and therefore I, more than anyone else, knew how to be a good father to him. What I didn't think he'd do was burst into tears and cling to me like a wet leaf.

"You won't love me!" he sobbed. "You won't, you won't!"

I shushed him, rubbing his back and hugging him to myself. Not love him? What was the child raving about? I felt his forehead, but there was no fever. "Feomir," I said finally, "Whatever do you mean? You can tell me, son."

He shook his head against my chest, but gathered himself together and sat up. "I--I have to tell you, father. It's all my fault, and I've been keeping it inside ever since it...happened."

A feeling of dread took hold of me, something heavy and strong clamping onto my gut, but I ignored it and goaded the child on. "What is it? What did you do?"

"I killed her! I killed mother!" the words rang through the room as he buried his head in my shirt again.

I froze. The room regained an awful silence, and the only sound was Feomir's sniffles. Finally, I found my voice. "What?"

Dead. Quiet. My voice sounded like it came from the grave.

I am strong; I am leaving

I never knew I'd feel the need so

"Where to go? I'll turn the throw

I could not know," screams inside the burning pain.

The voice was familiar, and I welcomed it's rasping quality then.

He curled into himself and began to whisper, "The snake, the calengurth. I was playing in the garden, and nobody was there except mother and I. She was sitting in the grass, and I was picking flowers for her. Suddenly, the snake was there, and I froze. It was slithering toward me, ready to strike, when suddenly Mother screamed and grabbed me away. But she wasn't fast enough, and the bite landed on her arm. I---I killed her!" He was trembling all over, and I knew from my own experience that he had dreamed it vividly almost every night for the past six months. And something deep inside me said, It's not his fault, the poor child.

Something which I, Eru forgive me, ignored.

I took a long, shuddering breath, and my hands fell to my sides. "Is that all?" I asked, again in the dead voice. He nodded, for the first time looking up into my own eyes with his own blue ones. I knew that he would be seeing nothing in mine...swirling shadows, maybe, or murky pain. But his displayed all of his emotions, because he had not been taught to wear a mask as I had. Fear. He looked at me in fear. Again, my heart told me that it was not his fault, and again (as in many days to come) I ignored it.

"Goodnight, Feomir," I whispered, and he climbed off my lap, still looking at me.

"I had to tell you, Father. I'm sorry...was I wrong to tell you?" he whimpered, backing away.

I managed to shake my head. "Goodnight," I said again. And then he was gone. I was only vaguely aware that my hand had spilled the inkwell all over my documents as I raised myself to a standing position. The room spun around me, but I forced myself out of the little room and into the halls, leaning on the cold stone of the building for support. I wasn't sure where I was going until I found myself outside in the garden, and thence at Éowyn's grave. My knees gave way of their own accord, and I almost fell on top of the stone slab that marked her resting place.

Here lies Éowyn, daughter of Kings

Slayer of the Witch-King of Angmar

Princess of Ithilien, Wife of Faramir,

Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor

Este esse mel, Nim Híril.

Underneath was engraved a tall white flower swaying in the wind, and these words:

Spirit fly to a place beyond the sky.

Spirit fly, spirit fly to a place on high.

Softly now with the dawn I go with thee.

Sobbing for the first time in many a day, I curled up with the tombstone, my fingers tracing and retracing the cuts in the cold, hard stone. And as the night wore on, I felt a tiny seed being planted in my heart, one that I could have stopped if I had wanted. But I did not want to stop it, for it brought a small shelter and comfort of its own.

Hate.

It's spinning heads; it's underhand---the Black Flame

And miles ahead I turn and I run---the Black Flame

On me it fed---I understand the Black Flame

Burns my blackened brain.

Rest in love, White Lady.

Excerpt from The Black Flame by Renaissance.