Verse VIII

I have seen the fires

I have seen the smoke

I have seen the flames

Burning myself away

High blazed the pyre, the fires in the darkness of the Silent Street. The guards watched their masters burning, their faces ever impassive as they perfomed their last, most gruesome duty. Loyal to the last, and if the city should crumble with ruins, they would not desert Denethor, son of Ecthelion.

There was a loud clang on the door, a second, and a third finally, busting the wings open. The world came back in a blow, daylight, clear and bright, chased away the surreal moment. The sounds of battle, faint though they still were, came with the wind, a breeze of foul air that carried the stench of Mordor into the stone.

„Stop it!"

The cry, magnified by the alleyways, resounding and coming back, tore apart the revered silence, that had enfolded the scenery. The guards whirled around, their weapons at ready, but unmoving yet.as they watched the two figures standing in the bright daylight.

Denethor himself was oblivious to the intruder. He stood, arms spread wide, lost in his own glory of fire, as the flames crept towards him through the oily wood. He had left this world, breathing though he still might be, and nothng could call him back.

Eowyn staggered, a step, then another, towards the blurring flames she could see before her. Still her head swam, still her legs did not seem to hold her weight, but the stench of fire roused and soothed her. There was something cleansing about the flames.

She took another step, a sword in her had, that she had seemingly picked up somewhere she could not even remember.

„Let him go."

Her voice barely reached above the flames, but there was an intensity in her eyes, that did not exclude the guards.

„Let him go!" Pippin raced towards the pyre, but the guards held him back. The hobbit kicked around as he was caught by the collar, and his face contorted in fury and fear. „Denethor is raving mad! He is burning his son alive!"

As agile as Pippin was, Eowyn was just as calm. She took one slow, agonizing step after another, trailing the sword behind her. She knew, she would not stand a fight. There were six of them, and still she could barely see above the remnants of the taint and the voice. But still, there was breath left in her, and there still was that spark, that had led the proud daughter of Rohan to ride to battle.

The guards stepped in her way, their faces expressionless, and Eowyn faced four of them, while two were holding the struggling hobbit.

„Let him go", she repeated. She lifted her sword, more in a symbolic gesture, than posing a real thread. „Let him go. I am Eowyn of Rohan, sisterdaughter to the king. Rohan has come and this is Rohan's fight as well."

The tip of her sword was trembling, she could hardly keep it upright, but never left her eyes the gaze of the four before her. And they listened, captured by the pure determination in the voice of Eowyn.

„Gondor called for help to be saved from the fire. The beacons have been lit, and so we have come. And here I am to save Gondor from the fire."

There was a hesitation in the demeanour of the guards. There was something surreal in the young woman, the trembling fighter with the steady eyes, holding them with a fierce intensity they had not yet seen.

„Your masters are dying", she hissed.

„What courage is there in obedience to the last, if it only leads to ruin?"

Unspokenly, a fight was fought. Blows were taken and given, a battle raging back and forth. Eowyn was trembling miserably, the tip of her sword pointing to the floor again, its weight supported by the solid stone, where her strength could not hold it any more.

But what bodily power she could not demonstrate any more, her eyes still held. Pippin had stopped to struggle, watching the uneven fight, mouth open.

And then, one by one, the guards stepped back. Pippin was set free, as Eowyns gaze met the one of the man behind him. In the flickering light of the burning pyre, the silent watchers retreated into darkness.

A moment stretched to eternity, as Pippin stared at the shieldmaiden, who looked to the floor, utterly drained and consumed by voices once more. The cacophonic sounds of the witch king's voice swelled, now that the tension had gone, and she swayed, only half conciously fighting not to fall.

Suddenly, Pippin was painfully aware of the heat of the flames, that burned in his back. The stench of smoke was everywhere, and the world switched into focus again.

„Faramir!"

He whirled around and jumped onto the pyre, where the Stewart stood, oblivious to all but his dreams of final glory, and his son lay, unconcious, but still breathing. The flames were burning his bare feet, trying to catch the hem of the tunic, but Pippin payed it no heed. With all the strength he posessed, he tried to push Faramir from the pyre. But in this, finally, he invaded the unseen territory of Denethor.

The scream was more beast then man, and his gaze, as he whirled down on the hobbit spoke of murder. Pippin did not see the strike coming, and was hit with the full force of it. He hard fell onto the captain, his head only inches away from the flames. Denethor lifted his iron-clad fists once more to crash them down onto Pippin, but he stopped in the movement, frozen.

Because he gazed into the half-open eyes of his son.

In a moment, the world dissolved and was reforged anew. What was barren, was reopened, what was lost, was refound. He could not believe the ray of hope, the impossibility of a chance of escape. For was it not the promise of utter ruin, that had led him, where he was?

Oh so well he remembered the words of the orb, and oh so hard he had fought them. The eye of Sauron had consumed, what strength he had, and in the end, he had finally understood.Everything would go ill. Everything would fall.

But it had not. His son, his second son, the unwanted, the neglected, the strange. Mourned, when he knew, it was to late, loved to late, perishing in his hatred. But there was bloom in the ashes.

There was life in Faramirs eyes.

He whispered the name of his son, and saw the recognition in his eyes. For a moment, he was standing in bright sunlight, the clouds gone, and his heart remembered, that there had been a time where he thought he could stand a fight.

And then he felt the fire burning.

The pain was nothing to the understanding, that once more, he had been to late, that he was doomed to know, to realize, but only at the utmost end of things, when it did not matter any more. He screamed, in pain, in terror, and the flames climbed up his cloak, adding to the burning inside, as madness finally and ultimately claimed its prize.

And as he run screaming out of the Silent Street, every part of his body being on fire, he did not see Pippin lifting his son from the flames, he did not see Faramir falling to the floor as the hobbit collapsed next to him.

And in a shining torch went Denethor, son of Ecthelion, having lost his own battle as all people of the city were on the brim of losing theirs.

Silence fell.

The pyre crackled, and there was the heavy breathing of Pippin as well as of the shieldmaiden, who was painfully dragging herself up to the uneven pair at the foot of the flames. She was on all fours, not finding the strength to stand, following her instincts, not her concious mind, still being enslaved by the witch-king's whispers. And softly, the captain turned his head.

Eowyn reached the two that lay on the floor, panting the smaller, almost not breathing the other, and came to a halt, her eyes darting around, blind, her senses ensnared and lost in shadows. Her hand wandered over the floor as if it had a mind of its own, as if it were the only part of her still able to take notice of her surroundings.

She touched stone and ashes, small sticks of wood, that had – as her mind supplied - fallen of the pyre. A liquid, warm, a biting stench in her nose. Cloth. A garment.

Then skin.

Her hand shrank back at the touch and she shook her head to clear her thoughts. The grasp of the foreign mind on hers loosened marginally, the whisper receding as she reemerged to the surface.

A body was lying next to her, still, unmoving.

And then, she saw his eyes

And as if in a mirror, she felt the fire consume her whole.