Eowyn dreams of darkness, always darkness.
It is thick and cloying, clinging to her, pulling her into itself even as she stands on the steps of Meduseld. She sinks slowly, inch by inch. When she looks down, it is to see her knees disappear.
What the darkness takes it does not give back; already she is too far gone.
She stands on the walls of Minas Tirith as a wave of darkness rushes toward the city. She cannot move. It slams into her, cold and empty and inescapable. It sticks to her skin, coats her eyes, and fills her nose and mouth.
She is drowning in nothing.
She flails instinctively, and her hand touches something warm.
The warmth floods her, banishing the dream to mere shadows until she is again vulnerable.
For now she rolls onto her side, sliding her hand across her husband's torso, pulling his warmth closer. And she allows herself to sleep, safe for the moment at his side.
Faramir dreams of fire, always fire.
Everything is ablaze. His body, his mind, his soul. Flames lick at his fingers. The heat sears his eyes. He hears a voice, its words burning as fiercely as the fire all around him, inside him.
He burns. Minas Tirith burns. The world burns.
His father speaks again, urging the flames higher. They scorch his hair, his clothes, his skin. He opens his mouth to scream, and they leap down his throat. His very blood is fire.
Burning. Everything is burning.
Something cool touches his chest. It slides across his skin, dousing the flames and drawing the heat from his blood.
His wife's body presses into his side, cool and soft. She pulls him against her, and he sighs, the embers of the dream left to smolder until he is again vulnerable.
He covers her hand with his, safe for the moment at her side.
Fin.
Usual disclaimers apply.