Chapter Six

Éowyn stood alone upon the Firienfield. Above her, a night sky sparkled with stars, beneath her feet, grass bedecked with Simbelmynë unfolded into infinity. A clean, crisp breeze blew about her, filling her mind with its purity. Far off on the wind a voice called. "Awake, the shadow is gone and all Darkness is washed clean."

She knew that voice, but could not put a name to it. It belonged to a shadow and a thought. Another voice called to her. "Éowyn, Éowyn!" and this one she knew for he was dearer than any other.

She struggled to lift her eyelids but could only manage the barest crack. "Éomer? What joy is this? I dreamed you were dead," she whispered.

"Nay, sister, I live. Think no more on evil dreams." Éomer cried, pressing her hand to his tear streaked cheek.

"But not all of it was a dream, was it? What of Uncle?"

Éomer hung his head. "He is dead and now lies in state at the Citadel. But he bade me say farewell to you 'ere he departed."

"Then he is at peace. At least he died in the manner he desired, with honor and dignity. But what of the Halfling? His actions were among the bravest I've ever known."

"Worry not, he lies nearby. I go to him now and will bear him your good wishes," said Gandalf, stepping from the shadows. Éowyn recognized his voice and struggled to lift her eyelids, but the effort proved too great.

"Easy, Lady," Gandalf said. "Do not overtax yourself, nor think on war or woe. It is enough to see you wake again, sound and whole."

"Whole?" Éowyn breathed. "That may be too much to hope for." With those words, her last strength gave out and she fell into a deep slumber.

x x x x x

Éowyn slept for two days straight and when she awoke, it was to find the King's Host departed and well on the march to Mordor. At first, she had been enraged; the effrontery of it all, being left behind like unwanted baggage!

Slowly, her anger waned, leaving her empty and without purpose. With her arm broken, she was less than useless. Swiftly, she fell into deep depression and soon gave up caring about anything.

The healers, for she lay in the Houses of Healing, came and went but she paid them no heed. She cared not whether she stayed abed or if she sat in the chair by the window. When the women came, she remained docile as they dressed her. If food was placed against her lips, she opened her mouth, chewed and swallowed but said not one word, nor took notice of her surroundings in any way. She spent the entire day unmoving in her chair by the window, gazing out but seeing nothing.

After a full day of such despondency Ioreth, eldest and chief among the women took council with the Warden of that good house. "Her body is healed, her arm well on the mend," the old wife shook her head ruefully. "I simply cannot account for her malady."

"Only the King may guess at how deep her wounds go," said the Warden. "Is she the one that slayed the Nazgûl?"

"Aye, none other."

"The King said onto me 'ere he departed, that when the Lady Éowyn recovered she would seek to leave our care, but that we must prevent her from doing so and keep her with us for at least another seven days."

"I see no sign of her wishing to leave," Ioreth snorted, "or do anything for that matter. I do not think we need worry on that account."

The Warden furrowed his brow. "We may yet, for the Lady strikes me as one like to extremes in all things. We must prepare for when she returns to herself."

"Prepare for what?"

"That remains to be seen," the Warden replied. "Where is she now?"

"She is being dressed and if she will take some breakfast, I thought a brief spell in the gardens might do her some good."

"Yes, let her not sit alone in her room, for what she needs most now is a distraction."

x x x x x

Faramir strolled the winding paths of the gardens. Life flowed strong in his veins, the sun shone warm upon him, yet his heart was heavy. He still wrestled with the death of his father. The wound left by the passing of Denethor, was proving slow to heal.

Turning a corner, he beheld a young woman sitting on a bench by the eastern wall. Straight she sat yet appeared deep in thought. Faramir came closer and saw that the Lady was injured, one arm splinted and in a sling.

Quietly the Steward came over, but the Lady took no notice of him, not even when he came up beside her; her vacant eyes remaining fixed upon the east.

Since she offered no objection, Faramir sat beside her on the bench and took his time studying her. Never had he seen such beauty; stern yet frail she seemed, and utterly forsaken. Something about her cried out to him and if he dared, he would have put his arms about her, anything to bring a spark of life back into those flat grey eyes.

Faramir knew not who she was, nor did he care. He only saw one who ached within as he ached. Though she said not one word to him, nor even glanced his way, he felt a strong connection between them. He sat with her for a long while and spoke to her of things he had not yet spoken to anyone. To her silence, he unburdened his heart until Ioreth's maids came at the noon hour and led the woman away.

In the following two days Faramir found himself more oft than not in the gardens, for there the White Lady was to be found, sitting in solitude on her bench facing east.

Each day it was the same. Ioreth's maids brought her out shortly after breakfast and left her sitting in the sun. As soon as the attendants departed, Faramir would take his seat upon the woman's right so that he might hold the hand of her uninjured arm.

Never did she speak or seem aware of him in any way, yet he believed his presence was felt. The first day her eyes had been utterly vacant but now, at times, he would catch a shadow of awareness. Occasionally, her brow would furrow as if she pondered unpleasant thoughts.

It was at these times he would take her cold hand in his own and speak to her of glad things, and in time, her brow would smooth.

Each day the attendants left her a little longer in his company and for this, he was grateful for he took much comfort in the Lady's presence. Although she did not respond in anyway, he persisted in speaking to her as if she listened intently. He spoke of his childhood, his family, his loves and hates. He spoke of his sorrows and dreams. He spoke of absolutely anything that came to mind for he found the more he spoke, the more his heart was unburdened.

x x x x x

On the seventh day following the departure of the King's Host for Mordor, Éowyn awoke to a morning filled with sunshine. The sun! How long it seemed since she had last seen its rays!

She sat up in bed to find herself in a strange room. Her left arm ached but not overly so and she glanced down to see it splinted. At the sight of her arm, a veil lifted from her mind and the events of the battle came flooding back.

She grieved for Théoden, but was glad he had met a proud and valiant end. She recalled, too, with wonder the valor of the Halfling and hoped he had somehow managed to survive. She also recalled her battle with the Nazgûl but now found she could look the memory in the eye rather than flinch away.

It was the present that confused her. She remembered being injured, she remembered being called back from the Darkness, and she remembered Éomer speaking to her. The rest was as a dream.

She felt she had been wandering lost in a world of grey mists. She knew she had not been asleep for knowledge of certain things penetrated the fog. She knew, for instance, that Éomer had gone with the King's Host and that she should be angry for being left behind, yet she found the business of being angry just too taxing.

She also knew that someone had been talking to her about a great many things, important things, but she could not recall what they were now, nor who had been speaking.

With a shake of her head, she threw back the bedclothes and rose, amazed at how rested she felt. She looked about her room but found no suitable clothing. The sun streamed through the window, beckoning to her and she felt an urgent desire to be up and about. The army may have left without her but she refused to spend another moment in idleness.

At that moment, the door opened and a young woman entered bearing a tray with a bowl of porridge. Shocked to see Éowyn up, she fairly fled the room when Éowyn dismissed her, demanding a, "proper breakfast" and clothes.

Swiftly the woman returned bearing a tray piled with eggs and bacon, bread and butter. "Ale! Is there no ale to be had here? Off with you and bring me a tankard!" Éowyn commanded, smiling broadly at the woman's dismay.

"Yes mi'lady, right away, mi'lady."

"And fetch me something decent to wear; I can hardly go about in my night robe!" Éowyn called after her. With a sigh of pleasure, she tucked into her breakfast for she found she had a voracious appetite. She did not stop until every morsel had vanished.

The young woman soon returned with clothing. "If mistress is finished, I will help you dress."

"I can dress myself, thank you." Éowyn replied. "Only my arm is broken, not my wits."

"Yes mi'lady," the woman curtseyed, making ready to leave.

"Wait," Éowyn said. "What house is this and who is Master here?"

"These be the Houses of Healing, Lady. The Warden is Master here."

"Then please tell the Warden I would speak with him directly, as soon as I am finished here."

"Yes, mi'lady," and with that the attendant scurried off, a smile lighting her eyes.

x x x x x

The Warden of the Houses of Healing was not at all pleased to be hurried through the halls in search of Lord Faramir by a very whirlwind of a woman.

Lady Éowyn burst in upon him demanding tidings of the war. What happened to the wraith of yesterday? Despite the inconvenience of being rousted from his study, he was pleased indeed to see the Lady recovered and asking for—nay, demanding a vocation.

They found Lord Faramir at last, walking alone in the garden. "My Lord," the Warden called, hastening forward. "This is the Lady Éowyn of Rohan. She rode with King Théoden, her uncle, and was sorely hurt in battle. She is now in my care but she is not content and would speak to you."

Hearing his name, Faramir turned and started with shock at the sight of his silent White Lady striding towards him with fire in her eyes and a firm set to her jaw. He carefully schooled his features into neutrality for it was clear the woman recognized him not at all.

"My Lord," Éowyn said, "do not misunderstand, I am no ingrate. Fair is this house and grateful am I for the care I have received here, but I must find a task to put my hand to 'ere I go mad. I have never been able to abide a prison; indeed, I went to battle seeking death in order to escape one, yet I find I live while the war wages on."

Faramir frowned at the Lady's bald words; with a gesture, he dismissed the Warden. Prior to this morning, he had not sought out the Lady's identity. Now much became clear, if what he had heard was true, this mere slip of a woman had slain the Lord of the Nazgûl. That she lived was miracle enough, that she had regained her mind left him in awe.

"My Lord?" Éowyn asked when the man continued to stare.

"Forgive me, Lady, but what would you have me do? I too, am in the care of the Warden and subject to his will. Tell me what you wish and if it lies in my power I will do it."

Éowyn studied the man before her. He was very fair to the eye but it was obvious he was a man hardened by war and well the match of the fiercest amongst the Rohirrim. Grave tenderness was in his eyes but his bearing spoke of one accustomed to command.

"I would have you tell this Warden to let me go free." Though she spoke with a steady voice, she felt a moment's panic. Did she really desire what she asked? Where was there for her to go? The man before her may have a gentle heart beneath his grave exterior, but she did not want him to take her for a fool.

"As I said, Lady I, myself, am recovering from injury and am in the Warden's keeping, nor have I yet taken up my responsibility as Steward of this city. And even if I had, I would council you to remain here."

"But I am no invalid! My arm mends. I need no nursemaids. I wish to go to war and avenge my king."

"My Lady, you are too late. The army is seven days gone and there have been no tidings. I fear there is naught any of us can do but abide the waiting with what patience we might find. If it is death you truly seek, then you may yet find your chance here within this city 'ere long."

"Seven days?" Éowyn gasped, "But that is impossible. It was just yesterday that—that—".

"Nay, I fear not." The Battle of the Pelennor was eight days ago. The King's Host marched the very next day."

"But, where—what—what have I been doing all this time?"

Gently Faramir guided Éowyn to a bench as the blood drained dangerously from her face. "You were gravely wounded in battle. I hear many suffer from an odd malady of the spirit brought on by the Nazgûl. The healers are calling it the "Black Breath" and those afflicted wander lost in dreams, unaware of their surroundings.

Éowyn glanced at Faramir sharply. "Are you saying I was one so afflicted?"

"I have a confession to make, Lady. This is not the first time we have met. I made your acquaintance several days ago in these very gardens, although I did not know your name until now."

"But I do not know you Sir, and would swear we have never met."

Faramir smiled and it transformed his noble face, lending it an almost boyish cast. "Worry not, for I hope that now we have met, you will never forget me."

To Éowyn's shock and utter disgust, she felt herself blush. A fair and glib tongue this one had indeed! "I would know the reason I do not recollect you, if what you say is true."

The smile faded from Faramir's face. "Do you truly remember nothing of the last few days?"

"Nay, all I remember is fog and darkness. Why, is there ought else I should recall?"

"It is of no matter." Faramir said, ruefully shaking his head.

Éowyn studied him a moment. "It seems to be of great import to you. I would hear what you know—please."

Faramir sighed, raising his eyes to gaze over the wall towards the east. "The first day I saw you, I thought you were a statue, so pale and still you sat upon this very bench. You were so lost within yourself that you were unaware of anything around you.

"I sat beside you that first morning because there was something about you that cried out for companionship. For the next few days, until yesterday in fact, I would find you here every morning and so I sat with you and talked to you and tried desperately to reach you within the prison of your mind. Lady, you have no idea how overjoyed I am to see you free of your prison!"

Éowyn's brow furrowed. "I do remember someone talking to me, someone was telling me something important, something terribly sad—was that you?"

Faramir nodded, "I fear I prattled incessantly about a great many things—whatever came to mind actually. The sound of my voice seemed to sooth you."

Éowyn turned to face the extraordinary man beside her. She had truly never met anyone like him and she knew not what to say. "My Lord, you are too kind. I thank you for the time and care you have given me."

The dazzling smile lit Faramir's face again and Éowyn felt her heart lurch reluctantly in response. "No thanks is required, Lady for the pleasure is truly all mine. I had much to get off my chest and you were a very indulgent listener."

For a few moments, the two fell silent, content to listen to the bird song. Of a sudden, Éowyn's head came up. "You just lost your father—nay, not just your father, but your brother too."

"Aye" Faramir said softly.

"I am sorry for your loss, my Lord. I have heard of your father—he was said to be a wise and foresighted man. I did have the good fortune though to meet Boromir many months ago when he passed through Rohan whilst journeying north." Éowyn laid her hand upon his arm. Faramir covered it in a warm grasp.

"Thank you, Lady. Though sad be the subject, I am glad to see you begin to regain your memory."

"I remember that at least," Éowyn replied, "and of how when you were a boy, you loved listening to Gandalf's stories, although Boromir had not the patience and would fall asleep."

"Aye," laughed Faramir, tears shining in his eyes, "'tis true."

Éowyn smiled wistfully, "Gandalf always did have the best tales. My favorites were ones about great battles."

"Why am I not surprised?" Faramir chuckled.

Éowyn cocked her head, glancing at him imperiously, which served only to further broaden the Steward's smile. "I find nothing wrong with that, sir. What stories were your favorites then?"

"Oh, I suppose anything about Elves. Ever have I been fascinated by them for as long as I can recall—enchanted, Boromir used to say; bewitched of course, according to my father."

"Have you ever met one? Éowyn asked.

Faramir sighed, a far off look in his eye. "Nay, though I still wish to very much."

"Well, I have."

"Truly?" Faramir looked upon her with wonder. "What were they like? Are they as fair and wise as legend tells?"

"It was just one that I met and aye, he is fairer than anyone or anything I have ever seen. I think he is very wise as well, though he would never admit it."

"Lady, I am deeply envious," Faramir laughed, "consorting as you have with my childhood dreams! You speak as if you know this Elf very well. I would hear this rare tale of Rohan."

Éowyn smiled. "There is no tale to tell, I am afraid. I met this Elf but once and spoke with him only briefly. He was companion to Gandalf and Aragorn, heir of Isildur; his path and fate is joined to that of your king—if he yet lives. As for what he was like, I believe his kind are rather above mere mortal likes and dislikes. He seemed fair and fierce, grave and merry all at the same time. If ever we meet again, I shall introduce you."

"I would like that very much." Faramir said.

Éowyn grew silent; for thoughts of Legolas were painful reminders that that the war waged on while she did nothing. A tear sprang to her eye and fell glistening.

Faramir tipped her chin up, catching the tear with his thumb. "Why so sad of a sudden? I was getting used to your smile."

Éowyn did not answer, nor did she pull away. As Faramir gazed at her, something within seemed to soften ever so slightly.

"For a moment I almost forgot my woes," she said sadly. "But they are still with me. I cannot accept my fate, my Lord. The war still calls me. If I stay here, I fear I will wither."

"Nay, if you stay here, you will grow strong again." Faramir replied, unconsciously stroking the smooth skin of her jaw. "If you stay in this house, and walk in this garden and look east with hope in your eyes—not this longing of yours for death that I see so plain; then you will find me here watching and waiting and hoping. It would ease my heart if you would speak with me from time to time."

Éowyn grew aware for the man sitting close beside her; of the gentle, calming touch of his fingers on her skin. Resolutely her spine stiffened as she withdrew. "Forgive me, Lord, but I desire not the speech of living men. How then should I ease your care?"

Faramir would not be deterred by neither cold tone nor fiery lights in the lovely grey eyes. This lady fascinated and moved him as none other ever had. Though it was clear she desperately needed loving care, he suffered no illusions as to how his efforts would be received. Nonetheless, he was her match in will and stubbornness.

"Would you have my plain answer?" he asked.

"I would."

"Then I say to you, Lady of Rohan, that you are fair, more beautiful than any maiden ever born of Gondor. Perhaps fairer even than among Elf-kind. It may be that we only have a few precious days or even a few precious hours left 'ere darkness falls upon us. I hope to stand strong and face the end with courage, but it would ease my heart if while the sun still shines, holding back the dark, that I may still see you. You and I both passed under Shadow, and the same hand brought us both back. I would not see that effort wasted."

"Alas, it cannot be as you wish. Look to me not for healing for I am a shieldmaiden and my touch is not gentle. I have shed the blood of countless foes I am a slayer of chil—". Of a sudden, Éowyn leapt to her feet, Faramir rising with her in alarm.

"Nay!" she cried, holding her hand before her in warning. "Do not come nearer; do not touch me for I am unclean!"

"Éowyn, be at ease. There is no need to be so distraught." Faramir said gently, holding his hands out to her.

"You do not understand!" she cried, angry tears rolling down her cheeks as the damn within her burst at last. "I have touched Darkness and now it fills me—consumes me. There is no room within me for Light—nor do I want it. Do not do this to me. If you care ought at all, then leave me be."

"Éowyn, I do not understand. How can I help if you will not explain? What have I done to cause you such pain?"

"You—you would give me a reason to live!" With that she dashed passed him, running for the House.

Faramir stared after her helplessly. When he returned to the House he summoned the Warden and heard all he could tell of the Lady of Rohan.

When the Warden told all he knew, he suggested that Faramir speak with the Halfling for he had ridden with Théoden's household. For many hours, Merry spoke with Faramir. At last, he began to understand something of her grief and despair.

x x x x x

Éowyn tossed and turned. Although it was only mid afternoon, she could not shake the weariness that had come upon her and so she had sought her bed.

She slept but her dreams were uneasy. She wandered a desolate battlefield where every corpse bore the face of a loved one. Weeping, she made her way to a great mound and found Théoden lying there. Kneeling at his side, she smoothed the hair from his cold face.

Théoden's eyes opened at her touch. "I know you," he rasped.

"Aye uncle, it is Éowyn. Did I not tell thee I would be at thy side should you fall?"

"You belong where I left you—with our people—seeing to their welfare at Dunharrow! Who now will protect them when the Enemy comes? Foolish girl! You have abandoned our people and left them to be slaughtered!"

"Nay, nay Uncle, I but—" Éowyn stammered.

"You but what?" spoke a cold voice behind her. Éowyn turned. The Haradrim boy stood behind her, his death wound gaping obscenely.

"Nay, you cannot live!" she gasped. "Be gone shade!"

"Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey," the boy spoke, the foul voice of the Witch-king coming from out his mouth, "or I shall slay thee in thy turn. Shall I bear you away to the Houses of Lamentation, beyond all darkness, where your flesh shall be devoured and thy shriveled mind left naked to the Lidless Eye?"

Éowyn fell back, raising her shield as the boy swung a great black mace. A shriek rife with corruption rent the air and she found herself awake and sitting up in bed, sweat streaming down her face, her throat raw from the scream wrenched from it.

Shaking, she climbed out of bed. She could not stay there. Never had she felt so trapped, so desperate, so alone. Her heart hammered beneath her breast as she raced for the gardens. Outside, the day had turned grey and drear. A cold wind blew out of the north, slicing her to the bone.

Coming to the east wall, she clambered up awkwardly and stood tottering on its edge. Somewhere to the east lay the Black Gate, surely she could see it from on top the wall. The wind buffeted her, and her gaze was drawn downward. The Houses of Healing were set high up in the city and the drop from her ledge was a far one. She stared mesmerized at the ground far below.

"What do you look for, Éowyn, Éomund's daughter? What do you seek?" Éowyn froze but dared not turn. "Is it death you truly seek or escape? They need not be the same." Faramir spoke gently behind her.

"Stay—stay away. You know nothing of my heart—nothing of how I feel."

"Think you the only one to hurt, Éowyn? Do you think it was easy for me growing up in the shadow of Boromir? I was less than nothing in my father's eyes. I begged him to send me to Rivendell in my brother's stead. Instead, I was ridiculed for attempting to steal an opportunity to "prove my quality". If he had listened to me, Boromir would still be alive!

"He punished me by sending me to take back Osgiliath, knowing full well it was a fruitless cause. He knowingly sent me to my death and yet, when I was dragged back poisoned from an arrow he refused to believe I lived. In his madness, he tried to burn me alive so that the Enemy would not have me. What manner of father could commit such atrocities?

"Say not to me that I know nothing of your pain, for I know it far too well. We all fight our own demons, Éowyn. Death is easy; it is living that is hard."

"But, but I never dreamt it would prove this hard," she said shakily.

Faramir smiled amidst his tears. "Aye, perhaps it is the hardest thing we will ever do. Surviving requires the greatest strength and you, Éowyn, are strong!"

"Nay, I am not. Besides, the end is upon us. What is there left to live for?"

"Would you not find out how the story ends?"

Éowyn paused at that. There was something so sincere and honest in Faramir's face that she found herself giving in to his reasoning.

"Come down, my Lady." Faramir coaxed, holding his arms out to her.

Not unto the day she died could Éowyn ever recall how she ended up down off that wall and into the safety of Faramir's arms. The moment her feet touched the ground she found herself enfolded in arms strong as iron. Feeling safe for perhaps the first time in her life, she wept long and hard. She was unaware of the passing of time or that she had been wrapped in a warm cloak of deepest midnight spangled with stars.

Faramir held Éowyn through the storm of tears. When the cloak he had sent an attendant to fetch arrived, he wrapped it about her, still keeping her close. Softly he spoke soothing words in her ear. He would calm her, but he would also give her something to hold onto.

"Seven days have they been gone and yet no tidings, and in all that time I have never known such joy or such pain. I beg thee, think not ill of me, Éowyn, but I must confess to thee, these last days have been the greatest joy to me for they brought you into my life, yet it has also been a time of greatest pain, for I fear we now come to the Darkest Hour. I would not have this world end now that I have found you."

"Nay, say not so," Éowyn wept. "I can never be what you wish. I can never give you what you want. Evil taints me. I have committed monstrous deeds!"

"As have we all in these dark days," Faramir answered.

"Nay, there is no excuse for my atrocities."

"Tell me, and let me be the judge of that."

Éowyn shook her head, trying to pull away but Faramir held her firm by the shoulders. "Very well," she said, steeling herself. "There was—a boy, a child—he could not have been more than eleven or twelve. He came at me with a sword and I—I—". Shuddering, she balled her fists in Faramir's robe, refusing to raise her eyes.

"It is hard when the enemy wears an innocent face. I understand your pain, Éowyn, for it harries me as well. It is true that the Enemy recruits children amongst the Southrons and Easterlings. I have been forced to slay a few as well—it was unavoidable. But believe me, he would have given you no quarter."

"It does not make it right!" she spat.

"Nay, the only thing that may end the madness is the destruction of the Dark Lord. Then no child will ever need go to war again."

Éowyn slowly calmed and for a long while she stood allowing Faramir to hold her close. Though the wind had fallen, the day was still strangely dark and still. No sounds of the city below came to them. It was as if the world were holding its breath.

"We wait for the stroke of doom." Éowyn breathed. Faramir tightened his arms about her in answer.

Suddenly far to the east, the darkness rose like a vast mountain of water, a great wave poised to crash upon the world. A tremor ran through the earth and the walls of the city quivered. A sound not unlike a sigh went up from the land and it seemed all the world breathed again.

"What was that?" Éowyn asked. "Is the Darkness coming?"

"I do not know," answered Faramir. "My mind tells me great evil has befallen, yet my heart says nay. Can you not feel it? Hope and joy are in the very air!"

"Aye, but I do not understand." Éowyn replied.

Faramir suddenly stood back, awe on his face. "What is this joy I feel?" he cried. Turning, he lifted Éowyn into the air and spun her about. "Éowyn, Éowyn, in this hour I do not believe the Darkness will endure!" Setting her back on her feet, he stooped and kissed her brow.

Éowyn, too amazed to do ought but stand, just stared at him. Loath though she was to accept it, tendrils of hope began twining their way about her heart. Finally, the Darkness, which had filled her soul for so long, began to lift.

Together they stood hand in hand on the walls of the city. A great wind rose up mingling their hair in its fingers. The Shadow departed and the sun shone forth with a brilliant light, bedazzling the waters of the Anduin. All across the city, joyful voices rose in song, though none knew yet for what they rejoiced.

From out the east a great eagle flew. As it reached the city, it circled crying its glad tidings.

"Sing now; ye people of the Tower of Anor,

for the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,

and the Dark Tower is thrown down."

Tears fell from Éowyn's eyes, but for once, they were happy tears.

x x x x x x