Chapter 4:

"Why cannot we just kill them all?" the speaker landed a heavy fist on the table. His face was hidden in the shadow of the gloom, and his voice was gruff. There were murmurs from the smoky surroundings, assents of agreement, "Kill them all and be done with it!" a few cried.

"Because, my dear Udun," another voice started, a voice of authority. This voice came from the head of the table, and drawled, "You obviously have not been listening. Kill them?" the speaking figure gave a snorting laugh, and there was a flash of blue in the darkness, "You are a fool Udun. There is a simple reason. You can kill them. And then you will die by Elessar's own sword. You can remove his allies that way, but then he will have someone to blame. He will rise up, and we will be no longer, do you understand?"

"But this plan of yours – how long will that have to take?!"

The voice at the head of the table sighed, as if exasperated with an insolent child.

"Subtlety is something you have all yet to learn. Elessar thinks he has freed us from the thraldom of Annatar, and expects us to give in to his rule so easily! But he would." The speaker shifted. A silhouette of a dark, young face drifted in and out, of view, "We are pioneers, my friends, sole survivors of a defeated and shamed nation that still have our dignity intact. But we will avenge our fatherland! However, if we strike at them directly, they will crush us. Gondor is not alone. Elessar has the support of Elves – but they are a failing people. They are no concern of ours. Nevertheless, more imminent dangers, such as Rohan, Eriador and Ithilien need to be taken into account."

The figure stared around his comrades, his subordinates, but he needed their strength. "Udun, do you really think that if Eomer of Rohan and Faramir of Ithilien are both assassinated, Gondor will immediately be weak and fall? You are a fool."

The last remark was spoken with venom. Udun bowed his head in submission to his superior's will. The man was right, of course. Why else was he the head of this operation? But such plans he made: all so intricate and subtle – how could he expect them to work? The man was a lore master. He'd read about the history of all the nations, and expected to use it to his advantage.

"How do you know if your plans are working?"

The figure at the head leaned back, "I have my contacts."

"The servant?" the Haradrim snorted, "She will betray us for her mistress, sooner or later. Better get what you can out of her, and then kill her!"

"Udun, you seem to think a day is not complete without a murder."

"'Tis for the pride of our country, my lord. Upon my oath, by nature, I am not a violent man; but I wish to bathe my feet in the blood of my enemies, and do not want to wait for the day these feet are old and wrinkled."

There were murmurs. A smirk appeared for a moment in the smoky gloom.

"Oh how droll you are. The servant will die, in due course. But no one, and that is no one, will directly harm the Lord and Lady. We will drive them to their own perdition. We will turn Elessar's allies away and against him. Gondor is nothing without allies. We will be stronger than her. You all saw the War of the Ring. We remove the allies first, and then we will remove Gondor."

"But how long will all this take?" another man spoke up.

"Long," was the reply, "It may be next month, it may be next year, it may be the year after. Who knows, this task may even have to be passed onto your sons. But we will succeed! Our pride must be restored! We have suffered humiliation from them long enough! They claim to help us, but they taunt us and look down upon us! We will abide by this no longer! We will not accept defeat! We will writhe into their paradise like a serpent, and poison the fruit of their being. We will get our revenge on the West."

And there was cheering around the table. And the chief of the united tribal states of the south smiled to himself in the darkness, a sapphire glittering in his ear.


"Are you well, my love? You look paler than snow."

Eowyn nodded, wincing slightly at the pain in her leg. She had not told Faramir about it. The leg was probably because she banged it against her bedpost. But the dreams...

"Did you sleep last night? I'm sorry I had to be out. Halandil and Beorn were a little concerned about some unfamiliar youngsters coming thieving at night in the citadel, so I stayed with them all night to check the patrols."

"It's alright. I... just had something of a nightmare." She chuckled uneasily.

"What of?" he asked, putting his strong arm around her shoulders. Eowyn hesitated, and bit her lip uncertainly.

"You can tell me," he comforted her.

She took a deep breath. She had no idea how he would react if she told him. How did you tell your husband you had been dreaming about his dead father?

"I... dreamt... of your father, Faramir. I dreamt of Denethor."

Touché. High marks for simplicity.

The arms around her seemed to lose their strength; but the strong touch returned, firmer than before. There was a silence, filled with the sounds of nature.

"My father?" he sounded calm, but there was a quake in his voice she had never heard before. His expression was blank, and she decided to continue.

"He was there... and... our daughter." And seeing the quirk in his face, "Yes, Faramir, our daughter. She was –afraid- of him."

The arms around her were so tight she felt trapped. God, she knew how he felt about this subject! She knew too well how much grief he had suffered about it. This was not the right time, and she cursed her own foolishness. The matter had long ago been dealt with, but the scars still showed. There would always be scars. Why did she burden him with such trivial news when he was already overwhelmed by her first set of news?

And then he let go.

"I'm sorry." He said, brushing hair away from his face, "Elbereth, why do I do that? He's dead. He's dead. He's gone."

She embraced him, "I am sorry," She shouldn't have brought this up. She knew how much it hurt it him. She remembered when they stayed in Minas Tirith and he couldn't sleep because of the tower. At night he would look out toward it, the former keep of the Palantir, and every night they spent there killed him. And she could bet the talk he'd had with young Eldarion hadn't helped either. She kissed him gently, and stroked his cheek.

And he stared deep into Eowyn's eyes, a deep pleading look, and said with a desperate, almost childlike voice

"Why won't he leave me?"


"My daughter..."

Eowyn's head jerked. Elbereth, it was happening again. She turned and turned to view her sifting surroundings, being met with colours and objects she recognised but couldn't place.

To her right was the door that divided her bedchamber from her husband's. He hardly ever used his own bed, but tonight, he felt he needed the time to think, and she had let him. She wanted to call out to that door, wanting to feel his physical support and the security of his closeness. She opened her mouth, and suddenly felt sick. She couldn't speak. She couldn't think.

Stumbling, she got up from her bed with the muddled manner of dreaming. Her head span as she wandered around a room. This place was... strange. The colours were all wrong, and she could smell a scent that reminded her distinctly of purple.

"Mama?" Eowyn looked down, and saw the familiar face of a young girl with green eyes and blonde hair.

"Yes?" she answered weakly.

The girl with the terrified eyes – the exact same girl - pulled her down close and whispered in her ear, "Grandfather wants to talk to you." Before running out of Eowyn's door. Eowyn followed her out, realising too well she was wearing nothing except her linen shift. She followed the sound of the echoing footsteps around corners and corridors, searching out the young girl in the night by the faint light of the moon outside.

Eventually, Eowyn found her in the drawing room. Sitting in the corner chair as if it was a throne, was Denethor. It could only be him. His hair was grey, hanging about his face, thus covering most of it. His aura was haunting, and Eowyn was chilled to the bones. She felt the bruise on her leg throbbing. His palantir was at his side, whole and unbroken.

"F-father..." how else could she address him? This was the man whose son she had married. His eyes glanced towards her, and Eowyn felt a jolt run through her with the sheer malevolence in them.

The man said nothing to her, but raised up both his palms in front of his face. Eowyn put her hand to her mouth. His hands were red, a bloody, burnt fleshy red. From his wrists to his fingers, his skin was burnt the colour of henna, a dark red black evil colour.

"Look what you have done..." he spoke, his hands trembling. There was an ethereal quality about his voice, something that didn't quite register with the ears. His tone was clear, and he did not possess the accent of the Gondorrim. His manner of speaking was... strange. She had to say something.

"Why... why are you here?" she called out to the seated spirit. Her voice sounded feeble and thick, but she felt she must speak.

"To right a wrong."

"What wrong is that? Why do you not talk to your own son?" she must confront her fears.

Denethor leaned forward, eyes glittering in an ugly leer.

"Rohirrim shieldmaiden, you and he never should have been."

Eowyn couldn't contain herself, but calmed herself enough to say, in a cool but strained voice, "Do you think I am not worthy of your only remaining son?" she felt her own voice shaking.

"That is part, but not all. You have married a worm! A mole, who crawls and trudges through dirt and books and does nothing worthy!"

Eowyn gasped at the man's words.

"How dare you! You would speak such about he of your own flesh and blood?"

"He is a disappointment to his father."

"Fool! Old miser! You punished your son enough in life, and now you will haunt him in death? He is your son!"

The old man reached out a burned red hand, to grasp tightly the pale white arm of the small blonde girl. Petrified green eyes stared up at Eowyn, imploring her to help her. But Eowyn could do nothing. She just watched the girl, and the grey man didn't let go.

"You know who she is." The grey man leered.

"Let her go." Eowyn breathed. She was forcing herself to be calm and create an icy, calm facade; but inside, torment was taking her apart. Please, please, she prayed, let me wake, let me wake and let all this be over.

"She is not yours."

"Let her go." Her voice was breaking with tension. She would never let herself cry, but this: this was physical pain. The dark eyes tore at her, raping her soul, "She is mine as much as she is yours."

Denethor laughed, and Eowyn suddenly thought how different it sounded to Faramir's laugh, which was always light and full of emotion. She shuddered at the grey man's coarse sound. It reminded her of her late uncle, King Theoden, when he was under Wormtongue's malicious influence. Those evil days were over, and her uncle had become good again, before he died bravely. She wondered if perhaps this figure was not Denethor, but also another mind, a dead spirit, that had been poisoned.

"My lord," she said, voice suddenly gentle, "What do you want of me?"

The burned red fingers caressed the throat of the little girl by his side, "Eowyn of Ithilien, I want you to die."