Part 7:

(A/N: I do not apologise in advance the name of Eomer's horse. It was a good idea when I first thought of it. This is a long chapter, to which I sacrificed much revision time. But mocks are now over. Enjoy. I will.)


Eomer spurred his horse into motion, clicking his heels into her flanks. He whistled a tune as he rode along, hearing it echo slightly through the landscape. The day was bright, cold, with dregs of brusque winter in the air, but clear. He was going at a slow pace, and no one was complaining. They were reaching quite steep slopes now, the rocky pedestal of the Lammedon mountains that divided the realms of Gondor and Rohan.

Behind him, the green and white banners of the Riddermark sailed in the crisp breeze. His entourage was small, a select group of trusted ministers and a troop of loyal arms – pray Elbereth he would not need them. It would be a days more travel, less with speed, to reach the fortress of Minas Tirith, and half a days more to reach Ithilien and his sister's new home; and then the best part of three weeks from there to journey through the deserts of Harad to it's capital: Dhakar.

But for now, Eomer put these troubles out of his mind. Instead, he thought about Lothiriel: her sweet serene smile, the gentle persistence when she fretted over things like his health. The daughter of Imrahil, truly, at times he thought she made a better politician than he. Again, he wished she were with him, or better, that he was with her. he never admitted to her how much he despised these… talks, these debates, when sworn enemies in one room, forced to be civil to one another until something could be compromised. Swords should be used for fighting an opponent, he always thought, not for threatening them.

Sometimes, he wondered if he would have made a better king than his cousin. Theodred and he had grown up together, played together as children, learnt from the same masters, argued, laughed. In their wrestling matches he had always been stronger, but he always felt Theodred had been sharper in state matters than he. He was the Third Marshal, of lower rank, had always followed orders of others – unless of course it were those of the worm, Grima. Never in his life had he hoped to become King. His first impressions of Aragorn had been something of a pompous vagrant with far too many names.

And then Theodred died, changing everything.

Now here he was… the war was fought, yet pieces still had to be picked up and put back.

One of the soldiers behind him sneezed loudly, to the amusement of the other men. Born and bred on the plains of the Eastfold, they had little experience of mountain terrain. Windshield, his horse stirred under him, and he patted her absently.

Something high up in the snowy peaks caught his eye: movement. He blinked. For an instant he saw a speck of red among the white. He yawned. Probably an animal, a fox or a goat. He didn't have much experience of highland creatures.

The road climbed higher, skirting across the base of the mountain range as it trekked along it. It was fairly narrow, and they went carefully. One of his men had warned him that melted ice on snowy peaks released loose boulders and stones, causing rockfalls. Eomer, on hearing this had wondered why it had to have been said while they were travelling by the aforesaid snowy peaks, in late summer, no less.

Still, it had been an uneventful journey so far. The bright sun shone upon pure white slopes. At the tail of the Lamedon, ahead, he saw the welcoming structure of a beacon tower. He glanced back up at the towering whiteness, and he swore for a second he saw something shine among the rocks and boulders.

Light reflecting off armour, the third marshal inside him said.

No, the King of Rohan disagreed, he was being paranoid.

"Thalwed," he muttered to one of the standard bearers behind him, "No one lives up here, do they?"

Thalwed rode up from behind, "As far as we know, my lord, this area is virtually uninhabited. The farms are all in the valley, and the only people living here would be further ahead where the beacon is."

Eomer nodded and said nothing. He glanced up a few times furtively, but all was still. Utterly still.

"You feel it too, sire." Thalwed murmured, "We are being watched."

"Do not panic or make sudden movements. We do not know yet whether they are foe or friend."

Suddenly one of the baggage ponies behind him reared, jittered. Eomer turned his horse and, looking up, saw a man standing, who then ducked suddenly behind a boulder. He had been high up and far away, but Eomer saw his face was dark-skinned, and he had tried to camouflage the red garb he wore, similar to the dress of Rhun and Khand. The man had shouted something.

He had also seen there was more than one man up there.

He raised his palm to calm his companions, and clearing his throat, prepared to call up the mountain and discourse with the black man, as civilised rulers of nations did.

Before he could speak, however, he was silenced by another sound: a deep boom of noise. Far above the ground, an explosion trembled deep into the earth, reverberating through the rock. The Rohirrim men had to still their horses until the vibrations died down.

But then a new noise filled the air: the thundering sound of falling rock. Eomer looked upward for the last time to a grim sight, as huge boulders rolling down the mountainside cast shadows on his troupe. The land was moving beneath their feet.

"LANDSLIDE!"

He roared for the men to turn back, but his voice was lost in the din. Still, everyone turned and fled for their lives without hesitation, driving their steeds back down the mountain. He made sure everyone was riding back down the road before he followed them.

Windshield was now galloping down the mountainside, panicking at the sounds of detritus behind her. Eomer spurred her on, holding tightly to her reins.

The Riddermark standards had been dropped, now abandoned flags on the slope, trampled with hoof marks. Eomer had no time to regret as he rode past at a breakneck speed. In front, his men who had been so calm and excited by the prospect of travel were now fleeing for their lives. From the corner of his eye he saw one of the soldiers fall, crushed by a bloody hail of rock, but he could not stop riding to aid at this speed.

He had no time to react either when an unfortunate twist of fate caused Windshield to trip on the other of the banners and lose her footing.

The mare whinnied desperately as she tumbled heavily forward, and Eomer's last memories were of being thrown forward from his steed as the cacophony of the landslide continued to rumble in his ears. The impact was the last thing before all went black.


Day poured over the stooped back of Faramir, Prince of Ithilien. In his relaxed hand was still a pen, ink drying on the nib.

It was not until his wife touched him gently on the shoulder that he stopped snoring and woke up. His head jerked up from the desk that was his pillow, a papery ink stain still on his cheek.

"Oh… good morning dear." He said breathlessly.

"Faramir." Eowyn said sternly.

"Yes?"

"You seem to have drawn on your own face."

Faramir stood up and inspected a nearby mirror, then proceeded to wipe off the black mark on his cheek. His wife started collecting together the papers on his desk, a frown on her face, muttering to herself how her husband was a full-fledged workaholic. Faramir watched her quirkily. He wanted to spend some quality time with her before he left, but… instead he sighed.

"What on earth possessed you Faramir?" Eowyn suddenly cried, waving his sheaf of notes in the air. He was a little taken aback by her tone, but he had to explain, "You said you'd stop working like this!" she cried again, voice shrill.

Faramir placed his hand upon her shoulders.

"I can explain," he began, "A few hours before you woke… Eafred came to me with a letter from Dol Amroth."

"What is wrong? Has something happened to Lord Imrahil?"

Faramir stopped her, "No, no, my uncle is in the best of health. The only reason he is not coming with us in the campaign is that he has to oversee the building of a new city hall in Belfalas. He wrote that it's nearing completion. His son, my cousin Elphir, has been an ambassador in Harad for the past five years. He has recently received a message from Elphir that there has been… a rebellion."

"A rebellion?"

"Yes, in the very city that we were headed to: Dhakar."

"So what does that mean?" Eowyn asked, concern in her voice.

Faramir put down the letter, "I am not certain."

"You cannot travel there now – it is unsafe. Has Elphir stopped the rebellion? How did it begin? How could he let it, after all these years?"

Another sigh, "I do not know. Elphir has his father's talent for diplomacy, so I do not believe any violence in that city will last long, but…"

Eowyn put the papers down, "There is another answer: why not bring the ceremony here? Or to Gondor, where it could be overseen with security?"

"But it is not our country. We're already interfering far too much – why else would they rebel? I pray that Khalifah has the tenacity to grant his people harmony. Too long, all they've had is pity. Elessar also sent a letter: he says this puts even more pressure on the ceremony to take place quickly."

Eowyn did not speak. She had not dreamed of Denethor that night, with Faramir beside her, though she thought she heard whispers in her sleep – there were no walking visions. Yet she was still unsettled.

"So what does this all mean then?" she stared vacantly.

"It means…" Faramir took a breath, "It means I will have to leave tomorrow night. I'm sorry."

Again, the vacant gaze, accompanied by a nod. He didn't need to apologise. His expression said enough. But she put her arms around him and was silent. There was a grey feeling inside her stomach – foreboding, but all she could do now was hold him.


"I see you have returned." Eowyn sat at her reception chair. It was noon, and Faramir had left again to supervise urgent business in the city. Her chair was padded, which was comforting for her, and elevated, meaning she was able to gaze downward at the figure before her.

Maradif stood a bowed man, stooped, silent. Eowyn noticed again the worn quality of his clothes, but this time, his posture and manner too was humbled.

"Well, have you your results?" she asked, her voice sharper than she originally intended. Maradif virtually flinched at this. He opened his mouth to speak, but some inner shame made him silent again. He started, voice shaky.

"My dear lady," he muttered, "I fear that when I tell you what you bade me to, I will fall blame to it. Nonetheless, I accept fault for it, and I will accept the penalty."

"What is wrong?"

He hesitated again, and began, "I filtered through the remainder of the phial you gave me, and it was perplexing. The potion contains all the ingredients that are prescribed…" he faded out.

"And?" Eowyn prompted.

"Ah… well… there were some extra elements… that were not prescribed."

"Meaning?"

"My lady the medicine was not lacking anything!" he implored, "It contained everything you needed, you and your child… all the remedies… I put my life into my recipes! … but, yes, it must have been… I must have accidentally added something, when making it, perhaps I knocked something into the mixture…"

"What was added?"

"--It was nothing harmful, and I do not think it will affect the child majorly in any way, even with such a dosage-"

"But what was it?"

Maradif paused again, and then said, "It was a sleeping potion… but not one for inducing sleep. It would certainly explain the sleepwalking you mentioned."

Eowyn nodded calmly, scrutinising the healer's expression closely. She had never classed him as a liar – he'd seemed more the gullible type – yet something about his 'excuse' didn't fit.

"Master, since you say you made that medicine and endangered the well-being of the Lady of Ithilien, I would easily order guards here to execute you." She said curtly, without emotion.

Maradif gave a breathless gasp, and collapsed onto his knees on the floor, too wordless to beg for mercy.

"However," Eowyn turned in her seat to face him, "If my memory serves me correctly, the medicine in my vial was not prepared by you."

"What?"

"On that day, you asked you apprentice to fill the vial, while you and I were still talking. He made the potion and added the ingredients, not you." She said, letting her expression calm him and watching his face break out in relief. But she was not quite done, "Do you not remember that, or were you trying to protect your little protégé?"

"I-I…"

"Never mind." She raised a hand, "I do not trust him, I'll be blunt in that. You may go, leave for Bree if you wish, or stay in Ithilien."

"But what about your baby?"

"I…" Eowyn turned, gazing out the window into the settlements, "I will have to stop relying on charms and omens."

She remained silent for a while, almost brooding, and Maradif wondered whether he should leave. He had not told her everything: his apprentice had left. He who had once called himself Noraliwi at Umbar had taken his things, and several valuable things that were not his, and disappeared. The river was rising with the coming of new seasons, and in a few weeks, Maradif and the rest of the encampment would have to find a new place to live. He had few regrets – those were past his time of life, and he did not critisise himself for unwittingly trusting the boy. No, the boy had been a good companion. Yet he had been involved in other things. Other large, dangerous things. Maradif had minded his own business wisely on these matters, yet there was no denying the truth: he had been used and betrayed.

"Madam… I'm afraid I cannot leave." He said, mustering his courage.

"Ah… the camp is flooded?"

"No. I wish to stay here by your side for one night only. It is to do with the matter of your welfare. Please do not ask me questions until I have explained my exact reasons." And he fixed his eyes on her feet and explained.


Eowyn slept fitfully that night. Once again Faramir was busy and staying away from home – this time his excuse was that he personally involved in a kidnap/assault investigation – but this time she had not rebuked him and went to her own chamber without complaint. If he wanted to play watchmen, tonight she would not stop him.

She had organised Maradif a guest room, feeling that she owed him something. He had done her some service with a good heart, if poor results.

At some time past midnight, she woke. The window had been open and cold night air shivered on her skin. She got up from her warm bed and tugged the shutter closed. Beside her bed was a newly prepared bottle of medicine that Maradif had brought for her, and he had explained earlier on why it was half empty.

Tonight, her head was clear.

In cool readiness she left her chamber and walked along familiar corridors. In nothing but a nightdress and a long woollen robe, she went into the drawing room.

The girl was not there, but Denethor was, sitting in his usual place. Eowyn glanced at the open window behind him. It lead to the balcony that faced the city's business district. It had been that easy. She stood in front of him as he sat in the throne-like chair, calm, cool, collected, and smiled inwardly to see that his usual sneer was wavering in the face of her composure.

"Ah, my daughter, you have returned." He said in his thick, throaty voice.

Eowyn smiled, and the subsequent flicker of annoyance and surprise that appeared on the Spirit of Denethor pleased her even more. How could she had been such a fool! To be gulled and almost driven mad by such a cheap ploy! Denethor indeed! Even his skin was wrong.

She glanced towards the dark of the open door, seeing Maradif standing there, hiding and watching, and she gave the slightest of nods. His shadow disappeared.

Returning her attention to the seated spectre, she flashed her teeth in a courteous greeting, "Hail, oh my father, worthy one, noble lord, Denethor, son of Ecthelion."

He must know by now, she thought, as the seated figure stirred uncomfortably, he must know that I know.

Yet Denethor recovered, "I had thought you would have thrown yourself off a tower by now. You, and that spawn in your belly."

Eowyn winced at this, but continued with infinite graciousness. She threw herself dramatically at the feet of the seated, and grasped his hand as if an adoring child, "Oh, my dear father, I know truly that you do not mean this. You do love your son! And you love me too! Oh father, I know that crusty exterior hides a loveable old soul! You can smile, and you have smiled before! Oh will you not smile on us?" and she flashed her most adorable smile. To see the look on the man's face was worth throwing away that piece of dignity.

Denethor the Evil's fingers were itching – Eowyn could see thoughts calculating behind those eyes as she smirked at them and held his hand lovingly. His make-up was poorly done, they really didn't think she would notice, and with that drug she really hadn't. Maradif had said with the right dosage a man could confuse his wife and his mother. But he had realised by now tonight he could not put on his play, and now, surely under those old grey robes (such bad costuming) he would surely produce a knife or a garrotte…

Eowyn reached up her hand and caressed his cheek, trying hard to smile as she did so. He flinched, but she continued, and then, in one instant, she pulled off his wig.

Denethor lunged forward, his fingers reaching for Eowyn's head – did he plan to snap her neck or strangle her to make it look like an accident? – but she leapt back, and from her own nightrobe, she had not forgotten her swordsmanship…

Her hand was quicker. The tip of a long steel blade now pointed at the man's throat. He was not Denethor. He had never been. He also had no hair now.

Eowyn looked at the man sitting in the chair, her face one of disgusted contempt. She brandished the grey haired wig away from her, and then hurled it at his feet.

"I remember you." She said quietly, as he sat unmoving, her blade still at his neck, "You name is Noraliwi. Or rather, it is not. The Healer's Apprentice, poor, penniless and humble; yet in your ear you wore a jewel of sapphire and your grasp of herbal lore, and poison, is formidable." There was a ping as she tapped her sword tip against the earring, and the man flinched again.

"Who do you work for? Speak!" she cried at him, threatening him with her sword.

He leaned calmly back in the chair, and put his hands together daintily, "I work for myself. Maradif Ar-Shahrazad does not count. And tonight, if you kill me, fair lady, it will be futile. This is your last stand, but we have already made ours. By the way, my name is Noraliwi, son of Hersherod. "

"What are you doing? Why have you been doing this?"

"Why?" Noraliwi laughed, "Do you really not know, or are you just pretending? I see you really want to know this, else you would have called guards inside the palace long ago. To be frank, this isn't much of a palace. I'd bet Elessar's would put this to shame. Shame he's on the throne, really. Do you know, if he had not become King, and Boromir were gone, it would be your husband ruling all of these lands? Although perhaps not. You would worry about his workload." The haradrim man sneered, "He was too weak. And still is. And Boromir would beat him at everything. And to everything. Perhaps even to you."

Eowyn, as astounded as she was by this man's grasp of history, was not deterred, "Tell me why."

Noraliwi leaned forward, voice low, "You have enthralled my nation."

"We most certainly have not! You have been freed! You should be thankful!" Eowyn cried.

"Exactly! We are to be eternally thankful to your gracious nations! You, who defeated Annatar, Sauron; you with better blood in your veins and whiter skin on your face, to whom we owe an eternal debt for your charity! And we are to smile and nod at your feet when you throw us scraps of meat, and beckon to your every call. I do not call this freedom. I call this humiliation. We are thralls."

Eowyn was confounded, she couldn't help it, "But, power is being given back to your nations. My husband is part of the ceremony – he wrote the treaty – that will return proper governing to your lands."

"With a governor that you chose. What life is this?"

"It will be a better life than the one you had under Sauron, living and fighting alongside orcs!" she yelled at him, and he had no answer. For a moment she felt pity for this man, this boy. He was much younger than she originally thought, perhaps twenty, but not yet thirty. But it was a moment, and the moment passed.

"So. you felt humiliated. And you felt the need to do this to me." She spat at him.

Noraliwi smiled, "Good plan, no? Tell me, there was a point when you wanted to commit suicide, no? You die, Faramir cracks and crumbles, Elessar's major ally is removed. Then we would do the same to Rohan, Eriador, Dol Amroth… and finally Gondor. Attack them at the home; kill them from inside…" he laughed, "It was a good plan. But perhaps we didn't look into it enough."

"Did it not tire you to dress up every night?" Eowyn said dryly.

The man laughed again, a coarse vulgar sound, "In my youth, I was an actor and a con artist. No, far tougher was conjuring up that little daughter of yours! I never lied a word to you about her. I never even said she was your daughter – you discovered that for yourself! She is as much mine as she is yours!"

For a sickening moment, Eowyn was caught unexpectedly, "Is she alright?" she said weakly.

He looked at her expression and laughed again. Then, in one fell movement, he ducked under her blade and with his foot kicked her hard in the chest. He had aimed for her stomach, but she too had moved. From his own clothes, he produced a long knife, and he swung it around him in an arc.

Eowyn breathed away the pain, hoping her child was safe. Her grip on her sword was tight, she recovered her stance, and stood facing him again. He was armed now, with a knife, not a sword. In arms, he was at a disadvantage, but the less weight meant he could move faster.

But she grinned briefly to herself. She had not been called Shieldmaiden of Rohan for nothing.

They both attacked at the same time, lunging for each other with gritty desperation. Metal clanged. Eowyn forced him back first, with sheer strength, but then found herself having to block his moves, light and feathery as they were. She could not stop herself from enjoying the movement, the pulsing of her limbs, and the sheer sharp risk of it…

She swung her angled blade at neck level, but Noraliwi blocked that with his knife, and pushed her own sword towards her face. She stepped left and pulled her sword out of the lock, the rustic dragging sound of the two blades together echoing through the room.

Thrust, parry, thrust, parry. She shouldn't be doing this: she was pregnant.

And that thought came too soon. For a fraction of a second she lost her concentration and too late found shining steel glimmering, pressed to her throat. She had underestimated his swordsmanship.

"I suppose you'll lose nothing by killing me now?" she said, voice unsteady but calm. She had seen Maradif's shadow return to the hide of the door. He had nodded.

Noraliwi shrugged, "Nothing, everything. To me, it is now all the same. You husband may still attend his little ceremony, but your brother will not."

"What do you mean?!" her voice shook this time.

He shrugged again, brushing his knife against her skin gently, "I guess perhaps it was an act of, oh, what is the word: desperation. After all, you do not think we can succeed. Our own people do not believe we can succeed, but they were too submitting, no patriotism. They gave in to you." He sighed mournfully, "When Denethor saw his own city burning around him, he still had to make his own pyre flame."

Eowyn was getting tired of talk. Slowly, she raised her foot, and with the ball of her heel, she kicked him firmly in the groin.

Behind her, Halandil and a guard of seven men rushed in, halted, and watched in mild amusement as this criminal hobbled before them, groaning in pain.

"I am being merciful, Master Noraliwi. I cannot imagine what Faramir would do if he knew you had impersonated his father to drive his family insane, but I am sure we will find out."

Eowyn nodded, and they advanced on the fake Denethor. But then, he straightened up and threw his knife at Eowyn. Several guards tried to throw themselves in front of her, and were only slightly disappointed when she stepped aside and it embedded itself into the wallpaper.

When they turned around, the wigless 'Denethor' had leapt out the window and was in the middle of escaping. Several men leapt after him, and Eowyn watched dazedly as a moonlight chase unfurled on the rooftops of Emyn Arnen. Noraliwi had escaped, for now.

Halandil bowed to Eowyn, and nodded, "We'll find him. I do not think he will trouble you again."

But she was still unsettled, "But is that because he no longer needs to? He mentioned my brother…"

"Ah."

"What is it? Is it about Eomer?"

Halandil was grave, "Minutes before I came here, there was a message for you and his lordship from Anorien, the beacon there. They said… your brother and his men had been caught in a landslide this morning. I think we have just found the person responsible."