Part 9

Around Middle Earth, things were moving.

This is an obvious, vague remark. Things move everyday: trees, people, Dark Lord's armies…

On this day, the Markets of Ithilien bustled with new wares, food and chattel, and sought after fresh gossip, shipped in from Umbar, Osgiliath, Gondor and all about the Northern Lands.

Stirring in a secret location further south, a man of the Haradrim race named Noraliwi led a group of his men through the guarded forests, to prepare themselves for when the time came. Others moved over the hills, hiding in crags that overlooked the Harad road in the valley below. Once in position, they would not stir until the signal came.

Around Rohan, horsemen messengers rode across the green plains, delivering messages to Queen Lothiriel of Edoras, and the Lords of the Westfold and Helm's Deep, bringing news of their King Eomer, currently in the land of Ithilien.

And meanwhile, the City of Minas Tirith lay in a state of anticipation. Arwen Undomiel, High Queen of Gondor and the Reunified Kingdoms, sat cradling her small son in the open balcony window of the royal home. Eldarion fidgeted restlessly with a small toy sheep on her lap, asshe stared outside, motionlessly . The procession below wove through the layered streets of the stone city. At the head, her husband rode tall and proud, the ceremonial winged crown of the Kingdoms upon his dark head. She smiled inwardly, as she knew how much he hated wearing the damned heavy thing.

The crowds had gathered, as they always did when a royal parade came in sight. She could see several children throwing ribbons and coloured papers, and older men and women cheering.

As the huge train of Heralds, ministers and knights came to the gates, they paused, waiting for the huge mithril-fortified doors to be opened. Arwen stood up so she could see better, holding up Eldarion that he could watch his father. The crowds were silent, as King Aragorn Elessar made a small indulging speech, and clapped when he finished. Then, Arwen watched as he turned his horse around so that he faced her from her balcony view.

Smiling, as the people watched, he performed a lavish bow from atop his horse to her. Arwen, hoisting her son onto her hip, returned it, inclining her head. There was a polite cheer.

Then, just before he turned to leave, he pressed his fingers to his lips, and sent a kiss in her direction, his arm saluting her.

She laughed, and blew a kiss back, before watching him ride through the gates onto the plains outside, his men following him on their path to another foreign land, another quest, another adventure.

And she sat down once more at her velvet cushioned chair, not daring to wish that she was there with her husband, not daring to yearn that she was beside him, helping him in his work. She did her Queenly tasks, attending her king, looking after the household, not interfering with his duties…

So, sighing, she put down her son and did her duty. Taking some unfinished embroidery from a shelf, she worked, as she prepared herself for this next task: to wait.


Eowyn eyed her husbands apparel critically, sometimes pausing to wipe at a non-existent speck of dust, as the two of them ate breakfast together in the drawing room. They were joined by Legolas, who sat at the far side of the breakfast table, and Eomer, whose voracious appetite did not extend to dairy products.

"Pah, eggs again. I despise eggs." He said, seeing the customary boiled egg upon his plate, "Nurse fed me too many of them when I was an infant. I have refused to eat them since the age of four."

"That is a shame," said Faramir, "All our fresh produce is local, and of very good quality. This land is renowned for her climate and the crops and food it brings."

"I know that well." Legolas said, biting into his roll of raisin bread and butter, "In the woodland we do not have granaries and pantries of such a great quantity. There is not that much land to grow food, yet this is a trifling problem, as our numbers are few, and our appetites small," he glanced at Eomer's plate, already obscured by the pile of sausages, bread and fruit upon it, "Still, I shall be sorry to leave this rich cuisine behind."

"Then don't return home!" Eomer cried, "Come with us. Perhaps you feel insignificant because you will not sign the treaty, but your presence will be valued!"

"Indeed," said Faramir, "After all, it was you who helped us choose Khalifah as instated head of that country. If you and Gimli were both there, it would show unity between the races of all kinds in Middle earth."

"This is an idea worth thinking about," Eowyn spoke up, "But where is our worthy friend, Gimli, son of Gloin?"

"Unfortunately, my dwarven compatriot cannot be here with us." Legolas said, peeling himself an orange, "He is spending some well earned holiday at the Caves. I do believe he is trying to find a wife. Perhaps I should join him. These are times of Man, after all, and I am no longer needed."

"Nonsense! The more the merrier!" Eomer cried, "It will be just like the Pelennor, we allies in battle once again!" but immediately after saying this, he fell silent, perhaps remembering a certain beloved man, both uncle and father to him, that he had lost forever at that same battle.

"I seem to recall I was recuperating at the time," Faramir said shyly, glancing at his smiling wife, who kissed him on the cheek and said quietly,

"It is not as if you did not win a victory of your own there."

Faramir grinned, but said to Legolas, "That was a fine day though. I heard much of your valour too, Lord Legolas. There was that amazing story of how you single-handedly tackled that oliphaunt by climbing onto its back, shooting it full of arrows and sliding down the trunk onto the earth as the beast fell!"

Legolas chuckled, "To Gimli, it still only counted as one. I cannot disprove that story as false, but the tongues of people like to exaggerate stories. Prince Eldarion's nurse is one of those people." He said, humour in his eyes, much to the mirth of Faramir, before standing up, "Come now, Eomer and Faramir, you leave later this day. Surely you must prepare the things you need on this long trek?"

"Oh!" Eowyn cried, her hands to her face, "Must you leave so soon?"

Faramir couldn't help noticing her voice was a little fractured, "It will not be as long as you think." He said softly, "I will be back before you can realise, in time to greet the little one's arrival. Besides, since our Elf Lord friend shall not be coming with us, you will have him here to keep you company."

Legolas performed a short bow, "Madam, I am at your every whim and call." He said grandly.


Ezekh bowed, "My lord, Danilbar's men are safely hidden, and Lannat's are positioning themselves as we speak. I… have practised my task to perfection."

"Good, good. The plan will come to pass."

Uncertainty skirted across Ezekh's face, "My Lord, I- I do not mean to lack confidence in your scheme, but… can this work?"

Noraliwi looked hard into the jittery man's face. His mind was cloudy, but this plan was beautifully clear. He remembered a time when the land and he were younger. It had been different then. The wars, the meanings of war had been different. He had fought under Annatar, by his father's side. His father had been the greatest warrior of the tribe, proud and tall and fierce in battle that even the disgusting orcs who fought beside them feared him. Even when upon the battlefield his armour was pierced to the flesh, once, twice, again, the blood pouring from the wounds and spitting red from his mouth, he had not stopped nor fallen. It took a Gondorrim sword to run him through, straight through the back, before he finally collapsed. Noraliwi could remember the grisly beauty of the scene even now. If he concentrated, the sounds of the aftermath came back to him – the iron sound of battle, the dying moan of his beloved, feared, dearest father mixed with his own childish cries. That same man beat him every night. He used to say it would make him a man.

Perhaps now, he could make him proud. Father hated the white men. The white men came eons ago, from an island far out to west where the land of the Gods could be seen from its peak. First they were kind and generous to the people they visited. Then they started asking for things in return; food, taxes. In the end, the kindness turned to cruelty, and his ancestors became no more than slaves to the Numenoreans.

They died, in the end, his father had told him. The wrath of the sea gods put the island to end, but the men who fight us and Annatar now are their descendants. Those that survive now are no better than their ancestors. We must put an end to all of this. That is why we fight…

"My lord?" There was still faint worry in this soldier's eyes. Ezekh was a coward. Noraliwi blinked, returning himself to the glassy world around him. He explained:

"If my guess is right, and Lannat's spies are correct in their claims, the troops will leave Emyn Arnen to arrive at the Crossing of Poros in the late evening." He began, "They will camp here, by the river, where there is fresh water and reasonably dry land. As the men settle for sleep, you and a few others, disguised, will approach the royals, claiming to be emissaries of Khalifah. You must lure them away from the tents, to me. Meanwhile, the men in the woods and mountains will then launch their attack on the camp. Burn it all. All will be ready for when Elessar's entourage arrives. We may kill one, if it comes to it, as a warning. We will make him choose which he would have live. If he wants the other, still alive, he will return control of the southern kingdoms, to us, and not interfere in future."

"But, my lord, what if… what if…?"

"If we should be… interrupted or should aught go wrong, our task will then be to eliminate The Steward and the Horse King as quickly as possible. Anyone who does not escape must not survive as a prisoner. Tell that to your men. Understand?"

"Yes, my lord… are you saying we should commit suicide if caught?"

Noraliwi stared at him firmly, "Better to burn in death than live life as thralls." He smiled to himself ironically, "That is what Denethor understood a little of as well."


Eowyn brushed back a strand of golden hair from her face.

She looked down, hands on hips.

Ceremonial robes were packed. As were necessary hunting boots, walking boots and cloth slippers for indoor wear. She had made sure to force three extra pairs of thick socks into his pack; though he told her the climate was much warmer down south she persisted, insisting that socks had more than one use, as bandages, for instance. "Whatever would I use bandages for?" He had asked, and she had replied, "I do not want to think about it."

She had personally made his lunch rations as well, supervising the kitchen staff as they loaded the food supplies onto the long caravan-wagon.

Now, she heaved, wincing at the slight ache in her lower back, as she pushed a last trunk of Faramir's clothes and weapons onto the wagon.

"My Lady, I implore you to stop!"

Eowyn turned to see Legolas running towards her, and then his smart hands took the packages off her and pushed them with the others, as if as far away from her as possible.

"Legolas, what do you mean by this? Am I some cripple, to be coddled and preserved?" she said haughtily.

"My Lady, I mean no offence by this. I know well your strength and while I would not dare to provoke your match under normal circumstances—"

"—You mean to undermine me!—"

"—In your present condition, Lady Eowyn, I cannot stand by while you work so strenuously. For the good of that child in your womb, Madam, please! Rest!"

Eowyn mouthed furiously, then turned away.

"What is happened here?" Faramir had heard their loud voices from the stables and come over, "Eowyn, what has Legolas done to anger you?"

The Elf coughed gently, "I am grievously sorry to have offended so. Lady Eowyn was hauling some of the heavier trunks, and I feared for… for her safety."

Faramir stared incredulously at his wife, "Eowyn! Do not scare me. You know better than that. We are not concerned for your well-being alone. Legolas has every right to tell you so."

She nodded, and he noticed how tired she looked.

"I am sorry Legolas. My tongue was too quick and sharp to you." She gave a bleak but sincere smile, "Thank you. I do understand, and appreciate your kindness and concern."

"Then you will let me finish these tasks for you? It will be my pleasure." He said coyly.

Her smile widened, "Then it shall be mine too."

The Elf took her hand in a caring kiss, and then left to manage the horses for the trip.

"Oh Faramir, I am so tired!" Eowyn cried suddenly, suddenly burying her head against her husband. Faramir started, not accustomed to this kind of behaviour from his normally icy-calm wife.

"Have you had more dreams? Has Noraliwi returned? I should have more guards for you…"

"No, no, nothing like that." She said quietly, "I just feel… awful. I was sick again this morning. I cannot eat without retching minutes after. My headache will not go away. Everything seems to hurt and the midwife said it was all normal! I feel like screaming or crying. I do not like this!"

Faramir held her consolingly, and kissed her, "Hush. You are strong, my shieldmaiden. You have not held a child inside you for so long before, and needed no miracle medicines to achieve this. This is a brave task, but you have done worse. And all will be over when the babe comes."

She smiled, and a little colour filled her cheeks, "You will be there with me?"

"I promise. I wish I could stay here with you…"

"No, I would not ask that of you. I will be well here."

"I would pray for it." He looked up, seeing Eomer waving at him from his horse. They had had him harnessed down so he would not slip, which he did not seemed to appreciate. His broken leg was propped inside a cast, a wooden box-frame that encased the limb. It would prevent further injury, but on a horse, it looked ridiculous. The Rohirric King knew it too. Faramir smiled to himself.

"This is Farewell, my love." He said, sweeping a bow to his wife. She kissed him again, holding his face in her hands, before letting him mount his horse in a jump. Eomer trotted over carefully, and allowed himself to be kissed and embraced by his sister, who also slid him a small packet of spiced beef, whispering, "For the journey." He held her, whispering in her ear, "Westu hál, Eowyn." And she repeated the blessing of their Rohirric tongue, "Westu hál. Ferðu, Eomer, ferðu.", Be thee well, go-thou, Eomer, go-thou.

And then she stepped back, accepting her place in the home. Legolas stood beside her, and she was thankful for his presence. Together, they waved as the train of men, horses and wagons trailed and bumped along, out of the palace stables, out of Emyn Arnen and out of Ithilien. There was no parade here, as there was for Aragorn Elessar, but the farmers and people of the towns came out of their homes, and watched their Steward go by. Some threw flower petals, and others oatcakes wrapped in leaves and paper for the troops. The Prince of Ithilien was well-liked.

"Will he be well?" Eowyn asked, standing and watching from the stable courtyard, to no one in particular.

"Of course," Legolas replied from beside her, "And if he is not, I am sure you will rescue him sufficiently." He gave her a brash grin, and she couldn't help laughing.


Rain pattered steady against the bedroom window. It had started a few hours earlier, and though it was not heavy, showed no sign of stopping. The summer was drawing to a close, and autumn winds echoed through the palace corridors. Fires had been lit, and the smoking embers cast trailing shadows across the solid walls of the chamber.

Eowyn wrapped a blanket around herself as she sipped a little warmed milk – her evening custom before going to sleep. Sometimes she used to drink some wine for insomnia, but now, she had to be a little more responsible. She drank the rest slowly, her hand resting on her now slightly-bulging abdomen.

Faramir was probably setting up camp about now. They were following the route of the river to the border of South Gondor, and would then wait for Elessar's party to catch up to them, before going onwards, south, south, into the horizon…

Eowyn felt the flickers of sleep around her eyes, and laid down on her bed. She did not fear to sleep now, yet even if she did, she knew she was protected. Legolas was not far, and she herself was protected…

She laid her head on her pillow, wrapping her blankets around her tightly, imagining the arms of her lover were holding her now. And she settled into dreams of

Eowyn

A voice. Eowyn's eyes opened, but she stayed totally still. The rain outside had stopped. One hand travelled under her pillow, to feel the hard, cold metal under there. She gripped it tightly.

Eowyn

This would not happen again. Eowyn kicked off her covers, diving onto the floor in a careful roll so as not to disrupt her belly, and held the dagger before her, her arm ready, her feet firm.

Eowyn

Always, that voice. It did not sound like Noraliwi's, and Eowyn did not feel remotely asleep this time. She glanced at the empty glass of milk by her bedside.

"Where are you? Who are you? Come out! Come out so I can see you!" she snarled into the darkness.

She had expected him to laugh, to laugh a wild cackle at her endeavours – should she scream for help? - but there was a faint sound, almost, no… it was a sigh.

"Oh very well…" the voice said.

And a few feet before Eowyn, a shadowy figure appeared, seemingly out of thin air. She restrained her gasp, tightening her grip on the dagger and did not move her stance. It was an old man. His robes were black, grey, echoing a sort of forgotten old age. His hair was grey and his hands red.

"You again! A better wig this time I see!" She yelled, and lunged for him. she could have sworn the blade passed into his clothing, and yet he was unharmed.

"I am not he." The man said, when she leapt back,"I am not the man who would cause terror to innocents for his own agenda. I cannot say I am sinless myself, but I would never harm you in any way."

Eowyn peered suspiciously at him.

"Who are you? Why are you here?"

The old man looked back, his eyes dark but full of soul, "We have never met, I believe, Eowyn, daughter of Eomund, but would you not recognise your father-in-law?"

Eowyn looked at him, and couldn't help feeling a shock at the similarity between this man and her husband. He was older, greyer, but they had the same grey soulful eyes, the proud nose, the smooth jawline…

"I don't believe you. Denethor is dead. I am going to call for guards."

"You will not." The figure said, and the force of the command cracked her resistance. Eowyn took a shaky breath. The knife had had no effect on him…

"Who are you, again I ask?" she whispered.

The man paused, and then moving fluidly, as if floating, sat down at the window seat.

"In life, I was Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Steward and ruler of Gondor during the War of the Ring." He said solemnly.

Eowyn found her hand was shaking. She steadied her breathing, swallowed and said, "You're dead."

"It is better this way. The common folk would have preferred a bloodline king to Boromir any day, no matter how good a ruler and steward he is. Or would have been," The man's eyes shone briefly, "The people like stories. They like heroes and Kings. They want fairytales. Unfortunately, I have been condemned the villain by too many, including my living son." His voice was genuinely sad, "Death makes things so much clearer."

The Lady of Ithilien however, was still shaking. "I must be dreaming." She said.

"Perhaps. It might be better if you thought that."

Eowyn looked at the dagger in her hand, and without thinking, drew a shallow cut over her left forearm. She closed her eyes for a second, and gasped to see a liquid red line appear over her white skin. The pain was real.

"There was really no need for that." Denethor said, not unkindly.

Eowyn lowered her dagger, but did not let go of it, "Are you a ghost?" she asked in a tight voice.

"No. I do not think so. Ghosts are lost. They have no purpose but to haunt the living and the loved. I have no intention of doing that. It seems someone else has been playing the ghost, and he is about to do something much worse. That is why I am here. I am not real; nor am I physically here, that is why you cannot hurt me… it is complicated. Suffice to say, daughter-in-law, I am paying you a long due visit."

Her eyes narrowed, "How can I trust you? How do I not know you are not a very good impostor?"

Denethor sighed again, the sincere sigh of an old and weary man, "Well… Since you are his wife, and one of the few people close to him…" he paused, thinking, "You are familiar with certain areas of his anatomy, I hope?" he said.

"Of course," Eowyn replied derisively, suppressing a blush.

"Then… you will know that Faramir has a birthmark?"

Eowyn was silent.

"When he was born I thought it rather amusing, a child born with a carrot on his rear! Ho! A perfect silhouette, growing out of his— I'm sorry my dear..?"

"I said…" Eowyn closed her eyes tightly, waving her hand in the air, "which cheek?" she finished in a small voice.

"His right." The seated Denethor replied without hesitation, "But Eowyn, if you love him, you must trust me tonight. I love you as a daughter, though you know not, and I could not be happier my son has found solace with you, but if you love him, you must trust me and listen to me when I say that Faramir and your brother both are in grave danger tonight! "

Eowyn did not speak. She was too shocked.

"You said yourself," the old man continued, " 'under that crusty exterior hides a loveable old soul'. I am He. You must go to Faramir. You must warn him. Save him! Both you husband's and your brother's lives are in danger tonight and they do not know that they are walking into a trap!

"A false one will come to them tonight. Do not, do not let them be lured away from the camp. They have many men, troops. They and the camp must be warned."

He peered into Eowyn's eyes, and she was startled again by the likeness, "It will be dangerous," he said, and touched her hand.

Eowyn inhaled…

Faramir patted the boy on the head, sweeping the cloak around his shoulders. The child continued playing with his toys, sent that day from Brandy Hall, with Master Meriadoc's compliments. From Tookland too, had come a variety of sweets and toys. His arms were too short to reach the table, so he piled them all on his lap. Faramir chuckled.

He bent down to Eowyn, seated in her armchair, and kissed her, before straightening up and fastening his cloak.

"The season seems unusually chill," he said, "I shall have the seamstresses make new curtains for the nursery."

"Perhaps they could make some more baby clothes too." she heard herself say. He turned.

"Are you…?"

"Goodness, no. I would not surprise you like that. Mareth said Arwen is expecting again. A little princess this time."

"Perhaps Elboron could do with a little sister too…"

…and blinked.

She did not remember having sat down, but she was now, disorientated. Denethor was looking at her, kindly, a little like Theoden used to.

"Was that… the future?" she asked, her throat strangely parched.

"If you would make it so." he said emphatically.

Neither said anything for a while, but the still darkness around them was warm and oddly comforting. The fire had gone out.

"I loved Faramir," Denethor began in his solemn, hollow tone, and Eowyn found herself listening to his words, "I loved him like I loved his mother. Boromir took after me, but they were so alike, Faramir and Finduilas. And in those torturous months, every day that Faramir grew taller, his mother grew weaker and withered. Perhaps I blamed him. I loved her so much. It killed me to watch her die.

"I love Faramir no less. I want you to tell him that. Many people wondered why I tried to burn him. I was mad with grief. It was like losing Finduilas a second time. I wanted to… to take myself and her son to her, to bring her her family, together again." Denethor paused, "And then of course, in my last mortal moments, I realised my remaining son was alive. A small comfort to a dying man."

Eowyn stared at her father-in-law, numb surprise at the fact he was slowly becoming transparent…

Denethor looked down resignedly at his shimmering image of a body, "I must leave now. Farewell Eowyn-daughter! Take fifty men and your most trusted guards and go to your husband. Ride quickly, shieldmaiden! He is in need of you."

Eowyn wanted to ask more, but the vision was fading. She stuttered, and called out, "And what of my child? Will it live?"

And the last words of Denethor came to her ears as an echo, a voice thrown about the room: "I am not the only one guarding him."

And then there was only dark silence, and the sound of Eowyn's own heartbeat and ragged breath.