A/N: Coming soon, the long-awaited Epilogue, to a computer near you...

-&-

The Crossing of Poros: part 2

In the clearing, Noraliwi waited, and his grin widened as the flickering procession of light came into view. At the appearance of the two disorientated Rulers, he flashed his yellow teeth and bowed low, to the sniggers of the cloaked men. The lords Faramir and Eomer frowned, but did not react. They gazed around them; above, the fringes of the sky were blotted out by a spindly canopy of trees. There was no fire lit; small torches around the perimeter provided a sickly amount of light - not enough to send smoke signals, but enough to show figures and shadows, shadows and figures. They were cut off and alone, perhaps even in drugged mind this was realised; and far away enough from the camp (how many minutes to walk here: three, thirty?), but that was small worry. With the whole camp at Poros dosed with the drug, they wouldn't be able to tell sword from fish.

"You have done well, Ezekh," Noraliwi said without glancing at his henchman. To the lords however, he was oily in his words.

"Welcome, men! It is good to have you here at last. So I have waited to meet you, so long you cannot understand - but now, tonight, together we are. Here." He smiled again. "I do not believe we have met. I do however have a close acquaintance with a mutual friend of ours. Your wife, Lord Faramir, and your sister, majesty of Rohan." He finished with a nod, his eyes lingering on Eomer's wheelchair.

Faramir shook his head. Noraliwi's smile fell. The effect of the drug was not permanent. Soon, the Steward would come to his senses. With a glance at the other men in the circle, he nodded smartly.

From the shadows came a cudgel, a rope, and pairs of arms.

"Now my lords, I see you are both tired. Perhaps it is time to take a rest? Some sleep would do you good."

Both men were clubbed hard in the back of the head. Faramir fell to his knees, groaning in pain. Eomer, though seated, was knocked hard off his chair and lay upon the ground in a stupor.

"It is a strange experience to have the two of you bow to me." Noraliwi continued, smiling widely, "A very pleasant one too, at that."

His eye twitched as he watched Faramir's face, coming to an unwelcome realisation that Denethor would have looked something like that as a young man too. The same nose and cheekbones, perhaps the same hair. The same hue of lake and sky in his iris... Noraliwi cursed himself mentally and looked away. Gods! Denethor was dead! That part of the plan was long over, and the humiliation still haunted him.

Yet still that unsettled feeling kept creeping over, making his palms sweat as if they were burning...

"It is time," he croaked, "That the West should kneel to us."

He watched Faramir carefully, out of the corners of his eyes, as the two were bound with ropes. He continued his speech:

"The King of Gondor will come in the morning. If you wish to live, you must pray that he acquiesces to our demands: namely, that all Gondorrim men, or any of your northern kingdoms, shall not traverse further south than this river in future, which shall henceforth represent geographical boundary for both our nations. That Elphir and the militia that you keep at Dhakar and the other cities in Harad and Rhun are removed and do not return. Khalifah shall be removed and guardianship returned to the Barons of the Sands... me. That the Lords of the Western kingdoms will hold oath to refrain from interfering in our politics, or our rule. These are our simple requests. If he does not comply to these wishes, or does not provide proof of goodwill in his co-operation, he will find his allies become corpses."

"You will not succeed." Faramir said quietly, as the rope wound around his neck and then tied his hands behind his back; the curved sword on the skin of his neck forced him to remain kneeling, "Aragorn will never agree to your demands when you employ this barbaric violence. His will once strove against Sauron's and did not fail!"

"Vain hopes, my good Steward. You may wish to curb that tongue, lest I remove it. It would make a fair gift for the King of Gondor. Or even, his Queen."

Something akin to a bark burst from Eomer, "Do not sully the Queen's honour with your foul lips! You are not worthy to speak of her!" he struggled weakly against his guards, who forced him back into his chair.

Noraliwi bent forward so his face was level with the King of Rohan's, "I am surprised, majesty, that Queen Arwen Evenstar's security concerns you more than that of your own wife. Unlike your sister, Queen Lothiriel was left completely alone..."

Eomer's face was white, and he shook, "You...y-you would not... I barely... you could not..."

Noraliwi leered, his smile stretching like a hound's, "I found Eowyn well enough, did I not?"

A second passed, and then Eomer lunged for him. Noraliwi leapt back, caught unaware, but then thrashed his fist against Eomer's face, causing a groan of pain. More hands and ropes successively bound the King of the Mark.

"This is not the way to gain independence for your state!" said Faramir, his voice steady, but urgent now, "I will guarantee: if you let us go, I will personally deliver your demands and speak for you in conference with King Elessar. He will hear your requirements and accede to them. If our present peace and trade agreements are not satisfactory, I will take your considerations and amend the documents where we can find compromise. We have all suffered under the terror of Sauron. Surely it is a glorious time now? He is overthrown and darkness vanished from Middle Earth. Now is the time for the building of a golden age! If we co operate, trade and make peace, all of Middle earth will prosper! You do not need to resort to this kind of act."

There was a silence after these words; not the dramatic weight of deafening soundlessness, but an expectant hollow in the air. It was barely perceptible, but the guards around Faramir were listening. Some of them could speak Westron, or at least, the mangled version they were taught during the wars; most had a basic understanding of words, but more understood his emotion: he had their full attention. Yet none dared speak, nor make any movement of assent. Faramir surveyed the guards in the clearing. Few dared meet his eyes, save Noraliwi, who stared him full. He spoke again, "What will your men do after you succeed or fail? Where can they go? I beseech you now, Master Noraliwi, Aragorn Elessar is a merciful and just King. If you place yourself in his mercy and release us... you will not be let down."

There was silence for a few moments. A flicker passed over Noraliwi's face as he studied Faramir closely. The words were sweet, yes, but forked was the tongue that spilled the honey...

"You are a good Steward." Noraliwi said slowly. Faramir exhaled, but the man spoke again, "Elessar would be sorry to lose you." And then Noraliwi grinned.

"Give them a good dose. Conversation is tiring, and we have a long night still ahead."

There were small muffled sounds then, as men with covered mouths and small bottles around their neck came towards them, small cloth pouches in their hands. Then both Lords were smothered, as the herb-filled pillows were pressed against their mouth and nose. When the struggling stopped, and both men unconscious, one propped back on his chair, the pillows were removed.

"A great improvement; the Steward talked far too much." Noraliwi straightened up, and all was silent around him. The Steward's head drooped against his chest; the horse lord's leaning back against his chair. Now they were knowing humility. It was a gratifying sight to see them thus: here, before him, powerless, the lords of the Western Powers. These were the men that had killed his father and his dreams and his pride... these were the men that brought down the mightiest god, the Lord of Gifts himself.

Noraliwi gave an involuntary shudder. It was time to turn to the rationed wine.

"Sir?" one of the border men said quietly.

"What is it!" he snapped.

"I hear...horses."

"What are you talking about?"

The young guard shifted uneasily, "I can't see anything... but I hear movement. I think there might be people coming—"

And there he was cut off, as the metal pommel of a longsword clubbed him from behind. He fell quietly into a small heap.

The lamps around the trees gasped and blurred, as the roar of hooves poured in. The first horse, white and shining in the darkness, slowed from its gallop, rearing to a halt in front of Noraliwi, who looked on. He waited until the hooves stopped, his face perfectly impassive, before opening his arms and speaking.

"Lady Eowyn! This is a gallant entrance!" he brandished a white grin, "And the Elven lord of Ithilien too! Has Ithilien's White Lady been engaged with a paramour?"

"Unbind them!" Eowyn cried from atop her horse, seeing the two beloved men in her life subdued in a manner so undignified.

Noraliwi laughed. "You come to their rescue with an elf and barely a dozen men? This does not quite seem sane. You realise you are severely outnumbered?" He watched her eyes widen, and her jittery horse. She would be easily beaten, but still, the fact that she had found them, here, unsettled him.

"Release them." Legolas said softly from behind her. Noraliwi's eyes flickered at the elf, who had, in a fraction of a second, notched an arrow to his bow – one that was pointing at his head. His squinted at it for a few moments, while the Elf remained unmoving.

"Would you?" The Haradrim man then asked, his voice becoming low, "I have heard of your valour in battle, Master Legolas, yet all you killed then were orcs and uruks and oliphaunts, black and foul. My skin may be darker than yours, but I am no orc. Of mankind I am, same as your friends and Kings: Afterborn, Apanonar, Hildor, Firimar. I will die anyway." Legolas flinched at the use of Elvish from the foul man's lips, and then Noraliwi muttered, "Would you kill me?"

And, seeing the brief moment of hesitation on the Elf's face, he darted, taking from his belt a small hunting knife, and hurling it at Eowyn's direction. It was not aimed at her, though Legolas and she both moved to defence, but instead it struck her horse in the leg joint.

The mount reared and buckled, throwing its white mane in frenzy, as blood sprayed from its leg. The other horses panicked as it tossed and sprinted, jolting its rider. Eowyn gave a scream as she lost her grip on her reins, and then her balance, falling from the saddle onto the cold ground dully. Legolas dismounted, but Noraliwi's men moved faster: before she had hit the ground, their iron fingers were already on her shoulders. She struggled, but could not reach her sword.

"Bastard!" she yelled at the Haradrim man, as his men placed their blades at her throat. Their coarse hands searched her body, and to her grief, found the concealed blade and relieved her of it. Legolas was still, but his eyes betrayed his sudden fear.

"Let her go." He said numbly, as Eowyn struggled, the tight gloved fingers on wrists and shoulders paralysing her.

"That would prove of little use for you." Was the silky answer, "I could let your lady-friend go, but what of your lieges? I still have two hostages remaining for the Telcontar, when he joins our little party. No. I think you, elf, will join the ranks of your friends. We shall see whom of Elessar's allies is valued most. But I warn you: act, and her life is forfeit."

He indicated towards Eowyn, and the knife the men had placed against her neck. She bristled again, crying hotly, "I have never feared death!"

Noraliwi strode up to her, and pressed the edge of a knife against her skin, this time, the cold iron was pressing into her belly. Around her, her few bodyguards, dropped their weapons, and knelt.

"Too long I have waited, and struggled, and again and again, I have been thwarted by a woman. You have fought without fear of death, it is written. Yet you forget. It is not your life alone now at stake, my lady." He growled, watching her wince in pain, knowing innately that one simple plunge into that area of her body, and the nightmares would go. Cut the spawn from her belly... Denethor's grandchild... would he care? That child... that it where it all started – her child. He watched his fingers flex, and then tremble, and gave a silent gasp. And then he looked up, straight into Eowyn's ice blue eyes.

"We offered you mercy," she said gently, her arms still held prisoner, "And you repay us thus. My husband is drugged – he would not even realise..."

Yet no sooner than these words were spoken, from Faramir's lips there came a tortured cry of "Eowyn!" – ah, he had heard her voice, and the resuscitating need of a lover is enough to snap the drugged coil of sleep.

Eowyn turned to see her husband, his face dirty and horrified, as he struggled with his guards. The glazed look was gone from his features, and from his lips, over and over tumbled the word, "Eowyn!"; stopped short by another blow from the guards. It was becoming increasingly hard to restrain him however, as Eomer too was stirring from his reverie. When he took in his current situation, he roared mightily and tried to free himself; his legs, however were still weak, and he was pushed back into his chair.

"You brutes! You would harm the White Lady of Ithilien!" he yelled, but it availed little.

Faramir raised his head, "It is not her life that you came here to bargain for." He said soberly, "She is innocent in this. Let her go! I will remain for your purposes, but release her."

"Son of Denethor, do you think me a fool?" Noraliwi stared down the steward in angry fascination, waving one arm towards the sky,"When the sun rises and Elessar arrives, you would not hope to live long anyway! She came of her own whim, and now must face the consequences. Even now I can hear the chaos she caused in your camp. We of the Haradrim know at least how to control our womenfolk!"

Eowyn closed her eyes for a moment, aware of the cold blade against her skin.

Then, she kneeled down, and placed her palms to the earth. Around her were gasps, but she did not move.

"Master… Oh sir," and she looked him in the face - such a torn complexion... what horrors could he have faced in that grey past? – and spoke with passionate earnest, "O lord! I beg you now. I beg you, let me go. Let my child live. We are all at your mercy, but our lives will not buy your freedom."

"What is your point?" he drawled. Eomer moved to speak, but his sister eyed him into silence with a glance.

"I mean... Legolas and I... we came together, hoping we would be in time..." Eowyn gave out a dramatic wail, putting her face in her hands, "Please, cause no more bloodshed, no more death! Let me live, oh father!" she cried.

There was a thick silence in response to that outcry. Legolas, stunned, glanced at Faramir and Eomer, both equally bewildered. Noraliwi seemed almost amused and embarrassed at the same time.

"Father?" he enquired delicately. Eowyn looked up at him, prostrate upon the ground, her eyes shining and earnest.

"Oh, but you are my father, for the father of my husband I hold as dear as my own blood."

His reaction seemed almost one of panic. His eyes darted to Faramir's face, as if demanding answers of him. The present Steward to the throne of Gondor was silently blank, however.

"You are delusional, I think." Noraliwi said thickly, after a pause. Some of the guards were sniggering into their gloves.

Eowyn clawed after him hysterically, "Father! Do you not recognise me father? I am Eowyn! Oh, good Steward of Gondor! Denethor!" she wailed.

At the sound of that name, Noraliwi's eyes were wide. "The woman truly is mad! She thinks me Denethor!" he declared, but none around him spoke. Ezekh hovered beside him, his mouth torn between a laugh and a frown. The Lady Eowyn had the look of one possessed, yet she seemed harmless. There was the fact she thought Noraliwi was Denethor... "Too large a dosage can result in long term delirium." Noraliwi said uncertainly, "Perhaps all the turmoil of those visits and the incense this night has finally broken her mind."

"Do you remember?" she said, ignoring him. She scrabbled towards him on grazed knees, now speaking in a whisper only he could hear, "I saw you once. I saw your wife – she was beautiful. I'd never have thought it would be her son I married. You look like him." She came closer to his face, her hands cupped demurely before her mouth. "Are you unhappy for us?" she said.

And then she did something strange. She held out her palms before her face, and he saw that her skin was dusted in a fine brown powder, and this she blew into his face.

Noraliwi blinked, and feigned amusement. The powder smelt of soil, but more curious was why. Finally, the Steward's wife pushed to insanity! Perhaps that plan had not been a total failure.

"Was that magic dust, then, Elf-friend? Sand?" He muttered, seizing her wrist, "If it was poison, I must disappoint you: that I am immune to all natural poisons… or was that my--" But his voice quavered, and she ignored him still, her voice a frenetic whisper.

"He looks like her, doesn't he? Did it hurt when you tried to burn him? Did you wish to join Finduilas? Bring the whole family closer?"

He saw the glazed look in her blue eyes, but when he heard the words from her lips, it was as if teeth bit into him again and again. She was speaking nonsense, yet he understood . He knew the name Finduilas; he had read all the archives. She had been Imrahil's sister, born of Dol Amroth, allegedly 'pining' away in Gondor. Died in third age 2988. That date he remembered reading. She was nothing. A footnote in history. There hadn't been anything else about her.

But unbidden, an image rose in his mind:

Woman, Wife, Mother: dark and languid and peaceful, her face and body perfectly still, as her life wasted away in that fortress out of sight from the sea...

Noraliwi cried out, and stifled it hurriedly. It had been her, but more than that, it was a memory he had seen in his mind's eye, vivid and surreal at the same time. It had not been his memory – he had never met the woman in his life and there were no portraits of her, but it was her. He felt it. The emotions too, and that turbulent heat as he remembered...

He looked back into Eowyn's staring eyes, aware of the scrutiny of his men. She had done something, he was sure. The way she breathed... as if the world had rippled for an instantly, and everything was deceptively unchanged. Bloody Elf Magic. Why else did he see Finduilas?

But inevitably, the trees surrounding him darkened, as the shadows lengthened in his mind. He had been thankful for their cover when they first arrived here, but now they were claustrophobic. He could see movements in the darkness, figures between the trunks, lurking... waiting... he shook away the wild thoughts.

"Lord?" Eowyn again, her face a mimicry of concern, "You look unwell."

She was taunting him. The others were perfectly silent now. He glanced quickly at Faramir to see his reaction, and nearly gasped.

The oil on his face as he faced the darkness beyond in the cleansing fires. I poured the fire like I never poured the love in my heart. Sleeping, not dead. Asleep. I watched my son sleep beyond the flames...

"My Lord, that is your son." Her voice was soft and faraway, "My husband. Your youngest son..."

Asleep, this baby, darling, small and pink, whilst a five year old Boromir wondered where this new brother had come from. He had his mother's smile. Such a lovely child, eyes sad and grey when he learned she was not coming back to him. Do you feel the hurt? To have lost something that will not return? The numbness subsides, replaced: by the sharp black cold of that orb as truth tears slowly into you. How could you possibly hope for redemption?

"No.", eyes still fixed on Faramir's face, "Stop this."

Do you feel this pain? To have loved and to know shame? Do you know the feeling of defeat? To know impending doom – ah, but who will ignite the pyre for you? The fire is in your own mind and you lit it yourself, while all else burned away...

"What is this... who..." His palms were sweating, burning hot. The knife in his hand slipped onto the ground. The voice in his head was not his, but he could tell who it was trying to be.

The soldiers around him stirred, curious. Ezekh looked worried, and eyed the exits.

The seeing stone: black and shining and cold, but it sees you. The Eye saw all, wreathed in fire, consumed you. You cannot escape

FIRE

The last word was a roar inside his head. "What is this Elven magic, witch! You have cursed me with your spectres!" he yelled. Around him he felt lapping tongues of heat, threatening to devour him alive. Eowyn was serene.

"By the leaves of Athelas, I do not need to create my ghosts."

And then the forest erupted.

Two dozen riders stormed out of their hidden wait in the trees, and with them, soldiers, Ithilien infantry, armed, but also carrying... sackcloth and rope. It was the disciplined voice of Halandil shouting orders that carried in the night. The riders had surrounded the area. There was no time for conflict or skirmish. In a matter of seconds, The Haradrim insurgents were subdued one by one, threatened by the blade, if not already bound in cloth.

As Noraliwi turned to see his everything collapse, Eowyn too had moved. His head jerked back, but she was already behind him, and the cold knife he had dropped was pressed at his own throat.

"We offered you mercy." Her voice was low and chill behind his ear. Noraliwi saw, out of the corner of his eye, Ezekh try to run, making a stab at one of the riders. He wounded one, but as he ran he was brought down by the rider's horse. He heard the eggshell crack of hoof on skull, and Ezekh was on the ground.

"You will face justice, Noraliwi." Eowyn muttered, as around them scuffles burst out and were suppressed, "We offered you mercy, but you will be judged. Mankind has no Mandos like the Elves to await eternity. Nevertheless, I believe that beyond the dark circles of this world, there is justice."

"You offered me mercy!" he laughed hoarsely, struggling, "How dare you pity me! You think I am misled, damaged by life, misguided? Fool! Hypocrites! The mercy of Kings – where were you and your mercy when my mother was taken? Where was your compassion when the orcs burnt our lands? When, orphaned, I scavenged the streets and killed grown men for my hunger? It is you and your soldiers and your wars that caused me to be! So much for ghosts-- I long for justice!"

And then, with a soft jerk, he threw his elbow into Eowyn's chest, making her crumple. She cursed as she stumbled, before feeling another hard blow on the side of her head, and then at once, all of the torches around the Haradrim camp extinguished.

Frantic noise and movement as all was plunged into darkness: Shouts. Footsteps. Horses.

"Catch him!" She shrieked, and felt a comforting hand on her arm.

"Eowyn," the voice spoke, and she held tight to the hand of her husband.

There was a cry from Legolas somewhere far off in the trees – "He has fled for the river!" and then Eowyn let go of Faramir and found instead the reins of a horse.

"Eowyn!" he cried once more, but she was gone, horse and rider bursting out of the copse, guided by the light of the smoking camp and the sliver of a moon in the sky, and by the white fury that raged, rampant, in her heart.

Through the clearing, through the trees, branches scraping her arms unnoticed. Past the smoking fires of the camp, hearing the faint song of Legolas' bowstring and the thunder of her brother's war-cry (he had found a horse), through the skirmish, here, vaulting over a hurdle of tied prisoners – she tensed her legs muscles for the impact – and onward, as she traced the path of her quarry: that figure before her on the stolen horse, his cloak unfurling behind him like wings...

She followed, her heartbeat instructing her movements, but now there were two heartbeats in rhythm. One of them was faint, but firm. It would grow stronger in time and for that she would be willing to do anything. She rode. Her new horse was not a heroine's white that gleamed in the dark, no: it was jet, the midnight black of the fury within her, as if she were riding on the night itself, silent and hot and invisible.

His head turned again and again, always, to see her closing in. What fires must burned in her eyes, only he saw then; not quite the hatred he bore, but sheer indomitable will, as her steed drew closer. His huntress was the one who brought down the Witch King, mightiest of the Nine. The one who slew Annatar's greatest captain. And with every breath, he heard her, unrelenting, at his heels.

She rode on: the other horse was close, the coward upon it turning every few seconds to see her there, unfailing. This man would have killed, manipulated, tortured to have her dead, and that was but a tool for further death. And for what? Belief? His faith in his own righteousness? Blind morality, that would bend fools to murder! But there was justice. He had suffered, but he had also murdered. For all those he had wronged, betrayed, slain, there would be retribution.

When he turned he saw she was armed only with a knife. Yet still he was aware that he feared her; he feared her because now he saw that all that he had read and learned of her in those long years had been true, and because he had seen few things that he ought to have seen in these last hours. What must have floated in the dark recesses of his mind she could only have guessed at.

The moon was blurred again as clouds obscured the sky. The sound of water betrayed his path, and she followed, across the river crossing, where the flow ebbed and was low. Here, centuries before, an army had once tried to come north, and were surprised to be unchallenged at this idyllic spot. Little did they know what had awaited them.

And still, they ran, hunter and quarry, across cold waters. The rain came once more, first, in little pricking chills upon Eowyn's face, and then a deluge that stung her eyelids. The fires in the camp were doused, but neither saw nor cared. No longer were they on Gondor's soil, and both were in a small way aware of this. The plain was wide, barren, only two solitary figures beating their way across the black dust.

"You cannot chase forever!" Noraliwi cried, as icy lashings battered his face, "I never wanted it to be this way – you forced me to this! But even Denethor had to make his own pyre!"

He was hot, sweating, the water steaming off his back, but as long as he kept on riding, he could outrun her. He was faster, and she was a woman with child. And as the distance between them stretched irrevocably, there was an hollow moment, filled with rain, as both came to this realisation.

And perhaps, submerged in her own fury, Eowyn imagined it, but she heard the voice that sounded like Noraliwi's voice, and yet she knew who was speaking:

"Farewell."

And then there was a blinding flash. Light: pure; brilliant; for a moment the world exploded in white, as light seared down from the heavens in a dazzling cacophony. The sound that tore through the air was of the sky breaking in twain.

Eowyn and her mount reared, a scream unreleased in her throat, her hands across her eyes as the thunder died away.

When she blinked again, everything was quiet. Spots danced in front of her eyes, but all was dark again. Eventually, she shushed her black horse quiet. The only sounds were of her own harsh breathing, and the dripping rain down her scalp and collar. And then in a slow, enveloping wave, she was overcome by the thick raw smell of roasted flesh.

The last pyre had been lit.

-&-

And that was how Faramir found her: standing like a pillar in the dust-beaten plains, her eyes fixated on the nauseating sight before him. They had lit lanterns, which petered in the dying rain, but it made the scene no better.

He obeyed his first instincts and rushed to his wife immediately, and in a comforting gesture, wrapped a cloak around her small shoulders. She softened a little at his touch, and her hand found his and grasped it tightly. He could not see her face, so he brushed away her wet hair, and tried to avoid looking at the gruesome mess of charred flesh that lay on the ground metres from them.

"Clear the body away." He ordered brusquely, "Bury it. Do not mark the grave."

The soldier saluted the command, and with a fellow aide, covered first the stolen dead horse in a coarse sheet, wrapping the carcass fully. Then others attended to the body of Noraliwi, his naturally dark face now blackened and charred beyond recognition. There was a distressed cry, as one of them accidentally touched the skin: it flaked and peeled off in scorched black and pink sheets. Only when the body was removed did Faramir feel Eowyn's tense body relax.

"We were worried," he said gently, putting his arms around her waist from behind, "Eomer is well; he is at the camp still, taking care of everything. He still worries about Lothiriel... but I believe she is safe. Aragorn will come in the morning." She did not answer. A hollow pause ensued. "I must note, this will be the last time I leave Legolas to govern my spouse and my household affairs." He added in a more smiling tone.

She turned around to face him at last, and he saw the marked anguish over her defiantly beautiful features.

"I am sorry." She said, "I should tell you about-" but he stopped her.

"Eowyn," he said, his grey eyes startlingly bright, and he held her face in his hands as he spoke: "Eowyn! You are more dear to me than aught else I could hold in this world, and I will not deny you caused me grief tonight. But I too must beg pardon. You are a strong woman – my wife is the Maiden of the Shield-Arm, and I have been a fool to try and cosset and cage her. Never shall I repeat that mistake. But I see you are well, and I am more relieved than my words can express that you are unharmed." He watched her beloved mouth break into a smile, "I feared for you tonight, yet to see you here, whole and well, I thank Eru ten thousand fold. You do not know how much you have saved. If you had not come to us, we would likely be dead in the morning, and Aragorn would have received no word. Thus I must find myself rejoicing that you have come to me this night. There will be your tale to tell... but not now. Tonight I am content to see you here, with me. My Eowyn!"

He smiled at her, one that spoke of a heart rending joy and it wrought her deep. For eternal moments, they stared, not daring to laugh from the buried ecstasy and strange consciousness that the last few hours had imprinted on their minds. And then Faramir leaned close to her bare face and kissed her, deeply and warmly, and for Eowyn the world melted away.