A/N: We're told that it's a Hobbit custom to, on his/her birthday, to give presents to everyone, so my birthday present to the five people who read this story is a new chapter :) Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! A special thanks to the awesome Lady Demiya, who has given me tons of great advice.

I do not own anything; J.R.R. Tolkien is a genius. Apologies for messing anything up.

Nostos

-9-

The Days without Dawn

T.A. 3019

8-10 March

"There is a great fleet drawing near to the mouths of Anduin, manned by the corsairs of Umbar in the South. They have long ceased to fear the might of Gondo, and they have allied themselves with the Enemy, and now make a heavy stroke in his cause." (The Return of the King, Minas Tirith)

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"The others pressed on, but he was ever hindmost, pursued by a groping horror that seemed always just about to seize him; and a rumour came after him like the shadow-sound of many feet. He stumbled on until he was crawling like a beast on the ground and felt that he could endure no more: he must either find an ending and escape or run back in madness to meet the following fear." (The Return of The King, The Passing of the Grey Company)

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"For she is a fair maiden, fairest lady of a house of queens... a white flower standing straight and proud, shapely as a lily, and yet [I] knew that [she] was hard, as if wrought by elf-wrights out of steel. Or was it, maybe, a frost that had turned its sap to ice, and so it stood, bitter-sweet, still fair to see, but stricken, soon to fall and die? Her malady begins far back before this day." (The Return of the King, The Houses of Healing)

He was right, of course. Infuriating man. The rain that had begun as a mere drizzle had morphed into a full-fledged storm that seemed determined to dump the contents of half an ocean onto the fortress. She had ventured very briefly onto the inner curtain wall and saw that Captain Tercil had spoken truly when he said she could not cross back to the mainland that night. Not in this storm. Even her strong stomach might be tested on these waves, if the tiny little boats could withstand the churning waters.

She was shown to a tiny closet of a room; she had often stayed here during the summer when her father came to inspect the defenses of his province's most important fortress, but then of course it had seemed much bigger. It might have originally been a storeroom of some sort, for she had only a pallet to sleep on and it was icily cold, no matter how tightly she wrapped the thin blanket around herself. All too soon someone was knocking on her door and she stumbled to open it.

"Princess." It was Dánaron, holding a torch in his right hand, his left raised to knock. "You did not sleep well?"

"Not well at all," she said. "Wait a moment." She tidied herself as best she could behind a half-closed door, exchanging one particularly mud-encrusted tunic for one that was slightly less filthy. She thought wistfully of her seemingly endless wardrobe at home in Dol Amroth or even in Minas Tirith. Was it only two nights ago that she had bathed? There was no water even with which to clean her face.

"Has the storm cleared?"

"Very little."

"I wish to go onto the curtain wall," she said. She had forgotten how stifling Tolfalas was, for in the need to protect, it stripped away all freedom. There were no windows, nowhere to take a deep, gasping breath of fresh air.

"I was almost afraid the day would not come," she said once they stood in the open air. "Is that foolish of me?"

"No, my lady," he said very gravely. "I think that may yet come to pass."

The sea still writhed as if in torment, sending great waves of water crashing up onto the rocky shores of the island. On a calm day- a very rare occurrence- the water would be nearly still and almost glassy, as if just beneath the surface was not a bed of lethally sharp rocks that would wreck any ship that dared leave the relative safety of the narrow channel that ran almost parallel to the shore. Dangerous waters were these. The sky was still dark, the rain still strong; already she was soaked to the skin. The men who stood along the wall withstood it with seemingly unfailing patience, peering out through the clouds to the sea.

She went back into the relative calm of the keep.

Inside, she turned to Dánaron, who waited beside her very patiently. "What preparations have they made?"

"All the boats have been drawn into the keep or farther inland."

"Boats? But surely they wouldn't try to invade."

"A precaution only, my lady," he said. "The archers and the catapults have been readied, and the lookout has an eye turned to the south."

She shivered a little, whether from cold or foreboding she did not know. "I think I'm hungry," she said. "Have you eaten?"

He had not, explaining he had waited for her.

They made their way to the mess hall and though she took a bowl of gruel she could not turn her mind away from the thought of the Corsairs. She gagged on a mouthful; it tasted of wet sand.

"What is this?" she demanded.

Dánaron did not seem bothered. "A soldier's fare, my lady."

She choked down another mouthful. "Disgusting."

Someone laughed; catching her eye, the soldier winked. "Close your eyes. It helps."

Looking around the mess hall, she spotted Captain Tercil sitting at a table with his men and for a moment she saw not the stern, granite-faced commander she had met the night before, but just another soldier who loathed an army cook's gruel and turnip soup. Perhaps he was a man, too, one with a family: a wife and children. A home. What did he fight for?

Questions she had never considered.

Lothíriel was not a kind person, nor did she feel any great stirrings of liking for this man, so different from herself but yet not unlike those she cared for. There was something of Dánaron in his manner, though he might be more abrupt, and he seemed to care for his duty much like her brother Erchirion did: unbendingly, fixedly, without color or soaring enthusiasm but instead with quiet, unwavering dedication. Perhaps it was this consideration that brought her to smile very briefly at him before turning her attention back to her meal.

And perhaps it was that acknowledgement that led to her being summoned to his study, where she found herself among the group of his advisors, most of them middle-aged, scarred men who had seen their fair share of combat. One was especially colorful in the euphemisms he applied to the Corsairs: she blushed scarlet red and ducked her head.

A few glanced at her as if to gauge her reaction, but she sensed she was no novelty to them or perhaps they had much more pressing concerns on their mind and could not be bothered with her. Once the man- Galcherdir, she thought his name was- had paused for a breath (and a drink out of something in a flask) she leaned to Dánaron to ask him why they did not treat her with more hostility.

"I imagine they are impressed that the Steward sent you to warn them," he offered. "It was a long, difficult ride."

She nodded ruefully, for her back and legs ached like they never had before. On the ride to the White City from Dol Amroth, they had set a much more leisurely pace and followed the road. But then, three and a half months ago had been a very different time.

"And Captain Tercil is a good man. They trust his judgement," he added.

Galcherdir continued. He was a solid man, his stomach impressively rounded, but there was strength beneath his benignly doughy face, wiry power in his large hands. "They will come by night," he argued, "those bloody Corsairs! Sly, turncoat bastards, they are-,"

She was very cold, for her clothes were still damp from her brief venture out onto the walls. She pitied the poor men charged to keep watch for the Corsairs.

The unanimous agreement was to arm the catapults, for they would be most effective. In this rain, fire arrows would be of little use. Their best bet would be to slow the Corsairs as much as possible, for skilled sailors that they were, they would maneuver their ships quickly through the treacherous passage. They would have to be alert at every moment else they would slip by, as they had done for many years to raid the cities of Pelargir, though at heavy losses.

"And what," said another man, icily cold, "if they turn and fight?"

"Turn and fight? You think they will fu -,"

Tercil cleared his throat.

"- that they will turn and fight?" Galcherdir amended. "For hundreds of years, they have not had the courage to stand and fight us!"

She decided she did not much like this man who interrupted. His face was beautiful, almost like a woman's, but his eyes were smugly supercilious, his shoulders broad, his hands a map of scars. "Friend Galcherdir," he said mockingly, "your drink gives you much talk. Talk, talk, talk. Little of it does you any good."

"Peace, Malurust," said Tercil, holding up a hand. "Lieutenant Galcherdir has proven his worth."

Malurust bowed from his chair. "Of course, Captain." There was just a hint of respect in his voice for the captain. "Why should they not stand and fight?"

Utter stillness.

"After all, we have very nearly no men to defend this fortress and no reinforcements on the way. If they have even the brains of Lieutenant Galcherdir, they would storm the island."

"It would be folly," said a third. "We have the advantage- high ground!"

A fourth coughed. He was the oldest of them all, thin as a reed, his nose bright red and pealing, and he squinted as though he needed spectacles. "Much as I am loathe to admit it, Malurust here has a point. Why should they not take it?"

"Take it!" bellowed Galcherdir, but some of the fire went from his face. "We will fall!"

Dánaron looked at her very somberly. For her part, Lothíriel could only clasp her hands together tightly in her lap. What a fool she had been, to catch herself in the middle of this mess! And how she wished she were anywhere but here.

A memory tugged at her, but it was gone as fleetingly as a wisp of smoke.

"What orders from the Steward?" asked the fourth man.

Suddenly they were all looking at her.

She shook her head, unable to force words out into the open air. Then she finally managed to rasp, "None."

They were all turning to look at Tercil, as if in his face they could find some answer but there was none.

Galcherdir let out an especially inflammatory exclamation and she flinched.

"And how would they know we have no men?" demanded the third man.

"Don't trust to luck, my lad," said Galcherdir.

"The fortress must hold," said Dánaron very quietly. "The forces of Mordor are descending on Gondor."

"Osgiliath-," said the third man, but even he sounded desperate.

"Osgiliath will not hold," said Dánaron.

Silence.

"Gondor's armies can hold it!"

"Fool," said Malurust. "We lost the west bank months ago. The east is only a matter of time. Gondor cannot withstand this storm. The Corsairs from the south, Mordor from the east."

"Our concern is not Osgiliath, or even Minas Tirith," said Tercil. "We defend the Ethir Anduin."

"And what if they storm the fortress?"

"Then we fill fight."

"To the death," Galcherdir said. "That is how it will come to pass, then."

Even Malurust looked shaken, but he bowed his head.

Lothíriel fled the council as soon as she could, for she found only hopelessness in their grim plans to defend the fortress and the mouths of the Anduin. Archers. Catapults. Boiling oil. Barricades. For once Dánaron did not move to follow her, for he was just as much a commander as they. She saw not the man who was her guard but a captain who spoke with authority and who understood how to defend a fortress, a man prepared for sacrifice. It was chilling and she thought of her brothers.

Amrothos, at least, would be safe.

He went to visit his sister again but once more that strange healer-child with the purple eyes turned him away.

"You must be mad!" he protested. "My sister must be sent away with the rest of the women and children and old men. She cannot stay here! Let me say here."

The child giggled. He had never seen such terrifying eyes. And her teeth! She wouldn't eat him alive, would she? He valiantly suppressed a shudder. "She has already been sent away. Don't worry." She reached up to pat his cheek. "She is not here anymore."

"What do you mean? She was already sent away? Why didn't she tell me?"

"She is still resting," said the girl. "Recovering. You may not see her."

"I won't leave without her," he said.

"She is already gone."

"Evacuated?"

"Yes," said the girl. "Yes, evacuated. But is there safety anywhere, little friend? Evacuated so they might die later?"

"Lalaith, come." It was another of the healers, a tall, somber-faced women. "My lord, are you well?"

"Yes," he said, trying very hard not to look at Lalaith, for her purple eyes all but burned into his skin. He would have pressed this more normal healer for answers- where had Lothíriel been sent? Why hadn't he been told?- but he would not stay a moment longer in this strange child's presence. "Good day."

The city was strangely quiet now that almost all had been evacuated; even Kallista had left. He had gone to visit them yesterday and found the house in the pandemonium that accompanied an evacuation and what was stranger, the maid had told him Taregon would not receive him, that he was to ride out in the morning to join the muster of the armies, and when he had asked to see the lady Kallista, the maid had turned him away.

Strange.

He had a feeling, though, a growing sense of dread kindled by the rumor that the lord of Mandolin was suddenly very eager to negotiate his son's marriage. He wondered if the lord had heard the whisper that perhaps the friendship between Amrothos and Taregon was somewhat more than that.

His own father was perhaps a little more tolerant, but even he did not like the rumors that surrounded them. Get married, Imrahil had urged more than once, or in other words, forget about this peculiarity of yours and do as every other man would do, turn away from what you know to be true and become someone else.

He would not leave this city. The captain of the guard had urged him to flee with the rest of the women and the children, but he was no coward! He would not hide and seek shelter, the lone man in all Gondor who turned away when the forces of Mordor came. Taregon was going; so was Erchirion and Elphir and his father. All his friends, the boys he had grown up with, distant cousins and uncles, his brother's brothers-in-law- all off to fight. He would not have them return and call him a coward, say he would not do his part.

Yesterday had been pandemonium, the fine ladies and their households packing every last scrap of silk and jewel they owned to be taken with them, butchers and bakers and smiths gathering their wares, children torn away from fathers, limping grandmothers and young, pregnant mothers, all headed away from the city, deeper into the relative safety of the countryside.

And where, he had thought, will you go when the world of men has fallen?

He kicked at a garden shrub. The darkness over the city is bleak and weighs heavily on his heart. He left the house to wander the circles, lost in thought and despair. His leg pained him; it always would.

A stupid accident took away his only chance of renown. Were it not for that ride- Lothíriel pleading with him to come with her, just for a little while- he could have been as good a warrior as his famous father or even Erchirion, called the great captain of Dol Amroth. He could have been as great as any of them!

Then, suddenly, he heard it, a shriek so terrible that it sliced through his bones to his very being. He could not move for a moment, reeling from sheer, blinding terror.

He heard someone shout, "They have come!" and Amrothos ran to the battlements to peer across the Pelennor, though he could barely move for terror. He glanced across the plains and saw the faint shapes of strange, swooping creatures.

"Black Riders of the air!" someone cried.

A child. What was a child doing here in the city?

But no, it was not child; it was a perian! Had his sister been there, she would have been curious, but such was Amrothos's terror that he could bring himself to study the creature. Black Riders! They swooped about the ground as though reaching for something, but he could not see what it was, for as they shrieked again he fell to the ground on his knees, wrapping his arms about himself.

"Make it stop!" he cried, for they continued to scream and he could not help but writhe in pain.

"Faramir!" someone shouted. "The Lord Faramir! It is his call!"

Faramir, but Amrothos could not raise himself to his feet to look. I cannot look. I will not look. It seemed to last forever, that anguish, but then suddenly he felt as though the burden on his shoulders had lifted, and stumbling, he rose to his feet to see a blazing white light somewhere far across the Pelennor.

"The White Rider!" someone called. "Gandalf, Gandalf!"

He let out his breath in sudden, beautiful relief as the- Riders, were they?- wheeled away and then he saw what they had been hunting: a lone horseman, accompanied by the strange White Rider.

Faramir, he thought, for as they drew closer he could make out his cousin's form, his tall, proud bearing. Those that had yet to leave the city were cheering, calling out their names: "Faramir! Mithrandir!"

Even recovering from such a harrowing ordeal, his cousin's face was composed but very grave; calm, cool, and collected. Faramir was much older than he, nearly eleven years older, and so Amrothos had always regarded him the strange, awed worship a man such as Faramir inspired in those younger than he. For as long as he could remember, Faramir had been very serious, more akin to Lothíriel or Erchirion than to Amrothos, but few could help but respect the Captain of Gondor. Mithrandir and Faramir clattered by, but Amrothos turned away, ashamed, for he would not let his cousin see the sheer terror in his face.

He let out a breath, for though the White Rider had, at least for now, defeated the Black Riders of the air, the shadow still weighed heavily upon his heart.

At least Lothíriel was safe.

She slept even more fitfully that night and had never been so relieved to hear a knock on the door, but when she asked Dánaron if morning had come, he shook his head.

"There will be no dawn today," he said, and he took her to stand on the walls to look across the sea. The storm had at least quieted, leaving only a faint drizzle, but the sky above was as dark as though it were night, and she could feel the weight of the shadow on her shoulders and in her heart, as though there was a great despair that would never be lifted.

"We cannot leave, can we?" she asked him quietly, for in this gloom the Corsairs could have been as far as fifty or as close as a mile away. There was a strange, eerie quiet that pervaded the mist.

"No," he said.

She looked to the south, but could see nothing because of the heavy clouds that blanketed the sky. "Do they come?"

"They will come," he said, "but we will have little warning."

Fear tightened the knot in her stomach, but she felt his hand touch her shoulder.

"Chin up, Princess," he said. "You are a child of Dol Amroth; you have the blood of Númenór in your veins. If it had not been for your warning, the Corsairs would have descended out of this mist and we would have been caught unaware."

"I did not realize," she said, and her voice broke. She swallowed. She was afraid, but not so afraid that she would not give voice to her fear. "I did not realize, when we left Minas Tirith, that we could- die. That in riding to warn them, we might be killed."

Dánaron was silent. "I remember what is was, to fear death. But when you have seen it, Princess, you will understand that it is merely the next part of life."

Her laugh was unsteady. "I am so afraid! It is very well that say that is merely a part of life, but I am-," she stopped and could not finish.

"I have watched men die, and it is just as falling asleep."

"Yes, except more painful!"

He smiled very gently at her. "But a relief nonetheless. In any case, I do not think you need fear. I am no seer, nor do I have dreams that tell me the future, but I think you will survive. Now come. I have something for you."

She followed him back into the keep and into the rooms reserved for the soldiers; she waited outside while he went to his bunk and emerged, holding a sheathed knife.

"For you," he said.

She drew it out. It had both a plain blade and a plain handle, but when she touched her thumb to the edge, as she had seen her brothers do, she felt a sharp prick of pain.

"Ouch." She put her finger in her mouth and said around it, "It is sharp."

"Of course," he said drily. "Did you think I would give you a blunted blade? Little good it would do you."

"What is it for?"

Even more drily, he said, "In case you ever find yourself with a side of beef too thick for ordinary table knives. I hear orc meat is very tasty, if a little difficult to cut."

"I wish you would stop mocking me," she grumbled, but in truth she had come to like his dry humor. It reminded her- vaguely- of Éomer.

"I did not wish to give it you," he said, "for I think you would be best served to run instead of standing to fight."

"I am flattered by your confidence."

He gripped her forearm in sudden gravity. "Listen to me. I promised I would let no harm come to you, but if they storm the fortress I must fight."

"But your back!"

He lifted a shoulder. "It does not pain me."

"And what of you?" she asked gently. "You told me that I will survive. What of yourself?"

"I have many who wait for me beyond the veil. My wife. My children." He smiled, although it was rather grim. "I am not afraid to die, my lady."

She swallowed hard. "I understand."

"You will be careful," he said. "If- when - they attack, you will go downstairs and lock yourself in."

"And if they take the keep?"

"They will not," he answered very firmly.

She did not wish to fight, but felt compelled to point out, "If they take the keep, I will die."

"Yes," he said. "But I do not think that will come to pass."

"I hate your 'feelings'," she said, taking the blade.

"I have very little sympathy, Princess," he said. "The best way to hold a dagger is with the blade pointing from the heel of your hand, not like a hammer."

"I've never held a hammer in my life."

He did not crack a smile. "Like this. Jab downwards."

She felt foolish, striking at an invisible enemy, and said as much.

"Keep it safe," he said.

She strapped the sheath to the belt she wore about her waist. "I will. Thank you."

He grasped her shoulder as he might have had she been his son, his grip firm. "Remember what I said. You will weather this storm."

There was no morning when they set out from Harrowdale, and for a moment he could not move, so choked by gloom was he. Then he mustered every ounce of his strength to rise, for that day would be the day they rode for Gondor; he gathered his saddlebags and went to ready Firefoot. The stallion seemed to smell something in the air, for he was even more impatient than usual and was restless under Éomer's steadying hand.

Long had he known that no man, not even he, the nephew of the King himself, was immune to death in the battle, for his father had fallen- his father, one of the greatest captains of his time. Though he knew this, for years he had ridden off to battle with an unconscious feeling of invincibility, for had not Théodred himself, the greatest warrior in all of Rohan, taught him to wield a spear? His cousin had drilled him for long hours in swordplay until his muscles ached and he could barely walk, and so when his time came to assume his role as the Third Marshal of the Mark, he felt little fear, for by that time he was already a seasoned warrior.

But now Théodred had fallen.

There was no confidence to be sought in his lineage, for the crown prince himself had been killed.

He was afraid, not just for himself but for the uncle he loved like a father, for the sister whom he wished he could keep safe forever. He had a vision of her, growing old and quiet and pale, sitting in the great throne of Meduseld, left cold and alone, the last of the House of Eorl. He had never thought to leave her, but fate could tear them apart just as it had taken their parents away.

"Peace," he murmured and gradually Firefoot quieted. Still, Éomer could hardly tame his own restlessness, for he was aware of a cold, silent dread that had settled over his shoulders. There was no dawn, no daylight, no warmth to be sought from the skies

A small sound and his hand went to his sword, but then he recognized the intruder.

"Éowyn," he said. "What troubles you?" He had never seen such despair in her eyes before and he felt a vague twinge of guilt for leaving her behind, but he could hardly stay with her, forsaking his place at his king's side.

"I came to bid you farewell," she offered. Her smile was wan and cold.

"We will return," he said. "Don't worry, Sister. I promise."

"Promise!" Her laugh was derisive. "And who are you to promise? Do you think yourself so mighty that you may defy even death?"

He grasped her hands tightly in his own, as if he could anchor her to him. "Listen to me. I would not have you grieve for us- promise me that you will find happiness."

"Let me ride with you," she said quietly. "Let me come. Why must I stay here, an exile?"

"Not an exile!" he said. "A warrior of the House of Eorl. It takes as much strength to lead the people as it does to fight."

"So you say. But still you would leave me behind."

He wished he could reach out to her and break the ice closing over her face. Once they had gone ice skating when they were just children, but the ice was too thin where she skated and she fell through and he could only reach for her hands as the ice began to form over her head. He had dragged her to safety then, barely, but this barrier was one he could break with raw strength, and he felt as though he was just a child again, except this time he could not help her and she did not fight to save herself.

"We will come home," he said, "and then we- Uncle and you and I- will rebuild Rohan. That is where we will find glory, Éowyn."

But still she turned away. "You will die," she said. "Just as Mother and Father died, as Théodred died. You and Uncle will be lost and I will be left a shadow."

"Do you look for doom?" he asked, but received no answer.

The sky was dark; day would not come, though the hour drew near. Firefoot shifted and whinnied; he steadied the horse.

"We ride soon," he said. "If you are so sure that only death awaits us, I have a favor to ask of you."

She lifted her chin, cold and silent as a spear.

Out of his saddlebags he drew the letter he had written; he weighed it for a moment in his palm and then handed it to her. "If I die, please give this to my friend."

"It is heavy," she said, mild curiosity fleeting across her face.

"I am returning something of hers." He was reluctant to give it up, almost as though by handing it over to his sister he was setting into stone the possibility of death. He had felt the same last night, weighing each word before he wrote it. He had little talent for diplomacy, preferring a sword to a quill, and so the sentences were bare and harsh, but they would have to do. When he had finished, signing his name, he had regretted the words, for he could not soften the blow; he was a warrior and his every movement had been coached to wound, not to soothe. Now he bitterly regretted that, for if they triumphed, there might be a time when swords could be laid aside.

"Who is... she?"

"An old friend," he said. "I've written instructions."

"Is she dear to you?"

"Yes," he said, "very dear." He saw her eyes flit to the letter and the instructions she had sealed about it. "But there are none so dear in this world as you are to me."

"You are a fool," she said bitterly, "to trust to hope."

"Better a fool than without hope," he answered. "When we return home, yours is the first face I will look for."

Never once- not as they rode out, Éomer at his uncle's right hand, followed by hundreds of Riders; not when they came to Edoras, the noonday sun dark and gloomy; not as they followed the path of the Snowbourn past the Entwash and the Fenmarch- did he consider that Éowyn might not be standing on the great steps in front of Meduseld waiting for him.

And so they rode hard for Gondor until all thoughts of anything but battle vanished from his mind, and even when riders brought news of great orc armies marching in the Wold of Rohan, they could not stop, could not halt what they had begun.

"Ride on! Ride on!" he cried. "Too late now to turn aside. The fen of the Entwash must guard our flank- haste now we need. Ride on!"

His uncle hesitated only a moment, then nodded, and they rode beyond the boundaries of the country, following the roads and the cold, silent mountains to Gondor, where the sky lay still and dark and shadowed.

A/N: If you liked it/disliked it, I would appreciate a comment! :)