After a breakfast of porridge and toast, the three of them emerged into the street. Faramir wasn't quite sure what he'd been expecting, but (apart from the parked cars) he felt as though he had stepped away from the strange new world of shining metal machines and magical devices, into an older, simpler world, more akin to his own.

The street wound uphill, lined by small stone cottages, with slate roofs stained black by the steady rain which fell from a lowering sky. Above the roofs, he could see the steep slopes of the hills surrounding the valley. The ground cover had died back, shrivelled by the short days of winter (it suddenly struck him that despite the relatively mild climate he was much further north than Gondor, at least if things worked the same way here). The heather had faded to a dull brown, the pastures were a gloomy shade of faded green, the trees stark and leafless against a steely grey sky. Between the muted palette, the steep valley walls pressing in on them, and the steady rain, he felt almost claustrophobic.

They reached the end of the line of houses, and down hill, to the left, Faramir could see glimpses of a dark, ink-black lake, its surface flat beneath the steady rain, almost oily and inert.

"I guess that's the reservoir with the drowned village beneath it," said Éowyn.

"Poor souls," Faramir said.

To his surprise Éowyn grinned, and took his hand. "No, they'll have been given plenty of time to move, and new houses to move to… it wasn't drowned suddenly in an accident." Faramir felt slightly foolish, but as it had caused Éowyn to smile, he was happy to play the fool. He squeezed her hand in return, and gave her a gentle tug towards him, so her shoulder bumped into his. From behind them, Éomer made a vague harrumphing noise.

They each had a pack, with some water and sandwiches and a few spare clothes. Éomer had the book and sketch book, wrapped in a dry bag. Wrapped inside a spare jumper, Éowyn's pack contained the dagger in its sheath. Faramir had made his various weapons into a long bundle, wrapped in a bit of old sackcloth to disguise the contents, and strapped them to the side of his rucksack. Éowyn said they could always claim it was fishing gear if anyone asked. He wasn't at all sure this would be a convincing answer.

There was another thing he wasn't sure of either: what to expect when they reached the chapel. What sort of object could it be that lay hidden? A sword, perhaps? That felt like the most obvious answer. History was positively littered with lost swords, not least among them, the sword that was broken. Mentally, he searched through the ancient history he knew of. He knew that Mithrandir had spent many days in the archives in Minas Tirith, researching the lore of Isildur's bane – but what it was, he was not sure. He guessed it was a thing of great power taken from the enemy on the battlefield in that fateful battle at the end of the Second Age. Subtly, cautiously, he had tried to quiz Mithrandir, only to be rebuffed with something close to evasiveness. Or perhaps, perhaps it was one of the seeing stones, the Palantiri, mentioned in some of the dusty volumes in the library in the Steward's Palace. He had come upon his father, consulting those at length, on several evenings. In fact, come to think of it, last time he had looked in the library, the volumes had disappeared, he presumed into his father's private rooms for still closer study.

And he still wasn't sure, as he walked hand-in-hand with Éowyn, what part she and her brother were meant to play. Had they been sent to this world as guardians of the artefact, and eventually his guides on the quest to retrieve it? So it seemed. Had Vairë woven this quest and their part into it from the beginning of time? And if so, had she woven into it that he should fall utterly, irredeemably in love with Éowyn, or had that been some chance quirk of fate which not even one of the Valar could have forseen?

The water dripped from his hood. Éomer had offered him some clothes of his own, but Faramir had brought the clothes in which Éowyn had found him that first night, trousers of a soft leather, boots, a woollen tunic, and his cloak. His Christmas present from Éowyn was safely stowed in the pack they had loaned him.

They made short work of the mile or so up the road to the turning, Éowyn and Éomer striding out easily. However soldiers were trained in this land, they seemed every bit as fit as his own Rangers.

As they walked, brother and sister chattered to one another, making gentle (and not so gentle) fun of each other.

"So, how badly hung over were you yesterday?" Éowyn asked Éomer. "Did it come as a surprise to wake up next to Ellie rather than Kaz?"

"Ah, you cheeky mare. I always remember who I've taken to bed – it's a point of principle. Cavalry man's honour. Not like you complete slappers in the infantry." Then his voice tailed off as if it dawned on him that calling his sister a slapper in front of her new man was maybe a mistake. But Éowyn took it in good part and roared with laughter.

"Sorry, we're probably really shocking you," she said to Faramir.

"Not a bit of it. My brother could probably give Éomer a run for his money when it comes to women – though like Éomer, I'm glad to say, only ever the ones who are as keen on the idea as he is. And my cousins have been known to get into the odd drunken scrape."

"Tell me more..."

"My cousin Erchirion, for instance – we were both on leave together and went to a tavern in the city. He drank too much brandy, fell madly in love (well, he said it was love, I'm not sure that's the word I would have chosen) with the barmaid, was rebuffed, and announced dramatically that he was going to desert from the army and run away to sea. I had to remind him that he was in fact in the navy, and had only just returned from the sea. In the finest nautical tradition, he changed tack at this point and promptly dropped to his knees in front of her, threatening to throw himself from the window for love of her. She was, predictably, unmoved by this (I fear variations on this theme may have been a nightly hazard of her job) and I had to explain to him that in any case his gesture waas futile, for we were on the ground floor. So then he challenged me to a duel for being so heartless, but before he could do anything about it, passed out cold on the flagstones. Took me and three other Rangers to get him home."

"Now, that shows a certain style. There's a man I wouldn't mind going to the pub with," said Éomer.

The conversation continued on the subject of various drunken escapades until they reached the turning, which took the form of a rough track with a way marker at the beginnings of a side-valley. The place where it joined the larger one they had come up was a steep hillside of tumbled boulders, with stunted trees clawing their roots into the rocky terrain. Éowyn said something about this land having once been covered in ice – the valleys had been carved out by enormous rivers of ice, of the sort now confined to the heights of the White mountains in his own world. The side valley was a cwm, she said, a hollow where ice would have collected, the end of it scoured into a steeper slope where the larger ice river had scoured away the hillside.

The path zig-zagged up through the trees, which stood, dark grey and silent, dripping into the gloom. Here, even the bird song seemed muted, though he could hear crows in the distance, cawing in the woods further down the valley. As they rose higher, though, the cloud base seemed to lift in time with their ascent, and by the time they reached the edge of the tree line, a thin light was filtering through the clouds. Judging from the way his stomach was grumbling, it must be nearing midday, but the sun was still low in the sky; further indication of how far north they were, Faramir supposed. The hanging valley now ran rather more gently uphill, with the river in its base tumbling steeply through rocky ravines and over small waterfalls. The river was in full spate, the water brown with peat and surging and frothing over the boulders, waves lapping round the bases of partially submerged trees.

They stopped for a bit to eat, sitting on boulders near the river. To Faramir's delight, in addition to ham, cheese and bread (conveniently formed into neat slabs), and an apple each, there was more of the wondrous chocolate he had been introduced to on Christmas morning. He leaned back against the rock behind, an arm round Éowyn's shoulders, his cheek against her hair, and thought there could be no better way to eat a meal than this.

After fifteen minutes or so, they set off again. The path skirted the water, sometime rising twenty or thirty feet above where the flow cascaded through a small ravine, sometimes nestling against the water's edge, a couple of times disappearing beneath the flooded river, such that for a score of paces they had to scramble above the line of where the path would lie in drier weather. It wasn't long before they saw a wooden bridge half a mile or so upstream, spanning a rocky cleft where the river ran fast. But then the twists and turns of the path cut it off from their sight once more.

Coming round a sharp corner into a slightly broader reach where the water flowed more sluggishly, they encountered other people for the first time that morning – a group in small, brightly coloured, pointed boats just big enough for a single person, clad in helmet and what looked to Faramir like a padded jacket, and wielding a double ended paddle. One at a time they took it in turns to portage their boats up above the next set of rapids, then set off, steering with great skill between the boulders to return to the reach below. One even braved the small waterfall up stream, sailing over it, then shooting the rapids. Faramir was most impressed (and somewhat self conscious – he suddenly realised that he was back in what they would see as "Robin Hood" garb).

They left the kayakers behind and continued steadily up hill. Finally, the bridge came into sight once more. As they approached it, another bank of clouds scudded across the sky, and a faint rain began to fall once more. Faramir pulled his hood over his head, and saw Éomer and Éowyn do the same with their dark green, camouflaged jackets.

When they reached the bridge, Éowyn wrinkled her nose at the sight of it. Rickety, ramshackle, rotten. But it was that or wet feet.

Éomer paused for a moment to adjust his rucksack. Meanwhile Faramir stepped out onto it, and she followed him. They got half way across, and she could feel the bridge bouncing and creaking beneath their feet. She was just about to shout to Éomer that it probably wasn't a good idea to have three of them on the bridge at once when he swung his pack back onto his back and came cantering onto the bridge.

There was an ominous cracking and splintering as several of the planks making up the deck gave way. But worse was to come. With an enormous crack of snapping wood, one of the main beams gave way, the deck lurched, and all three of them tumbled the ten feet or so into the water below.

Éowyn was dragged under, then pulled herself to the surface, spluttering. She looked around in horror at the empty river around her, and nearly panicked. But moments later Éomer broke the surface, then Faramir. The current took her and swept her towards a narrower stretch. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Faramir strike out, trying to swim to catch up with her.

Just for a moment, their fingertips touched. But almost immediately, she was caught in the rush of water cascading between two boulders, then tumbled over and over by the stopper beyond. Her face broke the surface for an instant, long enough to snatch a breath. Then her head banged against unforgiving rock, and everything went black.

~o~O~o~

AN Thanks as always for the reviews.

Earthdragon: "Westill don't know what it is that Faramir was sent into the future to collect. Is it just an artefact or is it Éowyn and Éomer as well?" Bwa ha ha… and we still don't know (yup, I'm stringing out the uncertainty. But all will be revealed soon. Re. food, I share your pain – I have recently developed gallstones, so am on a very low fat diet, so I am having to pour my culinary fantasies (fish and chips, sausage butties, Christmas cake – and of course slabs of chocolate eaten amidst the beautiful Welsh mountains) into my writing, because I don't want to put myself back in hospital.