Notes: Thank you, Steelelf, for pointing that out...by jove it IS Minas Tirith, and not Minus Tirith. Sorry about that. I suppose my brains starts to wander late at night...

I just want to warn you all that, while I don't think this story is actually AU at any particular point, I flirt shamelessly with the line between canon and AU. I know there will be some of you who say, 'Well, she didn't say that,' or 'Hello? He did this!' The truth is, I know exactly what they did or did not do, having read their chapter at least twenty times, but I chose in some circumstances to ignore that and do my own thing. So, just to warn you, this story isn't strictly canonical. But I have tried to stay true to the characters, so if you think I'm getting off, let me know straightaway. :-)

Chapter Eleven: Stifled

The next morning Eowyn woke early with an odd sense of excitement. It took her a full minute to realize that what she was so eager about was the fact that she was to walk with Lord Faramir in the gardens this morning, and at first she was disgusted with herself. She lay in bed, berating herself for being so ridiculously excited about seeing a simple man, but gradually she gave herself more grace. After all, he was a companion, however poor of one he might turn out to be. She had not had a conversation with an equal to herself for quite some time…not since before she had set out for the battle. It had been even longer since she had had someone besides her brother, cousin or uncle to speak with, unless she counted Aragorn…

Eowyn sat up swiftly and threw the covers off of her legs. This would not do—there would be no dwelling on him. He was forever in her past, and no matter how much she still loved him, she would not allow herself to think of him. He did not want her, that was all. It was enough. She waited until after breakfast had gone by to think about when she should go outside, and it was then she realized they had never set a time. She might go out now and not see him until evening, or he might be out there now, waiting for her to come. She almost threw on her cloak and hurried out, but she staid herself and sat in her room instead. There was no reason to show unnatural haste—if he was waiting, why he could just wait.

By mid morning she was having doubts about his seriousness. Why should he want to walk with her, a shield maiden from Rohan who, he no doubt thought, had run away and joined the war on an impulse? His words had to have been simple politeness. But then again, he could have been polite in many ways without requesting her to walk with him. 'It would ease my care greatly if you would walk with me, from time to time, and speak of your home.' Those had been his exact words. What else could he possibly mean than the truth? He had had no stuffiness or false air to his manner, and she had no reason to disbelieve him. With a huff of uncertainty she threw her cloak on and left her room.

It was even colder than the day before, and Eowyn shivered slightly as she walked toward the walls where she had seen him before. Her motive was two-fold; in the first place, it was the place they had met before, so it would be a natural place to assume a meeting. Also, it was high above the rest of the garden and visible if one were looking for someone. Second, she could pass the time of uncertain waiting by looking out over the Pelennor towards the east.

She had not long to wait. Before five minutes had passed, and she was deep in contemplation about the maneuvers of the troops, she felt someone come up beside her and turned with a startled gasp. The Lord Faramir stepped back apologetically and smiled at her. "Forgive me if I startled you," he said in greeting, "I have a habit of walking lightly, and I sometimes forget that it…startles people."

Eowyn took a deep breath and shrugged. "I confess I am accustomed to a frank step, but there is no harm done." She bowed her head slightly. "Good morning, my Lord."

"Good morning to you as well, my Lady," Faramir said, stepping up to the wall again. "What has caught your attention?"

Eowyn shrugged again. "I am fascinated by what the Captains of the West have done, and though none of them chose to honor me with an account of their strategy, I find it very appealing to guess." There was great bitterness in her words, but Eowyn did nothing to hide it.

Faramir glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes and said, leaning against the stonework, "They are buying time for the Halflings, Frodo and Sam. I believe their mission and thought is that if they can draw the Lord of Shadow's attention away from Mount Doom the Halflings will have a better chance of survival, and ultimately accomplish their mission."

Eowyn gazed at him in astonishment, then recovered and looked back out over the plains. "And how do they know that the hobbits have not yet perished?"

Faramir shifted and said, "There would most likely be very clear signs, did the dark Lord have the weapon in his possession. Thus far, the darkness is progressing steadily, but not at the rate it would if the dark Lord had his tool of evil."

Eowyn nodded and said no more on the subject, for though her heart had long been given to darker thoughts, it was still hard to speak of the darkness descending on Middle Earth, especially now, in Minas Tirith, where she could do nothing. She thought she had sensed some of that emotion in Faramir's voice, though his tone had mostly consisted of simple fact and trust, as if he had been talking with one of his lieutenants. Her appreciation for him rose one step, and she turned and began walking.

He fell into step with her, but she soon realized that she was walking too fast for him and he was having difficulty keeping up. Her wounds had been only to her arms, and though she was generally weaker than usual, she was fast regaining her former strength. His recovery, she could tell, was progressing slower, probably because of the more serious nature of his wounds. With some bitterness she thought of how had he sustained only her wounds, he might have been permitted to leave the Houses and travel to the Black Gate with the host. She, however, was forced to remain here by a caring but overbearing brother. Nonetheless, in accordance with her realization, she slowed her steps and they walked silently on.

"Minas Tirith seems to be a lovely city," she said finally, "though I confess I have seen little of it."

Faramir nodded. "She has her moments of glory—when the sun is shining off her white marble spires and her banners are waving in the wind…" he broke off and turned his face away, and she wondered at what in his words could cause his sudden grief. Shortly, he shook his head and went on, "But there is much work to be done if she is to once more be as beautiful as she was before this war."

Eowyn crossed her arms across her chest and hugged herself, for the wind was biting. "I believe I was here once, when I was very young. But that was before I can remember much. My brother Eomer might, perhaps, remember more."

Faramir looked down at her for a moment, trying to stretch his own memory back far enough to remember her, but he couldn't. Either he had been away or had for some reason not retained the memory. Boromir would no doubt remember the visit, for Boromir's memory was perfect. Faramir shied away from the thought before he could feel the familiar sting and said, "I'm afraid I have never been to Edoras, or even Rohan, in my life. I hear it has a wild, untamed beauty that clears the mind and frees the spirit."

Eowyn looked at him suddenly in astonishment, for his words brought back to her the exact emotions her country stirred in her heart. It was not so much the words he spoke, but the passion and understanding with which he spoke them that made her breath catch at the thought of the beauty of her homeland. She looked away quickly, afraid and ashamed of the emotions he had so inadvertently awoken. "Yes," she said cautiously, "it is indeed breathtaking. Who told you of it in such vivid detail?"

"Boromir visited once," Faramir said, unable to keep the familiar edge out of his voice, though Eowyn found it difficult to decide if it was pain or anger, "and he told me of it briefly. Most of what I know I learned from Mithrandir, for he used to talk with me for hours and feed my curiosity of lands beyond our borders." Faramir gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. "I used to wish I could travel to every land in Middle Earth." He didn't elaborate.

Eowyn's brow furrowed. "Mithrandir?" she asked in confusion.

"Likely you know him by Gandalf the Gray, or one of his other guises," Faramir said with a wave of his good arm. At her look of understanding he smiled briefly. "He has many faces on this earth, or so I am led to believe."

Eowyn nodded, but the thought of Gandalf brought her too close to thoughts of his companions, and she could not find it in herself to answer. Instead she walked on with a quickened pace, her head bowed in reflection. She might have walked a very long time, steeped in her own thoughts, had Faramir's voice not cut through her reverie.

"Perhaps this may seem poorly timed," he said with another self-conscious smile, "but would you consider resting for a moment on a bench?"

Eowyn's cheeks flushed and she fought against the alien feeling of embarrassment. "Forgive me," she said, "I didn't realize I was going too fast." It was Faramir's turn to flush, at that, and Eowyn's embarrassment grew as she realized he was not used to being seen as weak. She swiftly sat down in silence, and for a time neither said anything. She struggled with her emotions, for no man had made her feel embarrassed for quite some time, not even… And Faramir had done it so quickly and effortlessly.

Faramir felt the minutes weigh on him and was acutely aware of the awkwardness of their conversation so far. It seemed that everything they spoke of was uncomfortable for the other in some way, and Faramir suddenly felt his own ignorance. He knew nothing of who Eowyn was, what she liked, and what would make her uncomfortable. Was there any way of finding out without stepping on her toes? He didn't realize that Eowyn was wondering the same thing. How can I possibly know what to talk with him about? she wondered desperately. This was a mistake. We should just keep to our rooms and not try to break down barriers that have been erected over years of hardship. But when they stood to reenter the Houses, both Faramir and Eowyn felt a yearning to see the other again, if only to think of something other than their own problems. If only to see a face that was neither a worried servant or their own. Faramir was the first to speak.

"Will you meet me here again tomorrow?" he asked suddenly, purposefully ignoring the awkwardness of the moment. "I would like to walk again."

Eowyn was alternately relieved and unsure. He obviously felt her same need of distraction, else he would not have subjected himself to the same insecurity once more. She only hesitated slightly before replying, "Yes, of course. Same time?"

"I have all day," Faramir nodded, and Eowyn saw a tiny glimpse of something warm and welcoming in his words, as if he really was capable of laughter and joy. But then she was staring again into his drawn face, and she simply nodded. "Until then," she said. Her thin cloak and wool dress swished gently as she turned away, and Faramir watched her thin shoulders round the corner before turning away. Until then.

Faramir hadn't realized what "Until then," really meant. As soon as he entered his room again he was beset by thoughts that had been, if only slightly, kept at bay by the distraction of the White Lady of Rohan. He twisted his gloves off, tossed them on the table and poured himself a glass of cool water. He gulped it down swiftly, then filled another and gulped it, too. His hand tightened around the cup until his knuckles whitened before he set it down and removed his cloak.

It was warm in the room, for the fire was burning brightly in the hearth. Faramir's mind only just touched on the thought that a servant—perhaps Kitha or Thailan—must have just been in the room to stoke the fire. Faramir rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and wiped the back of his arm across his face before looking down at his hands. The spiraling burn mark on his arm, which stopped just before the more tender skin on his palm, immediately caught his attention, and he sank down on the bed with a groan.

He had no explanation for the marks. His mind had gone over it time and again, suggesting to him that perhaps there had been flames on the battlefield that had licked at him before Imrahil rescued him; perhaps in his fever he had been convulsive and had rolled into a fireplace before the healers had time to stop him. Both scenarios were certainly possible. But Faramir knew neither was true. He knew that, had it been simply from the battlefield or fevered wanderings, the healers would have had no problem telling him. There was no explanation for the averted eyes and pointed redirection of questions he put to them. I will not think of it! he thought resolutely. I have no way of knowing, until someone tells me. But in his heart Faramir knew he would think of it. He would be haunted by it, just as he had been ever since he had awoken in these Houses. And Faramir knew in his soul that however he had received the nasty burns was closely connected with his Father's death. He didn't know how he knew, he just did.

When Aragorn had told him, the fact that his Father had died had been enough. But now, a few days later, his very being was consumed with questions as to how Denethor had died. Why Damla or Thailan would not tell him was all too clear to Faramir's sharp and seldom deceived mind—his death had been dishonorable, unfortunate, perhaps even horrific. In the dark hours of the night and early morning of the past two days Faramir's mind had conjured up every possible way of death. He had imagined his father dying in so many different ways, and with so many different attitudes, that his mind reeled from his thoughts. As much as he hoped none of his ideas were correct, Faramir was not foolish enough to believe his father had died honorably.

Yet Faramir knew anything would be better than this terrible, terrible unrest. He had to know how his father had died, just as he had had to know how Boromir died. Granted the two Halflings had not known the whole story, but he had been able to draw quite a few conclusions from their words. He was, after all, not a simpleton or a dreamer. As his thoughts turned to Boromir he lowered his head into his hands and gave another groan. For the past few weeks he had had a terrible burden upon his heart—a burden of grief that could not be addressed. He had not let himself grieve for Boromir, for the times had been dire and his men needed him—all of him. But here, in the Houses, where his only job was to recover, he found the grief so consuming it welled up inside and seemed to be fighting to get out. More than once he felt his throat closing as the sobs of aching pain rose up, but he bit them down until late at night, when he let the sobs come.

He was ashamed of his pain. He was not ashamed of grieving for Boromir, for there was nothing wrong with sorrow over a beloved friend and brother's death. But he was ashamed of the overwhelming pain that he felt, and the deep, aching loss. At times he felt like he didn't know what to do with the pain that he kept inside, and he was afraid it would burst out and he would be consumed. If only he had some work to do…some plans to make so that he could forget about it, so that he could push it away to a corner of his mind. Not the grief, no—the time for grieving was still right—but the utter blind hurt. And deeper still, there was shame.

Faramir knew, for he saw into many men's hearts, his own notwithstanding, that his shame was what made it all so terrible. The shame of Boromir's death ate at him. He had loved Boromir, for they had been as close as brothers could be. Boromir had been his champion since he was little, his friend as long as he could remember, and the only man he trusted with all his heart. Perhaps some would have called Faramir brave or wise to withstand the temptation of the Ring, but the truth was that Faramir had been scared to death of it, for he knew what his brother had been. Boromir had been reckless, at times, it was true. He had been blunt very often, and his mind was not always on the task at hand. But there was no doubting Boromir's loyalty and goodness. Faramir had seen sides of Boromir that no one knew existed, and there was nothing Faramir had thought Boromir less capable of than trying to harm anything that was not superior to his own strength. The news of Boromir's assault on Frodo had left a gaping hole in Faramir's heart that was formed by a shattered image of the one person he loved best.

Faramir's shame ran deeper than Boromir's death. He was ashamed of his father, too, and the way he had ordered Minus Tirith in her ultimate test. Faramir had learned enough about the time after he was wounded to realize that Imrahil, Mithrandir, and Aragorn had taken over the leadership, and Faramir wasn't sure if it had been before or after Denethor had died. The shame of the possible ways Denethor might have met his end ate at Faramir's mind and heart. The deepest level of shame, however, was on his own account. It wasn't just the shame of this final battle and his small part in it that hurt him. After all, he didn't want to win glory and honor as much as he wished to see his city safe. It was his whole life that seemed to loom before him in uselessness and waste. What had he really done to help anyone? The people of the city, in their blind love and service, could say what they wanted. But he was haunted by his father's words to him before he left, expressing the wish that Boromir had lived and he had died in his stead. The words had cut into him deeper than any his father had said before, because Faramir knew they were true. He knew Denethor had meant every word of it, and if he had been master of life and death, he would have exchanged sons in an instant. Now that Faramir thought about that, he realized how terrible that statement was. Denethor preferred Boromir's thoughts over Faramir's. He liked his words better; he saw greater good in Boromir's heart than in Faramir's. He loved him so much better than Faramir that we was willing to sacrifice his one son for the other.

Faramir was unaware that his breathing had grown labored until he felt the blood pounding in his head and a sharp pain in his shoulder. He sat up straight and rubbed the side of his head with a sweaty palm, forcing himself to breathe slowly. Going into a fit would help nothing at all. With a monumental effort, Faramir made his thoughts slow and focus on one thing: his ignorance of his father's death had to end, and end tonight. When Thailan came with his evening meal, he would make the young man tell him.

Thailan pushed the door open with his back, entering the room backwards with his hands full. The tray before him held soft, wheat bread, steaming broth, and a jug of milk. Thailan had not the least idea how the cooks had come up with milk in a city that had been ravaged by war, but as he had entered the kitchen to take the tray up three of the cooks had glanced up and beamed at him. Thailan could only guess at how proud they must be of themselves, and how much good they expected the milk to do in the healing process.

Faramir was sitting in a chair by the fire, leaning his forehead against his hands, his eyes closed. Thailan set the tray on the table and hesitated, unsure if Faramir was asleep or not. His wondering was over, however, as Faramir spoke without opening his eyes. "I am not very hungry this evening," he said softly. Thailan sensed immediately the extra reserve in his tone, and his evident unrest. But he thought of the faces of the cooks and how they would feel if he brought the tray back untouched.

"The cooks sent along a special drink, tonight," Thailan smiled. "They would be greatly disappointed if you sent it back without drinking at least some. You needn't eat anything, if you don't want to."

Faramir's eyes opened and fixed on the younger man, but he didn't move anything else. His silence encouraged Thailan, and he poured a mug of milk for Faramir. As he brought it to Faramir and handed it to him his mouth ran quickly. "After all, it will do you good, my Lord. I haven't the faintest notion of where the cooks came by milk in this city, but somehow they did, and they are very pleased with themselves. Drink it, if not for your own good, for them."

Faramir glanced down at the creamy white liquid and then back up at his servant. Thailan saw in his eyes that he really didn't want the milk, but he brought the mug to his lips anyway. Faramir was never one to disappoint anyone's good wishes and hopes. When he had drained the cup he handed it back to Thailan, and the lad turned back to the tray. "Are you sure you wouldn't like a little something? This bread was baked fresh not three hours ago, and it practically melts in your mouth. The broth is made from—"

"Thailan," Faramir said, putting his head back into his hands and leaning forward, "stop."

The words died in Thailan's throat as he looked up at Faramir and saw the piercing emotions radiating from the man. He looked toward the tray again, then toward Faramir, and stood helplessly, wondering what to do or say. For once, he could think of nothing.

He didn't need to think of anything, for after a moment's pause Faramir went on, his voice slightly muffled through his hands. "It is four days since the men left for the east, and three days from then that the war was won and I awoke in these houses. My body was injured and broken in many ways, it's true, but my mind has remained the same, and so I am not blind to the whispers in the corridors and the looks on the faces of others. I have not missed the burn marks on my own body. I know my father is dead, and now I am asking you to tell me how he died."

Thailan swallowed nervously and searched the room futilely for help. "My lord," he began, "please do not ask that of me. Others wiser than I have said it would be good to refrain from telling your Lordship, and I cannot—"

"He was my father." There was no sorrow in the words, or at least not on the surface. Thailan could only detect coldness and a bitter resolution. "You do not know what it is like to be in ignorance of how my own father met his end. I ask you once again: tell me how Denethor died."

"My Lord," Thailan began in a consoling tone, "Perhaps you should stay quiet and—"

"No!" Faramir launched himself out of the chair, and the sudden movement after so long in the same position startled Thailan. But Faramir was holding Thailan by the shirt before the young man had time to follow his actions, and Thailan saw closely the determination and desperation in Faramir's eyes. "No!" Faramir repeated, his words uttered harshly. "I will not wait any longer. I will know the truth, I will know it now, and I will stop being treated like a weakling who cannot stomach what happened. I may have been wounded and out of the battle while wandering in a fever, but you will remember that I fought long years to see this city free. If you think news such as this will crush me, you have no understanding of me. Now tell me!" Faramir let go of Thailan as he uttered his last words, but his eyes rested on the lad like burning cinders.

Thailan could not speak for a long moment, and Faramir seemed to realize that. When at last Thailan found his voice, he could think of no better or more acceptable way of telling Faramir than by simply blurting it out. "He died in a fire," Thailan said.

Faramir didn't seem to be surprised, no doubt because of the burn marks on his skin. "A fire," he repeated grimly. "During the battle?"

Thailan hesitated. "It was during the battle," he said, knowing that there was no way he could lie to the Steward of Gondor, "but it was not where the battle raged. He—Lord Denethor built a pyre in the hallows of Rath Dinen to burn himself."

Faramir did not move a muscle, but Thailan could see the pain and bewilderment written on his face nonetheless. Again, however, there was not much surprise on Faramir's face, and Thailan knew he had been pondering worse scenarios. "He was not himself, at the end," Thailan offered regretfully, and the young man really did feel regret and grief upon thinking of the late Steward. "He did not know what he did."

Faramir nodded silently, but as Thailan brushed past him toward the door, he caught his arm. "There is more," Faramir said quietly. "Tell me all of it. Tell me what my part was. I dreamed of fire and wood when I lay in fever."

Thailan's heart hurt as he looked into Faramir's eyes—eyes that he knew would soon be rife with pain. "My Lord," he said, "he was not himself at the end." He took a deep breath and said, looking past Faramir's head, "He wanted to be near you, and spare you from the aftermath of the battle. He was convinced the enemy would prevail, and they would devise great tortures for you. For everyone."

Thailan stopped, and he saw in Faramir's eyes that he was spared of actually saying the words, for Faramir knew. His quick mind had connected the information and now he looked at Thailan in utter shock. This, Thailan knew, he had not expected, not in all his worst nightmares. The full weight of what Denethor had tried to do, and what it must mean to a man already burdened with a relationship with his father that was not good came upon Thailan, and he saw it reflected in Faramir's wide eyes.

It was only an instant until Faramir recovered himself enough to say, "Leave me."

Thailan's heart was in his toes. He had grown to like this captain, and his last wish had been to cause him grief. He had never thought it would be he that would tell him about his father's death. Damla, perhaps, or maybe Mithrandir or Imrahil of Dol Amroth if they came back. But he had done a shameful job with such a delicate subject. "My Lord," he began, but Faramir turned his back to him abruptly.

"Leave me," he repeated, and the quality in his voice told Thailan that he had better leave soon or risk worse damage. Thailan was not a fool, so he turned toward the door and left quickly. Outside he ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. Perfect Thailan, he thought to himself. You have managed to take a delicate and painful issue and make it a disaster. How it could have been told differently, he wasn't sure, but he knew should have found a way.

In the room Faramir stared at the wall; the only body part moving was his hand, clenching and re-clenching at his side. Suddenly, he doubled over, clutching his stomach as if in intense pain, his face contorting into a scream of agony, but no sound came from him, and he screamed silently until his breath was spent and he fell to his knees, still hugging his arms to himself. The floor was cold and hard, made from stones that were carefully swept and tidy, but as icy as Faramir's numb fingers, and as rough as the tears that streamed down his cheeks. He didn't even realize he was huddled on the floor until the early hours of the morning, when the stars were setting and utter blackness was upon the earth.

Notes: The next chapter is one of my favorites, because in it Faramir gets to be painfully honest (yay!), and Eowyn shows that tenacious, impulsive side of her character. Stay tuned!