Reminder:: For the love of God, this still isn't mine. Copyrighting creatively is so hard now. x_x Just know it's not mine.

Not much to say except get ready for the next chapter! Sorry for a long-awaited filler. n_n' I hope the next chapter can ease your pain. xD

Side Note: Lord of the Rings Wiki featured article: Frodo Baggins. Eek! You'd never believe it from the subject I've chosen (concerning those primarily in Gondor (don't get me wrong; I love these guys to death!)) but he's my absolute favorite. Go! Read about him! He's amazing! He's played by Elijah Wood – the greatest male actor ever! Read! Read! Well, after you've read this chapter of course. =3

Chapter Thirty-One :: The White Hall Unhinged

Wind and voices echoing. Someone holds my hand. A song. A song I recognize.

Open up my eager eyes…

My eyelids flutter. White light blinds me, so I close my eyes again. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. My back is stiff. Morphine is dripping slowly, slowly – drip, drip, drip…

The voices turn to static. Mumbling. I cannot understand words. Turn the song back on… bring it back somehow. Bring back the memory – I can almost touch it. Somewhere in my brain, an invisible hand is reaching, reaching, reaching, but it cannot grasp anything but air. So close. So close to recognition. To knowing.

Home?

Never. Something different now. Humming. Tears? Drip, drip, drip like the morphine. Running across my hand. Who has brought me into this melancholy dance?

Thrum, thrum, thrum in my ears – the veins pounding from my heart. Another minute ticks by, and I think I might know.

Name.

The rhythmical thought process ceased as I was shaken awake with a jolt. Someone was calling out in the middle of the night.

Discreet as I could, I opened my eyes to mere slits. Moonlight glinted into the White Hall through the tall windows like sunshine, pouring out over the bright floor. Speaking to the air, Denethor paced back and forth in his sleep.

I was used to this. The first night it happened, I was terrified of the old man walking about and yelling into nothing. But gradually, I realized that Denethor was actually asleep and not out of his mind. Well… I could not safely say he was not so. Denethor was intelligent and he had a handle on his own emotions quite well. During the day. At night, the old Steward's guard was down and he expelled his thoughts and stresses to the ghosts of his mind. The madness creeping out only when no one would see.

Except me of course. He freely spoke of the despair he held at the forefront of a war he could not win against an enemy so cruel his only wish was to wipe out an entire race; Denethor's race. He cried over his lost son Boromir and feared for his only remaining heir, Faramir. Through these confessions, I would never believe, no matter what could happen that Denethor did not love both his sons. He cursed the weight the rule of Gondor threw on his shoulders as he awaited a king who was cavorting about the land as a filthy ranger – I did not understand what that meant, but it sounded like an insult to me. I was simply astonished that a rightful king of the country was alive. I was under the impression that Minas Tirith was waiting on a long dead line. Then again, this could be Denethor's fancy and completely far from the truth. Still, I doubted.

I closed my eyes, ready to go back to sleep (odd as it may sound, I didn't want to overhear his open thoughts – his mind was vulnerable as he walked in his sleep and I felt like I was rudely eavesdropping on him as it was), when the footsteps stopped suddenly. I looked up and saw Denethor sitting in his chair, his back hunched and his arms gripped tightly ahead of him on the arm rests.

"Finwen."

Thinking he was awake, I guiltily sat up and attempted to feign waking up. I rubbed my eyes and yawned dramatically, looking towards him to make sure he called to me. Sliding my feet into my slippers, I walked softly over to him and curtsied. "My lord?"

Looking up at him, I was stunned to see his eyes glazed and hazy. He was still asleep. Only now, I played a part in his living dreamscape. Somehow he knew I was here, standing before him.

"Tell me why, Finwen. After all I have done for you – a rat from the gutters of Rohan come to my hall as a lady of the court – why have you killed my son?"

Choking on the insult before realizing his question, it would be an understatement to say I was shocked and greatly appalled. What was I supposed to say to that? What the devil was he talking about?

"Tell me how, Finwen. You haven't left the city. The stable-master told me so himself. Your horse hasn't moved. How did you deal the blow to my Boromir, your betrothed?"

There was a long pause as the hair on my neck stood on end and my spine shivered. I waited in icy horror.

Denethor gave a small knowing smile. "Wizard's work, I suppose. Dark magic of the underworld… Tell me where, Finwen. Where did you learn this practice, witching whore?"

This was too strange. I was sick of being left in the dark. I could not encourage this, but I could not let him stop now. I wanted answers. "My lord, you are ill. Your mind is not your own."

At this, his brows furrowed. His mouth sagged angrily into a scowl. "Vixen! I shall not be fooled by your lies any longer! I have seen you in the orb! You have escaped my sight. Somehow. But no more! Under my careful watch… You cannot betray yourself to me! I will be ever-watchful, ever-waiting…" The Lord Denethor nodded in satisfaction. Apparently, I couldn't kill the sons of his I never met if he was constantly supervising me in the White Hall. The 'orb' he mentioned was mystifying enough for me to decide to look into it immediately. It seemed to be poisoning his mind. Specifically, against myself for some reason. Why would I be a target?

The old man was crying in his sleep. Taking quick, panicked gasps, he reached an all time low in the most pathetic form I had seen him in yet. He reached out for me blindly, not able to see me in his dreams. "Here, I will keep you safe… So like a daughter you are, dear Finwen. …Finduilas! My love, she looks so much as thee. Daughter bereft of our house… Evil whispers tempt thee away… I pray they will be lies before the end…"

I held out my hand, about to grab his, but I quickly decided against it and recoiled, stepping backwards. What if he would wake?

Even after all the insults I had suffered through, it's amazing how a few short sentences could so easily warm my heart. Whatever he thought I was, he didn't want to believe it. I knew now Denethor truly loved me. He was the most conflicted father I could ever have, but I wanted him as my father none the less. Only Beleg could care for me the same.

I felt strangely accepted. I hoped I could help the Steward somehow in this time of pain. I went back to my cot and stripped it of its blankets. Huddling myself up in front of his diminutive throne, I curled up on the floor and waited for him to fall asleep. I would be there for him. Like his loyal soldiers, so many swore the oath, I whispered the promise to him.

"Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end…"

The unmistakable neigh of a Mearas rang across the hills.