The afternoon sun fell on her, relentlessly. The sky was a steely grey, a haze of days of oppressive heat. Éowyn felt a bead of sweat trickle down her spine. Impossible to scratch beneath her mail. She shifted in the saddle. Two days' hard riding, from more or less day break to dusk – even for one bred in the saddle, it came hard. And all the while, nagging at her mind, a voice saying What if I am too late? And worse still, the voice saying What if I am in time – in time to watch him die?
The dirt track wound its way along the riverside, sometimes within spitting distance of the stream, sometimes separated from it by yards of bushes and trees. Anduin was slow, sluggish, brown. The summer sun had left it low against the banks, and the exposed earth and dried up tributaries smelled of stagnant standing pools. In the distance, over the mountains, she could see thunderclouds building, seething towers of clouds almost yellow against the grey haze, tops spilling out into anvils. Surely it would rain this afternoon? But it had felt like this yesterday, and the day before, and as yet no rain had come. The closeness of the air brought a headache. Even Windfola's proud head seemed to droop, ears twitching against the onslaught of vicious flies which seemed to be the one life-form which thrived in the heat and humid air.
Éowyn recalled the discussion she'd had with an elderly, grizzled sergeant, back at the garrison at Cair Andros. He'd described the lie of the land to her, and going off his description, she was fairly confident she must be within an hour or so of the outskirts of the abandoned city. The day and a half since leaving the garrison had given her time to think – far too much time to think. And of course, most of her thoughts had been about the captain. Damn him – why had he had to make things so complicated? While they snatched the odd afternoon here and there, she'd been able to kid herself that there was nothing more to it than lust, opportunity and those moments of boredom which are the flip side, in the life of any soldier, of either hours of tedious training or brief periods of frenetic activity and danger. But then he'd decided he had to put duty ahead of her, and she'd been taken aback by her own reaction. She was by turns furious, jealous (it seemed she was merely the mistress and the army his wife), furious again, and then, as the realisation of what she'd had and lost finally began to sink in, completely bereft.
She'd also tortured herself with the memory of the look on his face the day before when she'd tried to be cool and off-hand about what she felt for him. She'd been taken off guard by his line of questioning, and had, in more or less a reflex response, ducked the issue entirely. Sometimes she felt as if she'd had a lifetime of either losing those she loved or of having her love used as leverage to threaten her (how well she remembered Wormtongue telling her in graphic detail which suicide missions he could arrange to have Éomer sent on). It was now ingrained, almost second nature to cover up her feelings. But when she did her customary trick of making light of her emotions, for a fleeting moment Faramir had looked so hurt. Then he too had covered up how he felt. She recalled gossip sessions with the other Rangers: from what she'd heard of his father, he too had had all too harsh a schooling in not letting anyone get too close. Apparently the only exception to this was his older brother.
And yet – and yet... On the flet that afternoon, he'd been about to say something momentous, when bloody Mablung showed up... No, not bloody Mablung. Mablung had been very kind to her these last few weeks. So what if it was partly self-interest. Yes, she knew about his motives for trying to get her back together with the captain – though she couldn't really hold it against him, not when he'd let her have the pot to pay for the ferry man. Not that he'd told her, but she had a pretty shrewd idea how Mablung came to have some ready money to hand, he who was always daft with his silver for a few days after payday, then flat broke for the rest of the fortnight.
But the captain – he'd been about to say something. And she was pretty sure what that something was... Then the stupid idiot broke off with her the next day. And he'd somehow managed to look so stricken by it all that by the end of the conversation, she'd wanted to take his face in her hands and kiss away the lines of worry and tell him it was all alright – tell him this after he'd broken it off with her. How the hell did he have that effect on her?
Anyway, now she knew she was right about what the something was. He'd said as much in the letter. He loved her. She had a feeling that in better circumstances, she might have felt giddy and almost sick with happiness. But with circumstances as they were, she mostly felt sick with guilt and worry. And, bizarrely, at odds with the rest of her feelings, an undercurrent of anger. He said one thing – but acted entirely another way. If he really meant what he said in the letter, why had he put her through the pain of the last month? Yes, she knew what he'd said by way of explanation: duty, honour, country before private feelings. But that being so, why should she believe this sudden protestation of love? Words were easy – actions so much harder. Where were his actions to match his words?
And yet here she was, acting, she thought with a rueful smile. Riding for two and a half days solid, in dereliction of her own duty (gods, there would be hell to pay next time she saw Damrod). And acting on the strength of words in a letter, what's more. What kind of a fool was she? A worried, overly-involved fool, it would seem.
She looked around her. Just ahead were the first broken walls, the outer ramparts of what had once been a mighty city. These strange southern folk loved their cities of stone. The ruins of an imposing gatehouse stood beside the walls, a broad avenue of well-dressed limestone flags: no streets reduced to muddy mires in the winter here. On either side rows of what had once been gracious town houses. But all abandoned, decaying. Give her the living, thriving town that was Edoras, wattle-and-daub, thatch, muddy streets and all.
It took maybe another ten minutes before she was stopped by soldiers guarding the approach to the bridge. In the distance, she could see a group of men on the bridge, firing arrows from the cover of the bridge towers, facing a large force on the opposite shore. She was consumed with anxiety and a desperate need to get close enough to the action to see what was going on clearly. She resorted to lies.
"I've ridden from Captain Faramir's Rangers in North Ithilien, by way of the garrison at Cair Andros. I bring a message for the captain from his second-in-command, Lieutenant Damrod."
To her immense relief, the soldier waved her through, though his words weren't encouraging.
"You'll be lucky if you can deliver it – that's the captain and his brother with the troops on the bridge. And Lieutenant Hatholdir and his men are about to pull the supports out from under the bridge."
Éowyn's heart lurched, and she urged Windfola on. With a clatter of hooves she headed down the boulevard which must once have flanked the river above quaysides and piers. She reined her horse into a tight circle to slow him before he collided with a train of heavy draft horses harnessed to thick ropes. Despite the noise of her arrival, the attention of the troops around her was elsewhere, focussed intently on the bridge, and Éowyn followed their gaze. There, on the furthest stretch of the bridge, were two lone figures facing a group of tall, fey horsemen cloaked in black.
Éowyn felt fear like none she had ever felt before, like a black miasma flooding through her veins, chilling her heart and mind alike. How could the two men stand before these riders of death? With a sickening lurch she recognised the characteristic stance, the way of moving, of one of the two men. It was Faramir. Windfola must have sensed her urgency, for he took a step forwards towards the shore. Then she saw Faramir glance over his shoulder. The officer at the head of the team of draft horses waved his arm in what must have been a pre-arranged signal. Faramir gestured back, then turned back to the other figure. His brother, it must be, Éowyn thought. Then she watched as Boromir raised his horn.
Suddenly it was as if all the hellfires of Angband of ancient legend seemed to burst forth. The men on the bridge scattered, leaping into the water amidst a hail of arrows from the surrounding enemies, Faramir and Boromir the last to leap headlong into the water. The officer before her yelled, and the teams of horses strained forwards, halting, digging their hooves in, whipped on by yelling, frantic drivers, the ropes taught as bow-strings. Then with a creak and wrenching cracking noise, the supports of the bridge snapped and pulled out of their joints, leaving the deck of the bridge tumbling into the water, raining flotsam onto the heads of the desperately swimming men, men already pelted by black-fletched arrows.
Éowyn watched in desperation as singly and in pairs, men were picked off, or battered by great logs, sinking, never to be seen. Near beside herself, she tried to make out Faramir as heads bobbed to the surface for moments, took gulping breaths, then disappeared again. But all the heads, dark haired, slicked black by the waters, looked the same. Then to add to the carnage, the ranks of the army on the opposite shore parted, and she watched as hideous trolls pulled great ballistas to the edge of the water. With the harsh cries of the speech of the enemy ringing in her ears, she watched in horror as balls of sharp iron spikes and burning pitch were loaded into the siege engines and launched into the river, and further across.
"The garrison!" A great shout went up from the troops near her, and she wrenched her attention from the water for a moment, glancing to her left. Two of the barrels of flaming pitch had landed in the garrison that defended the western bank, the wooden parts of the structure instantly catching fire. She watched in horror as a group of the men on the battlements screamed, their garments catching fire. They fell, tumbling head over foot, into the sluggish waters below. Then Windfola skittered sideways as a missile loaded with murderously sharp iron fragments landed mere feet away. Two of the men driving the horses and one of the animals fell instantly. Éowyn felt a wave of nausea as she realised the heavy horse's guts had been sliced open, green loops of intestine tumbling out.
"We must sound the retreat, sir," one of the men shouted to the officer.
"No, we stand our ground and protect the retreat of the men from the bridge. Get some archers onto the top of that wall there and return fire."
Thank Béma someone is keeping his head, Éowyn thought. She called out. "Sir, I come from Ithilien – one of Captain Faramir's Rangers. Let me get the heavy horses back up away from the shore, give you less things to worry about."
The officer grunted his assent, and Éowyn spurred Windfola forward, grabbing the headstall of the lead horse.
"Cut their harnesses free," she shouted to the men tending the ropes, and as soon as the horses were cut loose, she started to tow the lead horse back up the bank, all the time casting anxious glances over her shoulder, trying to see how the men in the water fared. Then, to add to the clamour and confusion, a sharp, cold, cutting wind suddenly blew up. Éowyn looked at the sky. The lowering clouds of earlier had now coalesced into huge thunderheads, and this was the cold wind that preceded the deluge. Sure enough, within minutes, huge drops of rain started to fall – not just rain, but large hailstones. The horses skittered, and the first clap of thunder sent their eyes rolling back in their heads and their ears flattened against their manes.
And each time she looked back towards the river, there seemed to be fewer men swimming – two score heads, a hundred paces away, then two dozen, maybe seventy paces, then a score... Having finally got the horses safely out of range of the burning barrels and grapeshot, she returned to the river bank. Barely a dozen heads now, but getting closer to the shore with every stroke. But with every stroke, their progress slowed, and suddenly the obvious truth dawned on her – they were trying to swim in their chainmail. She scanned the heads, trying desperately to make out the individual features of the men in the water. Then, finally, she spotted him, labouring towards the shore, barely able to get his mouth clear of the water at the highest point in each stroke.
She stood, frozen like a stone statue, unable to do anything except watch. At last, strength all but spent, he got close enough to the shore to stand, shoulders finally clear of the surface. But to her horror, he turned round and scanned the river behind him, then struck out clumsily into the deeper water once more. At once she saw the reason – a lone swimmer, maybe five or so yards away. But five yards could have been as many leagues, the state both of them were in. Bloody typical of the man – he survives, then throws his life away trying to save one of his men. They're both going to drown. She saw him reach the other man and start to tow him back by the scruff of his neck. A couple of times they went under, but then, finally, Faramir was able to stand, and half carried, half dragged the man into the shallows. Typical of him, and I wouldn't have him any other way...
Éowyn found herself running into the water, helping to tow the man to the bank, then, as he collapsed, flinging her arms round Faramir. Rivulets of water cascaded down both of them as her lips met his. Her arms went round his back, and she found herself almost holding him up as he sagged, exhausted, against her body. She felt the water soak through her clothes. She couldn't have cared less. Again, she kissed him, and this time he responded, clutching at her, his lips parting, his tongue hot within her mouth.