Éowyn stared sightlessly into the dark. Beside her, she could hear Faramir's steady breathing. Normally that alone would be enough to calm her, but not tonight. Tonight she was restless, plagued by recurrent thoughts that started out as an amorphous feeling of irritability, anger almost, and gradually began to shape itself into a voice.
"They never treated you exactly the same, did they? You got to play with your sword, but that was it, wasn't it? You were always playing. They let you be a shieldmaiden, but it wasn't the same as being a real warrior, was it? And now – you're sort of a soldier, but really not quite a real soldier." She rolled over, trying to get clear of the uncomfortable wrinkle in the mattress, trying to shut out the sudden images of all those times in her childhood when a boy, larger than her, had knocked her over or swept her legs from under her. By an act of will she tried to turn her thoughts to more recent events. She'd worked and worked, got faster, better, more skilled with a sword until the bigger boys couldn't get close enough to trip her. And now look at her: acknowledged as one of the best with a sword among the Rangers.
But then the voice started up again. "You think it's skill don't you? Have you never heard of misplaced, groundless pride? You're tolerated here because you're the captain's mistress. Yes, that's right, his mistress, not his wife. His father has the right take on it, doesn't he? You know that to be true, know it deep down. A woman who'd spread her legs before marriage... good enough to be a mistress but not a wife. In your heart of hearts you know the captain would have married you and damn the consequences if he really thought you were good enough. But he hasn't married you, has he? Hasn't stood up to his father... but you know he could have done. If he'd really wanted to. So here you are – playing with a sword, but not a real soldier, playing with his sword but not a real wife."
Where was the voice coming from? And why couldn't she make it go away, switch it off, make her thoughts go elsewhere. Then abruptly, the voice changed tack, its tone shifting subtly, persuasively.
"But you could be a real soldier. Could be more than that – a captain general, even a warrior queen. You could lead armies. No one would look at you and see the little girl with the toy sword, copying her brother, her brother the real warrior. They would see a queen from ancient legend, arrayed in shining armour, holding her keen sword aloft. All would follow you. All would give you unquestioning obedience. You could lead your country, conquer your enemies. You would stand, alone, peerless, admired by your troops, feared by your enemies, respected by all. None would doubt your prowess as a warrior."
The images flooded up before her. Standing proud in the midst of the Pelennor, fighting off the waves of invaders coming from the river. Denethor kneeling before her to kiss her hand. Acknowledged as monarch of all, a warrior queen come from the north to take the empty throne of Gondor for her own. "All this is within your grasp. Think about the truth. The hobbit is almost at the end of his strength. He cannot make the journey all the way to Mordor. He would welcome his release from his burden. And you have a strength he does not, strength enough to wield it to help your people, to become queen of all free peoples. They would welcome you, the warrior who had thrown down their enemy." Eowyn's gut clenched with a sudden fear. So this was where the voice was going... This was who the voice was... "The ring is but a few paces away, through that door. The hobbit could not fight you off..."
No, no, I will not take it... Éowyn heard a second voice in her head, her own voice. But it sounded distant and tortured. Begone, you lie.
"But you know I do not lie," whispered the voice. "You know I speak the truth. Now you are but a camp follower with a blunt sword, but you could be an empress. All that you have to do is to reach out and take the ring. You need not be particularly forceful. The hobbit is exhausted. He would be glad to give it to someone whom he could trust – and who better to trust than a woman."
No, no! Again her own voice, but fainter still.
The voice paused, then took on a sweeter tone. "He would respect you. No longer would you be simply his mistress. Were you a queen he would drop to his knees at your feet, begging to marry you. When you told him you loved him, he would tell you he returned that love. You could ask anything of him you chose... you could ask him to take a dagger to his father's heart and he would, unquestioningly."
She sat up suddenly, spoke aloud, astonished at how strong her voice sounded.
"Begone, get thee hence from here." The voice had over-reached itself, had painted a vision so palpably false that all its work in undermining her self belief, filling her with self doubt, had vanished like mist in the morning sun. Nothing, not even his love for her, would ever make Faramir a murderer. The voice was false in this, and in grasping this, so she saw it to be false in all things.
Still, her heart pounded and sweat trickled down her spine. But her sudden movement and words had woken Faramir. His hand reached out to her, and then he fumbled for the steel beside the bed, struck a spark and lit the lamp. In the flickering light he looked at her.
"What is the matter, my love?"
Éowyn lay back down, close to him. She rested her cheek on his chest, feeling the comforting soft hair beneath her skin.
"Just a nightmare," she whispered. And her gut twisted as though someone had stabbed her. Why was she lying, even if only by omission? She had never lied to him. Why did she feel guilty about what were just thoughts, so guilty that she could not even tell him?
"Shush, sleep now," he murmured, stroking her hair gently. But it was long before she could sleep, tormented now not by the false voice of temptation, but her own inner voice saying "Why did you not speak to him?" And she knew the answer: the one thing she could not shake off was the thought that she was just his mistress, not good enough to be his wife.
~o~O~o~
"They have gone. May the Valar protect them," Faramir said, watching the small figures disappear round the bend in the track.
"Thank the gods they have gone, taking that evil thing with them. I marvel at your strength of mind, your virtue, that it could not tempt you." Éowyn looked up at Faramir's face as she spoke. Then she blushed. "I lied last night. It was not a nightmare. The ring seemed to speak to me, or at least a voice pleading on its behalf, telling me to take it from Frodo. I almost succumbed. In the end it was only when it made the mistake of painting a picture of you which was so entirely false that I realised all the rest of what it said was lies. Yet for you it held no lure."
"No lure, for there is nothing it could give me that I desired. But it is not true that it held no hold over me – but of that I will not speak," Faramir replied. But he could not help remembering: You have nothing to offer that could tempt me, for that which I want above all things, I already have, not taken by force through black magic, but given freely – her love. Then he heard that black voice whispering There is nothing I could give you... but I could take... Then a vision had filled his mind, a vision of the black robes of the witch king, his mace held high, ready to strike. The scene had shifted, to Éowyn's lifeless body, her shield-arm shattered by the stroke of the mace, her hair of spun sunlight flowing over the black mud of the battlefield, her pale face bereft of life-blood.
Faramir shuddered, and put his arm around Éowyn, drawing her close. "It is indeed evil, and I too am glad it is gone."
~o~O~o~
The rest of the morning after the hobbits had gone was spent collating intelligence reports from the various watchers who made their way back to the secret refuge. They had been scattered through the woods by the earlier skirmish against the Southrons, not wishing to risk capture, but now they made their way back, bringing with them ill tidings. Faramir spread out his map and placed the various coloured stones upon it. Eventually he straightened and pushed his dark hair back from his face. He shook his head as if not quite able to believe what he was looking at.
"It looks about as bad as it could possibly be, Damrod. There's no doubt that a main force is heading for Osgiliath in huge numbers, to try to seize the crossing, bridge or no, and push on towards Minas Tirith. And there's a smaller, secondary force heading for Cair Andros."
Damrod could see the situation as clearly as Faramir. "What's the best course of action, Sir? We can't hold them here. We're good for ambushes against small forces, harrying them and making a nuisance of ourselves, but not for any sort of major defence."
"We all go to Cair Andros, as soon as the men can gather their arms and some provisions. When we get across the river, a group of us will take the horses kept there and head for Minas Tirith to give word to my father, while you take the remainder of the men down the western bank to Osgiliath to bolster numbers there. I'd better take the best horsemen we've got, for speed – so Mablung, Halvir and Éowyn."
~o~O~o~
There was something about the air of menace that took Éowyn back to an earlier journey down this western bank, to her desperate ride to try to catch up with Faramir, fearing that he had ridden to his death in a desperate attempt to prevent the enemy taking the bridge at Osgiliath. That day had ended with the destruction of the bridge, and huge loss of life, but Faramir had survived. Faramir and Boromir, though the latter had turned out to be on borrowed time. Éowyn grimaced at the memory. Boromir, so full of life, so forthright, so straightforward and kind and honest in his dealings with her. It still didn't seem right that he had died. But now she had a sudden and acute sense that they were all living on borrowed time. This time the enemy would cross the river, would sweep all resistance before them, and bring death and destruction raining down upon the city. Surely it was now only a matter of time before she and Faramir joined his brother in the green fields of the hereafter.
It was early in the morning the day after they'd crossed at Cair Andros, and they had just passed through the breach in the Rammas Echor.
"Curse this sodding remount." Éowyn's horse skittered at the sudden call of a carrion bird. She reined it in a tight circle, rapidly regaining control. "If a bird's cry can startle it this much, what's the blasted nag going to do in a real battle?"
Faramir smiled. She was right of course; she always was about horses. The beast was a jade. But it couldn't be helped. Windfola had a strain which had needed at least a week's rest. The unfortunate nag was the best replacement the citadel's stables, stretched by the need to horse both soldiers and errand riders, could supply. In fairness, Éowyn undoubtedly coaxed more out of the animal than anyone else could have done. She had ridden it to Cair Andros after their last trip to the citadel, and it had been in the stable on the near shore ever since.
"Comes of gelding them. Takes all the spirit out of them." Éowyn had very firm views on this, Faramir thought with a smile. The Rohirric views on horses definitely spilled over the boundaries of common sense into superstition at times. Distinctly macho superstition at that. He remembered her shock on discovering he routinely rode a gelding. Would his troops not question his virility, she had asked, a worried frown on her face. He had simply smiled and replied, "With you in my bed every night? I doubt it."
But the smile died away from his face as he took stock of the situation. In fairness, he couldn't blame the horse for its skittishness. There was something evil abroad, something uncanny lurking in the dark mists which had rolled across the sky the day before. Uncanny and full of menace, bringing the first hints of the crippling, paralysing fear he had felt the day the bridge fell, the day he faced the dark horsemen which seemed to have ridden from Angband itself.
The situation didn't look good. Cair Andros wasn't sufficiently strongly defended. West Osgiliath if anything was worse - he'd left Damrod and the better part of the Rangers there to reinforce the garrison, but it wasn't enough, not by any stretch of the imagination. And now here they were, crossing the Pelennor, and he just could not shake the horrible feeling of being exposed, like a field mouse in a newly mown meadow, just waiting for the hawk to stoop.
As if some fell power could see into the secret fears of his heart, no sooner had he framed this thought than a hideous screech rent the air above him, rising and falling on the wind, clawing his courage into shreds. Beside him, Éowyn's horse bucked and reared. Only her superb horsemanship kept her in the saddle.
Faramir reached for the bugle hanging from a leather thong at his waist. He raised it to his lips and sounded the retreat, as much for the benefit of any watching from the walls who could come to their aid as for his own men, for their horses were already running wild.
Then from the lowering clouds above his head, the hawk stooped. A huge shape, black as coal, plummeted from on high, giving another of those unearthly shrieks, and streaked down, down, down, diving towards the small group of riders.
~o~O~o~
Thanks once more for all the kind reviews. Guest – I'm so glad you like my take on the raging mûmak. And yes, the quest must seem a crazy last roll of the die to Faramir and Éowyn, though Faramir I think probably realises that the heroism of a few can outweigh whole armies (and after all, by this stage, it is pretty clear both to Faramir and to Denethor that they cannot match the forces of Mordor head on – all they can do is delay what seems like the inevitable).
AN: I've stolen Thanwen's headcanon (from her wonderful canon gap filler, Through Shadows) that the Rohirric sense of masculinity is strongly tied up with their horses and that they believe that "real men don't ride geldings." It's such a wonderful idea I thought it deserved another outing, if for no better reason than that it allows Faramir a great come-back.