For a moment, Éowyn stood rooted to the spot. Then she shook herself, almost like a dog after a dunking in icy water, and started to hurry after Faramir. If he was going to ride out on some crazed mission, she was damned if he was going to do it alone. But a hand on her arm stopped her in her tracks. She half-turned and found Imrahil's grey eyes boring into hers.

"You are not to go. Faramir has already had that argument with his father, and lost it," the prince said, his voice level.

"Damn his father to the wastes of Angband and back." In a sudden rush of fury, Éowyn almost shouted at Imrahil. "I'm bloody well going, and that heartless bastard can't stop me." She tugged against his grip, but was held fast.

Imrahil shook his head sadly. "No, hear me out. His father turned the issue into a straight choice between loyalty to Gondor or outright, public insubordination, asking in front of witnesses – all his chief counsellors – whether Faramir intended to undermine his father's authority in front of his troops at the very moment when Gondor faced a threat which could utterly destroy it. Denethor framed it in such a way that Faramir had no choice."

Éowyn's shoulders slumped as she gave up the attempt to break free. She was hit by a wave of embarrassment and anger as she realised that tears were welling up in her eyes. She looked away, not wanting Imrahil to see her weakness, or not wanting to see him seeing it. His voice continued, "You may add to 'heartless' the words ruthless, manipulative, Machiavellian... and dangerously effective. But you should also remember that he has led our people through the most dangerous period they have faced since the Kinslaying – possibly an even more dangerous period. Our very existence hangs in the balance, and the odds are not in our favour. We have needed his ruthlessness, his singleness of purpose, and he has paid heavily for giving this to us – he has lost one son, stands on the brink of losing both. It is not that he does not care, more that he cannot allow himself to care, for the stakes are too high."

~o~O~o~

The day stretched out interminably. For a while Éowyn waited in an agony of frustration in Imrahil's house. Merileth tried her best to distract Éowyn, but the latter's thoughts kept circling back to Faramir. She hated this forced inactivity, this passivity. It felt as though she was losing her mind. Eventually, rescue came from an unlikely quarter; the two younger of Imrahil's sons, Erchirion and Amrothos, suggested she help them in the stables, seeing to the Dol Amroth cavalry horses.

"We shall be needed ere this mess is over and done with," said Amrothos, the younger of the two.

Erchirion, his elder by a mere year or so, uncannily like Faramir in appearance, but carefree in his youth, and less thoughtful in demeanour, gave Éowyn a comradely slap on the back. "Don't you worry. Faramir has an uncanny knack of coming through the worst circumstances imaginable. Did you know the lucky bastard managed to swim most of the way across Anduin in his chain mail? When they destroyed the bridge."

"I was there," said Éowyn shortly. Her mind flitted back to the night that had followed, when she had held him tight against her to warm him up, then held him tighter still when he had warmed up. She didn't know whether to laugh at the memory or cry. Clenching her jaw, she followed the two young men to the stables.

The horses were not bad, as Gondorian nags went. Imrahil obviously had a good eye for horse flesh. Éowyn set to with a will, shovelling manure into the barrow and taking load after load to the midden, then hauling bales of fresh straw down from the loft until her arms and shoulders ached. She had hoped that physical pain would drown out the mental anguish, but it seemed as though her hopes were in vain.

They ate a late supper. Just before they retired for the night, Imrahil appeared briefly, seemingly only to make his excuses to Merileth.

"Denethor calls me back for a council of war, my lady," he said, raising her hand to his lips. "I shall not return until late, possibly after midnight. Do not wait for me." He cast an anxious sidelong glance at Éowyn, before continuing, "We have received word from Osgiliath. They are besieged: a host from Minas Morgul, supplemented by several regiments of Southrons from the Haradwaith."

And so, despite her physical exhaustion, Éowyn retired to bed with her mind in turmoil. She lay staring at the ceiling, occasionally snatching a fitful hour of sleep only to wake again, and eventually was reduced to waiting gritty eyed for a dawn which never came. She rose as soon as the noises of a wakening household gave her an excuse to do so. The next day was even worse than the one before. The clouds hung dark above the plains, shrouding the mountain above the city in a dark gloom. Éowyn was running out of make-work, but the stables kept her active. She thought wryly at one point that at least the horses' bowels were unaffected by the gathering terror; there was no shortage of shit for her to shovel.

Erchirion and Amrothos provided a small measure of distraction. They were, Éowyn reflected, quite different in character. Erchirion, though the older of the two, still came across as young and daft. He coped with the tension by crude humour – trying to lob lumps of dung down the back of his brother's tunic while the latter was looking the other way. Amrothos also took refuge in humour, but his was a black, dour humour, though in the circumstances, all the funnier for it. Éowyn found herself more drawn to Amrothos. The obvious intelligence beneath the dark wit reminded her in a good way of Faramir. In contrast, Erchirion's physical similarity to the man she loved, coupled with his wildly different temperament, she found disturbing in the extreme.

After lunch she found herself without any chores left. Eventually, exhausted by hard labour and lack of sleep the previous night, she slumped exhausted into a heap of hay in the loft above the stables and slept for several hours.

Late afternoon, the news she had been dreading came. The Causeway Forts had fallen. Wains bearing the wounded were headed for the city. The messengers reported that Faramir was apparently overseeing the rearguard of the retreat. Bloody typical. It's the sodding river all over again, when he almost drowned himself going back to save one of his men.

She didn't even try to sleep that night, but instead stood on the walls looking out over the plains. Red lights flickered in the distance. The soldiers around her explained the significance – the enemy was blasting holes in the outer wall, the Rammas Echor.

About the second hour after midnight, Éowyn suddenly started as someone appeared at her elbow. It was Amrothos, with a steaming tankard.

"Camomile tea," he said, thrusting it at her. "Help you sleep."

"I can't sleep..."

"You should at least try. At first light, we're going to ready the cavalry at the gate. Father's been up late into the night talking strategy with the Steward and his Counsellors. My uncle's plan – and you can't fault him on his grasp on things military – is that the rearguard of the retreat is the bit most in danger of becoming a rout, so he intends to hold the cavalry back till the last minute, then send us through the outer gate to protect the last of the retreat. I was assuming you'd want to ride with us, and if you're going to do that, you need to sleep. I'm buggered if I'm having my flank protected by someone who's in danger of falling out the saddle because they're knackered."

"And what does Denethor think of including me in your cavalry?" Éowyn couldn't keep the note of bitterness out of her voice.

"Father didn't ask him. His words to me were 'Part of a leader's job is to delegate. I don't need to know the exact disposition of troops down to the identity of the last stablehand.' He gave me one of those looks when he said it."

Éowyn gave a dark half-smile at these words.

"So drink the bloody tea and get some rest, woman," Amrothos growled, shoving the tankard into her hands and disappearing back into the shadows.

~o~O~o~

It was late morning by the time Amrothos appeared to rouse Éowyn, not that there was any sunlight, just an overwhelming grey gloom.

"Why did you let me sleep so late?"

"Don't worry, you haven't missed anything. Groups of troops coming in, in various states of chaos, but no sign yet of the enemy's frontlines, so I'm guessing we're nowhere near the rearguard yet. Of course we don't know how many fell trying to defend Osgiliath, but the troops so far amount to less than a quarter of the garrison and its reinforcements, so I hope there's a lot more to come."

Amrothos waited outside the bedchamber while Éowyn dressed, then came back in to help her buckle on her armour. She didn't wait for the servants to bring breakfast, just grabbed a bag of bread rolls from the kitchen, and together they made their way back onto the walls, this time the outermost walls looking over the main gatehouse to the Pelennor. The young Gondorian's summary of events had been correct; scattered groups of troops made their way across the plain, some in total disarray, others holding to some rough semblance of discipline, others still bearing makeshift stretchers with wounded comrades.

Towards the late afternoon, they caught distant glimpses of a troop holding tight order as it retreated.

"A castar to a grain of rice that's Faramir," said Amrothos. "He can hold it together when everyone around him is panicking. Come on, we need to be ready by the gate." Amrothos led the way down the steps, calling over his shoulder "And pull your visor down. Father isn't officially supposed to know you're with us..."

They made their way to the grooms holding their horses in the courtyard behind the great gate. Erchirion was already there, beside his chestnut charger. Éowyn took the reins and stood ready, holding Windfola's head. She was glad of the visor; she entertained a slightly vain hope no-one would see how scared she was. From over her shoulder she heard Amrothos' voice.

"Got the yips? Me too. It'll be find once we're out of these gates and in the thick of it."

"Do you remember that epic poem we had to learn as kids? The really lame one where the hero was stupidly brave all the bloody time," Erchirion said.

"Ah yes, truly a masterpiece of the poet's art: With a song in his heart and might in his arm/ He raised his great horn to sound the alarm...," intoned Amrothos.

"I prefer my version of it," said Erchirion, "He tripped o'er his feet and bought the damn farm."

Despite her black mood, Éowyn laughed. Amrothos continued, "It was a really dreadful poem. Kept going on about how his thoughts were so filled with heroism and love of his country that he had no room in his head for doubt or fear. I don't know about you, but first time I rode into battle, my only thought was 'Oh shit!'"

And then Imrahil gave the signal to mount. The cavalry drew together in close order, knee brushing knee. Then with the clank of the chains in the gatehouse above, the great gates opened. At a trot, the troop rode out onto the plain, fanning out into a long line the better to charge their enemy. From his position on the flank, the Prince of Dol Amroth gave the signal to advance, and the cavalry began to trot towards the advancing enemy.

Sandwiched between the two lines was a lone troop of men, still marching in file under control, as a lone horseman circled them. Éowyn knew instantly who it was. Around her, the cavalry upped their pace to a canter. And at that very moment, as Windfola's stride lengthened beneath her, she saw Haradrim cavalry bear down on the troop of footsoldiers from the side. At the same instant, an unearthly shriek cut the air, and one of the dark monsters swooped from the sky, its rider heading straight for Faramir.

It was all Éowyn could do not to spur Windfola to a gallop, to close the distance to Faramir as fast as she could. But some part of her brain was still working. To break ranks, to head for him, this would only add to the chaos, not help. Another part was screaming at her to ride, ride to ruin and destruction. But the Valar were merciful; just as the urge to gallop became unbearable, Imrahil signalled the full charge.

But then her worst nightmare unfolded before her waking eyes. A dart – whether from the fell riders of the air or the troops on the ground, she could not tell – flew through the air. As though time had slowed to a standstill, she watched as it pierced Faramir's side and he tumbled from his horse. She heard her own scream rend the air, almost as if she was listening to another. Then Faramir's body was engulfed by the advancing hordes.

Thank you for all the reviews and grovelling apologies for the long break. Angst does not come naturally to me!

Rachel – thank you for all your lovely reviews (and your much needed kick up the arse to get me to finish this). Re. Éowyn lifting a grown man – Mablung is "walking wounded", so she doesn't so much lift him as give him a bit of help in mounting behind her, he's doing much of the work. It was Halvir who was near unconscious.

I think resigned but not undermined Faramir is pretty much canon (at least as I read those chapters). Faramir sees his father's weaknesses very clearly, but knows where they're coming from, and somehow (beneath it all) has a confidence in his own abilities, presumably born of leading his men in Ithilien for all those years under extreme stress. He knows what his father thinks of him, but he also knows his father is wrong, I think.

We are nearing the end of the story, I think, probably another two chapters to go. Thanks to all who have been reading this – and I will try not to leave such a long gap between chapters.