With the force of waves meeting the shore, the cavalry crashed into the line of enemy forces, hewing orcs and men from their path. They succeeded in beating back the enemy and buying themselves a brief respite. In desperation, Éowyn wheeled Windfola, scanning the ground around her, before finally catching sight of Faramir's body, lying pinned beneath the corpse of a Southron. She urged her horse forwards, then swung herself from the saddle. With a cry, she threw herself to her knees beside him, heaving the bloodied body from on top of him. For a moment Faramir's eyes fluttered open.
"Éowyn... My love..." Then he struggled as if to sit up.
"Hush, lie still. We'll get you onto a horse."
"It's not safe for you to be here."
"Bugger safety... You're all that matters."
He let his head fall back onto the ground, exhausted. Eyes closing once more, he just managed a murmur before lapsing into unconsciousness. "I'm sorry. I didn't live long enough to fight by your side to the last."
Éowyn knelt in the mud by Faramir's side, almost paralysed by pain and loss. She stared at his face – the familiar lines she knew so well, the long lashes across his cheeks. His chest rose and fell very slightly – he was not gone yet. But a fear the like of which she had never known gripped her; surely it could only be a matter of time. She looked at the fletches of the dart which protruded from the weak spot in his armour. There must be some fell poison at work, to act so quickly. She groped for his hand – it was cold as ice, clammy to the touch. Her vision blurred as her eyes filled with tears. Angrily, she wiped them away with the back of her other hand.
She barely registered Amrothos and Erchirion's arrival. Together, they lifted Faramir onto Imrahil's horse, where the Prince cradled him in his arms. As if in a dream, Éowyn stood up. She felt her guts clench as she took in the way Faramir lay limp in Imrahil's embrace, like a rag doll. With stumbling feet she made it back to where Windfola stood, clutching his reins like a lifeline. Remounting, the cavalry rode back across the plains.
There was a huge clamour behind them, from the lines of advancing enemy, but it seemed to come to Éowyn's ears as if under water, muffled, filtered. She knew on some level that her comrades felt immense urgency, knew herself to be riding fast, but whatever emotions – fear, determination, duty – drove them, she did not feel. Instead, she felt numbed to the core. The world was greys and browns, muted noises, dulled emotions, strangely fragmented. It made no sense, or no sense beyond the immediate act of holding to her horse and staying with the others. They slowed as they neared the great gate, then cantered in file beneath the immense stone arch. With a clang, the gate slammed shut behind them.
Denethor stood in the courtyard, his armour glinting beneath his cloak, his back ramrod straight. His immaculately neat white hair and beard were at odds with his ravaged demeanour.
"Oh, my son, my son, Faramir, my son." His voice was on the verge of breaking with pain. Gently, his servants lifted Faramir down from Imrahil's grasp and laid him on a stretcher. "Bear him up to the White Tower."
Éowyn leapt down from Windfola's back and hastened towards him, but Denethor looked straight through her as if she was not there, turning his attention instead to the Prince of Dol Amroth.
"Keep her away from me," he said sharply, before adding, "Your thanks, brother-by-marriage, for returning my son to me." Tears glinting in his eyes, he turned to follow his men up the street to the Citadel.
~o~O~o~
Amrothos felt completely out of his depth. This was the sort of thing Faramir was good at, comforting his troops in time of loss. So there was a certain irony, the young prince reflected, in finding himself the one comforting the shieldmaiden because Faramir himself had been lost, well as good as, at any rate. Usually Amrothos got through situations like this by searching out the gallows humour and maintaining an air of detachment, but this time he couldn't.
Slightly awkwardly, he put his arm round her shoulders. There was an incongruity in embracing his cousin's lover, an even greater incongruity in embracing a woman in armour. But he didn't really get much time to reflect on it; she broke down in tears. Not delicate, ladylike tears, but great, gulping, snotty tears. He hadn't the first idea what to do, but once the initial storm had passed and all that was left were dry, racking tears which shook her slender frame, he steered her, stumbling, up the hill to the town house.
Somehow, he managed to give an almost coherent account of events to his mother, who, mercifully, swept Éowyn up into her own arms, while simultaneously issuing orders to maids, housekeeper and cook. Princess Merileth hustled Éowyn into a bedchamber, and, with the aid of one of the maidservants, helped remove her armour, sponge the worst of the mire from the battlefield from her, and get her into a warm nightgown and robe just as the housekeeper came in with steaming soup and freshly baked rolls. Éowyn managed all of two mouthfuls before bolting to the garderobe. Merileth heard the sound of vomiting, followed by dry retching.
There was a cautious knock at the door, and Merileth opened it to reveal Amrothos.
He sounded almost apologetic. "I have to go now, mother. We must man every stretch of the wall to repel siege engines, and have the cavalry ready to issue forth should the Rohirrim arrive to come to our aid."
Somehow that penetrated the haze that had filled Éowyn's brain; with a guilty start, she stood up.
"My people will come. They will uphold the oath of Eorl, as I promised the Steward. And in the mean time, I will do my duty and help you on the walls."
"No, rest a while longer, Éowyn..." Amrothos paused for a moment, then rested his hand on her shoulder. "Cousin... You are but newly back from the fray, you must compose yourself and rest."
Éowyn started at the appellation, the ghost of an almost-smile passing for a fleeting instant. "No, I cannot rest, rest will not come to me, I know that."
"Not to your mind, maybe, but at least allow your frayed muscles, your sinews, a chance to knit together. And for the Valar's sake, woman, eat." Amrothos felt slightly desperate in his attempts to dissuade her. If he were to be entirely honest, he would have said straight out that in her current state, she'd be neither use nor ornament. But one look at her face told him that now was not the time for honesty. He tried a new tack.
"Rest for the space of a candle mark, then go and join the crews of men putting out fires. The enemy are using ballistas to send flaming tar barrels over the walls."
Princess Merileth came softly behind Éowyn and took her hand. "My son is right. Rest at least briefly. You will offer better service for it." She turned to Amrothos, who took her hand and kissed it. "Go safely my son. May Elbereth protect you, and Tulkas lend strength to your arm."
Amrothos bowed to both of them, and left, striding down the corridor. An arrow dodged... I love her dearly but I don't want to be watching out for her up on the walls. He realised he felt a huge brotherly concern for the shieldmaiden, wanted her to be safe, wanted her to rest. Of course, she wouldn't be able to. Not with his cousin... Well the news hadn't sounded good. Blast it all to Morgoth's frozen wastes. His cousin deserved some happiness, if ever any man did, and had finally found it, and now it was all snatched away. He vaguely remembered Boromir joking around about his brother having the most amazing luck, for he certainly hadn't won the heart of his lady through any practised, suave onslaught of charm. Just been in the right place at the right time. Valar be damned... Both Boromir and now Faramir. The last of the house of Hurin. Dark days indeed.
Lost in dark thoughts he made his way down the streets to the outer walls. A few quick enquiries directed him to his brother Erchirion's platoon of Swan Knights. The scene on the ramparts was chaos. The remainder of the Ithilien Rangers, those who had survived the rout at Osgiliath were raining arrows down upon the enemy, but the orcs and Southrons advanced in waves, seemingly unstoppable. The Swan Knights were mostly engaged in trying to push back the siege ladders being raised against the walls.
"You can shoot," his brother said. "Take that bow from the poor devil over there and take up his station." Nodding, Amrothos stepped over to the body of a Ranger, pierced by an orc arrow, and took the bow from the man's dead hands. He took up station beside another Ranger.
"Sir," the man muttered.
"No, stand easy… You just concentrate on your shooting." As Amrothos reached for more arrows, he took a sidelong glance at the man next to him. "You were on the retreat from Osgiliath, were you not?" Amrothos paused, searching his memory. He had met this man before in Faramir's company. "Mablung, isn't it?"
"Yes sir." The man nodded curtly, then nocked an arrow to the string, took careful aim and loosed it. Below him, one of a group of Southrons carrying a siege ladder crumpled to the ground.
Amrothos and Mablung shot in silence for several minutes, until all their arrows were spent. As they turned to fetch more, and retrieve as many enemy arrows as they could, Mablung spoke again, somewhat hesitantly.
"Begging your pardon sir, have you any news of Captain Faramir, Sir?"
Amrothos paused in reaching out for an arrow lying on the stones beneath. "Lying ill within his father's palace. I have no recent news, but fear the worst."
A look of pain passed the man's face, then he started to speak, paused, then shut his mouth again, colour rising in his cheeks. He stopped in his search for arrows, seemingly overcome with emotion. The prince felt his patience stretching thin.
"Out with it, man," said Amrothos, "We haven't got all day."
"His... lady... Sir, does she know?"
"Aye, she does."
The ranger passed his hand across his eyes. "She'll be sore hurt by the news."
"Yes," said the Prince, shortly. Then he softened slightly – after all, here, it seemed, was another who felt the same brotherly concern towards the Rohir lass, as Boromir had always called her. "Did you lose many of your company?"
He turned back to the ramparts, and took aim once more, armed with his fresh stock of arrows. Mablung copied him, but managed to reply while nocking another arrow.
"Far too many, Sir. It was a fool's errand, if that isn't criticising my betters."
Amrothos grunted in disdain. "You're wrong, it wasn't a fool's errand, and that's not me leaping to the defence of your betters. It bought us time to shore up the defence. The city might have fallen by now if it hadn't been for your efforts."
"That's what Damrod – Captain Faramir's 2IC – said. 'Just buy them some time, and take as many of the bastards with us as we can...' He went down swinging, and he did it, took a load of 'em with him. Realised they were using that black fire they can crack walls with, and when he saw there was no escape, grabbed the pot it was in off the lead orc, and stuffed it hard up against the supporting pillars – brought the whole thing down on top of half a troop of the buggers. And himself of course... Sorry, Sir, I'm rambling on something shocking."
Amrothos couldn't help a grim smile. "No, there's no shame in remembering a brave comrade. But we need to concentrate on the task in hand. There'll be time enough after this is over to remember our fallen comrades as they should be honoured." Even as he uttered the words, he was not sure if they were true.
~o~O~o~
She had finally escaped the well-meaning web that was Merileth's kindness, and here she was, in the midst of hell.
Éowyn slumped against the wall with exhaustion. She had passed bucket after bucket from hand to hand, playing her part in one of the chains of men winding from water tanks through the streets. Theirs had been a desperate fight, trying to put out the burning houses. First there had been the hail of missiles which came arcing over the battlements, bursting into flames on impact. Then there had been the unimaginable horror of the barrage of severed heads. Men wept openly as the maimed and crushed heads of their comrades, their friends, their brothers-in-arms, pitched into the streets. Éowyn feared that she would never rid her mind of those images.
Now, however, there came a more excruciating torture. She couldn't remember now where she first heard the rumour – in the chain of men passing buckets, among the men cowering from the barrage beneath a high wall, from the stretcher bearers carrying the wounded. But the words – there was no escaping the words. "The Lord Faramir lies consumed by fever", "The Lord Faramir is dying." And soon, the whispered words seemed to be everywhere. The men who spoke them had tears in their eyes. Éowyn, feeling as if her guts had been torn out, found she could not cry. The enormity was too great.
And then the Nazgûl came, swooping down over the heads of the men who struggled to hold the first circle of the city. Their fell cries rent the air, and men cowered and shrank into doorways and under rubble-strewn archways to escape them. But such was Éowyn's despair that while the men around her were frozen with terror, she felt nothing, only a heavy numbness in her heart.
Then, dimly through the haze of bitter loss, the sound of a trumpet penetrated. The retreat. There was no chance of holding the outermost circle of the city. And Éowyn's duty no longer held her there. As if her feet were winged, she flew through the streets of the city, upwards towards the White Tower. Her whole being was consumed by the need to be beside him, to see his face one last time before he died.
Her quest turned out to be a fool's errand. The guards would not grant her entry.
As the great door slammed in her face, a memory hit her with the force of a physical blow. Faramir, holding her in his arms, whispering, "Live or die, I will face what is to come by your side. And if death is our fate, we will come before Mandos together, hand in hand."
She almost crumpled to the floor. His father was going to deny her even this comfort. Faramir was to go to his long rest, and she was left here, on this earth, tortured and torn by war, all things of beauty blasted into twisted, tortured shadows of themselves by the enemy. Left to live in this ruinous devastation, left to live alone without him.
Placing her palm flat on the stone wall beside the door, she held herself upright. No, she would not. She would follow him. They might not come before Mandos hand in hand, but she would follow him there, as Luthien had followed Beren. His uncle was preparing his cavalry for a last defence of the gates. She could ride out with the Swan Knights and fall defending Faramir's city. She turned and set off down the street.
~o~O~o~
Thank you to Rachel and Boramir, my guest reviewers, for your kind words. Yes, my take on Denethor is that he is a bit of a bastard, but not a pointlessly cruel one – he is a shrewd political operator. And I hope I've stuck with canon in the beginning of this chapter – I've always felt in the book that he realises too late that Faramir is important to him.
And thank you to Blue Cichlid for your epic reviewing session – much appreciated. I am sorry though, I'm not actually intending to do the battle scene – it is so marvellous in the original, I wouldn't dream of competing.
Finally, apologies if this chapter was a little below par. I've had flu over Christmas/New Year, and haven't been able to write much. This was mostly written before I got ill, and I've done a few bits over the last week, but I decided it was probably more important to update than to get it really polished.