The Enemy has the move, opens the fullness of his game.

March 10

Westward at the feet of the White Mountains Minas Anor had been set, gracious and strong; to honour the fire-fruit of Laurelin on her daily arc. The Tower of the Setting Sun she had long been; but now, for many lifetimes of Men, her sun-bleached stones of white were given all to guard. Minas Tirith sat, tense and hushed, waiting for some sign as the cloaked and hidden sun began to set, on this, yet another day in which the Red Arrow had not come.

Outside the Citadel sat another who waited for a sign: an impatient and, now slightly short-tempered wizard; enduring the hours with hard won grace.

Gandalf paced the white stones about the courtyard's grassy sward of winter-brown. The Guards of the citadel, robed in heavy black, paced in twos and threes, keeping a respectful distance from the wizard on his dozenth round of the sweetly chiming fountain. The morning's dusky haze, the false dawn that only weighted hearts, had given way to a twilight of murky dim: there was no light in which the scattered water drops could play. They dripped forlornly from the barren, twisted branches of the White tree that stood, ghostly, in the dark reflecting pool.

High above in the haze-shrouded Tower of Ecthelion, the sunset bell sounded high and loud. The wizard stiffened and impatiently ground his teeth. What was the man playing at? An hour he had paced while the Steward tended to matters of import. Kept one who was no mere Captain waiting on his pleasure. While yet more threads spun inexorably on Vairë ever growing loom.

Damn the man's Hurin intransigence. Stubborn as were they all and Denethor, son of Ecthelion, stubborner than some. 'I also am a steward' Gandalf had said, impatient with a view that saw all through Gondor's eyes. But that was not strictly true. He had been sent to be more a shepherd. To guide. To encourage. To give counsel.

But that he could only do if he had chance to speak.

Enough. With an effort Gandalf set his shoulders back and forced himself to pace patiently again. To lose his temper, to be unsettled on meeting with the Steward would be folly. Denethor may think to keep him on tenterhooks, may hope he would reveal more than his wont, but the wizard had the patience of the Ages. The counsel he would gladly give was set.

"Lord Mithrandir." The grim-faced young guard's summons broke through his reverie. "The Steward will see you know."

Relieved and in haste, Gandalf gathered up his staff, followed the man through the tall door of polished metal and into the torchlit dim of the vaulted hall. It was late. The remains of a hasty meal lay upon a low table by the dais. He found the Lord Gondor, not seated on his low black chair, but standing, hands clasped behind his back/ Looking west for once, whence all their hopes might come.

The proud and aged face, beautiful even in its pale and kingly mein, turned at the sound of a staff's last tap.

"Tell me, Mithrandir," commanded Denethor, voice tinged with ready scorn, "since you so desire to counsel this ancient realm in her hour of greatest need, tell me what I need most to know. Why has the Enemy chosen to open his first move? Why now? For surely this sea of mist, the bleak shadow that gathers the East issues from that accursed vale, from Minas Morgul her very self."

The wizard paused, tugged with thoughtful fingers at his snowy beard and clenched a little tighter on his grip. He too had worried on that point. Where had Frodo reached? Had he made the borders of the Enemy's demesne? Was that the reason for this new and bolder move? It did not seem it could be so for it was too soon and there was another, surer and far sharper, goad: Aragorn. The Ranger had challenged Sauron. Gandalf had known at once: the subtle stretching and thrum of power in the web that bound all things could only come from true and rightful power. Did Denethor know of it too? By all the Valar Gandalf prayed he was far wrong yet there was something of the man's stance, a stiffness, an implacability that spoke not just of anxious waiting but of challenge. Of a brooding wariness that had he seen before. Long ago when two Captains vied for the Old Steward's love.

A cold finger of fear ran down his spine. Had Denethor used the Anor Stone, driven by pride and need to risk much in his thirst to know? Perhaps that was the reason the Steward knew so much that passed so far way, could read men better than any one these days, unless it were his younger son. Remaining son.

Gandalf closed his eyes briefly and pushed that thought away. There was no time to grieve and there were words that needed to be said. When and how were yet not clear. What had he said to Pippin? To not speak to the man who has just lost his heir of the coming of another who supplant him? Just so.

"Saruman's staff was broken four days ago even as one of the Nine wheeled, hunting, above Dol Baran. The Enemy cannot have missed that his pawn is held prisoner in his own desmesne by a power more ancient than the stone of his dark lair. Even a lord of a great and fell host can be made nervous by surprise."

Gandalf paused and in the heavy silence caught Denethor's barest nod. So too had he surmised. Relief felt sweet as spring, but it must not make him drop his guard. Denethor was too subtle and too shrewd for that.

"The Enemy has lost has an ally and foe at once. One that he yet thought to turn to his needs, though Saruman's lies twisted so tight and long no hand from the east will move to save him now. Even if he may yet unwittingly serve his master in some small and slighting way. I tried, but he would not be turned, not brought back into the light where he could yet do something of some use."

"You tried but failed?" Denethor's voice dripped with scorn. "Where lies your vaunted skill Mithrandir, the one that cajoled others, yea even my youngest son, to your hand? Has your power waned? Is all your art but puffs of smoke, illusion, to make others see what was not there?"

Gandalf's answer crackled in the gloom. "Do not claw at me because you cannot have the son you want Denethor! A Halfling might excuse a grieving father such poor behaviour but I do not. Your never did learn to trust your heart."

"Trust!" Denethor cried, flinging his arm wide in fury. "Bah! I trust none of you whose designs are not of ths world. I was mistaken once. Saruman I brought into my house, gave favour to his plans, shared lore and counsel and what did he do? Strove to rob me of my sons! Faramir nearly he had more than once and now his foul minions have stolen my Boromir in the hour of greatest need. Both of you sought knowledge in our deepest vaults. What you sought and I believe have found stirred many debts of old but only I have paid the price!"

"Do not think so!" Gandalf barked. "That is too self-centred even for you Denethor, however raw your grief. Many have and will pay a price, perhaps far greater than your own." A sorrowful frown then graced the old careworn face. "Boromir did not die in vain. We do not yet see all that his act accomplished. Now tell me where is Faramir? You have need of your best Captain to marshal the defense."

As Gandalf watched the proud Steward's hackles raised once more, but then, as if were too much effort for a man worn before his time, his shoulders drooped. Had he forgotten he had another son to love? Denethor paced to a low and nearby table set with a map. Rearranged some painted counters there, as if rearranging battalions in his mind. "He was due back this morn, from out beyond the River. There is little we can do but stop some parts of the Enemy's host from amassing on the farther shore. The red arrow has not returned…"

"The beacons have been lit. Theoden will come," said Gandalf, firmly. "He is not the dotard, bent and ill with age, that you had seen and will remember the oath his forefather made. At their fastest pace the Muster can not come yet for many days. I hope to see their bright spears the morning before the Enemy can move."

"Hope!" The Steward's laugh was cold and pitiless. A black figure with a Captain's helm was lifted sharply up then just as quickly set down again. It seemed there was no helpful move. "You put too much faith in hope, Mithrandir. I would rather count on men. And there may yet be many perils between Edoras and Forannest."

The wizard drew himself up to his full height, let power swell his voice. "A tree in the court beyond once died of plague that ravaged all the land. Now that plague is shadow..on the land and in Men's hearts. Hope rises Denethor. It comes. Even on the heels of the Rohirrim, though perhaps by another way. One who will renew the land and its spirit both."

"Hope? Do not make me laugh." replied Denethor. "I have long known of whom you speak. Hope in a distaff line long bereft of power and dignity?"

"The distaff line? Has Gondor's history been rewritten in these later days? Isildur was King of Gondor together with his brother, no matter if his son ruled Anor after him."

The cool grey gaze glittered dangerously and bright. "Isildur was the one who was too weak to do what must be done."

What?! Gandalf swiftly drew in a breath. Could Denethor have guessed what it was that was taken from the Enemy?

His startlement was not missed. A smile of triumph lit the Steward's proud, stern face. "I see I have surprised you! I know this thing that Isidlur kept for himself. Not only wizards thirst for knowledge to help the land and spend hours locked inside with dusty scrolls. Nor do I foolishly deny the truth in Thorongil's blood." Denethor paused, let the ghost and the name coalesce. "No doubt he is who he is meant to be. But I rule in the name of Earnur, descendant of Meneldil who was son of Anarion. Let him take Arnor and I wish him well of it. Lord of a wasted, beaten people, sitting in capital of wattle and daub. That is his birthright. Not the city he abandoned once before."

Gandalf raised a white, heavy brow. "Then you, who revere history would repeat the mistakes of the near past? So said the council of Arvedui of Anor when the line of Gondor failed, when a young Prince named Faramir disobeyed his father's word and went to battle to his death. Arvedui and Firiel could have reunited all the realms but instead the Lords got the pure Gondor blood they wished: the barren blood of Earnur. Which was the better choice? There has been near a thousand years of good stewardship but a King is needed to renew the land."

"That may be so," replied Denethor bitterly, "but I will not be Steward to such a one. Dispensing pennyfuls of advice that is further cheapened for it is not needed or desired …."

What more the Stewrad might have said the wizard did not hear. Denethor's words were drowned by the clear high call of the Tower's trumpets. Ending on a high and rising note.

"My son!" Denethor turned at last back to the east, his face the softened the barest smile. "That is Faramir's sign. He is come."

The trumpets' volley came again but this time an evil descant could be heard. A shattering cry of poisonous despair rose and fell and rose again, drowned the hopeful ringing of a lower horn. The guards and courtiers in the hall shuddered at the sound but their lord did not quail.

"What is it?" demanded Denethor, striding fast along the stones. The polished door creaked open hastily to the evening gloom. "What fell creature has come to trouble this darker day?"

"I know that cry, " declared Gandalf, shouldering next the Steward. "Your son is beset by a foe even he cannot overmatch. And we will have need of his courage and every man in the coming storm. I must go down. Find Shadowfax again."

The wizard whirled, left a much troubled Steward in his wake and went to help.

.

~~~000~~~
.

A weary figure wound down the tunnel's many winding steps, obscured by a thick long cloak and heavy hood. It was still early in the eve. The sun had set, though none could truly tell. The City's twilight air had been as dark and thick at noon as any winter's eve, cast a pall about its denizens so that all walked silently and slow, as though with sleepiness.

The warrior moved on. He approached the guard before the door, nearly stumbled to be challenged.

"Who goes?"

With one smooth gesture the man pulled back his hood. "Faramir, Captain of…"

"My Lord!" The young guard stuttered in embarrassment and hastily stepped aside. "Forgive me..I could not see your face."

"'Tis all right, do not apologize." Clear grey eyes shone briefly, lightened for a moment the pale and hollow countenance. "Your vigilance is only praiseworthy – the City is already under threat and, in any case, I did not wish to be recognized on my way.. I have come to see my men."

"Of course, Sir." The beardless cheek below the helm flushed pink. A gauntleted hand raised up but dropped again. One should not touch, however much one wanted to give help. "Captain….I am…I am sorry for your loss."

A quiet sigh rushed out and mingled with the heavy air. The Captain's grave gaze twisted once, fell from the earnest plea to a place of refuge yet lower still. The stones of the forecourt were easier to confront. They held no answers but neither did they ask.

"Thank you. I am sorry too," Faramir replied, tone blank and yet somehow tight; as if the words were so hard they needed to be reigned. "The Master is?"

"In the treatment rooms, my Lord. Or at least he was a candlemark ago."

Faramir nodded once and walked quickly into the hushed and peaceful air that pervaded the Healing House. He followed the quiet corridors, turning by instinct right and left until he came, quite by rote, to the rooms where the casualties were brought. They held a few poor souls but none were his cantankerous and mouthy first lieutenant or the Houses's tall and saturnine chief healer. Where could Damrod be?

Minutes of fruitless search brought him back to the central door again and a far too welcome looking bench. He sat down heavily, so tired that all at once he could barely stand. The little food he had et was not enough to revive his flagging strength but it had been all he could get down. He had no appetite these days: not for sustenance or conflict.

Both left him empty but hurt to fill the void.

Faramir rested his head against his hands and tried to close his eyes against the images. that swarmed like thirsty midges before his eyes. That thing… the creature that assailed them was uppermost. Fear, cold and merciless, had ripped from its scream; sent tendrils of doubt to his very core. Elbereth, how many times had he made Mithros stand, turned and loosed an arrow? Sounded his horn in faint hope of rallying the men? His hands by the end had been so numb he could hardly pull Damrod up. The man had been dazed, thrown to the ground by his wildly plunging mount and retching with it, though for fear or injury Faramir had not been sure.

This was the reason for his present errand. One last duty ere he sought his welcome bed and the merciful oblivion of sleep. He had swayed with weariness and been dismissed, thankfully in truth, for he wished for more no more verbal sparring that tumultuous eve. There were things he could not, must not, say and he was not quite sure that in his state his Father would not see. And things he would rather not hear again…not a Nazgul's evil cry nor the biting words that cut as deeply as a sharpened claw.

Instinctively his mind shied from the hurt. Tomorrow's need is sterner.. As usual his Lord father was not wrong but respite would be hard won.

He dropped his eyelids down. Surely it would not hurt to rest for but a minute.

"Faramir! Thank the Valar you are back!"

A light voice, a woman's voice, had hailed him. How could this be? The last of the City's women and children had been sent away the day before. Could he dreaming already though he had not reached his bed?

Bleary eyes raised up. Lothiriel's sweet, heart-shaped face smiled back. She was bent over, one hand upon his arm, her dark cascade of hair bound up and hidden by a veil. But very clearly real.

"Cousin! I never thought to see you here. You are another marvel to walk out of the mind and into this uncommon day."

A slow smile spread along a pair of bow-shaped lips. "I assure you I am no shade. We were all so worried. Are you quite well?"

"Yes. I am a bit fatigued is all." Is all. How much those two words had to encompass, surely they would break. "And you are sight to light my day, dear heart."

Soft and gentle arms fell about his shoulders and squeezed hard around his chest. "You do not think I would let Elphir and 'Rothos have all the fun? Aunt Rini and I have come to offer our service to your Father. You will have need of healers here."

"Uncle is come? With his knights and men?" Faramir wanted to ask how many men-at-arms but he did not think his brain could tally properly in this state. The morrow was soon enough.

"Yes, Dol Amroth will help in any way. There was no need to leave us all at home, though I do admit he tried." Her grin quirked wryly. Faramir smiled back. He could imagine how easily his feisty little cousin dispensed that thought.

"Mareth can administer the town brilliantly in her quiet way, can handle the drunken mates who need stitching from connecting with the docks." Lothiriel's sea grey eyes twinkled mischeviously for a moment. "And Chiron now commands the fleet. He is insufferable Fara. Puffed up and proud and too eager to admit that he is as anxious as a new recruit. How any of us will live with him afterward I cannot say."

Blessed, blessed Thiri. Fresh and light as a sea's calm breeze, she sat down beside him but did not remove her arm. Its weight felt welcome. Like a connection to a wider world of light and happiness he must not lose.

She glanced up and in her eyes he saw the first clouds reflected upon the ever churning waves.

"It is all too strangely quiet there, Faramir. Spring has come already. The first blooms are on the apricots and the air is sweet with scent and the song of returning birds. One would not think there are so many perils in the world." A single tear glistened on a long, raven lash. "Fara, I …"

"No…" His larger hand enfolded her smaller one and gave it an urgent squeeze. Her sorrow added to his own was something he could not hold.

"No, please. Do not. I have not the strength right now. There will be time later for us to hug and cry and say what must be said." Gandalf had spoken of it once. "You can built a fence to protect yourself, but cannot keep the world from creeping in." Please gods…I need this fence to hold for just for a little while.

Lothiriel nodded, lip trembling, smiling bravely and little wan. She sniffed once and then the Princess he knew was back, regal and composed, gazing steadily into his eyes. "I forgot to ask: did you have an errand here?"

He laced tired fingers through her own and rose, pulled both of them to their feet. "I came to check on Damrod, my first lieutenant, but I could not find him. Can you help?"

"Damrod? Is he the Ranger with a dislocated shoulder?"

"Could be. I do not know exactly what they found." A black eyebrow raised. "He is grey-haired and craggy-featured. A little opinionated. He would not take easily to being nursed."

"I thought so! I walked into the ward to find Aunt Ivriniel arguing with a wounded man. He was insisting on getting straight up out of his bed though they suspect he has a concussion too." She quirked a smile in memory. "You should have seen it Faramir. Aunt Rini, bristling like a cat, demanding to know who was responsible for the man and he insisting he'd had hardly but a knock."

Faramir groaned and shook his head. That sounded exactly like the grizzled veteran. Too bad he had missed the choice display. He would have liked to see the man take on his tiny but indefatigable Aunt. "Yes that is most certainly him." At the sudden blush on Lothiriel's cheek he asked, intrigued, "There is more?"

Lothiriel giggled. "Oh yes. Aunt Rini was pointing out that seeing double was not a healthy sign when his eyes raked me up and down, said he was happy to see two of me!"

"What did she say?" Faramir asked, appalled but fascinated all the same. An unfamiliar but welcome lightness was slowly spreading in his chest.

"That if he didn't watch his mouth with Prince's Imrahil's cherished daughter she'd wash it out for him herself."

Gods. He had to laugh at that. The image of bird-like Ivriniel, bar of soap in hand, threatening a chastened Damrod was too much to resist. He tucked Lothiriel's hand through his arm and began to stride the corridor. "I had better find him before he says something he truly will regret. Will you lead the way?"

She did.

And he, long used to hoarding memories of truth and beauty as talismans against the dark, buoyed by that crystal fleeting moment, kept it safe and warm; sheltered for a little longer the flame of hope within his battered heart.

.

~~~000~~~

.

Elfhelm watched the Riders gathered round the evening's sluggish willow fire, voices talking low, one grizzled oldster with a mouth-harp out doing his best to leaven the somber mood with song. There were few takers. On the morrow they would leave Rohan's plains behind. These were Eastfolde men and all had heard the news: orc-hosts were now marching through their home. "Ride on" Eomer had said and so they did, though none liked that it would be the Entwash and not their arms that defended hearth and home. It made them a quiet lot. The babble of the brook rose easily on the oddly warm night air.

He took another bite of the passably good mutton stew and watched one knot of men a little to his left. Aldric, good Captain that he was, had had a quiet word with his Marshall and now he too watched thoughtfully from under bushy brows. Neither he nor his second in command knew the young Rider added at the last minute to their eored but so far what he'd seen he'd liked. Derhelm followed orders, kept his kit and horse in shape, helped with the unofficial 'baggage' of a King's squire they somehow had aquired. Shame Eomer hadn't warned him of the twain, but then again, with them riding hard and fast there had been no time. So long as the lad kept out of trouble Elfhelm could not complain.

Therein was the rub.

The Marshall sighed and fished a particularly juicy morsel out, chewed thoughtfully for a while. The young blond Rider had been too quiet. Too quiet by half. Had not spoken a word that he could tell to anyone. And now Aldric had pointed out not once in the last two days had the lad stood back to the firelight, pissing a golden stream in imaginary privacy like all the other men. It was a Marshall's job to know the condition of his men. A lad running for the trees meant he had a problem.

Elfhelm had just slopped up the last of the cooling gravy with a final piece of bread when the moment he patiently waited for arrived. Dernhelm rose, brushed the dust from his breeches and glanced furtively around the ring. Two quick paces and the small, slight Rider had slipped beyond the firelight. Vana's precious tits. Aldric was right. What was that? Fourth time today he'd seen the lad head for a copse of trees, the only cover in the willow thickets that gathered by low Sherbourne. Poor bugger. If it kept on like this by the time they reached Mundberg he'd be so weak he'd be tied onto his saddle.

Time he had a quiet word. Elfhelm laid aside his meal and caught his Captain's eye. At the younger man's quick nod he gave a gusty sigh and rose.

The last thing the company had need of was a greenhorn so sick with fear he could not fight, guts turned to water by the very thought of battle. He had seen it many, many times, but still he found he was surprised: had not taken this one for such. Something about Dernhelm's steely gaze below the helm said the young man had a reason to be there. Some score he had to settle or an ache that could only allayed by relieving a few dozen Orcs of their ugly, stupid mugs.

He'd seemed determined, not afraid.

Elfhelm walked quietly through the dark, heading straight for the darkened thicket where the young man crouched. For all his bulk, the Marshall could move quietly when he wished. He'd reached about twenty paces back without alerting anyone when he stopped. Elfhelm had no desire to turn voyeur: let the lad be done and he'd catch him on the return.

Through the trembling grey-green leaves he could just make out slim shoulders and boyish hips under the stiffer leather jerkin. They made the lad looked even younger than he'd first thought, averting his eyes hastily as slim fingers reached to pull the breeches down.

Bloody hell!

His turn was not quite quick enough. A flash of white and shapely backside caught Elfhelm's eye and with it realization dawned. Too round and broad by half. That was no man's scrawny ass.

It was a lass.

"Lady..?!" His quiet call was out before he had chance to think. The figure started but did not turned around.

"A moment." The woman hastily pulled her breeches up and moved farther into the trees.

It was the voice that gave Elfhelm the second shock. He knew it well. How in all of Morgoth's seven hells had she got here? "Eowyn!"

A branch bent low as the object of his startled scrutiny turned and walked back into the pale ochre light. At least thank the gods for that. The shadow that darkened all the land kept some things better hid.

"I did not get to thank you for your letter." she quietly began.

He cut off her words with a low impatient growl. "Aye, well you need not have come all this way just to let me know." Bema's balls. What did she think? That this was time for the harmless chit-chat of old friends at the supper board? This was no game. They were bound for war and she had just handed him an impossible complication. One that he could not just ignore.

" My Lady…why?" he asked, counting slowly in his head. He had to let his temper cool before he did something he would regret. "Why are you here?"

"Why are you?!"" she retorted, all vinegar in the tone. "Old man, you too could be by your fireside yet you are here, protecting what you love. Why should I not have a chance to raise my sword?"

He snorted. Old man. That was rich. She was baiting him, for though he had the weatherbeaten, craggy face from a life lived long outdoors, he was still young: barely thirty-five and winters enough to know the pile of manure she'd put him in.

The conflict whirling through his brain must have showed upon his face.

Her father's stubborn chin raised just slightly up. "You cannot stop me."

Proud, defiant, wrapped in mail and leather, Eowyn looked just like a young Eomer. It nearly made him laugh. Both just as mule-headed and as stubborn as their sire, both passionate and impetuous. But stop her? Oh yes he could. He and Aldric could truss her up and send her packing her back to Edoras. It was so very tempting. But now also utterly impossible. The King's niece could not ride back the fifteen leagues unguarded and alone. Not with Orcs within the Folde and every man needed for the fight.

Damn. Damn. Now what was he to do? "Your brother and the King will have my hide for this." he growled, seeing the brief flash of worry cross her face. She had not thought of that. A quickly bitten lip was all the apology that he got. What did she think? That Eomer would be so reasonable as to assign all the blame to her? He would be lucky to survive with parts intact. Elfhelm was about to open his mouth and chastise her once again when the wavering grey gaze below the helm made his heart clench within his chest. Hair covered and helm on, he could not help but focus on the pale smooth cheek, on the long blond lashes fringing a stormy flash of grey. When had a face so young gained eyes that looked so old?

Years ago. Watching her back as a putrid worm watched her.

He reached to take her hand but Eowyn stepped back and quickly shook her head. She was in no mood to take the thoughts he had to offer: not comfort nor heartfelt common sense.

"Have they ordered you to send me back?"

"You know that they have not." His voice sounded remarkably level even to himself. "They do not even know that you are here. You are safe and far away in Harrowdale. Fulfilling the post that you have not yet deserted. "

At least she had the grace to blush at that. The stubborn chin rose again. "I did not desert. I delegated it."

"What?!" Both meaty hands ran through his barely grey-flecked hair in purest exasperation. They were riding to certain doom and she pawned him off with pretty technicalities that would make a Mundberg lawyer smile?

"They thought it was but for an afternoon perhaps?" Bema, pity the poor sod when Eomer caught up with him. "Who?" he asked, but then just as quickly put up a hand to stop her words. "No..no do not tell me. I do not want to know. The less I know the fewer charges when the courtmartial comes."

A look of triumph briefly lit her face. She had seen him hesitate, and just like her fabled father, showed no mercy when weakness bubbled up. "You have to let me come."

"They will be out of their minds with worry to have you on the battlefield."

"Then do not tell them."

He raised an eyebrow high. "Oh so it will be much better to tell them when your body is carried, arrow-shot, to lay among the honoured dead? If so much as a scratch mars your pretty face my life will not be worth a mark."

"I do not intend to die."

Of course. No youngling did. They all believed that they would be the one to parry every stroke. That no horse miss-stepped or threw a rider to the cold, unforgiving ground. Trampled their own master in the mud. Elfhelm drew breath to call her out when of a sudden he could see. It was the way she squirmed. The way the small white fingers plucked at a loose thread upon her tunic hem. Just like a small child ready for a scold.

It was lie.

The clear grey eyes he had first thought bottomless, a deep well of pure courage and resolve, were merely empty. They held no hope nor wanted it.

To die was exactly what she had planned.

The realization nearly made him sick. Had somehow the years of fear and care driven her to despair? Had her grief for Theodred overmatched her wits? But no. It was not the face of unreason that cooly watched him now. This was clear and present choice.

A stiff breeze rushed through the grass and Eowyn shivered once. She had left her cloak by the fireside not expecting to leave for long. He reached up and unbuckled the knotwork clasp that bound his own,

This at least was something he could do: keep her warm… and safe… for few days more. If he sent her back, even if she made it through the hazards that lay behind, in this mind she would only slip away again. Better to keep her back in the line where less harm might come. Trust to their training and her pluck. Hope like a youngling after all.

Though I will be out of my mind with worry too.

A shrill yipping howl rose from the longer grass. Somewhere along the sandy bank a red fox was lurking, waiting for its chance to hunt. And so are we.

Horse tackle jangled nervously and a few soft voices uttered soothed words from close beside.

He turned unerringly to where a blur of dark tethered shapes blew great gusty huffs of warm moist air and raised his voice to carry a little far. "Dernhelm. Come eat and rest. The ride will be long upon the morrow."

Dernhelm stood a little higher and nodded once. 'Gea.' The dark green cloth was laid across shoulders far too narrow to keep it from the muck. He did not care. It was but a cloak.

He steered the company's newest Rider back toward the ruddy firelight with a heavy arm.

And a far too heavy heart.

A/N Sorry this has taken so long. Updates will be much quicker from here on in. Am hoping for every 2 weeks. Thank you so much to Pippin-the-Hobbit who favourited and followed this past month.
A huge thanks to Annafan and Artura for their help getting these tricky chapters right.