The age is passing. Much has changed since the departing of the shadow and the coming of the King. No longer does the smoke rise from the land once known as Mordor. The fires of Oroduin are spent now; burnt down to mere embers after the passing of the Ring of Power. Flowers grow along the paths that lead to the dark gate. Ivy twines where orcs once kept guard.

The Age of Man is in full flower and much of what was known has faded. The Elves have already passed from substance to myth in a short march of years. The Grey Wizard returned as White is the stuff of legend, imagined too mighty to have shown the kindness she remembers when he told Theoden King to rise and lead his people in their greatest hour of need. Only the repeated visits of Meriadoc and Peregrin have kept the Shire present in the minds of Gondor. Still, after their passing, it will fade as well; with no reminder, the land called Shire and its inhabitants will become the stuff of fireside stories. Children will play at being Halflings instead of crowding streets to see one.

There are other, more immediate signs that the world is creeping forward. Her hair once the color of mallorn leaves has faded white. Her hands that never shook in fear sometimes quake of their own volition, too weak now to hold a sword. The circlet she wears makes her head ache yet she can remember when it felt as a trifle, its weight a welcome reminder of love found as love was lost.

Much is different; yet now at the threshold of the Fourth Age, when men stand poised to engrave their permanent mark on Middle-earth, some things remain. Old legends prove true; not just fairy tales told to young ones to explain the darkness to which all men must succumb.

In the place between sleep and wake, immune to time's ravages, Eomer beckons from the foot of the great bed. His figure shines in the half-light. "Awake and take counsel," he calls, yet his voice is barely an echo of an echo, almost lost between this world and the next.

Rubbing a hand across her eyes, the Queen of Gondor gazes upon the figure of her brother, young and strong, dressed in robes of a king. Her mouth opens in a silent cry of joy as she stretches her arms out towards him. Tears of happiness streak her withered cheeks. She arises from her bed, leaving her husband to his sleep. Ignoring the stiffness nested in her bones, she runs to embrace her kin, yet her arms close only around dust motes that swirl in the moonlight. Her eyes grow wide as her fingertips pass through Eomer's form for he is less than the stuff of gossamer; born of longing, made of vapor.

"Awake," he calls again and his eyes burn with fierce ecstasy. "The Riders approach."

The Queen tries to speak, for she would tell her brother how she has longed to see him once more, but her tongue will not obey and lies like a piece of dried wood in her mouth. "I dream," she thinks and shuts her eyes.

Out of nowhere, the pounding of horses' hooves fills her ears, fills the room, growing louder with each fleeting moment. The Queen's eyes fly open for she is certain that somehow horses must upon her, but she sees only Eomer, dressed now as a member of the Rohirrim, and her husband, still lost in dreams.

"Sister! The Riders approach," Eomer shouts. "Awake and heed them!" His voice is barely audible above the unseen herd. He looks over his shoulder and points to the window, face alight with joy.

The floorboards begin to shake beneath the Queen's feet from the relentless drumming of invisible hooves. A bowl set upon the table near the hearth rattles its way towards the edge from the vibration, then falls and shatters. The Queen whirls about and races to the window. She gazes down into the darkened city and a gasp escapes her.

Thousands of Riders fill the tiered streets of Minas Tirith below. They charge upwards towards the Citadel, spears raised, their helmets shining under the full moon. Cobblestones break and fly beneath their hooves; signs of merchants hung outside shops clatter violently from the speed of their passing.

"You must awake, Eowyn." Eomer's voice is cold and distant within the queen's ears. "You must awake and make your amends. Heed the Riders for they approach."

The sound of hooves is so loud it seems a living presence in the chamber. It shakes and tears at the senses until the Queen grows dizzy. A shout of welcome escapes her brother and his call is met with the neighing of a hundred thousand horses. "Awake!" he cries. "Awa—"

The Queen of Gondor stands alone before the window, hands clasped tightly together. The moonlight streams into the room behind her; the stillness broken only by her husband's soft intake of breath as he slumbers.

"Eomer," she whispers. Behind her the King sleeps on untroubled, unaware his wife stands at their bedroom window and weeps tears of bitterness and relief, all too aware she does not dream.

The legends were true after all. The Riders are not a creation of fairytale, for she has now beheld them with her own eyes. Their appearance is not lost to her; she will heed their message and put to rest all that remains unfinished.

A wave of sadness comes over the Queen for the first task she must perform will, by nature, be her hardest. For, on the morrow, she must gather those she loves together and tell them that as the trees begin to bud, Eowyn, Queen of Gondor, beloved of Aragorn son of Arathorn, known as Elessar, will ride.

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Long has Eowyn wondered if this time would come; long has she dreaded its arrival. It is not easy to leave now she is older. Home, hearth and family appeal more than they ever have in her long life.

Her heart falters when she thinks on those she loves, yet she has decided she will not remain, will not indulge her desire to stay only then to linger and fade. All the daughter of Rohan must do is to consider the figure of her brother, streaked with moonlight, standing at the foot of her bed. She thinks upon the pound of hooves through the streets of Minas Tirith and all doubts and hesitation vanish until once again, there is no question in her mind. She must ride and she must ride soon.

Her children are distraught at the news their mother will leave them. Her daughters, blind in their love, beg Eowyn to reconsider, afraid the horse might take an errant step and fall, crushing her frail bones. The Queen does not address their fears; indeed, she does not reply at all. Instead, she kisses her daughters' dark heads and embraces them, allowing them to cry their tears.

Her sons plead to let one of them accompany her. When she tells them it is not possible, they rage and demand to know why she must go, why she will not remain and let them care for her? Again, she gives no reply except it is her will that she should leave and they should not hinder her.

Only one among her family does not question. His children beg him to make their mother see reason, but King Elessar is wise, not only as King, but to the ways of the woman he married. He accepts his wife's decision with resolve and grace. "She was the shield-maiden of her people, and she is your mother. Her strength has made you strong," he tells his family. "Do not stand in her way."

Although the King of Gondor may outwardly offer no resistance, his queen is full aware he is not without private opinion in these matters. He does not need to say her departure pains him for they have lived so long together that Eowyn understands the workings of her Aragorn's heart better than her own. It grieves him that she would ride away once more.

It is the King’s silence that assures Eowyn he would have her stay. Yet, she also knows the Lord Elessar is an honorable man and even now, he will hold to the understanding they made long ago. For although the children have no memory of it, both parents well-remember times in the past when their mother rode away alone.

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The pact was struck on the first occasion, in a time when Aragorn was bedridden, recovering from injuries received in the reclamation of Osgiliath. The King's eyes opened early one morning to find the bed empty and his queen already dressed, wearing the soldier's clothes she had been so careful to save. At first he was amused; he supposed it was a game or perhaps a way to tease, for since the siege of Isildur's city things had been uneasy between the couple. He grew angry when he saw Eowyn was in earnest.

Bedclothes lay pooled around his bandaged waist as he argued the world was not a safe place for a woman to travel unaccompanied. The former great power of Mordor lay upon the kingdom like thin scum on a pond. Stationed on the frontlines, Faramir had sent word a few days prior that there were still encampments of orcs scattered across the frontier, grown desperate now the Dark Lord no longer provided their purpose. The cleansing of Osgiliath which had dealt the King a near mortal blow was far from over, which meant that Minas Tirith was far from safe.

All his warnings merited but a shrug of his wife's shoulders. "If there are orcs within Rammas Echor then Gondor has more trouble than its Queen riding alone," Eowyn retorted as her fingers flew, plaiting her hair into the high, tight braid she wore when she rode.

"You were there when Rammas Echor was breached. There are no certainties." Aragorn looked grim. "Besides, it is too close to Osgiliath."

The Queen glanced over at him as she pinned the braid into a coil at the back of her neck, eyes cool as snow in spring. "Osgiliath belongs to Gondor. There are garrisons there now. You saw to that."

Aragorn took as deep a breath as his savaged chest would allow. "There are also orcs, Eowyn. Your ears have listened to the reports as mine have. Besides—"

The King's silence was enough for Eowyn to turn and see if he required aid. She found him gazing upon her; a strange look upon his face. "My lord?" she asked, feeling her face grow hot under his gaze.

Her husband managed a smile. "Besides, I do not wish you to go."

The expression in husband's eyes was enough to stop the Queen's preparations. She slipped out of the hard leather tunic, came over and sat on the bed next to him. After a long moment, she took his hand in hers; an awkward gesture of near strangers, possessing none of the intimacy that should lie between man and wife. "I will return sooner than you think," she murmured, eyes downcast. "Gondor will not be long without its queen nor Aragorn without Eowyn."

Aragorn pulled her closer, placed her hand on his bare chest. "I will go with you, wife. We will travel light."

Eowyn shook her head as she pulled away. "You are no longer a ranger that can come and go at will. You are Elessar, King of Gondor. Kings do not travel light."

Frustration clouded Aragorn's face. "And you are no longer a soldier, you are my queen. Queens do not don soldier's clothes and ride off unescorted before dawn."

Eowyn eyes blazed at him. "I may be queen, but I am always a Shield Maiden of Rohan, strong of body and heart. I am well equipped to care for myself, whereas you, sir—"

Before her husband could brace himself, Eowyn pushed him gently backwards onto the bed. Although Aragorn landed on the softness of down-stuffed pillows, a cry of pain escaped him.

Eowyn stood and returned to her preparations, slipping the leather armor back on. "The drum of hooves on hard ground would kill you in your present state, my Lord," she said. The matter-of-factness in her voice belied the pain within her eyes. "We have made our choices, Aragorn. I will abide by mine."

"Your duty is to Gondor—"

"I am from Rohan. My duty will never be solely to Gondor."

For a long moment the couple regarded each other. Finally, Aragorn closed his eyes. "Go then, but take an escort. Two flank guards—"

"No. No escorts, no entourage. I travel alone."

Before the King could reply, Eowyn turned away and cinched the belt about her waist, then left the room without further word.

It could have been left that way. She could have ridden off alone that morning with such harsh words between them and, indeed, that was what almost came to pass. Yet even in illness, King Elessar surprised his wife once more with his strength of will and generous spirit.

Eowyn's mare was saddled, her pack put into place and her foot was in the stirrup, preparing to mount by the time the King arrived at the stables. Out of the corner of her eye, the Queen noted how her husband leaned against the doorway for support. Her heart ached at the gesture. She knew it had taken much for him to dress and come down through the courtyard unaccompanied for she had not exaggerated his condition. The blow he had received at Osgiliath was dire; the worst wound received in a life filled with danger.

"You should not be out of bed," she said softly, moved that he would come down after such a parting.

Aragorn nodded as he slowly came towards her, his face pale with effort. "I shall return there soon. Yet, Lady of Rohan, I would give you my assurance you are free to go if you will, and although you do not need it, you take with you my blessing. I would have you tell me where you fly and why, but—" Aragorn shrugged, "—I would not force a confidence from you."

Eowyn shut her eyes and leaned against her mare. "There are things I must attend."

Aragorn's hand reached out towards her and his fingers uncurled. There, in his palm lay a white twig dotted with two green buds curled tight in anticipation of spring. Her husband's eyes were grey as winter's sky; his tone grave. "The white tree is Gondor. I am Gondor. Gondor shall stay behind to heal and await your return."

As if it were dearer than mithril, Eowyn took his offering and tucked it in her jerkin, next to her heart. With a tentative hand, she reached up to caress his cheek. Aragorn's expression remained somber, yet his eyes grew soft at her touch.

"I thank you for your gift, Estel," Eowyn whispered, then let her voice grow strong. "Now, return to bed for you are unwell. I will come to you again ere long."

"As King, I decree it."

"Will you wish me safe journey, my Lord?"

Aragorn's smile warmed the cold spring dawn. "Safe journey, Eowyn."

Eowyn rode away that morning and true to her word, returned a spate of days later, spent and silent. She did not declare to Aragorn what befell her in her absence, and to his credit he did not ask her.

Thus, a pact was created between them. Three months later she rode again and the spring after and then again the following year when once more buds appeared. Each time, her lord bid her farewell, giving her a sprig of the white tree for remembrance. Such was their way, until three years later, when Eowyn's armor remained un-oiled and no provisions gathered. Aragorn watched and waited while his Queen lingered at home, devoted to her sovereign, her adopted country and in the next year, their first son. Never again did Eowyn ride off alone.

Now, in the winter of her life, watching as King Elessar stands strong afore their distraught children, Eowyn grieves more for her husband than any other. Well she remembers from her own past the cost of standing brave while in the throes of despair. Still, she understands it is different for Aragorn than for her offspring; her husband has insight their sons and daughters do not. He had accompanied his Queen to Rohan two months prior, when the changes began in earnest; after the Eorlingas rode into the White City bearing news that Eomer King was dead.

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The news of her brother's death came as a bitter blow to Eowyn. As she and Aragorn traveled to Meduseld to attend Eomer's burial and subsequent coronation of his son, Elfwine the Fair, her grief turned inward, manifesting in a refusal of sustenance and sleep plagued with bad dreams. Her smile, always so quick to shine, became a rare occurrence and Aragorn tried his best to raise her spirits for fear his Queen would waste away before Gondor's caravan reached the land of the Horse Lords.

Death had not been kind to Eomer. His corpse bore little resemblance to the warrior who had once offered a Ranger friendship and horses to find stolen friends. Eowyn stood frozen in horror when she first beheld her brother lying in state, but grief worked its thaw upon her heart and allowed her to kiss Eomer's visage and weep many tears over his cold and withered form. "I saw him last two summers ago and yet, I would not have known him," she said later, when she and Aragorn had retired to their chambers. "And worse, I fear he would not have known me."

Elessar tried to put her heart at ease. "You have not changed so greatly, lady. You are still as beautiful as when we married."

Eowyn gave him a slight nod of thanks. No," she muttered, suddenly restless despite the generous quarters. "No, Aragorn, I would not be as Eomer. I would not waste away."

"Your brother's decline was overlong. This does not mean you shall share the same fate." The King of Gondor smiled down at his Queen. "Besides, I would not have you dwell on such things. No man living can say how his end might come."

Eowyn gazed at him with sharp eyes. "That is not true, husband. You are of the Dunedain and may leave the world at a time of your own choosing."

"It is still a heavy burden, Eowyn, and offers no assurance. Who is to say what could befall me before my end of days? I am not immune to illness or the ravages of time. They come differently to me; that is all."

"I know you: you would not allow yourself to waste away." Eowyn shook her head. "Do not compare our fates, Estel, for they are as distant as Felarof and Firefoot."

"Yet the king of horses and a king's horse still must live and die the same as any other mortal creature." The King sighed, troubled lines appearing on his brow. "We have no need to speak of these things, Eowyn. We have many years with each other and with our peoples."

Eowyn started with surprise. "Aragorn, I am no longer young. Even you must acknowledge this." She turned to look out towards the plains of Rohan, visible from the window nearby. "And I feel as if I have been over-long from this land. Rohan and I are strangers to each other now. Our blood may be the same, but those who dwell here know me not."

Aragorn came before her and took both her hands in his. "You are of the line of Eorl, bane of the Nazgul King and Regent of Gondor. Your people have not forgotten you."

Eowyn paused as if she might speak further, but then lowered her head to kiss his hands. Of the matter she said no more.

In the days that followed, the Queen's insight rooted itself both in her mind and that of her husband. During the remainder of their stay, the differences between Gondor and Rohan seemed as defined as the white tree that stood against the green banner above their party's caravan. As they walked among and conversed with Elfwine and his family, Eowyn and Aragorn both found occasion to wonder if the lands were always this different, or had they grown apart, stalwart allies but distant as sun and moon?

King Elessar considered this as he watched the women tear their hair in grief and the men send feral howls towards heaven as the royal bier passed through the city. Following behind, he wondered quietly at the display, for much different were the lays of lament of Gondor.

Riding beside him, Elfwine noted the King of Gondor's curious look. "They cry for the Riders, my Lord Aragorn," the Prince said, head held high. "The people cry for the Eotheod to come and claim their own."

"I do not remember this from Theoden's ceremony," Aragorn mused softly, glancing sideways at the tall young man riding next to him.

"Yes. My grandsire restored many of Rohan's traditions, but he did not keep faith with the Riders."

The long veil that covered Eowyn's face hid her surprise at her nephew's words. "Theoden was a great king and lord. You do him dishonor by speaking so," she said, anger coloring her cheeks.

"I mean no offense to Theoden King, father-sister." Elfwine turned his gaze upon the Queen and Eowyn was able to see his eyes were clear of any arrogance she might have imagined in his words. "You speak truth: he was a mighty sovereign and performed great service to our people, leading us out of a dark time and into the renewed friendship of our allies. Yet--"

"Yet?" Eowyn's tone was thick with frost.

"Yet he did not believe in the Riders," the Prince said with such earnestness, both Aragorn and Eowyn could not help but be moved by the young man's sincerity. "It was my father who restored this tradition," he continued. "Eomer King rediscovered his faith when he rode with the Eorlingas."

Eowyn frowned. "He never mentioned this to me."

The remark drew a shrug from her nephew. "Perhaps he knew you did not believe. I tell you that from well before my birth, my father hearkened to the Riders. He revered them all the days of his life, so much so he made me swear upon his death bed that I would attend them during my reign. I honor him by honoring them."

As they passed through a close knot of mourners, Elfwine turned his attention toward the people that stood nearby, rending their hair and garments as the procession passed. Hidden behind her veil, Eowyn tried to make sense of Elfwine's story. Eomer had believed in the Riders? Surely not! They had always been taught that the Riders were naught but legend, a tale best told on blustery nights to make the listener's flesh creep and send shivers down the spine. When Eowyn was young, Theodred had scared her badly with the story and earned Theoden King's rebuke when she had awoke screaming later in the night. Surely Eomer had not forgotten?

"Put not your faith in legend, but in that which you can see and touch, Eowyn," Theoden had soothed her. He had reached across the table to take her small hand in his. "This, sister-daughter, is the only thing that matters in the world: a hand joined with yours. It is all the truth you will ever need. Remember this, Eomer," the King had said, turning his eyes upon his nephew who watched the scene with wide eyes. "Such will serve you as well in times to come."

Eowyn had glanced over at Eomer, but had been unable to catch his eye. A shudder had coursed through her as she remembered Theodred's story. "But my cousin said the Riders would come, that they would take my father's body—"

"Theodred knows better than to torment you with such tales. It is only a story, child; that is all." Theoden's expression had softened. "Your parents have passed beyond all harm. You need not fear for them."

"She misunderstood, father," Theodred had said, leaning forward in his seat. "I did not mean the Riders would steal my uncle from his tomb. I meant only to honor Eomund—"

"Your cousin and her brother have had enough of death," the King had growled in reply. "You do not need to make them fear it any more than they already do." He had sat straight in his chair, blue eyes boring into Theodred's matching pair. "In this house, there is no need to dwell on death or tell tall tales for death will be a long time coming for you. As for the Riders—" He had snorted with disgust. "I hold many of our traditions to be true, but this is not among them. The Riders are but a tale told to frighten around a fire, as you have frightened your cousin."

As Eomer's funeral procession approached the mounds of kings, tears once more coursed down Eowyn's face at the memory. There was no way Theoden could have known that death would come for Theodred much earlier than expected and that he, himself, would die in glory, but far too soon.

When the long walk behind the bier came to an end, the mourners stood before the great earthen mounds dotted even in winter with blooms of simbelmyne. Elfwine turned his eyes upon Eowyn and in that moment it struck her like a blow from a blade that her nephew was not the child she remembered from her last visit so long ago, but a man on the brink of his destiny.

He had stepped forward, long hair blowing in the brisk wind from the plains. "White Lady, father-sister and my blood and kin. In front of all this assemblage, will you raise your voice as one with me?"

Eowyn started at the request, and then lifted back her veil. A slight frown creased her face, for she knew not what to answer.

Elfwine extended a hand towards the Queen. "I would have you call the Riders with me, Lady. I would have you summon the Eorlingas for my father." His expression was somber. "It is your right as well as mine."

Eowyn hesitated as she considered the idea. After a long moment, she laid a hand upon her heart. "I respect your ways and wishes, nephew," she said. Grief deepened the lines upon her face. "Yet I must honor the memory and teachings of Theoden King as well. I can sing my brother to his rest but I cannot call what I cannot hold within my hands."

Disappointment showed in Elfwine's eyes before he bowed his head in acquiescence. "Sing, father-sister," he said. "The ways of Gondor are not the ways of Rohan, yet both will honor Eomer King." He took a step back and motioned for Eowyn to take her place next to the entrance of Eomer's tomb.

Although the Prince's words were uttered with respect, they cut Eowyn to the quick. In a fog of anger and grief, she held her head high and began the dirge as her brother's body was carried into eternal dark.

As her song ended and Eomer's sword and shield were settled by him in the stone tomb, Elfwine stepped forward once more.

"My father was a noble man and a great king," Elfwine called out to the assembly.

A murmur of assent went through the crowd. A series of cries escaped from some of the men, stopping only when Elfwine raised a hand to entreat silence.

"My father was an honor to the House of Eorl; worthy of greatness in this life and the next," he continued, lifting his face towards the blue of the Rohan sky. "I summon the Riders to show him the way to the halls of the Eotheod so he may be rewarded for his greatness and find his peace amongst our ancestors. Let the Riders gather him into their midst and let him ride proud among them until time fails and the world is no more."

A deep silence descended over the assembled. All eyes were fixed upon Elfwine as he lowered his head and slowly raised it again. From the future King's throat came a long, wordless cry filled with grief and victory, with sorrow tempered with command. The call caught upon the wind, then echoed in the mountains, swirling back to surround the mourners, growing in volume and strength until it made the blood run cold in all that heard it.

Tears sprung to Eowyn's eyes at the power and strangeness of the sound. How much had she truly forgotten about her people and her land? Desperate, she tried to remember the face of her brother as he was the last time she saw him in life: possessed of loving countenance, his face lined with wisdom and laughter. Her tears flowed faster; despite her efforts, the image would not come.

It was long moments before the cry faded. When silence once more reigned in the Rohirrim, Elfwine raised his head. "Ride fast, father," he whispered.

His glance caught Eowyn's own and she saw his eyes, so much like his father's, were bright with rapture and tears. Before she could offer any comfort, her nephew turned to lead the way back to the Great Hall for the coronation and celebration.

Eowyn turned to follow in Elfwine's wake, surrounded on all sides by her kin and kinsmen. She stumbled on the path and clutched for Aragorn's arm, the only familiar thing left her in a sea of grief.

Her fears were founded after all. Standing by her brother's grave, she realized that where once, long ago, she had been the Shield Maiden of her people, now, she was no little more than a noble stranger from a far away land.

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Three days have passed since her preparations began and the day of the Queen's departure dawns, chill and bright. All has been laid to rest, all partings spoken save one. The hour to ride is at hand.

As she sits in her bedroom and braids her long, white hair, Eowyn gazes at her visage in the mirror. A brief smile crosses her lips for the reflection that looks back at her tells her that Eomer's message was most urgent. The ravages of time show clear upon her face for age has overtaken her in the last few months. It is truly time to go.

She has faded since returning from Rohan. Since that time, a change has crept over her like a killing frost that comes at autumn's end. With each passing day, her step has grown less sure, her interest in day to day life has ebbed like the sea at low tide. The knowledge that her brother is dead has made her feel alone in the world in a way nothing ever has before. Before she saw the Riders, Eomer's wizened visage haunted her days and nights only second to that of the Witch King, slain so long ago.

Aragorn sits silent nearby, facing the embers that remain from the previous night's fire. Eowyn glances over at him and notes how the blood of the Dunedain has left him untouched. The lines have deepened on her face, yet his features remain as they have always been. A silent laugh, no more than exhaled breath, escapes her. She finds strange amusement that he is still the same as when they met. Their lineages both are noble, yet her mortality is the one that now proves frail.

Aragorn catches her eye. "It will be a good day," he says, then looks quickly back towards the hearth.

Eowyn's heart catches in her throat. "Yes, Estel," she replies as she ties the end of the braid. "It will."

As the Queen stands and gathers the few things she will take with her on this journey, Aragorn rises and awaits her by the chamber door. He has made only one request since she announced her intent to leave: that she allow him to accompany her to the stables when she departs.

The couple is alone as they traverse the halls; a fact which in itself is odd, for although the hour is early, the servants that tend those who dwell within the White Tower should already be about their duties. Aragorn and Eowyn walk in a quiet broken only by the sound of their own footfalls which echo throughout the darkened corridors. No one impedes their progress; a deft touch Eowyn recognizes as her husband's own.

When they arrive at the stables, Aragorn stands by as Eowyn readies her horse. He knows better than to offer help, for she will refuse it. She knows he can hear the bones in her shoulder crack as she lifts the saddle to the mare's back and when she winces, she notes how her husband looks away, pretending not to see.

The grey stands motionless, content under her mistress' attentions. She is a good mare, descended from Hasufel, named Windfola in memory of a friend lost long ago. All Eowyn's horses throughout the years have been called Windfola. Consistency has always been her gift to the past; the Queen's own way of keeping time's momentum in check.

She is gentle as she tightens the saddle's buckles and straps, careful to cause the grey mare no discomfort. Even after years dwelling so far from her land of her birth, her heritage shines through in the way she touches a horse. This is something time cannot take from me, Eowyn thinks. The thought brings a smile to her face.

She finishes with the saddle and bends to lift the heavy pack. She has no need of so many supplies, but her sons would not allow her to travel with any less.

From the shadows, Aragorn's voice comes, low and soft. "You are as lissome as the day I first saw you, standing in the shadows of Meduseld. Your bend of waist breaks my heart still."

Eowyn's eyes start to burn. She thinks upon Eomer's message once more, remembers the pound of hoof beats, then grasps the pack strap firmly and prepares to lift it into place.

Aragorn steps forward. He places his hand over hers upon the pack strap. "Pardon, wife, but this once I will do this for you," he insists.

For a moment, she is not sure she will let him. To their mutual surprise, she lets go of the pack and stands back. The lines around her mouth deepen; faint evidence of a smile.

The pack may be heavy, but it is even-balanced. Aragorn secures it to Windfola with a tender touch. "You've learned much," Eowyn says, watching him.

"There was much worth learning."

"To think, I have taught a king."

"Eowyn—"

Aragorn takes a step towards Eowyn but she turns and strokes the horse’s ribcage. They must not do this; she will break in a thousand pieces if they do. She thinks on Eomer, on the Riders charging up the darkened city streets and resolves to remain as distant as the stars in a winter's sky.

"You needn't go," Aragorn murmurs and bows his head. The gesture speaks tomes to Eowyn, each volume heavy with grief. Any resolve she had at remaining removed vanishes.

She turns to him and takes his hand in hers, choosing her words with great care. "Long ago, there was a time I begged you not to leave."

"When I went to call the dead?"

"Yes. What answer gave you then? Do you remember?"

Aragorn raises his head and she can see in the growing light, his eyes are wet. "I remember all from that time; how your tears dripped like crystal from your lashes, the way you pressed your face against my hand and pleaded with me not to go."

She reaches up and strokes his face. "What answer gave you, Estel?"

"I told you I could not make any promise then."

"It was a dark time. You did not wish to give me false hope."

"Are times so dark, Eowyn?"

She cannot answer, so instead stands as still as the effigies carved on the tombs in the Silent Street. Her husband steps forward, tilts her face upwards towards his, cradles it between his palms. "My lady, will you leave Gondor with no queen? Would Eowyn leave Aragorn?"

Eowyn's heart threatens to break within her chest. "Would Aragorn have Eowyn stay? Would he watch her falter then fail as Eomer did?"

"You will not—"

"I will. I do not have your lifespan, Elessar. I thought you would understand."

"Eowyn, I cannot give you leave to ride away forever."

She bows her head. "I am already moving towards forever. Leave is not yours to give."

Aragorn thumbs gently trace the lines of her high cheekbones. "Then will you say to me what I said to you all those years ago? Will you promise to return, if possible?"

"Estel—"

"Can you do this, Eowyn? Can you even say that much?"

Eowyn looks up at her husband, notes how his eyes are the same shade of grey as the approaching dawn. "I cannot," she whispers.

The light in the King's eyes flickers, then disappears. He leans in and rests his forehead against Eowyn's. For a long moment the two of them stand together, a living statue wrought in love and grief.

A bird sings in the distance for morning has once more come upon the world. Slowly, the couple draws away from each other. Eowyn turns and places her foot in Windfola’s stirrup and swings up on to the horse’s back.

"Eowyn?"

Aragorn holds up his hand to her. The Queen leans down in the saddle and takes the white twig offered, then tucks it in her jerkin. She clasps his outstretched hand. "Wish me safe journey, Estel?"

Her husband does not reply but instead kisses her palm. It is a long time before he releases her.

Eowyn rides towards the rising sun, wind blowing cold against her face. As day's first light spills over the Kingdom, she cannot bear to think of Aragorn, returned once more to the White Tower, or perhaps still standing in the shadows of the stable, alone and doleful. Still, she does not look back for with this final farewell. Her business in Gondor is completed.

************************

^{Thus leads the path from the White Tower}

************************

Caught between the waning and waxing shadows of Osgiliath and Minas Tirith, filled with tall grass and budding flowers, lies the White City’s barrier against the outside world. Pelennor fields surround Gondor’s heart like a green scythe, the verdant blade designed to keep enemies at a distance. The land itself has no blight, no outward reminder of the carnage once wrought here. In these times of peace, crops grow in soil once watered with blood of orcs and men. Children from outlying villages play hide and seek in the meadows where warriors once drew their last breaths.

Eowyn needs no reminder of what occurred in this place. In her mind, Pelennor Fields remain forever stained with blood as they were the day Théoden King lay broken upon them.

There is pillar of stone that marks the grave of Snowmane and falling place of the King of Rohan. In the past, this was the first spot where Eowyn would pause in her travels and dismount. This journey will be no different. The Queen reins in Windfola for she would linger in this place once more. She knows not when or if she will pass this way ever again.

The carving on the stone has weathered since the day it was carved, yet the epitaph is still legible for those who come to view it:

Faithful servant yet master's bane,
Lightfoot's foal, swift Snowmane.

The stone itself is cold and damp for although the sun has risen in the sky, morning's dew still clings to its sides, making homes in the nooks and crannies time has fractured upon its surface. The drops of moisture catch on Eowyn's fingers as they graze the inscription. This is the place where she almost lost her life; where Théoden lay crushed beneath his steed.

Weariness overcomes the Queen. The wounds dealt to her by those who dwelt in Minas Morgul still ache though the tower crumbled to dust long ago. Her shield arm, shattered when the Witch King struck, pains her on occasion, yet the physical blow she received during the war is a mere trifle to the blow the Nazgul dealt her heart. The loss Eowyn still suffers for the man she thinks of as her true father cannot be mended with herbs or healing prowess.

"Theoden," she says out loud, staring past the stone. It is time's bitter trick that she can no longer recall the timbre of the King’s voice nor the sound of his laughter, yet time spent delirious, reeling under the Black Breath remains crystalline in memory. It takes little effort for Eowyn to recall the darkness of those fevered dreams; it takes even less to remember who brought her back and why she hearkened to his call.

"He came to me and bade me wake. The shadow parted and I saw him standing before me, dressed in silver with a white tree engraved upon his breastplate. He held out his hand, then smiled and bade me wake again so I may walk with him and be his queen. I placed my hand in his and—"

At this point in the story she had always paused to drink in the rosy faces of her children gazing up at her for their wide eyes and rapt expressions were as a tonic to the Queen's soul.

"And?" one of the girls would inevitably ask.

"And I have walked by his side ever since; all the way to you."

This had never failed to draw deep sighs from the children. "You loved father so that you returned just for him?" they had always chimed, already in possession of the answer, unable not to ask.

What if they should ask her now that they were grown? If one of her children posed the same question now, would she tell them the entire tale? Could she?

After all this time, the Queen still cannot say. As she leans against the monument, Eowyn understands that even with time's passage, it is the nature of all complicated tales to possess no simple answers.

A shadow passes over the bright sun. A chill goes through Eowyn as she traces memories with a fingertip.

"You shiver, Lady. Are you in need of care?"

Eowyn shakes her head. Her gaze turns away from the marker towards the sound of the Steward's voice. "It is nothing," she says. "My heart lies elsewhere. I would be with it."

Theoden King lies within Rath Dínen, the Silent Street, among the Kings of Gondor; a captive guest far from his own land and people.

Faramir leans forward. He sits in a heavy wooden chair, surrounded by the tall meadow grasses and early spring flowers that bend and sway in the steady breeze. His green mantle is pulled around him and his dark hair stands out in contrast to the paleness of his skin.

"Lord Aragorn would not be pleased to see you up and about so soon," he muses.

"Lord Aragorn goes about as he pleases," Eowyn retorts. "I would do the same."

"You are not well."

"I am well enough."

The world is in chaos, all existence fragile as glass. The man the Halflings call "Strider" and the White Rider storm the Black Gate. Smoke from Mordor still rises in lethal curls to darken the eastern spring sky.

A strange expression crosses the Steward's face. The wind ruffles his long hair. "He will return, Lady."

"What?"

"Lord Aragorn. He efforts will prove victorious. The will of free people must triumph in the end. In the interim, I shall try to be a better companion to you."

Eowyn sinks to the meadow's floor, her back pressed against Snowmane's marker. "You misunderstand me, my Lord. I do not pine for the company of Lord Aragorn but of Theoden King. He is alone in the Silent Street and I would go to him. If hope fails, I may not have the chance again."

At the thought of Theoden lying cold and alone among the Kings of Gondor, Eowyn must close her eyes. When she opens them, Faramir is still there, leaning forward, chin resting on his tented hands. He smiles at her. When he smiles, he is blindingly beautiful.

"You are right, Lady. I did not understand," he says.

There is another that has traced around the outskirts of her heart; another man of Gondor, upright and true. He is a leader in his own right, possessing neither the hands of a Healer or bloodline of a King.

Faramir studies Eowyn as if trying to discern a particularly complex puzzle. "If you will forgive my boldness, it strikes me that you and I have much in common." Hesitation lies thick within his voice. "I, too, have met with grief."

Although his tone is light, pain is visible in his eyes. Eowyn must stop herself from reaching for his hand for it would not be meet. She is betrothed to this man's sovereign lord and king.

Still, the warmth of his gaze cannot be denied. "Your loss is great, my Lord," Eowyn murmurs, not knowing what else to say.

"My name is Faramir, Lady. I would have you call me so."

"Faramir, then." Eowyn marvels at how easily the name falls from her tongue. "And you shall call me Eowyn," she adds, surprising herself with such spontaneity.

The Steward's face lights up at the suggestion. "So be it, Eowyn."

He is so informal, so different from what she thought the men of Minas Tirith to be. Aragorn, of course, was a different cipher for he was raised among the elves, but she had always heard that these gallants of Gondor embraced their formal graces as seriously as they did their letters; both customs that men of Rohan did not hold as dear.

A comfortable silence settles upon them. Faramir gazes off towards the rising sun. When he speaks again, his words are slow and measured.

"If there is to be truth between us, I would tell you, Eowyn, that I would mourn my father and my brother if I could. I would do obeisance at their tombs and prepare them for their final rests." He sighs and rubs a hand over his mouth. "Yet, these things are not within my reach for Rauros took Boromir to the sea and my father—" Faramir's smile is bitter aspic. "Of my father, there is nothing left to mourn."

"My Lord—"

His eyes contain flecks of blue. "Faramir."

"Faramir, I am sorry—"

He interrupts her with a gentle wave of hand. "Offer no words of pity, Eowyn. My brother and father are gone. I must go about the business of living. Gondor will need a Steward in the days to come."

Eowyn leans forward in the grass. "You speak truth, sir," she says, her voice low and soft. "The King will have need of your service for it will come about as you said: good must bear witness and triumph in the end."

"We must believe so. It is all we can hope for, Lady. It is all we have left." Faramir shakes his head. "Besides, you and I are of a mortal strain. We must make our peace with death for it will come to us and to all we love. Yet, I thank you for your kindness and your company. Grief is a burden that is best not borne alone."

His gaze is tender. Eowyn casts formality to the spring wind and reaches out to take his hand.

Her fingers close upon themselves for she is alone in the field, with naught but flowers and birds for company. From behind Snowmane's stone, she can hear a gentle rip as Windfola crops the long grass.

"What—"

Eowyn runs a hand over her face before glancing around again. She is alone in the field. "I must be dreaming," she mutters and forces a thin laugh.

The strain of leaving Minas Tirith must be upon her for it is not possible that she just saw this shadow from her past. Faramir sat with her in the Houses of Healing long ago, not in this meadow. That man is not part of this time and place, indeed no longer any part of her life for she and the Prince of Ithilien have not spoken true to each other in years.

"You must make amends," a voice whispers in her ear.

Eowyn whirls around, but she remains alone, "I have," she says, bewildered. "I have made my amends."

Out of nowhere, the ground beneath her feet begins to rumble, then quakes with the pounding of thousands of hooves. A fierce wind stirs once still air, blowing cold against the Queen's face. Windfola shifts against the loose tether and as the neighing of a legion of horses grows in volume and strength, the mare rears up, her hooves pawing the air.

The Queen pinches the flesh upon her withered cheek with a force that makes her eyes water. She is not dreaming. Pressing her palm against the pain, she rises with difficulty from the ground. "I am ready," she calls, unable to hear her own voice over the rumble of the approaching herd. "I am here."

"Make amends."

The voice is as close and intimate as a lover's, purring in her ear.

As quickly as it began, the ground and air grow still and in the place of the approaching stampede, an eerie silence now descends upon the meadow. The hairs rise upon the back of Eowyn's neck. "Eomer?" she calls. "Is that you?" She hears the pathos within her voice and the sound frightens her almost as much as the figure that comes towards her.

Faramir approaches, carrying the lifeless body of Aragorn. Blood streaks the Steward's face and his eyes glitter with a fever borne of determination. He stops an arm’s breadth away from where Eowyn stands beside the marker, the King cradled gently in his arms. "I kept my promise, Lady," he whispers. "I have returned."

Eowyn's hands fly to her mouth. A strangled noise escapes her as she steps backwards. Her feet tangle in the tall grass and she falls to the ground, landing full-weight upon her hand. White-hot pain shoots from her wrist and she squeezes her eyes shut to keep from crying out, shuddering in her self-imposed darkness. "What is happening to me?" she cries.

The only answer she receives is the thin piping of the meadow's birds. Chiding herself for fear, the Queen reopens her eyes.

The figure that stood before her has disappeared and the sky above has returned to brilliant blue. From all signs, it is turning into a beautiful day.

Panic blossoms inside her like the wildflowers that had surrounded the place where Faramir sat. "I am overtired," Eowyn says through gritted teeth. "It was naught but a dream."

She tries to stand, but although the pain has faded, her wrist will not yet bear weight. Wincing, she switches to the other hand and pushes back to her feet.

She has been injured, she cannot deny it. Her hand serves as proof that something greater than a mere dream occurred. The voice told her again to make amends, but hasn't she done all she could? She has said her farewells to her family; the small matter of her estate has been put to rights. What more is left to attend?

I kept my promise, Lady. I have returned.

Faramir? Is this the matter of which the voice speaks?

The Queen's mouth draws downward in a frown. No; whatever might have been between her and the Prince of Ithilien was settled long ago. There is nothing left of that matter but a dried chrysalis of memory that belongs to the girl she once was, not to the woman she is today. The Steward and she have kept their peace. It must be something else.

With the idea soundly rejected, Eowyn scowls, puzzling over what the voice could mean. She must solve this riddle for she would heed the Riders. She has beheld them with her own
eyes—

But has she? Could it have been a dream?

Eowyn's mind gnaws upon the thought as a yearling at a paddock rail. Her body and spirit have declined as of late; this is not folly but fact. What of her mind?

Unnerved by her own thoughts, Eowyn goes to Windfola and strokes her mare's neck. The action calms her. No, this is no elder fool's errand she is on. She saw the Riders in Gondor. Of that she has no doubt.

But does she? What if all of this was but her own feeble attempt to find meaning at the end of life? Theoden King believed the legends false. Theoden King had believed—

—had not believed—

Theoden King had not believed.

Eowyn turns once more to face Snowmane's stone and the thought that has danced around the edges of her heart and mind since she saw the Riders for her own eyes charging the streets of the White City, since Elfwine's cry echoed in her ears months before, comes clear at last.

If she believes in the Riders and accepts them in faith, she must also accept that she had failed to summon them for Theoden. Without the call, Theoden's spirit would be lost in the twilight between life and death, separated forever from the Eotheod. It was not enough she could not save the King in his hour of need; she has also failed him in securing his eternal peace.

Eowyn's nails dig into her palms. Although the morning's chill is slight, her teeth chatter. She shall become mad if she stays in this place any longer. She may be mad now, she can no longer tell.

"I must go," she whispers and mounts her horse with as much haste as her failing body will allow, wincing at the pain that lingers in her wrist. Her heels dig into Windfola's side and the mare, unaccustomed to such prodding, shoots across the field as an arrow from a bow.

Horse and rider speed eastward as if pursued by the long-fallen Nazgul themselves. As the wind blows in her ears, Eowyn tries to dam the flood of doubt that threatens to overwhelm, yet the image of Theoden King, lost in the shadow between life's wake and sleep, returns again and again to torment. Bitter tears fly behind as the Queen rides; Eowyn's own salted rain falling as memorial to those who fell and those who may not yet rest.

************************

Galloping under the midday sun, the frantic clanging of Eowyn's own thoughts cannot be drowned out by the sound of Windfola’s hooves as they beat a steady rhythm on the hard-packed ground. The horse is as fleet as her predecessors, all fine mounts; still, no matter how much speed the animal musters, Eowyn's grief keeps pace. It grins and cavorts inside her, summoning images at will: Theoden carried into the tomb, Aragorn bleeding in the arms of his Steward, Elfwine raising his head to the sky, Eomer lying in state. The memories compound, one on another, until the shaking in her hands forces the Lady of Rohan to slow her mount to a walk.

The ride has not been great in length, but already the terrain has visibly changed. The country grows hillier and as the path becomes more established under the budding branches of trees, the open spaces begin to narrow; all clear signs that the Queen has arrived at the edge of upper Ithilien. A few leagues further west, the forest will thin and divide. There, flanked by guard towers, lies the bridge that spans the fast-flowing Anduin, built wide and strong to last the ages of men to come, and beyond continues the road that leads to Osgiliath.

A short distance into the thickening woods, a clearing bisects the path, calm and quiet. Here Eowyn reins Windfola to a halt and dismounts, knees shaking, eyes blurred with tears. While the patient mare stands by, the Queen of Gondor leans against the nearest tree. There, she lets loose the sorrows of her heart, weeping silently, head buried in her hands.

The day is oblivious to the Lady of Rohan's grief. The air is crisp but not bitter, seasoned with a hint of the warmth to come. Early flowers peek from the wayside foliage, for winter will be driven from this land before the next moon.

For all her life in Gondor, spring held a special place in the heart of its queen for the season is always rich in its renewal. Minas Tirith is never lovelier than when its trees and flowers are in bloom. The White Tree sends down rains of blossoms that are borne on the wind throughout the city, lading the streets with golden petals. Leaning against the rough bark of tree, the memory of Aragorn, coming towards her, blossoms catching in his dark hair, hand outstretched, appears before her. Eowyn's tears flow harder for the memory is almost more than she can bear.

She cannot go back. She has known it all along but now with only the wind in the trees for witness, the truth stands as stark and defined as the branches above. Spring will not come again for the Queen of Gondor. Since the night she beheld the flash of spears charging towards the Citadel, she knew.

Eowyn drags a hand across her face, clearing her cheeks for more tears to fall. Her own demise she can accept; her mind has bent to this and she chose the path she treads now of her own free will. It is the other that haunts her, the mere idea that because she had no faith, Théoden's spirit might wander lost. Her heart rails against the possibility for Theoden had been a good King, a great leader of men during a dark time. It would be too terrible a fate for a man such as him.

With all her heart, the Queen of Gondor wishes that she could speak again with her husband, to take his counsel. Yet, even as she makes the wish, she knows what the King would say.

Theoden has surely gone on to his reward, wife, you must not think otherwise. The Valar would not fail to honor one such as him. Rest easy for there is nothing certain except that no more can be done.

Yes, the King would say just that, speaking from a heart filled with compassion and a mind set in reason. He would tell her she should search out what is left for her to attend for naught can be done for Theoden now.

A wave of anger courses through Eowyn. Only one raised in the traditions of the Rohirrim would ken the meaning of what she has seen, could ever uncover its truth. It is not meet that Theoden may not rest. "I accept this as if I were born and bred in Gondor," she growls. "I am a descendant of the House of Eorl."

She must act; she must do something to rectify this, both for Theoden's peace and for her own. She has put her faith in the Riders. It is her right to call them and she will claim it here at the end of her days. Perhaps this is her final atonement; the last duty she must perform before what lies beyond the veil that separates the living from the dead is revealed to her.

If only she could recall the words, for she had been numb in her grief the day Eomer died, oblivious to things she now has cause to remember. She shuts her eyes to block all distractions. Elfwine stood in front of the tomb and said—

She cannot remember. Still, the Queen will not be hindered by something as inconsequential as phrasing. This is a rite, not a spell.

The thought bolsters her spirits. "Theoden King was a great King and worthy man," she begins, eyes searching the sky as she tries to speak what lies in her heart. "He was as a father to me and I claim the right to call the Riders to bring him home at last."

Slowly, the Queen of Gondor steps away from the tree and stands in the middle of the path. "Theoden King brought great honor to the House of Eorl," she calls into the stillness of the clearing. "Long has he wandered, separated from the Eotheod. In the memory of all the good he wrought in the name of Rohan and its allies, I summon the Riders to come; to bring him to live in glory among his ancestors, to find his rest at last."

Eowyn takes a deep breath and lowers her head. She thinks on Theoden, concentrates on the man she remembers. Suddenly, she finds she can recall the gravity of his smile, the way his hand wrapped around her smaller one, his eyes as he rallied the people at the Deep and then again led the Rohirrim out against the armies of the Enemy to save Gondor, to save them all. She remembers his valor, his kindness, his goodness and as she thinks upon these things, a cry grows within her that can no longer be contained. Her head tilts back at the vault of blue above and she releases the sound that seems to generate from every part of her. All her love, all her longing, all her pride in the man she knew as father rings in the trees, in the sky and echoes back again and again and again.

When the last remnants of the cry are carried away upon the spring wind, Eowyn shuts her eyes. A great feeling of relief sweeps over her. It is done. Truly, she has made her amends.

"Eowyn?"

In a vista that was naught but fallen leaves and trees, a woman now stands dressed in the white of a shield maiden, a spear of the Eorlingas held in her slender hand. As she gazes upon the apparition, the peace Eowyn feels vanishes and is replaced with a tangle of emotions she is hard pressed to name.

It is her mother.

"Do you know me, daughter?"

Eowyn nods, able to manage little more. As she stands before her mother, the years fall away and despite her age, she feels as a child again. She takes a step towards the apparition but Theodwyn stops her with an upraised hand.

"It has been long since we last beheld each other." Theodwyn's voice is huskier than her daughter's. The gentle breeze blows tendrils of golden hair around her face.

"You died," Eowyn says. It seems to her that her voice comes from far away. "I was very young."

Theodwyn's eyes reflect the great sadness her daughter remembers so well. "No so young that you could have not paid me honor. You valued my memory little throughout your life, seeking instead your own way among men."

The rebuke is more painful to the Queen than any physical blow. "I did what I must," she replies, swallowing the lump that has appeared in her throat.

Theodwyn's expression is grave. "You did what you wanted. You always did, even when you were a little girl."

Tears sting Eowyn's eyes. The desire to run to her mother is overwhelming, but Theodwyn's words are too harsh to allow for such sentiment. "You were not there," she chokes, not trusting herself to say more.

Theodwyn shakes her head. "Yet, you could have remembered me. Instead you made it your purpose to forget, as you do all things that pain you. You have forgotten me and you have forgotten that which happened long ago. For this, you must make your amends."

A tear slips down Eowyn's face. "I know not of what you speak."

"You do. You must make for Osgiliath. The Prince waits there."

Hot blood floods the Queen's face as her temper flares upwards. "There is no business unfinished between Faramir and myself," she snaps. "There is nothing at all."

Her mother's eyes gleam, grey as storm clouds. "Do not speak falsehoods, Eowyn. You must make haste and you have little time."

Eowyn's expression turns stony. "I tell you: there is nothing to amend," she mutters between clenched teeth, then slowly turns her back on the apparition.

In the blink of an eye, the clearing vanishes. Eowyn stands upon the balcony of the Houses of Healing where smoke rises in the east from vanquished Mordor. In front of her, the girl she was so long ago catches Faramir's hand in hers. A wave of despair washes over the Queen as she sees the younger version of herself look up into the Steward's eyes then back down to his hand clasped within her own.

"It is so, then," young Eowyn chokes. "You would leave me in ignorance of this, bereft of one I value so greatly? This is your idea of friendship?"

Faramir pales. "I do not know what to say for I would that day had never come. I would have remained in silence to keep this from you."

"Why? So you could suffer? Was it not you who told me that some things are better not borne alone?" The maid's eyes blaze with fury. "I am not a child to be protected, Faramir. When told the truth, I am able to make my own decisions."

Faramir casts his eyes towards the ground. "I did not mean to treat you with disrespect, Lady. My silence had reason."

"Eowyn. My name is Eowyn. Or is that no longer between us as well?"

Watching the scene, grief stabs through the Queen once again, sudden and sharp as the blade of Narsil. She watches her younger self struggle. "Why did you not make yourself known?" the girl cries, burying her face in her hands.

"Must I explain, lady?"

"You should have—"

Faramir tilts the maid's face that she might look into his eyes. His tone is stern. "You are betrothed to Lord Aragorn. He is a good man; he is my King and my sovereign lord. I have pledged my honor and my fealty to him and yet, I cannot take you from my heart. I have tried, but there you remain against everything I hold to be true, to be honorable. Surely, Eowyn, you can fathom why I kept this to myself?"

His tone grows rough and for a brief instant, his eyes blaze with anger and frustration. His hands encircle the maid's wrists with the grasp of a drowning man. Eowyn watches her younger self stare up into the Steward's face, horror and loss reflected in her delicate features.

The instant passes and with a face pale as snow in winter, Faramir's hands fall to his sides. "I am sorry, Lady—Eowyn," he murmurs. "I am sorry."

Her mother's voice sounds in the Queen's ear. "Do you still hold there is nothing you must account for?"

A pall seems to have fallen over the world. "It was long ago," Eowyn chokes.

"Yet it lies upon your heart, daughter. You cannot ride with this any further."

The balcony disappears and once more, the two women so alike in bearing face one another in the clearing; one cut down in her youth, one grown old, a victim to the ravages of time. After a long moment, Eowyn breaks the silence.

"I must to Osgiliath, then? That is what the Riders would have?"

Theodwyn sighs. "It is not the Riders' will, but your own, daughter. You must resolve this in the time left."

"It ended badly."

"It matters not. You still must go."

Eowyn looks at her mother, studies the high cheekbones so like her own. "I did not forget you, mother," she whispers. "I was a good Queen and a good mother in my own right. I learned compassion from your brother, your son taught me to laugh, a King taught me to live. When the war came, I found I could be more than what the ways of our country would have me be. Tell me, mother, if you look upon my life in this light, would you have had me live other than I did?"

Theodwyn's face is rife with pity. "You misunderstand, daughter. It is not what I would have, but what troubles you still. You have been action's advocate all your years, Eowyn, yet you still have not learned that love is as noble as any act of valor. I would see you acknowledge the heart's quiet sacrifice and not just acts of selflessness which occur upon the field of battle."

A long moment passes. "Faramir," Eowyn whispers. Her face crumples.

Her mother reaches out to stroke her daughter's aged cheek. Eowyn gasps for her mother's hand, which is warm, has weight and texture. She reaches up to clasp her mother's fingers and finds the flesh to be solid against her own.

Theodwyn opens her arms. As if in a dream, Eowyn sinks into her mother's embrace. The feel and smell of her mother, long ago faded and forgotten, floods over her like rain in drought. She lays her head against Theodwyn's shoulder. If they come for me now, I will not leave, she thinks, and holds her mother tighter.

Theodwyn pulls back. Her eyes now contain the kindness Eowyn remembers from her childhood. "The Riders approach, Eowyn," she says, wiping her daughter's tears with her sleeve.

A tremor begins in the earth beneath Eowyn's feet and a wave of panic courses through her. "Mother, did they come for Theoden King?" she gasps.

The rumble intensifies as Theodwyn smiles upon her daughter. "Make your amends," she counsels, laying her hand against Eowyn's cheek. "Find your peace."

A legion of horses can again be heard floating on the wind. Once more, the ground begins to shake; pebbles dance along the forest path, jarred from their sedentary rest. The sound of horses and riders is deafening and Eowyn's hands per force fly over her ears.

Theodwyn's face shines with joy. "Hurry, daughter," she calls. Eowyn tries to respond, but it is too loud, it is…

When the Queen of Gondor wakes, the sun has climbed down towards the west. Windfola grazes nearby, and somewhere in the nearby forest, a bird is singing a song more beautiful than Elven lays.

Eowyn sits up, ignoring the pain that shoots through her joints from lying so long upon the damp earth. Slow and careful in movement, she stands. Exhaustion blurs her vision, making her want to fall back upon the forest floor and stay forever. She would be content if her life would stop at this very moment, ending this madness and doubt. She raises her head, and for an instant, thinks that perhaps she will stay just a short while and rest until she feels stronger or perhaps until her bones crumble into dust and mingle with the earth. Both would be welcome in light of what lies ahead.

A glimmer catches the Queen's eye in the fading light and her mouth opens in astonishment. There, leaning against a nearby tree is the spear her mother bore, shining in the diminished light, elegant and deadly. After an eternity, Eowyn approaches the place where it rests. Her hand shakes as she extends one finger and runs it down the weapon's shaft.

The spear is real.

A shudder of relief passes through Eowyn. Her vision clears, sweeping away the cobwebs of doubt that have shrouded her judgment since she fled from Pelennor Fields. With a firm hand, she grips the weapon, taking joy in its tangibility, in the weight within her hands. The underlying ache of living falls from her weary bones. Holding the spear, she feels more herself than she has felt in months.

She hefts the spear to her side, noting the familiarity of the gesture after so many years. There will be no rest. She must head on to Osgiliath while there is still light in the sky. She must make her amends.

"Come, Windfola." Eowyn's command is quiet in the growing dusk. "We must be on our way."

Carefully, Eowyn settles into the saddle, spear held upright. She gives a slight pressure to Windfola's sides and the horse, ever obedient, breaks into a trot.

Faramir waits in Osgiliath. This day has been many years coming. Eowyn sees no reason to keep him waiting any longer.

************************

^{Thus leads the path from meadow.}

************************

This is the penance, this is the price.

Up close, his smile makes her bones go soft. He tilts his head and moves closer, his breath sweet.

Her legs, strong from riding, wrap around his waist. He motions for her to release him but she refuses and instead pulls him closer so she might kiss him, slow and deep. As their tongues meet and entwine, she falls past reason, past desire, until he clasps her face between his hands and forces her back so she might stop and gather breath. The night air, thick with humidity, gasps into her lungs.

The wind blows the soft darkness of his hair around her face as she undoes the front fastenings of her dress. The garment slips from her shoulders, and as the clouds flash, lit from within by lightning, the hunger in his eyes drives away any lingering wisps of doubt.

He does not hesitate, but pulls her to him, letting his hands explore her body. His touch possesses an urgency that matches her own. She presses up against him and as she does, inhales the smell of smoke from dying fires rising from the city's dwellings, the tang of sweat, and above all, the scent of rain.

Somewhere below, a man lies in recovery's sleep, his dreams untold.

His neck's salt-taste, his day's growth of beard that presses rough against her cheek drives her fervor. As he lifts her skirt to find nothing to impede him underneath, his fingers slip inside her and she is certain she could not have imagined any of this, not in her wildest moments.

He withdraws his hand, and reaches up to guide her own fingers between her legs so that they may grow wet with her tell-tale sign of desire. The boldness of the gesture excites her. Everything about him is different than she had imagined: the taste of him in her mouth, the way her body fits against his, the feel of his fingers as they slide in, then out. All of this is foreign territory, outside anything she ever thought she wanted and in a flash of insight, she kens that he is hers and she is his; no matter of restraint or chastity would change this. Each of them owns a part of the other. It is simple and clear.

It is no maiden's flush that appears upon her cheeks as she sees him reach down to prepare himself. Quickly, she pushes his hand out of the way, places her own against the fabric of his breeches, tracing the outline of what lies inside. She unlaces the simple fastening and as she reaches in, revels in their like thinking for her fingers meet only the glorious combination of warmth and hardness that readily response to her touch.

He gives a soft intake of breath as she draws him out, then squeezes gently, stroking once, running the ball of her thumb up his length then back down with an assured touch. A feeling of power races through her and she repeats the gesture once, then again until he reaches down and places his hand over hers.

The first drops of rain fall from the night sky as she kneels in front of him, unrepentant. She takes him again in hand and smiles, feeling his hands caress her hair, stroke her cheek, feeling him grow harder in anticipation. Savoring each moment, she slides her tongue across exquisite softness and revels in the taste of salt and sweat.

She wraps her lips around him, feels the subtle movements that act as signals to slow her pace as she slides him into her mouth, flicking her tongue up and down the underside of his shaft, enjoying the way his hands tighten in her hair. In the darkness, her mouth ministers to him, first quick, then slower, then quick again until she feels his hands reaching down to lift her, pulling her back up to face him once more.

His lips are rough, hurried with desperation. He wraps his arm around her waist, lifts her as he did when he first saw her waiting in the shadow of the battlements, and pushes her against the wall, pausing only to position himself as she wraps her legs around him. She thinks that he might speak, but instead, he moves forward; pushing in, stretching her to what he offers. She is more than ready. The feel of him so close, so deep within, nearly drives her over pleasure's edge.

He pins her against the wall, supporting her by the weight of an arm made strong from a life time of archery and swordplay. His other hand reaches down to part the soft hair between her legs, his thumb tracing light circles that send delicious shudders throughout her entire body. She shifts her own position and squeezes down upon him, thrilled at the soft groan only she can hear over the falling rain.

He drives forwards again, thrusting up. He wraps both arms about her, as if he would meld her to his body. She meets his embrace, clutching his neck, sinking her teeth into his shoulder. With each thrust, she grows warmer until red flashes appear in the darkness and her own wet warmth mixes with the rain upon her thighs. She can feel his body shake in restraint as he pushes forward once more. She pulls back for she must see his face, she must see what this is between them, must find a way to understand why it is they must do this, why they would risk all.

This is the penance. This is the price.

A chill goes through her. In the blink of an eye, despite the heat of the man she clings to, she cannot feel warmth at all. The very darkness seems to intensify, grow deeper. She shivers and her eyes burn despite the rain that falls upon her face and she is cold, so very cold.

The arms that hold her tighten, mutate against her skin. She looks down to find the fine-boned hands that hold her have turned into talons that score her flesh. She looks up and gazes straight into the hell of the Witch King's eyes.

A silent laugh echoes through her head.  The Ring Wraith plunges into her, colder than death, seed barren and toxic. Blood runs down her legs as her sanity slips and cracks.

Below in the city, a man lies within the Houses, his body torn. His fever breaks and his eyes open for the first time in days.

"Eowyn," he gasps.

Eowyn's screams echo off the stone battlements.  Her eyes snap open, the sound still ringing in her ears, rain dropping upon her face. A peal of thunder rumbles over head, further blurring the lines between past and present.  Caught for an instant in the place that lies between the world of dreams and the world of man, Eowyn struggles to find to which she belongs. 

The ache in her hands and chattering teeth help her to decide. Wiping the blear from her vision, the Queen remembers she camps within the realm of Anorien, still upon the far side of the Anduin from Ithilien.  She turns her gaze upwards, shivering as raindrops land upon her face.   Her strength fails her and she rests against her pack once more.

A crack of lightning brings the copse around her into brief focus. Earlier, she had watched the moon rise in the clear night sky like a waking giant, bedecked on all sides by twinkling stars. She had seen no danger in rest; indeed, there had been no other choice; she had not been able to stave exhaustion any further.  With great reluctance, she had settled against her pack and shut her eyes. 

Now as the patter of rain sounds all around, Eowyn curses her body's frailty.  Her need for sleep has cost her precious time; it is clear that the ground has become too treacherous to venture forth in the dark.  Her last push towards Osgiliath must be delayed until the dawn.  

A shiver courses through her. She is cold from lying in the rain for even a short period of time.  She tries to rise to her feet only to find every joint in her body seems to have frozen while she lay cradled in sleep's embrace.   In agony, she reaches for where the spear rests next to her on the ground. 

Through the gloom, a low nicker reaches her ears.  Windfola stands a short distance away, trying to find shelter within the thin grove of trees.  The horse gazes woefully at her master.  "If you feel as miserable as you look, then we are a sorry pair indeed," the Queen rasps.

Another bolt of lightning brightens the sky.  Eowyn sits up slowly, turning her attention to her pack.  It lies partly sheltered beneath her, still in the precise spot it landed when she freed it earlier.  Her fingers fumble with the knots and straps for they are stiff from cold. 

Persevering, she opens the pack.  A faint smile graces the Queen's face as she views the contents.  Her sons, in their concern, have provided her with ample comforts.  There is tinder and flint, food and water and a light flagon of wine.  There is a thick blanket and a bedroll for her to place her head.  Eowyn curses softly, for had she not been so weary when she stopped, she would not have fallen victim to nature's will.

Looking down at the collection of items, a longing for home and family courses through the Queen like a flood-driven river.  When her sons were small, they had played a game to see which one could bring their mother the nicest surprise.  She would find wildflowers in her wardrobe, a sparkling stone next to her place at dinner.  Now, years later, Eowyn's sons still surprise her.  Even in their absence, their love for her is made apparent. 

Eowyn swallows, feeling the hot flare of pain in her throat.   Slow and carefully, she gets to her feet, ignoring the shriek of pain in her joints and muscles.  She must make a fire to warm herself against the soaking rain. 

Even a Ranger would be hard pressed to find dry wood in such adverse weather.  Still, the queen does what she can, leaning on the spear to help her to her feet and as support on the treacherous ground.  She searches the clearing gathering what she can and then sets to the business of getting sparks to catch.  It is to no avail.  Flint and tinder do not obey orders in such damp, even from a queen. 

As if to taunt her, the storm renews its efforts.  Thunder shakes the air as a great streak of lightning splits the sky.  In the moment of white brilliance, Eowyn begins to pick her way back over to her pack, returning the flint and what she can salvage of the now-soaked tinder.  Her trembling hands remove the blanket, wrapping it around her like an embrace.  She looks up at the clouds, noting they bear remarkable resemblance to the ones over the battlements long ago. 

Pulling the blanket closer, the Queen eases down to rest against the base of a nearby tree, spear in hand.  She drapes the blanket over her head and in an effort to block out the driving rain, shuts her eyes.

Darkness does not offer peace. There, in memory's vault, she sees the White Tower gleaming in early morning.  There is her eldest son, forgetting protocol and running across the courtyard to greet her after a visit of state to Rohan.  There is Meriadoc Brandybuck, looking up at her with desperation in his eyes. There is her husband before she could rightly call him thus, striding into the Great Hall of Meduseld by the side of the wizard. 

There is the Steward, his smile tender, his face and hair wet with rain.

The flood gates that hold back Eowyn's sorrow lift.  She wishes with all her heart that the Riders would come for her now; that she could die.   It is too wearisome, too heartbreaking to be tossed between such reality and regret.

She pulls the blanket closer, yet it matters not.  As rain and grief pour over her, the Queen of Gondor feels certain she will never be warm again.

****************************

At the first light of day, horse and rider begin the remaining trek to Osgiliath.  The day and journey progress, but the path is thick with mud and the clouds that hang above in the leaden vault of sky do not relent.  The rain is a constant presence; coming down first in mists, then moments later in sheets, keeping all who would venture into it chilled to the bone. The cold and damp has cast a pall upon the world, turning what is a pleasant path on a sunny day into a morass which seems almost too thick to navigate. 

Windfola's hooves make sucking noises as they pull out of the path. Eowyn's head aches at the sound.  Her throat is raw and swollen and she shivers uncontrollably as she tries to keep firm hold on the reins. 

"Miss high and mighty!  You best not think of making that beast gallop.  Or perhaps you should for you're sure to break its leg and I could have a meal." 

Eowyn tries to sit taller in the saddle but another chill goes through her.  The orc has been following her for most of the morning, stamping through the mire.  She feels its dead eyes upon her as she rides, remembers the detail of its costume down to the blood dried upon the creature's tunic, left there from where her sword had run it through long ago.  

"You are naught but dust." she mutters. "Be gone, I tell you." 

The remark elicits a wet laugh from the creature.  "I may be dead and gone, Lady Grace, but you're closer my side of things than yours," it chortles.  "I smell the fever on you.  Light of day must burn your eyes like it burns ours.  It doesn't burn mine no more.  Hasn't since the day you killed me."

The gray afternoon seems tinged with rainbows. Eowyn presses her eyes closed to clear her vision and clutches the reins tighter.   "I have no memory of you," she mutters, afraid to turn around again for fear she will fall from her seat.  "Go away and leave me be."

The orc remains undeterred.  "Well, I remember you well enough."  It heaves a great sigh.  "Doesn't seem fair, really.  Here you were, killing me, never once considering if I had little ones, me own wee family." The creature snickers.  "Well, perhaps that is a bit much, the family part.  I helped eat a family once.   Does that count?"

The orc brays laughter once more.  Eowyn tries to turn her attention to anything but the apparition.   She thinks back on the day she killed it, for if the truth is told, she remembers the event well enough.  The orc was the first life she had ever taken and it paled in comparison to the one she had ended next.  

All events of that day are still clear in her mind.  The orc had run at her as the battle began and she had thrust her sword at it, shocked to see the blade sink into his mottled flesh.  Black ichors had poured from its mouth as its eyes rolled up into its head.  She had already stepped back and yanked her blade free before she realized she had taken her first life.  Caught in blind panic to find Theoden so that she might stand by his side, she had not felt a drop of remorse and had she had the proper time to do so, still she would have felt none.  The orc was not a creature worthy of sympathy, but a minion of Sauron.  Turning her back upon the foul thing, she had thought upon the event no more until today. 

"Regret was never your strong suit," the orc cackles.  "Well, no matter.  You'll die soon.  I smell it on you." 

Up ahead, the path veers to the right.  The land has changed much since the Queen last traveled this path.  If she is headed correctly, this is the road that will lead her back across the Anduin and down towards Osgiliath from the west, avoiding the White City and those who might wish her return.  If she continues on this way, she can enter Isildur's city under cover of darkness and find the Steward.  There she can make her peace and be done with all of this at last. 

From behind her, the orc comes nearer.  "Peace?" it snorts.  "You think you'll find peace?  There is no peace for those of us who done wrong in this life.  Only suffering; that's our lot."

"My life was not like yours," Eowyn mutters. 

"No, it was worse.  At least I was what I was, lady.  I didn't try to be anything else.  Besides, betrayal's betrayal.  You can't change that."

The orc's words stab deep.  Eowyn shivers, hearing the thunder sound again overhead.  "It is not the same," she tells herself.  "I do this to myself."

"You do," the orc agrees.  "Doesn't change things one bit. The truth is what it is as well.  Some thing can't be atoned."

Eowyn glances down.  She can see the orc following just out of the corner of her eye.  Its feet squelch in the mud. 

"So, do you have a plan?" it asks, a leer upon its face.  "Are you just going to ride up to the gate and say 'boo hoo, do forgive?' and think it can be set to right?"  Slyness oils the orc's voice.  "How do you know the fancy Prince will even grant to see you?"

Eowyn lifts her chin.  "He will."

"But you don't know, do you?  And that's the worst part of it somehow.  Oh yes, you're proud and it would serve him well to turn you out like you did me.  It's what you deserve   Or better yet—" The orc shrieks with glee.  "Yes, that's the way!  He could tell the one you really should amend to.  Make his peace and leave you out to dry.  That would set it straight!"

"It will not be so," Eowyn whispers.  Tears sting her eyes. "The Prince is a man of honor—"

"He's a man.  No more.  You---you betrayed one and abandoned the other.  You don't deserve forgiveness.   Not in this lifetime or the next."

"I do not seek forgiveness," Eowyn snaps. 

The creature is walking besides her.  She looks down into its rotting face.  "Then what do you seek?" it hisses.  "Because I'll tell you, Queen of Gondor, the only thing you'll find in the end is not your precious Riders.  All that waits for you lady is decay and suffering.  It's all you deserve.  In the end, it gets us all."

Eowyn pulls on the reins hard.  Windfola, startled by the sudden action, flounders in her step and is almost brought to her knees.  

"It was NOT THAT WAY!" Eowyn shrieks and with the last of her strength, raises her spear. 

The orc is gone.

Above, the clouds have gathered once more.  Ignorant of the Queen's deteriorating state, the rain begins to pour merrily down.   

****************

The bridge that separates Anorien from Ithilien stands well-guarded. Peace may reign in Gondor, but the Dark Lord's influence was felt upon these lands for far too long.  Because of this caution will ever remain the watch-word to those who make their home upon the edge of the wild.

Stars appear in the deepening vault of blue overhead.  Stationed in the southwest bridge tower, Geollyn, the young corpsman on duty, peers out into the gathering dusk. His breath appears as a pale cloud, scarcely visible here at the outset of night.  Unlike his fellow soldiers he prefers to stand his watch in darkness. 

A crooked smile crosses the young man's features.  Back at the garrison, his friends will be heading towards the taverns where food and drink will dull their sense and sharpen their wits.  Although Geollyn enjoys a night of good-natured debauchery as well as any of his fellow soldiers, the truth remains that he is more than content to do his duty instead.  The vows of honor and fealty he took when joining the guard have grown in meaning during his brief year of service.  He is proud to help preserve Ithilien's peace, whether by giving his life's blood to save her or standing routine watch to protect her from those who might bring harm.  

His companion and friend, Rabryn, stands on the other side of the tower. Geollyn can hear the corpsman singing softly under his breath.  He recognizes the tune as one he has known since childhood. 

House of Stewards,

Stand you by,

The King has come,

His land reclaimed.

Ithilien now will you dwell,

Fair and green the wild remains.

The song speaks true.  When Geollyn was young, his grandfather told tales of the times before the coming of King; of the monsters that called Osgiliath theirs and the great battles waged to reclaim Isildur's seat once more.  Yet even in the face of his country's history, Geollyn has ever found it difficult to imagine a time when minions of darkness ran unchecked throughout this land. Peace and order have reigned in this country during his life, restored and maintained by the efforts of her beloved Prince. 

From the other side of the tower, Rabryn stops his song and clears his throat.  "It grows colder," he mutters.   "I wish you would allow a fire."

Geollyn laughs silently for as long as he has known him, Rabryn has always complained about the weather.  "I told you the far side of the bridge is not clear to me with a fire lit," he says, careful to keep his voice low.

"Our watch is this side of the bridge; the far side is Owec's and Deonyc's worry tonight.  Besides," Rabryn's teeth chatter pathetically, "I freeze."

Geollyn is not fooled by his fellow soldier's display.  "Perhaps in a while," he concedes, "when night has fallen."

"What do you mean?  Night is upon us."  Rabryn waves out towards the darkened landscape.  "If it has not struck yet, dear friend, this darkness would signify that it *is* night." 

Geollyn sighs and turns back towards the bridge.  "Sing some more," he implores his fellow guard.  "It will keep you warm and me, entertained."

Rabryn grumbles at the request but Geollyn can tell he is pleased to be asked.  His fellow corpsman takes a deep breath, then lets it out. "So, why do you suppose there was no dispatch sent?" he asks suddenly. 

"What?"

Eagerness drips from Rabryn's voice.  "You heard what the messenger told the Sergeant the same as I did.  The Prince; why do you suppose there was no dispatch concerning his arrival? " 

Geollyn rolls his eyes.  This is a topic of which he would rather not speak and one his fellow watchman would tenaciously chew for hours.    

"I do not know," he replies, looking down at the bridge. "He is the Prince; I suppose he can come and go as he pleases without dispatches."

"But there is always a dispatch," Rabryn argues.  "The Prince does not make surprise visits to Osgiliath.  Indeed, it has been a long time since he last visited."

"Since his wife died," Geollyn says under his breath. "The Prince has not been to Osgiliath since Princess Amoniel's passing."

Rabryn's ears are sharp.  "Say, you're right. I had not thought of that," he muses.  "It does make sense.  They were madly in love, you know."

Geollyn grits his teeth before he answers.  "The Prince and Princess were devoted to each other, aye.  That much is common knowledge."

"I have heard it is because he didn't marry until much later," Rabryn says, wrapping his arms around himself to keep warm.  "My mother used to say--" He places his voice higher in pitch. "'Prince Faramir forsook the pleasures of home and family for many years so he might make the King's desire to see Osgiliath restored in splendor.'"

Geollyn cannot help but laugh at the imitation.  "Did your mother really say that?" he snickers.

Rabryn smiles.   "Perhaps in so many words she did.  You must admit it rings true; Prince Faramir did not marry for a long while."  The corpsman shook his head.  "It is a pity the Princess died.  She was passing fair and her kindness knew no bounds." 

"Aye," Geollyn murmurs.  "It is a great loss."

Rabryn shrugs.  "Still, you could be right, my friend.  It could be grief that's kept him homebound all this time.  He's stayed in Emyn Arnen since last spring.  And now---"

"--Now he is in Osgiliath and let us speak no more of this," Geollyn grumbles, annoyed that his fellow corpsman would give the topic resurgence.  "I, for one, understand that a Prince can go where he likes when he pleases and know better to ask questions."

"It is good to be curious," Rabryn retorts.  "One must know the news of the day and where people are."

Geollyn shrugs, full aware that he will not be able to change the subject without dire means.  "I suppose," he agrees.  "Still, I beg of you, Rabryn, no more on this.  Sing to me instead.  All this talk of intrigue wears upon me and we still have a long watch ahead of us."

"A long, cold watch," Rabryn mutters, but after clearing his throat once more, acquiesces with a soft rendition of a lament to Undomiel, made popular by Legolas Greenleaf during his last visit to Isildur's capitol.

As Rabryn's tune wraps its beauty about its listener, Geollyn stares out into the dark. Gossip has always had an unsettling effect upon his thoughts and this time is no different. He tries to focus on his watch, but all the tales of his youth concerning the Prince's hunt for a bride dance merrily in his brain. 

Was it his own mother, or perhaps his grandfather, who had told him them about how ladies of noble birth from all over Gondor had swarmed to the court of Emyn Arnen in hopes of attracting the Steward's eye, about how each one was held up to the populace's light and deemed worthy or unworthy by shopkeepers and housewives across Ithilien?  Geollyn cannot remember for sure, yet he does remember the punch line of the story, about how the Prince would meet prospective bride and show no interest at all. As each candidate was denied, a silent cheer or groan came up from the denizens of Ithilien, depending on how much money had been placed on "he will" or "he will not." 

The ending of the story Geollyn would be hard pressed to forget.  It was after the Fortress of the Star's foundation had been restored when the Prince quietly wooed and wed a woman from his own capitol: a raven-haired beauty possessed of charm and sensibility, well-liked by all.  He could not have made a better choice in the eyes of his subjects and the news of their betrothal along with his choice in a wife raised the Prince even higher in esteem with all of Ithilien; a thing hardly possible.  To the kingdom's joy, all worries about succession were put to rest for an heir was produced within a year, then a sibling to that and then another; all boys, all healthy and possessed of the dark hair and even temperament of their parents, according to those who knew the gossip, including Geollyn's mother.  Now grown to men, the Princes of Ithilien were well-known to the guard of Osgiliath, for each had spent his time serving in Isildur's capitol at their father's insistence.  Geollyn's father had served with the elder, Algund, and the middle son, Androg, and the youngest, Aglar, were ranking officers stationed at the garrison.  All the Prince's sons were solid leaders of men, able to give orders and inspire loyalty as it was said their father did when he was a Captain:  with humility, skill and grace.

From the western path, the corpsman's sharp ears hear the sound of hooves approaching.   "Rider approaching," he calls softly.

Rabryn stops his singing.  "It's late for a rider," he muses out loud. "No further dispatches have come from the garrison, have they?"

"Not that I know of.  The sergeant would have told us."

"Very well."

The sound of hooves grows louder. Both men reach down and grasp their bows.  Geollyn notes the men in the far towers do the same.  All those who stand guard have mastered the first lesson taught by the wilderness: the unknown does not always wear a friendly face. 

Let them come, Geollyn thinks.  All who watch this bridge stand ready.

Through the gloom, the horse and rider come out of the shadows of the wood. Even in the dim light, the beast looks to be a fine one, although it looks as if its legs are covered in muck.  The man who sits upon it is dressed in the garb of a soldier, his head lowered towards the beast's neck, face obscured in shadow.

"Odd," Rabryn murmurs.  "I would think him dead, but his weapon is raised." 

Geollyn has already sighted the raised spear carried upright in the rider's weapon hand.  In this time of peace, rare is the traveler that rides with arms at the ready.  Still, Geollyn knows there is nothing to fear; the rider is under the watch of four expert bowmen.

No one of the corpsmen make a move for all eyes are fixed upon the rider.  Only night noises and the sound of the Anduin, running dark and deep beneath the bridge can be heard in the clearing.

"Why does he not cross the bridge?" Rabryn whispers. 

Geollyn shakes his head.  His friend has stolen the question from his very mind.   The rider should cross and be on his way.  Instead, he remains, silent, poised on the edge of the bridge as if carved in stone. 

Perhaps it is a trick of the light, but it seems to Geollyn as if the weapon shines with a pale blue glow bright enough to show the detail of the Rider's helm.   The corpsman notes the nose-guard on the helmet is too long and the helm has no wings.

He's from Rohan, he thinks. Odd indeed; there should have been a dispatch.

Out of nowhere, a light breeze picks up and blows through the clearing. Stirred by its chilled fingers, the branches creak and sway in the surrounding forest. It swirls through the towers causing the hairs prickle upon the back of Geollyn's neck. He cocks his head and listens for he is certain the strange wind carries the sound of a thousand galloping horses. Out of time and memory, his grandfather's voice sounds in his mind as if the old man was standing next to him once more and not in the grave these past ten years.

And the dead repaid their debt to Gondor in full; they swarmed the ships and the enemy ran mad with fright before their silent legions.

Beside him, Rabryn's face has turned ashen.  "The dead have come to claim Ithilien," he murmurs, staring down at the still figure at the far edge of the bridge.

Geollyn's heart leaps in his chest at his friend's words. The wind gusts past him and once again he is certain he can hear horses on approach.

"Go tell the Sergeant," he says quietly.  "I'll call a warning." 

As Rabryn quietly heads down the ladder towards the Sergeant's station, Geollyn's voice neither hesitates nor quavers, but splits the night with its resolve. "State your title and business in Ithilien!" he cries.

As if listening to a far-away summons, the rider raises his head. The light, whether from the moon or the spear, grows brighter, illuminating the soldier's features. What is revealed is the visage of one long dead, with fever-glitter in the eyes, desperation in the set of jaw.

The young guard gasps out loud at the sight, watches in horror-tinged fascination as the pale light from moon or spear, it is hard to tell from which, grows stronger. The details of the rider's uniform, the creased leather of the saddle, the plaited hair thrown forward upon the shoulder shining white like the far distant moon come clear as if the light of day shone down upon the outpost bridge.

From the opposite tower, Geollyn sees Deonyc step forward.  "State your business and pass," he cries.   

From below, a strong voice rings out letting Geollyn know Rabryn has been successful and the Sergeant of the outpost has arrived.  "Stand firm, men," the Sergeant calls.  The command carries easily to all his men.

The wind has brought clouds with it.  One scuds over the moon, pitching the clearing into momentary darkness.   There is a clatter and a scuffle of hooves.  The hair on the back of Geollyn's neck stands up at the noise.  A moment later, the cloud has blown on its way and once more moonlight floods the bridge.  

Geollyn's eyes widen in surprise.  The traveler no longer sits in the saddle but instead hangs half off the beast, lying still as the grave.  The spear is no longer carried upright, but instead lies upon the ground at the horse's feet. 

In an instant, the two guards in the far tower are heading towards the ladders that lead from their posts to the ground. The horse stamps at their approach. 

From below, the Sergeant's voice is heard again.  "Stand fast, lads," he calls quietly.  "Geollyn, come down.  Rabryn, take your post.

Geollyn speeds to the ladder and a moment later is on the ground.  His friends give him a grin as he passes him on his way up.  "Better you than me," he says under his breath. 

The Sergeant turns Geollyn's way.  "Use caution on the approach," he says.  "No sudden moves.  That horse if from Rohan if I am not mistaken; it will be protective of its rider."

 The Sergeant and Geollyn start across the bridge.  Through a series of quick hand signals, the officer has Deonyc and Owen move towards the horses' flanks to better block the animal should it try to bolt. 

"Geollyn, you will tend to the rider," the Sergeant murmurs.  "I will handle the horse."

"Yes sir," Geollyn says, his heart in his throat.  It is a simple operation, he has done harder and more dangerous, but for some reason, the idea of touching the rider fills him with fear.  Still, he sets his mind to the task and goes steadily forward.

As the come nearer, Geollyn thinks that even covered in mud, the horse is the finest he has ever seen.  It gazes at the approaching men with wary eyes, clearly intelligent. 

"It's all right," the Sergeant soothes.  "We have come to help."

Geollyn is surprised when the horse snorts in response.  The Sergeant smiles at animal.  "Corpsman," he orders, "free the rider from his tack." 

Geollyn starts forward but stops when, to his amazement, the horse lowers itself to its knees, using great care not to dislodge its rider. Slowly the ancient soldier slides from his mount's neck, then slumps gently to the ground next to his weapon.

"Rohan," Geollyn hears the Sergeant murmur.  "You, my beauty, are from Rohan."

As the Sergeant  continues to making soothing noises in the horse's direction, Geollyn bends down towards the prostate figure and extends a hand in front of the rider's nose.  Air blows warm onto his palm.  "He lives, sir," he says. 

The Sergeant turns his head back towards where Rabryn watches.  "Clear a space in the guard shelter," he calls softly.  "We'll tend to him there.

Carefully, Geollyn untangles the rider from stirrup and rein. When he is finished, he gathers the traveler into his arms.  Then, and only then, does the horse slowly stand back up.

The Sergeant comes over to where Geollyn stands.  "Do you need help, son?" he asks. 

"No sir, he's a light as a feather," Geollyn says.  "I feared him dead."  The rider's head lolls upon his arm and the dim light shows not a corpse, but instead a fine countenance, marked with the deep creases of age.

The Sergeant leans in to examine the soldier's features closer, then starts.  "There is no sign of beard, the skin too fine and smooth," he mutters, his eyes widening in surprise.  "This is no man, corpsman.  This is a woman you bear."   
 
Geollyn looks down and sees his commanding officer speaks truth.  As if she had overheard the words, the woman in his arms stirs. A low moan escapes her and her hands open and shut in desperation or pain, Geollyn does not know.

"Return to your posts," the Sergeant tells Deonyc and Owec.  "I will tend this one."  He turns and looks down once more into the woman's face.    "You are no spirit, but flesh and blood, lady," he says softly. "I know not who you are or what your business is, but by the Valar, before this night has passed, I will.  Come, Geollyn.  Bring her."

The Sergeant turns on his heel and leads the way towards the guard shelter.  He clucks to the horse and as obedient as a dog, it follows behind as Geollyn carries the unconscious Queen of Gondor back towards the world of the living.

***************

_{Thus leads the path from the Wild}.

***************

For King and Country
For the Glory of Gondor and the White Tree

"It is a just and worthy cause. Here, in the White City, people know peace but the wilderness does not."

Faramir's green cloak swirls behind him as he paces back and forth across the Great Hall. From her seat on the dais, Eowyn recalls his lips pressed against her hand in greeting, cold as ice.

You, Steward, want to die, she thinks, watching his progress. The fires of war are not the cause of this. You have decided upon a glorious death instead of life without hope.

From below, Faramir whirls around to address the king. "Sire, hear me: Osgiliath is not Minas Tirith. You have restored peace in the White City while only a short ride away your ancestor's seat has become the orcs' stronghold. They must be driven out of Gondor and her territories once and for all."

For King and Country
For Gondor and the White Tree

"Eowyn, if Faramir would choose to liberate Osgiliath, then I cannot in good faith stop him."

Aragorn's eyes blaze up at his wife, demand her understanding. Eowyn's nails dig deep into her palms. She wants to go to where he sits upon their bed so that she might plead her case, yet no matter how she tries, she cannot move.

She lifts the hem of her gown. Her feet have become part of the floor, rooted like trees in bedrock. "Aragorn," she gasps. "Help me."

Aragorn glances down towards where Eowyn's legs have fused with stone, then looks away. "It must be done. Faramir sees this as I have," he mutters. "Gondor is not safe until all darkness is purged from its borders. We could wait, yes, but there is sense in acting now instead of later."

Eowyn tries to pull herself free but her efforts are in vain: her feet remain trapped. "Husband, please--" she stammers.

Aragorn raises a hand. "I know he is your dear friend wife. He is mine as well. I would not see him lost."

"Estel, look at me!" Eowyn cries. "I cannot move!"

The King opens his mouth to speak, but instead his expression turns into a grimace of pain. A deep cut opens upon his cheek. He presses his hand against his side and when he pulls it away, the palm is slick with red.

"Eowyn," he gaps.

He collapses sideways onto the bed and disappears.

For Gondor and the White Tree

The Queen's movement is restored; her feet her own again. She rushes to the bed, tearing the sheets back, ripping the down tick beneath them open. Feathers fly and adhere to the tear-streaks upon her face, yet the only sign of Aragorn she sees is the stain of red on fine linen.

"It should have been me."

Faramir stands on the other side of the bed, his tunic open, dark hair loose around his shoulders. A piece of paper flutters from his hand to the floor next to his bare feet..

The air tears in and out of Eowyn's lungs and for a moment she feels as if she might faint. "It is no use," she gasps. "We are lost, Faramir. We are lost."

"It should have been me," the Steward repeats, sitting upon the edge of the bed. "You should not have stopped me." He gestures towards the paper lying upon the floor. "It says--"

"Well do I remember what it says," Eowyn murmurs. An invisible tide of weariness crashes over her. She closes her eyes and the dispatch appears, written not in ink, but in blood.

numbers were greater than expected…the King led them on against all odds…driven back again and again, yet they rallied…

"It says that he is believed lost." Faramir's voice is thick with emotion. "He is not lost, Eowyn. Not while I draw breath. I will not rest until he is returned."

"I know."

"I will go--"

"You will go and find him."

"Yes, lady. For Gondor; for the White Tree."

Eowyn gazes upon the determination in the Steward's face. For yourself, she thinks. She buries her face in her hands.

The Steward kneels down to clasp her hands in his. "I promise you, I will return with him," he entreats.

Eowyn reaches up and lays a hand against the dark stubble that shadows Faramir's cheek. "Indeed you will. This story is already familiar to me."

"Then how does the tale end?" Faramir's voice is faint; a ghost's whisper adrift in time's halls.

"The only way it can," Eowyn replies. "In grief."

The Steward's eyes shine not the hue of stone and steel but the colors of a summer storm. As she looks upon him, the world slips out from underneath the Queen. She is no longer in a bed, she is no longer anywhere. Tumbling down towards oblivion, she is caught once more under the shadow of the Black Breath.

"Someone help me," Eowyn cries, feeling the uselessness of the words as they echo in the blackness. The darkness presses in on her and somewhere, near but unseen, she knows the Witch King lies in wait.

She reaches forward, sobbing like a small child. "Aragorn," she cries. "Faramir, where are you?"

"Lady, can you hear me?"

"Estel?"

Through the black, a man's face swims into view, his features homely and kind. "Drink this," he says.

A bitter liquid fills Eowyn's mouth and she swallows involuntarily. The taste causes her to choke until her ribs ache, yet the flavor is not unwelcome for it drives darkness away. She is in a rustic chamber, lying on a hard surface. More than that, she cannot tell.

"Where..."

"Finish this draught. It will help you rest."

"I must--"

"Drink. Later, we will speak."

The draught wastes no time in working. The room spins around Eowyn like a child's toy. "Where am I?" she croaks, eyelids fluttering in a desperate attempt to remain awake.

The man sitting across from her leans forward. "If it will ease your worry, you are in the guardhouse of the Anorien bridge outpost. I am the Sergeant of the Guard. I will be here when you wake."

Eowyn's eyelids are too heavy to hold open. "We did not know," she says again. "Tell Estel we did not know--"

The world returns to darkness and the Sergeant with it.

***********

A couple is lying upon a bed, entangled in each other's arms. The man's hair spills upon the pillow, dark strands mingling with the golden locks that rest beside it. Next to the bed, a candle sputters, casting long shadows about the room.

I know this place, thinks Eowyn. I thought never to see it again.

"Are you glad you have come to Ithilien, Lady?" the man murmurs. He kisses the woman with such tenderness, tears spring to the Queen's eyes.

The woman smiles. "I am always happy when spring arrives."

"As am I."

The woman studies her bed companion. Her brow furrows. "What is it?" she asks softly. "There is something—ever since I arrived, a strangeness about you."

The man rolls onto his back. "It is…" He looks upwards towards the beams in the ceiling. "I do not know. It is not easily put into words."

"Then perhaps it should not be said." The woman runs her fingertip over the man's bare chest, tracing designs of her fancy. "Your mind is unduly active when it should dwell on other things."

The man reaches up and clasps his hand over the woman's. "I know what you would have me think of and if I could, I would consider nothing else. Yet, I am compelled to tell you of my heart."

"I know your heart."

"Then you have the advantage. I cannot say I know yours."

The woman tone is teasing. "I am here. For weeks now I have thought of nothing but this. Is that not enough?"

"And before that?" The man's jaw tightens. "What of the rest of the time?"

"What mean you?"

"This is but a tiny spate of days. Do you think of Ithilien when the leaves turn gold on the White Tree or when the frost crisps the air in the streets of Minas Tirith? For I tell you, I do. I consider little else."

"I do not dwell upon what cannot change." The woman's expression has turned guarded and Eowyn knows she chooses her words with care. "This is the only way. Would you live without it?

"I no longer ken what I want, love," the man replies. "The one thing I am sure I want is you and you are out of reach."

"I am here now," the woman insists. "Open your eyes to what can be."

The man shakes his head. "Yet, it is not enough. My love for you does not abate when you are not beside me. It is as a fever in my blood, a thirst I cannot quench. Once every turn of seasons I can drink my fill; the rest of the time, I stay parched near death."

The woman looks down. Eowyn knows she is struggling with how much to reveal. "It is--complicated," she says at last. "This has always been the way we have. Our choices are not great."

"Agreed; yet we have choices."

"One always has choices," the woman snaps, her temper fraying.

"That is not true. I have no choice." The man's smile is as dark as the forest outside. "I must love you. I cannot stop; I have tried for years. When I see you at court functions, I confess it is hard for keep within the figure of propriety's dance and not take you in my arms."

"That—would not be met well, I think."

The remark draws a chuckle from the man. "No, it would not. I do not know. Perhaps I should not speak of these things yet I am curious if you find this deception as difficult as I do?"

There is a glitter in the woman's eyes like sunlight on mithril. "It is the way things are," she murmurs, "the way they must be. I do not think on it at all. Such considerations would drive one mad."

The man leans his head back on the pillow. "Perhaps that is the problem. Perhaps I have succumbed to madness."

"Nay," the woman says, reaching beneath the sheets to caress him. "You are not mad. Let us no longer speak of such things. This time is not meant for heavy discourse. Let us not waste it so."

The man studies her closely. "Telling you these things is not a waste for me. I remember a time when Osgiliath burned and you came to me--"

The woman falls back upon the bed with a sigh. "Many things were said that night, my lord."

"Things I cannot forget. Years later, do you still mean them?"

The woman hesitates. "I still love you, if that is what you ask. I would not be here if I did not."

"You believe you love me, lady and I am sure you do, in your fashion. Yet I have always known your heart sings for only one."

The woman sits up straight in her indignity. "I believe I know the contents of my mind in this. If I say I love you, then I do. Make no mistake about it."

"And the king?"

"The king is outside this time, this place."

The man smile turns grim. "Nay, the king is here, lady. He is the point of joining and division for he is both my sovereign lord and your lord and master."

"I have no master," the woman snaps.

The man stiffens at the rebuke. "It is but a turn of phrase; no more."

A silence descends over the chamber. After a long moment, the woman speaks, her voice so low, Eowyn must strain to hear it. "What would you suggest, my lord?"

The man sighs again. "I have no answer. You are both ensconced within my heart. I cannot separate you; yet I must."

"Would you have me stay away next spring?"

"No--and yes." The man reaches up to stroke the woman's cheek. "When we are together, I would have nothing else. Yet, we are not always together."

The woman goes to speak but the man stops her with a kiss. He pulls back and cups her face between his hands. "It is painful to speak of these things but I must. You must know I have thought of nothing but you for the last three seasons and when I sit in council with the King, I am dying inside. He trusts me, lady. This betrayal is abhorrent to me yet I cannot live without you. Tell me, do you feel the same?"

No, Eowyn thinks, standing at the side of the bed. It is not like that for her; for me.

"I would not lose this time," the woman says, careful to keep her eyes lowered. "You speak true; I do love the king. Yet, I love you as well." She leans in and bites his lower lip gently, knowing full well the touch will arouse him. "I would have you know how much."

"Eowyn--"

She catches his lower lip once more and nips it, as playful as a foal. "I do love you," she murmurs, kissing him once more.

"Show me," the man whispers, his voice lowering with desire. "If this time is by nature smoke, then I would look for fire."

The woman takes his hand, places it upon her skin. "A fire burns for you here, my lord," she murmurs. "I would have you warm."

His hand moves lower, fingertips tracing the curve of her waist, the outline of her hip. She pulls him back down upon the bed. His hand moves inwards towards her thigh and she willingly parts her legs—
"I feel there will be consequences 'ere long."

It is a different voice; a different time. The view before Eowyn has changed and once more she is in her chambers in the White Tower. Aragorn stands at the window, wearing his robes of state.

The younger version of the Queen's self sits before the fire, staring into the flames. "I do not understand," the woman mutters. Anger flashes in her eyes.

Aragorn looks at her. He is the very portrait of calm. "I have told you, Eowyn. You were right; it is not Faramir's duty to lead the reclamation of Osgiliath. It is mine."

"That is not what I meant," the woman rages. "You know this well."

"Yet my mind is decided on this matter. I shall lead the troops to Osgiliath. This is my will."

"Your will?" the woman cries, whirling to glare in her husband's direction. "Once more you would leave what you most value behind for no better reason that 'you must'. In the past, I could understand for only Isildur's heir could hold the dead to their oath. But now—" She shakes her head vehemently. "Now, it is not the case. Isildur's heir need not take back Osgiliath himself. Others could lead this siege in your name. If you ride out this time, you truly ride for will; that and to appease your own vanity!"

Aragorn's jaw sets. His words are almost too quiet to be overheard. "This is not for vanity, wife. I must go because I am the heir of Isildur and it is my duty to reclaim his seat. The men need a strong leader, one they can rally behind. I am that man." He turns back to the window. "I go because it is the right thing to do."

"You have insulted your Steward," the young woman snaps.

"I have honored Lord Faramir," Aragorn says calmly. "I am leaving him in charge of the realm. He shall fulfill his duties in my absence and on my return I shall reward him for his efforts."

He gazes back out in the direction of the courtyard and the White Tree. From where she watches, Eowyn shakes her head. "You were so proud," she whispers. "You could not stand down. It was not your way."

From the hearth, young Eowyn buries her head in her hands. Her husband sees the gesture reflected in the window and goes to her, his heart in his eyes.

"It will only be a few days," he says. From where she watches, Eowyn sees the love and desperation in his eyes. "We shall prove victorious, Eowyn. You shall see."

Her younger self do not raise her head. "Let others be victorious in your name," she chokes. "Listen to your councilors; listen to me, husband, for all do council you against this. Let another go in your stead."

Aragorn sighs, his face is troubled. "You know I cannot do that, Eowyn. This is my duty."

"Then you must know that I cannot stand behind you in this matter," the young woman whispers. "I wish you safe return, husband. You have my love, but you do not have my support."

The color drains from Aragorn's face. "I must go and meet with the Prince," he mutters. He bends down and gently takes his wife's hand, then kisses it. "I will return, Lady, both today and from Osgiliath. In my absence, I leave my heart and Gondor in your trust."

You will return but not in the manner that you imagine, Eowyn thinks, watching the door shut behind Aragorn as he leaves, watching as the her younger self collapses in front of the fire, sobbing as if her heart breaks because as she remembers, it was.

Eowyn

Hoofbeats sound in the distance.

Eowyn, you must awake

The couple's faces are obscured by shadow; their hands clutch at each other in ecstasy.

The woman groans with pleasure as the man swings her on top of him. Eowyn watches as the woman arches her back, golden hair streaming down to her naked waist. Both settle into the position before they find their rhythm once more. The woman's hair swings gently with the rocking, and she leans her head back and utters a laugh laced with joy.

The man moans in pleasure. Eowyn can see the shine of tears on his cheeks and it feels as if her heart will shatter like a crystal cast upon a granite floor. She turns away. Grief will let her watch no more.

She is not alone. Her cousin, long lost to death's embrace, dear Theodred, is standing in front of her, hair loose around his shoulders, helm shining in the dim light.

Eowyn's face grows hot with shame. "I would not meet you here, not in this place," she mutters.

"This is where you dwell now, cousin. There is no other meeting ground."

Eowyn's eyes grow soft as she turns back towards the bed. "He weeps, Theodred."

"You must awake, Eowyn." Theodred's words ring like a bell on a clear day. "You cannot remain here. You must on to Osgiliath."

Eowyn shakes her head absently. "He wept, but I did not. Why could I not shed tears?"

"Eowyn."

The couple's cries grow louder as the moment of ecstasy approaches for each. Eowyn stands watching them, adrift in the moment. "He loved me, Theodred," she murmurs, eyes bright with wonder. "I remember how much. I do not know why I did not remember."

Theodred steps in front of her, blocking the view of the bed. "Listen to me, cousin. You must depart this place and the things that lie within."

"How?" she whispers. "Tell me, cousin. How could I forget something I knew better than my own name?"

"The Riders approach." Theodred's face grows dark. "Make no mistake."

A wind whistles through the chamber, cold and brisk. Eowyn takes a step towards her long-dead cousin. "Am I dreaming?" she implores. "Theodred is this real, or do I dream?"

"Do you not yet see, Eowyn?" Theodred's expression betrays nothing. "All this is beyond the measure of mere dreams.""

Eowyn reaches out to grasp her cousin's arm, but Theodred's skin dissolves into nothingness beneath her hands. "Cousin, wait," she pleads. "Do not leave me yet!"

The cries from the bed grow louder still and through Theodred's form, she can see the man stiffen. The woman's hands dig into his shoulders, clutching so hard her nails break his flesh, causing small rivulets of blood trickle down his back. The air is thick with the smells of copper and sweat.

Nothing remains of Theodred but his voice, solemn as a prophet's.

Make haste, cousin

Darkness descends like a black curtain thrown over bright light. Eowyn's eyes fly open; her body gives a sudden jerk on the cot where she lays.

"I must away," she mutters sitting up too quickly. The room spins around her. "I have no time."

A strong hand is placed upon her shoulder. "You have time, good dame," the man who sits beside her says. "You have all the time in this age, should you need it."

Eowyn slumps back upon the bed, trying to wet her lips with her dry tongue. "Where am I?" she rasps.

"You are in the guardhouse of the Anorien Outpost, Lady."

"I am in Anorien?" Eowyn rasps. "How long have I lain here?"

Sergeant settles back on the chair next to the bed. "What do you remember?" he asks.

"I--"

Eowyn clears her throat, grateful to see the Sergeant offer a dipper of water. She raises her head to drink and the water is ice cold, blessing her throat like a benediction. She tries to take a deep breath but a fit of coughing contracts her body. The Sergeant waits patiently until the spell passes and then offers more water.

"Slowly this time," he cautions.

Eowyn follows the order with success. As she reclines back upon the cot, her brow furrows. "I remember you giving me the draught. I remember--I remember my dreams. That is all." She speaks no further for fear she might betray more than she would have this man know.

"What about before that; how you got here?"

Once again, caution taps the Queen upon the shoulder. "No," she croaks, "nothing more."

Even in her state of half-wake, Eowyn is aware this man misses little. She runs a hand across her face and presses up to rest upon her elbows. "Sir, I am remiss," she says, clearing her throat. "I must thank you for your care."

"You were in need of tending, Lady," the Sergeant replies. "When you were first brought in I thought perhaps you would depart us. I would not have wished that. Besides had I not cared for you, I too would have proved remiss. I am the commanding Sergeant here. To care for those in need is my sworn duty."

"You have my thanks." Eowyn inclines her head in a gesture of gratitude then gives what she hopes is a disarming chuckle. "Still, I must admit embarrassment; I was very tired, Sergeant. The ride was long and I must have dozed in the saddle."

The Sergeant's smile contains no humor. "Madam, you were dying when you arrived here. You are not well and I am not a fool. Do not take me for one."

A grudging respect for the soldiers creeps over Eowyn and she is careful to retake his measure before she speaks. "You come to the point, sir," she says quietly, "and I have always appreciated straight-forwardness. You are correct; I am not well, yet I assure you I was but over-tired. In one my of my years, a lack of rest may have dire consequences. Now, with your good grace, I have business this night and once more must be on my way."

The Sergeant does not answer. Instead, he reaches down and holds an earthen mug. Eowyn almost sputters at the sight.

"If do not wish another draught--"

The officer raises a hand. "Nay, good dame, it is but water. Still, you will rest. Even if your whole will drove you to it, I do not believe you possess the strength to right yourself from that bed where you lie. Should you be able to do so, to be able to cross the room, go out the door to tend and mount your horse, then I would not stop you." A sly look appears in the man's eyes. "From what I understand from your ravings, you are a lady accustomed to giving orders. I am not yours to command, but I would not stand in your way."

Eowyn kens a challenge when she hears one. At the Sergeant's words, her fighting spirit comes galloping forwards. "Then I would be going," she mutters.

Carefully assessing each ache and pain as she goes, the Queen tries to raise herself to a sitting position, aware her kindly captor watches with a half-amused smile on his lips. Half-way to upright, the world spins around her with nauseating speed and she slumps back down towards the bed.

"Stay awhile, old mother." Pity appears plain upon the Sergeant's face. "When you are better, I will not hinder you. For now, you must rest. "

All the strength leaves Eowyn's body. She shuts her eyes in desperation. "Sergeant, I have neither the will nor the time for this game with you. I must to Osgiliath. I have no choice. I believe the Steward waits for me there."

The officer looks solemn, but not surprised. "Whether he waits for you or not, it is true the Steward arrived in Osgiliath yesterday morning from Emyn Arnen for the first time since his wife's passing."

Eowyn does not open her eyes so she might hide anything that might lie within. Faramir had lost his wife. She knew this. "The Princess Amoniel was much beloved," she murmurs.

"By all her knew her, Lady. It has been a sad three winters since the Lady last stood upon the balcony of the great Fortress. She was a kind and good Princess, well thought of by all. Even the King traveled from the White City to attend her interment."

"High praise for the wife of Steward," Eowyn murmurs, opening her eyes once more. Even as her mind runs a frantic race to find a way of escape, her curiosity rises to the forefront. She must ask.

"And what of Gondor's Queen?"

Sergeant Forweg shrugs. "There was word that she was too ill to travel."

"But you do not believe this?" Eowyn asks, studying the man closely.

"It is common knowledge the Queen does not involve herself with Ithilien, madam. I know she is your countrywoman, and I will speak no ill of her."

"And yet?"

"I have not met the lady and have only seen her once when my garrison was brought to the White City for commendation by the King. The Sergeant's shoulders square in pride. "He thanked us for keeping the wilderness at bay and preserving his ancestor's seat."

"It sounds like something he would say," Eowyn snorts, slowly sitting up. The Sergeant's sharp gaze falls back upon her and she realizes her mistake. "King Elessar has been to Rohan many times," she explains, fighting the dizziness that threatens to overtake her. "Despite my current garments, I am a woman of noble birth. I have met with the King myself, and know the Queen quite well."

The Sergeant's smile turns bitter. "Then you would understand the lady's temperament. As I said, I have seen her only once. She was fair but cold, like a distant mountain."

The dizziness slowly passes and carefully, Eowyn swings her feet off the bed to the floor. "I assure you," she says through gritted teeth, "Queen Eowyn is a woman noble in both heart and spirit. I am certain she concerns herself for all the people of Gondor, including those of Ithilien."

"The King comes on visits of State or business, but the Queen--" The Sergeant shrugs again. This time there is no mistaking the disdain in the gesture. "--she has other concerns, I suppose, but none of them have ever brought her here to our country. She is fair, as I said. They say the King loves her greatly."

A mist falls over Eowyn's sight. "I do not doubt that," she murmurs. She must pass a hand over her face before turning back to her captor. "Now, as you can see, Sergeant--" She pauses, at a loss. "I am sorry, sir. I do not know your name."

"And I would know yours as well, madam. I have tended you these many hours, I would know who it is I address."

Eowyn hesitation is perceptible only to her. "My name is Dernhelm and as you have already gleaned, I hail from Rohan. And as you can see, I improve and must once more be upon my way."

Still seated, the Sergeant offers a half bow. "I am called Forweg, and you cannot ride into Osgiliath a mystery, madam. I cannot allow that."

Eowyn senses the man's mood shift. She lowers her eyes. "Mystery?"

"One that I must solve or you can go no further. I must have answers, madam. I would know why a woman of your age, obviously ill, travels the road at night dressed as a soldier of Rohan, bearing this."

The Sergeant bends down besides his chair. When he sits up, Theodwyn's spear is in his hand.

Eowyn's eyes widen. The mere thought of another holding the weapon sends a shiver of down her spine. She puts on her most gracious smile. "Please, Sergeant Forweg, I entreat you, return my weapon to me. I am no harm to anyone."

The officer ignores the request and instead returns the spear to its resting place at his feet. "In good time, madam," he says, and then rubs his hands together as if to rid them from some unseen residue. "I must tell you, Lady, your weapon seems fey to the touch. Although it is finely made, have no fear that I might take liking to it. I assure you, I will not."

"I suppose I should take comfort in that."

"You can take comfort in that and much more if you will give me the answers I require."

"What mean you, sir?"

The Sergeant leans forward, pressing the palms of his hands together before he speaks. "I must tell you, madam, the name Dernhelm is familiar to me. You speak of the Queen, your countrywoman? You remind me of stories I heard in my youth about her. I believe she also posed as a soldier once during the war against Mordor. She called herself 'Dernhelm.' It is a thing of legend; not something one easily forgets."

To her credit, Eowyn's face betrays nothing. "Legends do not belong only to Gondor. We, in Rohan, know of the White Lady's deeds." She is careful to keep her words as cold as ice upon Cahadras. "An elder soldier traveling alone would give no one pause, but a lady and her companions would be sure target for robbers."

"And the name? Coincidence?"

"I thought no one would remember the legends or if they did, perhaps they would be foolish enough to take me for the Queen herself. We are of an age, she and I. Besides," Eowyn adds slyly, "what if I told you I was she?"

An eternity passes while Sergeant considers this. After a long moment, he snorts laughter. "I would not believe you, madam. As I told you, the Queen has never set foot in these parts."

Relief courses through Eowyn. I may get be on my way yet, she thinks.

The floor beneath her booted feet begins to vibrate.

Sergeant Forweg does not notice either the alarm that has come into his prisoner's face nor the shaking of the floor boards beneath his feet. Instead, He leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "So, we return to the beginning for you are not Dernhelm, nor are you the Queen. Who then, madam, do I address?"

Behind him, a figure emerges from the shadows. Eomund stands behind the Sergeant, his blue eyes boring into Eowyn's grey. The Queen's heart falters in her chest as she looks upon the face of her father once again.

The queen is vaguely aware the officer is awaiting her answer. "I..." she stammers, "I must--"

Eomund nods slowly.

Sergeant Forweg sits forward. "Madam, you grow pale," he says, leaning forward in his seat. "Perhaps you should lie back down. You are not recovered yet, no matter what you may say."

Eowyn's mouth goes dry as dust. "I weary, sir," she murmurs, careful only to look upon the officer. "I would beg you for another draught, if I could. I think you right: I should rest for a while."

The Sergeant rises from his seat immediately. "Of course, madam. I shall call the corpsman. Still, heed my words," he fixes Eowyn with a stern gaze, "when you awake there can be no more delays."

The Sergeant turns to call the corpsman who must stand outside. The officer is a good man, Eowyn notes. She is sorry she must take the advantage because of it.

In the blink of the eye, she has bent and retrieved the spear from its repose upon the floor. At her hand clasps the shaft, once more she is revitalized. Energy once more flows through her limbs and she feels young again, strong enough to run the remaining distance if she needs to. She looks once more into her father's face. His nod is all Eowyn requires to spur her on. She knows what she must do.

She leaps forward and draws back the spear, letting it fly directly towards the unsuspecting Sergeant's head. The first blow drives him to his knees. "I am sorry," Eowyn gasps, seeing the trickle of blood begin to creep down her captor's forehead.

Sergeant Forweg looks up at her, confusion on his face. Before he can reply, Eowyn cracks the spear across his head once more, this time hard enough that his eyes roll back and he collapses in a heap on the floor.

Swift as the wind, she bends to check him. He lays unconscious; his chest still rises and falls with life's breath.

"My regrets, kind Sergeant," Eowyn murmurs. "Yet, you shall be able to say you were the first that greeted the Queen when at last she came to Ithilien."

She pauses no longer, but turns to where her father stands. He looks towards the door.

"There are men outside," she whispers. "How shall--"

Her father smiles down upon her, lays a finger across her lips as he did when she was little and asked silly things of him. Do not worry, Eowyn, he used to say. All will be well. Now go and do as I ask you, little one.

"I shall go. I must make amends," Eowyn whispers. Tears sparkle in her eyes.

Eomund nods again. Eowyn moves to the door and when she glances back, she is not surprised to find her father has disappeared. "Soon," she whispers. "Soon now."

From outside, there is a pounding of horse's hooves. It shakes the cabin and the corpsman watching there cries out in alarm. He crosses to the door to look outside and Eowyn seizes the opportunity. She slips into the outer room, raises the spear and again swings. The corpsman collapses on the floor in front of her upon the first blow.

After checking to see if the lad is still alive, Eowyn slips out into the night. Windfola is tied to the side of the guard house, out of sight from the near towers and those who watch within them. Quiet as the night itself, the Queen makes her way to the horse.

From the opposite tower, a man is singing.

House of Stewards,
Stand you by,
The King has come,
His land reclaimed.

Eowyn pauses and looks up at the heavens. "The Valar take pity on me, for I have none for myself," she murmurs, untying Windfola's tack. She mounts the animal and silent as the grave, turns and leads her mount off the road away from the bridge, into the darkened woods. No cry sounds, no guard raises the alarm. Once more, the Queen offers thanks to the Riders for such generous gifts.

When the alarm rings out, Eowyn is too far away to hear. She rides through the darkness, clutching the spear as she waits to see the western spires of Isildur's city appear in front of her. When, in the wee hours of the morning they do, she is not surprised to see a light still burns in the Fortress of the Stars.

***********************

The King has come
His land reclaimed

In the Sergeant's dream he is in a glade with his son, teaching the boy to hunt. The boy is singing the song about the Steward that he likes so much. It makes the Sergeant smile. "The Steward is a good man," he tells his son and the boy smiles and repeats the refrain once more.

From among the trees, a man walks towards him, dressed in silver and white. He ignores the boy and holds out his hand to the older man. "Return, Sergeant," he commands. "I have need of your service."

The Sergeant falls to his knees, gesturing his son to do the same. To the boy's credit, he does as instructed. "You thanked me once, sir," the officer murmurs. "Do you remember? You thanked me for keeping the city safe."

The man nods. "I remember well, Sergeant Forweg. You have done valiant service in the past. Today I require you to serve me once more."

The Sergeant reaches up and takes the hand the man has extended towards him. He winces in pain.

"You are injured, Forweg," the apparition says. "But you will recover. You have my word."

The man puts his arms around the Sergeant to better support him. Slowly they begin to walk. The officer suddenly turns back. "My son," he cries.

"He is well and in your home at the garrison. It is but a dream."

"He is alright then? I can go with you, my lord?"

The Sergeant is met with a look of great kindness. "I would not lie to you, Forweg. Come now, for time is against us."

A wave of nausea floods over Forweg. His head lolls against the man's shoulder for he is too weak and it is too painful to hold upright any longer. "Yes, sire. Let us go then," he whispers.

With each step the two take, the pain in the Sergeant's head grows. The light seems to change and it seems to him that he is resting on the ground; no longer walking but fighting back the light that would sear his eyes and split his head in two.

"Forweg. FORWEG."

His name comes from above him somewhere. He squints his eyes against the light, gasps at the pain in his skull.

"Forweg, hear me and awake!"

Sergeant Forweg's eyes flutter open but will not focus. He can barely make out the figure of a man leaning over him.

"What--what--"

Another shape steps forward and the Sergeant recognizes the voice of his men. "Lie still, sir. You're injured. Just lie still now."

The boy sounds frightened out of his wits. Sergeant Forweg presses a hand against his eyes, ignoring the stab of agony in the back of his head. When he removes his hand, his vision has cleared and he finds before him the face from his dream.

King Elessar leans forward, eyes ablaze with urgency. He speaks only three words.

"Where is she?"

*************************

_{Thus leads the path from the bridge}

*************************

The Fortress of the Stars, once the center of ancient Gondor, rises above the city of Osgiliath; a stone and marble testament to the industry of the Age of Men. Over thirty years have passed since work began on the structure, yet throughout the day the sound of hammers echo throughout the vast halls for the building remains unfinished. Even with much of the Fortress restored, many of the master craftsmen do not hope to see the day of its completion. Still, they labor for they would see Isildur's tower made whole once more.

The inscription over the doorway has been completed for many years; one of the first tasks done as if to remind those who enter why the work must progress and one day, finish. As she stares up at the stone arch, a thrill courses through the White Lady of Rohan.

For King and Country
For Gondor and the White Tree

The Prince decreed long ago the Great Hall should open to all citizens at all hours of the day and night. Guards keep constant vigil as well; the two stationed at the entrance glance at Eowyn's costume but they do not impede her entry.

As she steps over the threshold, a feeling of exhilaration comes over the Queen as she views the interior of the Fortress. Well she remembers the building as it was the last time she stood here: the crumbling walls, the hall exposed to weather by great missing pieces of roof, the piles of rubble everywhere. She smiles at the sight of the well-carved stone and the black floor that gleams in the light of the torches before she cranes her neck upwards towards the vaulted ceiling.

She has heard much tell of the artistry of the painted panels that crown the Great Hall with the pictorial history of Isildur. Even in the dim light of the torches, they do not disappoint. The panels are magnificent; full of color and splendor, inset against a background of gold. No wonder Estel is pleased with the progress, Eowyn thinks and is surprised when tears sting her eyes.

At the far end of the Great Hall, as it has always been, is the large circular staircase that leads upwards to the tower. It also has been refurbished; the stair treads made as smooth and sturdy as they were in the days of Isildur himself. At the base of the great stair, two more guards, these clad in the formal livery of Ithilien stand watch. Eowyn recognizes at once that this is where she must go.

The Queen's footfalls echo throughout the cavernous space as the she crosses the Hall, her spear still carried high beside her. She is better than half-way to her destination when a small man hurries out of a side alcove towards her, suspicion clouding his features.

"Hold, good visitor from Rohan," he barks. "As the Night Porter of the Great Hall, I welcome you and all who may come, yet you may not approach those stairs without a summons from the Prince himself at any hour."

Eowyn steps towards him, her face still hidden in shadow. "I no stranger to Osgiliath, good watchman," she rasps. "I am expected by Prince Faramir himself."

"The Prince has long since retired and cannot be disturbed. If you do not have a summons--"

"I have come a long way and time is short," Eowyn interrupts, pulling herself as tall as her weary bones will let her. "Prince Faramir must know a citizen of Rohan and life-long ally of Gondor would speak with him. Deliver my message or I shall report the manners of Osgiliath have soured towards their countrymen and friends."

"This is most irregular," the Porter mutters, eyeing Eowyn with caution. "I think it best you come back in the morning. The matter can be sorted out then."

As if to remind the Queen that time is of the essence, the spear begins to thrum in Eowyn's hand like a horse's hooves upon the ground. I know, she thinks, remembering her cousin's plea to make haste. I am doing the best I can.

"It is vital the Prince be told I am here," Eowyn says. "Please, sir," she adds, her voice low with urgency. "I assure you, he will agree."

"Step into the light," the Porter commands.

The Queen complies, but leaves her helmet on to better obscure her features. The Porter frowns as he studies her. "You seem familiar," he says. "Are you much to Osgiliath?"

"I am a life-long friend of Ithilien and Gondor," Eowyn repeats, fighting the urge to shout. "Good Porter, I do not jest: my time is short. Please, inform the Prince."

The Porter purses his lips in thought, then sighs. "Wait here,” he orders. "I shall return in a moment."

The little man scurries across the hall to the base of the stairs. From where she stands, Eowyn can see the Porter speak to one of the guards on duty, who listens before shaking his head. The Porter points to where Eowyn stands and says something more. The guard does not wait for the man to finish but shakes his head again.

A moment later, the Porter returns and offers a small shrug. "I am sorry, madam. There have been strict orders not to disturb the Prince. You will have to wait until morning."

A great wave of weariness comes over Eowyn. Her hope dissipates like morning mist upon the Anduin. "I do not have until morning," she mutters under her breath.

The man shrugs in the helpless manner again. "I am sorry I cannot honor your request but you are welcome to rest before you depart. There are benches towards the entrance and then again outside--"

"Have you been to Minas Tirith?"

The Porter starts at the blunt force of the question. "Many times. Now, go upon your way and come back in the morning."

The Queen's shoulders square with the weight of decision.  "Then you would know the Queen on sight?"

"Of course," the man scoffs. "My wife and I attend the festival days at the White Tower every year. I have seen her majesty, Queen Eowyn, from close by during processions many times--"

Eowyn removes her helmet, the movement savage with exhaustion. Her long braid swings over her shoulders as she steps into the light once more. "Look close, good Porter, for you stand before Queen Eowyn, wife of King Elessar, herself," she growls. "I have come to Osgiliath to see the Prince. What more knowledge must you possess so you might heed my request?"

The Porter words wither in his throat and his face turns crimson. He begins to fall to his knees. "Your majesty," he croaks. "Forgive me, but I see now what I did not before--"

"Nay, do not kneel," Eowyn says, stepping closer to the distraught man. "For reasons of my own, I would not be revealed."

"I--I must announce you."

"You must do nothing of the sort. What you must do is tell the Prince that Dernhelm of Rohan has come to see him, then speak no more on this ever again. Do you understand?"

The man nods. His eyes have the glazed look of a stunned fish.

A slight dizziness comes over the Queen and she leans heavily upon her spear. "I do not mean to speak so sternly," she murmurs, trying to steady herself before she falls over. "I do thank you for your help, Porter. Now, please, I entreat you; go and tell the Prince."

The Porter does not waste a moment, but scurries back to the guards. His conversation seems much more animated this time. When he returns moments later, he is panting.

"Your highness," he gasps, "I told them that you showed me a dispatch that could not be ignored. Still, the guards will agree only to my waking Lord Faramir if I have permission from his son, Prince Aglund." The man takes a step closer. "If I ignore their request, you could be discovered," he whispers frantically.

The Hall seems to swim about the Queen. "Get your permission then," she replies, passing a hand over her eyes. "I must rest a moment before going any further."

"Your highness turns pale.” The Porter's hands flutter like frightened sparrows. "I shall take you somewhere you can rest--no, my lady Queen, not here, not in such a humble place; the Prince's reception room is at the first level of the stairs."

"The guards--"

A look of resolve comes over the Porter's face. "I will make the guards allow me to escort you there," he says with firmness until now missing from his person. "Here, put your helmet back on. Do not fear, your highness. I shall aid you."

Eowyn offers a wan smile. Even so near the end of her journey, it would do her good to sit for a moment. "You will be rewarded for this, good sir," she murmurs, amused to see such simple thanks garner an ear-splitting smile from the doorman.

The Queen places her helmet back on and slowly follows her escort towards the great stair. As they grow near the guards, the Porter puffs up with importance.

"The traveler is ill with exhaustion, yet as I told you their message cannot be ignored," he announces, giving both guards a disdainful look. "I believe it best he take rest in the first floor antechamber while I consult Prince Aglund."

Both guards take Eowyn's measure before exchanging a look. After a moment, the one the Porter spoke to earlier nods. "It will be upon your authority, then," he grunts. "Is that clear?"

"Of course. I shall take full responsibility. Now let us through," the Porter insists. "I have business with Prince Aglund."

The guards stand aside, not altogether willing. "There is a sentry posted on the first landing. He will stand watch outside the door," one warns Eowyn. "See to it you remain in the antechamber until you are called."

Eowyn inclines her head in agreement. She follows the Porter upwards toward the darkened recess at the top of the stairs.

The stairs are long and the Queen feels weak, yet when the Porter offers an arm for support, she declines. Here, so near the end, it seems clear the only way to stand is on her own.

***************

From his room within the tower, Prince Aglund sits at the desk, staring at the sheaves of parchment in front of him, all covered in his fine script. He reads several of the comments, then leaps up and begins to pace his well-lit room. Excitement has not let him shut his eyes this night. Indeed, he feels like he may never sleep again.

"I have been studying my ancient history," he announced earlier in the evening, entering the Fortress' uppermost chamber with a thick tome under his arm. "Imagine my surprise to find my father hero of every tale I read."

"More the fool you," Prince Faramir replied, looking up from his desk. Aglund could not help but notice the dark circles under his eyes.    "If I were your age, I would be at the ale house and not sequestered with my books."

Aglund's customary smile widened. "When you were my age, you were--let us see--" He pulled the book out from under his arm and opened it. "Where did I see the notation? Ah, here it is: you were leading the final charge of Osgiliath after rescuing the king and returning him once more to Minas Tirith, saving his life and the day, I believe."

The Prince sighed and put down his quill. "You make it sound very grand."

"History does not lie, Father."

Yet it does not always tell the truth.”  The Prince gestured for Aglund to hand over the tome. "What it this you waste your time upon?"

Aglund placed the book upon the desk and the Prince pulled it to him, opening the soft cover. "'A Recent History of Osgiliath and the Restoration of Isildur's Seat," he read and quickly flipped the cover shut. A snort of laughter escaped him. "You should be composing odes to a woman's charms instead of reading this nonsense. I despair you shall never find a wife."

Quick as lightning’s flash, Aglund took the book back. "I do not find it nonsense. As to the other, you yourself set a noble precedent by waiting for years until you married." He began to rifle once more through the handwritten pages. "In fact, it says here--"

"I was there," his father interrupted. "I remember the occasion well."

"I doubt Mother would let you forget."

"That she would not," the Prince replied. As always, at the mention of his wife, his demeanor took on a solemnity his sons now knew all too well since its first appearance  during their mother's final illness three autumns before.

Aglund forced a smile to his lips. "Leave Androg to the pursuits of love; leave me to my books. I will find a wife in time."

"I would see you settled. You are the heir to Ithilien; you should have your family before you take on the offices of state. Allow yourself time to enjoy your wife and children."

It was Aglund's turn to snort. "And once again follow your fine precedent? I am not yet ready to marry. Besides, King Elessar was of great age when he married the White Lady. In family history, my uncle, Boromir, was another—"

"Your uncle did not live to take a wife," his father said softly.

"You speak truth, yet the point is he was of greater age than I am now. The men of our family marry late and love their wives. I shall not be one to break with tradition."

A faint smile deepened the lines around his father's mouth. "I take it you have come here for some reasons other than to contradict me about history or fight with me about marriage?"

"Indeed," Aglund laughed. "I have come to ask you to join me in dinner. You have confined yourself to the business of state since our arrival. You must refresh yourself."

The Prince rubbed a hand over his face. "What hour is it?"

"The hour where you break from work to come and dine."

His father pushed back from his desk and slowly rose to his feet. "Very well, then," he muttered. "I have read so many ordinance proposals I lose track of how long I sit here."

Stretching the weariness out of his bones, the Prince glanced once again at the book in his son's hands. "'The Recent History of Osgiliath," he read out loud. A small bark of laughter escaped him. "There is an author I would like to have an audience with. I believe I could set his history to right."

"Have dinner with him instead," Aglund said quietly. "He would be thrilled to hear any corrections you have to offer."

His father's looked up, puzzled. As Aglund's meaning set in, his eyes widened. "You wrote this?"

Aglund bowed his head in acknowledgement. "I did and would welcome your recollection, Father. In fact, I more than welcome it; I would humbly beg it of you."

For a long moment father and son regarded each other. As if a great weight pressed upon him, the Prince sat back down. "As prince regent, you have your duties," he said. His fingers drummed once upon the table. "Authoring books is not among them."

A flush crept up Aglund's cheeks. "My duties have not been neglected. I am sorry, Father. I had no wish to upset you."

"Please. Sit down."

Prince Faramir gestured for his son to take the seat across from him. Aglund did so, trying to ignore the sudden trepidation he felt for it was too akin to the feeling he had when at twelve years of age, he had "borrowed" his father's sword to act out the coronation of King Elessar with his younger brothers.

The Prince ran a hand over his mouth, then fixed his son with a sharp look. "I suppose I should make it clear: I am not angry with you, Aglund. I know you have not neglected your duties. This..."

"News?"

The Prince's eyes flashed. "Yes. News. The news took me off guard; that is all."

Aglund nodded. "I expected as much. Yet, if I may speak plain, Father, I hoped you would also be pleased."

The Prince sighed. "To speak my own truth, it is not a great surprise. You took after me in your pursuit of books and learning and you always did love to hear tales of the war. Your mother thought they would give you night terrors."

"I remember. They never did."

His father leaned back in his chair. "So, you have written a book."  He shook his head and something in the gesture made Aglund shift in his seat. 

"it hardly bears explanation. As you just said, recent history has always interested me.“  Aglund shrugged. "I would have the events and the people who performed them immortalized in words."

The Prince's brow creased in a frown. "It was a difficult time. I can tell you from experience, the days we live in now are better. Peace is a desirable thing, Aglund. War--"

"--makes for better reading."

Prince Faramir smirked at the retort. "I suppose it does. I will tell you this: war wreaks havoc with living."

"I would hope you would tell me more than that." Aglund's grip tightened on the book to keep his hands from shaking.

The Prince's expression grew guarded. "You know the history. What more can I add?"

"I do know the history," Aglund repeated, choosing each word with great care. "I have spoken with many over the course of the last two years--"

"You have been working on this for two years?" His father's brow knit in concern.

"I told you, my duties did not suffer for it," Aglund added in haste. "My fealty to you and to Ithilien comes first in all I do, in all I have done."

Prince Faramir did not respond, but drew a hand across his lips instead, a sure sign of displeasure. Aglund girded his courage and continued on.

"I have spoken with many who experienced the events first hand and have here recorded their accounts." Aglund patted the cover of the book. "With the King's permission, I have spent much of time when I am not attending to business of state in the archives of the White City, learning what I could from documents of the time, trying to find transcripts of the events. Unfortunately, after Isildur's fall, little of the recent history of Ithilien, especially that of Osgiliath, has been written."

"It is because no one alive at the time wishes to remember it. It was a dark time, followed by one that proved near as black," the Prince muttered. "Many good men were sacrificed to make Ithilien habitable."

"More reason to give them tribute." Despite his father’s glower, Aglund felt himself warm to this; his favorite subject. "For so long, Father, Ithilien had no history that anyone could write. The deeds that restored her to her former glory should be recorded."

A grim smile graced Prince Faramir's visage. "It is the tales, Aglund. They have always held a glamour for you, have they not?"

Aglund found himself taken off guard by the question. After a moment, he nodded. "Perhaps. The time certainly holds an appeal for me. I suppose there is a certain romance to the events."

The Prince leaned forward suddenly across the desk. His voice was quiet, yet cutting. "It was war, Aglund. Romance and glamour have no place in war. I have worked all my life to leave you a realm that need never see its face again. That is what I would have you remember."

"But the realm you left me springs from this dark past. To appreciate it, I must know its whole history and not just the happy one."  Aglund's eyes blazed in his pale face. "Father, from all who recount, the dawn of this Age was a time of valor and honor, of magnificent men and glorious deeds. If that deems it 'glamorous,' then so be it. But more important to me is the knowledge that it was your time, Father. You took a ferule land and made a kingdom of her. It should be chronicled."

"And who better to do it than my son?" Prince Faramir shook his head, his grim smile still intact. "You have a bias, Aglund."

Aglund leapt upon the point. "I have better than bias; I have you. You can tell me how it was and I will write your story. If when I am finished you are not pleased, then I will throw the manuscript into the fire and you will hear no more of it. I swear that to you, but you must in turn promise to help. How can I present the truth when those who know it best will not speak?"

The Prince of Ithilien gazed for a long moment upon his son's impassioned face. "You could be me sitting there twenty years ago," he murmured, turning his head towards the window. "We bear more than a fair resemblance, you know."

"So I have been told by many, but you digress. Will you help me with this? It would mean so much."

The Prince looked out the window, his face pensive. After what seemed an eternity, he turned back to his son.

"Give me your book," he commanded, "and set some candles to burn. Tell the servants that we will dine in these chambers."

Aglund laid the tome back upon the desk. "You plan to read it, then? Now?"

What lay behind his father's eyes was a mystery. "I would educate myself before I give an answer to your request. Go on; see to dinner."

Stopping to scan yet another parchment covered in notes, Aglund can scarce recall any event between his fathers opening his work to when the dishes were at last cleared away. They spoke naught of the book during dinner, turning the conversation to simpler waters such as the fortification of Isildur's City and the tour the Prince was to take of the garrison the following day. It was clear to Aglund his father’s message, although unspoken was “dinner, then history.”

After the maid had been dismissed, the Prince settled back in his chair and gazed at his son. "I read your account of the reclamation of Isildur's seat and part of your history of the Stewards."

Aglund inclined his head and remained silent.

"You write as if we were heroes," his father said softly. "We were men. No more."

A grin creased Aglund's face. "I humbly disagree, Father. You were heroes."

"No man is a hero in his own time. History decides his role after he has left it."

"Some men belong to history while still upon this side of Arda. You are among them, father."

The Prince took a drink from his flagon and flipped the corner of the book. "In here you call refer to your uncle as 'the fallible Boromir.' Is this history's perception or was the choice of words your decision?"

Aglund's grin quickly faded. "I know my uncle was a great man," he said, trying to explain. "Yet history bears witness he tried to take Isildur's Bane from the Ring Bearer. He redeemed himself by trying to save the Halflings, but he did fall."

His father's displeasure was clear. "Isildur's bane poisoned him; used his love of Gondor against his better nature. Does that label him forever flawed? Would you condemn him to history's judgment and not remember his deeds of valor and sacrifice?"

"Yet when presented with a chance to take the Ring, you did not," Aglund said gently.

"It was not the same."

"Nay, Father; I believe it was."

His father slammed his flagon back upon the table. "Were you there?"

Aglund did not answer. His cheeks flamed red as if he had been slapped.

"Then if your treatise holds true," the Prince continued on, eyes sparkling with anger, "I suppose you believe your grandfather to be naught more than a crazed lunatic? Would you forget he was the last of the ruling Stewards? Would you forget Denethor's legacy and relegate him to insanity's lot, forsaking the man he was?"

Aglund tried his best to hide his astonishment. He could not remember a time when his father spoke openly of his grandfather's madness. "History shows he tried to burn you alive," he choked. "I am sorry, father. It must have been horrible, but it is what happened."

The Prince shrugged. "In truth, I do not remember much but thought it delirium brought on by the fever. Yet Aglund, the point I would make is this one act was not the sum of the man your grandfather was." A tired smile graced his face. "What trials befall us at the end of our lives may not always be indicative of the men we were for the rest of the time.  If you would remember only the faults of your ancestors, I shudder to think how you would label your own father."

"I would label you as I always have: a brave and valiant man; a man of honor, who knows and respects his duty."

"Yet, I am a man and by nature, fallible as ever my brother might have been in his one moment of weakness during a life filled valor. Your father was and remains a man, Aglund. I have made many mistakes in my long life." The Prince raised a cautionary finger. "If you are to write this history of yours and I am to help you, you must promise to portray all you write about, including myself, as we were and not as a romanticized ideal of what you conceive valor to be. We were men; we did what duty demanded but always we were men first."

Aglund swallowed the flare of shame that had shone during his father’s warning. "Perhaps I was caught up in this...'glamour'," he conceded. "If you will allow me to write your story, I will keep foremost in mind that these are people and not history I write of."

His father bowed his head. When he looked back up, he was smiling. "Very well, then. If you keep this promise to me, I would be honored to help you in your endeavor."

And, to Aglund's joy, he had. Looking down over his notes, Aglund again felt a thrill of happiness course through him. In the course of one night, his father had answered more questions about the reclamation of Osgiliath, about his time as a Captain in the Rangers, about the early days governing Ithilien, and a million other subjects than Aglund had ever hoped to hear. Indeed, as the evening passed, the Prince had warmed to the subject, naming names and places and telling details of events that only he could know while his son wrote until his hand cramped.

Only one thing was missing; one question that still did not have a solid answer. It was the question itself, the Prince Regent thinks, turning to gaze out over the moonlit kingdom he one day will inherit. I should have phrased it in a more succinct manner.

It was towards the end of the evening and the candles guttered for they had burned over long.  Coming to the end of a phrase, Aglund put his pen down and looked up from his notes. "Should I call for more wine?"

The Prince shook his head. "I think we have imbibed enough this evening. Besides, spirits make the memory grow foggy and you would have me be clear. Now, where were we?"

Aglund consulted the paper in front of him. "Let us look at a new subject: the purging of Osgiliath."

His father looked out towards the dark of the evening. "Very well. Proceed."

"After you recovered the King and brought him back to the Houses of Healing, you went and led the charge of Osgiliath?"

"Yes."

Aglund's brow furrowed at the answer. "I guess I do not completely understand. You were ruling Steward in the King's illness. Was it not have been your duty to stay in the White City and govern?"

A shadow passed over the Prince's face. "It was my duty to lead. I went where I was needed."

"You left the Queen at the head of state."

His father took another drink of wine. "The men required a leader," he repeated, turning his gaze towards the window and the night outside. "I was the only one that could rally them so."

"Still, you must admit, it was a breech of sorts--"

His father attention returned post-haste from where it strayed. "The Queen was fit to rule and I was fit to lead. We both did our duty until the King's recovery."

"Yet, if I may speak frank, the Queen was not the best choice, being from Rohan. The people clearly wanted the leadership of the Steward--"

The Prince pushed back from the table. "--and they received it where it was needed. Now, I think that is enough for tonight."

Aglund sat astonished. He could not remember his father ever dismissing a subject in such a manner. "I did not mean to offend—" he stammered.

The Prince ran a hand through his hair, letting it come to rest upon his neck. "No, it is I that owe you an apology. The question is a fair one; it deserves an answer. Yet, not tonight," he added, his voice tinged with sadness.

"Of course," Aglund assured him. "This has been most generous, Father. You have my gratitude and my thanks. Please, take some rest."

His father smiled turned and started to make his way to the door, pausing for a moment beside where his son sat, surrounded with his notes. "We were men," he repeated again, putting a gentle hand upon his son's shoulder. "Do not forget that, Aglund."

Aglund covered the Prince's hand with his own. "I will not, Father. I promise."

The Prince nodded. For a moment Aglund thought he would say more, but instead his father exited the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Thinking back on the exchange, Aglund heaves a great sigh. It was a delicate matter and I trampled into it like an oliphaunt, he thinks. I shall have to be more careful next time.

He looks upon his notes once more as he leans back in his chair. "Preparation is the key," he says to no one in particular, wipes a hand over his eyes and then leans forward, picking up his quill. He will compose ten more questions before trying to retire just in case his father wishes to continue on the morrow.

He is in the middle of question three when a timid knocking comes at the door. Aglund starts at the sound. "Come," he calls, barely looking up from his work.

The door creaks open to admit a man who is equal to his knock. "I beg pardon, my lord," he says, clearing his throat. "I did not think you awake."

Aglund stands up, pulls his wrapper tighter. "Who are you and what business do you have?"

"I am the night Porter sir," the man says in his nervous manner.

"Very well; what is it?"

The man chews at his lower lip. "The Prince--"

Aglund crosses the room in three steps. "Is my father all right?"

"Oh yes, lord. The Prince is fine. It is just--well, there is a visitor for him, sir, and the guards insist I receive permission from you before waking the Lord Faramir."

Aglund looks down at the man, amusement battling with irritation within him. "The guards are wise. Tell this visitor the hour for such a visit falls much earlier in the day. They may come back tomorrow. My father is in need of rest."

To Aglund's surprise, the man does not withdraw. "My lord, it is not as simple as that," he says, struggling. "The person insists the Prince expects him. He says his time is short."

"Does this person have a name?"

"Oh yes, my Lord," the Porter says weakly. "He calls himself 'Dernhelm.' He hails from Rohan."

"'Dernhelm of Rohan?'"

Aglund is certain he has heard wrong, yet the Porter nods, looking a bit more hopeful. "Yes, my Lord; the very one. He says he is a lifelong friend of Gondor and Ithilien. If this is the case, perhaps you know him as well?" The man leans in a bit, and lowers his voice. "This Dernhelm is not well, my lord; not well at all. He is waiting in the receiving chamber."

Aglund gives the man a long look before stepping back from the door. "You may return to your post, good sir," he says. "I shall handle this from here."

The Porter bows in gratitude then pauses. "He is not well," he repeats. Something like desperation dances in his eyes before he turns and hurries away.

It cannot be, Aglund thinks, a thrill of curiosity coursing through him as he hurries up the stairs to his father's chambers. He knocks firmly upon the vaulted door before entering. It cannot be the same.

The room is dark; his father still lies within slumber's grasp. Aglund looks down at him for a long moment and wonders how, in his repose, the Prince seems more vulnerable than his son has ever seen. He gently lays a hand on his father's shoulder.

"Father?"

"I am not snoring, dear," the Prince murmurs.

"Father, it is Aglund. Wake up."

The Prince starts and opens his eyes. "Aglund? Is everything all right?"

"I do not know.  Someone has come to see you."

"Tell them to come back tomorrow," the Prince growls. "It is too late."

"Dernhelm of Rohan is here."

Time winds out long thread in the moment that follows. His father sits up, slowly, then swings his feet to the floor. He looks up at his son and to Aglund's shock, Prince Faramir has seemed to age thirty years in the passage of seconds.

"Where?"

"In the receiving chamber below," Aglund says, careful to keep his eyes lowered. "The Porter says he is not well."

His father stares into space for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is filled with grief. "You remember your history well, do you not, Aglund? You know who claims to be here?"

Aglund does not know how to reply so he settles for the truth. "I--Dernhelm of Rohan was the name the White Lady rode to war under. It is well known and documented--"

"--To those who know their history," he father says softly. He rests his forehead on his hand and sits silent a moment longer before rising to his feet.  "It seems history will have its way with me tonight, no matter what," the Prince murmurs. "Have you seen him?"

"No. I came here first."

His father nods even as he reaches for his dressing gown. "I shall be down shortly."

"Do you wish me to accompany you?"

"Dernhelm did not ask for the Prince Aglund, did he?"

For the second time this night, Aglund's face stings from a rebuke. "No, Father. He did not."

The Prince's face softens. "I am sorry, son," he says. "This is--I shall be fine on my own. Thank you. Call my man servant to help me dress."

Aglund nods and turns towards the door. He is almost upon the stair when his father's voice wafts out from the darkened room.

"This is real history, Aglund. This is what history means."

***************

Thus leads the path from the Tower.

***************

An open letter to the reader:

First of all, thank you for considering reading this story.  There's a lot of things out there to read and I'm honored and pleased you're taking the time to read this.  Thanks.

Second, it's been a while since I've updated.  I had to take a break.  I somehow got lost in this story and couldn't find my forest for all those trees around me.  But now, I'm back, and this is happening again. 

Now, for a little backstory, because I want you to have it.  It won't take long.

The story takes place in an Alternate Reality, based on ideas generated from in "The History of Middle Earth" by Christopher Tolkien. In this work, we learn that Tolkien's original plan was to have Aragorn marry Eowyn, and that Arwen wasn't introduced until the final chapters of RotK.

Snippets from J.R.R.'s original notes:

From the first draft of "The King of the Golden Hall"

Eowyn Elfsheen daughter of Eomund?

Very fair and slender she seemed. Her face was filled with gentle pity, and her eyes shone with unshed tears. So Aragorn saw her for the first time in the light of day, and after she was gone he stood still, looking at the dark doors and taking little heed of other things.

Aragorn was silent, but his eyes followed Eowyn

Long she looked upon Aragorn, and long he looked upon her

And after Theoden’s words, Aragorn says: 'If I live, I will come, Lady Eowyn, and then maybe we will ride together.' Then Eowyn 'smiled and bent her head gravely.'

Aragorn weds Eowyn sister of Eomer (who becomes Lord of Rohan) and becomes King of Gondor.

Throughout HoME, there is mention that Arwen came in at the last minute and text plots illustrated that support this.  Eowyn was to be Aragorn's original intended.  In one version, Tolkien had Eowyn dying at Pelannor Fields and Aragorn mourning her all his life. In another as the notes above show, they did marry.  However, as the final drafts shaped up, Tolkien was bothered by the union because he saw Aragorn as too grave for one such as Eowyn.   And thus, Arwen came about, very much at the eleventh hour and there one of the great fictional love stories came into being.  Which also, rather explains why it's in the appendices, doesn't it?  

With that in mind, EreWyn asked me to write some Eowyn/Aragorn for her.  I was pleased she wanted me to do such a thing and readily agreed.  Taking the above notes into mind, I put on my mining helmet and got exploring.  A year later and after too many revisions to count, Chapters 1 through 5 are here in final beta. 

I guess the point is, don't look for Arwen in this.  She's off on another path, having a great life.  Seriously, I think Arwen is great; she's just not around in this story.  Aragorn, Eowyn and Faramir are, though.  Have fun with them.

As for the Rohan mythology, I went back to the Norse myths and went and consulted my "Hero with a Thousand Faces" because Joseph Campbell ROCKS and found a few ideas from both that translated well.  There's not much definitive about Rohan burial mythology, so you know what?  I leveraged some things from the Norse and made the rest up. 

I think that's enough for now.  Oh, one last thing:  this ain't no open-ended WIP.  There will be final revisions; I won't lie about that.  I'm that way when I write.   Still, this is close to the product as we're going to get.  The final chapters are on the way.  Then, the path, as all things must, comes to an end.

I do thank you for reading. 

peace.

M. Sebasky

_{Wake up and smell the Fanfic.}

_{Stories, goates and the Jebuslug live at: http://geocities.com/msebasky}