Prologue

It had come to him again.

The same horrible dream the fourth time in a row.  There was always the fire, closing in around him, until he feared it would burn him alive.  Then there was a voice, calling his name, and after that—

He would wake up, bathed in sweat, breathing hard.  No rest would find him afterwards, and he had reached the point where he even feared sleep.  Dark circles were beginning to form beneath his eyes.  He was exhausted, and he had almost become resigned to the fact that he would never be granted peace.

Aragorn had wasted his skills upon him.  The king should have let him go—he had wanted to go.  He went out to battle, hoping to be reunited with his brother. 

That gave him the courage to go on, to ride out into inevitable darkness and death.

His wish, his desire, was to die.

Yet it had been denied him.

He had been cheated. 

And now, there were only memories to haunt him, for he was utterly alone.

His brother had died.

His mother had died.

And his father—

He was certain of his death, even though no one was willing to tell him so.

While he was unsure of the exact way that it had occurred, he had no doubt that it had happened.  He just knew—it was a rare thing for any dream of his to show falsehoods.  He had no doubt the flames carried a message for him, or else they would not keep on returning.

The fire had come to tell him of his father’s death, just as the water had come to tell him of his brother’s.

He had nothing left.

Chapter One

Faramir was determined.

He would find out the manner in which his father died, no matter how much it hurt him or the person telling it.  He wanted to know the meaning of the flames that came to him in his sleep, of the voice that called out his name.  He needed to know.

A hesitant knock sounded on his door.  “My Lord?” called a faint, familiar voice.

“Come in,” Faramir invited, doing his best to summon up a smile as Beregond entered.  He could not bring the smile up to his eyes, however, and they remained dull and emotionless.  Beregond noted this worriedly.

“You called for me, my Lord.  Are you well?”

“Aye, I called for you,” Faramir answered softly, motioning Beregond to sit on a chair by his bed.  “I have something to ask of you,” he continued as his comrade sat, choosing not to answer the inquiry of his health.  Beregond looked up at his Lord expectantly, even though he already had a pretty good idea of what that something was.

“I want you to tell me, please, of the way my father died.”

It was a statement, not a question.

Beregond could do naught but stare.  Of course, he had known this was coming, but now that he was faced with the prospect of relaying the information, he knew not what to say.  Gandalf had bid him keep his silence until Faramir had begun his work, but his Lord was in such apparent misery—how could he hold this from him?  Doing so would only hurt him more.

Though it would pain him, Beregond thought he could tell of the death of Faramir’s father, but he was hesitant to relay his Lord’s own part in the matter—that, Faramir would not expect, and Beregond was afraid of how he would react.

“I…I do not know, sir…”

“Please, Beregond,” Faramir interrupted, desperation evident in his voice, “Tell me the truth.  Tell me—I do not want to have to pull rank, but I will not hesitate to order you to speak.  I will not hold it against you.  I cannot stand the sympathetic looks, the reluctance to speak to me, less too much be revealed—I must know.  I am counting on you to tell me.  Please…”

Beregond sighed heavily, feeling guilt creeping up his insides.  “Gandalf did not want me to tell you until you were working again, my Lord.  But…as it is your wish…”

Faramir listened, cold dread filling his heart.  His father, his proud, strong, stoic father…driven to madness…so much so that he would burn himself on a pyre…a pyre…burning…the flames of his dream…

Beregond paused in his telling as his voice choked.  He had not told his Lord yet of how the Lord Denethor had tried to take his own life.

“Are you finished, Beregond?” Faramir asked, his voice flat, trying to remind himself that he had wanted this.  Any pain he felt now was his own fault.  He had brought this upon himself.

Beregond thought for a moment.  He could hide this—but the news was bound to travel around the City, and it would be far more painful for his Lord to gain the knowledge of it in a rumor, without having heard it from him…

“N-no, my Lord, there is more…”

Faramir continued to remain attentive, the initial dread turning to shock and numbness.  This he had not been prepared for, that his father had tried to kill him.

His father had tried to kill him…

When Beregond had finished, Faramir did not speak.  He stared straight ahead, his eyes dead and unseeing.  He was falling, falling, falling…spiraling down into a dark abyss he knew not how he would be able to return.  His father’s death, he could have endured.  But this—

“My Lord?”

“Beregond…I am sorry that you had to tell me this.  Thank you.”  Even to his own ears, the words sounded trite and empty, but he lacked the will to care.

“Is there anything else I can do…” Beregond began to ask, feeling intense anxiety for his Lord’s welfare.

“No, thank you—I have asked enough of you.  You may go, take some rest.  Worry naught over me,” Faramir said, wanting nothing else but to be alone.  He was going to break—he did not desire anyone to witness that.

“Aye, my Lord,” Beregond acquiesced hastily, and casting one last worried glance at Faramir, he slipped out of the room, closing the door gently behind him.

Once by himself, Faramir let his head fall into his hands.

“Oh, father…” he moaned miserably, feeling his shoulders begin to shake, “…why? Why did you do this?  Why?”

Yet, despite his distress, and the trembling of his body, his eyes remained dry, empty of tears.

She was caged.

The walls were closing in around her: she would soon be left with no way out.

If she had to spend another moment in this room, Éowyn would loose her mind.

She could not imagine being contained within the white walls of her hospital bed in the Houses of Healing for a minute longer and she had not even been there a week.  Her arm, although it still pained her much, was on the mend.  She did not see why she had to stay, especially when the king and her brother would soon be marching for the Black Gate.  How much she wanted to go with them!  She saw no reason why she could not—she would die anyway, whether she waited here or perished on the battlefield. 

She should have been slain on the fields of the Pelennor.  What a glorious death that would have been!  Yet the end that had been granted to her uncle had been denied her.  She highly doubted that her brother and Aragorn would return—they were surely marching into inevitable doom.  Whether or not she went off to battle, the darkness would find her.  It already had.  At least, if she went to war once again, she would meet her doom with those who mattered most to her.

Her mind resolute, she was determined to find her brother, demand he let her go with them, and command the Warden to release her.  They would be leaving early tomorrow—this left her with little time.

She pushed the sheets back and stepped out of bed, disregarding the orders of her brother and the healers to stay put.  She was just about to go down the hall in search of Éomer when sounds of voices down the way caused her to stop. 

Poking her head she saw the Warden talking with a man she did not recognize.  Being careful to remain as quiet as possible, she strained her ears to listen to what they were saying.

“I am worried, my Prince Imrahil,” the Warden said, shifting nervously. 

Ah, Éowyn thought to herself as she studied the tall, fair-haired, regal-looking man, so this is the Prince…

“He is withdrawn and reticent,” the Warden continued.  “Several days ago, even though he would not talk readily, he would if it were required.  Now I cannot even get him to speak.  He will not eat.  I can tell he does not sleep.  He refuses medicine.  I just do not know what to do!”

“Peace, good Warden.  I will see if I can be of any aid.  Perhaps, as his uncle, I will be able to talk some sense into him.  You do not think he was told…?” the Prince asked suddenly, looking at the Warden sharply as this new possibility was considered. 

 “If he was, he did not receive the tale from my mouth.  While I do not know of who would have told him, I can see of no other explanation for this change in his behavior…”

Imrahil sighed quietly.  “Well, no matter what the case may be, I must show him that he is needed here.  I think he knows this, even if he will not admit it to himself.  I will see what I can do.”

The Warden bowed politely.  “Thank you, my Prince.  I wish you luck.”

Imrahil smiled thinly; they turned from each other walking in opposite directions, and Éowyn could hear the Prince mutter, “I may need more than that.”

She took care to conceal herself as the Warden headed in the direction of her room, and did not walk out until the sound of his footsteps and those of Imrahil’s died away.  She wondered briefly who it was that they were speaking about, but could not bring herself to summon up enough curiosity to find out.  All that mattered to her now was going off to battle.

She would go off to battle.

Eyes filled with cold resolution, Éowyn went in search of her brother.

Chapter Two

"My Lord, you must eat—you will never be able to get out of bed if you do not take care of your body."

Faramir sighed heavily and shook his head tiredly as the kindly nurse Ioreth motioned to the bowl of broth that she had placed on the table beside his bed. He could not eat it. Simply thinking about food made him feel nauseous. Thinking in general was dangerous—but, as he could not sleep, and he had no one who would visit him on a regular basis besides the nurses, there was no escaping his thoughts.

"Come now, my Lord!"

It was Ioreth again.

Faramir had almost forgotten her presence. Why could she not leave him alone? Was it not obvious that all he desired was peace? Yet he could not tell her this—speaking was almost as painful as thinking, and since Beregond had told him of the manner of his father's death, Faramir had not felt like talking to anyone. There was no trusting his voice, and the last thing he wanted was to humiliate himself by breaking in front of others.

He did not answer, and turned his eyes towards his window, which faced eastward towards the garden. His silence only frustrated the good nurse more.

"Do not make me send for the Warden, my Lord! He will surely see that you eat, Lord, and will be much harsher and firmer than I!"

"There is no need for that, my good nurse—I have been sent for, on behalf of the Warden, to speak with him."

Faramir and Ioreth both looked up, startled at the entrance of the new speaker, for neither had been aware of his approach. It was the Prince Imrahil, and Faramir could not help but groan inwardly at the sight of his uncle. Imrahil was a man determined and dogged in his approach of a goal—what he desired, he usually acquired, and if he wanted Faramir to eat and talk...there was no doubt in Faramir's mind that his uncle would not leave until he did so.

Ioreth curtsied respectfully in front of the Prince Imrahil and spoke hurriedly, "Oh, I am so glad to see you here, my Prince! I hope you will have greater success with him than I—a more stubborn patient I have never seen! You must get him to eat, or his soup will become cold before he has touched even a morsel of it."

Imrahil tried to smile at her, although the concern he felt for his nephew shone through the façade. "I will take care of him now, Ioreth—you need not stay with us any longer," he told her softly, and Ioreth tipped her head respectfully to him and Faramir before she left, closing the door gently behind her.

Now that they were alone, Imrahil turned to study his nephew more closely, and the change that had taken place within him in just a day or two was as startling as it was frightening to the Prince. Faramir's eyes were dull, lifeless; his face was haggard and drawn; he was so thin and pale; his hair was disheveled, his raven colored locks falling carelessly about his face; his whole body appeared to be slightly unkempt. It seemed to Imrahil that in this short time, Faramir had aged considerably, and picked up years that his body had never previously shown. So the Warden had been right—Imrahil had known this, of course, but there had been a small part of him hoping that the report had been grossly exaggerated.

"Why do you torture yourself like this, nephew?" Imrahil began frankly as he drew up a chair to Faramir's bedside. Faramir did not respond—it had sounded like a rhetorical question, and even if it were not, he would not know how to answer. Faramir found he could not even look into his uncle's eyes. How could he? His uncle was surely ashamed of him, and Faramir did not think he could bear to witness the contempt and scorn that would undoubtedly be on Imrahil's face.

"Faramir." Imrahil regretted the slight asperity of his voice, but his nephew had to understand what it was he was doing to himself. "Faramir—look at me."

No matter how much he wanted to turn away, Faramir knew that to disobey the order would be cowardly. He forced himself to meet his uncle's eyes, and was surprised to find not disdain but compassion within their gray depths. It was so easy to forget that there were still those left who cared for him.

Imrahil's heart was breaking for his nephew. His voice softened, but it was still firm as he continued, "You are not alone—do you hear me Faramir? You are not alone—I want you to know this, nephew. I am worried about you—the whole City is worried about you—and you will be needed here! You must not neglect your health, or your body will not be able to heal properly. I am certain you have been told this."

Faramir swallowed, pushing back tears that were threatening to break through his defensive wall. He knew he would not be able to hold them back for much longer.

Imrahil could sense his nephew fighting with himself, and wished he would just let it go.Please, nephew, he thought desperately, mentally cursing Denethor for Faramir's reticence, don't hide yourself from me—I am not your father…

There was nothing the Prince could do now but be blunt. Perhaps this would be the only way to get Faramir to reveal his true sentiments, for Imrahil knew that if he did not, he would surely tear himself apart.

Leaning in closer to his nephew, Imrahil wrapped his hands in his, and said intently, "Do not blame yourself, nephew. It was not your fault—you must believe that it was not your fault, or you will be your own undoing, and this I will not be able to bear to see. You must understand—it was not your fault…it was not your fault…"

Faramir could feel his lips trembling, and his eyes were covered in a shroud of unshed tears.

Don't let them fall, an inner voice reprimanded, don't you dare let them fall!

What does it matter? Another voice countered. Why does anything matter? He is not here—why do you do this to yourself?

Yet the first voice insisted. Don't—don't…do you want your uncle to see for himself how weak you are? Have you not shamed yourself enough already?

But Faramir was tired of fighting. It was simply too much work, and he was so exhausted. He didn't have the strength to hold the threatening flood back anymore. He felt his shoulders begin to shake—it would not be long before his feelings washed over him and he lost control entirely.

Imrahil saw the change coming over his nephew, and could not help but feel slightly satisfied. He heard Faramir release a choked sob, and Imrahil wordlessly brought his arms up to encircle him and draw him into his comforting, strong arms.

Faramir allowed himself to be taken in his uncle's embrace, and buried his head into his shoulder as he began to cry hot, bitter tears.

"Oh, uncle…" he gasped around sobs, the very first words he had spoken since being told of his father's death, "I am sorry…I am so sorry…"

"Sshh, nephew," Imrahil soothed, "It will be alright…it will be alright…"

A/N: I am so sorry for the delay in posting, I really am!  I post at ff.net as well, and have only just started posting here, and have quite forgotten about it at this site!  I will try to be better about remembering, I promise.  Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, and I hope you keep on enjoying it!

Chapter Three

Eowyn felt betrayed.

She swiped at the hot, bitter tears that had sprung up unwelcome to the corners of her eyes, and as she angrily opened the door to her room, the conversation that had taken place between herself and her brother came back to her.

"You do not know of what you are speaking, sister—my answer has to be naught else but no," Eomer had said firmly, staring at his sister with a mixture of disbelief and concern after hearing the nature of her request.

"The only one who fails to understand is you, brother," Eowyn had countered, her voice laced with resentment and hostility. "I know full well of what it is I am speaking. There is no more reason for me to live, since we are all going to die in one way or another now. I would much rather go out and face it than wait here, powerless to control my fate. This desire was denied me on the Pelennor Fields—do not refuse me now."

Eomer was not going to be swayed. It pained him greatly to hear her speak thus, and he wanted nothing more than to help alleviate her suffering. Despite this, he could not place her in the front of danger, even if it was her wish. It was his duty to protect her. He had already failed in this once—he would not do so a second time. With great difficulty, he had insisted, "I am sorry, Eowyn, but I cannot and will not allow it, and I would have the support of the Lord Aragorn and the Warden in this decision. You must see—I want to help you, sister…"

"Nay, you do not, for if you did you would allow me to follow you," Eowyn had returned, her anger at being thus denied controlling her, smothering her reason and leaving her unaware of the words she was speaking. "I had thought that at least you would have understood my desire, but it appears that this thinking was wrong. Very well—I will escape by my own means. Farewell, brother."

He had called after her. She did not answer, but had walked out on him coldly and stiffly, not slowing until she had reached her room.

As the vision cleared, the tears threatened to return again, and in anger she blinked her eyes rapidly. Why had she gone to him for his approval anyway? She did not need to ask others about the way she governed her own actions. Filled with a new sense of resolve, Eowyn strode over to her bed, upon which she had laid her sword in its scabbard. Eyes burning, she gripped the hilt firmly with her right hand and drew the shining silver blade swiftly from its sheath. No sooner had she done so than a sharp, stabbing pain unlike any she had known shot mercilessly up her sword arm.

The hurt had been unexpected.

Releasing a sharp gasp of pain, Eowyn sank onto her bed with her right arm clutched in her free hand, the sword falling to the floor with a harsh, bitter clang.

For a moment, she could not think. She felt numb. How could this have happened to me? She thought, still filled with disbelief. Was that real?

Yet, because of the intensity and unexpectedness of the pain, she was slightly afraid to test her sword arm again. She eyed the blade suspiciously on the floor, as though it were the cause of all her troubles. And, in part, she supposed it was.

But Eowyn knew she could not stay in this room, this horrible, suffocating, white room.

If she was unfit to go to battle, she would go to the Warden and demand her release.

She, Eowyn, a Shieldmaiden of Rohan, would not be kept in a cage.

Through the darkness and gloom penetrating his mind, he heard someone calling his name.

"Faramir."

The voice came again, desperate, anxious.

He turned, feeling startled and frantic as he tried to find its owner. Yet he could find no one—blackness greeted him everywhere he looked.

Was he going mad?

"Faramir."

No, there it was again. Pleading now, trembling with desire. It wanted to be found, to be heard. And as Faramir listened harder, it sounded like—

But it could not be. He was dead and gone.

Dead and gone…

"...forgive me, Faramir, forgive me..."

Faramir awoke with a start; breathing hard, sweat snaking down his face in tiny, glistening drops.

Forgive me…Faramir…forgive me…

He shuddered as the haunted words lingered in the clouds of his memory.

It was becoming harder and harder to recover from the after effects of the dreams. Perhaps this had something to do with his mounting exhaustion, which made his body and mind more vulnerable and easier to penetrate. He sighed deeply, and turned weary eyes to his bedroom window, where the blossoming, luscious garden beckoned. Peace and tranquility, it seemed, were waiting for him only a little distance away, yet, Faramir found it difficult to conceive ever feeling those emotions again. While his uncle's presence and consolation had helped somewhat, the knowledge that Imrahil would be torn from his side today and called to march upon the Black Gate had not been much of a comfort. It would have been better, Faramir had decided, if he had not come at all. That way, there would have been no parting to hurt so much. It was foolish and hopeless to count upon his return—Faramir had already convinced himself that his uncle would not be coming back. He had lost his father and brother…what did one more matter, anyway?

He had tried to convince himself, too, that his own death would be of no consequence, although he supposed that, deep in his heart, even before his uncle had come, he had known this to be a falsehood. His people would need him. Gondor would need him. And he had promised the king that he would be ready to serve him if the occasion arose.

He would live—if, for nothing else, because of his duty.

For now, at least, that was enough of a reason.