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
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