Chapter I: A Window to Dreams
Éowyn didn't remember falling asleep, just the rich fragrance of lavender permeating the chamber, and the pain of her arm dulled.
But she did remember the dreams. The nightmares.
She was watching the sun rise in Dunharrow. "I would have you smile again ... You shall live to see these days renewed ... No more despair." Her uncle's words echoed across her mind. I cannot, uncle, she wanted to cry out, but no words came to her. But right before her, he aged beyond comprehension, becoming again like the rotted being upon the throne of Meduseld, with shriveled skin, wisps of white hair, and blank eyes. She could not catch him as he tumbled to the ground, and was engulfed in darkness. All images faded, and shadow fell. She stood upon the brink once more; but when she tried to turn towards the light behind her, she found herself moving forward, and falling into the black abyss.
Éowyn jerked awake with a sharp gasp. Stinging pain raced up her bandaged left arm. The covers were twisted, and she was cold. She sat up, steadied her breathing, and loosened them, then lay back down, and shut her eyes.
Just a dream. Go back to sleep. Dawn is not for a few more hours.
But she could not find slumber again. She opened her eyes, and rose from the bed. These stone Gondorian rooms were so much more austere, so unlike the gilded wood in Edoras. The stone floor was cold on her bare feet. She crossed the room to the window, where silvery moonlight streamed in. Again, an ache raced through her injured arm. Éowyn looked down at the neatly-wrapped dressing, and took her left hand in her right. The throbbing subsided; she looked up across the small courtyard. Towards the west.
***
Faramir could no longer stand the stillness of his chamber. He walked aimlessly through the Houses of Healing. Though the spring air warmed him, his heart was heavy. He did not need to hear the new deference when he was addressed, nor see the bows in his direction, to know that his father was dead. No one spoke of it; but Faramir could still see his father’s oil-soaked face wreathed in smoke, and framed by tongues of flame. If he listened, he could hear Denethor’s agonized screams.
No! Faramir shook it off; there was no use dwelling upon such things tonight. His mind wandered back over the evening.
He had been brought back by the king. There had been no question about it; when he saw the careworn man, cloaked, wise with many winters, he knew he would serve him until his end. But when Faramir strove furtively to get a better glance at the Ring of Barahir, he saw the vambraces upon the king’s forearms: the very same tooled leather pieces that he had given to Boromir as a parting gift before he departed to search for Imladris. Yet Faramir did not begrudge the king such. Instead he thought of it as an honor to his brother’s memory.
"My king, you have called me. What is your command?" The cloaked man was taken aback for a moment, but then he bid Faramir to take some rest.
Some time had passed before Faramir felt the need to look about. He had refused an escort, nor a crutch. So Ioreth redressed his wounds, and bid him to seek help immediately should he feel at all ill.
The sight of the Healing Houses grieved him, for it was full of wounded that need tending, and the healers were weary, but would not cease their efforts. Faramir saw many Gondorian soldiers with their plate armour removed, but also many fair-haired Rohirrim. So Rohan had come to their aid, and suffered losses rivaling their own.
Faramir sought out the Rangers, and learned the fate of the two hundred souls that accompanied him to Osgiliath. He sat tiredly on a bench beside Mablung’s bed; his mentor, Madril, and so many more were all dead.
Mablung, who’d been injured during the retreat, said to him, "My Lord,"—no longer simply "Captain"— "remember what your brother told us after every battle: Don’t carry the weight of the dead, for it is a heavy burden."
A soft breeze kicked up, drawing him back to the present. In the small courtyard, he stood beside a stone column, and placed his hand on it’s smooth surface.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a gleam of white in the darkness. He turned, and saw a fair woman standing at the window; she appeared to be looking down at something. Ah, it was her left hand. Faramir saw that it was bandaged. She was hurt.
And even before she met his eyes, he perceived her sorrow and unrest. For the clear sight of Númenor, gave the gift to read the hearts of those around him. In Henneth Annûn, he had known that the creature Frodo had called Sméagol was a murderer, and he knew now that this lady’s heart was full of loss.
But she was fairer than any flower or maiden he had ever seen in Gondor. Her face was white by the light of the moon, and her hair was a curtain of pale gold. Suddenly, she looked up from her hand to him. It seemed to him that her loveliness amid her grief would pierce his heart. His hand fell from the column as he looked at her.
Though he was filled with pity, he smiled. And wondered who she was.
***
Éowyn carefully gave no expression. Who was this man? He was clad simply, with a dressing plainly visible beneath his tunic, the collar unlaced. He must be just another wounded Gondorian soldier from the siege. She saw him smile tenderly, his eyes blue as the Eastfold skies, then give her a respectful nod and turn away. She went back to her bed, and didn’t see the thoughtful glance he cast back at her window.