Chapter Text
March 11, T.A 3019
Minas Tirith
The chamber of the Steward was dim despite the daylight beyond its high windows. Pale shafts of sun fell through narrow openings cut deep into the stone, leaving rigid golden shapes upon the marble floor.
Mithrandir was here, and Faramir knew well how irked his father ever became when the Grey Pilgrim was present. With him was a halfling, Peregrin Took, whose presence had surprised Faramir; for only two days past he had come upon two such creatures, bearing an unspeakable burden.
The wizard perceived his surprise and rightly guessed that Frodo and Samwise had crossed Faramir’s path, and he was eager to learn of their progress. In turn, Denethor, Steward of Gondor, now knew of the Ring—the one Faramir, in his wisdom, had let go.
A long table stood between father and son, strewn with maps weighted by small stones. The air smelled of parchment, old seal wax, and the faint bitterness of burning oil. Faramir, his cloak faded and clasped at the shoulder, travel-worn and dusted with the road, braced himself for his upcoming chore of disappointing his father once more.
He spoke formally, as Denethor had always insisted, though weariness was lingering beneath his voice.
“I parted with the two halflings two days ago. I rode here as swiftly as I was able. The rest of my company I sent south to strengthen the garrisons at the fords of Osgiliath… but we are soon to be overrun. I think retreat would be prudent, my lord. While we cannot afford to lose more men, Sauron cares naught for how many of his hosts are slain. He knows no mercy.”
He slowly lifted his eyes to his father.
Denethor, seated in his high chair of black stone, did not disguise his displeasure. His hands tightened upon the arms of the seat, knuckles pale, his dark eyes sharp beneath a furrowed brow. The light caught silver in his hair, but did nothing to soften his expression.
“Why do you look to me? Do you finally ask for my judgement on all your deeds?” Denethor said coldly.
“I am sorry if what I have said displeases you, but it was not possible to know your counsel before the burden of such a judgement was thrust upon me,” Faramir replied, finding the stiffness of his speech galling.
Denethor’s mouth twisted. “Would my counsel have changed your judgement? You would have still done as you had, I think, letting such a precious weapon loose. I know you well—your gentle nature. You desire to appear generous as a king of old, but in these desperate hours, your folly has caused the death of us all.”
The words echoed harshly against the stone walls.
Faramir did not flinch, though a faint stir of rebelliousness rose within him. He suffered no regret letting the Ring go—his integrity had been tested that day, and in his own mind, he had prevailed.
“So be it,” he said, lifting his chin.
“So be it?” Denethor cried, rising partway from his seat. His voice rang through the chamber, sharp as a struck bell. “Because of your actions, now all of us must die. It was your responsibility to protect this city now that Boromir is gone, and you have failed.”
Another silence fell, heavy and painful. The mention of his fallen brother was meant to wound him; yet nothing cut deeper than being compared once more, even to one who was dead.
“Do you wish that our places had been exchanged?” Faramir asked at last, quietly. “That I would’ve died and Boromir lived?”
“Yes,” Denethor said without pause. “I wish that indeed. For Boromir was loyal to me and not to this mad wizard. He would have brought me the fortune that had fallen into your hands instead of squandering it in a fit of conscience.”
The words hung between them like a rusting blade laid bare. He had forgotten there was an audience of seven in the chamber: his maternal uncle, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and his sons—Elphir and Amrothos, along with Mithrandir and a halfling, and his own dear friend, Beregond. None present were unaware of his father’s feelings towards him, and so no one spoke.
At length, Faramir said, “Since you were robbed of Boromir, I will go and do what I can in his stead.”
Denethor straightened fully, his shadow stretching long across the floor. “Finally, we speak of important matters.”
The Council deliberated on the sending of troops to fortify Osgiliath or to yield it to the Enemy. Faramir remained silent throughout, casting brief glances at Mithrandir, who returned them with a reassuring nod.
“I will not yield the River nor the Pelennor without a fight to the last man—if only there were a captain here who still had the courage to do as my will demands,” Denethor said sharply.
There was only one Captain of Gondor present, and it was he. His father never did mince words, even toward his own flesh and blood. Faramir bowed his head, a gesture of duty, one he had done since he was a boy.
“As you command, my lord.”
“This is folly, my lord. The Captain has said Osgiliath is overrun,” Imrahil interjected angrily, for which Faramir felt grateful. “You’re wasting valuable swords for a battle that cannot be won. What is the purpose of a council if the Lord of the City listens to no one?”
“I think I know best how to defend my own city, my esteemed brother-in-law,” his father replied with a sneer. “A great city is not the same as an idyllic seaside village from which you came.”
Denethor turned back to Faramir. “Well? What hinders you from fulfilling your duty with haste?”
Faramir sighed quietly.
“Very well. I hope you know this is farewell, Father. If I should return hale, perhaps you may think better of me.”
“That depends on the manner of your return,” Denethor said, curt, already turning his attention back to the table.
He knew he had been thoroughly dismissed, yet he could not lift his gaze to meet the eyes of his uncle and cousins, where he would find only pity and compassion. He had no need of such sentiments this day; pity would not save him from a senseless death.
Faramir turned quietly to go. As he passed Mithrandir, who stood near the wall with his staff resting lightly against the stone, his keen eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his hat, the wizard reached out and caught him by the arm.
“Do not throw your life away in rashness or bitterness,” he said in a low voice meant for Faramir alone. “Your father loves you, Faramir, and will remember it in the end.”
Loves me? he thought bitterly. A lie, as hollow as any. Yet he was not one for discourtesy. Faramir paused only a moment, then inclined his head.
Perhaps he should not return at all. That would please Denethor, son of Ecthelion, would it not?
Perhaps in his death, his father would finally see him.
March 15, T.A. 3019
Fields of Pelennor
The noise in Éowyn’s mind was unrelenting in its cacophony.
It came in waves that would not recede: the screams of grown men torn from their throats, the harsh grunting of horses driven past fear into frenzy, the thunderous vibration of the earth as a mûmak lumbered forward.
Steel rang against steel, shrill and merciless, and beneath it all lay the stench of blood—hot, metallic, thick enough to taste. It coated the air, mingling with sweat and smoke, that breathing itself felt like a torment.
Yet her sight was blackened.
The last image burned into her mind was the shattered helm of the Witch-king of Angmar, split and mangled where she had driven her sword home. She remembered the moment of impact—the jolt up her arm, the sense of something ancient and hateful breaking at last—as she avenged her uncle’s fall.
Her body lay heavy and wrong, as though it no longer belonged to her. Pain radiated through her arm in savage pulses, each throb sharp enough to steal her breath. She tried to move and failed. She tried to cry out, and no sound came.
Was her voice truly gone? Or had the ordeal stripped her of even the will to hope?
“She’s hurt, but she still lives, I feel her breath upon my palm,” came an unfamiliar voice, firm and commanding, “Stop the procession at once! Send her to the Houses of Healing instead, with haste!”
She was lifted—or shifted—and the sudden jolt tore a gasp from her chest. The effort of breathing alone became unbearable, pain blooming white-hot across her ribs as her lungs strained for air.
She lost consciousness.
“Éowyn!”
She knew the voice that stirred her.
It sounded wrong somehow—fractured by disbelief and raw despair—nothing like the calm authority she knew from the Third Marshal of the Riddermark. No, he was that no longer. Surely now he was King of Rohan.
“Éo—mm—er,” she gasped, the name breaking as it left her lips. Her eyes would not open. Panic fluttered weakly in her chest. Had she gone blind?
“Sister, I’m here,” Éomer said, and she felt his hand close around her shoulder, steady and warm. “You’re gravely injured. I thought you had left me.”
“St-stay…” she begged, fear of solitude sharper than the pain. “Please…”
“I’m with you,” Éomer said, his voice cracking, and she felt his grip tighten as though he feared she might slip away.
“Uncle…?” she whispered.
“He’s gone, Éowyn,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”
Memory stirred. She recalled Théoden pinned beneath Snowmane, breath ragged, life ebbing as the Fell Beast loomed above him. Even as the Black Breath closed around her, she had clung to a single hope: that he might yet live.
She had saved him, hadn’t she?
She, a Shieldmaiden of Rohan, had slain the Lord of the Nazgûl for him—but he would never know it. To him, she had remained behind at Dunharrow, sheltered and safe, far from the horrors of this day. In his final moments, Éowyn had not been a warrior bleeding next to him in the dust, but a beloved niece untouched by war.
A fragile comfort settled over her at that thought. At least he had passed through death believing her unharmed.
“Don’t despair, Éowyn,” Éomer said, brushing her arm with a gentleness that belied the carnage around them. “Our company was victorious. We vanquished the foul creatures. Aragorn returned with the Dead Men of Dunharrow…”
Aragorn returned.
Joy surged through her, sudden and bright enough to pierce the fog of pain. He had not truly abandoned them—not on the eve of battle, not her. She remembered the ache in her chest as she had watched him disappear into the Dimholt, believing herself left behind once more.
Now understanding dawned at last: his silence had been purposeful, his leaving a test of faith. Hope bloomed weakly but persistently within her.
She had survived the Witch-king of Angmar for a reason—to find, at last, the love and light that still awaited her beyond the shadow.
Éowyn woke to silence. Light pressed against her closed eyes. She breathed in and tasted clean air, tinged with herbs and the faint smell of soap. Curious, she stirred, sitting up as she opened the eyes that had once been heavy as lead.
Then pain found her.
It flared along her left side, sharp and insistent. She gasped, the sound loud in the stillness, and saw her arm bound fast to a rigid plank of wood. She breathed in and out slowly until the pain became bearable.
Her assessing gaze quickly noted a high roof, the ceiling adorned with intricate paintings of flowers. Sunlight slanted through tall, arched windows, but no breeze touched her skin. The chamber was not of Rohan—no bright tapestries, no sturdy timber beams, no scent of pinewood. It was white, all white, it almost blinded her.
Where was she?
She looked down at herself.
Her mail was gone. In its place she wore a simple white shift, soft and loose, the cloth cool against her skin. Someone had washed her clean of the stains of battle. Her hair, unbound, fell over her shoulders in pale waves, lighter than she remembered. Without her armour she felt strangely exposed. Slowly, she turned her head.
She was in an infirmary of sorts. A row of beds lined the wall, all of them standing empty. A chair near the wall had been pushed back and abandoned.
It was what was absent that distressed her the most. No boots waited by the door, no helm lay upon the table, no sign that anyone had been there to visit at all—not a healer, not her brother, not even the man she loved.
Had she imagined Éomer’s voice? She thought she heard Aragorn’s voice in her dreams.
A hollow ache opened in her chest, deeper than the pain in her arm. How could she be alone? This was her greatest nightmare come true. She could not be dead; the pain in her arm robbed her of that fragile fancy.
She swallowed, her throat tight.
“I’m awake!” she called, testing the words against the quiet. They sounded brittle, almost untrue.
No answer came, save for a gasp and a rustle from the bed furthest from hers, set behind a makeshift barrier.
After a while, she heard “Who are you?” said a voice from there—a man’s voice, raspy and pained.
And she became frightened.
A woman’s gasp had awakened him.
Faramir had awakened with a jolt, drawing a sharp breath as a burning sensation swept through his body. His eyes flew open to a dim chamber washed in grey light, and as his sight cleared, the carvings upon the ceiling told him at once where he lay.
The Houses of Healing.
He knew it without effort, as one knows one’s own name. He had been brought here often since he was a young lad; there was nothing unfamiliar in it.
He lay upon a narrow bed, propped with care so that his upper body did not rest fully against the mattress. Linen covered him from head to foot, its roughness itching against skin already sore and tender.
What manner of hurt required such binding? Memory returned slowly. He could only recall the strike of Southron arrows, a searing pain in his shoulder, before the world had fallen away into blackness.
Why, then, did his whole body pain him?
He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing shallowly, counting each breath until the burning dulled to something he could endure. He could not tell from whence the voice had come; his bed was screened from the rest of the chamber by a partition.
He hoped he had not imagined the voice. That would be troubling—almost as troubling as his father, pacing his chambers at night and speaking to himself.
“Who are you?” he ventured, the words dry upon his tongue.
They echoed faintly, and no answer came.
Strange.