Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1 - Éowyn

Dear Arwen,

I hope you are doing well in Imladris with your father. As per my last letter, I have been staying in Minas Tirith these last few months on my uncle, king Théoden’s, request. He claimed a change of scenery might do me good. But it has changed little. A gilded birdcage is still a birdcage, if you know what I mean. My uncle proposed that I might even find a suitor, silly as that idea might be. Probably he wishes me wedded to the captain of Gondor.

Each day in the citadel is the same. I wake up, dress and head to the houses of healing to help. But I am a shieldmaiden and my hands ungentle. I look in envy at the soldiers of Gondor practicing on the field outside. Can not my hands just as easily grasp a sword? Can I not ride just as well? (Well, I can ride better than most Gondorian soldiers, but that is besides the point.)

My mind is still filled with dread. I fear it: the cage. To stay behind bars, until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire. I will not surrender my life in such a way.

I hope my letter has not disheartened you too much. The Valar know your own sadness is enough to bear. I hope your next letter brings good news of your beloved. If not send one quickly anyway, I long for them. I wish I could meet you again soon.

Warmly,

Éowyn

Éowyn rose from her writing desk and stretched her arms above her head. She looked around her chamber as she waited for the ink to dry. The stone room, small but bigger than her chamber in Edoras, had the necessary comforts. A bed with linen cloth, a wooden wardrobe and, the best part in Éowyn’s opinion, a balcony. She walked over to the open archway and regard the balcony’s view of the fields of Pelennor. She could see across the Anduin to the ruined city of Osgiliath and almost to the village of Bree, nestled in the deep forest of Ithilien.

It remined her of home. Standing outside of The Golden Hall Meduseld with her brother on the last day before her trip. They were gazing across the valley of Harrowdale. It was early in the year as the Barrowfield had not yet grown any flowers on the old graves of the kings and the Snowbourn still had blocks of ice bobbing along on their way to the Entwash.

“Why must you leave, baby sister?” Éomer asked, turning to face his sister.

“Uncle has decided so, he is our king,” Éowyn replied avoiding his gaze.

“But will you be safe? Evil tidings are brewing in Gondor.”

“As are they here in the Riddermark. I am not afraid of battle, brother,” She sighed.

“Aye, but the battlefield is no place for a maiden,” Éomer replied. “Have you packed everything?”

Éowyn clutched the balcony’s railing, her knuckles turning white. Her eyes burned for his words had cut deeper than he must have intended. Éomer, beloved brother, why do you not believe in me?

Suddenly Éowyn remembered her dream. Last night, she dreamt of a great wave climbing over green lands and above the hills. She stood upon the brink, the utterly dark abyss before her feet. A light shone behind her, but she could not turn. Though the dream’s setting was unfamiliar, the feeling was not. It felt like the despair growing in her mind every passing day.

Éowyn took a deep breath. This was no time to dwell on the past or the fancy of dreams. She knew what she had to do, had decided even before leaving Rohan. She may be trapped in a cage, but eventually every cage must break.

The sun was setting, and it was time for dinner. Today Denethor had called to a feast. Éowyn dressed in her nicest white dress, braided her long golden hair, and left her chambers. Her eyes unseeing, lost in thought she walked the hallways of the Citadel. She walked right into something. Or someone. More precisely a man’s chest. She quickly stepped back and excused her clumsiness.

“No need for apologies fair maiden,” the man laughed.

Éowyn finally registered who she had hit, it was Boromir son of Denethor, high warden of the white tower and captain general. He, dressed as for war, regarded her curiously.

“Are you on your way to the feast?” he implored kindly.

She nodded, her expression grave and thoughtful. Shaking his head, he, as many of the men meeting the maiden of Rohan, was confused by her solemn mood. Should not a beautiful young maiden be happy? She could have her pick of any man, why despair? She did not explain, for she did not want their pity.

Boromir offered his arm to her and together they set of to the great hall.

Upon entering the hall Éowyn was immediately overwhelmed. She had not seen this many people since she last visited one of her uncle’s feasts in The Golden Hall. Even then, the feasts were rarely any fun, the dancing the only thing she found happiness in. She could already see the mead clouding the men’s eyes, but no musicians. There would be no dancing in the halls of Gondor that night.

Boromir led her to, what had become her usual spot, on the left of the Steward, and Boromir took his place to the right. Denethor had not yet arrived. Late to his own feast, Éowyn mused.

“What are we celebrating?” she awkwardly asked Boromir, her attempt at small talk rarely went her way. But he simply smiled. It should be a comfort, if not for the fact that his eyes did not crinkle.

“We are celebrating the anniversary of the recapture of Osgiliath,” Boromir answered, pointedly lifting his ale tankard, and taking a sip.

She inferred that there was more to this celebration that he let on, but she decided to drop it. It was not becoming of a maiden to ask annoying questions. And Boromir had been nothing but nice to her since her arrival. But his strange mood remined her of her first day in Minas Tirith.

He had been showing her around the citadel, when she spotted an old staircase, seemingly leading straight down into the rock under the citadel.

“Where does that lead?” Éowyn asked Boromir, pointing to the staircase.

The man had grown silent, and it took him a few seconds too long to answer.

“Just the old archives, no place for a young maiden. You might faint from the cobwebs!” Boromir tried to joke.

The captain was a poor liar. Éowyn did not believe him then and neither did she believe him now. He was hiding something.

The big oak double doors were pushed open, and a silence fell over the crowd. Éowyn turned and saw the Steward enter the great hall. Denethor, clad in his usual grey furs that matched his equally grey hair, sauntered royally up to his throne, placed at the head of the table. When he saw Boromir and Éowyn he smiled and nodded. He turned to address the gathered masses.

“Today is a day of remembrance. We gather to celebrate the strength of Gondor, its armies and of course Boromir, captain of Gondor, who bravely reclaimed Osgiliath last year and brough honour to the house of Stewards.” Denethor raised his tankard. “Three cheers for my son!”

The hall erupted into shouts and tankards clanging. Éowyn smiled, but it quickly fell when she saw Boromir’s expression. His face was not filled with joy at his father’s praise, rather with pain and agony. He set his tankard down hard and almost ran out the door. Éowyn stared after him and then looked imploringly at his father. Denethor merely raised an eyebrow and set his own tankard down, more carefully than his son.

“Boromir has a temper; he simply cannot stomach too much praise,” Denethor shrugged. “Let us discuss something else. How have you settled down in our beautiful city, Éowyn?”

“Gondor is very different from my home, but it is very beautiful.” she replied courtly.

“That it is, dear child. Your uncle was wise to send you here to experience another, more civilized culture,” Denethor smiled.

Éowyn blanched at his insensitive words, but quickly covered it with a cough. She grasped after some way to steer the conversation down a different path. Then she remembered something she had heard the nurses talking about in the houses of healing.

“Have you heard about the Ranger of Ithilien, sir?” She asked, as innocently as possible so that he would not notice her changing the topic.

Denethor’s smile immediately vanished and was replaced with something darker.

“The ranger of Ithilien is nothing but a coward, attacking innocent travellers and stealing, not just from villagers, but from no less than the crown itself.”

Éowyn grew interested, this did not at all line up with what she had heard.

“I had heard he merely protects the travellers and asks nothing in return. They say he only steals from the rich and gives to the poor, is it not so?”

“My lady should not believe everything you hear. The Ranger is vicious and greedy.” Denethor almost spit out the words. “He is a thief, a cowardly one, attacking with bow and arrow. He and his band of villains attacked a company of my men travelling with gold from Dol Amroth last week, killing many and wounding the rest.”

Éowyn gasped, could Denethor’s words be the truth? The nurses had bragged about the Rangers fearlessness and compassion. But how could anyone this cruel be anything but a villain. Denethor smiled understandingly and gently patted her arm.

“You, fair maiden, have nothing to fear, the Ranger could never enter Minas Tirith. I have put out a reward on his head, but even then, it is not as if he will survive long. I have tasked Boromir with finding him, he will leave for Dol Amroth this evening.”

“Speaking of Boromir, I better check on him.” Éowyn excused herself, turning not to see Denethor’s sly grin. He just like her uncle, believed a marriage between them would be most beneficial. Éowyn did not agree.

Éowyn exited the great hall and found, after a few minutes, Boromir sitting slumped on a bench in front of a roaring fireplace. He did not notice her entering.

“It seems I am not the only one lost in thought today,” Éowyn smiled sitting down on the bench next to him. Boromir started and was close to grabbing his sword but calmed when he met her eyes.

“Éowyn?”

She nodded and placed a hand on his shoulder. “At dinner, you were not well, and do not lie to me again,” she said when he opened his mouth as if to argue. He sighed and turned his gaze into the fire’s yellow flames.

“I used to have a brother,” Boromir began. “Five years younger, he was my baby brother. He was a captain of Gondor just like me. He was brave, braver than me.” Boromir laughed sadly.

“Two years ago, he was tasked with protecting Osgiliath, but he…” Boromir’s voice broke.

Éowyn squeezed his shoulder; she could infer the rest.

“This anniversary, of my victory, was also the day of his defeat. Osgiliath fell and I never saw him again,” Boromir finished, a tear streaking across his cheek.

“What was his name?” Éowyn asked brushing away Boromir’s tear.

“His name was Faramir.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 2 - Éowyn

Long after Boromir had left for Dol Amroth, Éowyn lay in her bed looking at the darkness outside the window. It was time to execute her plan. She knelt on the floor and gently lifted her mattress under which she had stowed her most treasured possession: one of her brother’s tunics. She had also hidden a pair of brown riding breeches, a pair of riding boots and a sword in her closet. Some if it smuggled from Rohan, others she had acquired in the houses of healing.

She quickly dressed in the men’s clothes and styled her hair just like her brother. Éomer’s hair fell to his shoulders, but Éowyn’s reached to her mid back. The men of Rohan wore their hair longer than the men of Gondor, but she did not think she could pass unnoticed with such ladylike hair. She had many a though cutting it, but she had neither shear nor knife and the sword would be too risky. Instead, she pinned it up, braiding it just like her brother did.

Éowyn turned to look in her mirror. At first, she did not recognize herself. Who was this man standing in her room? Then she found her eyes, the same grey as always. It was a new feeling, but not a bad one. It was like she finally recognized herself, or at least a part of herself that had been hidden for so long. Forced into the back of her mind, by her brother, her family and by society. She tried the name she had picked out.

“Dernhelm, my name is Dernhelm.” The man in the mirror smiled. He reached under his bed and pulled out a pack with food.

“Now the only thing left to do is steal a horse,” Dernhelm bragged, as if the caper had already succeeded.

In the early hours of the morning, Éowyn entered the stables, careful not to wake the sleeping horses. The choosing of a horse was not to be taken lightly, as her father used to say, or at least that was what her brother said her father said. She was only seven years old when her father was slain by orcs. Anyway, that was why she had visited the stables earlier that week to pick out a horse. She had chosen Windfola, a grey Rohan stead whose name meant “Wind foal” in her mother tongue. It had made her happy to see a horse with a Rohanese name all the way in Gondor and she took that as a sign that he would bear her well.

Éowyn saddled Windfola and packed the saddle bags with spare clothes and proviants. She easily pulled herself onto the horse, having done so from an early age. Her uncle and brother might disapprove of maidens in war, but in the saddle, they were all equals.

Éowyn carefully trotted Windfola down the streets and eventually out the gate of Minas Tirith. The guard looked confused as to what soldier of Rohan did all they way in Gondor, but he simply shook it off and opened the gate, Gondor and Rohan was allied and stranger things had happened.

When Éowyn hade it as far away from the gate as she dared, she spurred Windfola into a gallop. She hoped to make it to the village of Bree in Ithilien by nightfall. And from there she had not yet decided her destination.

The wind tugged at her hair, and she smiled, and her entire face lit up. She laughed loudly, for the first time in what felt like years. Goodbye Gondor, goodbye gilded cage. She was free!

She arrived at Bree in the midafternoon. The small village sat at the edge of the Ithilien forest and was the last bigger settlement before the wilderness. She rode Windfola down the muddy streets stopping in front of what looked to be the village tavern and inn, The Prancing Pony. Swiftly she dismounted, thanked Windfola with a pat and paid a stable boy to lodge the grey horse. Éowyn pushed open the wooden door to the tavern and was greeted by merry singing. The Prancing Pony was a small and cramped wooden tavern with many men crowding the bar and even more sitting spread out on the round and rectangular tables.

She took a deep breath and approach the bar, taking a seat at the very edge.

“Welcome to the Prancing Pony, traveller. My name is Barliman Butterbur. What can I do for ya?” The innkeeper was a jolly middle-aged man with a bushy mutton chop beard.

“Just a beer, please,” Dernhelm replied confidently.

Barliman quickly produced a pint of foaming ale.  Éowyn sipped on her ale and scrunched her nose; this was more bitter than the ale in Rohan. Barliman must have noticed and laughed heartily.

“You’re not from around here, aye?” the innkeeper motioned to Dernehelm’s green tunic with its horse head that adorned the flag of Rohan. Éowyn nodded, but did not elaborate. Barliman, not the perceptive man she took him for, continued unbothered. “You know we get travellers from all over the kingdoms. Just a few minutes before you walked in, a company of elves, on their way to Rivendell I think, arrived. You know we rarely get elves around these parts,” Barliman continued, Éowyn who had stopped listening perked up when he mentioned Rivendell.

She had only met elves once. When she was just a young teen a caravan of elves had visited Edoras. One evening Éowyn needed a break from the festivities and walked outside the hall. On the ledge outside stood an elven woman staring at the horizon, her black wavy hair falling down her back. The woman turned to face Éowyn, their grey eyes meeting. Éowyn though her more beautiful than anything she had ever seen.

“My name is Arwen, what is yours?”

She had promised Arwen to visit Imladris and what better an opportunity. Éowyn turned from the bar and searched the throng for pointy ears. Instead on an elven ear, her eyes caught on another pair of grey human eyes. The eyes belonged to a face with blond shoulder length hair, short stubble and a smiling mouth. Time stopped for a second as their eyes locked.

Éowyn quickly looked away blushing furiously and spotted the elven company. She downed her tankard, waved goodbye to Barliman and made her way to the elves.

The elves were dressed like the ones from her childhood: in long travel robes of blue and brown, which made sense if they were on their way to Imladris. Éowyn approached the elves, clearing her throat to get their attention. The elves quieted and turned to look at her. Elves do not show their feelings as obvious as humans, but she could feel the air of annoyance around them. She cursed herself for interrupting them but decided to continue anyway.

“Hello, my name is Dernhelm, and I heard from the tavern keep that you were on your way to Imladris.”

The elves looked surprised to hear a human use the elven name for Rivendell. Their leader rose from his seat and addressed her.

“That is right, Dernhelm. I am Elrohir and we have been visiting Lothlorien to the north and are on our way home.”

Elrohir, Éowyn realized, was Arwen’s brother. She spoke highly of her two big brothers in her letters. But Éowyn could not reveal her relationship with Arwen for fear that they would know her. She would have to come up with a lie to justify her journey to Rivendell.

“I know your name, for elves from Imladris visited Rohan in my youth. Among them were your sister, Arwen my friend. I am on my way to visit the lady to thank her for her kindness,” Dernhelm explained.

Elrohir smiled and gestured for Dernhelm to sit. “I remember that trip and a friend of my sister is my friend. You are welcome to travel with us to Imladris. Now what are the news from the land of the Rohirrim.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 3 - Faramir

A blond man dismounted his horse, his legs aching from the long ride. His raven-haired companion did the same, although with a lot more grace born of long practice. The weather had changed when the pair entered Bree, the raining finally ceasing. But still the blond man kept his hood up, his companion did so to. They quietly walked towards the village’s inn, the Prancing Pony.

Finding a table in a dark corner the two men ordered a pint from the jolly tavern keep. The raven-haired man produced a pipe from a coat pocket. The two men kept close watch on the door. Twenty minutes passed.

“Are you sure the information you received is correct?” the black-haired man asked blowing rings with the smoke from his pipe.

“Yes, Anborn saw them on their way here. Why, do you doubt my men, Aragorn?”

“Of course not, Faramir. The Rangers of Ithilien are my kin, Dúnedain, just of the south,” Aragorn replied unbothered.

Faramir took a careful sip of his ale. He made a face. Aragorn raised an eyebrow.

“The ale is a lot better in Gondor,” Faramir explained putting the tankard down.

Aragorn smiled, his grey eyes crinkling. Then they became distant, as if caught in a memory. Faramir thought he knew which one. Every time Faramir visited Bree he thought about his first meeting with Aragorn not two years before.

Faramir had been walking back from the town, in an awfully bad mood after drinking away his sorrows and not dealing well with the alcohol, when he happened upon the small brook that ran across the forest. But due to the rainy season it had changed into a broad stream with a rapid current. The only way across was a narrow beam, only wide enough for one man to cross at a time and without a handrail.

Faramir stepped onto the beam and had made it some two or three feet along it, when on the other bank a tall man appeared. The man jumped onto the beam and began crossing it. When they were some ten feet apart, they both stopped and looked frowningly at each other.

“Where are your manners? Did you not see I was already on the bridge when you sat your big feet upon it?” Faramir said, annoyed at being blocked on his way home.

“But my strides are far longer than yours and has made if further along, it will be faster for you to go back,” the other man retorted.

“So be it,” Faramir said drawing an arrow from his quiver and notching his bow. “I will have to teach you a lesson. No stranger will cross me in my own domain.”

“Coward, a real man fights with the sword at his side when he realizes his opponent has but that,” the stranger objected.

Faramir paused. He was angry, tired, and perhaps a bit drunk, but there was something honest and manly and good-natured about the stranger which he liked.

“Have it your way,” Faramir declared, removing his bow, and unsheathing his sword. “First man to be knocked into the stream loses. Now, go!”

With the first slash of the sword, Faramir could see he was dealing with no amateur. The black-haired stranger was quick and nimble footed, keeping his balance despite Faramir’s repeated attacks. Long time their swords danced across each other. Suddenly the stranger feinted twice. Quickly as Faramir guarded he could not save the third stroke, and the strangers sword hit him in the side. Faramir tumbled down into the stream, dropping his sword in the process.

The stranger laughed good humouredly, jumped into the stream and picked up Faramir’s sword. He offered Faramir a helping hand, Faramir grabbed it and pulled himself out of the water. The stranger handed his sword back to him.

“A greater opponent I have not fought in a long time. My name is Faramir former captain of Gondor and son to Denethor steward. Now tell me your name stranger for I have been honest with you,” Faramir asked, shivering soaked on the riverbank.

“I have many names, but the one of most importance is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, captain of the Dúnedain of Arnor and heir of Isildur.”

Faramir stared at the stranger, not believing his eyes. Had he just met the true king of Gondor?

“I see you do not believe me,” Aragorn said, retrieving a bundled-up sword sheath from his back, and pulling something out, “but perhaps this will prove it.” He held the sword up for Faramir to see. It was undoubtedly the sword of Elendil, Faramir had read many descriptions of it in the archives of Minas Tirith.

“My king,” Faramir exclaimed, dropping to his knees. Once again Aragorn helped him to his feet.

“I am no king, I have yet to prove my worth.”

“Then I will call you Strider, for your legs are awfully long,” Faramir laughed and the two set of together.

Faramir was pulled out of his thoughts by Aragorn elbowing him in the side. A group of some of the most beautiful people Faramir had seen just walked through the door. This must be the eleven company Anborn saw.

“These elves are from Imladris, Elrohir is their leader,” Aragorn realized.

“You know them, does that mean-” Farmir started.

“Yes,” Aragorn interrupted him. He pulled his hood down farther until only his mouth was visible. Faramir did not bother, for if they were not from Gondor, they would hardly recognize him.

The pair watched the elves order drinks (“Wine, the strongest you have”) and take a seat at one of the bigger tables. They were a company of six, not equipped for war except for the sword at the hip of Elrohir, most likely merchants or possibly on their way home from relatives, Faramir deduced. Luckily, the table the elves picked was close by, so the pair could hear every word spoken if they listened closely.

Some time passed, the elves were speaking mainly in their own language, which Farmir did understand, but it was tiresome to listen to, nonetheless. Aragorn, having grown up with the language of the elves could probably listen to it all day, but Faramir grew distracted. He heard the small bell at the door toll, and he saw a young man, dressed in the garb of a soldier of Rohan, enter. The man had long blond hair, almost golden in the light from the candles in the tavern and a sombre expression on their face. He sat down at the edge of the bar and conversed with the barkeep, ordering a pint of the same ale Faramir had tried to drink for more than an hour. He was pleased to see that the soldier also made a face when drinking.

Suddenly the man turned around and their eyes met. It was like time stopped. The man was beautiful, his eyes a shining shade of grey. The man quickly averted his eyes. Faramir’s cheeks grew hot. He turned to Aragorn, who had the smuggest grin on his face.

“Stop it,” Faramir mumbled.

“You should talk to him,” Aragorn proposed still grinning.

“You know I cannot, besides he did not seem interested,” Faramir sighed defeated.

“But you know what they say about the men of Rohan,” Aragorn joked.

“That the men would rather marry each other,” the pair chorused.

“But that is simply a dumb rumour. I just wish to find my soulmate, like you found yours,” Faramir smiled sadly.

 Aragorn placed a comforting hand on Faramir’s arm.

“One day you will. Besides what man or woman could ever resist you, unless betrothed to the most beautiful elven maiden on Arda, “Aragorn laughed. Faramir shook his head and saw that the Rohirrim man had moved to sit with the elves. Faramir wondered what business the man had with the elves.

The pair continued to sit, quietly watching the tavern fill up with the evening’s guests. Among them were a few men with a bad look about them. They stole glances at the elves and one of them left quickly. Faramir motioned to Aragorn who nodded. Something foul was afoot. There had been an increase of highway robbery in Ithilien.

Just the other week Faramir had interrupted an attack on a carriage from Dol Amroth. Sadly, the thieves got away with a lot of gold and many perished before he got there. But as thank you Faramir received a bag of gold from the travellers, which he gave to Anborn to distribute in the nearby villages.

“We should follow the elves, at least until they leave Ithilien. I have a bad feeling about this,” Faramir proclaimed.

“Sure, you are not just wishing to see more of the beautiful Rohan man. I am kidding,” Aragorn waved defensively at Faramir’s frown. “Anyway, I believe it to be a good idea, those men looked shifty.”

The elves timely stood up and started for the door, accompanied by the Rohan soldier.

“Why are they leaving so late?” Faramir asked Aragorn.

“The Eldar love the stars,” Aragorn explained. “They prefer to be outside at night. Let us follow.”

The pair followed the elven party by horse at an inconspicuous distance, careful not to be spotted. Most of the elves were walking, but Elrohir and the Rohirrim man rode. The company moved at a leisurely pace, some of the walkers holding lanterns to guide the way. The elves were relaxed and Faramir realized that they must have walked here many times on their way home to Imladris.

Aragorn put out his hand stopping both his own horse and Faramir’s.

“I heard something, let us follow on foot.”

They tied their horses to a tree by the road and started carefully walking along the road on foot. Faramir spied on the ground, what an ordinary man may take for a pile of twigs blown there by the wind, but that he knew were the secret messages of the Rangers of Ithilien. He crouched and scanned them.

“Five men, on foot. Halted on the road not far from here,” Faramir read aloud. “Must be the men from the tavern.”

“Yes, they are most likely planning an ambush further up the road.” Aragorn pulled up his hood and mask, Faramir mirroring his movements.

The two rangers left the road and very cautiously made their way between the trees. Careful not to step on any twigs as they hurried through the forest, as their eyes darted around in every direction trying to pierce the twilight.

Aragorn dropped suddenly to his knees, pulling Farmir to the ground with him. Aragorn pointed to a clearing just a few meters ahead. In the clearing stood four men, armed with swords and knives. Faramir could see no crest or any sign of allegiance, the men must be simple highwaymen looking for some quick gold stealing from the elves.

The signal said five men, but there are only four, where is the last one? Just as he had though the words, the final man rushed into the clearing.

“The elves have reached the crossroads,” the thief claimed and started of in the direction of the road, the other men following him closely. Aragorn and Faramir did so to, crouching low. Carefully Faramir unslung his bow and slipped an arow on the string. Aragorn gripped his sword, not the one always on his back, but another simpler one at his hip.

As they approached the road the thieves stopped, hidden in the bushes Faramir and Aragorn also did the same. Immediately they heard the voices of the elves and the sound of horse hooves closing in. Faramir could see the golden-haired man of Rohan riding beside Elrohir conversing happily in common.

The next moment the men burst through the trees. The brave man of Rohan pushed his horse in front of Elrohir, dismounted and unsheathed his sword preparing to defend his newly acquired friends. The Rohan man attacked the man right in front of him but failed to notice the man sneaking up from behind. Faramir drew his bow, aimed, and let the arrow fly.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4 - Éowyn

Éowyn quickly dismounted her horse and attacked. Her sword meeting one of the robber’s. Quickly she twisted her hand and forced the blade out of his hand, pushing it away with her foot before he could regain it. She heard running footsteps behind her. Éowyn whipped around, but too late to parry the slash from the man behind her. She covered her face with her arms.

Then Éowyn heard the swoosh on an arrow, and she ducked instinctively. The thud of it piercing the skull of the attacking man right behind her. The man fell, dropping his sword and hitting the ground hard. The man in front of her started to panic, frantically eyeing the trees, and backing away.

“I know that arrow. It is-” was all he got to say before an arrow pierced him.

Two men, dressed in green and brown with long cloaks and pulled up hoods and masks, jumped out onto the road. One man held a longsword with both hands and the other, no it can not be. She recognized him as the man from the tavern, the one she had locked eyes with. He drew his sword and ran into the fray. He was fighting his way to her side, she realized. Their eyes met once again, for she knew now who he was.

The two men, Ranger and Rohirrim, fought back-to-back, their swords clanging in harmony. Elrohir now also joining the fray, and together with the black-haired ranger, they fought fiercely. Soon the robbers realized that they were no match for the four skilled swordsmen and left their two slain companions behind, fleeing into the forest.

“If they go that way, they will not get far. That my rangers will make certain of,” the blond man said sheathing his sword once again and bowing to Elrohir.

“Who do I have to thank for this kindness?” Elrohir asked climbing onto his horse once again.

“The Ranger of Ithilien, of course,” the blond man replied.

Éowyn gasped, even if she had already known from the moment the arrow pierced the robber’s skull.

“You fought bravely and well, I could use someone like you among my rangers,” the Ranger addressed her.

“You saved my life, I would be honoured to fight by your side,” replied Dernhelm, pointedly ignoring the creep of heat on her neck at his praise.

Turning to address Elrohir she continued. “I thank you for your company, please send my regards to the maid Arwen. Please also tell her that my sister, Éowyn, sends her love.” Elrohir nodded and the elven company continued their way to Imladris.

The Ranger turned to face her, removing his mask. At once she thought of Boromir, as this man was much alike him in stature, bearing and speech.

“What do we address you by? And are you aware we are regarded as outlaws by the kingdom of Gondor, it should not be a hasty decision to join us,” the ranger asked her.

“My name is Dernhelm, former soldier of Rohan. I have heard the rumours passing through Gondor. It matters to me not, for I was sent away by the king,” Arwen lied, though as the best of lies, it was grounded in the truth.

“Then welcome to the rangers of Ithilien, Dernhelm,” the Ranger said reaching his hand out. Éowyn shook it hard, as she had seen her brother do many times. “I will be your captain from this moment on. This is my lieutenant Strider,” the Ranger motioned towards the black-haired ranger, still with his hood and mask on. The man, Strider, nodded wordlessly.

The trio walked back to their tied horses, Arwen leading Windfola. At length the silence grew heavy, and Éowyn started to question her decision in joining them. What if what Denethor claimed was true? What if the two men were simply leading her away to slay? Could she singlehandedly fight of two men? Not likely, especially men as skilled with the sword as the rangers.

Just when her mind had started to fill with dread, the Rangers voice interrupted her thoughts.

“You needn’t worry,” he said detecting her fear. “I do not slay man or beast needlessly, and not gladly even when it is needed.”

He got a faraway look in his eyes, like he was reliving a terrible memory. She wanted to comfort him in some way, for his eyes betrayed his grief.

“We do what we must to protect the country we love, the people we love,” Éowyn stated.

The ranger met her eyes once again, an understanding passing between them. They arrived at the tied-up horses, the rangers saddled up and together they rode back towards Bree.

Faramir

Faramir rode first leading the way. He kept a keen eye on the side of the road, spying for the small pile of branches indicating the nearly invisible dirt path towards Henneth Annûn. They were nowhere near yet, so he let his mind wander to the man riding on the grey horse not far behind him.

Dernhelm, as he now knew the man’s name to be, had a beautiful voice. It was brighter than any man of Gondor and had the oddest of accents, almost as if he was always singing. It was endearing.

“You are letting your feelings distract you again,” Aragorn said in elvish, having ridden up besides Faramir and removed his mask to speak. Faramir flushed, as if his thoughts had betrayed him.

“No, you saw how well he fought, we need men such as he. Besides you heard him, he was sent away by the king,” Faramir tried to rationalize.

“Sure, not just because he is hot.” Faramir stared at Aragorn, scandalized. Aragorn was a lot freer spoken in his mother tongue.

Faramir glanced at Dernhelm, afraid he had understood. But the man simply regarded his face with a neutral expression, as if deep in thought.

“Shut up. Look, there is the path!” Faramir said switching to common midway through.

Éowyn

After they had ridden for a bit, the pair of rangers started conversing quickly in what she assumed to be elvish, which she did not understand more than a few phrases taught to her by Arwen. She took a moment to consider the men before her, as both had removed their masks by now, although Strider still wore his hood.

There was an air of high nobility about them. But there was a difference: the man with black hair, whose name was Strider, felt more remote and his eyes revealed many more winters than the rest of his face, at least the part she could see under the hood. She admired his bravery, and she wondered if she, had she still been locked in a cage, would have felt something more for that handsome face. But now she felt no stirring of her heart.

But the Ranger with the blond hair and grey eyes, he was like one of the Kings of Men born into a later time but touched with the wisdom and sadness of the Elves. He was a captain that men would follow, that she would follow.

The men were still conversing in elvish, when her captain switched to a language she understood.

“Look, there is the path!” her captain cried. He was pointing to a pile of sticks, not to a path. Éowyn look at him as if he had lost his mind. Then the black-haired ranger finally removed his hood and addressed Éowyn in common.

“You have shown your prowess with the sword, but we cannot trust a stranger with the secret location of our camp,” he explained not unkindly. “Therefore, we must blindfold you when we enter the forest.”

She nodded; it was a wise precaution. The Ranger, her captain she corrected, tore a part of his tunic, and approached her with the cloth.

“May I?” he asked. Once again, she nodded.

He placed the piece of, surprisingly soft, cloth against her eyes. His deft fingers carefully tying it of in the back. His fingers accidentally graced her ear though her long hair and she supressed a shudder. What was she doing? She must have hit her head in the fight or something.

Still on her horse, but with the ranger leading Windfola through the thickets, they continued into the forest.

The three men rode for a long time through the forest. Twilight faded and soon only the stars and the moon guided the way. Éowyn could feel the mist in the air condensing on her warm face. If she listened closely, she could hear the scuttling of nocturnal animals, the hooting of owls and the deep breaths of her two riding companions.

Windfola grew nervous and jumped at the sound of a wolf’s howl. One of the rangers dismounted his horse and started whispering to Windfola. It was Strider’s voice, she realized. He continued to whisper, in the elven tongue, calming words in the ear of the horse. Windfola calmed almost immediately. It was an attractive quality in Rohan to calm horses, still Éowyn surprised herself by feeling nothing romantic for the man.

“Can you hear it?” her captain whispered suddenly. His voice spoke directly into her ear, he was closer than she had realized. She could smell the musky scent of his skin. Once again, a shudder ran through her body.

“What?” she asked slightly dazed.  

“The waterfall.” 

Éowyn pushed away her thoughts and listened. In the distance, but not far away, she could hear the splashing of running water.

“We must dismount the horses, for there is a small climb until we reach our destination,” the Ranger explained grasping her hand lightly. It was a kind gesture, although unnecessary. She swiftly dismounted. To acknowledge his kindness, she was careful not to release his hand. No other reason.  

The captain walked first, still not releasing her hand. He did not grip it hard; it was simply a guide. She did not mind it. Behind her she could hear Strider still whispering to the horses.

“His way with horses, it is a good quality, but how come he speaks to them in elvish?” she asked the Ranger.

“It is his mother tongue, just as a man of Rohan speaks to his horse in Rohanese,” her captain replied, a hint of humour colouring his words.

The pair continued up the slope that was then replaced with slippery stairs. Éowyn grasped the hand of the Ranger harder, fearful of the fall. He chuckled softly. The sound of the waterfall was now directly to their left. And then he stopped. She felt with the tip of her boot, but there were no more steps. He removed her blindfold, and she blinked for the cave was filled with light.

What she saw was beautiful. They had arrived at a cavern, it itself was nothing spectacular, a couple of barrels, no more. No, it was the view. The cave was at the top of a small mountain. Through one of its openings, as if it was a window to the west, she could see the wide expanse of the forest of Ithilien. And in the distance, she could see the city of Minas Tirith, now a tiny speck. Just above the entrance to the cave the waterfall flowed like a curtain, down into a pool as still as a mirror.

“Welcome to Henneth Annûn, window of the sunset. Or in our case window of the sunrise,” her captain whispered his face lit by the morning light filtering through the water droplets of the curtain, making colourful patterns across his strong jaw. She was struck by the thought of how his stubble would feel under her fingers.

He showed her to a smaller cave that led out into a clearing, still high up but here at least some trees grew. In the clearing a fire had been started and around it a few men sat talking. Éowyn recognized Strider, for he had somehow made it here before them. There must be a back door, she thought.

“Men!” The Ranger shouted, making them turn around. “We have a new member, Dernhelm. Make him feel welcome!”

The men had different levels of distrust on their faces, but one man stood and walked up to Éowyn. He shook her hand, making her realize the Ranger had let her hand go. If she was disappointed by that no one needed to know.

“My name is Mablung and that is Damrod and Anborn,” he said using his free hand to gesture to the sullen men by the fire. “Please sit down, we were just talking about the nights adventures.”

Éowyn sat down, as did her captain next to her. The men eyed her wearily, but decided that if their captain trusted her, so did they. She was quickly forgotten as there was much to discuss. Anborn, a scout she understood, had been following the robbers for a few days. He was the captains most trusted source of information, it seemed. The other two rangers had run into the fleeing thieves and quickly disposed of them.

Around the fire now sat seven men, including herself. She knew the name of six, but the last man, sat on a small crate, smoking a pipe was unknown to her. He was dressed in white robes and on his lap rested a white staff.

Éowyn met the old man’s eyes. He smiled mysteriously, as if he had been let in on a secret she was not. The old man took a deep pull from his pipe and, to her astonishment, blew out the smoke in the shape of a ship, masts and all. The ship sailed slowly through the air, joining the smoke from the campfire and dispersing. 

“Who is he?” Éowyn whispered in the ear of the Ranger. He twitched at her voice. Did she imagine, or did him shudder in just the same way she had when he whispered in her ear?

“He is the grey pilgrim or at least used to be. We call him Mithrandir by the elven fashion,” the Ranger whispered back. “He used to visit my home in my childhood and taught me much. He is kind and very wise.”

“Men, we should get some sleep, for midday is still far and we have had a long night,” the captain proclaimed to the gathered men, standing up as he talked. Quickly the men doused the fire with water from a pail and bunched up their cloaks into pillows on the grass. Éowyn found a dry spot under one of the pine trees and laid down. It was her first time sleeping under the stars. Her first time sleeping as a free person.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5 - Éowyn

Éowyn stirred when she was gently shaken awake. She almost went back to sleep, thinking it must simply be a maid waking her. But when she opened her eyes, she saw the face of a man looking down on her shading the midday sun from her face.

“It is high time to wake up, Dernhelm. We must practice,” the man above her laughed at her bewildered expression.

Éowyn felt the hard dirt beneath her back and the prick of pine needles and that finally reminded her of where she was. She was in the glade next to Henneth Annûn with the Rangers of Ithilien.

The captain offered his hand, and she grasped it, letting him tug her up. He then handed her a package wrapped in cloth. Éowyn started at it dumbfounded, sleep still clouding her mind.

“It is bread, you must be starving, sleeping the day away as you were. Now hurry,” her captain said already walking away.

At the mention of food, her stomach rumbled dramatically. She took a bit of the offered bread. It was still warm! She sighed happily, taking another bite. Her captain had almost disappeared behind a bush by the time she started after him.

“Wait up,” she said through mouthfuls of the bread running after him. He did not turn, but she could hear his small chuckle.

Her captain led them away from the glade and into the forest until they reached a big tree. The tree had multiple rings painted with white chalk on it. It was a shooting range she realized. The Ranger removed a longbow and a quiver of green arrows from his back.

“Most men of Rohan prefer swords or spears, but in the forest the longbow has the advantage,” Faramir explained notching an arrow to his bow, firing it and hitting the innermost circle on the tree. “That is why you must learn it,” he finished.

“Try to draw this bow,” he said handing it to Éowyn.

Éowyn had used a bow before, but the ones designed for horseback were usually smaller and lighter. She tried to draw the bow, but it was heavy, heavier than a longsword. She tried again, this time pulling with all her might and quickly drawing the bow all the way, just for the string to immediately slip her grasp, burning her palm on the way. Hurt, she dropped the bow and cradled her hand.

“This will never work,” she accused her captain, but he simply shook his head and picked up the bow.

“You have the strength, just not the technique. You must hold it like this.” Her captain placed the bow in her hand again, but this time leaning around her back to guide her other hand to the string. His breath was hot on her neck. This guiding is awfully distracting, she thought as a shiver ran down her spine.

Her captain gently notched an arrow to the string and guided her fingers around it, resting his own on top of hers. “Just like this,” he whispered, pulling her hand back and releasing the string. The arrow flew on a curved trajectory, missing the circles but still hitting the tree.

Éowyn laughed; she was a horrible bowman. She searched the face of the Ranger, expecting to see one of his amused grins, only to discover a soft smile of adoration. Emboldened she shrugged of his guiding hand and reached for a new arrow. This time, she controlled her strength, focusing on the technique, drew the bow and shot the arrow. It barely touched the outermost ring, but it was an improvement.

“Did you see, it was closer this time!” she shouted in joy.

“Yes, you are improving fast,” her captain said, smiling just the same way as before. Her heart almost skipped a beat.

The pair continued to practice for what felt to like hours. The sun had long since left its zenith and the shadows of the trees grew long. Éowyn’s hands ached; her fingers numb from drawing the bow. Her captain decided it was time to return home.

Upon returning to the glade the fire had been started again. Around it sat the same men as the day before. One of them must have cooked, for a cauldron bubbled over the flames. She was handed a wooden bowl of stew by Mablung.

“Family recipe, the best stew in the forest of Ithilien,” he bragged.

Éowyn sat down and careful took a sip of the stew. It wasn’t seasoned great, but it was hearty and rich. She quickly downed the entire bowl in a few big gulps.

“Slow down or you might give yourself a nasty bellyache,” an old man’s voice said.

Mithrandir, yes that was his name, sat beside her on the same crate as yesterday. He was once again smoking his pipe.

“Thank you for the advice, I was just so hungry,” she replied, setting her, now empty, bowl down on the ground.

“Well, I would suspect that by the way you imbibed that stew,” Mithrandir chuckled.

She studied him closer. Mithrandir was shorter in stature than the men; but his long white hair, his sweeping beard, and his broad shoulders, made him look like some wise king of ancient legend. In his aged face under great snowy brows his eyes were set like coals that could suddenly burst into fire. It both scared and comforted her in a way that was hard to describe. It has inhuman.

“You are neither a man of Gondor or Rohan, and I suspect, not a man at all,” she said voicing her thoughts. Mithrandir laughed, but it quickly changed into a chough. Worried, she sprang to her feet and hit his back, trying to dislodge potential food stuck in his throat. He quieted and met her eyes.

“You have sharp eyes, Dernhelm. Sharper than your peers,” was the only thing he said. Éowyn, once more sat down by the fire. The men had finally finished eating, the pot of stew almost empty. The man named Damrod suddenly looked at her.

“You, man of Rohan, do you know any god songs? We have grown tired of singing the same Gondorian ones every night.”

Éowyn remembered many songs, for Rohan was famous for them. Some called her people primitive for preserving their history in song instead of long scrolls. She did not. For what use are scrolls if no one reads them and keeps the history alive? She remembered one of her favourite songs that her mother used to sing.

Careful to keep her voice dark, she sang the song. Not in its original Rohanese but translated into Westron. She sang about Fram, son of Frumgar, who slew the great worm Scatha. About the treasure and the war with the dwarves. The rangers sat quietly listening to her voice ring out in the darkness.  

When she was finished, someone started clapping. It was her captain. He was soon joined by Strider, Mithrandir and the rest of the rangers. She bowed, flicking her hand with a flourish on the way up. She met the eyes of her captain. They were sparkling with joy and admiration. She blushed.

Later, Éowyn sat watching the view from the window in the cave of Henneth Annûn. If she squinted, she could see the lights from the distant city of Minas Tirith. The sound of the waterfall was comforting, reminding her of the flow of the Snowbourn. She thought about her home. Could she ever return there? Would they accept her?

Lost in thought, she did not, at first, hear the soft footsteps of someone entering the cave. She looked up and saw her captain gently sitting down beside her.

“You look grieved, what is weighing on you?” he asked, moving his hand, so that it was close, but not toughing hers.

“I miss my brother, Éomer, “she admitted. “He does not know where I am.”

“I too have a brother,” her captain answered, his eyes leaving hers and gazing at the white city, “he believes me dead.”

“Why is that?” she asked, for she could not believe her captain capable of feigning his own death.

“I was set to be executed by the steward, but I fled.” His expression was grim, filled with grief, yet to be dulled by the passage of time.

She reached her hand, closing the miniscule distance left, and grabbed his hand. He looked down at their linked fingers.

“I do not love the sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend,” her captain said, almost mirroring her words from when they first met but in his own eloquent way. He lifted their connected hands, kissing the top of her knuckles.

“My captain…” Éowyn stammered, blushing.

“Please, call me Faramir.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 6 - Faramir

A week had passed since Faramir met Dernhelm, and still his mind was consumed with the man. But for the last few days, the Rohan man had seemingly been avoiding him. Darnhelm woke early and left the camp to practice with the longbow on his own, not returning until luncheon and then leaving again, usually with Mablung or occasionally Damrod to hunt for food, until supper.

That morning had been the same, the men already leaving to patrol the woods by the time Faramir emerged from the cave where he usually slept. Dernhelm, dressed in his usual Rohan tunic had also borrowed some of the other rangers’ green clothes to blend easier into the forest, avoided his gaze and quickly left the glade. Mablung and Damrod followed, the latter giving him a raised eyebrow which Faramir just knew meant “trouble in paradise?”. Faramir rolled his eyes, pointedly ignoring the men.

But still Faramir grew worried, pacing back and forth in the now empty glade, the mornings fire slowly dying. Had his advances been to forward? He blamed himself for putting his trust in the rumours he had heard of the horse people. Maybe Dernhelm felt to scared to tell is captain to stop? He had known both women and men who did not dare to voice their negative opinion against men who tried to romance them, especially men who had a higher position of power. He felt a sudden stab of anxiety in the gut. Had Faramir been abusing his rank and position of power? For a second he saw the face of his father, his lip curled sneering. The thought disgusted him, his stomach churning making him nauseous.

He desperately needed council and decided to talk to the wisest person he knew, Mithrandir. The wizard spent his days wandering the woods or hiking to the nearby villages to talk to people. The man was very social and especially loved conversing with the short hafling people that lived close to Bree.

Today, the grey pilgrim was gathering herbs, with the help of Aragorn, in a glade close to Henneth Annûn when Faramir approached them.

“I wish to speak with Mithrandir,” Faramir said. The wizard regarded him for a second then set the wicker basket with the herbs on the ground. “Alone,” Faramir added, when he saw Aragorn start. The man gave him a mystified expression, then shrugged, used to Faramir’s moods.

“Then, let us go for a walk, the forest is beautiful this time a year,” the wizard replied, grabbing his walking stick and the two set of down one of the trails.

They walked at random, following the old deer trails through the woods. Mithrandir was humming an old tune Faramir did not recognize. A squirrel scuttled across their path. It was still early spring, the animals waking slowly from their long winter slumber. The sun was climbing over the mountains, filtering through the trees, creating a dappling of light on the beard of the old man. After walking for quite some time, Mithrandir spoke:

“What troubles you, Farmir captain of Gondor?” Farmir cringed at the words, the title reminding him of his worries which the forest hade made him almost forget.

“As much as I wish you would stop using that title, it is exactly what has been bothering me,” he explained. “Do you think that I am abusing my position as captain?”

“In what way do you mean?” Mithrandir said, continuing down the trail.

“I worry that I am letting my feelings cloud my judgment around Dernhelm. By seeking his affection in my position of power, am I coercing him wrongfully?”

“Listen to me Faramir. Has the man ever shown distaste for your advances? Nay I say. Dernhelm is not one to keep his opinion a secret,” the wizard chuckled, his eyes growing distant as if remembering some inside joke. He shook it off and continued. “For the opposite is true. Have you not noticed the way he looks at you across the fire at dinner?”

Faramir stopped in the middle of the trail. Could the wizard’s words be the truth? He mentally flicked through the catalogue of every interaction with Dernhelm. Dernhelm meeting his eyes and blushing, Dernhelm shuddering under his touch that first night and Dernhelm reaching for his hand, interlacing their fingers. The way Dernhelm looked at him was not the way he saw people look in fear at men who harassed them. Not the way people looked at his father. There was affection in the eyes of Dernhelm. It was there, plain to see. How could he have missed it?

“Thank you, Mithrandir,” Faramir embraced the old man, “I was a fool not to see it.”

“Yes, yes, you were,” the old man chuckled once more and untangled from his embrace.

“Then, you don’t think I am abusing my power, Mithrandir?” Faramir asked again, wanting reassurance, the face of his father refusing to leave him.

“Of course not, do you think I would be here if that was true? It is the actions that make the man not the sins of their father,” the old man hummed. Faramir gasped, how was it that Mithrandir always knew what he was thinking. But before he could ask, Mithrandir had started back on the path singing the same tune as earlier, thereby declaring the conversation over.

Faramir and Mithrandir returned to the glade, finding Aragorn had finished collecting the herbs and together they returned to Henneth Annûn. Aragorn found his gaze as they were walking, his question clear. Faramir nodded reassuringly and Strider smiled.

When the trio walked into the glade they called home, the men were having luncheon. A simple meal of bread and dried meats. Darnhelm was chatting with Marblung, laughing and gesturing as if telling a story. Faramir collected his lunch and sat down across from the men. Dernhelm noticed and frowned, but quickly looked away.

Faramir started to worry once more, but remined himself of Mithrandir’s words. Perhaps Dernhelm simply missed his brother as he had before, and his anger was not directed at Faramir at all? Faramir quickly ate his bread and stood up, gesturing with his hands to quiet the men.

“Today, it is my turn to check the coney traps,” he declared. “And I believe it to be Dernhelm’s turn to cook the stew,” he added smiling at the exasperated face of the mentioned man.

The Rangers laughed at the Rohan man, for he had made his distaste for cooking known. Faramir met Dernhelm’s eyes, who could not keep a sour expression for long and soon joined in the laughter. Perhaps everything would be okay, Faramir thought.

Faramir, accompanied by Mablung and Damrod, left the glade to check on the coneys. They had set up snare traps all around this part of the forest to trap the rabbits. The forest was plentiful today and soon they had a handful of dead coneys each.

On their way back to camp they encountered a winded Anborn. He had been absent from lunch, but that was no rarity. The scout preferred to lay watching the roads or sneaking around one of the villages during the day.

“Orcs…in…Osgiliath…heard in…Bree,” he managed to say between panths. He must have run here all the way from the village, Farmir realized.

“Are you sure? Osgiliath is naught but a ruin these days, why invade it?” Faramir quizzed his scout.

“The soldiers of Gondor have been forced across the Anduin. They say the orcs are planning to use the bridge in Osgiliath to mount an assault on Minas Tirith,” Anborn explained. “They have sent out a rider to warn the city, but it is unlikely that any help will come from Minas Tirith in time. Osgiliath is weakened without their captain, easy prey, Faramir.”

Faramir frowned, this was not good. The bridge had been destroyed many years prior, but restored since Gondor reclaimed the city a year ago. Orcs did not attack in such a planned fashion. A nagging fear grew in his head. It could not be a coincidence, this attack being so close to the anniversary of his defeat. The orcs attacking while Boromir was away, was also not a coincidence. Someone was directing this attack.

“Mablung, run ahead with four coneys, otherwise Dernhelm cannot finish the stew in time. We must hurry to Osgiliath right after supper.”

While Faramir and his men walked back, a plan started to form in his mind. He knew the layout of Osgiliath well. The orcs would come from the north, but Gondor mainly had men on the west side of the Anduin. Faramir would have to defend this side of the Anduin, stopping the orcs from crossing the bridge.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7 - Éowyn

Cooking, Éowyn hated cooking. Well, hate was a strong word. Rather she was horrible at it. Gathering water in the pail from the waterfall, then pouring it into the cauldron over the flames was easy enough. Strider had helped her pick out the vegetables and had been kind enough to peel the potatoes.

Éowyn bent over the boiling caldron of stew. She had been mainly dropping vegetables and spices at random into the cauldron. Still, it did not smell horrendous. Maybe she was getting better at cooking? She sat down and started chopping carrots.

Her mind started to wander, her thought never leaving her. She could not let go of the name she had heard her captain utter earlier that week. Faramir captain of Gondor. That was the name of Boromir’s brother. It made so much sense. The air of nobility she noticed around Farmir and his likeness to Boromir was uncanny. But Boromir had claimed Faramir perished at Osgiliath. Could Denethor have sentenced his son to death? How could this be?

Her consciousness was also bothering her. It was clear that the Ranger had feelings for her, or at least for Dernhelm. Was she tricking him by presenting as a man? What if he was disgusted at the thought of her having womanly parts? She knew of men in Rohan who did not marry women but instead bonded with other men. Could he still have feelings for her as Éowyn? She did not know and had therefore been avoiding him. His sad eyes when she had left that morning plagued her.

“Dernhelm!” Strider shouted. Éowyn turned around and saw the caldron boiling over. Quickly she lifted it of the flames, using her riding gloves against the heat.

“What is on your mind, friend. You seem distracted, more than usual I mean,” Aragorn said. Éowyn ignored his friendly gibe and continued stirring the stew. Maybe it was still salvageable? A bit of charr never killed anyone. She sighed and faced the raven-haired man.

“What if everything you thought you knew about a person turned out to be false?” she asked.

“In what way do you mean?” Strider asked patiently.

“I mean that you thought you knew someone, but they had a totally different life or possibly a different gender?” Éowyn clarified.

“Does that matter? Is it not our actions that shape who we are? Not our background, ethnicity or gender?”

Always the philosophical one, that Strider. Éowyn scraped the chopped carrots into the caldron and stirred. There was a comfortable silence between them.

“Why do you carry two swords?” she asked suddenly.

Strider smiled, as if expecting that question. He removed the sword sheath from his back and pulled out the handle. The bade revealed was beautiful, but broken and jagged.

“This is Narsil, or at least the shards of it,” Strider explained, staring at her expectantly, as if the name should ring a bell. But she just stared at the metal confused.

“I forget you are not a man of Gondor, Dernhelm,” Strider sighed. “This is the blade that Isildur used to cut the ring of power from the hand of Sauron an age ago.”

This time Éowyn gasped the penny finally dropping. She vividly remembered a conversation she had had with Denethor and Boromir.

“Father, have you heard of a man, a ranger from the north who claims he is the heir of Isildur,” Boromir asked one evening.

“I do not believe such poor claims, that man simply seeks to supplant me,” Denethor answered.

“But what if he is the man who could reunite the kingdoms of men and bring peace to our time?” Éowyn had foolishly asked for she had heard stories of such a man.

“I am Steward of the House of Anarion. I will not step down to be the dotard chamberlain of an upstart. Even were his claim proved to me, still he comes but of the line of Isildur. I will not bow to such a one, last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship and dignity!” Denethor shouted.

“Does that mean you are his heir? I thought that was simply a rumour,” Éowyn mumbled.

“Nay, it is the truth. For I am the last heir of Isildur, Aragorn son of Arathorn,” Strider, no, Aragorn said seriously.  

“My king,” she said, falling in reverence to her knees.

“That is not necessary, in the forest we are all equals. Besides, I am not captain of the rangers or of you.” Aragorn laughed but it was tinged with pain, as if he had had this happen to him many a times. He reached out a hand and helped her to her feet.

“Why do you not take back the throne of Gondor, is it not rightfully yours?” she asked.

“Maybe one day I will, but now it is the stewardship who has the power.”

“Is it because the steward does not want give you the throne,” Éowyn said, recalling her conversation with Denethor.

“To me it would not seem that a Steward who faithfully surrenders his charge is diminished in love or in honour,” said a voice from the corner of the glade. Mithrandir, who had up until now been silent, spoke only to bestow his wisdom and then continued smoking. Éowyn shook her head, the old man was an enigma.

“As for your earlier question, Dernhelm. Is it not now answered, or have I become a completely different person simply for my parentage?” Aragorn asked.

Éowyn shook her head. Aragorn was still the same horse whispering, herb collecting, ranger he was before the reveal. She was gladdened.

The stew was almost finished when Mablung burst through the thicket into the clearing carrying an armful of coneys. He basically heaped them in Éowyn’s arms and threw himself on the grass.

“What is this, only four coneys! You have been away all afternoon,” Éowyn said exasperated. Still, she deftly flayed them, and with the help of Aragorn, filed the rabbits, scraping the meat into the stew. It was not until the stew was simmering that Mablung finally sat up.

“Orcs are attacking Osgiliath, Faramir sent me ahead with the coneys to make sure you could finish the stew in time for us to leave,” Mablung explained.

“Well, what are you waiting for, help me get the bowls and spoons from the cave,” Éowyn directed. Mablung looked doubtful, most likely tired of running around. “Now, please,” she added, with a tone that she used on Éomer when she was tired of him. That made Mablung move.

The stew was finally ready when Faramir and the rest burst through the trees. She ladled the liquid into the bowls and handed them to the men.

“Thank you,” Faramir said softly as she handed him the bowl.

“I’m starving,” Anborn declared taking a deep swig from the bowl not bothering with the spoon. Just to immediately spit it out. “By Uinen’s tears! This is inedible.”

Faramir watched his soldier dry heave and shook his head.

“It cannot be that bad.” He smiled taking a sip of the stew. She could see his face contorting, but still he swallowed. “Delicious,” he croaked.

“Let me try,” Éowyn said, reaching for a bowl and filling it with stew, and taking a sip of her own. She spit it out. That was horrible! It tasted of burnt vegetable and uncooked meat. She started to laugh, the men soon joining in. They laughed until they cried.

“I told you I am no cook,” she finally said when she had calmed, wiping a tear from her eye.

“That you are most certainly not,” Faramir said seriously. His face sending her into another fit of laughter.

Distracted she did not see Aragorn and Mithrandir sharing knowing looks and shaking their heads, smiling.

“Not all tears are an evil,” Mithrandir mused.

The rangers did not eat more of the stew, instead eating some leftover bread from lunch.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8 - Faramir

The rangers of Ithilien set out on their horses towards Osgiliath before nightfall. Faramir rode first, as he knew the way too well. For many hours they rode south, as darkness grew around them so did their anxiety. Finally, they reached the top of a hill from where they could see the city of Osgiliath while remaining hidden from view. Once, it had been the capital of Gondor, but that time was long gone and now only ruins remained. Faramir stopped his horse, the mere sight of the city sending a bolt of fear through him. He had not returned since that faithful day two years before.

Faramir had been tasked by his father to guard the city of Osgiliath from orcs. It was obvious to him that Denethor would have preferred Boromir to guard it, but he had been away on a quest at the time. The city was on the verge of being overrun and they both knew Faramir could not hold it. But Faramir knew it was useless to argue with his father, instead he simply accepted his doom.

“Then farewell! But if I should return, think better of me!” Faramir had said to the Steward upon leaving for Osgiliath.

“That depends on the manner of your return.” Denethor had sneered.

 And of course it had ended just as everyone expected. His men slaughtered before his very eyes. Sometimes, late at night, he could still hear their screams. He had made a decision then, a decision that would change his life forever, making him a fugitive in his own country.

“Captain, we should rest until the first light,” Aragorn said, reaching out to put a hand on Faramir’s shoulder. “The men are weary, and the light will give us an edge against the sun-fearing orcs.”

“So be it,” Faramir replied and dismounted his horse. “Anborn, scout ahead and find where the orcs have set up camp. Return before first light.” Anborn nodded and set of, barely visible in his dark green and brown clothes.

That night the rangers rested uneasily. Faramir did not sleep a wink, simply stared out across the Fields of Pelennor, the city of Minas Tirith closer than he had seen it in a long time.

Before dawn Faramir woke his men and explained the plan. Anborn had returned a few hours earlier with mixed news. The feeling in the camp was pressing, most of the men sharing Faramir’s bad memories of the city below.

“The orcs have set up camp on the northeast side of the city. Going around the city and attacking from the north is ideal, but it will take too long. And walking openly through the city is not a great plan as the orcs will most likely see us coming,” Faramir said while the men ate their breakfast. “The good news is that there are far fewer orcs than I feared.”

“Therefore, we will split into three groups,” he explained, “group one will consist of Anborn and Damrod. You will hide in the high tower, ready to give a signal.” The mentioned men nodded, they were thankful to not have to engage in close combat, preferring to shoot arrows from a distance.

“Group two is me, Mithrandir and Mablung. We will attack from the south by horse-”

“That is suicide!” Dernhelm shouted. All eyes turned to the Rohan man, who covered his mouth with his hand, blushing.

“Creating a diversion for group three,” Faramir continued unbothered, “made up of Strider and Dernhelm, who will cross the Anduin in secret, gathering the soldiers of Gondor and attacking from the west.”

Faramir drew a crude map of Osgiliath in the dirt using a stick, drawing arrows where the different groups would attack. Aragorn studied it.

“It is a sound plan, at least until Gondor sends more troops. That is if nothing unforeseen happens, of course,” Aragorn added forebodingly.

Dernhelm was brushing his horse, whispering to it in, what Faramir assumed was, Rohanese. He did not notice Faramir approaching until Faramir cleared his throat. Dernhelm whipped around.

“I did not see you captain, is something the matter?” he asked frowning, reading Faramir so easily.

“No, I simply wanted to wish you good luck before the battle,” Faramir said, trying to conceal his worried tone. Judging by the tilt of his head, Dernhelm did not buy it.

“Everyone has been so quiet since we arrived at the city, something bad happened here before, right?” Dernhelm asked, but to Faramir it sounded like he already knew the answer.

“Yes,” was all Faramir could reply, feeling his throat close with anxiety. What if history repeated itself? What if he lost Dernhelm. Just when the worries had started to cloud his mind, he felt a warm hand find his cheek. The grey eyes meeting his made him relax immediately. Dernhelm dropped his palm from Faramir face and found his hand instead, once again interlacing their fingers.

“I do not care what happened here the last time. Today is a new day, and you are a new man. Your men believe in you…I believe in you,” Dernhelm said, whispering the last part in his ear, making Faramir shiver. Dernhelm smiled, dropping his hand and going back to brushing his horse. How Faramir had ever doubted the man’s attraction to him was beyond him.

Damrod and Anborn left first, as they needed the cover of darkness to sneak unnoticed into the city. Then it was Aragorn and Dernhelm’s turn. Before they left, Dernhelm turned around to face Faramir.

“Take care, captain,” he said and quickly hurried after Aragorn, who had already left camp.

Faramir still had a while to wait, so he sat down with Mithrandir. The old man sat gazing into the middle distance, not able to smoke his pipe this close to enemies for risk of them spotting the smoke. At length no one spoke.

“I betrayed my country, but was it not the right thing to do?” Faramir suddenly whispered.

“You saved your men, is that not a captain’s duty?” Mithrandir replied, answering a question with a question as he often did.

“Yes, but my father…”

“He sent you on a suicide mission, with not enough men to protect a shoebox, especially not against the dark forces. The city was overrun, your retreat saved many good men from an early grave.”

“Still, my life is forfeit and I will receive the death penalty upon my return,” Faramir muttered glumly.

“One does best not to ruminate on the past,” Mithrandir finished. “Look at the sky, the rising sun is turning it pink, it is high time we put our distraction into effect.”

Faramir rode first, followed my Mithrandir and Mablung close behind. When they entered the city, Faramir could not help gawking at the destruction. The city was even more a ruin than last time he set foot in it. They had to weave around big chunks of destroyed buildings littering the streets. Most of the bridges had been destroyed too, except one. Faramir had a bad feeling about this, but he believed in his plan and especially in his men.

The orc camp was easy to spot. Graffiti littered every stone surface, and he could hear the laughter of the orcs coming from behind one of the broken inner-city walls. The riders stopped in the middle of the street.

“Orcs! We have come to talk to your leader!” Faramir shouted. The laughter stopped and an orc head popped up from behind the wall. His patience with orcs had worn thin the last time he visited the city, instead of his usual negotiation he simply notched an arrow to his bow. The orc paled and quickly ducked.

“We certainly have their attention now,” Mithrandir whispered, chuckling softly despite their dangerous situation.

A few minutes later, a great wooden door in the wall opened. Faramir expected an orc on a warg or the like to appear. Instead, a giant half worm, half drake emerged, flapping its great wings.

“A fell beast,” Mablung shrieked, pulling his horse a few steps backwards. Faramir stood his ground. His eyes were not on the beast, but its rider.

The man, or being whatever it was, was draped in black cloth and had a hood covering his face. Faramir had suspected that the orcs had a new leader, their plan too well executed to be conjured from their idiotic brains. But he had not expected a Nazgûl. They had not been seen in the kingdom since the destruction of Arnor, their neighbouring country.

“We have come to ask you to leave, do it willingly or we will have to use force,” Faramir shouted, a little surprised at his own unwavering voice.

“Foolish man, I am the Witch-king of Angmar. I cannot be slain by the hands of a man.”

The Black Rider flung back his hood and behold! He had a kingly crown; and yet upon no head visible was it set. From a mouth unseen there came a deadly laughter.

It was horrible, like Faramir’s whole body had been submerged in an ice bath. But Mithrandir was not to be intimidated. On his white steed Shadowfax, that Dernhelm had told him was a mighty Rohan horse, Mithrandir rode in front of Faramir. He pointed his wooden staff at the black rider.

“You will not go any further, for I protect this city now!” Mithrandir shouted, the staff glowing pointedly.

“Old fool!” the Witch-king said. “This is my hour. Do you not know Death when you see it? Die now and curse in vain!” And with that he lifted high his sword and flames ran down the blade.

Suddenly the ring of a horn broke the tense moment. It was a horn of Gondor! From the bridge over Anduin an army emerged, led by Aragorn and Dernhelm, their swords raised and both erupted in war cries.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9 - Éowyn

Éowyn and Aragorn walked in silence towards the eastern bank of the Anduin. The early sun filtered through the canopies of the trees. Éowyn almost found herself whistling a jolly tune but stopped. The situation was too dire. All their lives were at risk and a silly whistle might attract some horrible creature.

“Can you swim?” Aragorn asked unprompted.

“Of course I can,” Éowyn responded, feeling accused and defensively crossed her arms.

“I was simply asking, for there are few watercourses in Rohan,” Aragorn said quickly, clearly taken aback by her hostile answer.

Shaking her head, she dropped her arms. Éowyn had to remind herself that Aragorn did not view her as weak simply for her gender, he thought her a man anyway, but even if he had known she got the feeling that he would not care. Aragorn simply wanted to know, probably for her own safety, if the path ahead would work. But his comments had just brought up too many memories.

Like that time Éowyn was forced to sit inside on a warm summer’s day, as the men of the court, including her brother, splashed and played in the river. They said it was not proper for a maiden to reveal too much skin. Still, she loved the water and had forced her brother to teach her to swim, arguing that if she fell into the water, she could avoid drowning. He relented easily. The thought of Éomer taking time out of his busy days for weeks that summer just to accompany her to the river in the early mornings for swimming practice, made her lip tremble and she aggressively swiped a hand across her eyes stopping the tears.

“That may be the truth, but I was raised by the Snowbourn. Unbearably cold, as it is made up of meltwater from the mountains, but swimmable,” Éowyn joked, trying to lighten the mood and prevent the memories from consuming her.

“You grew up close to Edoras?” Aragorn asked, politely ignoring the tremble of her voice. Clearly, he knew a bit of her home’s geography, she would have to ask him about that later.

She nodded, not daring to speak anymore for fear of the tears rimming her eyes would well out. Aragorn did not ask anymore questions, and they continued in a comfortable silence.

After walking a bit further, Éowyn could hear the splashing of water grow louder and louder. They had reached the Anduin; the Great River also called the Langflood by her people. It was beautiful. The river, splashing and frothing against the shore, curved gently through the city of Osgiliath and continued until it reached the far sea.

Aragorn, without hesitation, removed his vest, mail and started untying his boots.

“What are you doing!” Éowyn exclaimed looking away from the half-naked man.

“Our armour will only slow us down and risk drowning, we have to leave it behind,” Aragorn explained and continued to undress, until left only in a thin tunic and breeches. He also keept the sword on his back, the one on his hip he dropped on the ground.

“Fine, but I am not removing my clothes. My tunic is… sentimental,” Éowyn said. “And I am not leaving my sword,” she added.

“Fine by me,” Aragorn said diving into the water.

Éowyn sighed. The Anduin could not be any colder than the Snowbourn, right? But when she entered the water, she realized she had been very wrong. The river was freezing! It was not the right season to swim!

Quickly, she swam across the Anduin, glad Aragorn had found a narrow crossing. Still, it was not an easy swim. The currents threatened to pull her downstream and by the time she reached the other shore she was dead tired, her limbs numb. All she could do was drag herself onto a rock and pant.

She saw a hand extended before her. Aragorn’s. With effort she grabbed it, and he pulled her out of the freezing water. Standing, she quickly hunched over, aware of the clinging fabric on her chest. But Aragorn was not paying attention to her state of undress. He was watching the city of Osgiliath.

“We have to hurry,” he said, starting into a run. Éowyn ran after as fast as she could, shivering in her cold clothes.

The city of Osgiliath was quickly approaching, when Éowyn glanced over at Aragorn and saw something shining on his chest. It was a silver brooch, shaped like an eagle with a green gem in the centre.

“That is a beautiful brooch,” Éowyn said, motioning to the piece of jewellery. “Is it elven made?”

Aragorn nodded, not slowing his running pace. “It was a gift, its name is Elessar.”

“So, who is the lucky lady?” Éowyn said half-jokingly. “You know, my friend Arwen used to have a similar brooch- “

“You know Arwen?” Aragorn said, this time he stopped in his tracks and looked at her.

“Halt, who goes there!” A voice suddenly interrupted them.

They had approached Osgiliath from the south. The city, nothing more than ruins, was still as beautiful as it once must have been, Éowyn thought. Green grass had started to cover the scattered stones, and ivy climbed the city wall. The voice had come from behind the wall and an armoured face became visible in one of the arrow slits. 

“A man with a warning,” Aragorn shouted back. “Orcs are going to use the bridge to attack Minas Tirith.”

“We know, but what can we do about it? We are but few soldiers left and no more have arrived from Gondor. Who will come to our aid?”

“The Rangers of Ithilien will!” Aragorn shouted and drew his sword, not his normal one but Narsil, the blade of the king. It was still broken, but in Éowyn’s eyes it was mightier than any other sword ever forged.

She saw recognition in the eyes of the soldier, and he called for them to open the gates. Éowyn and Aragorn quickly entered, the gate shutting behind them once more. The soldier who had spoken approached them.

“My name is Madril, and I am in charge here, as our captain Boromir is sent away on other matters,” he introduced himself. The man was older with shoulder-length grey hair, but the interesting thing was his uniform. It was uncannily like the ones worn by Faramir and the rangers, but this one had the white tree of Gondor on the chest plate.

“You served under captain Faramir,” Éowyn realized, speaking her thoughts aloud, accidentally.

“Ay, I was once a ranger of Ithilien. But I was too much of a coward to follow him all the way and endured the punishment.” On Madril’s neck she could see the telltale scars from whips still visible, even if they had scarred over. She breathed in through her teeth, it looked like it had hurt, a lot.

“That can change today,” Aragorn said confidently. “Faramir is creating a distraction, giving us time to round your men and attack the orcs before they can notice.”

“This time I will not fail my captain,” Madril said, already shouting orders.

Éowyn and Aragorn were given dry clothes and mail, and, in Aragon’s case, a new sword. Éowyn quickly changed behind a piece of rock, not removing her tunic, it was sentimental. And besides it had dried during the run. Madril had given her a helmet, without horsehair she noticed a bit disappointed.

Madril and Aragorn then quickly assembled the scattered men. They were not many, but a surprise attack across the bridge could be enough to level the orc force. Carefully the men crept onto the bridge. Éowyn noticed Anborn in one of the towers waving towards them. The signal. The horn of Gondor blew. She drew a deep breath, maybe her last, and ran screaming into the fray.

The fight was awful, dead bodies dropping in every direction she saw, both men and orc. Éowyn fought her way forward, thinking only of gripping her sword tight and using it to chop of orc limbs. Blood splashed her face and tunic, drenching the horse on her chest in the black tar-like substance.

A flash of white blinded her for a second. She saw Mithrandir, still on his Rohan horse shooting a bolt of light at a giant monster in the sky. But what caught her attention was the man behind Mithrandir. It was Faramir! He was no longer on a horse, but still fighting. Currently an entire a horde of orcs were attacking him. Éowyn fought harder, her sword slashing and stabbing with determination. She had to reach him in time!

Ploughing down orcs, she had almost reached her captain, when the beast in the sky swooped down, knocking Mithrandir of his horse and hitting Faramir in the back. Her captain staggered and fell, still doing his best to parry the orc blows, but at a clear disadvantage on the ground. He disappeared from her sight for a second, blocked by the orcs. When he reappeared, she gasped. He had a huge gash across his forehead, letting blood trickle down his face. One of the orcs were dragging his limp body towards the looming spectre on the fell beast.

“No!” Éowyn cried. She showed no remorse, slashing anything withing sight, until she reached Faramir’s side. With one last slash she chopped of the head of the orc dragging his body. Before she had time to check on her captain the fell best noticed and lumbered towards her. The rider with no face seemed to be looking at her with pity. She pointed her sword towards them.

“What man is brave, or should I say stupid enough to stand in my way?” The daemon laughed, the laugher like nails on a chalkboard. “Don’t you know no living man may hinder me, the Witch-king of Angmar.”

“But no living man am I!” she said, ripping of her helmet. Her golden hair coming undone from its bindings and flowing in the wind. “You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund’s daughter. You stand between me and saving the man I love. Begone if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.”

The With-king of Angmar hesitated for a moment, unbeknownst to Éowyn, he remembered the prophecy spoken by Glorfindel many years ago.

The rider pushed the fell beast forward and with one slash Éowyn hit the beast right in the neck. It shrieked and tried to pull away, but Éowyn chopped at it again and again until the neck severed in two. But the Witch king jumped of his dead steed, his jagged mace swinging in his hand. She tried to parry but was to slow, the witch king hitting her left arm with his mace. The arm broke with a nasty crunch.

Éowyn staggered backwards, almost falling to her knees. The pain was unbearable, she felt like throwing up. This is it; she thought. At least she would die glorious in battle, able to join her ancestors in the halls of the warriors. But a thought nagged at her. If she died the Witch-king would not hesitate to kill Faramir too. She could not allow that to happen. Grinning through the pain, she gripped her sword harder.

In that moment, Faramir, who she thought to be unconscious, had crawled to the feet of the Witch-king. Her captain tried to stab his sword into the sinew of the rider’s leg but missed hitting the leg armour instead.

The witch-king looked down for just a millisecond, but that was enough. With a scream Éowyn drove her sword through the monster’s invisible head, twisting hard. The witch-king froze as the blade crumpled in the hand of Éowyn, shooting a pain worse than her broken arm into the hand holding it, making her drop the handle. The Witch-king gave a last terrible wail and crumbled, perishing at last.

Éowyn fell, the pain from her arms was too much and she blacked out. The last thing she saw was the face of Faramir, filled with worry.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10 - Faramir

In the end, they won the battle. The orcs were an uncoordinated mess without their leader and most ran away in fear. Anborn and Damrod expertly took down the last orcs from their high vantage points in the towers. A silence drew over Osgiliath, breathing the calm after the storm, but Faramir had no time to rest.

“Mithrandir!” he shouted clutching the limp body of Dernhelm in his arms. The white wizard hurried over and held a hand to Dernhelm’s throat.

“He is still alive, but the Nazgûl poison runs deep, we must hurry,” the old man said then whistled for his horse.

Mithrandir and Faramir heaved the body onto Shadowfax, who had somehow survived the battle unscathed, and Faramir prepared to climb on, but Mithrandir’s hand stayed him.

“Dernhelm needs a healer, can you provide him that?” Sometimes it was annoying having such wise men around him. Faramir searched for Aragorn and found him talking to a few of the soldiers. The man came quickly when called.

“Aragorn, take Derhelm back to Henneth Annûn,” Faramir ordered. Aragorn nodded and swiftly mounted the horse and set off towards the cave. Faramir glanced worriedly after them.

All his men had survived the skirmish, he knew they would, but his earlier battle in the city had deceived him. Anborn and Damrod were fine. Mablung had a few scrapes but nothing life threatening. The wizard was hurt quite a bit from falling off his horse but taking it in stride. Faramir himself had been partially knocked out, but the gash in his forehead was luckily only skin deep and had already stopped bleeding.

“We must have had the graze of the Valar,” Mablung declared to no one in particular. Faramir nodded solemnly, the movement making him a bit dizzy, forcing him to sit down on one of the scattered rocks. Damrod, who had once been their field medic, removed a bit of cloth from his pack and used it, together with a small flask of alcohol, to patch up his captain. The alcohol stung horribly, but compared to the deep pit of anxiety in Faramir’s stomach it was nothing. His own wound paled in comparison to the person’s currently unconscious on the back of Shadowfax

One of the soldiers of Gondor approached Faramir. It was Madril, his former lieutenant, he realized. The man looked apprehensive, unable to meet his former captain’s gaze. But, in that moment Faramir held no grudges and reached out for the man’s shoulders smiling. Faramir stood and hugged the older man, eliciting a confused huff from him. When Faramir released his shoulders, Madril finally met his gaze and upon seeing his face also smiled.

“We would say nothing of your presence here today, Faramir captain of Gondor,” Madril said, saluting him.  

“Thank you, I wish for my identity to remain secret. But please tell them that the day was won with the help of the Ranger of Ithilien. I am sure my father will love that,” Faramir replied, the thought of Denethor’s enraged face when he heard that the armies of Gondor had to rely on orders from an outlaw, vivid in his mind. It almost made him forget the events of the battle, almost.

The soldiers of Gondor stayed in Osgiliath while Faramir and his men set of back to their Henneth Annûn, Faramir waving goodbye to Madril as they exited the city. The first saw retrieving their horses from their temporary camp just outside Osgiliath. Faramir, who had lost his own horse in the battle, instead approached Windfola. The horse fidgeted, sniffed at him as he approached, seemingly confused by her new rider.

“It will be fine, Dernhelm will be fine,” he whispered into the mane of the grey horse. The horse seemed to understand him, calming once more, despite Faramir not speaking Rohanese or elvish.

The men were tired, riding in silence through the waning day and early evening, only stopping once to eat a few slices of bread. At last, they arrived at Henneth Annûn and Faramir quickly ran up the steps until he reached the cave and stopped in his tracks. On a bed of animal hides and fir branches lay Dernhelm, pale and shuddering with fever under a thin blanket. Faramir collapsed next to his fallen soldier. The rise and fall of Dernhelm’s chest were uneven, but still there was no denying the feminine curve to it. Faramir averted his gaze. How had he not seen? But, somewhere in his subconscious he had known. The hight voice, long hair that was by some considered feminine traits, he had dismissed as cultural differences.

Faramir curled up on the stone floor, hugging his knees. His head still made him dizzy, just for a different reason this time. The emotions came in waves: betrayal, anger, yes it hurt to be lied to, but also self-hatred threatening to pull him under. This person, Dernhelm, had not felt safe, not able to show their true self. A feeling Faramir himself had long known, forced to be a soldier when all he wanted was to spend his time reading and learning.

One day, he had just turned 14, he had been studying in the Minas Tirith archives. Faramir had been reading about the early history of Gondor, possibly Anárion if he remembered correctly, when his father burst in. This was a rarity as Denethor never cared much for the teaching of history, if not concerning the line of stewards, much less the education of Faramir. His father grabbed him by his hair, which reached his upper back at the time, and yanked him out of the chair. Faramir screamed, falling to the floor, as chunks of blond hair was pulled out. But he quickly shut up at his father expression. He would never forget it, those dark eyes lacking any kind or remorse or love.

“Get up! This is all your mother and her foolish brother’s fault; I never should have let them nurture this frankly obscene habit. No son of mine will waste their life in the past!” Denethor shouted, shaking with rage he reached for the scroll Faramir had just been reading. In one swift movement he tore the scroll into tiny shreds. “Meet me in the soldier’s courtyard in one hour and cut that girly rats nest or I will personally rip it out!” And with that he disappeared just as quickly as he had appeared. Faramir let out a sob he had not realized he had been holding and gently picked up the scattered pieces of the scroll from the stone floor.

Faramir’s head was like a stormy sea, as if it had been stirred by Ossë himself. The memory, the feeling of inferiority, like a weight on his chest making it difficult to breathe. Had Faramir unknowingly carried on the teachings of Denethor? Unknowingly hurting the very person, he cared for…even loved. Faramir’s shoulders hunched forward, as if his entire body was folding in on itself.

At that moment, in the eye of the storm he heard the voice of Mithrandir. “It is the actions that make the man not the sins of their father” Had Faramir acted justly? He had thought so. But if Dernehlm did not trust him, how could that be the truth? If he had been so blind to Dernhelm’s identity, had he also been seeing signs of affection where there were none?

Faramir felt numb, his anger drained away, only self-disgust remained. He glanced out the window, quickly looking away when he noticed the white city in the distance. A few minutes later Aragorn arrived in the cave.

“I found some Athelas, it should be enough to cure him,” Aragorn said holding a bundle of herbs in his hands.

“Him?” Faramir asked, his voice flat and monotonous.

“Yes, he is no less the soldier you fought with earlier. Besides, your questions should be aimed at Dernhelm not me.” Aragorn crushed the leaves, mixing them with a bowl of hot water and placed the herbs on the broken arms of Dernehlm and whispered a few words.

“The hands of the king are the hands of a healer,” Farmir whispered, and Aragorn simply shook his head, but a smile could be seen.

“You should stay by his side, call for me if his condition deteriorates,” Aragorn finished the tiredness of his voice suddenly more noticeable. Just as he was about to leave the cave, he said one last thing: “Dernhelm, or whatever name they prefer, is one of the bravest people I have ever met. They saved your life. If you can’t see that, you must excuse me captain, but you do not deserve them.” With that said, the ranger turned and marched out of the cave. Leaving Faramir to gasp like a fish out of water.

While Aragorn’s words had shocked him, they were not wrong. Too caught up in his own past he had forgotten the present. The person who lay at his side had saved him. They had slayed both a fell beast and its ancient rider. They were a hero.

Faramir spent the rest of the night by the side of Dernhelm, not daring to grab their hand for fear of hurting them. Instead Faramir sang a song, whispering it like a lullaby. It was a song of Beren and Lúthien, and their first meeting in the woods, one of the few he knew in elvish, as it was a favourite of Aragorn’s. He gently carded his fingers through the matted hair of Dernhelm, amazed at its length.

The sun had finally started to rise, filtering in through the waterfall and Faramir blinked awake, he must have fallen asleep sometime in the early morning. To his astonishment he met the beautiful eyes of Dernhelm. The sun reflected in them, making them shine in every colour of the rainbow. Just like the first time he had seen those eyes, it seemed time stopped. But the air around them was fragile, one wrong word could shatter it.

“Hello,” Dernhelm whispered, trying to reach for Faramir’s hand, only to wince when they realized their broken state.

“Stay still,” Faramir cautioned and rose to fetch Aragorn, but Dernhelm’s quiet voice stayed him before he could leave the cave.

“Please don’t leave me, I am sorry.” The voice was fragile, brittle, so unlike what Faramir was used to.

Faramir stopped not looking at the person who had spoken. Who were they? Who had he given his heart to? He wanted to run away from this room, from his thoughts and from the sad eyes of the person he loved most. Finally, he faced the person on the floor once more.

“Who are you?”

“I am your soldier, a ranger of Ithilien,” the person replied.

“What is your name, do not lie to me. I know it is not Dernhelm,” Faramir said, the hurt was obvious even to himself.

“I choose that name, why is it worth less to you than any other name? I am sorry that I lied but the name was not one of them, for in the language of my people it is a noble and true name that I carry with pride. But if that is not enough, I am not afraid to state the truth. My name is Éowyn, dotter of Éomund and sister-daughter of Théoden king.”

Éowyn had pushed herself up, still leaning against the wall but now sitting up. Her back straight and proud, the long golden hair cascading down her back and her face, still bleached from sickness, showed only strength. Faramir was too stunned to speak, but she continued now louder.

“I know that you have not told me the whole truth either! You are Faramir, son of the steward Denethor and brother of Boromir- “

“Do not speak of my father!” Faramir found himself also shouting now. “Please it hurts too much to think about,” he finished quieter.

Éowyn sat still, as if waiting for him to continue. All anger left Farmir, and he slumped down next to the temporary sickbed.

“I think it is high time we were honest with each other,” Éowyn laughed suddenly, pulling her covers away and with the help of the wall stood up. Faramir sprang to his feet and reached out to steady her, but she shook her head.

“I am fine. It is my arms that hurt, I can walk just fine.” She walked slowly across the cave and out the exit. Faramir was gripped by worry and was just about to hurry after her when she returned.

“Hello, my name is Éowyn, shieldmaiden of Rohan. I was sent to Gondor by my uncle the king to marry a man but decided to run away disguised as one instead to finally be rid of my chains and prove my worth in battle. Nice to meet you,” she said reaching her least hurt hand forward.

Faramir laughed, but gently put his hand in hers. With one sentence she had made his worries drift away. What did it matter if her name was Dernhelm or Éowyn, when it was those jokes, that wonderful mind that Faramir had fallen head over heels for.

“My name is Faramir, former captain of Gondor. But my father, the Steward, decided to sentence me to death after I prioritised the lives of my soldiers and therefore lost Osgiliath. So, I ran away, hiding in Ithilien trying to protect the people of my country. The pleasure is all mine,” he said shaking her hand lightly.

They laughed, their lives were simply too weird and tragic not to laugh about. But his earlier fear still nagged in Faramir’s mind.  

“I am sorry too,” Faramir began. Éowyn raised an eyebrow. “I am sorry that you felt the need to lie to me. It was never my intention to make you feel less or inferior for your gender. I should have known as I have been made to feel belittled many times, and it hurts-”

His ramble was cut short. For instead of answering, she reached out and hugged him as hard as she could give her broken limbs. Tentatively he embraced her back.

“You idiot, it had nothing to do with that. But apology accepted anyway,” she mumbled into the crook of his neck.

Later, they would need to have a serious talk, for Faramir was loathe to keep more secrets from Éowyn. But that was later, right now Faramir just wanted to keep holding the love of his life in his arms. The two swayed back and forth, as if dancing to a melody no one else could hear.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11 - Boromir

Boromir rode into the stone courtyard of the citadel in Minas Tirith, rounding the dead white tree on his way. His father was standing on the stairs, his face barely visible under the multiple layers of fur of his cloak, but still Boromir could tell it was stormier than usual. Boromir sighed inwardly but put on a cocky grin.

“Boromir,” Denethor greeted him sourly and indicated his son to follow. “Orcs have attacked Osgiliath,” Denethor continued as they entered the throne room. The steward sat on his normal spot. It was a small black throne next to the empty king’s bigger and emptier one.

Boromir’s heart skipped a beat. If orcs had taken Osgiliath while under his protection he would never forgive himself. The city held to many memories, both good and bad, for it to fall into the filthy hands of the orc vermin.

“I should have been there, so why was I sent out on a wild goose chase to Dol Amroth?” Boromir exclaimed, clenching his fists at his sides.

Denethor simply sighed and rolled his eyes. Boromir forced himself to calm, knowing it was useless to get mad at his father.

“The rumours must have been faked; the Ranger of Ithilien was nowhere near Dol Amroth. He was seen at the siege of Osgiliath fighting a Nazgûl.”

“A Nazgûl!” Boromir shivered. Those horrible beasts were universally feared in Gondor ever since they turned the kingdom of Arnor into a blasted heath.

“Yes, but it matters not. For it was all the fault of the Ranger.”

“I thought he was on our side?” Boromir questioned, his father tended to jump to conclusions and seemed to have a particular hatred for the Ranger.

“No!” Denethor grew annoyed. “The Ranger is a menace. He staged this attack to paint himself as a hero, but no more I say. Éomer!”

The man, with shoulder length blond hair, a short beard and a tunic with the flag of Rohan, emerged from behind a marble pillar. He held in his arms a helmet with a long horsehair ponytail.

“This is Éomer, third marshal of the Riddermark and brother to the lady Éowyn. She mysteriously disappeared the night after you left,” Denethor said nonchalantly, seemingly not too worried about the woman in his ward disappearing without a trace.

Éomer took a step forward and addressed Boromir.

“My sister had not been seen for many days until the battle of Osgiliath. Some of the soldiers claim that a woman with long golden hair fought on the battlefield.”

“You hear that my son, the Ranger has brought an innocent woman into combat. We must save her from this danger,” Denethor said, standing up from his throne. “You and Éomer will find this Ranger…and Éowyn, even if you must search the entire Ithilien!” he commanded.

Éomer nodded and put on his helmet and turned to leave. Boromir did the same, following the blond man out the door.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12

Faramir

Éowyn took time to recover. The Nazgûl had not only hurt her body, but her soul too. Faramir visited her whenever he could, bringing food with him. And as always, he found her gazing out of the window, staring at the horizon.

“What is the white lady of Rohan thinking of?” Faramir asked standing beside her. The nickname one of his own inventions, for she had tented to wear white tunics while recovering, instead of her favoured Rohan tunic as it was still soiled with orc blood. Faramir had tried to clean it multiple times, only partially succeeding. Maybe he would have to relent to Mithrandir’s idea to “magic away” the stain, how that now worked.

Éowyn grabbed for him, her hands were getting better he noticed, pulling him close. He put an arm around her shoulders. “My mind is clouded and filled with despair, for a part of me had hoped to die valiantly on the battlefield, but now I fear I will have to rot in a cave instead of the halls I tried to escape. I feel trapped, Faramir,” she whispered, nuzzling her head in his shoulder.

“Calm my dear. Your wounds will soon heal, that Aragorn have seen to. And you know what they say: the hands of the king are healing hands,” he felt more than heard Éowyn chuckle softly. “For my part I am glad you did not die in battle, and you will never have to prove your greatness again.” Éowyn looked at him confused, a stray tear rolling down her face. He brushed it away with his thumb.

“I will not pity you, for that you do not need any more of, if I have understood your situation correctly. Instead, I will love you, for the person you truly are, be it Dernhelm or Éowyn it matters not,” Faramir declared, never letting his eyes wander from hers. It was a promise he intended to keep.

Something in her manner changed. It was like the winter passed from her eyes and she smiled, the sun making her shine. Hope and joy welled in his heart, and he bent down and placed a chaste kiss to her brow.

“Thank you, your love is worth more than any glory or greatness won in battle, but I hope to still be allowed to fight by your side,” she asked timidly.

“Always,” Faramir declared.

Éowyn cupped his cheek, pushing a strand of hair behind his ear. Then reached her face up and placed a soft kiss on his lips. Faramir took her in his arms, kissing her deeply, not caring for anything but the taste of her soft lips.

Éowyn

That evening Éowyn finally emerged from the cave. Her clothes had been cleaned, thanks to some wonderful magic from Mithrandir, and she donned her brother’s tunic with pride. When she entered the glade the men sat around the campfire, it made her smile, vividly remembering her first time in the clearing.

Faramir stood quickly and with his help she sat down on a crate. The men smiled, quickly pulling her into a jolly conversation. She had been worried they would treat her differently as Éowyn than Dernhelm, but they did not. Faramir must have explained her situation to them. These men valued her as a soldier, a part of the team, her name mattered not.

She noticed Faramir had moved from the fire and instead stood further away in the glade talking to Aragorn. She regarded the two men’s discussion. Faramir had reached his hand forward and Aragorn pulled him into a tight hug. The two men laughed. Éowyn smiled, for she had heard that Aragorn had not only accepted her but defended her fiercely. Aragorn were truly a man of his word, her gender had not mattered to him.

It had been Anborn’s turn to cook, and he had made a very nice soup of different mushrooms. Éowyn met the gaze of Faramir and the thought of Éowyn’s last stew passed between them. He chuckled softly. Éowyn’s heart gave a squeeze. This man loved her, and she knew in her heart that she did the same.  

After the meal Mablung stood up and declared it was time for a song to celebrate the recovery of Éowyn.

“And since we can finally talk about the captain’s father, I wrote a little song about him,” Mablung said bursting out into a jolly tune. Faramir looked like he had a few objections but held his tongue as the other rangers joined in singing, or in Damrod’s case on a small wooden flute.

The song was not very kind, describing Denethor as the “Phoney king of Gondor” and miming the horrible way he ate tomatoes. Éowyn laughed, realizing she had not been the only one who was disgusted by the steward’s manners. After a few verses, Éowyn stood up and reached her hand out to Faramir.

“May I have this dance?” She asked bowing dramatically. He blushed but did let her lead him into a swirling traditional Rohan dance. He did his best to keep up with all the twists and turns, stepping on her feet more than once. The other rangers tried to join in, Mablung spinning Damrod until they both fell over dizzy with laughter. Even Mithrandir and Aragorn had fun, singing and clapping along. Éowyn felt like she laughed more that evening than she had in all her life.

After the song ended and the impromptu party had been cleaned up, Faramir approached her.

“Would you like to go for a stroll through the forest with me?” he said avoiding her gaze. He was so cute when he was shy, Éowyn thought, finally allowing herself to acknowledge her feelings.

“Of course,” she replied. He grabbed her hand and together they walked into the forest. Faramir stopped when they reached a small brook. She could see waterlilies bobbing up and down on the surface, fireflies slowly flying around all framed by the quiet murmur of the creek.  

“This is beautiful,” she whispered, as if talking to loudly would disrupt the moment.

“Éowyn,” Faramir began dropping to one knee. She gasped, covering her mouth with her hands. No way!

“Éowyn, my white lady of Rohan,” he repeated removing something small from one of his pockets, “since the first time my eyes met yours, I knew you were beautiful. Then I fought by your side, held your hand and saw you smile for the first time. That was when I knew you were the only person for me. Will you accept this ring and marry me?” Faramir asked.

Éowyn extended her hand and gingerly he placed the ring on her finger. It was simple, carved out of wood. Instead of a jewel in the centre Faramir had carved a tree and horse, the symbols of their countries and ancestors. It was the most beautiful piece of jewellery Éowyn had ever owned.

She fell to her knees and all but threw herself onto Faramir, their lips meeting in a messy kiss. He fell backwards landing on the grass with Éowyn on top of him. He smiled madly and Éowyn could feel herself grinning just as wide.

“Does that mean yes?” Faramir joked.

“Yes, my captain,” she answered meeting his lips in another kiss, before rolling off his chest.

Éowyn found herself gazing through the canopies of the trees up to the blinking stars. Faramir nuzzled into her side, clasping their hands and tracing his finger along the band of her new ring.

“You know,” Éowyn said after a while. “My uncle wanted me to marry a captain of Gondor, for the status, but I do not think he expected me to become betrothed to you.” Faramir chuckled softly.

“No, I expect he would prefer my older braver brother as your husband. Not me, the young, failed sibling who is not even a captain anymore,” Faramir said a touch of self-deprecation tinging his voice. Éowyn hated the sadness in his eyes, grabbing him and hugging him tightly.

“I does not matter; I do not want Boromir. Not because he is a captain and not for all the money or prestige in the world!” she shouted, trying to convince him. Faramir smiled wider. She kissed him, wanting to prove with her body that he was the one she loved. He was the only man she would ever want or need in her life.

The next morning Éowyn awoke slowly by the sound of someone laughing. She looked around and spotted Aragorn leaning on the wall by the entrance to the cave. He was snickering. She followed his gaze and saw that she had fallen asleep on Faramir’s bare chest. Flushing, she aggressively motioned for Aragorn to leave, picking up one of her boots and aiming it at his head. He held up his hands in defence and backed away slowly, still smiling that shit eating grin. She threw a boot after him for good measure.

Faramir announced their engagement that morning at breakfast. The rangers cheered for the happy couple congratulating them repeatedly and making Faramir promise to take good care of their friend. They cooed over the ring, praising Faramir’s handiwork and how good it looked on Éowyn’s hand. She blushed at the attention. Aragorn sneakily gave Mithrandir a high five.

“Éowyn and I are going to get some supplies from Bree, anyone else coming along?” Faramir asked.

“Nay, its best to leave you two lovebirds alone for a bit, one never knows what might happen,” Mablung joked, wiggling his eyebrows.

Now it was Faramir’s turn to blush, he gestured wildly trying to defend against the dirty implications, but Éowyn simply laughed. In the forest there was not need for propriety or etiquette, she could be and love without limits, and she loved it.

It took a few hours to ride to Bree. Éowyn rode fast, but with precision, jumping over fallen trees and small brooks on Windfola. Faramir tried to keep up, but he could never compete with her. She was practically born in the saddle! She loved feeling the wind in her hair, the mane in her face and the steady beats of Windfola’s hooves. Éowyn had missed riding while confined to the cave. And judging by the relaxed body language of Windfola, he had also missed carrying her on his back.

They arrived just before lunch. Bree looked just the same as last time Éowyn had visited. The muddy streets, with stone and wooden houses lining them on either side, had many skulking figures hiding in the corners. Faramir and Éowyn stowed their horses at the gate stables and set out to the town square’s market to buy some food.

The market was loud, cramped and smelled awful. Customers were haggling loudly with the owners of stalls selling live, dead and cooked animals. It reminded Éowyn of the markets at home in Edoras, except there were fewer horses here. Instead, pigs, goats and chickens crowded the square.

“I am going to get some proviants over there,” Faramir pointed to a stall further into the market, “let us meet up at the prancing pony for lunch.”

“I will just browse over here in the meanwhile,” she answered, a booth of knitted dresses having caught her eye. She waved goodbye to her betrothed and approached the small green stall.

The stall was owned by an old lady, who sat knitting when Éowyn walked up to the table. Éowyn browsed for a bit, eyeing the dresses. She used to have quite a few woollen dresses back home. They were good at keeping out the cold, that could be useful if she decided to continue sleeping in the cave.

Éowyn picked up one of the green dresses. It was floor-length, with long sleeves and a round neckline. The lady looked up from her knitting and smiled, a nearly toothless, grin.

“Looking for something for you lady friend?” the old woman asked. Éowyn was confused for a second before realizing she had disguised herself as Dernhelm that day.

“Yes, this one will do well,” Éowyn answered quickly, paying for her dress with the last of her coins she brought from Minas Tirith. A plan was starting to take shape in her mind. She thanked the lady and set off towards the prancing pony.

A few minutes later, Éowyn exited one of the outhouses, not dressed as Dernhelm but Éowyn. Her new dress was stunning, compared to her old clothes, which she had rolled into a bundle, it was like night and day. Sneakily she entered the tavern, aware of the breach of proper etiquette of a lone woman entering such an establishment and the fact that she did not care made her giddy. She quickly found Faramir. He had his hood on but sat at the same table she had first seen him at. Éowyn presumed it was his favourite table. She smiled, she liked getting to know everything about him.

He did not notice her at first when she sat down next to him, intently reading a piece of paper lying on the table.

“What is it?” she asked trying to get a peek. Faramir finally looked up and his mouth dropped, but he quickly shut it again, blushing fiercely.

“Do you like it?” Éowyn caressed his cheek.

“It is…you are gorgeous. Did you buy that at the market?” Faramir managed to say.

“I sure did, look at these sleeves. I have not worn such a thing since I lived at Edoras,” she joked throwing the long sleeves over her hands to show their length. They were at least half a foot too long.

Faramir smiled, but then grew serious. “Look at this,” he said, pushing the paper closer for her to read.

The Ranger of Ithilien

Wanted for kidnapping, highway robbery and general mayhem.

Reward 100 gold coins

Issued by the steward Denethor

At the end was a crude sketch of Faramir. Only recognizable if you squinted, his nose was all wrong and his hair was way too short.

“That is a huge reward,” Éowyn said, both impressed and scared. “Do you think we should leave?”

Faramir shook his head.

“These have been up for a few weeks; the only thing new is the reward. It used to be only 30 silver coins, still a lot, but not worth the hassle of tracking me down.”

“Let us have some food and then leave Bree, I do not feel safe here anymore,” Éowyn reasoned. Faramir nodded seriously.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13 - Faramir

Faramir and Éowyn were just about to leave the Prancing pony, stomachs full of roast beef and boiled potatoes when a few soldiers entered the tavern. Faramir pulled his hood down further and put on his mask. But Éowyn did not move.  

“It cannot be,” she mumbled.

Faramir looked up following her gaze and recognition hit him like a ton of bricks. One of the soldiers wore a uniform uncannily like the one worn by Dernhelm. The tunics were identical. But that was not all, the man had long golden hair reaching his shoulders and a short blond beard. It could not be anyone but one man.

“Brother,” Éowyn said, her voice wavering.

They had to move fast, Faramir knew. Any moment now Éomer would look around and spot his, beautiful and currently not disguised, sister. Faramir stood up, moving in front of Éowyn to shield her from her brother’s sight.

Éowyn finally snapped out of whatever trance she had been stuck in. She undid her pack and pulled on her cape, stuffing her hair into its hood. It did a bit to make her look less like a maiden. She grabbed the poster too, hiding it in her clothes.

Faramir and Éowyn moved slowly through the throngs of people in the tavern. Faramir cursed silently realizing there was only one door. They would have to pass by the soldiers. Walking at a leisurely pace, Éowyn kept her head bowed as they passed behind the back of Éomer. Thankfully he was distracted talking to Barliman.

They were almost out the door when Barliman noticed them.

“Hey, you did not pay!” he shouted, making everyone turn to look at them including Éomer. His eyes darted immediately to the woman by Faramir’s side. He saw Éomer’s eyebrows shoot up.

Faramir did not have time to think, he simply grabbed Éowyn’s arm and ran. They hurried down the street towards the stables, almost slipping in the mud multiple times. Faramir could hear the clatter of the soldier’s armour getting closer.

“Éowyn, wait!” someone cried. Most likely Éomer, Faramir thought not turning around to see for himself. Faramir dragged Éowyn onto a side street, hoping to blend into the shadowy alleyways. Faramir could feel his breath becoming ragged. When rounding a corner, his hand almost slipped from Éowyn’s grasp. Her face was set in a pained and tired expression. Faramir spotted a few big crates by the road and threw himself behind them, pulling Éowyn down with him.

They could hear the pursuers running past, their metal armour making a ruckus. Faramir and Éowyn held their breaths. Finally, the sound of the soldiers faded. They breathed a sigh of relief. Slowly, they made their way, walking in the shadows and taking the long way around towards the city gate and the connected stables.

“Well, it seems my brother finally noticed my absence,” Éowyn joked, an attempt to lift his spirits he noticed. Faramir gave her a smile. He hoped they were out of it.

The stables were surprisingly empty, not even a stableboy present. Then he heard the snap of a twig. Faramir made a sign and Éowyn stopped.

“We are not alone,” he whispered.

From behind a tree, Éomer emerged and behind them more soldier swarmed. It was an ambush.

“How did you find us?” Farmir questioned Éomer, holding Éowyn’s hand tight.

“Horses from Rohan are very recognizable,” Éomer answered. Behind him came Windfola, obvious, even to an untrained eye as a horse of Rohan.

“Sister, come home with me,” Éomer pleaded walking towards them. “I have been tasked by Denethor to bring you back to Minas Tirith.”

Faramir drew his sword. Éowyn did not have her sword on her. This would be a difficult fight. Still Éowyn had not said a word.

“She does not have to, if she does not want to,” Faramir declared stepping in front of her.

But Éowyn laid a hand on his arm, shaking her head. “This is my fight, Faramir. He is my brother. He will not slay me.” He knew she had seen the fear in his eyes. She unclasped her cloak, letting it fall into the mud and held her hand out to him. Faramir understood and gave her his sword.

“Brother, I challenge you to a duel,” Éowyn declared loudly.

Éomer was shocked, this must not have seen this side of his sister, but drew his sword nonetheless.

“Why? I am rescuing you from this man! Do not stay with a man forcing you to fight,” Éomer replied.

“If you win, I will come with you willingly.” Hope shone in the eyes of Éomer. “But if I win you will leave me alone, go home and tell uncle I do not wish to be pursued.”

“Foolish sister, you think you can beat me?” Éomer laughed.

“Do not call me foolish ever again!” Éowyn shouted attacking swiftly.

The battle was intense, both sides refusing to lose. Faramir could barely keep up with the two siblings, seeing only sharp steel meeting and the whipping of blond hair. Their fighting styles were similar, obviously having been taught by the same person. But Éomer had more experience and Éowyn was at a disadvantage in her long dress. Still, Éowyn fought fiercely, her eyes burning with passion.

Suddenly, Éowyn screamed and shoved her sword forward, stabbing Éomer in the chest. He faltered, but his mail blocked the thrust. He retaliated, grabbing Éowyn’s sword and twisting it out of her hands. It hit the mud with a crash. He stepped forward, forcing Éowyn to fall over and pointing his sword to her throat.

“Do you yield, little sister?” Éomer said, chest heaving. She nodded, just as tired her face drenched in sweat. He removed his sword and helped her up.

“Let me just say goodbye,” she mumbled, her brother nodding. Éowyn walked back to Faramir, handing him his sword. Their eyes met, as so many times before. She had to go; he knew it. Not just because of the outcome of the duel. This was her brother, her real life. Their time in Ithilien nothing but a passing fancy.

“I love you,” she whispered in his ear giving him one last hug, their fingers intertwining. “Find me, please.”

“I love you too,” he whispered back.

She then dropped his hand, and it felt to Faramir like his head had been submerged under water. She waked back, her brother grabbing her hand and helping her up on Windfola. The soldiers behind Faramir passed him, one checking his shoulder in passing. In a blur of horses and soldiers the company rode swiftly out of the city, Éomer holding the reins of Windfola, towards Minas Tirith. Éowyn turned back one last time, waving. The wooden ring on her finger shining as if made of the purest gold. Now, only Faramir remained, rooted to the same spot.

Faramir returned alone that evening to Henneth Annûn. He was met at the base of the mountain by Aragorn. Strider checked behind Faramir, expecting another horse. But Faramir shook his head.

“What happened?” Aragorn asked. Faramir tied his horse to a tree and unloaded the bags of groceries. In the saddlebags also lay the clothes of Dernhelm, the tunic with the flag of Rohan on top. A lump formed in Faramir’s throat at the sight. He quickly shut the bag.

“Éomer did,” Faramir sighed walking towards the glade.

“Éowyn’s brother?” Aragon asked, hurrying after. The man sure liked to ask questions today.

“Yes, he, together with a few soldiers, ambushed us and brought Éowyn back to Minas Tirith,” Faramir said, dropping the bags in the middle of the glade. The other men had noticed him entering, but their faces fell when they heard his words.

“Éowyn is gone?” Damrod whispered, but in the tense silence it was like he had shouted. Faramir winced and sat down in the grass.

“I knew it was too good to last,” Faramir sighed. “A princess does not belong in a cave or with a man whose life is forfeit.”

“That is pure nonsense,” Aragorn exclaimed, “if she truly loves you, then nothing else matters to her.”

But Faramir did not listen. He felt like weeping, like screaming and tearing something apart. But he did neither, simply sat with his face in his hands.

The other rangers mumbled worriedly; they must never have seen him like this. He himself did not remember the last time he had felt like giving up. Maybe when he had to leave his brother or when his mother died so many years ago. It was grief Faramir knew.

Something hit him on his back, hard enough to pull him out of his thoughts. Mithrandir stood in front of him with his white stick raised, as if to hit him again.

“Faramir, you listen here” Mithrandir began, “what did the lady Éowyn say before she departed.”

“She said she loved me and asked me to find her,” Faramir recalled from the moment merely hours ago.

“Then by all the Valar you should listen to her!” Mithrandir shouted. It was as if his voice had amplified, and it filled the entire glade. Faramir covered his ears, but something in him changed. She did want him to find her. If it was anything she hated more in life it was to be trapped. Faramir sprang to his feet.

“Thank you, Mithrandir,” Faramir said hugging the old man, “you are truly wise.”

“And you are truly dumb, for a woman who ran away would never wish to be dragged back. She only left with her brother to save you, for she must know her brother would not have spared you, had you come between him and his sister,” Mithrandir explained.

This was the truth Faramir finally acknowledged. The look in her eyes had been pleading but resigned. She did not wish to leave, but her love for him was stronger than her wish to be free.

“We must help her, but if she is in Minas Tirith we might need a bit of help,” Anborn reasoned, the other rangers nodding. Their small force was nothing compared to the mighty white city’s.

“I know who will aid us,” Aragorn said stepping forward and drawing his broken sword Narsil. “It is high time I accepted my fate; I will head for Imladris.”

Faramir thought for a moment and recalled his time living in the city of Dol Amroth as a young boy. His father, grieving their mother, had sent him and his brother away to live with their uncle on his mother’s side for a few years.

One night, when Faramir was about twelve, he had one of his nightmares and had woken up crying in the middle of the night. His brother had been nowhere near, being five years older, Boromir had been sleeping in the soldier’s quarters. Instead, a small girl stood in his doorway and padded into his room.

“Did you have a bad dream?” she asked crawling up beside him. It was Lothíriel, his cousin, no more than five or six at the time, but just as kind as she had always been. Lothíriel had been his only friend, except his brother, through those horrible years he was abandoned by his father.

Faramir nodded and she gave him a big hug.

“I know who else might help us,” Faramir said now smiling.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14 - Éowyn

Éowyn did not say a word on the way back to Minas Tirith. Not when they led her to her old room in the citadel. And not until her brother left the room, did she collapse on the floor. The marble was cool against her skin, but it felt foreign. When she breathed, she could no longer smell the musky pine or the spring flowers. The lone tear rolling down her cheek and hitting the floor with a splash the only sound cutting through the unnatural quiet.

Éowyn lay on the floor until her limbs went numb. Until her tears stopped clouding her vision. Slowly she crawled over to the balcony. Forcing herself to stand, she ripped the doors open. It was nighttime and the city of Minas Tirith sparkled, the distant sound of guards laughing filtered in from the courtyard.

Suddenly she noticed her clothing. Her new dress was drenched in mud, the long yarn sleeves unravelling, damaged from her duel. She was just about to rip it off when she felt something itch the skin of her torso. She fished it out. The scrap of paper was crumpled up and torn in places but still recognizable as the wanted poster of the Ranger of Ithilien. It barely resembled Faramir. Still, it was as if a sword had stabbed her in her heart. She let out a wail of grief. Éowyn sat on the balcony for a long time desperately clinging to the piece of paper, drenching it with her tears.

The next morning Éowyn did not move from her spot on the bed when the door opened. She did not remember but sometime in the early morning she must have staggered into bed. A servant entered her room with some breakfast. She eyed it suspiciously. He left quickly, but not before informing her Éomer would visit soon.

Éowyn decided not to wait around until her brother arrived. She needed to leave, but she also needed a new plan. The stables would undoubtedly be heavily guarded since her last stunt. She put her ear to the wooden door that led out of her room. She could hear the breathing of at least two soldiers.

Éowyn searched her room for another way out. She peered down from her balcony. Could she make it without breaking her legs? It was doubtful. Maybe if she tied her bedsheets together into a rope. But that idea was quickly discarded when she pulled on the fabric, the linen bedsheets ripping way to easily to carry her weight.

Resigned to her imprisonment she sat glumly on the floor in a corner when Éomer arrived.

“Come to gloat?” she asked him.  

“You know I have not, baby sister,” he replied sitting on one of the chairs by the window.

“Stop calling me that, I am not a baby anymore!” she shouted rising and stomping towards him. “I killed the Witch-king of Angmar!”

“Of that I had not heard,” Éomer admitted.

“Great, I finally prove my worth and no one has even heard of it,” Éowyn sighed sitting down in the chair next to Éomer.

 “Are you mad at me, ba…sister?” Éomer asked, correcting himself at the last second.

At least he was trying, she admitted, the anger draining from her body. Her brother did not know the full story and like always had acted on instinct. Éomer just wanted her safe, which she did appreciate even if he sometimes went overboard.

“I am not, but you must listen to me now.”

Éomer nodded.

“The man I was with yesterday was the one you call the Ranger of Ithilien,” Éowyn started. Éomer gasped, but quickly covered his mouth when she gave him a nasty look.

“Anyway, he is not the man you believe him to be. I was not kidnapped or forced into war; I chose it. I left of my own choice disguised as a man and joined the Ranger, who did not, at first, know of my identity.”

“But the Ranger of Ithilien is a bad man, an outlaw by the steward,” Éomer interposed, not able to keep his mouth shut any longer.

“He is not! He was unfairly sentenced,” Éowyn said her voice rising. She took a deep breath, calming herself. It was useless to argue with her brother. Instead, she used a metaphor.

“Imagine, you knew of an attack of orcs on the Eastemnet. The people had already been evacuated and only ruins remained. But Théoden had tasked you to protect the region, knowing that it could not be held against the imminent forces. You fought valiantly but you were losing. Would you stay, letting your Éored be slaughtered or flee, letting the orcs capture the region. What would you do if faced with such a choice?”

Éomer thought for a bit, she appreciated him taking her words seriously.

“I would save my men, let them live to fight another day. With more horses and men, the Eastemnet could easily be retaken. It is more important to hold the land inside the Entwash secure as there are more civilians there,” Éomer reasoned. Éowyn smiled. She knew her brother well.

“But what if Théoden punished you for leaving, let’s say, by death penalty?” Éowyn hypothesized.

“Isn’t that a bit extreme?”

“Answer the question.”  

“I would not take the punishment, rather I would leave, for I believe my actions to be true and my loyalty to my household more important.”

“Then you should not condemn the Ranger of Ithilien for his actions,” Éowyn finished.

The siblings sat in silence for a long time, Éomer letting her words sink in.

“I see,” he said at last, rising from his seat. “I will come get you in time for dinner, Denethor wants to talk to you.”

She scoffed, wanting nothing less than to see that man’s face. But she had a few choice words for Denethor too, so she nodded. Before Éomer left he turned to her one last time.

“This Ranger, do you care for him? And you know in which way I mean.”

“Yes. I care for him more than anyone else.”

Éomer nodded again and left without another word.

The same servant as before arrived in the afternoon with a new dress, placing it on the chair Éomer had sat on earlier. Éowyn assessed the linen dress. It was white and looked awfully like her old dresses she had worn before she left Minas Tirith. She felt disgusted by it and refused to wear it, instead throwing it across the room. She went over to her closet and found a horrible blue dress brought form Rohan that she had never worn. It did not fit her, too wide and truly unflattering. She snickered imagining the distaste on Denethor’s face. 

Éomer soon returned and shook his head upon seeing her dress.

“Why must you provoke the Steward so?” he said with no real heat behind it.

“Because it is fun,” she answered accepting his arm and the two siblings walked to the great hall. On their way there she saw that they were tailed by a few soldiers. Soldiers of Rohan she noticed, not the soldiers of Gondor Éomer had with him in Bree.

“Why must my own people keep me prisoner?” she asked Éomer.

“They are not here to keep you prisoner, but rather to keep you safe,” Éomer explained. “I do not trust some men of Gondor, they are… rough.”

She understood and was thankful that her brother was looking out for her.

As the siblings entered the great hall, Éowyn was overcome with memory. Everything was the same, like no time had passed at all. Denethor sat on his ugly thronelike chair, with Boromir to his right and the rest of the great hall filled with celebrating people drinking and eating.

She took her usual place to the left of Denethor and faked a smile when he looked at her. He did not smile back. Sourpuss. Instead, she faced Boromir. He looked the same, but now she could not ignore the way his face was so like that of Faramir. The same hair, face and stature. But he was older than the man she had fallen for. Boromir avoided her gaze.

The group ate in uncomfortable silence. Boromir tried to start a conversation with Éomer, but fell silent when Denethor stood up, clinking his fork to his wineglass.

“Today, we gather to welcome the lady Éowyn back to Minas Tirith and celebrate her engagement to my son,” Denethor began. Éowyn did at first not comprehend his words. How could Denethor know about her engagement to Faramir?

“Give the happy couple of Éowyn daughter of Éomund and Boromir son of Denethor a round of applause!” The hall erupted into cheers and whistles at the Stewards words.

But Éowyn’s heart stopped. She clutched her chest frantically, gasping for air. It felt like the entire room had caved in. She scrambled for her brother’s arm, had he tricked her? But Éomer was just as shocked as her, staring open mouthed at the steward. Éowyn aggressively pushed her chair from the table, it fell with a loud thump to the floor.

“I will not marry Boromir!” she shouted at Denethor.

“Sit down lady, that is an order from you lord,” Denethor said annoyed at being interrupted.

“You are not my lord! I only follow Théoden king and the true king of Gondor! I only follow Aragorn, son of Arathorn and the heir of Isildur!” she shouted, jumping onto the table.

“I am king in everything but name!” Denethor growled. “Have not the line of Échtilion ruled fairly!” he said seeking the hall’s approval, but they were distracted staring at Éowyn.

“A wise man once said to me: that a Steward who faithfully surrenders his charge is neither diminished in love or in honour,” Éowyn proclaimed recalling the words of Mithrandir.  “Besides I am already engaged to another.” She held her hand with the wooden ring high for all to see.

“Who is this man who can only afford a wooden ring,” Denethor laughed mockingly.

“His name is Faramir son of Denethor captain of Gondor and the noble Ranger of Ithilien!” Éowyn said smiling gleefully at the way Denethor’s face fell.

“My brother is dead, he fell in Osgiliath!” Boromir defended, but his confidence faltered when he looked at Denethor. “Right, father?”

Denethor shook with anger. “He should have died then, but he was not man enough to die valiantly,” the steward said between clenched jaws. “I tried to fix it, but the coward escaped his punishment.”

“You had Faramir executed!” Éowyn shouted. The people in the great hall had started to whisper angrily, they had loved their captain very much it seemed, more than his own father ever had.

“I think it is best we take our leave,” Éomer whispered, tugging at her sleeve. She jumped off the table and stormed back to her room. In her hurry she did not notice that Denethor’s sour expression changed into something more sinister. She could not have known that her words had made a wicked plan form in the mind of the Steward.  

About an hour later Éomer knocked on her door. She bid him enter, not rising from the bed she had thrown herself headfirst onto.

“Can we not leave Minas Tirith tonight?” she asked her brother, her voice muffled by the linen sheets.

“Sadly, it seems that the engagement is lawful, but if what you say is true then I will strive to break it off. We must sadly stay here until then,” he explained sitting next to where she was sprawled on the bed.

“So, I am still a prisoner in a cage. Wonderful,” she said melodramatically. Éomer sighed, patted her shoulder and took his leave. He had always been terrible at comforting people; he was better with horses.

Éowyn rolled over and stared at the roof. She was a prisoner, a damsel in distress, once again trapped like a nightingale in a cage. But unlike the bird in the story who discovered only pain in the world, she knew that there was so much more. Yes, she had faced hardship and seen atrocities she would never have if she stayed in her golden cage. But she had seen kindness, community and love, and felt happier than ever before. Éowyn prayed to Béma, God of the hunt. He of all the gods worshipped in Rohan would understand her need to be free and to ride through the forest with the person she loved. Please Béma, let Faramir come and save me!

 She did not notice that the servant had removed her woollen green dress and if she had she would not have understood the sinister nature of it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 15

Arwen

Arwen sat reading a book on one of the many stone benches in Rivendell, but her mind was not on the words on the page. Instead, she thought, as many times before, of her betrothed Aragorn. On her finger rested the Ring of Barahir, its green crystal reflecting the morning light making it sparkle. She traced the coiling snakes, recalling her engagement on the hill of Cerin Amroth. It felt like yesterday, yet also so long ago.

The sound of horses pulled her out of her thoughts. From her place on the bench, she could not see who had arrived. Graciously she stood up and walked down the stairs to the courtyard, her long dress trailing after her. She stopped behind a hedge, listening. Father would never let bad people into Imladris she knew, still she was anxious.

She could hear the soft footsteps of a man, not in the courtyard’s stones but behind her on the grass. She should have turned around in fear, but instead she smiled and let the man hug her from behind. His hands were soft on her fair skin.

“You have returned to me at last,” she whispered turning to face the man she loved more than life itself. His hair was still the same black but tinged by time and showed streaks of grey. His face had a few more lines, but when he smiled, she knew he had not changed.

“Yes, but I cannot take your hand just yet,” Aragorn answered.

Arwen nodded, for she knew of the promise Aragorn had made to her father. He had to be crowned the king of Gondor and Arnor before they could marry. She knew her father meant well, but sometimes she thought he put too much pressure on Aragorn. She would have married him even if he was penniless.

“Then why do you visit Imladris?” she asked, letting him lead her towards her father’s council room.

“I have come to finally face my destiny,” Aragorn said, “it is time for the sword broken to be reforged.”

That night Arwen could not sleep. She rarely did anyway, but this night was special. Aragorn had spent the entire day in council with her father and now he had gone to reforge his sword. She gazed at the stars, somewhere up there was Eärendil, her grandfather traversing the heavens with the last Silmaril. She had never met him, but from the stories he was great.

In the morning, she left her chambers and walked down to the common room. When she entered the rooms was filled with men eating breakfast. She had not expected that. Three men sat at her father’s table. She took her usual place in front of the woven cloths on the wall and beneath the canopy, next to her brothers. Her father’s seat was still unoccupied she noticed.

The men quieted at her arrival, staring in awe. Her father had many times said she mirrored her ancestress Lúthien. She had married the human Beren and given her immortal life to save him. It was a romantic story. She knew her fate would be the same, but she did not fear death. An eternity without the man she loved was worth less than one lifetime with him.

She smiled softly when the man she had thought about entered the room. Aragorn held his new sword high in the air and proclaimed loudly.

“Here is the sword that was broken and is forged again! Its name shall henceforth be Andúril, flame of the west!”

The men started clapping and Arwen joined in, meeting the eyes of her betrothed. Behind Aragorn followed Elrond.  

“Ónen i-Estel Edain,” her father said, repeating the last words of Aragorn’s late mother. Yes, Hope had indeed been given to Men. She only hoped that there would be enough Hope left for her.

Aragorn had to leave the next morning, but at least she got to spend one more day with him. They were walking along one of the beautiful paths that circled Imladris. Stopping on a small stone bridge he gripped her hands and looked into her eyes.

“Why must you leave so quickly, is my father’s house not homely?” she asked him.

“Because a dear friend of mine is held against her will in Minas Tirith,” Aragorn explained.

Arwen gasped. That was a horrible way to treat a woman. “What is her name?”

“Her name is Éowyn, did you know her?”

“Éowyn, yes, I know her! I visited her once in Edoras and we have exchanged letters for many years. You must tell me how you met; I have not heard from her in a long time.”

Aragorn explained everything. How he had first met Faramir, former captain of Gondor, now the famed ranger of Ithilien. Arwen gasped when he came to the part of them meeting Éowyn disguised as Dernhelm outside of Bree. He told her of the exploits and bravery of both the ranger and Éowyn, ending with how she had been separated from them by her own brother acting on the order of the Steward.

“So, that was who Elrohir met in Bree, I did not understand at the time,” Arwen mumbled. She had not known Éowyn to have a brother with that name, so the message Elrohir delivered had confused her. But it was Éowyn herself in disguise that her brother had met.

“I should have liked to come with you to save my friend, but I know my brothers have already asked, so I will not, for my father would not allow it. But please take care,” she continued.

“I carry your love with me always,” he said guiding her fingers to the brooch she had gifted him. Arwen leaned forward and gave him a chaste kiss. He ran his fingers through her black hair.

The next morning the men left, joined by her brothers Elrohir and Elledan. She stood in the courtyard next to her father, waving goodbye to the men.

“Do you think he will return a king?” Elrond asked her.

“I believe so, with all my heart,” she replied.

Just before the men had left, she had given a rolled-up banner to Aragorn and told him to unfurl it when he proclaimed himself king. He had nodded and kissed her.

“I promise to return worthy of your hand.”

Faramir

A few days earlier, in the far south of Gondor, Faramir had just arrived in Dol Amroth together with Mithrandir. Dol Amroth sat on the edge of a peninsula facing the bay of Belfalas. The blue emblem of the prince with its swan-shaped ship, waved in the wind as if in greeting when they approached the city wall. One of the older guards had recognized Faramir and let them through the city gate, sending a messenger ahead to notify the prince. As they rode into the city Faramir could hear the bell of the beautiful tower Tirith Aear by the water toll. At least there was one city in Gondor Faramir was still welcome in.

Faramir and Mithrandir rode into the courtyard of the citadel. The building was made from white stone and like many cities in Gondor was akin to the ancient style of Númenor. Faramir immediately felt like he had come home for the first time in a long time.

The throne room was simply decorated and mirrored the one in Minas Tirith. But where that room was craved from black marble, which to Faramir had always felt cold and uninviting, the throne room of Dol Amroth was warm and welcoming. The floor was made from patterned ceramic tiles in shades of blue and the walls made from white stone. On both sides of the throne there were stained glass windows facing the bay with its crystal blue water.

But most importantly the room was not empty like his father’s. In every corner sat people talking, writing and working. Even some children were playing a game of marbles by the door. Prince Imrahil greeted them warmly, standing up from his throne. He was tall, grey-eyed like Faramir, but had long dark hair. The blood of Númenor ran true in the people of Dol Amroth, Faramir knew. Mithrandir stayed by the door as Faramir approached the throne.

“Faramir, Boromir visited us recently and informed me your life had been lost, but I am glad to see you again sister-son,” The prince said. At the prince’s words the court quieted, even the children paused their game, and all eyes trained on Faramir.

“The circumstance of my death was largely exaggerated, partly I believe by my own father who sentenced me to death for protecting my soldiers,” Faramir said keeping his head proud even as a few of the people of the court gasped. “Since I escaped my punishment, I have only been known as the Ranger of Ithilien.”

“If anyone would do such a thing it would be Denethor,” Imrahil sighed. “You know I never liked him; I wish my sister had not married him. But I am also glad to have such a kind and clever sister-son,” Imrahil continued. “Now, why have you come all the way to my hall, dear nephew?”

“I have come asking for help to rescue my betrothed, the lady Éowyn of Rohan. She was taken from me and is being held against her will in Minas Tirith on the order of Denethor,” Faramir said, not noticing the stray tear rolling down his cheek.

Imrahil frowned, walked over to Faramir and dried his tear. “I understand your pain. Let us discuss this over dinner,” Imrahil said, smiling warmly.

There had not been a feast that big in the halls of Dol Amroth in a long time. The tables were laden with local delicacies, like fresh seafood, bread drenched in olive oil and red wine. The food in Dol Amroth had always had a special place in Faramir’s heart. And so had its people.

He sat down at the royal table next to a face he had not seen since he was a teen. His cousin lady Lothíriel was all grown up now, not the child he had met last. Now she was strikingly beautiful, her dark hair braided in an elaborate hairstyle.

He feared that it would be awkward between them since they had not met in a long time. But she smiled at him when he sat down.

“Faramir! It has been so long; do you even recognize me anymore?” lady Lothíriel asked.

“Of course I do, you have not aged a day, my lady. Still the toddler hanging of my sleeve as we walked through the city, pointing at statues and asking a million questions,” Faramir teased easing back into their relationship as if no time had passed.

She laughed, and they spoke for a long time. Catching up on the decade since they had last met. Faramir was grieved to hear that his favourite Aunt Ivriniel had fallen sick and passed not one year prior. But all the news were not sad. Elphir, his eldest cousin, was courting a woman and they expected to marry before the end of the month.

“Now you must tell me more about this woman of Rohan who is your betrothed, I am so curious,” Lothíriel asked him later in the evening.

“Her name is Éowyn and she owns my heart. She has the most beautiful golden hair, and her eyes are grey just like yours. She can sense my emotions, and we are always on the same wavelength. And her skill with a sword!” Faramir said with a dopey smile. Lothíriel giggled.

“I am happy that you found someone, Faramir. I wish I could find a man of Rohan to marry, do you know if lady Éowyn has any brothers?” Lothíriel mused.

Faramir also spoke with prince Imrahil at dinner, although their conversations were far more serious.

“Minas Tirith is not an easy city to attack,” Imrahil pointed out sipping slowly from his wine glass.

“That is why I will not do so.” Faramir explained his plan. “Aragorn, my dearest friend, will stage a diversion, with a few of your men, allowing me to sneak into the citadel to rescue Éowyn.”

“Are your sure going in alone is wise? I would feel better if you brought a few men with you.”

“What are a few men against the armies of Gondor? No, it will be best if I sneak in alone.”

“Remember Faramir, you are always welcome here, but not even Dol Amroth can stand against the forces of Gondor if Denethor should decide to retaliate.”

“I believe that will not be necessary, but I thank you for your generous offer,” Faramir said, recalling just who his dearest friend was. If all went according to plan Gondor would soon have a new king.

“Then I will make the arrangements for you to leave as soon as possible,” Imrahil said shaking the hand of his nephew and pulling him into a hug. “Promise to return in a timelier manner this time, preferably bringing your betrothed. We will miss you Faramir, take care.”

“I will uncle, I promise we will speak again soon.”

The next morning Faramir set out from Dol Amroth with a company of 150 soldiers. It was not enough to conquer Minas Tirith in the slightest, but Faramir hoped it would not come to open war. The men were disguised, as per Faramir’s request, as merchants. It was a two-day ride from Dol Amroth to Minas Tirith. Luckily, they had no trouble along the way.

But before they reached the city in the afternoon of the second day of travel, Faramir gave his men some instructions. They were to enter Minas Tirith in smaller groups and then make their way to the lodgings, on the fifth and sixth level of the city. They should avoid attention and pretend to be merchants from Dol Amroth. With them they had brought carts of crates, with a special content curtesy of Mithrandir. Faramir explained that the carts should be inconspicuously placed on the lower levels of the city.

“Aragorn, my right-hand man, will visit your lodgings later today to give you further instructions. From this point on you also take orders from him, understand?” Faramir explained to the soldiers who nodded in unison. He smiled. It was both a scary and thrilling feeling, so many people listening and trusting him. Faramir had not realized how much he had missed leading this many troops.

Faramir entered the city with the first group of men, pulling his hood down low as they neared the gates. The guards recognized the banner of the prince of Dol Amroth and let them pass.

“Do you think this will work?” Faramir whispered to the wizard.

“Do you doubt my craft?” Mithrandir joked but grew serious. “Even the very wise cannot see all ends. But we must believe and not let self-doubt cloud our judgement.”

Giving the old man one last hug, he bid farewell to Mithrandir, leaving the wizard to tend to the crates.

Faramir made for a little-known tavern on the sixth level. But being unknown did not mean deserted Faramir realized as he entered. The cramped room was filled with loud men drinking and playing dice games. He found his group of rangers in a corner and sat down with them. They welcomed him smiling, Mablung giving him a friendly pat on the back and Damrod ordered another pint of ale for Faramir. They were clearly happy to see him again.

“Everything go well in Rivendell then, I assume?” he asked Aragorn. The man nodded and pulled out his sword just a tiny bit to show him. The reforged blade shone like a flame, more beautiful than ever before.

“You still going in alone?” Aragorn asked Faramir. He nodded. Aragorn sighed. “I do not like it one bit, it’s like letting a lamb enter the wolves’ den, but I have my own role to play in this siege.”

“I am no lamb, and I know “the den” like the back of my own hand.”

Faramir was tired of having his plan doubted but hearing it from Aragorn, a man he trusted with his life made him feel a bit apprehensive about it. Had he acted too quick, wanting to rescue Éowyn and letting his emotions cloud his judgement? But he trusted in Mithrandir’s words. He had to believe it would work.

“Do you have the disguise?” Faramir asked Anborn.  

The man produced a grey tunic with the white tree on it and a pointy metal helmet, like the ones belonging to the guard of the citadel. “I found them in the houses of healing, just like you said I would,” Anborn said giving the clothes to Faramir.

“It was Éowyn’s idea originally, she used that trick to steal clothes to disguise herself as Dernhelm,” Faramir said longingly. The rangers laughed.

“Go get your woman, captain,” Mablung said and Faramir snuck out of the tavern.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16

Faramir

Night fell across the city of Minas Tirith. The guards outside of the citadel were tired, leaning against the wall yawning, most likely wishing that they could join their friends at the tavern instead of standing outside in the cold night air. The guard did not notice the shadow creeping up behind him until it was too late.

Faramir dragged the unconscious guard behind a couple of barrels. Disguised as just another guard Faramir entered the citadel. He did know the place well, having lived in there for most of his life, and walked confidently across the courtyard towards the King’s house, not that it had housed a king in a long time.

Before entering he checked the windows, hoping that Éowyn had left some kind of signal on her balcony. He scanned the wall, eyes resting for a moment on the balcony that had once upon a time belonged to his own room, but he forced them away. There! The green dress Éowyn had worn the last time he saw her hung from one of the balconies on the second floor. Bingo!

Easing the door to the house open he sneaked inside. But, when Faramir let go, the door creaked, the sound echoing in the stone corridor. Faramir cursed himself, he had forgotten that that damn door was never oiled properly.

“Who goes there?” A citadel guard came running towards him. Faramir panicked for a sound before realizing how he was dressed. Instead, he pushed his shoulders back and stood tall, projecting the image of the captain he once was.

“I am here to take your place, you are relieved,” Faramir commanded the soldier.

“But I recently started my patrol? Who told you this?” the soldier answered a hint of suspicion in his voice. Faramir wracked his brain, at one time he knew every captain and guard of the citadel by name.

“By the orders of Beregond,” Faramir replied. It was the first name that came to him, and he sincerely hoped Beregond was still employed. “You are free for the night, have a drink or something.”

“I see. Well then, I guess some kind of mix-up must have happened, but I am not ungrateful. Thanks for taking my patrol,” the soldier said leaving through the same squeaky door.

Faramir breathed a sigh of relief and continued his quest. He did not meet another soul as he quickly stalked through the corridors of the house until he came to the door whose window had the green dress. There were no guards outside and Faramir gently eased the heavy oak door open. He slid into the dark room, this time carefully closing the door behind him.

Suddenly the room was no longer dark, but bathed in the light from a dozen lanterns. Faramir shielded his eyes and grabbed for his sword. But he was too slow. Something hard hit him in the back of the head, and he fell forward, his eyes darkened and he remembered no more.

Faramir woke up with his face pressed to a cold marble floor. The black marble with its gold veins could only mean one thing. His father’s throne room. Someone pulled his body up by his hair. Faramir grunted in pain.

“Faramir, how nice of you to finally join us,” Denethor said, smiling maniacally from his small black throne. “Or maybe I should say the Ranger of Ithilien, for so you prefer to be called nowadays.”

The green dress had been a trap, Faramir realized. Stooping to using Éowyn’s clothing as bait was foul. Good to know his father had not changed.

“You know I have missed you son, maybe at last you will see the insanity of your actions and be a bit more like your brother. He actually tried to protect his country like a man, instead of running away.”

He would have liked to argue, but his mouth was gagged, and his hands were tied behind his back. In addition, someone had their foot on his back forcing him to stay down on his knees. His sword was carelessly still at his side, as if Denethor could never imagine Faramir using it against him. Underestimated as usual.

His father continued seemingly unaware of his son’s pain. “But you never were much of a man to begin with. Spending more time in that ridiculous archive instead of on the training ground, and even then, you snook off. Yes, I did notice the way you looked at some of the soldiers. My son, my own flesh, dallying with women and men, like a simple whore!”

Faramir seethed, biting hard on the gag. Denethor must finally have noticed Faramir’s anger, for he waved his hand in the air. “Remove his gag, I would like to hear how he pleads,” Denethor ordered the soldier behind Faramir. The gag was forcefully removed, burning his skin. Faramir stretched his jaw, at least nothing was broken.

Denethor leaned forward, the same mocking grin and cold eyes Faramir remembered from his childhood. Trying and failing to be the son his father wanted and the abuse he endured because of it. He had forced himself to fit the mould his father had wanted. He had changed his appearance, discarded his hobbies and even hid his own sexuality, all just to somehow still not be enough.

Faramir realized two things. He would never be enough for his father and frankly he did not care! In that moment Faramir stopped doubting. He would never turn into his father, for Faramir knew love, an emotion he sincerely doubted Denethor had ever felt. Faramir felt empathy and cared for his friends and family, and he would never ever hurt them the way Denethor had done.

“I will never be good enough for you and I will never ever follow in your footsteps! I am not like you!” Faramir shouted, his mind finally made up. He was done seeking the approval of Denethor!

“That you most certainly are not. Even the Valar do not know of a son so different from his father. But I see you have chosen to ignore any sense and therefore I declare you are no longer my son!”

“You are a tyrant. A stain on the country of Gondor, not worthy to call yourself a steward!” Faramir shouted.

“I take my order back. Silence him.” Denethor waved a hand once more, and something hit the back of Faramir’s head. His vision became blurry, and he could feel the warmth of blood run down his neck.

“You are not going to get away with this! The true king will take you down,” Faramir manged to shout before he was pressed face down into the marble floor.  

“We will see about that. Call for the Rohan rabble” It was the last thing Faramir heard before once again falling unconscious, but it filled him with fear. Éowyn, please no, don’t let him hurt you!

Éowyn

Éowyn was pulled out of a very nice dream by someone shoving a lantern in her face. She tried to cover her eyes with her hands, mumbling:

“Just a few more minutes…”

“We do not have a few more minutes, sister,” Éomer sighed shaking her awake.

She sat up, dazed. It was still dark outside. Why had her brother awoken her at such an early hour? Éomer threw the white dress, the one she had thrown away earlier, at her motioning for her to put it on. She obliged and hurried out the door after Éomer. The soldiers of Rohan stood outside.

“What has happed?” she asked her brother.

“Denethor has called for a meeting in the throne room,” Éomer explained as the hurried through the corridors. “But I have a bad feeling about this.”

Halfway to the throne room they met Boromir. His hair was a mess, and big dark circles were visible under his eyes, along what looked like traces of tears. He had probably not slept at all that night or the night before. It must not be easy to acknowledge that your brother thought to be dead is still alive and that your father almost had him executed. She felt bad for him.

“You were also summoned,” Boromir said when he saw them. The siblings nodded and together they ran the last bit to the throne room. Éomer pushed the double doors open and stormed in.

“What is the meaning of this!” he shouted his voice reverbing through the marble chamber.

Éowyn followed behind him, peering around his shoulder she saw something that both made her blood turn cold and boil at the same time. The love of her life was bound and unconscious on the black marble floor.

“Faramir!” Éowyn shouted running towards him, but two gondorian soldiers stepped in her way.

“Denethor, explain yourself!” Éomer growled. “Why have you trapped my sister’s betrothed, your own son in chains?”

“I have no son, at least none that would stoop to break ins and burglary,” Denethor sniffed and stood up from his throne.

“He tried to save me!” Éowyn shouted, tears streaming down her face.

Boromir, who had stood quietly in the door opening, finally spoke.

“Father this is wrong.”

Denethor whipped around to face his son, his face twisted with anger.

“Are all my sons going to betray me? Be quiet for once, Boromir!” Denethor shouted making his son cower as if hit.

The body of Faramir started moving, a groan escaped the man. Éowyn tried once more to reach him, but the guards continued to block her way. Angrily she stomped her foot, calculating if a well-aimed kick could give her time to get passed them. But she saw more soldiers hiding in the wings; she would never reach Faramir without being captured.

“I sentence Faramir to sudden, instant and even immediate death!” Denethor laughed gleefully.

Éowyn fell to her knees and clasped her hands. It felt humiliating but she did not care, she could only focus on the man writhing in pain on the floor.

“Please. Please, sir. I beg of you to spare his life. Please, have mercy!” she pled casting all her dignity aside.  

Her display must have pleased Denethor, that toad, for he feigned a curious face. He was toying with her she realized. She held her breath as she tried to control her rage, she had to play the damsel.

“My dear, why, precisely, should I do such a thing?”

“Because I love him, sir.”

“And does this traitor return your love?” Denethor asked addressing Faramir.

Faramir struggled to sit up, it clearly hurt, but his face was filled only with determination.

“Éowyn, my white lady of Rohan, I love you more than life itself. I need you more than I need food, water or even air. You are forever in my heart.”

“Ah, young love. How touching” Denethor’s voice dripped with feigned care. “But traitors to the crown must die!”

“Traitor to the crown? That crown belongs to Isildur’s heir. Long live King Aragorn!” Faramir answered.

“Long live King Aragorn!” Éowyn joined in, shouting.

“Enough! My line has ruled this city for 25 generations, but still, I am not king!” Denethor shouted frothing at the mouth. “If you love your king so much, why does he not save you? Off with the traitor’s head!”

In the following moments many things happened in rapid succession. An ear deafening explosion rang through the room, and the next second the chamber was lit up by a green explosion filtering in through the large windows. A few seconds later there was another explosion, and another until it sounded like the entire city was filled with gunpowder and someone had lit a match.

Then someone in the courtyard screamed and suddenly the outer doors to the throne room were thrown wide open and in stepped a man. That was the wrong word, rather he strode into the room. He threw back his black hair and drew his sword. It shone like a flame.

“I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, and am called Elessar, the Elfstone, chieftain of the Dúnedain of Arnor, the heir of Isildur Elendil’s son of Gondor. Here is the sword that was broken, reforged as the flame of the west Andrúil!”

“Attack him!” Denethor screamed, scrambling behind his throne. His soldiers hesitated for a moment. For behind Aragorn multiple soldiers had gathered, wearing the blue of Dol Amroth. Among them Éowyn thought she could see two elves, their faces identical to an eleven maiden she knew well. One of the men held a standard. The black field of the flag had the tree of Gondor in its centre, the top of it decorated with jewels that shone like stars and a crown seemingly made of gold.

Éowyn used the moment of distraction to tackle one of the soldiers blocking her way to the ground, grabbing his knife. Then she evaded the other guard’s attack by throwing herself on the floor. Using the momentum, she slid across the marble floor all the way to Faramir. She started sawing away at his rope bonds with the knife.

“Éowyn-" he started, but she shushed him.

“You are hurt, let me help you,” she said, finally severing the rope. She placed her arm around his shoulders and moved his arm around hers. Slowly, they made their way towards the doorway leading further into the citadel.

Meanwhile, the soldiers of Rohan, led by a furious Éomer had attacked the soldiers of Gondor. Behind Aragorn more soldiers, in the uniform of Dol Amroth swarmed into the throne room. The soldiers of Gondor grew scared and stepped away from the furious men.

“Cowards! Hold your ground!” Denethor shouted, from behind his throne. He had spotted Faramir and Éowyn escaping. “Idiots, don’t let them escape!”

The soldiers looked behind them, but Éomer blocked them. He and his men of Rohan stood between Éowyn and the soldiers of Gondor. He had a look on his face as if saying “make my day” as he gripped his sword menacingly.

Thanks to Éomer’s blockade, Éowyn and Faramir hobbled out of the room and frantically she searched for a way out. Faramir went in and out of consciousness, making him no help. She staggered forward, dragging him along the corridors and down winding stairs until they reached a quiet place. They had left the battle behind them, the only sound was the distant explosions that switched between colouring the sky red, green and blue.

She removed her arm from around his shoulders. Her dress sleeve was stained red. Faramir was bleeding! Cursing, she tore a piece of her white dress and held it against the wound on his head. When it was soaked, she replaced it, dropping the old cloth on the ground. The bleeding had not stopped, but she got the feeling that they should keep moving. Éowyn hoisted him up and continued forward.

She did not know her way around and, unbeknownst to her, she had somehow made it to the Fen Hollen. She pushed open the heavy doors with her free hand and continued down the silent street all the way inside the House of the Stewards. Here it was as quiet as the grave. Faramir had passed out, so she gently laid him down in the middle of the room.

Feeling his head for the wound, her hand came back read. She wiped it on her dress, the linen no longer white but mudded with dried blood. She tore more pieces of it, trying to patch his wound. But the blood left him too fast. Béma, help me, she prayed while the cloth in her hand turned red.

Chapter Text

Chapter 17 - Boromir

When the fighting broke out, Boromir had stayed uncharacteristically silent. He felt numb, standing in the corner next to his father’s throne watching the man named Aragorn burst through the doors. Boromir watched the soldiers of Gondor fighting against the soldiers of Rohan. That’s not right, he thought distractedly. We had an alliance.

“Boromir!”

His father’s shout made Boromir finally realize the situation he was in. Denethor had hidden behind his small black throne, occasionally popping his head out to shout an order at the very stressed soldiers. Boromir unsheathed his sword and made his way to his father. When he got close Denethor pulled on his sleeve, hard. Boromir, not prepared, all but crashed down on the marble floor

“Boromir, we need to track down the traitors!” Denethor whispered, but in Boromir’s ears it was as if he had shouted.

“You mean my brother?” Boromir asked. Denethor glowered at him.

“He is a traitor to the crown deserving of death. Now help me up, I saw them leave through the door back into the citadel.”

Boromir stopped for a second. He had just a few days ago learnt that Faramir was not dead and now his father wanted to kill him again? That did not feel right. But he rarely spoke against Denethor. He had tried earlier, his father’s voice still ringing in his ears. But maybe he should try  to voice his concerns again?

But just as Boromir had made up his mind to do so, his father’s face made him shut his mouth. Denethor was never happy, sometimes he smiled but it never reached his eyes. Now he wore an expression Boromir had never seen before. Denethor looked maniacal. Boromir rarely feared his father, but in that moment, he dared not even speak in his presence.

Silently Boromir helped Denethor to his feet and they hurried out of the fray and into the long hall that led from the throne room. Denethor hunched over and began walking around the corridor. He was nearly crawling, glaring at the stone floor like it had wronged him.

“What are you looking for, father?” Boromir asked, taking a hesitant step away from the man. Boromir barely recognized his father. Had Denethor lost his mind?

Denethor stopped and swiped his finger through something and showing it to Boromir. “Blood,” Denethor whispered, smiling gleefully. “He is bleeding! Quick, this way!”

They turned right, following the trail of blood running deeper into the citadel. The trail consisted at first only of small blood droplets but was soon joined by scraps of cloth drenched in the red liquid. It all led towards the old tombs of the kings and stewards. They ran down the stairs and came upon the Fen Hollen, the door to the crypts of Minas Tirith. The door was always closed, save for funerals, and heavily guarded. But when Borimir and Denethor approached, no guards could be seen, and the door had been pushed ajar.

The pair followed the walled winding pathway, the blood droplets still fresh and ever increasing in frequency, leading them straight to the House of Stewards, the tombs of the old stewards. The building was capped by a mighty dome and beautifully constructed, still it was a place Boromir rarely visited. He preferred not to dwell on those whose life had been lost. It brought up too many raw feelings, grief never processed, instead supressed. Boromir did not have time to grieve, he had a country to protect.

Denethor motioned for Boromir to open the door, but then pushed him away so that he himself could enter first. Denethor swooped into the wide vaulted chamber, his fur lined cape billowing in the draft. Boromir followed closely behind, turning to close the door behind him before taking in the room.

What he saw almost made him cry. Lit up by a lone torch, in the middle of the room lay the seemingly lifeless body of his brother, his hair stained red by the blood seeping from a gash in his head. A person was bent over him, ripping pieces of their cloth and desperately watching as they were stained red, too fast to keep up with. But if Faramir was still bleeding that meant he was still alive. Corpses did not bleed.

Denethor, not bothering to conceal his presence anymore, let his heavy footfalls startle the person bent over Faramir. She turned around, her eyes red from crying and her hands stained red with blood. It was the lady Éowyn.

“Here we have the traitor, bleeding to death in the halls of his ancestors. How fitting. Let us put him out of his misery, shall we?” Denethor said, revealing a dagger from his cloak. It glinted dangerously in the low light.

Fear crossed her face, but it was quickly replaced with anger and determination. Éowyn grabbed Faramir’s sword and stood up, placing herself between them and Faramir.

“Can’t you see he is already dying? Leave us alone!” she said threateningly, trying to make her small frame bigger than it was and gripping her sword tighter.

“Step aside maiden, I do not want to hurt you,” Denethor sighed as if she was simply an inconvenience.

“Why do you hate your own son, your own flesh and blood!” Éowyn shouted, and with a great swoop of her sword she knocked the dagger from the hand of Denethor.

The Steward staggered, clutching his bleeding hand from where her sword had nicked it.

“Boromir, get rid of her,” Denethor growled, but in Boromir’s ears it was more of a whine.

In that moment Boromir’s mind finally cleared. Faramir was the most important person in Boromir’s life. He knew Faramir had been treated as lesser by Denethor, his father’s favouritism obvious since childhood. Boromir had become the perfect son, shouldering the responsibilities hoping it would satisfy Denethor enough to leave Faramir alone. Boromir had hoped he could balance his love for his brother with the love for his father, but he had been wrong. Denethor’s hatred for Faramir grew and he had even ordered his own son executed. How could Boromir have been so blind?

“No,” he heard himself answer. His father had separated them once, but never again.

“What!” Denethor shouted losing his composure for a second and glaring at his son.

“No, I will not let you hurt Faramir again,” Boromir said walking past Denethor and standing beside Éowyn, his own sword raised.

“Traitors, all of you. I have no sons anymore!” Denethor shouted, his voice echoing in the stone room. For a moment nothing happened, Denethor glared at them. Then his eyes changed, the flame of the torch reflecting in them.

“I have failed as a father and steward, now we all must face the punishment,” Denethor whispered. Boromir realized one moment too late the plan forming in his father’s head.

“No!” he shouted dropping his sword and throwing himself across the room. But Denethor was faster. With the swiftness of a weasel, he grabbed the torch and threw it at the drapes on the wall. The fire quickly spread, lighting the dry corpses along the walls on fire and blocking their way out.

Denethor cackled maniacally, but it was changed into a cough when the black smoke flooded the room. The fire got closer and nipped at their clothes. The flames reached the sleeve of Faramir. Éowyn started to panic, trying to pull him away, but the fire was relentless. Boromir crouched and heaved Faramir onto his back. That used to be easier, Boromir thought. And for a moment he was overcome with the memory of the brothers playing many years ago. But Éowyn’s voice pulled him out of it.

“Look, the door is opening. We must run for it!” In the doorframe was a person. It was Aragorn! How he had found them was a mystery to Boromir, but he was too thankful to question it. With Éowyn’s help he carried Faramir across the room, until they reached the man. Aragorn had quenched the flames by the door with his jacket and with one last great heave Boromir threw himself out of the building.

Gingerly Boromir set Faramir down in the safety outside. He looked around, spying Éowyn, her hair brunt but otherwise not on fire, rushing to Faramir’s side to tend to him. Aragorn stood beside Boromir, still staring into the blazing inferno.

“Denethor is still in there,” Boromir realized, and Aragorn nodded. “I need to get him!” Boromir shouted running for the door once more. But Aragorn caught his arm.

“Let me go!” Boromir said struggling to get free.

“No, look at the roof!” the black-haired man said pointing. Boromir looked and saw the dome of the House of Stewards was cracking. The next moment it caved and collapsed, and the flames consumed the house.

“No!” Boromir shouted falling to his knees. The smell of burning hair pricked his nose and he saw something fall to the ground in front of him. It was a piece of grey fur, now sighed, but obviously belonging to his father’s coat. Boromir started to cry, big tears rolling down his cheeks. He felt a pat on his shoulder. Aragorn sat down next to him.

“I am sorry about your father,” he whispered. Boromir grabbed the man and gave him a big hug. Aragorn let him cry on his shoulder for what seemed like an eternity.

Chapter Text

Chapter 18 - Faramir

Faramir awoke, not on the cool marble floor he had last fainted, but in a bed. A very familiar one at that. He regarded his room unchanged from childhood.

“Huh, Denethor did not redecorate it I see,” he thought or rather spoke aloud.

“I convinced him not to,” a voice answered him. Boromir, his brother stood at the window gazing out at the city below.

“He is awake!” someone shouted outside the door. Through the old oak doors ran Éowyn, closely followed by every other person Faramir had ever known. His rangers, Mablung, Anborn and Damrod. Mithrandir, gracious as ever, was closely followed by Aragorn. And last came Éomer and the soldiers of Rohan. Even Arwen’s brothers, one of them Faramir had never met, entered.

The room was suddenly very crowded. Everyone trying at the same time to talk to Faramir. A woman dressed in white entered carrying a bowl of water. She did not look impressed at the gathered people.

“Everyone, except immediate family, out!” the nurse shouted. The rangers started to argue but were promptly removed by the Rohirrim. Éomer left too, glancing at his sister who nodded and motioned with her hands for him to leave.

At last, only Éowyn, Aragorn, Mithrandir and Boromir remained with Faramir and the nurse in the room. She did not approve of that many people staying, sniffing at Mithrandir who started smoking his pipe, but got to work cleaning Faramir’s face.

The water was cool and made Faramir realize he had a fever. Éowyn clasped his hand, kissing his knuckles just the same way he had done hers. The memory made him smile. She smiled back, tears falling silently down her face. He reached his hand to dry them. She chuckled, his fingertips tickling her skin.

“You two are truly adorable,” Boromir said sitting down on Faramir’s bedside. Faramir regarded his brother for the first time in many years. The fever made Faramir’s eyes a bit hazy, but even then, his brother’s face was unchanged. Faramir opened his mouth, but Boromir shushed him.

“Brother, I just have to say a few words before you condemn me. I did not know of our father’s design. Neither to execute you or to have me engaged to your betrothed,” Boromir began. Faramir shot a confused look at Éowyn who shook her head and mouthed the words “it’s a long story”.

“I should have done more for you, for now I realize our father did not treat you just. I blame myself for not protecting you like an older brother should. I have failed you.”

“No, you have not,” Faramir said moving his hand, the one not in Éowyn’s iron grip, to grab his brother’s. “You, as you said, knew not of father’s plans. Father may never had had any love for me, but you did. You could never fail me, for your love has never wavered.”

Boromir released his hand, only to grab Faramir and pull him into a hug. This Faramir had almost forgotten, how much of a hugger Boromir had always been. It was hard to breath, but still Faramir did not let go.

“I cannot get any work done if you keep moving my patient,” the nurse said angrily at Boromir. Still his brother did not release him. The nurse shook her head and threw her arms out exasperatedly. Aragorn approached her and grabbed the bowl in her stead.

“I will continue, you are dismissed,” he said kindly. The nurse bowed her head in reverence and left.

“The hands of the king are healing hands,” Faramir joked when he was finally released from Boromir’s hug.

Aragorn smiled and patted his forehead.

“Aragorn spent the entire night by your side,” Éowyn said. “He stopped your bleeding.”

“At some point, you two will have to stop almost getting yourself killed, I cannot be there every time to heal you,” Aragorn replied. “Besides, neither Boromir nor Éowyn left your side either.”

“I could not have wished for a more loyal betrothed or a better brother,” Faramir praised Éowyn and Boromir who blushed in return.

“Or a better king,” Faramir finished. Aragorn sighed but smiled. Mithrandir still smoking his pipe raised an eyebrow.

“Or a better…wizard?” Faramir added hastily. The old man chuckled.

And so it was that Aragorn was crowned king of not only Gondor but the reunited kingdoms of men. His coronation was splendid, with people coming from all over the kingdom and even neighbouring ones to visit. Trumpets sounded and the standard, embroidered by Arwen, was unfurled from the topmost tower of the city. Unlike the old flag of Gondor, the white tree of Gondor had leaves. It was the beginning of a new hope.

Éowyn and Faramir, their hands clasped and dressed in beautifully adorned clothing, stood watching as Boromir, the new steward, proclaimed Aragorn king and Mithrandir placed the crown on the head of their old friend and new king, Aragorn II Elessar. By his side stood Arwen, his new queen. Their wedding was to be held shortly, and after that Éowyn and Faramir had to leave for Rohan. They had a wedding of their own to plan.

After the coronation was the time of the feast. Faramir introduced Éowyn to his uncle and cousins from Dol Amroth who had come to celebrate.

“You must be Éowyn, Faramir’s betrothed. I have heard so much about you,” Lothíriel said curtsying, but Éowyn pulled her into a big hug. She is learning from Boromir, Faramir thought.

“Thank you for being such a good friend to Faramir,” Éowyn said and the two women started talking rapidly about himself Faramir guessed or at least flattered himself.

He gave them some space and ended up running into Éomer leaning against a wall watching his sister. The marshal was dressed in his usual uniform but had let Éowyn braid his hair into a traditional style, and even put a small bow into his beard. He did not look happy about it, but Faramir thought it was sweet of Éowyn to care for him and maybe Éomer saw it as punishment for his earlier actions. But Faramir held no grudge against his future brother-in-law.

Faramir stood beside him, drinking slowly from a tankard. The ale was so much better than the one at the Prancing Pony. Éomer did not notice Faramir, lost in thought. Faramir followed the man’s gaze and saw that it was not on his sister but Lothíriel. Faramir elbowed Éomer in the side getting the man’s attention.

“You know, she is single,” Faramir said pointing at Lothíriel, “and the people in my family seem to have a thing for long blond hair.” Éomer blushed deeply as Faramir shook with laughter.

Later in the evening Aragorn approached Faramir and bid him follow. They walked along the courtyard of the citadel, passed the place where the old tree had stood just that morning, but had now been replaced with a small sapling. From the white tower of Minas Tirith, the new flag of Gondor flew, the mithril and gems sparkling in the setting sun.

They walked until they reached the end of the cliff, and together watched the beautiful view across the fields of Pelennor. He could see Anduin with flowing silently through Osgiliath, the big forest of Ithilien and if he squinted, he thought he could see all the way to Henneth Annûn.

“Your brother will be the new Steward, not, of course, a ruling one,” Aragorn began, gazing across his kingdom.

Faramir watched his friend of many years, for the Strider he once knew were now clad in the finest weave with a silver crown upon his head. Finally, the king had returned, and Faramir was glad that Aragorn had found his true calling.

“Your life is no longer forfeit and I wish to give you the title Prince of Ithilien, for the region is dear to you,” Aragorn continued.

“That, my king, is a title I would wear, gladly,” Faramir said smiling.

“Then so be it, after your wedding, you and Éowyn will move to Emyn Arnen and dwell in the old ancestral land of the house of Húrin.”

Faramir nodded, and without hesitation hugged his new king. Maybe Éowyn was not the only one influenced by Boromir. Aragorn hugged him back, for underneath the crown he was the same horse whispering ranger as always.

Even later, Faramir and Éowyn sat on her balcony watching the sunset colour the sky a vibrant purple. Éowyns hair shone like gold in the last of the sun’s rays. He carded his hand through it, undoing her ceremonial braids. He had used to braid his cousin’s hair as a child and his fingers worked deftly, the memory still ingrained in them.

“You know I wish my hair was that long,” Faramir whispered quietly. His hair had always made him self-conscious ever since his father had so cruelly forced him to cut it. But Éowyn nodded enthusiastically, turning around, making Faramir drop her still braided hair.  

“Yes, you should definitely grow it out, but you must let me braid it!” She smiled making Faramir smile in turn. He had known she would accept him. Still his father’s hateful words would most likely follow him for a long time. But at least he would never have to hear them again. Now the only words in his ears were those of Éowyn.

Faramir went back to undoing her braids. She was humming an old tune Faramir felt like he recognized.

“Do you remember, that is the hymn I sang under the stars that evening in the glade,” Éowyn whispered, leaning against his chest as he finished with her hair. He let his arms fall around her and nuzzled his face in the golden locks. He only hummed in acknowledgement. She laughed, but them became serious turning to face him.

“I love you Faramir, I feel like I have not said that enough. What if you leave me again? When you were dying, I just did not know what to do-” she began her voice growing with the fear of the memory. But he interrupted her with a kiss.

“I will never leave you again,” he whispered softly in her ear. “We will live in Ithilien, in Emyn Arnen. You will ride around on Windfola while I water the plants of our garden. Then you will make a vile stew, and I will eat it, for I love you.”

She punched him lightly in the shoulder, making him snicker, but then she cuddled close. The two sat like that until the sun was long gone and the lanterns of the city was the only light left. But Faramir did not need to see Éowyn’s face to know that she had fallen asleep. Her rhythmic breathing making his own eyelids droop and he fell asleep, holding his betrothed close.