Rising Star, Falling Darkness: Part VII
by Camilla Sandman
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Silence.

Silence reigned as they stumbled through the small forest, the halflings nearly falling every other step. But their faces shone with determination, and they did not complain.

Faramir was too tired to marvel at the halflings's willpower. Every step was like a whip to his feet. Rocks cut into the soles of his feet, and his boots felt like no protection at all.

It took all the strength he had just not to look back. Look back and see his city burning, his people dying.

Approaching horses made all four freeze. It sounded like several horses, although precisely how many Faramir couldn't tell. And they were coming in their direction.

He lifted his sword even though his arms protested greatly. A battle would be over quickly enough, for none of them had much strength left.

Éowyn let out a cry as the horses came into view, and she took in the familiar banners. Rohan. Her face fell slightly as she seemed to realise her brother was not there.

The nearest rider jumped off in one fluid motion, bowing before Éowyn.

“Lady Éowyn. We feared you were lost in Minas Tirith.”

“What of my brother?” she asked breathlessly.

There was a short silence, only broken by a few horses stomping impatiently. Éowyn's face crumbled for a few seconds, shining with desperation and pain. Then she regained her composure, standing erect and strong as a ruler of Rohan should.

“We fear he is fallen, lady. Rohan is without a King.”

“But with a Queen,” she said tight-lipped. “I will avenge my brother's death if he has indeed fallen. We will bring death to our enemies as they have brought death to us.”

Her face was white and cold, but in her eyes, tears glittered.

******

He was not sure quite what awoke him – a cold wind perhaps, or simply a feeling that something was coming.

He bolted upright so fast Sam rolled away from him, the other hobbit blinking confused.

“Master Frodo?”

“I… I feel something, Sam.”

Sam scrambled onto his feet, staring intently into the dark. Frodo fumbled behind him, searching for his sword. He finally found it, not an easy task in the complete darkness that surrounded them.

His legs were shaking as he held Sting out in the dark. It did not glow blue, so it was not orcs. But something was drawing near. Strangely enough, it did not feel evil.

Frodo…

He nearly lost the sword at the sudden nearness of her voice. She was near, very near. He was overcome with relief and guilt, for how could he face her when he had failed? They had trusted him. They had all trusted him.

“Frodo!” came the soft voice of Legolas the Elf, drawing nearer. Frodo felt an instant stab at the sound of the voice. How long ago was it that he had heard it first, in the warmth of Elrond's house? He shuddered.

How had they reached him and Sam so fast? It felt like they had trotted through the wilderness forever; him and Sam and Gollum.

“It is Lady Galadriel!” Sam said in awe, as the darkness around them faded and clear starlight filled their senses.

******

The riders had led them to a modest camp, where survivors had gathered. Many seemed to look up in awe at them, and Faramir was not quite sure why.

He could not see what they saw; the distant look of honour and will from a time when men had been greater and nobler. But he did see Lady Éowyn, exhausted yet refusing to take any rest until she was assured the halfings were fine. She spoke to every man, and behind her courageous spirit was a gentle heart.

Finally, she ordered him to rest, and he found a quiet spot near the end of the camp. The halflings were sound asleep nearby, almost cuddling as they slept, and he found himself wishing…

Boromir. He missed Boromir, the brother he had always admired, but never quite understood.

“Faramir?” Her soft voice drew him from his thoughts, and he looked up at her.

Even dirty and bloody and tired, she was more beautiful than any woman he had met before. Her face was a mirror of his grief – she too, had lost a father and possibly a brother too.

She sank down next to him, searching for his hand and taking it with a strength that surprised him.

“We will rest here a while,” she told him. “Then we will go to our doom.”

“Maybe it will be doom for Sauron and not us,” he countered, not really believing it. She laughed bitterly.

“My doom has already fallen,” she said sadly. “For all that I have loved have been taken from me. There is nothing left.”

“Nothing?”

He stared at her face, saw the lines softening. For a second, her face was no longer hard and drawn.

“Almost.” Her voice was but a whisper, but the look in her eyes was truth enough.

“If the morning comes, know that my heart belongs to the White Lady of Rohan, and to her I give my life,” he said, meaning every word.

“The morning may never come again,” she replied. “Kiss me, Faramir of Gondor, for I am cold and I desire warmth.”

He lifted a hand to her face, caressing her cheek gently. Her skin was cold to touch, cold but soft. Her eyes shone in the weak light, a silent plea to take the pain away, for just a little while.

So he kissed her, gently at first, not caring that anyone could see. There were only him and her, under the dark, dark arch of the sky.

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