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"What is it?" her love asked, his arm gently encircling her, his large hand wrapping itself about her waist.  "What did you dream?"

Éowyn blinked, though the room was full-dark, the fire gone to embers.  She breathed in slowly, catching the scent of rot and decay.  As she knew there was no source for such in their room, it must have been the last fading remnant of her dream.

"I was there, standing in the middle of the Pelennor Fields.  I watched as the Witch-king flew on his dread winged steed, as he flew for my uncle.  I threw up my arm to protect my eyes from the lashing of the beast's tail.  When I lowered it, I saw that the Rohirrim were gone, as were the creatures of Mordor.  My uncle Théoden was gone, along with his horse, and any sign that they had perished on the trampled yellow grass at my feet.  I was alone, alone and staring at the Witch-king as he came to his feet."

She found herself trembling, and was glad of Faramir's strong arm about her.  She swallowed past a throat made of stone, unable to banish the memory of the dream from her mind.  But, Éowyn knew, it was good for Faramir to coax her thus, and for her to rid herself of the bile such a nightmare might inspire, lest it fester within.

"He strode toward me," she went on, "and his fell beast came around to my back; I was caught between the two.  The Witch-king had his mace, and he spun it, breaking my shield and the arm that bore it, just as happened in truth.  But there was no Merry to distract him, to give me the chance to regain my feet.  I tried to raise my sword but could not, I had no strength.  The Witch-king remounted his steed and departed, leaving me to die where I had fallen.  Oh, Faramir, there was nothing, there was no one.  I was all alone, watching the light die from the world, the sky dim unto blackness.  And then, when I awakened--"

But Éowyn needed say nothing more, for Faramir had already moved to light the lantern hanging near their bed, and soon the room filled with a cheery glow.  He returned to their bed, wrapping his arms about her, kissing her brow.  "My dearest, my White Lady, you need not dream of solitude, nor of abandonment.  Never shall you have cause to be alone again."

Éowyn nodded, as she must, and before long found herself drowsing again, then sleeping away the rest of the night.  She scarcely remembered her dream in the morning, and remembered telling Faramir very little of it, at that.  But something nagged at her, some sense that she had forgotten something, that there was something quite important that she had misplaced.  Éowyn spent her day in her own private garden, digging and planting and weeding, as though she might find what she was looking for buried deep in fragrant soils.

January 2017

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