Chapter Text
Faramir
Fire is all he remembers.
Fire. Heavy. Suffocating. Screams.
Their voices echoed around him.
He felt warm, hot, unbearably hot.
He knew them, the voices.
Some he clung to, some he wished to forget.
‘Yes…,’ his father’s voice was looping constantly.
Anguish.
He tried to answer.
No words came.
Another memory surfaced.
His dear brother. Boromir. Laughing besides him.
A hand on his shoulder.
They retook Osgiliath.
Confidence. Warmth. Love.
Gone now.
Grief.
No time to mourn.
Flames engulfed him.
Heat against his skin once more.
Voices getting louder. Crying out.
His eyes opened.
His father was burning.
Death.
This is the end.
He failed. He failed Gondor. His people. His father.
Boromir would have lived.
Boromir would have brought victory.
Boromir would have returned.
What remained?
Him.
Nothing.
Worthless.
Éowyn
The world went silent. Cold and dark.
Men were shouting. Horses squealing. Steel clanging against steel.
Yet, all of it seemed distant.
She lay upon the field, motionless, looking up at the blue sky.
She couldn't move.
Her arm brought her so much pain. Her chest felt crushed.
The king, her uncle, she lost.
Soon, she would be lost as well.
So this is how it ends.
Death? She did not fear.
For years she had dreamt of proving herself in battle. Escaping the cage built around her.
A woman she was. Nothing more in the eyes of Men.
She did it.
The Witch-King she had defeated.
Yet, she felt no victory. No sorrow. Nothing.
Hollow.
She thought of Meduseld.
Where she would spend hours observing the riders, while she remained behind.
What had she truly wanted?
Glory? Freedom?
No.
She wished to matter, to be seen.
Not praised in song.
Nor remembered in tales.
Only to be seen.
Cherished. Loved. Chosen.
Her thoughts blurred.
Darkness approached.
And so, Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, surrendered herself to it.