Faramir stared. For a long moment, the only sound was Éowyn’s quiet breathing.
Faramir, Steward of Gondor, lay on a white cot. His hand, still bandaged from the arrow that had struck him in the retreat from Osgiliath, rested on the blanket. Beside him, Éowyn of Rohan, the White Lady of Ithilien, slept in a chair, her golden hair tangled with dried blood—not her own, but the Witch-king’s. El Senor de Los Anillos - El Retorno Del Rey Ed...
The Return of the King had truly begun. Would you like a continuation focusing on Aragorn’s coronation, the farewell to the Hobbits, or the journey of the Elves to the Grey Havens? Faramir stared
Aragorn son of Arathorn entered, cloaked in grey and green, but no longer the Ranger. His brow bore no crown, yet he walked like a king who had already chosen his burden. Behind him came Gandalf the White, who nodded to Faramir and quietly woke Éowyn with a whisper. His hand, still bandaged from the arrow that
The black gates of Mordor had fallen. The Eye was no more. A pale, sickly dawn crept over the Pelennor Fields, where the grass was still wet with the blood of Men and Orcs. Smoke rose from the wreckage of siege towers, and the Great Eagles circled the jagged peak of Orodruin, where the Ring had been unmade.
“You would keep me as Steward?” Faramir asked, his voice trembling.