Deora gingerly ushered her horse back through the main gates of the city limits. She was painfully bruised, her skin littered with both shallow and deep stab wounds.
But somehow, she had remained standing.
Back inside of the walls, the city was a flurry of movement. People had immediately met the army at the entrance, many of them crying in a combination of relief and devastation. They helped to usher both injured and uninjured horses alike back into their stables, while healers and wardens descended on the members of the army themselves. Backboards made of wood were shuffled out in order to carry some of the more dire situations up and into the waiting hands of the Healing Houses.
Deora found herself wandering the streets completely alone, in what could be best described as a daze. She had made sure that her horse had been taken care of, and had clapped arms with some of the Rangers that she could find, in some cases even sharing looks and occasional words of comfort. But ultimately, she ended up by herself. Watching on, unfocused, from the sidelines as people reunited with friends and family, or more often than not, delivered news of their fellow soldiers' deaths.
Like a zombie, and with no particular destination in mind at that moment, she followed the path of the spiraled, cobblestone streets up towards the top layer of the city, slowly but surely closing in on the palace grounds.
Once she broke out onto that level, she had been approached by several different healers. She did her best to wave them off, saying that there were others who needed their skills more than she did, and that her particular injuries would ultimately heal on their own. But they had insisted, and Deora had been on the verge of beginning a verbal altercation, when suddenly, someone had called out her name high above the brewing chaos.
The voice had been soft, yet bold. Like a pleasant breeze in a late springtime afternoon. It cascaded down from the road above, echoing off of the walls to her right before eventually landing in her ear. There, it made a nest, much like a bird would amongst the branches of a tree. A familiar warmth quickly spread throughout her chest as she picked her head up to look over and beyond the shoulders of the group of healers.
Her eyes found the form that was standing at the top of the incline, just a few meters up the road from where she stood. And the moment that they did, her body was immediately rocked with powerful recognition. For she would know him in any light, in any season, in any dark corner of Middle Earth.
It felt as if she hadn't seen his face for an entire year, rather than just a few hours.
But there he was, standing of his own power, his skin shining with new life. His left arm was resting gently in a temporary sling made of white fabric, but otherwise he looked practically unharmed. His eyes were bright, reflecting the sun that had begun to peek out through the clouds above them, and his mouth was parted in what appeared to be some level of relief.
A short breath tumbled out of Deora's throat, and before she knew it, she was pushing past the nurses and tearing up the street herself.
Crashing directly into Faramir, Deora immediately wrapped her arms tightly around his shoulders. Simultaneously taking care not to apply too much pressure against his injured arm, she wound her fingers into the fabric at the top of the light blouse that he had draped over his torso. She felt his body shake with a gasp as he returned her gesture by wrapping his good arm around her waist.
Everything inside of her was screaming not to ever let him go. For she was convinced that this was some sort of hallucination. Certain that her battle-shaken brain had merely conjured up the image of him in some warped attempt to lift her spirits. But as his shoulders rose and fell underneath her chin, that suspicion quickly seeped away, relief filling her body instead.
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Light Under the Shadow of Black Wings
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