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"Soon only a silver rim will be left. My father says--" Faramir stopped; with the slightest catch in his voice, he carefully spoke again. "My father said the darkness was merely a shadow. The shadow of the earth, though I know that sounds strange." In the pine tree above them, a ghost owl hissed and ruffled its pale feathers. "For years, he studied the patterns of the stars." Wrapped in sable against the wind, Denethor had stood alone in the courtyard, endlessly searching the heavens. What wisdom had his father hoped to find in the black night sky? Eowyn turned from the moon, her face very still; then, drawing near to his warmth, she rested her head against his shoulder. She could feel the muscles drawn tight over bone. "A shadow? I had not heard this. In Rohan, we say a dragon steals the moon,” she said with a laugh. “He hides it in a grave, with his hoard of silver. That earthen hall is heaped with treasure -- rings and cups and ancient swords. But soon, a young warrior, eager for fame, steals life from the thief, slaying the dragon. Then he throws the silver moon back into the sky.” Review: | |||||
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