Faramir paced in the garden restlessly, every now and then pausing to shoot expectant glances at the house. What a fool you’ve been, he thought to himself. She’s not coming. The waning rays of evening sunlight were languid and tender, giving the weathered stones of the ancient garden fountain an almost honey glow. It seemed as though the entire city was holding its breath. He turned to Merry who was lying lazily in the soft grass.
“Do you think she’ll come?” he asked a little too anxiously. All day he and Merry had talked together, sometimes of Éowyn, sometimes about the Shire, never about the impending reckoning that threatened to doom them all. Merry merely shrugged.
“It’s hard to say. After all that has happened, I’m not sure…”
Faramir sighed. “And I behaved like a total idiot! She came to me, the Steward of Gondor, demanding her freedom and what did I do? I asked her if she would walk with me sometime and told her I thought her beautiful.”
“My lord, if you hadn’t prevented her, she would have jumped back into the saddle and ridden after her brother and the other Captains.”
“I know,” he said smiling dreamily.
At that Merry began to laugh.
“You fancy her something rotten, don’t you!”
“I can’t deny that, and therein lies the problem. I spoke the truth when I exclaimed about her beauty, but that is the last thing she needs to hear. She deserves my respect and admiration and…my understanding. What good are pretty words when they fall on deaf ears? When I first saw her, I was struck by how fair yet distant she seemed, caught in some cruel phantasmagoria that formed a gulf between her and every other creature. She told me she desired the speech of no living man and in her eyes I saw shadows that no athelas could cure. And I must admit, from that single moment I could sense a connection with her…that here was someone who could possibly know…that somehow, we could heal each other…” he trailed off and became silent. It seemed to Merry that Faramir’s face had suddenly grown pale and they looked across to the east where Mordor lay, obsidian dark.

***************************************** Éowyn lay in the bed of the new room that the Steward of Gondor had arranged for her. She did not know what to think of the man; in a way, he frightened her. She was frightened by his kindness and warmth and above all his enthusiastic desire to see her, to know her. She did not want him to know her; she did not want his sunshine smile to become laced with ice, touched by the Shadow that threatened to drown her entirely. He thought her fair, but he didn’t see the dark things she kept inside, the dread, the horror, the lustful longing for a death bathed in blood. The unutterable loneliness…No, she wouldn’t, she’d let him go, he’d find other maidens who would please him and make him happy. After all, he deserved happiness. And she…well, she would die.
It was slowly getting dark; she knew he would be walking in the gardens, waiting for her, feeling hurt that she had not taken his offer to heart. But it was better that way, wasn’t it? Better that she drown without dragging an innocent with her. She would remain as she had remained…alone.
She closed her eyes tightly and tried not to weep. She felt as though she was standing at the top of a great, cold tower and the entire world was at her feet, yet she could not descend. No one was there. Unwillingly, she fell into a restless sleep haunted with the cries of those who had been slain in battle and the shrieking of the relentless Nazgûl.
*****************************************
He awoke with the resolve to forget about her, to not trouble himself with the worries of others, as was commonly his habit to do. He came from the Houses with the full intention of gleaning some news of current events from the Warden, or perhaps to bother Merry for another chat. Nevertheless, when he emerged and saw her standing there, looking out over the walls, dressed in milky white that almost seemed as golden as her hair under the caress of the morning sun, he called her name. It was like a song on his lips. She turned and saw him, but he could not read her face. Her gaze was penetrating, yet not unpleasant. Almost longing. He dared not hope. He couldn’t help but smile.
“My lady, I thank you for the gift of your presence.”
She said nothing, but joined him and they strolled the garden together. After a long while, she spoke, her eyes averted.
“And I would like to thank you, my lord, for arranging for my room to be changed.”
“Nonsense, it was nothing. Please, call me Faramir. You are no man’s vassal, White Lady of the House of Eorl.”
Her face darkened and he remembered Gandalf’s words, of the secret shame she felt over her lineage. Once again he cursed his own thoughtlessness. He stopped in front of an old tree, twisted and bent with the weight of the centuries.
“I used to read under this tree, when I was a boy. My mother used to sing to me here and tell me the names of the stars in the ancient tongue of Valinor that they used to whisper in the land of her birth. In my mind I can hear her voice, rich and sad, yet I can not summon her face. She died when I was scarcely five years old. But here the tree stands, ever ageless, just as it was thirty years ago, though all the world has changed. The great irony of our lives.”
To his great surprise, she was now looking directly into his eyes, transfixed yet almost fearful, as if he would in the next moment disappear.
“Yes, Éowyn, I too have known death. I too have walked hand in hand with black shadows and cold dreams. And I know I can’t go on with this great burden inside of me and neither can you. Talk to me, Éowyn.”
Thick tears trailed down her face and for once she was not ashamed of them. With all her soul she wanted to submit to him, pour away her grief, lay out the events of her life like worn trinkets for him to see.
“I can’t,” she whispered, “Not yet…”
“Then I will talk to you.”
She sighed in relief.
“Yes. Please. I want so desperately to listen.”