Prologue:  The Healer

Aragorn was relieved when he heard the soft rustle of chain mail moving; she had begun to breathe deeply. Her left hand that lay slack in his felt warm now with life returning. The damage to her shield-arm was terrible to see, deep purple bruising, and the darknesslayupon her heavy and threatening. The Black Breath wrought a frigid shadow on the Shieldmaiden like a weight of black ice. So different from the last that he had tended.

***

In a dark cloak, Aragorn had been led to the Houses of Healing by Ioreth, who spoke to him with a manner that was both urgent and garrulous. He was led to the back chambers, where those who had lain ill had been there longest.

Ioreth murmured, "Alas that Faramir should die, who would be our Lord of the City."

Before Aragorn's eyes came the pale, shivering image of Boromir, whom he had watched die; he remembered the light flying from his ever-vibrant green eyes. But it was merely a moment, and the Dúnedain Ranger focused on the man before him, laid out on the sickbed. Here was the strong profile of the House of Húrin, the fair hair of Finduilas, and two staunched arrow wounds, but he was drenched with sweat—or so it seemed. When he took the sick man's hand and held the other upon his brow, Aragorn realized that Faramir was covered with fire oil. Though his touch was light, Aragorn felt the burning of unabating fever.

After a bit of fuss over obtaining a few leaves of Athelas—" 'tis a common weed, my Lord!"—Aragorn called Faramir back from beneath the wings of shadow; but he said nothing when the younger man's gaze found the leather vambraces that he had watched his brother strap on in Osgiliath. Aragorn knew who needed his skills next.

***

Now Éowyn slowly opened her eyes, lashes lifting wearily. Her fingers tensed on Aragorn's hand. She stared up at him briefly, and he saw that the infatuation had died in her eyes, and left them dark and without hope. He looked at her only a moment longer, and saw that she still harbored despair. Aragorn only whispered, "Awake, Éowyn, Lady of Rohan. The shadow is gone, and all darkness is washed clean." He released her hand and rose with a respectful bow of the head. He then passed silently from the room to tend others, thinking especially of Merry.

"Éowyn, Éowyn!" Éomer sobbed as he knelt closer, taking her good hand and kissing her on the cheek.

With a measure of faint joy, she said, "Éomer! I feared you were slain."

Chapter I:  A Window to Dreams

Éowyn didn't remember falling asleep, just the rich fragrance of lavender permeating the chamber, and the pain of her arm dulled.

But she did remember the dreams. The nightmares.

She was watching the sun rise in Dunharrow. "I would have you smile again ... You shall live to see these days renewed ... No more despair." Her uncle's words echoed across her mind. I cannot, uncle, she wanted to cry out, but no words came to her. But right before her, he aged beyond comprehension, becoming again like the rotted being upon the throne of Meduseld, with shriveled skin, wisps of white hair, and blank eyes. She could not catch him as he tumbled to the ground, and was engulfed in darkness. All images faded, and shadow fell. She stood upon the brink once more; but when she tried to turn towards the light behind her, she found herself moving forward, and falling into the black abyss.

Éowyn jerked awake with a sharp gasp. Stinging pain raced up her bandaged left arm. The covers were twisted, and she was cold. She sat up, steadied her breathing, and loosened them, then lay back down, and shut her eyes.

Just a dream. Go back to sleep. Dawn is not for a few more hours.

But she could not find slumber again. She opened her eyes, and rose from the bed. These stone Gondorian rooms were so much more austere, so unlike the gilded wood in Edoras. The stone floor was cold on her bare feet. She crossed the room to the window, where silvery moonlight streamed in. Again, an ache raced through her injured arm. Éowyn looked down at the neatly-wrapped dressing, and took her left hand in her right. The throbbing subsided; she looked up across the small courtyard. Towards the west.

***

Faramir could no longer stand the stillness of his chamber. He walked aimlessly through the Houses of Healing. Though the spring air warmed him, his heart was heavy. He did not need to hear the new deference when he was addressed, nor see the bows in his direction, to know that his father was dead. No one spoke of it; but Faramir could still see his father’s oil-soaked face wreathed in smoke, and framed by tongues of flame. If he listened, he could hear Denethor’s agonized screams.

No! Faramir shook it off; there was no use dwelling upon such things tonight. His mind wandered back over the evening.

He had been brought back by the king. There had been no question about it; when he saw the careworn man, cloaked, wise with many winters, he knew he would serve him until his end. But when Faramir strove furtively to get a better glance at the Ring of Barahir, he saw the vambraces upon the king’s forearms: the very same tooled leather pieces that he had given to Boromir as a parting gift before he departed to search for Imladris. Yet Faramir did not begrudge the king such. Instead he thought of it as an honor to his brother’s memory.

"My king, you have called me. What is your command?" The cloaked man was taken aback for a moment, but then he bid Faramir to take some rest.

Some time had passed before Faramir felt the need to look about. He had refused an escort, nor a crutch. So Ioreth redressed his wounds, and bid him to seek help immediately should he feel at all ill.

The sight of the Healing Houses grieved him, for it was full of wounded that need tending, and the healers were weary, but would not cease their efforts. Faramir saw many Gondorian soldiers with their plate armour removed, but also many fair-haired Rohirrim. So Rohan had come to their aid, and suffered losses rivaling their own.

Faramir sought out the Rangers, and learned the fate of the two hundred souls that accompanied him to Osgiliath. He sat tiredly on a bench beside Mablung’s bed; his mentor, Madril, and so many more were all dead.

Mablung, who’d been injured during the retreat, said to him, "My Lord,"—no longer simply "Captain"— "remember what your brother told us after every battle: Don’t carry the weight of the dead, for it is a heavy burden."

A soft breeze kicked up, drawing him back to the present. In the small courtyard, he stood beside a stone column, and placed his hand on it’s smooth surface.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a gleam of white in the darkness. He turned, and saw a fair woman standing at the window; she appeared to be looking down at something. Ah, it was her left hand. Faramir saw that it was bandaged. She was hurt.

And even before she met his eyes, he perceived her sorrow and unrest. For the clear sight of Númenor, gave the gift to read the hearts of those around him. In Henneth Annûn, he had known that the creature Frodo had called Sméagol was a murderer, and he knew now that this lady’s heart was full of loss.

But she was fairer than any flower or maiden he had ever seen in Gondor. Her face was white by the light of the moon, and her hair was a curtain of pale gold. Suddenly, she looked up from her hand to him. It seemed to him that her loveliness amid her grief would pierce his heart. His hand fell from the column as he looked at her.

Though he was filled with pity, he smiled. And wondered who she was.

***

Éowyn carefully gave no expression. Who was this man? He was clad simply, with a dressing plainly visible beneath his tunic, the collar unlaced. He must be just another wounded Gondorian soldier from the siege. She saw him smile tenderly, his eyes blue as the Eastfold skies, then give her a respectful nod and turn away. She went back to her bed, and didn’t see the thoughtful glance he cast back at her window.

Chapter II:  The Steward of the City

Faramir had awaken the next morning in a sweat. He did not remember what nightmares may have plagued his sleep, but he suspected they involved fire. He bathed to rid himself of the oil that still clung to his flesh. Last night, Iorlas, the Captain of the Citadel Guard and his good friend, had brought him a trunk of fresh clothes from his chambers in the city. Now, Faramir opened the trunk, and took a long green tunic trimmed in black with the emblem of the twin ravens. He also found new boots and trousers. Once dressed, he touched the sleeve, the light, soft velvets so different from the wool, leather, and oilskin of his ranger gear. He also missed the familiar weight of his sword hanging from his belt.

As he walked to the garden, he was greeted by many with "Good morning, my Lord." Even Curutir, the Warden of the Houses, was madly deferential, though he insisted yet upon the keeping of Faramir for several days.

Faramir remembered the misty days of his youth when a young boy, a child really, waited with his brother for news of their mother’s health. He traced a path around the small fountain, then along the walls, looking out over the Pelennor. The grass was stained with blood, and a great burning pile gave off thick smoke. Faramir though he could see the twisted silhouette of a fell beast being consumed. Some time later, as he stood upon the wall, he heard a voice call his name.

"My Lord Faramir? Here is the Lady Éowyn of Rohan."

Turning, he saw Curutir coming from the Houses. He also saw the lady beside the Warden, head held proudly, clad in white, her hair a curtain of gold.

***

Éowyn stood still. Of course she recognized him. This was the humble soldier with gentle blue eyes who had seen her at her window? She remembered what the Warden had said to her: "The Lord Faramir is by right the Steward of the City." He looked the part more so today, his green cloth finely embroidered with an intricate black trim, his posture that of a noble warrior, and his face stern.

He walked toward them, listening gravely as the Warden told him of her predicament. More than once, his gaze flickered between the older man and her. She interrupted, saying, "Understand, my Lord, I am not upset by lack of care. I only wish to be released from this cage, and rejoin the battle."

Faramir dismissed the Warden, but said nothing. She continued with a backward glance at Curutir‘s retreating form. "I looked for death in battle, but did not find it."

"My lady, I myself am in the Warden’s keeping, and have not taken my authority yet. But even if I had the power, I would still listen to his counsel. For death in battle may find us all yet, whether we would seek it or not; we would be best prepared when fully healed."

Éowyn opened her mouth to give one more feeble protest, but decided against it, instead whispering, "But I cannot even see any tidings from the East; my window does not face the Dark Land. And I am barred from leaving my chamber."

"That can be remedied," said Faramir kindly. "I will bid Curutir the Warden to give you leave to walk these gardens, if you will, my lady. Here you can look East, while thelight endures." She moved as if to bow curtly and depart, but he spoke again. "And here shall you also find me, walking and waiting, and also looking east. It would ease my care if you would speak to me, or walk at whiles with me."

She turned back to him, and looked up at him, colour rising in her cheeks. "How do you mean, Lord?"

"Éowyn of Rohan, I tell you that you are beautiful; more lovely and sorrowful than any I have seen in Gondor. It would ease my heart, if while the Sun yet shines, I could see you still. For you and I have both been drawn from beneath the Shadow’s wings by the same healing hand."

She looked at him sharply, face still flushed, and eyes bright and keen as a steel blade. "Not me, Lord! Shadows still lie upon me. I am a shieldmaiden, and my hand is ungentle. But I thank you that I will not be caged, but walk free by the grace of the Steward of the City." Then she did bow her head, and walk swiftly back into the Houses.

Chapter III:  Interlude at the Last Debate

Aragorn waited in the court. It hadn’t changed since Thorongil advised the Steward Ecthelion II nigh on forty years ago. Gandalf hadn’t arrived yet; Legolas and Gimli had taken an early walk through the lower levels of the city to survey the damage from the Siege.

Footsteps echoed in the long hall of black and white stone. Aragorn turned to see Éomer, looking around in uncertainty tinged by awe. The future king of Rohan passed each cold statue in silence, before reaching the living man near the high throne. Aragorn could see that he was troubled. He was shifting nervously, and there was a glint of worry in his hazel eyes.

"What ails you, Éomer?" Aragorn placed his hand comfortingly on the third marshal’s tooled red leather pauldron.

Éomer let out a shaky sigh and looked at Aragorn. "My sister has awakened to health—but not to hope. She is not fully healed, is she?"

Aragorn looked away. "I cannot bring the healing she needs. It must come from another."

Éomer nodded. Just then, the gates opened, and a wizard, an elf, and a dwarf entered.

Chapter IV:  Cloaked in Stars

A vivid flash of light erupted soundlessly from the Court of the Kings. But quicker than a blink of the eye, it was gone. But it was enough for Faramir to stop in his walk.

Days had passed, and just that afternoon, Curutir judged that he was healed enough to take up the Stewardship; which Faramir did so, taking the brief Vow of Mardil, heartened at the words that he should only rule until the king should return. So near, yet it had never been so far.

He had spent the evening looking over damage reports, military reports, and much more of the city’s vital documentation in his father’s study. The place had an overwhelming sense of Denethor, proud and masterful. Faramir still felt like an intruding child. The feeling evaporated when his hand fell upon a sudden soft cloth. Lifting it, and upon further inspection, he recognized it. It was the mantle of Finduilas.

Holding the heavy fabric, he recalled his few, faded memories of loveliness. His mother, gentle-voiced, telling him of the sea with both reverence and familiarity. Clad in the mantle, watching the stars in loving silence. Almost coppery golden curls and dark green eyes. He also remembered his first grief: the sadness that rarely left her face, the last days of her waning in sickness, Boromir holding his hand, refusing to cry, and the affection dying in his father’s face.

Faramir carefully gathered the folds of the mantle, and left the study. It was time for a different lady to be cloaked in stars.

With one last, curious look toward the Court, he continued to the Houses of Healing.

***

Éowyn moved through the garden like a ghost. She wrapped her arms around herself in the crisp night. She was full of conflict. Her desire for death was quailing, and thoughts of the Lord Aragorn left only bitterness in their wake. Yet despair oft would close in about her.

And what of Faramir? The Steward of the City. They had spent many days together, oft talking, sometimes simply enjoying the presence of the other. Éowyn learned much, for Faramir hid little when he spoke to her, which she secretly delighted in. For long had she been given half-truths, whether because she was a child or a woman. Faramir acquainted her to the history of Gondor; he told anecdotes of his brother in childhood; described his years as a ranger, his encounter with the hobbits, and many other things. Yet he proved to be a valuable listener, as well, easily fascinated by her stories from Rohan. She did her best to describe the seasons in the Eastfold, the sharp winds in Edoras, the recent battle, even teaching some of her language. As she thought of him, she realized that she had missed him, and was lonely, lonely as she had been in Meduseld when the decline of the House of Eorl seemed certain. But no more. Her uncle had risen from ash to glory.

She turned as she heard a footstep behind her. "Are you not cold, my lady?" Faramir asked politely.

"I am from the North, my Lord. This is nigh on summer weather," she replied, her face grave, but eyes kind. He laughed; they had developed a light banter over the days. But a wind out of the North gusted, and she shivered visibly.

"Still," he said, "I have a gift for you—to help ward off the chill." And he unfurled the bundle he’d been carrying.

"I cannot take this," she whispered, touching one of the stars. He insisted upon it, and wrapped it around her, touching her shoulders through the mantle.

"Please accept it; it would not suit any other," Faramir implored. Seeing her now, he thought he was beside a queen who faced the North wind defiantly.

"What do you look for, Éowyn?"

"Does not the Black Gate lie yonder? For thither he will go on the morrow." To face battle more hopeless than on the fields of the Pelennor, heir to the throne.

"On the morrow," repeated Faramir quietly. "Then we will find that the world will be changed forever. For better or worse. Should the tree bloom again, or the great wave cover all the lands. But I would not have this world end now, nor lose so soon what I have found."

"I do not know what you have found that could be so easily lost," she murmured. "But let us not speak of it."

As they stood in silence, the firestorm of Mordor raged.

Chapter V:  The Captain and the White Lady

When Faramir reached the garden the next morning, she was already there. A wind had sprung up, and blew through her flaxen hair. It also rippled the length of the starry mantle. As blue as a summer night, spangled over with tiny silvery stars, clustered heavily about the trim, which was like an elegantly-worked ribbon of gold. It draped gracefully from her shoulders. He walked toward her, his casual pace concealing his anticipation of her presence. Her voice rang out in the still.

"The city has fallen silent." Her voice was grim, and she didn’t move, watching the Host of the West marching steadily from the gates of Minas Tirith.

"There is no warmth left in the sun … it grows so cold," she said mournfully, as a maiden young and sad.

He reached her side, and looked not to the soldiers, but to the lands. The intermittent showers last night had washed much of the blood from the Pelennor, and the grasses were growing green again. Despite the solemn burning of the dead, he could no longer smell the fell fire at every moment, but plants reviving, and life returning. "It’s just the damp of the first spring rain."

She turned her head, and raised her eyes to his.

He spoke in a tender half-whisper, "I do not believe this darkness will endure."

His long gaze searched hers, and he felt a breath of warmth meet the chill in her heart … and prevail. Encouraged, Faramir slipped his hand into hers. He felt her close her grip, at first shyly, then firmly. Something in her softened, and a smile tugged doggedly at her lips. When she smiled, she was indeed fairer than even the foliage of spring in Ithilien. A Child of the Plains she was, but her eyes were blue-grey as the sea. He returned her smile, then she drew close and laid her head on his shoulder, her face against the midnight blue velvet he wore. Faramir lightly rested his cheek against her hair, and closed his eyes, lost in the softness and faint fragrance of her locks.

Time flitted by, but Éowyn and Faramir forgot about the departure of the Host, the return of the King, the burning in the field, only that they stood together upon the walls, supporting each other wordlessly, the wind blowing their hair, chestnut and golden. Faramir didn’t want it to end, until another voice broke the serenity.

"My Lord?"

Faramir reluctantly looked up, and saw Iorlas, left to lead the City Troops in defense of the broken gates. He bowed, and said, "My Lord Steward, the Council awaits you in the Court."

Éowyn drew away, and Faramir said, "Thank you, Iorlas."

The Captain bowed again, and left. The Steward sighed, and released Éowyn’s hand. But he touched her shoulder gently, and kissed her brow. "Then I take my leave, Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan."

She smiled again, this time sadly. "Very well, my Lord."

Chapter VI:  Days Renewed

Faramir heard the poignant laughter of many voices spilling from the Ringbearer’s chamber. He hoped to see Frodo finally awake later. But he didn’t skip a beat as he strode toward the garden. Curutir had spoken to him of concern for the Lady Éowyn’s health, which had faded like a budding flower under frost. He had not seen her in days, being busy with many matters. As he reached the garden, he saw the sun streaming gold behind her, casting her silhouette in shadow.

"Good morning, my lady."

She looked at him, and saw that he was garbed in raven black, emblazoned with a silver tree burst into flower. "Good morning, my lord."

When the sun sailed behind a cloud, he saw that her face was dreadfully pale and sorrowful once more. He went to her, and said, "There is much rejoicing in the City. Your brother has sent for you. He would see you healed and safe."

She nodded, but said nothing. He ventured to take her hand, holding it with both of his. Softly he asked, "Éowyn, why do you stay here still?"

"Do you not know?" she answered, looking away. Dunharrow came before her once more. It is a shadow and a thought …

"I’m not sure," Faramir said honestly, looking down at their intertwined hands. "Éowyn, do you not love me, or will you not?

Her proud head drooped a little. "I wished to be loved by another," then, with a flash of stubborn anger, "But I don’t want any man’s pity."

"I know," he said. "You wished to be loved by the Lord Aragorn, who seemed to you far above the mean things that crawl the earth, a hope of glory and your own ambition for renown. And he recognized the strength in you. But when he gave you only understanding and pity, then you desired to have nothing, unless a brave death in battle. Look at me, Éowyn!"

She lifted her chin, and looked at him long and steadily. And when she met his gaze, she could not break from it, as he laid bare the truth. "Do not scorn pity that is the gift of a gentle heart, Éowyn! But I do not offer you my pity. For you are a lady brave and valiant, and have won unforgettable renown. And you are a lady more beautiful than the Elven-tongue can tell. Once, I pitied your sorrow, but now I love you. And even if you were the regal Queen of Gondor, crowned beside another, still I would love you. But do you not love me?"

Long moments passed, during which neither moved. Faramir still held her hand between his, and stroked the back with his thumb. She breathed lightly, and he saw his words ricochet inside her. But after an eternity, she released a deep sigh, and a loving smile broke over her face. And all the grief that had weighed her heart down fell away. "Here in the Tower of the Sun, the Shadow has departed! No longer do I wish to be a queen."

Faramir laughed merrily. "That is well, for I am not a king."

Then must I leave my own people, Man of Gondor?" she said teasingly. "And would you have your proud folk say of you: ‘There goes a lord who tamed a wild shieldmaiden of the North! Was there no woman of the race of Númenor to choose?’"

There was a sparkle in his eye when he answered, "I would."

Before she could react, he took her in his arms and kissed her under the sunlit sky, in plain view of many, upon the walls, bathed in golden light.

Epilogue:  The King

The King Elessar made his way down past the fountain of the White Tree, in full blossom after all these long years. White petals floated down through the spring air. On both sides of his path, everyone bowed reverently to him. He made the briefest of pauses before a pair of familiar faces. At his right was the Steward of Gondor and the White Lady of Rohan, flanked by Rohirric Royal Guards and Rangers of Ithilien. Faramir was clad in deep blue edged with fine silver in the form of Ithilien flowers; at his side Éowyn stood in gold, glowing with joy like the Sun Herself. They bowed in unison to him.

Aragorn felt his heart healed as he saw the bliss on Éowyn’s face when she clasped Faramir’s hand. After greeting Éomer and Legolas, he found his own bliss behind a silver standard.