Faramir's condition had not changed. Ioreth had wiped his brow and packed him in cold, damp towels, and had even gone so far as to open a window, but his fever still raged. At least she had been able to clean the oil off of him. Ioreth's grief at the death of the old Steward had been nearly matched by her fury at what he had attempted to do to his son. "He is very sick, and will likely die of the Black Breath upon him," she had grumbled to one of the other women in the Houses of Healing, "but that does not confer on anyone the right to kill him. If he is to die, at least let him die his own death in his own time."

Privately, Ioreth did not hold out much hope for this child she had helped to catch thirty-five years earlier. Even if he managed the impossible and woke from the influence of the Black Breath, she feared that the shock of learning of his father's last actions and his final doom would kill him. Perhaps it was better that he slept.

Faramir breathed raggedly, each breath rattling in his chest. Ioreth wiped the sweat from his brow. Faramir murmured something that she could not make out, and she ran her hand gently through his damp hair. He stilled under her caress, and the rattling in his chest eased. Ioreth bent down enough to assure herself that Faramir's breathing had not stopped entirely, and then an idea came to her.

When she was a little girl, her grandmother had taught her how to make a sweet-smelling poultice that eased breathing when placed on a sick person's chest. She was almost certain that there was still some store of the particular herbs she needed, and she rose from Faramir's bed and went into the storage room to collect her ingredients. She was in the middle of measuring them out when strange voices called to her. She hurried from the storage room to see Prince Imrahil and the wizard Mithrandir standing near Faramir's bed along with the Halfling, one of the Guards of the Citadel, the new young King of the Rohirrim and the strange, grim-faced chieftain of the Dúnedain.

He opened his eyes and beheld a man's face. For a moment, he thought it was his father gazing upon him with warm, kindly eyes. Then, as his vision cleared, he realized that it was not his father, but one who looked very much like him. This man's face was lined with weariness, but there was great love in his eyes, and he seemed happy to see Faramir. With the last of his fading dream, Faramir perceived an aura about this man such as he had only seen on the cold stone statues in the throne room. He knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that this man was a King, and that he had returned to Gondor. Faramir looked into the King's loving eyes and managed a smile as he greeted his new lord.

Faramir stared at the ceiling as the great lords filed out of his chamber. The world tilted, and he clutched at his blanket, hoping that this was not merely another level of dream. Something thumped against his bed, and he turned his head to see his friend Beregond's little boy Bergil grinning at him.

"Lord Faramir, you are alive!" Bergil crowed. "When Pippin and my father brought you in, everyone said you were half dead and that the other half was not far behind, and I was very sad that you would die. But then Father said that he had not fought off the murderers for nothing and that he would find someone to heal you if he had to search the entire city."

"Bergil, enough," came Beregond's voice. "Such news ought to be broken gently." He knelt down beside Faramir's bed and clasped one of Faramir's hands between his own. "Your flesh is cooler now, my Lord," he said. "Your fever has broken. My Lord and friend has returned, and I am glad."

Something about Beregond's speech did not seem quite right. Faramir tried to speak but found his throat already sore from greeting the King. Beregond heard his croaks and reached for his water skin. He supported Faramir's head as he dribbled a little of the water into Faramir's mouth. The water was warm and tasted of leather and smoke, but Faramir did not mind. It was wet and soothed his throat. After he had swallowed, he could speak a little.

"When have I ever been 'my Lord' to you, Beregond?" he asked. "On the field, I am a captain, and I am not your captain in any event. I had thought we were beyond titles."

Beregond was silent and would not meet Faramir's eyes. Bergil sat down in a corner, and Faramir noticed for the first time the haunted look of the boy's face. Something was wrong; he could feel it in the pit of his stomach. At last, Beregond seemed to come to a decision. He raised his head and fixed his gaze firmly on Faramir.

"My Lo -- Faramir," he said. "What is the last thing you remember?"

Faramir wrinkled his forehead in thought. He could feel that he had slept long, and it was difficult to separate memory from dream. "There was a battle. Something hit me. Then all was dark. I wandered for a long time on strange paths. I think that I heard my father's voice, but I am not certain of that. There was fire -- no, that is but the memory of a dream. I dreamed that I floated . . . " Faramir's voice trailed off, and Beregond offered him another sip of warm, smoky water.

"There was a fire," he said gently. "Though I did my best to prevent it. The House of the Stewards in Rath Dínen has burned, and Lord Denethor perished in the flames. By rights, you are now the Steward of Gondor." Faramir found that his hands were shaking. He scrabbled blindly at the bedclothes, searching for something to anchor him in this horribly changed world. Beregond offered his hand, and Faramir clutched it tightly.

"Father cannot be dead," he protested. "I have waited for him for so long. Mithrandir -- Mithrandir told me -- I did not even have a chance to bid him farewell. I would have done that, Beregond, you know that I would have."

Yes," Beregond said, and his face darkened. "You would have. I have always admired your strength in loving him. I only wish -- I only wish that he . . ."

"There is more to your tale yet, is there not?" Faramir asked. Beregond's face took on a pained expression, and he nodded. He tightened his hand around Faramir's.

"Your father loved you, my friend," he said. "In his final madness, his last thoughts were of you. He thought you dead, and he did not wish to live without the son he loved. He resolved to die along with you and to let your bodies be consumed by fire."

"But I am not dead." Comprehension began to dawn in Faramir. "Bergil said that you fought off murderers. Beregond, my father . . . what did he do?"

"He built a pyre for himself and for you, and he ordered that you and he should both burn upon it. I held off the torchbearers while the Halfling Peregrin ran for aid, for we knew that you still lived. I did things -- I did things that I am ashamed of, and I will not speak of them now. But Mithrandir arrived in time, and you were spared, though we could not save the Lord Denethor."

With that, everything that Faramir had thought was true about the world vanished. He gave a wordless cry, and then he was falling into a dark, welcoming world where there was no pain or grief or horror.

When he woke for the second time, sunshine was filtering in through the curtains over the window. Beregond and Bergil were both gone, and Faramir was alone. He thought about that, and a sudden jolt of terror shook his body. With his father's death, he really was alone. His mother had been dead thirty years, and now Boromir and Denethor were dead as well. There was no one left to console him over the destruction of his family. Faramir had always been very physically affectionate ever since he was small, and this realization that there was no one left who would hold him was even more terrifying than the idea that he was now the Steward of Gondor. It was matched only by the horrible thought that he had nearly died at his father's hands.

In his panic, he could think of only one thing he wanted. Somewhere, back in the Citadel, was his old blue pillow that he had loved as a child. He was sure that if he could hold it again, it would ease his grief and loneliness. Spurred on by this desire, he rolled over and crawled out of the bed, intending to walk back to the Citadel and find it.

He had not gone three steps before his knees buckled and he crashed to the floor. Ioreth must have heard him fall, for as he knelt dazed on the floor, she rushed into the room and helped him back into the bed. "My Lord, you should not be out of bed until tomorrow," she chided gently. "Especially after that shock you received. That Guardsman should not have told you anything; the wizard Mithrandir left special instructions about that. But he left them with the Warden, and by the time he returned to your chamber, that fool Guard had --"

"I had to get up. I wanted my blue pillow."

"What is the blue pillow, my Lord? Tell me and I will have it fetched here directly."

Faramir felt his cheeks flame with embarrassment at having to confide such a wish. "It is an old blue pillow. It must be quite ragged by now. I had it when I was a child. I do not know where it is now. It may be in my suite, or perhaps it is still in the old nursery."

Ioreth nodded understandingly. "I will find a footman," she said. "There are still a few loyal old servants left in the City. Surely one of them will be able to find the pillow my Lord seeks. But my Lord must promise not to get up again until the Warden allows it." Faramir nodded, and Ioreth stepped into the hall to summon a messenger.

In due time, someone located the blue pillow and delivered it to the Houses of Healing. It was smaller than Faramir remembered it, and it had faded, but it was still recognizable as his blue pillow. Faramir thanked the messenger who had brought it, then clasped it against the ache in his chest as he curled up in his sickbed.

"Do you think she will rouse him?" Ioreth asked the Warden as they watched Éowyn of Rohan converse with Faramir in the garden.

"I hope that she does," the Warden answered. " I hope for his sake, so that he may find something to distract him from the shadow over his heart. I hope for her sake, so that she may have someone to listen to her desires. And I hope for my sake, so that I do not have to endure her restlessness any longer."

"All three worthy goals," Ioreth chuckled. She, too, worried for the new Steward. Although Faramir had risen from his bed as soon as he was permitted to do so, his appetite had been poor, and he had become quiet and withdrawn, wandering aimlessly in the gardens and looking eastward. Much as she wished to help her Steward, Ioreth could coax no more than a few words from him at a time. When she watched over Faramir at night, she was frightened at the hollows under his eyes. She did not want the Steward to waste away from grief, and she hoped with all her heart that this cantankerous shieldmaiden of the North could rouse Faramir from his isolation.

She did not hear what Éowyn had to say to Faramir, nor he to her, but she could see the way Faramir's body straightened and his movement became more animated. When the conversation seemed to become more intimate, Ioreth slipped away to give them a measure of privacy, grateful to the White Lady for restoring some life to her charge's face.

Faramir found that he looked forward to walking in the garden now that Éowyn came regularly to walk with him. At first they did not speak much, but concentrated on adapting to their newfound companionship. Éowyn's broken arm was in a sling, and sometimes she would forget to adjust her balance and stumble. Faramir made sure he was there to steady her, and reveled in the thrill that ran through his body when he touched her. In turn, when a fresh bout of grief seized at Faramir's heart, Éowyn stayed near him and took his hand.

Slowly, they began to converse. Éowyn spoke of her grief for her uncle, killed on the field of battle and her worry for her brother who had ridden off to the Black Gates for the last desperate stand. Faramir spoke of Boromir, but he could not bring himself to tell Éowyn about his father. She never pressed the issue, trusting that he would speak of Denethor when the time was right for him to do so.

Sometimes, when Éowyn looked at him, the ghost of a smile would flit across her face, and then Faramir was sure that she was the loveliest lady he had ever seen. He longed to see her give a real smile, sure that she would melt his heart with her beauty. And there was something else about Éowyn that appealed to him as well. For the first time in his life, Faramir felt that he had found an equal. She was of noble rank, but always in second place. She, too, had an older brother that she loved. She was an orphan, as he had become. They had both passed under the Shadow and were recovering from its effects.

"It is as though we are two halves of the same wound," he told Lord Peredur, who was recovering from an arrow wound in his side. "It seems as though we are healing together."

"I am glad to hear it, my Lord," Peredur said. "In these days of Shadow, it is best that we take what joy we may, and you have long been in need of joy. Already there is more color in your face. Now, come along to the dining hall. Ioreth has asked Meriadoc the Halfling to join us at dinner once more. I think he does you good as well."

That was true. Even with his limited experience of Halflings, Faramir could see that they took mealtimes seriously, not merely eating what was set before them, but relishing and prolonging the meal until it was almost a social occasion in and of itself. Watching Merry eat had stimulated Faramir's own appetite, and once Ioreth had discovered this, she had ensured that Merry became a fixture at the Steward's table each night.

Merry also seemed to be a great friend of Éowyn, and he cheerfully recounted all that he knew of her. He told the tale of Dernhelm's battle with the Witch King, which Faramir had not yet heard in full. Faramir was amazed to hear it, for it seemed to him that the White Lady of Rohan had lived an adventure worthy of the legends he loved to read. The more he knew of her, the more he loved her, and he wished that she could stay by his side forever.

One night, Ioreth appeared at the table with Éowyn in tow. "She has been dining alone in her chambers," Ioreth said, "and that is hardly fitting for a lady of such charm and wit as this one. Tonight she asked once more that a tray be brought to her, and I refused. 'Not tonight, Lady,' I said. 'Tonight you will eat with your friends and take cheer even as you bring them joy.' Here now is the lady who will grace this table."

Faramir would have smiled at the blush that reddened Éowyn's face, but he could feel the heat creeping into his own. Merry laughed for both of them as he slid over to make room for Éowyn. The beginning of the meal was somewhat awkward, as Éowyn could not handle both knife and fork, but Peredur broke the tension.

"Behold," he said. "Here among us is a lady of such valor and renown that brave knights vie with each other for the honor of cutting her meat. Which will you choose, my Lady? Master Meriadoc Brandybuck, Holdwine of the Mark and esquire of the late King Théoden, or Lord Faramir, Steward of Gondor, a soldier valiant and high-hearted?"

At that, Éowyn's blush deepened, and she tried unsuccessfully to smother a giggle with her good hand. "I choose Faramir," she said, winking at Merry. "For I have already seen Merry's prowess with a knife, and I would now judge how the Steward handles a blade." Merry and Peredur laughed. Faramir placed his hand over his heart and inclined his head.

"Gladly will I assist you," he said. "But to Merry I would award the second prize. Give him the honor to butter your bread, Lady."

"I will grant it," said Éowyn, "for you have proved yourself a spirit both kind and noble." Their gazes locked, and Faramir found himself so entranced that he did not notice Merry and Peredur nudging each other and winking.

The following day, all the bells of Minas Tirith rang out in celebration of victory. All the residents of the Houses of Healing, whether mobile or not, turned out for the celebration, for they now knew that their sacrifices had not been in vain. The Warden of the Houses of Healing declared Faramir well enough to return to the Citadel and take up his authority as Steward. He bade Éowyn farewell and escorted Merry to the great convoy that was heading for the Field of Cormallen. Finally, he could put it off no longer.

Filled with trepidation, Faramir approached what he still considered to be Denethor's chair. Lord Peredur and Húrin of the Keys stood at either side, waiting for him. For a moment, he stood frozen, staring at the chair. It had never been intended for him, and he felt foolish, as if at any moment, Boromir would reappear and claim what was rightfully his. But Boromir was dead, and the Stewardship of Gondor was now in Faramir's untrained hands. He could not let his brother down. Taking a deep breath, he seated himself. Húrin produced a white rod from behind his back.

"It is not the original Rod of the Stewardship," he said. "That burned with Denethor. But here is a replacement. May it stand you in better stead than did its predecessor." Húrin knelt down before Faramir and placed the rod in his hand. "Keep thou the Stewardship of Gondor until such time as the King doth return," he said formally. Then he smiled. "I do not think that will be very long at all. But until then, you are the Steward. What do you command?"

Faramir rose from his chair and circled around it to look up at the great dais where the throne sat empty as it had for centuries. "Let the throne be cleaned," he said. "I am sure it is dusty, and it wants polishing. It ought to be reupholstered as well. I cannot imagine that the cushions are in any shape to be used at the moment."

Peredur and Húrin nodded. "As you command, Lord Faramir," Húrin said. Faramir considered what else should be done that day.

"Clean my father's chambers as well," he said. "Find new bed linens and different furniture befitting a King. He will be returning to live among us now, and he should be made welcome."

"What of Lord Boromir's chambers?" Peredur asked delicately.

"Leave those as they are now. I will go through them myself once I can find the strength in my heart for such a task."

After he had set the first preparations for the King's arrival in motion, Faramir summoned Peredur to his side. "Please, walk with me," he said. "I have one more duty that I must perform this day, and I would have a friend at my side."

They walked together in silence through the sunny streets until they came to the door of Fen Hollen. Faramir drew forth the key that Beregond had left for him and unlocked the door. Slowly, they approached the ruins of the House of Stewards. Despite the warmth of the day, Faramir shivered. Followed by Peredur, he scrambled over the ruins until he came to the center.

"This is the spot," Peredur said. "It was at the center of the House. You can see that the blaze burned hottest here."

Faramir nodded and began to sort through the rubble. Something gleamed in the sunshine. Faramir dug around it with his hands and pulled out a black glass globe. "What is this?"

Peredur's breath caught in his throat. "That is a palantír," he said. "It is some sort of a seeing-stone. Your father held it as he died. I do not think you should handle it. Mithrandir said that it was the source of Denethor's madness."

"This is the answer to many riddles, I think," Faramir said. "Boromir and I knew that there was something evil in his study. I think this was that something. I do not think it is so dangerous now, though." He sat down on a chunk of rock and peered into the stone.

Faramir sat back. He did not speak for a few minutes. Finally, he handed the palantír to Peredur. "This will be given to the King," he said. "For I wish to have nothing further to do with it." Peredur nodded and wrapped it in his cloak. He began to pick his way back out of the ruins. Faramir lingered behind for a moment. He chose a spot as near to the center of the mess as he could find and placed his hand on it. "Farewell, Father," he said, choking a little on the words. "I hope you are at peace now with Boromir. I love you." Then he turned and followed Peredur out of the ruins and back to the city.

All things were ready for the arrival of the King, and Faramir sat at lunch with Peredur, Húrin and Bergil, considering what words ought to be spoken at the ceremony. There was some commotion, then the doors to the dining chamber opened, and a guard escorted the Warden of the Houses of Healing in. The Warden bowed low.

"I am sorry to interrupt your meal, my Lord," he said, "but the situation in the Houses of Healing grows ever more urgent. Perhaps my Lord could find it in his schedule to visit the Lady Éowyn today? She has lost much of her color and liveliness of late. I would not see her ailing now when all people are joyful."

"I will come today," Faramir promised. As soon as the meal was finished, he pulled a light spring cloak about his shoulders and headed out.

Bergil followed suit shortly afterwards to go play with his friends, who were all returning to the city. He had not been out very long when he ran back to the Citadel, bright red in the face. Storming out to the terrace where Húrin sat and discussed Gondor's prospects with Peredur, Bergil informed them, with all the horror appropriate to his ten years, that he had seen Lord Faramir kissing a girl high on the wall.

So it was that when Faramir and Éowyn returned hand in hand to the Citadel to break the news of their betrothal, the staff were already arrayed in the throne room to cheer their arrival. The Warden of the Houses of Healing bowed and kissed Éowyn's hand. "Thank you, Lady," he said. "You have brought joy into my Lord's eyes where I did not expect to see it again. For that, you have my everlasting gratitude. I wish you both well in your marriage."

"I must also thank you," Éowyn said. "For you have done your part as well, in ensuring that Lord Faramir lived so that I might become betrothed to him."

Lord Peredur clapped Faramir on the back. "You have done well," he said. "So far as I may, I approve this match, which will only strengthen the old ties between Gondor and Rohan. I dare say that Aragorn and Éomer King will approve as well, for the welfare of your Lady is of great concern to them."

"I am looking forward to meeting Éomer," Faramir said. "Éowyn assures me that I will like him."

"I think you will. I think that he will like you as well, for you have made the roses return to Éowyn's cheeks, where they have been absent for many years."

Faramir smiled and turned to Éowyn. Her fair cheeks were indeed flushed bright pink, and her eyes were clear and loving. Ignoring Bergil's mortified shrieks, Faramir took her in his arms and kissed her once more, reveling in the perfect fit they made with each other.