Lothíriel stood silently amid the gardens, observing the woman who stood apart from everyone, as still and cold as a statue. Healers bustled to and fro, but the Lady Éowyn paid them no mind. She stared eastward, holding her injured arm against herself. Were it not for her height and golden hair, Lothíriel would never have guessed who she was.

When deeply and dangerously injured, she had been eager, even desperate, to leave; now that she was more than well enough to go whither she would, she remained. Something had changed, and she was absolutely certain that Faramir had not told her everything. This was far from unusual with him, but she could not but feel a vague, formless suspicion that there was . . . something.

‘Suilad,’ she said, and Éowyn turned to face her. For a brief instant, the two women studied one another. The look of Gondor and Rohan was curiously blended in her; she was taller, slimmer, and paler than most of the Rohirrim, her features finer, but there was no question that she was one of that people. Her look was icy, somehow removed from the world around her, and yet there was also something fierce there.

‘Mae govannen,’ Éowyn replied. ‘May I be of service?’ Her Sindarin was halting but clear, and the rich, rolling intonation, though odd to Lothíriel's ears, was not unpleasant.

‘Please forgive my intrusion. May I sit down?’

A flicker of curiosity crossed the other woman’s face. She nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘I hope you do not mind my introducing myself. I am Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil of Dol Amroth.’

Éowyn smiled politely, but without warmth. ‘It is an honour, Lady Lothíriel.’

‘No, the honour is mine. You see, I have been so eager to meet you, Faramir says -- ’

‘Faramir!’ The sudden sharp cry was completely at odds with her judgment of the other woman. Lothíriel eyed her with considerable interest. She was certainly not indifferent to him.

Not that anybody was. Faramir had a certain -- effect on people.

‘Forgive me . . . I was just startled. I am a little acquainted with the Lord Steward -- do you know him well?’

Her healthy hand clenched and unclenched in the white material of her dress. Lothíriel blinked. She could not possibly be --? Well, perhaps in Rohan, things were different. ‘Of course I am,’ she said, surprised. ‘He is my my father’s sister-son, my only cousin. Did not you know?’

Éowyn visibly relaxed. ‘No. No, I . . . he never talked much of his family, except his brother.’

Lothíriel’s eyes went to the tower where her uncle had spent so much time, and she felt a peculiar twisting sensation, tears nearly rising to her eyes. She looked away. ‘I imagine not, at such a time. In any case, he says that you are a kinswoman of ours.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Éowyn shook her head. ‘Perhaps you are mistaken -- my grandmother was a Gondorian, but she was sister to the Lord of Lossarnach, not Dol Amroth.’

‘Yes, but she -- they -- were cousins to my grandfather, and Faramir’s, the Prince Adrahil. You see,’ Lothíriel prattled on, keeping a sharp eye on Éowyn -- ‘our great-great-grandfather -- Faramir’s and mine, and my brothers’ of course -- was the Prince Azrubel, and his daughter was Morwen and Forlong’s mother. And that makes us all kin, and of course Faramir is so attentive to family. I think that’s why he was so concerned, when the Warden said . . .’ She stopped. ‘Oh, I am terribly sorry for rattling away like this. I hope I am not bothering you too much? I really only wanted to introduce myself and tell you that if you . . . that is, that . . . well, my family -- my father, and my brothers, and Faramir -- well, we are here, if you need anything. Especially you. My people do not forget our debts, you know. Though -- ’ she sighed -- ‘I suppose you shall be going back to Rohan soon enough.’

Éowyn stared at her a moment, her expression at once puzzled and pertruebd. Then, unaccountably, she flushed, turning away, towards the south. ‘I suppose so,’ she said, then smiled, her face warming. ‘Thank you, Lady Lothíriel, for your kindness nevertheless.’

‘Oh, please call me Lothíriel. I do not have so many kinsmen left to keep distance from those that remain.’ She shivered. ‘Would you mind terribly if we went inside? I am from the South, you see, and these cold northern places chill my bones.’

Éowyn laughed, a little awkwardly, as if her voice was ill suited to it. ‘I would not think it cold here, but then, I am from even further north myself. Of course -- ’ she turned, and Lothíriel took her free arm.

‘You must tell me about Rohan. Do you know, I have never been outside of Gondor? I have spent almost my entire life here or in Belfalas. My father often comes here on matters of state, you see. He and my uncle the Steward disagreed on many, many things, but they always had a great respect for each other.’

Éowyn turned to her, surprised. ‘You were fond of him? Your uncle?’

‘Yes.’ Lothíriel swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘He was always -- very kind, and he understood . . . things that almost nobody else did, or would allow me to speak of. The Stewards and the Princes have been near kin for many hundreds of years, so we have some . . . qualities in common. But Uncle Denethor was never afraid of words.’

‘No, I imagine he wasn’t.’ Éowyn bit her lip. ‘Do you know . . . that is, have you heard . . . I am sorry, I -- does Faramir know? About the pyre, at least?’

Lothíriel froze in place, turning as still as the Argonath. ‘The -- the what?’

‘There was a pyre built for your uncle,’ the other woman said cautiously, ‘and for . . . for the Lord Faramir.’

‘Impossible!’ Several startled people turned their way; Lothíriel closed her eyes and regained her composure. With a faint smile, she said, ‘Forgive me, I only meant . . . we do not burn our dead. We embalm them. Have you seen Rath Dínen?’

Éowyn, looking soberly at her, said, ‘Have you?’