Faramir stood alone on the parapet, his eyes shielded against the sun. He breathed in the scent of new grass and fresh flowers, and the dull trail of smoke from the lower levels. He rubbed his sore shoulder; it ached dully, twinging painfully when he moved too fast. The healers said it would be a turn of the moon yet, before the muscles re-knit completely. He sighed as his eyes found the sullen glow of a stubborn fire that still remained, though small. In the back of his mind, he could remember horrible heat, and a terrible smell of burning flesh and hair, and the cry of his father as he died. My fault. The thought came unbidden; he knew it wasn't true. He felt he should have done something, something more, but couldn't grasp what it was his father had wanted him to do. And he still did not repent his choice to let the Halflings go.
High above, a bird cried out, heralding the spring. It was a sea-lark, swooping low, it melodic song floating on the breeze as effortlessly as it did. And Faramir's thoughts returned to the uncommon encounter of the previous morning, when the Lady Éowyn of Rohan had come to him, appealing to him to charge her release. Unwise as this would have been, he had felt pity for her. He could see just how much it cost her to unbend her pride and ask. Nay, plead. She had asked him to grant her leave to die.
And he recalled how her pale hair had fluttered in the wind, loose on her shoulders, how her skin was drained of colour still; he could have counted the faint sunspots that dappled her razor-like nose. He saw how her bony wrists stuck out from the end of her sleeve, and the scars that crossed them, and how her long, spidery fingers were nail-bitten.
He remembered her eyes most of all, two profound, bright darts that had smote him to the soul. Full of pent up anger and sorrow and hurt, and knowing that she must cope, no matter what. Thoughts such as those had led her to believe that suicide was the only escape….
And when she spoke, how she had kept her back arrow-straight, her chin lifted, pride unbending. The lilt of her voice, so different from what he was used to, strong and sweeping. And even when anger sparked in her eyes, and her fists were clenched tight, she kept her voice even and steady: a taught diplomat. She was strong of will, strong of character. But she was trembling inside, though she would not admit that to even herself. And so intrigued by her secret sorrow, he had gone to her companion, the Perian, to learn more of her. He had said little, for little did he know, but there were many beliefs left unspoken, small details that revealed a persona that dared the world in clandestine.
The sun was setting, bathing the White City in red fire. Birds chorused farewell to the day, settling on their roosts for the night. Faramir glanced down, and noticed a figure in white, slowly pacing the length of the garden below. He wondered how long she had been there. A stream of disjointed words ran unbidden through his mind. I wanted you to know, I love the way you laugh, I want to hold you high and steal your pain…
Unexpectedly, Éowyn looked over her shoulder, up at him. Her hair fanned golden all about her. He smiled at her, raising a hand in greeting. She smiled back uncertainly.
Éowyn walked along the ramparts, her fingertips glancing along the rough, cool stone of the bulwark. The sun sank low on the horizon, brushing the grasses of the field below with fire. Fire still burned, in the lower levels, out on the field. Death-pyres, mostly, though the odd ballistae fire smouldered still, unchecked. She found her eyes picking out the bonfire out on the plain, where the carcass of the winged-beast burned still, down to black ash, reeking and fetid…. She flexed the fingers of her shield-arm, feeling the pang as the mending bones protested. She examined her sword-hand, inspecting cuts and scratches she could not remember acquiring, never mind the gauntlet.
The flesh of her hand was oddly cold even now, the veins swollen and gaudy under frost-pale skin. It hurt—a bitter, dull ache shot through with erratic, fleeting stabs of icy pain. She curled and uncurled her fist, as if to get the blood flowing, but there was no chasing out this pain; there was more to it than that. It wanted into her mind, battering at her like a strong wind. No matter. She was used to winds, and rain. She closed her mind to it, fixatedly concentrating on anything else.
A sea-lark flew overhead, dipping and twirling in the air, weightless. She tipped her head towards the heavens, avidly following its flight-pattern. Like a tumbling river of song, it sang, rejoicing just to be alive… The dark/pain lunged at her, more forcefully, as if it sensed her purposeful distraction.
His eyes are sea-coloured. The thought flew inadvertently into her mind, unbidden, and took her aback. And another, scared and panicked, almost hysterical… Don't hurt me! Like a memory, she felt again the burn of bruises on her hips, her arms and shoulders, the acrid taste of another's mouth on hers.
But that died away, fading to a sudden image of the steward's face: his smile, his even teeth, his weathered skin. His words resounded inside her head, almost like a comfort… 'What would you have me do, lady?' And like the flicker of a candle, another thought brushed past her consciousness, cool and quiet. It is not so dark here. Another's words, though now they were spoken with her own voice. Words she remembered well, words that had brought warm, cleansing, unbelieving tears of relief to her eyes. But now, they brought stinging hot tears of grief and remorse, which choked her throat and fell like ice-drops down her cheeks. Wiping them hastily away on her sleeve, she forced herself to glare unblinking at the grey haze down on the battlefield, where the winged-serpent burned, where Théoden had fallen, where she had fallen.
She remembered the steward's — Faramir's — touch, so soft upon her knee, his eyes open and sincere, his words level. How he had praised her. But that was of no account. Others had praised her also, meaning nothing, wanting unsaid and terrifying…. But something in his eyes had told her he would not lie, and she believed. And she found herself thinking how his fawn hair had waved in the wind like water-rushes, how the breeze had moulded his tunic to his chest… but she could not get his face out of her mind, his smile, his eyes so candid and unswerving.
She turned, feeling a prickling at her back; someone watched. She looked up, and saw Faramir on the wall above, gazing down at her. He smiled at her, raising a hand in salute. A chain of thought passed through her mind. Do you love me? I'm too hurt to believe, can you save me; I feel so lost… She tentatively returned his smile, feeling as if some weight was lifted from her.