The Captain & The White Lady

By Bressa W.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings, or any of the following characters. Sadly, I will not make any money from publishing this here or anywhere. Oh, but if I'd been born about 60 years earlier…

Author's Note: If you've ever read one of my reviews, you know that I love Faramir and Éowyn fan fics. You also know that I love any fan fic that has anything to do with Aragorn, and that I love any fic with any form of humor in it. As much as I love Faramir and Éowyn, however, I've never before written about them. As a matter of fact, this is only my third published fic. The other two (Memories of Us, Hybrid) have nothing to do with them, and everything to do with the other two things I love in a fic. I think I've rambled enough. Just read the fic, I promise it's semi-decent.

Chapter One

Yearning to Hope, Learning to Love

Faramir had been watching the White Lady of Rohan for some time now. Not in a dirty way, but in quiet admiration. Despite Éowyn's steely and cold appearance, Faramir's deep soul could see through her to the vulnerability within. And now he'd learned that the beautiful daughter of kings requested a private audience with him. Faramir was overjoyed.

After Éowyn's injury, acquired when she'd defeated (with Merry's help) the Witch King of Angmar, she'd been in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith, as instructed by the King. Aragorn had ordered that she remain there for at least a fortnight, longer if necessary, but not a day sooner. A week later, she was nearly fully healed and restless, and Faramir was pretty sure he knew what she wanted.

The truth was, Faramir himself had been given the same orders after he'd been pierced by poisoned arrows and nearly set aflame-two weeks, not a day less, and was as much a prisoner to the nurses as she was.

Not that Éowyn knew that.

Faramir sighed and adjusted his tunic for the tenth time. She would be here any moment now.

And there she was. A knock at the door sent Faramir's heart racing. "Come in," he called as calmly as he could.

Éowyn was clad in a white dress that fit her very nicely with long, billowy sleeves that hid her bandages. She slid the door behind her as she entered the small room. "My Lord Faramir," she said, bowing.

"M'lady," Faramir replied, with a likewise bow. "Why have you need of me?"

Éowyn's steely eyes met Faramir's soft ones. "I wish to leave."

Faramir sighed and shook his head. "This, I cannot do. The King's orders cannot be undone by the likes of me."

"But you are the Steward! Is there not there anything you can do? Can you not appeal to the King? I am well!" She slammed her unbandaged hand on a table. "I deserve better than this! I am a warrior!"

Faramir smiled, but did not let Eowyn see it. "Yes, you do," he said, "But the King is not in attendance, he is away fighting in the war. And even if he were here, I would still hold to his orders because I trust his judgment." He took her hands. "I am as much a prisoner here as you." He knew that he should not have done what he had just did, that he should release her and let her leave now that he'd said what she knew he was going to say. But he couldn't help himself. "You are a warrior, but you are more. You are a proud woman, and a beautiful one. You deserve to be happy." He looked into her eyes, searching for a sign that she felt the same as he. "Please, let me make you happy."

Éowyn drew away. "I will not have your pity, Lord Faramir."

"I would not be able to pity you. You are strong." Faramir continued to hold her gaze, and he was so frightened that every second that he stared into her eyes was a second too long, a moment too awkward. His fears melted away, though, when she took his hands and her smile cracked the ice that glazed her eyes. Faramir drew her into his arms and she laid her head against his chest. He smiled, tears in his eyes, and laid his head atop hers. In that moment, he was happy.

Three days later, Faramir knew that he did not pity the Lady of Rohan. He knew that he did not simply care for her, either. He knew that he loved her. Had Éowyn asked it of him, he would have gladly disobeyed every order he'd ever been given if it would make her happy.

That seemed to be the only thing that he should have been able to do, and he could not do it. With the War of the Ring progressing at the Black Gate of Mordor, he was trapped in Minas Tirith, and, indeed, in the Houses of Healing, as was Éowyn. He knew that she felt terribly inadequate, being unable to fight, and he tried to keep her mind off of the War by always steering the conversation into other territory, tales of his mother and his brother and, sometimes, his father. She told him of her uncle and how much she had loved him. She told him of the evil man, Grima Wormtongue, who had tried, more than once, to win Éowyn's heart. He would lighten the stories with a wise saying his mother had told him or with a joke and she would always smile. Yet no matter how much he loved her or how often he told her so, no amount of affection seemed enough to bring her from her despair. The third night since he'd first her in his arms, he approached her about it.

She was stretched out on a chaise lounge, staring into nothing. Faramir entered the room after knocking softly. He quietly stole to her side and laid a hand on her back. "Éowyn?"

Éowyn turned to look up at him and smiled. "Yes, Faramir?"

Faramir moved her feet gently and sat down near her. "Is something wrong, my love? Why do you for ever seem so sad?"

Éowyn sat up and leaned against him. "My heart is sad, Faramir. I do not know why. It has been this way since…" she broke off and a tear rolled down her check.

Faramir wiped the tear away with his thumb and finished her thought. "Since Theoden died."

She cried. Éowyn had never previously cried in the presence of Faramir, but at the mention her beloved uncle, she wept. "I am so worried for Éomer, and for Aragorn, and Merry, and I miss my uncle so much." She looked up at him, her eyes and cheeks shining with tears. "How can one heart hold so much grief?"

Faramir smiled softly at her. "Oh, Éowyn," he said in a gentle whisper, "it can't. I know your pain. My brother and father and mother have all passed away. I am the last of my family. My grief is a constant reminder of how much I miss them. But, my love, there is a cure for this grief, one that is pure and honest and innocent."

Éowyn, now crying silently, searched his face for the answer. "How can such a grief be healed?"

"With hope. Hope that the future brings tenfold in happiness the grief you feel in the present."

Éowyn looked away from him. "There is no hope. The World of Men will fall, Faramir. There will be no future."