AN: I was inspired to write this because of all the weird similarities between Frodo and Sam, and Eowyn and Faramir. This story can be read either in the perspective of Eowyn or Frodo. -Galad Estel
Minas Tirith is hot. Sunlight streams through the wide windows and plays on the ceiling, turning pine planks golden. The air is thick with the scent of athelas. I breathe it in and feel my life returning. You lie on the bed by my side, your strong arms draped round my waist. You must have crept in sometime during the night when I was sleeping. I am glad. You make me feel safe and at home. I turn over so I can see your face. Your eyes are still closed. Lids and lashes tremble with your soft snores. I press my lips to your cheeks, which are warm but not with fever. I wrap my arms about your shoulders and breathe you in like the herb. You also bring me to life.
I kiss your eyes, your ears, you hair, your lips, everything not covered in sheets. Sometimes we've slipped and kissed in public. People pretend they can't see. They look away. How can they judge us? We are survivors. We cling to our few moments of happiness, before they are snatched away again. You and I, we have been through fire and pain and have walked on an edge over death. Death was what I was aiming for when I struck out from home –a home where I never truly felt at home– but now I have lived past the darkness. My arm still aches, but it is a small price. The Witch King is slain, his Master destroyed, the Shadow has diminished at last. Peace has come. I shall never carry a sword again. Death has been a close acquaintance too long. Now I will work to preserve life.
You smile in your sleep, and I smile with you. Your breath keeps my heart pumping, lingering on. I watch your chest rise, your lips quiver. You are beautiful though you might not know it. Your father has trodden you down so many times, has told you that you are worthless and will come to no good. You are the sweetest thing in my life. I reach under the sheets and take your hand, play with your long fingers. They are calloused, rough against my soft palm. You are dark, and I am fair. Twelve years split our ages apart, and yet we are two halves of a whole. When I am with you, even in this strange, southern country, I belong.