Eowyn/ Faramir, Post ROTK,
Not mine, Tolkein.
Her arms still hurt. The shield-arm is a constant low ache in winter. Once a year, the sword-arm feels the bite of frost. She doesn't tell him.
She doesn't have to. He knows.
He still hears the dying, tastes the echoes of tears and disappointment. Once a year, the nightmares fill his nose with smoke. He doesn't tell her.
He doesn't have to. She knows.
They've made a garden of Ithilien. The ice can nip, but can't kill her - he keeps her warm. The sword of her love keeps his ghosts at bay. They have each other. It's enough.
Not mine, Tolkein.
Her arms still hurt. The shield-arm is a constant low ache in winter. Once a year, the sword-arm feels the bite of frost. She doesn't tell him.
She doesn't have to. He knows.
He still hears the dying, tastes the echoes of tears and disappointment. Once a year, the nightmares fill his nose with smoke. He doesn't tell her.
He doesn't have to. She knows.
They've made a garden of Ithilien. The ice can nip, but can't kill her - he keeps her warm. The sword of her love keeps his ghosts at bay. They have each other. It's enough.