The Promise of Spring
"Then, Éowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful. In the valleys of our hills there are flowers fair and bright, and maidens fairer still; but neither flower nor lady have I seen till now in Gondor so lovely, and so sorrowful. It may be that only a few days are left ere darkness falls upon our world, and when it comes I hope to face it steadily; but it would ease my heart, if while the Sun yet shines, I could see you still. For you and I have both passed under the wings of the Shadow, and the same hand drew us back."
Light streamed into the chamber and the white walls were burnished gold beneath its passing. Eowyn stirred as the brightness grew and noises gradually returned to the Houses; sweeping and footsteps in the hallway beyond, pans clattering and bottles clinking. Eventually she rose just as a young serving girl knocked and entered with a tray.
"Milady," the girl bobbed a swift curtsey, and placed the tray down on the wooden table before the window so that Eowyn had a partial view of the gardens below as she sat down to break her fast.
Hungry though the shield maiden was, her attention was claimed not by the thickly sliced bread smeared with butter, nor even the small pot of honey laid out next to a steaming mug of tea, but rather by the sight of a small envelope which lay next to the meal. She lifted the letter and turn it over curiously. Black ink and a small, leaf-shaped wax seal. Who could be writing to her? Eomer would not have had time yet and this was not her brother's familiar scrawl but an unknown masculine script penned with great elegance and simplicity. Could it be..?
Hurriedly Eowyn broke the wax and unfolded a single sheaf of paper. A tiny, white blossom, shaped somewhat like a star, tumbled onto her lap. A faint scent drifted to her and she inhaled deeply of its sweetness, a smile rising unbidden to her lips till she returned her attention to the mysterious note.
My Lady,
You said yesterday that Shadow lies on you still. I hope that the enclosed flower, a fine white narcissus, brings you a measure of peace and light, as the sight of it does for me.
Yours,
Faramir
Eowyn blinked and re-read the brief missive. She hardly knew what to make of it. His words were direct and hardly romantic, yet felt strangely intimate. Her gaze hovered over the last words, Yours, Faramir, wondering that he should sign off using his given name and no title, if there was meaning there that she could not quite see or if she was simply reading too much into things.
In the Mark, when a man gave a woman a flower he was seen to be courting her…
She raised her head, stared at the wall, and smiled.