The night is damp. People are celebrating, having rooftop picnics. Faramir watches them from his window as the rain drips down. It patters against the pane, blurring faces of children playing with firecrackers. Faramir slips away from the window, climbs back into his bed. He doesn't want to see smiles.

The bed is large, his body too small to fill it, and she is not there. He is old but not very. His blood says his days will be long, but she is not there to fill those either. He does not want to live alone.

She was twelve years younger than he, but very old. Like a flower in the gardens of Ithilien, she withered by his side, and he could not stop time or turn it back. Illness came and left her weak. They returned to her homeland and watched horses run across the plain. He would not have her die of homesickness, like his mother had.

'Promise me,' she said, when they were lying in bed together, her wrinkled cheek crossing onto his pillow. 'Promise me you won't forget me.'

'How could I?' he answered. He ran his fingers through her thin, white hair. 'I love you, always will.'

She smiled and touched his cheek. 'So smooth,' she said. Her eyes were wet and grey like fog. He kissed her over and over again, holding her until the sheets were spoiled.

They had never had any children of their own. Everyone pointed at Éowyn, but Faramir blamed himself. He could not explain why but deep down he knew it was he who was barren.

Their home was not empty though. Foundlings found their way in, orphans of war and misplaced children, and Faramir and Éowyn cared for them. Some were taken back by their parents. Others grew and left, but a few stayed near.

There is a tap on the door. Faramir does not stir. He stares at the ceiling, at the natural patterns in the raw wood.

'Dad?' a soft voice says. 'Dad, are you all right in there?' It is Aerin, one of their daughters.

'Yes,' he says. 'I am well.'

But he isn't. His body and heart are severed in two. His heart lies in her tomb. It beats against her cold corpse. His body is numb in their bed. He lies numb, sits numb, stands and walks numb.

Every morning, he goes to her grave. He sits by it and talks to her. No one dares interrupt. Often people look worried, but he does not take notice.

'You have to move on,' says Aragorn. He comes to the house with a basket filled with wine, cold meats, and warm bread.

'Move on,' says Faramir, 'how can you say that? Move on to what? She was my everything. I lived for her. When you lie dead, I hope someone tells your wife, move on.'

Aragorn leaves, not knowing what to say. He is no good with comfort. All he wants to do is to shout back, but Faramir is no opponent. He would cave and cry.

The wind weathers Faramir's face. His graying hair grows white in a week. Tear lines take over where the laughter lines left off. She was the one who lifted his lips. Now her mouth will be still forever.

Death takes him bit by bit, like it took her. The roots that kept him standing have been cut off. He is a fallen tree, slowly rotting out over he does not know how long. He no longer keeps track of time. Grandchildren have birthdays. He watches them sing but cannot follow the words. One day he does not wake up. Aerin finds him cold on the chair by the window. He is laid in Éowyn's tomb. Finally, he rests again at her side.

Finis