If this is victory, then our hands are too small to hold it.
--Durin's folk, to Thráin
---
"I am sorry, Éowyn," Faramir said gently. She turned her head away. She no longer felt the lassitude that had so long possessed her. She was not happy, but she could be useful; indeed, she had little other choice.
"I must go to Rohan. The Marshals will choose a new king now that Éomer is dead." Her voice remained steady on this last; she was proud of that. She did not wish to appear weak before him.
"Are there others of the House of Eorl?"
There was little of his usual warmth, and she glanced sharply at him. His grey eyes were not expressive but abstracted; she was startled to realise he was as much Lord of Gondor as the gentle man whose ability to rattle away on any subject had comforted and infuriated her through the long dark days. Now they had victory, but at such a cost --
"Yes, but none in the direct line. I do not know what they will choose."
"Your deeds have won you great renown, among your own people as well as mine." He paused, and she suppressed a shiver.
"The lord of Rohan must be prepared to ride to war," she said, "that is why she has never been ruled by a queen."
The quick flash of his eye gave his thoughts away clearly enough; she had ridden to war, and she could do so again. She did not know what would be done, but whatever was decided, there was work for her, real, necessary work, in Rohan. And in Gondor?
Only a tall young man with brilliant eyes that saw more than any woman could be expected to bear. She dropped her own, and saw that his long fingers were trembling slightly.
"When did you last eat?" she asked sharply.
"This morning."
She could not stop herself from scolding him. "You should not be so careless of your own health. You are the lord of a country, your life is not your own, and I am certain your uncle would not approve, were he here."
He smiled thinly. "No, I imagine not." He straightened. "We should tell Merry. He has no other friends in this city."
She looked at him as they walked out of the Steward's apartments -- he, for the first time in their acquaintance, did not meet her gaze; and she knew without knowing how that their situations had grown even more similar than she had at first guessed. "I am sorry about your uncle," she said quietly, gathering her composure as she thought of Pippin. She had only spoken to the little halfling a bare handful of times, but she had already been fond of him, and she knew from Merry's worried, enthusiastic chatter how close the cousins were.
Her throat closed, and she briefly clasped Faramir's hand. It was cold against her own, and his face set.
"Thank you."
---
Éowyn was exhausted when she walked out to the gardens. The sight of another woman, a tall dark figure as beautiful and cold as a statue, for all that she was heavily with child, sent slivers of resentment coursing through her before she commanded her temper.
"I beg your pardon, are you lost?" she inquired. The woman started. Something about the eyes reminded Éowyn of Faramir, and she could barely keep her countenance. There was something; she was reminded of the ladies of Gondor she had seen, this woman was very like but more, somehow. She might have been twenty, or forty; Éowyn was really beginning to wonder how anybody here told the difference.
The woman hesitated. "These are the Lady Finduilas' gardens?"
"Yes," said Éowyn. "Did you mean to go to the Houses of Healing? Forgive me, you are very pale."
She smiled tiredly. "No, the Lord Steward gave me leave to remain here. It is a comfort to me; there is still beauty amid so much grief."
Éowyn felt a sudden affinity. "I feel very much the same. Are you much acquainted with Lord Faramir?"
"I had never seen him in my life, before my father brought me here." The woman's clear grey eyes met hers. "He is a very remarkable man. He reminds me a little of the stories they tell of my great-uncle."
They talked a little, mostly of Faramir, and Éowyn left, feeling somehow that the other needed the refuge of the gardens more than she did. She stopped a young servant as she passed out.
"Brandir, do you know who that lady is?"
He looked at her with wide eyes, blushing as he spoke. "They . . . they say she is the Lord Elessar's widow, my lady." In a bare whisper, he added, "They are saying that . . . that she is also Tar-Minyatur's niece."