Prologue
In these latter days, as in Númenor, the ladies of the Dúnedain clung to what remained of their years with a tenacity fully equal to that of their brothers and husbands, desperate to remain as long as they did.
For the Queen of Rohan, there was no need. Her husband lived long by the measure of the Rohirrim, few of whom saw eighty; he lived to grieve as his sister was entombed in Rath Dínen, tears falling down his lined cheeks and his great shoulders bowed; he lived to see his grandchildren running about Meduseld, the warm Rohirren sun shining on raven and golden hair.
She remembered the faint chill that had come over her, early in their betrothal, when he laughed about pulling out his first few grey hairs. In Rohan, that was something a man of twenty-eight might find amusing. Éowyn, leaning against the arm of her betrothed, teased her brother about growing old. And Lothíriel felt herself growing pale and cold; she lifted up her eyes, and met Faramir's.
The cousins stared at one another, in sudden clear understanding of the fate they would share. But the moment passed quickly -- they were young, and fair, and the world seemed to lie before them like a land of dreams, various, beautiful, and new.
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The last line borrows heavily from Matthew Arnold's "Dover Beach."