"But in the morning, as Faramir came from the Houses, he saw her, as she stood upon the walls; and she was clad all in white and gleamed in the sun. And he called to her, and she came down, and they walked on the grass or sat under a green tree together, now in silence. Now in speech. And each day after they did likewise."
Faramir paced his chambers, heels sharp on the white flagstones. He wondered that he had not worn a groove through the floor so long had he paced; his breakfast lay forgotten by his bedside, the porridge long since cold. He shook his head at his own folly. What had possessed him to send that note? Eru, and the flower. He raked a hand back through his hair, closed his eyes in a long blink.
A swallow swooped past his window, drawing his attention, and it was then that he saw the sun had grown high. He had been cooped up for too long. He would take a turn about the gardens, and perhaps the birdsong would quiet his mind.
But as he rounded the corner to the gardens his steps faltered. There she was. Standing high upon the walls, her glorious hair shining gold beneath the sun.
He found himself then moving towards her, a moth to her flame, and he knew that he was lost. He came to a halt at the base of the stairs and called to her.
"Good morrow, My Lady."
And as she turned his breath caught. There, pinned behind her left ear, was a tiny white bloom.
Could it be—?
"Good morrow, My Lord," she said, and her clear gaze gave him courage.
He held out his palm and, as she laid her cool hand in his, he smiled.