Ashes to Dust

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to JRR Tolkien. I just play.

Author's Note: It's been so long since I've written anything, so I just started and let the words come as I typed. It turned out to be a short and non-sensical little musing on Faramir/Eowyn focusing on his ideal of her.

* * *

He watched her. Like the sun, a white-burning blaze, she shone. With her brilliance, far fairer than any earthly light that had fallen upon his home- sick eyes, she blinded him, to all but her white glow. When she left his side, he fell into despairing darkness and knew not when he should see again.

But then she came, walking towards him with a step like air and a gown so pure, so white, he knew he should never think a thing pure if it were not she. And she filled him with light and life, and he knew what it was to breathe, to feel each gasp of air fill his lungs painfully full, to feel the blood pulse through throbbing veins, to feel his skin crawl for want to touch her glowing face, her blushing cheeks.

But her eyes would not bless him with a goddess' gaze, would not sparkle with a saintly smile, would not laugh until her king came back. She watched for her king even as his own unworthy eyes lingered over her. And as she waited, her brilliance began to diminish. It was slow, but he saw her fade with each day as her eyes turned towards the battlefields, out the window he had requested for her.

But he was no king, and giving her a window would not make him one. Nay, she longed to be a queen, to be crowned with jewels as brilliant as she, not to grace a Steward's side. She would be a Shieldmaiden Queen, loved by all and held in highest regard. She was in the line of kings and queens and her eye had fallen upon one such as her. He could not give her what she desired, for he was no king. He had been second best to his brother even in Boromir's death. Why should it not be so with Gondor's king? He would be her window-giver, her companion as she waited the return of Isildur's Heir, not her king. Never that. He would be sufficient for the time, but then her light would go to another and he would dwell in darkness for the rest of his days.

The days stretched on in lengthening madness, but Aragorn did not return. The White Lady began to grey and fade even as he watched her. It would not be long before she went out completely. She still burned in hopes of his victory, but only just.

But then one day her hand met his and joined. Her fingers entwined with his, clinging desperately to him as they stared together in the distance. And suddenly, her light burned more brightly than it had before, and she knew that to be a queen should not be so perfect as this moment. Her touch scalded him, and his instincts told him that he should pull away before he was consumed completely.

But never had pain felt so right. So he simply held on.