Disclaimer: Faramir, Éowyn, the Warden, Minas Tirith, and the last line are J.R.R. Tolkien's. I am not making a profit from this.
My apologies to those who like imaginative disclaimers.
Her hand is warm against his as they step down from the wall, warm for the first time in weeks. Before the Warden's face even enters his sight, he knows what he will say.
It will be a white lie, for a White Lady, in a White City. It will not even be wholly false. For her body, for the moment, it is true.
He announces – to the Warden? to Éowyn? to himself? –
"Here is the Lady Éowyn, and now she is healed."