Disclaimer: I don't own it, but wouldn't it be cool if I did?
A/N: Because really, Faramir and Eowyn are just timeless. Read, enjoy, let me know what you think.
Eowyn waits.
Yearly she does so, standing on the high walls of her city, looking out at the brown path, framed by green, watching with well trained eyes for sign of her lord's homecoming.
It is late and the winter air singes the apples of her cheeks, makes her eyes water but she stands steady. She will greet him as she always does, clothe in her blue mantle, hair unbound, waiting on the walls.
This is their tradition.
For yearly on this day, when Winter's grasp on Ithilien is still strong but the first signs of Spring can be spotted, he rides out of the city, to the river front he goes, to wait for some specter, some sign of his own. He looks to the water and searches for peace.
She wonders that those who Death did steal away ever plague him. Even that which has been bred and born in the Fourth Age is tainted to him, for he cannot look at his own son without seeing another. This she takes as a failure of her own, being unable to rid him of the most painful of woes, while he makes no small effort to ease her own pains. But it will not do to fret about this matter tonight, as she has done countless others, for his need for her will be too great and she has no wish to add to his sorrow.
This is, in short, the constant cycle their marriage at times falls into, where one is willing to hide their own grief to spare the other. She knows that it does little to help but makes no move to put an end to it. They have, after all become creature of habit. Love, it seems, has left in them oddities, as fey at times as the wounds of the past.
The night begins to settle on their land, and for a few moments the world glows scarlet and gold, as the frosted white stones of Ithilien are set ablaze.
It is this sight that greets his weary eyes, the spectacle of her, shining like some divine light on the walls, too firm around the edges to be mere memory. His heart warms at this even as the sunset fades and she becomes flesh and bone once more as she steps down from her high place, greeting him with a gentle smile.
"It is cold tonight. You ought not have waited for me."
She takes his hand, the flesh cold and tight, and presses her lips to the crown of his head.
She knows.
End
Every time you review a hobbit finds a mushroom