Summary: One rainy night, Faramir and Éowyn have a conversation in the garden...
A/N: I finally found it! For those of you who might have read it before I accidently deleted it, it may look a bit different. I edited it a bit.
Rain. What does one think when one hears the word "rain"? Gloom. Sadness. Death. Pain. And that was what Éowyn was thinking.
The rain had formed a curtain of silver pellets outside her window. Éowyn could not sleep. She stared at the window from her bed and thought of her life.
Éowyn rose. She moved to her chest of clothing. Digging for her cloak, she wondered why she was doing this. Finally, she found the cloak. It was patched and weather-stained. Flinging it over her painfully thin shoulders, Éowyn fastened the clasp. It was a silver horse. Her father had it made for her when she was not much older than a toddler.
The House was silent as she found her way through the dark to the stairs. Opening the door, Éowyn breathed in the sweet scent of rain. She could feel mist finding its way through the ankle-twisting stairwell. Éowyn walked slowly, trailing her fingers over the cold stone. Minas Tirith is beautiful, but old, ancient, decayed.
When she had opened the door to the garden, Éowyn found the rain had lessened somewhat; but it was still raining. She pulled her hood over her golden hair and stepped into the garden. Éowyn was barefoot. She could feel the cold water splash through her toes. She liked the feeling of it.
Suddenly, she jumped. There, sitting on a bench underneath a tree on a bench was a figure. He or she was cloaked, like her. Éowyn thought she knew who it was.
"My Lord Faramir?" Éowyn asked a little tentatively. The figure turned around. It was Faramir. He seemed surprised to see her. Faramir stood up. Éowyn could not see his face under the shadows of his hood. All she could see was one blue eye and the tip of his nose, red with the cold.
"Éowyn," he breathed, almost sounding happy. "Come, sit with me for a while."
Éowyn accepted his invitation. The bench was cold and damp, but Éowyn did not mind. She liked sitting next to the thoughtful, quiet man. After a long day with the women in the House, she was glad to be silent. There was an occasional drip of cold water from the leaves above them
She could not help herself say: "Faramir."
"Yes?"
"Is it possible to be surrounded by many people, yet feel so alone at the same time?"
Faramir was silent a long time. Finally: "Yes," he answered. "I felt like that when my brother Boromir went to Imladris to seek the meaning of the words Isildur's Bane. I felt so very alone. There was no one I could talk to." Faramir corrected himself, "As in, share my thoughts and my heart's troubles." He looked at her and asked in concern, "Do you feel like that, lady?"
Éowyn did not hesitate this time. "Yes."
"Do you believe in angels?"
"No."
"Why?"
Éowyn looked at him as she spoke. "If angels existed, Faramir, my father would be alive. If angel's existed, my mother would have been comforted in her grief. If angels existed, Sauron would have perished in the first war. No, I do not believe in angels." She felt a terrible anger in her. It was threatening to spill.
"If angels did not exist, lady," Faramir said quietly, "you would be lying next to your uncle, having the death you have wished for so long."
The anger melted into sorrow. A tear came down her cheek and dripped off her chin. Faramir raised his hand to her face and wiped the trail the tear left behind.
"Better dead than alive in this terrible world," Éowyn said bitterly, "where nothing is certain and death is at our doorstep."
"There is more in this life than thinking of slaying and dying, Éowyn," Faramir said. "Even when all of the good in this world fades into shadow, love and hope will always be here."
"Love and hope," Éowyn retorted. "They have forsaken me."
"But there are people who love you, Éowyn," insisted the man. "The marshal, your brother the Lord Éomer, loves you. And the Lord Aragorn, he too loves you. Though he has turned away the intimate love you wanted to offer him, he still loves you as as sister. Don't you see, Éowyn?" Faramir smiled. "As for hope, I do not believe this darkness will endure."
"Did you believe that as you rode out to Osgiliath?"
"Yes," Faramir said softly, looking away to the East. "Yes, I have always believed that."
Suddenly, Éowyn felt something strange within her. She no longer felt angry at the world. Éowyn felt a feeling that could not be put into words.
"What about you, Faramir?" she asked softly. "Do you love or are you loved?"
Faramir smiled. His hand crept across the bench and found it's way to Éowyn's, which lay on the bench between them. He tightened his fingers around them. They were warm over Éowyn's cold, thin ones. Éowyn looked down at Faramir's hand. It was tanned, criss-crossed with white battle scars.
"I love," he said. "I love and I do believed I am loved."
Faramir moved more quickly than Éowyn expected. His lips reached her cheek. They brushed her ear softly and pulled away. Éowyn saw color creeping up Faramir's cheeks.
The shadow of doubt passed and Éowyn smiled.
"Is this a dream?" Éowyn asked softly.
Faramir gave a soft laugh and drew close to her. "It had better not be," he whispered and kissed her.
It was a soft kiss. Éowyn was sad when it was over. Faramir placed his cheek against hers and sighed. The rain was gone; the first rays of dawn passed through the dark clouds.