My Confessions
By: Rai
Rated: PG

Author's Note: This fanfiction was inspired by Josh Groban's "My Confessions," so the atmosphere and tone of this fic was written to match the song. This really is my version of how the romance came to life. Though Tolkien gave plenty of details, I had some strange urge to expand on it. So here be the results.
Spoiler: Spoils the entire series of The Lord of the Rings – because it tells you who won the war! So either read the books or watched the movies. However, this is book-canon, so it'd be better if you read the books.
Disclaimer: I am not the owner nor creator nor the writer of Middle-earth or The Lord of the Rings, nor am I owners of any of the movies. I am not making any money out of this and am doing this for pure personal enjoyment.
Any canonical and grammar errors are slips of my own (and will be glad to correct it if pointed out because I'm not perfect).
Summary: "You who pride himself on his insight surely can see that her sadness stems from something beyond her dreams. And how can you be so sure it is a dream you cannot give her? Dreams change, as do destinies and desires."

Chapter 1 – Falling Into Place

The day was dark and cold. A chilling wind blew in from the East; it still reeked of the smoke and fire of battle. Hovering above was a great blanket of black cloud accumulating as each day passed in agony. It smothered the sun and its warmth, bringing with it only a darkness that weighed down on the City of Minas Tirith, already burdened and weary by the war that laid much of the City and its land to ruin only nine days prior. Yet the pride and strength of the descendants of Numenor was great, though it waned in the lesser days of this Age.

Life continued in Gondor, though in a melancholy disquiet unlike the once thriving capital.

Faramir, son of Denethor and Steward of Gondor walked the halls of the Houses of Healing, his footsteps echoing in the stillness. He wrapped his cloak around him tighter as he felt an ill wind sweep down the hall from the open window beyond, but he could not protect himself from his own growing discomfort. The cold seemed to seep through the very walls and he knew not such silence. It left him ill at ease and restless, and unable to remain indoors for much longer, he decided to retire to the gardens. There, perhaps, he thought, he could rid himself of his worries, or at least be allowed to pace freely within its walled courtyards. There also he could look eastward, towards the mountains of Mordor.

There was where all the hopes of Men now laid.

As he approached the doors leading to the gardens, he noticed that the Warden was standing before them, conversing quietly with a Healer Faramir did not recognize. The young Gondorian could not hear them, so muted were their words, but he could read the worry of their expressions as they looked to the gardens.

"Surely, you have better things than to sit before the gates, kind sir, fair lady," said Faramir softly so not to startle them, stopping to bow his head respectfully. "Pray tell the reason for you to stand here, with so concerned a look on your faces."

"My lord," said the Warden respectfully as he bowed in turn. "It is good you are here. Naught but an hour ago, the Lady Éowyn withdrew from her room and came to the gardens. Her eyes appeared lost and it seemed she was in a deep trance, for she walked those cold grounds with nary a cloak or even decent cover on a day as bitter as this. Even now she sits on the bench at the garden's center, staring ever east."

At Éowyn's name, Faramir looked up to see the fair white lady of Rohan, her golden hair shimmering in the dull light of the day. Like a waif she sat alone at the garden's center, her face turned away from the entrance, staring to the east. A thin white gown draped lightly around her form, though the wind oft shifted it so that the fabric itself seemed corporeal. Indeed, Faramir thought, it was too thin a garment to be wearing without a cloak.

"What I do not understand," said Faramir, his voice low, "is why you have not stopped her, or forced her indoors, if indeed this has been going on for an hour's time. Would that not be the most rational approach?"

"For any others, we would have," said the Healer softly to Faramir, "but surely even you, my Lord, have recognized the Lady Éowyn to be unlike the others under our care. For though she is as strong as she is fair and beautiful, her spirit is as delicate as she is sad."

Faramir's mouth tightened at the mentioning of her sadness, for he had perceived her despair on the day they first met, in the gardens as it were. Over the days that followed, he began to better understand her sadness. He felt great pity for her, and wished only to see her happy, but the happiness she sought was one only found in dreams. And that was something he could not give.

He sighed. "I see," he said softly. "Perhaps you were right in your decision. Allow me to speak with her."

"That would be best," said the Warden with a bow as Faramir stepped through the threshold into the garden courtyard. He also noticed briefly the coy, almost expectant look of the Warden's as he passed, to which he ignored.

There were no sounds, not even the gentle trill of birds as he stepped outdoors, his footsteps making no sound on the soft carpet of grass. His breath misted before him, and he wrapped his cloak around him the more tightly as a sharp blast of wind brushed past both him and Éowyn. But Éowyn did not move, though her hair danced in the wind that disturbed it.

Faramir stared sadly at Éowyn as he tread silently to the bench he knew well for he had long sat there with the Lady Éowyn in days before, sometimes in speech, sometimes in silence, but ever looking towards the east. In silence now, he sat down next to her, sitting so that he stared in the opposite direction as she did, not wishing to disturb her in her quiet.

"How dark this world seems today. Like a shadow, tall and foreboding. It stands above us, waiting to crush us in a single sweep," he heard Éowyn whisper. "And we are but helpless to stop it from devouring us and all that we love."

"This does not mean we should reject all hope and light, because the end seems inevitable," said Faramir gently. "Ever there is hope there is a chance of victory."

"But for how long must one hope, until it is a false hope?" asked Éowyn. "When must the young decide they won't remain young, the old they will grow no older, and the warrior that they will not see another sun?"

"There is no such thing as a false hope," said Faramir. "Belief is half the battle."

Éowyn turned to him. She looked at him, her grey eyes fixed on him, as cold as the walls that surrounded them. "Then half the battle is already lost," whispered Éowyn.

Faramir stared at her sadly, noting her anguish in this late hour. He felt his heart clench from within as he cursed his own inability to bring her out of the cold darkness she had encased herself in, at his helplessness in drawing her away from her sadness into beauty and light. He looked away, staring at his hands. "In times when hope seems lost, you must then turn to those who still have hope," he said quietly, "those willing to help you bear your burdens."

Éowyn eyes filled with confusion and doubt at his words, but her voice was strong when she said: "Only the weak accepts the protection of others."

Faramir looked to her in surprise. "That is where you are wrong, Éowyn," he said gently. "It does not make one weak, but stronger. One can stand on the edge of a knife for only so long before they must take hold of another, or topple to their doom. To be able to rely on the strength of others is to find strength in you."

"But not everyone is so lucky to receive protection," said Éowyn harshly, a cold laugh coming from her throat. "And those who are more unlucky find it, only to have it taken away. And then they are left the more cold and helpless. Alone, they still stand on the edge of the knife, but there is no one there to hold to, or to share in their burdens."

She shivered slightly, whether from the cold within her heart, or the cold of the day, Faramir could not tell, but as a hand came up to catch the hair that curled before her face, Faramir found himself taking her hand into his, and he held it gently.

Silence fell between them as they stared at each other. "Your hands," whispered Faramir, "you're hands are so cold." He took his other hand and clasped it lightly over her hand, allowed his warmth to warm it.

He looked to her, and he saw that she was looking at his hands, but her eyes held none of the sadness or hardness it had before. Her eyes had softened and her expressions changed to one that seemed lost, as if she did not understand what it was he was doing. Even he was not certain what compelled him to take her hand, but as he felt her hand warm beneath his, he felt his heart fill with a longing unbeknownst to him. And he realized he could not take his eyes off her. He felt captured by her beauty, by the golden hair that seemed to frame her suddenly soft features.

The hand slipped from his grasp as she pulled away from him, although her retreat was slow and seemed reluctant, but her uncertainty was stronger. Her hand was in a tight fist, as if she could hold his warmth, as she brought it to her chest. She did not look to him for her eyes remain fixed on his still outstretched hands. She did not speak a word, but her expression did not change.

Faramir's hands fell, but were quick to rise up again, this time to his cloak. Skilled fingers unclasped it quickly, and he held the ends so that it did not fall from his back. "It is a cold day, my Lady," he said softly, draping the warm green velvet of his cloak over her shoulders. Her face shot up to look at him, her eyes wide with confusion. "It would do you no good to become ill in this weather." He arranged the cloak about her, taking great cares on her injured shield arm, still healing from her tremendous battle.

"Even those who live life standing alone in dark can find one who will share in their burdens, and so help them overcome it," he added.

Their eyes met, and it seemed to Faramir as if eternity encompassed that second in which he looked upon her. His heart pulsed ever faster, and his throat constricted as he gazed at her face. But it was not her physical beauty that had him enchanted. Her grey eyes were like windows to her soul. He saw in them tenderness and a love deep and beautiful. Though she was a shieldmaiden, her soul was not one of battles and wars. And it was as delicate as she had been described – like a flower frozen in time, yet its beauty was beyond comprehension.

He reached out, his hand slowly moving from where he had been arranging the cloak around her lap so that they held her cheek. They were as cold as her hands, he thought, but softer and gentler. Her face was not that of a warrior's. Her face was not one that was suppose to experience so much grief, or pain. He watched the tears form in her eyes, her lips parted delicately as her breathing became heavier, mist rising as she exhaled.

Realization dawned on him suddenly, and he stiffened as he slowly understood, no longer blinded by his confusion.

He loved her.

"It is late," said Éowyn suddenly, breaking his trance like a bolt to his heart. She jerked away from his hand quickly, and stood abruptly. The cloak slid from her shoulders as she did, and she stared but a moment at it before swooping down to pick it up swiftly. She held it for a moment, looking to it with a sad look, before holding it out to the young Steward, her arm shaking. "I have been out for far too long, my Lord," she said stiffly, "I should return to my quarters."

Faramir did not take the cloak from her, but only stared at her speechlessly, his mouth agape as he grappled with his own confusion. "Éowyn…" he choked out, but no other words followed. Words failed him, as he tried to grasp the impact of his emotions, for his love for her was greater than any he had ever felt or experienced and he knew not how to accept it.

He knew only that the sentiments within him at the mere thought of her made each beat of his heart ache. Never had he known such pains, knowing her not to be his, but at the same time, never had he felt so much joy knowing her to be next to him, near him, looking at him.

Some time passed as Faramir tried again and again to form the words he wanted to say, but his throat was so constricted and tight that he found it hard to breathe, much less speak. Éowyn watched him wordlessly, her eyes cold again, before she placed the cloak next to him. Her frustration at his lack of words or even a thank you was evident as she bowed formally to him. "I bid you farewell, Lord Steward of Gondor," she said, her voice as flat and formal as any who greeted a stranger.

Her tone sent knives through his heart, more painful even than when he had been pierced with the dark arrow of a Southron. It was as if she did not care for him, though he would relinquish the city and all its people, if only so his feelings could be returned. But alas! ever her fair heart was turn to another, one whom Faramir, for a moment, could only consider with great envy.

As she turned away from him, he found his voice. "The days have become cold in Minas Tirith," he said hoarsely. "I will have a cloak sent to you in the near future; I will not have you suffer in the city's frost." He took a deep breath as he added: "It would be imprudent of me to allow so fair a being as thee to be without warmth and protection from the chill of darkness." He tried to say more, he tried to tell her more, but the words refused to leave his mouth. He could only smile sadly at her.

Éowyn turned, and for a moment, Faramir thought her face to soften again, but it was only a moment, for her expression turned to ice once more as she said: "That would be most appreciated. I thank you for your hospitality and your consideration." She bowed again, and then she was gone, like a ghost she slipped away from him, as if she was never there.

The Warden and the Healer looked to the gardens and shook their head. It had been two hours since Éowyn's departure and the light was fading fast. Yet still their Steward sat on the bench in the center of the courtyard, his head in his hands, his cloak untouched where Éowyn had left it, for he had not bothered to return it to his shoulders.

It was a bitter day in Minas Tirith and the night would be colder still.

TBC