He was not stalking her, no matter what Boromir said. He was just keeping an eye on her until the healers pronounced her fully recovered; he doubted she'd appreciate any setbacks to her recovery, so it was for the best if he watched over her. That's what he told himself, in any case. Faramir of Gondor was nothing if not a man of duty, and so it was purely duty that kept him attentive to her needs, walking with her in the gardens and telling her of the plants and their properties; reading to her and telling her stories; even quietly arranging alterations to their meals to include more dairy and other foods more familiar to the Rohirric diet.
He was soon forced to admit that his feelings, however, went beyond duty - and not by his beloved, interfering older brother.
Éowyn stood atop the city wall, a light breeze flirting with the skirts of her customary white dress. He paused a moment, catching his breath and taking in the sight of her. When he'd first met the Lady of Rohan, he'd been struck by the fragility of her, pale and brittle as a shard of ice lifted from a winter pool. She was fair then, as she was now, but there had been little life in her. Now as he watched, entranced, she closed her eyes and lifted her face to the smiling sun - not smiling herself, not yet, but the ice maiden was relaxing into something else.
"Faramir?" She'd said his name already, judging by her tone, and the beginnings of a smile were hovering about her mouth. Hastily clearing his throat, he crossed the little garden courtyard and gave her a short bow.
"Forgive me, I-" he began, but she shook her head impatiently.
"This isn't Gondor, Faramir, stop being polite and look at this."
More than a little confused, he nevertheless moved to stand beside her. This close, he was incredibly aware of her unbound hair, hanging to her hips and lifting restlessly in the wind. Clearing his throat again, he followed her gaze, and only then did he realise the significance of what he'd been seeing all along. Sunshine. It was pure sunshine, the first they'd felt in what felt like years. The Dark Lord's shadow had dissipated, the last tatters of it in the East melting away beneath the rays of a new dawn. All over the city, the remnants of his people were rushing out into the streets and balconies, upturned faces greeting the return of the Sun after her long exile.
How long they remained on the wall he did not know. Their hands brushed, and hers slipped neatly into his as though they had been made to clasp each other. He didn't dare look at her and risk breaking the spell, or even worse discover that this was all a dream, and the sky still shrouded. Then she shivered, and he couldn't help glancing at her in concern. She gave him a reassuring smile, but he could see the gooseflesh beading along her skin and the slight blue cast to her lips; despite the sun, the highest levels of the city retained winter's chill well into the middle of the day. Abruptly reminded of why he'd come in search of her, he shook out the mantle he'd been carrying over one arm and tucked it about his shoulders as nonchalantly as he could.
She released his hand in surprise, looking down to examine the mantle. Exclaiming slightly, she lifted it closer to her face.
"Do you like it?" he asked with a smile.
"Of course, I've never seen anything like it."
"My mother loved it as well. Almost every memory I have of her is of her wearing it, and for years I imagined it still smelled of her."
Her hands immediately went to her shoulders in preparation to take it off. "I can't take this."
"I wouldn't offer it to you if I didn't mean it. It's time it was worn again," he answered, then laughed a little. "I'm not a little boy hiding it amongst my covers anymore. She would have wanted someone to wear it after her."
She considered that, then finally gave a proud nod of her head. "Thank you." She paused, drawing the mantle a little closer around herself. "Why give it to me?"
He didn't even pause, suddenly far more sure of himself than he'd ever been before seeing her like that, standing beside him in his mother's spangled mantle. "Because I love you, Éowyn."
That startled her into silence, but only for a moment. "You hardly know me. How can you know if you love me?"
He gave the question the consideration it - she - deserved, turning the words over in his mouth before he spoke. "We've spent a lot of time together since we woke, and I believe I'm a good judge of character." He let his gaze drift slowly to meet hers, yet another smile coming easily to his lips. "And I would like nothing more than to see you smile as easily as my cousin says you used to."
"That doesn't explain how you know," she persisted.
"I know," he admitted. "I can't explain it more clearly than that, not now. I didn't come here with the intention of declaring my love to you."
"You came here to give me your mother's mantle," she said, a teasing light coming into her eyes. "Among my people, that's nearly a proposal."
Startled, his eyes snapped back to hers. "A proposal?"
She couldn't help laughing. "I expected you to know more about my people than that."
He laughed as well, a little sheepishly but good-naturedly. "I've never been to the Mark, and there's little written about your people other than a handful of rather biased reports. So tell me, what did you mean when you said this isn't Gondor? I can assure you that it is."
"You haven't heard that before?"
"Several times from Lothíriel, but she always refused to explain what it meant."
She laughed again and began explaining the idiom to him, and there they remained.
And so they stood on the walls of the City of Gondor, and a great wind rose and blew, and their hair, raven and golden, streamed out mingling in the air.