A/N: Trigger warnings: I gave these characters way more issues than I think the author ever intended them to have, but hey. Éowyn has depression (it's not explicitly stated, but that's what it is) and used to cut herself. Faramir tried to commit suicide.

The quiet was driving her insane. The healers insisted that she get plenty of rest, but she had never felt more restless in her life. Eventually she could not stand to be alone with herself anymore.

"Please," she asked one of the healers, "could you tell me how much longer I must stay here?"

The healer looked a lot like her mother did in her memories, soft blue eyes and smile lines around her mouth.

"I don't know, dear. That is a decision someone with more authority than I."

"Could I perhaps speak with such a person?"

"You could talk to the Steward. He is in charge of the city until the king's return. You'll find him in the gardens I reckon. He spends most of his time there."

She found the Steward just as the healer had said, sitting on a bench beneath a winter-bare tree. He moved to make room when he saw her approach, but she declined as politely as she could, preferring to stay out of reach.

"Sir, I was told that I should come speak to to you if…" It suddenly seemed childish to demand to be released from the healers' care. Besides, where could she go? Her brother was too far away by now for her to catch up to him. Behind her lay a home empty of those she love - had loved. Her uncle…

The Steward - she thought his name was Faramir - seemed to sense that she had run out of words to say.

"I'll be happy to help in any way I can. What do you need?"

She thought for a moment.

"Something to do. I - I can't sit still anymore."

I'm going mad.

"I'll speak to the healers. In the meantime if you need something to do, I would be very grateful if you would stay and talk to me."

The words made her skin crawl, innocent though they seemed. Grima had often been inviting her to 'talk' with him.

"Thank you," she said tightly, "but I think I should go back. I doubt I am the sort of company you would like."

She woke in the middle of the night. The nightmare made her stomach turn. To keep still was torture so she fled outside. It was dark, the stars a distant light and the moon a pale sliver. But at least she could breathe.

She sat at the foot of a tree, resting her back against the trunk. She could feel her heat being leeched away by the cold bark. It felt good though, better than the suffocating warmth of her room.

'Just a few minutes,' she told herself.

The nightmare was still fresh in her mind. She did not want it to be, yet she could not make it leave.

Grima was following her again. She ran to her brother's room, but he wasn't there.

"There's no one to protect you now."

His voice was oily and wrong in a way she could not put into words. She only knew it made her want to hide away. She shouted for her uncle, but he only stared at her with milky, unseeing eyes.

She cried, buried her face in her knees and sobbed as she had not in years. She wished Eomer was here. She wished - no, she did not, there was no point to it.

She heard grass crunching behind her. One of the healers had probably come to check on her. They had been keeping a very careful eye on her. She did not know whether Eomer had told them or whether they had seen the scars on her arms and connected the dots for themselves.

"I'm all right," she said, voice steadier than she felt, "Just give me a few minutes."

"Take your time."

Someone sat down just a little way from her. She recognized Faramir's voice.

Oh Valar, what did he want?

She scrubbed at her face with her sleeve.

"I'm sorry." She wasn't sure what she was apologising for; she did not know what else to say.

"Don't be," he said, "Everyone cries, even soldiers."

After a while Faramir spoke again.

"If you don't mind my asking -" she stiffened "what are you crying about?"

"Why do you want to know?" she asked defensively.

He held up his hands in a placating gesture.

"I only want to help."

"I don't need your help. I'm fine."

"Okay."

He did not point out that she was sitting outside in the middle of the night or that her breath still shook from crying.

Instead he remarked: "It's been a while since the stars were visible. They seem brighter now, don't they?"

Éowyn looked at the pinpricks of light overhead. She disagreed, but said nothing. Faramir continued to talk. He didn't seem to mind that she made no contribution to the conversation.

He talked about all sorts of trivial topics; it didn't take him long to run out of things to say. She realised that despite his cheerfulness he had lived the shadow of war as long she had. Safe topics were limited.

She did not want to feel any sort of kinship with Faramir. Every man in her life had disappointed her - some without even meaning to. It was better to keep her distance.

"Good night," she said abruptly, getting up and walking back inside. She was half afraid that she would hear footsteps behind her, but there was nothing.

The next morning Faramir came to her, smiling brightly. He had a nice smile.

'Stop that,' she told herself, 'your judgement is far too poor to be trusted.'

"Good news," he said, "I spoke to the healers. Since most of them are busy with patients, they need people to help with the laundry. Would you be willing?"

"Yes," she said. She had dreaded another day cooped up inside. Doing something - even laundry - would be a relief.

Éowyn realised that she had a problem the moment she stepped into the washroom. Several other women and one man were already there, bent over washtubs. Sleeves rolled up to their elbows.

'It's all right. The healers already know about the scars. You have nothing to hide.'

But Faramir didn't. And there was a difference between people knowing and actually putting her scars on display.

'No warrior is ashamed of their scars, why should you be? You've ridden into battle and you killed a Nazghul. For Eru's sake, get a hold of yourself!'

She pushed up her sleeves and set to work. She cautiously looked to see what Faramir's reaction was.

The scars had grown paler over the years, but they were still noticable. Dozens of thin, self-inflicted scratches.

Faramir did not feign politeness by pretending to ignore the scars. He stared - with surprise or horror she did not know. Then he smiled, not as brightly as before. And pushed up his own sleeves. She did not feign politeness either.

He did not have the same ladder-rung lines she did, but the prominant white scar across the inside his wrist told a similar story.

They worked in silence for a while - nothing but the sound of splashing, sloshing and scrubbing.

"Why?" she asked eventually.

He did not reply at first. She began to think that he would not when he said:

"Because I was an eleven-year-old boy desperate for his father's love. I thought that maybe this," he gestured to his wrist, "would get him to notice me. I - well, I didn't realise how bad that plan was."

He laughed nervously. "You?"

"I needed to feel something," she said simply.

They up the laundry to dry in the sun.

"How did you… get better?" she asked.

"My brother, Boromir, took me to someone who has experience with dealing with illnesses of the mind."

"I didn't know that there were such healers."

"I think it might just be the one. We call him Mithrandir, but he has a lot of different names."

"Gandalf?" she exclaimed, incredulous.

"Yes, I believe that is one of his names."

"And how did he cure you?"

"He didn't. But he helped me. He taught me the history of Middle Earth; not the official records found in the Library of Gondor, but wild, improbable tales about the elves and the halflings. I thought that he was making them up until I met Sam and Frodo in Ithilien."

"And how did… learning stories help you?"

"In part, it distracted me. More importantly though, the stories gave me courage. They made me realise that I was not alone. Every age, every creature - whether Man or Elf or Dwarf - is fighting the same battle: the war of light and dark. The darkness can be different things. For some it is greed, for others it is fear. For some it is a numbness that swallows them whole, that makes them feel as though they are drowning in emptiness."

She stopped what she was doing, hands resting on the washline, forgotten peg clutched in her hand.

"Do you believe them? The stories? Eru and the Valar and all that?"

"Yes. Don't you?"

"I think that it would have been better if Eru had created nothing at all. Or perhaps if he had stopped before creating… people like Sauron."

She had been going to say 'me'.

Faramir did not react as her brother would have. He didn't look at her sternly or tell her to be grateful, that life was a gift even if it was mingled with sorrow.

"It would have been easier, but I don't believe that it would have been better."

Éowyn woke early the next morning. She went into the garden and stood on the terrace that overlooked the city. The terrace faced east, but the darkness over Mordor delayed the dawn.

She looked for signs of Éomer and - and the rest of the army even though she knew there was no way that she could see them. She wished she still had enough faith to pray for their safety, but whatever meagre faith she had once had had withered away.

"You'll catch a cold if you keep coming out here in this weather," Faramir said.

He had brought her a cloak. She hesitated for a moment then accepted it.

The sun finally made an appearance. Faramir watched it with an expression of awe.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

She looked at him, frowning.

"How do you do that?" she asked.

"What?"

"How are you… happy? You said that Gandalf didn't cure you yet you can stand here and smile as though nothing is wrong."

"Because I've learnt to cope. I can't fix the world or even myself, but as I can keep praying and living, I can make it. When things get bad I cling to the knowledge that despair passes."

"Your brother and your father are both dead."

She knew it was cruel, but a twisted, broken part of her wanted to provoke him. She wanted to see who was beneath the false air of contentment.

"Yes, they are. I'm not saying that the world is a good place. That is a lie which can't even fool a child. I won't tell you that every bad thing leads to something good; sometimes it doesn't. But I will tell you that God is in control. Someone is writing this story and that means that everything works towards an ending that is ultimately good."

She said nothing. She wished that she could have that sort of peace. The last peace she had known was in the certainty that she would die in battle. But she was still alive and she had no idea what to do with that life.

"What makes you believe that the ending is good? That Eru is good?"

"I cut my own wrist when I was eleven. I had no idea really of what I was doing. I still remember how badly I was shaking, my fingers could barely grip the hilt. That knife could easily have slipped, severed an artery and caused me to bleed out before my brother found me. I could have cut through a nerve or tendon by accident and never have been able to use my hand again. I didn't. It might seem lucky or coincidental to others, but for me it's proof."

"He still let tou get hurt, still let your family die. Where's your loving God in that?"

Faramir was quiet. He stared down at his hands and despite her earlier wish she felt no satisfaction at making him feel bad. She was about to apologise when he spoke.

"We can't always protect those we love. They have to be free to make their own choices. Boromir chose to go to Rivendell even though I didn't want him to. He chose to try to take the Ring and he chose to protect Merry and Pippin. My father… he made his choices too."

There was nothing she could say after that. Because giving someone freedom to make their own choices was something she understood. How many times hadn't she begged her brother to let her ride with him? How many times had she wished to be a man so that she could have some say in the course her life would take?

She could not blame Eru for the darkness if it gave her the power to choose.

There were tears streaming down her face, but for once she didn't care. They didn't feel like a weakness now; they felt like healing. Like the rain that washed away the dust so the everything could grow bright and green again.

For the first time in months - maybe even years - she felt the sun shining on her. Maybe the darkness would come again; times being what they were she was certain that it would, but now she would be able to bear it better. Because she would not have to bear it alone.

A/N: I did my best, but I'm not an expert. If you feel that I have not accurately portrayed these character's issues, please let me know.