At work in her garden, fingers embedded in warm earth. Eowyn thinks, oddly, about smells.

Edoras: Grassland, horse, peatsmoke. She had been accustomed to those smells; but now, she wrinkles her nose a bit at the memory, laughing at herself.

Ithilien: new-cut hay, birch trees in bud, the lavender leaves she crushes between her fingers. Her husband: sweat, lemony soap; the scent of their lovemaking lingering on his skin. She smiles.

Footsteps, and here is Faramir, stretching out on the grass next to her. Reaching over, he nuzzles the back of her neck, murmuring, I love the way you smell.

~~
For Lariren-Shadow, who is not quite old enough to read this version! A G-Rated version was published at HASA for her.