*

“My Lord Faramir?”

At the voice of the Warden, Faramir pulled his gaze and thoughts from the darkness in the East and sighed. Though the sun shone on his back, he felt cold, and a shadow of dread chilled his heart; he may have been healed in body, but despair played still on his mind, giving him no rest. Bitterly, he wondered what matter in these evil days could warrant the attention of the Steward of the City.

“My Lord, here is the Lady Eowyn of Rohan.”

Faramir bowed low. He had heard great things of this lady, and did not need the Warden’s account of her deeds in battle. As she stood before him now, he marvelled also at her beauty – her tall, slender form, her skin, white and cold as fresh-fallen snow, her eyes...here he found his gaze arrested. Eowyn’s grey eyes spoke of sorrow and pain, and beneath that he perceived wisdom, courage and a desperate yearning. Here was a great woman indeed – yet something grieved her deeply, he knew. At this thought, he felt his insides twist. That one so fair and noble should suffer to such a degree seemed a grave injustice. Well, he would right it if he could. He nodded to the Warden to leave them alone.

As the lady spoke of her troubles, he offered her his arm. A gentle shiver ran through the young Steward at her touch, and for the first time since before his illness, he felt the sun’s rays warm on his body. Walking in the garden with Eowyn, he felt hope begin to return.