Chapter V: The Captain and the White Lady
When Faramir reached the garden the next morning, she was already there. A wind had sprung up, and blew through her flaxen hair. It also rippled the length of the starry mantle. As blue as a summer night, spangled over with tiny silvery stars, clustered heavily about the trim, which was like an elegantly-worked ribbon of gold. It draped gracefully from her shoulders. He walked toward her, his casual pace concealing his anticipation of her presence. Her voice rang out in the still.
"The city has fallen silent." Her voice was grim, and she didn’t move, watching the Host of the West marching steadily from the gates of Minas Tirith.
"There is no warmth left in the sun … it grows so cold," she said mournfully, as a maiden young and sad.
He reached her side, and looked not to the soldiers, but to the lands. The intermittent showers last night had washed much of the blood from the Pelennor, and the grasses were growing green again. Despite the solemn burning of the dead, he could no longer smell the fell fire at every moment, but plants reviving, and life returning. "It’s just the damp of the first spring rain."
She turned her head, and raised her eyes to his.
He spoke in a tender half-whisper, "I do not believe this darkness will endure."
His long gaze searched hers, and he felt a breath of warmth meet the chill in her heart … and prevail. Encouraged, Faramir slipped his hand into hers. He felt her close her grip, at first shyly, then firmly. Something in her softened, and a smile tugged doggedly at her lips. When she smiled, she was indeed fairer than even the foliage of spring in Ithilien. A Child of the Plains she was, but her eyes were blue-grey as the sea. He returned her smile, then she drew close and laid her head on his shoulder, her face against the midnight blue velvet he wore. Faramir lightly rested his cheek against her hair, and closed his eyes, lost in the softness and faint fragrance of her locks.
Time flitted by, but Éowyn and Faramir forgot about the departure of the Host, the return of the King, the burning in the field, only that they stood together upon the walls, supporting each other wordlessly, the wind blowing their hair, chestnut and golden. Faramir didn’t want it to end, until another voice broke the serenity.
"My Lord?"
Faramir reluctantly looked up, and saw Iorlas, left to lead the City Troops in defense of the broken gates. He bowed, and said, "My Lord Steward, the Council awaits you in the Court."
Éowyn drew away, and Faramir said, "Thank you, Iorlas."
The Captain bowed again, and left. The Steward sighed, and released Éowyn’s hand. But he touched her shoulder gently, and kissed her brow. "Then I take my leave, Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan."
She smiled again, this time sadly. "Very well, my Lord."