Faramir closed his eyes and enjoyed the feel of the evening air on his face. He had been a resident of the Houses of Healing for several days now, and although the place was pleasant enough, it was a great relief to be able to stand outside again. The injuries he had sustained at Osgiliath still pained him from time to time, but thanks to the diligent ministrations of the Healers, he was more than capable of walking about the grounds.

He was fully aware of how narrowly, even miraculously, he had managed to escape death, and not just during the slaughter at Osgiliath that had taken so many of his countrymen. He swallowed as he recalled the end of his father, Denethor. Although the late Steward had repeatedly brought pain to the heart of his younger son and sent him on what had essentially amounted to a suicide mission, Faramir still mourned him. He had, in spite of everything, been his father and the last living member of his immediate family.

The loss of Denethor had also reopened the wounds of grief that had been inflicted upon Faramir by the death of his older brother, Boromir, months ago. Not a day went by that Faramir failed to miss him, or think of him. Despite the open favor that Denethor had always shown to his elder son, Boromir and Faramir had loved one another deeply.

Faramir blinked hard as he was assaulted by memories of his brother, who had always tried to help and protect him, even (or perhaps especially) from Denethor. He, Faramir, was truly alone in the world now; an orphan whose only sibling had been cut down during a battle with a group of orcs. His memories of his mother were few, as he had been no more than a child when she had died, but he missed her now quite as much as he did Boromir.

In an attempt to distract himself from the grief and the painful memories, Faramir shifted his eyes to another view and caught sight of someone standing on another balcony. It was a woman clad in a light cotton shift. The light breeze stirred golden hair around her face, and she too was looking out at the starry sky, apparently deep in thought. Faramir watched her for a moment, and then took a step toward the edge of the balcony on which he stood. Toward her.

In that moment, the woman looked up. A pair of sorrowful blue eyes looked directly into Faramir's, and he recognized the lady: she was Éowyn, the White Lady of Rohan, the shieldmaiden who was responsible for the death of the Witch King of Angmar.

She was so beautiful, and there was such sorrow in her eyes, that Faramir could not help but offer her a half-smile, in hopes that she might return it. She did not; she simply dropped her gaze and turned away.

Faramir felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to go to her, to speak with her. Although the Healers were good about supplying him with news and conversation, he longed to talk to someone else. He could not take his gaze form the head of the White Lady.

Moving with the slight stiffness that was the result of his still-healing injuries, Faramir navigated his way down a short flight of steps and a corridor until he reached the balcony upon which Éowyn stood. Her back was to him, her pale, slender hands spread on the stone railing as she gazed out at the night.

Faramir took a few steps toward her, as one might approach a skittish horse, and cleared his throat before he spoke, not wishing to surprise her. "Lady Éowyn," he said.

Éowyn turned around swiftly, her eyes wide as they fixed on him. Recognizing his face, she inclined her blonde head in a gesture of respect. "My Lord Faramir," she greeted quietly.

Glad that she had not simply chosen to ignore him-he would not have held it against her if she had-Faramir took several steps closer. Éowyn held his gaze warily, but she did not shy away, nor did she give any indication that she wished for him to leave her.

Faramir cleared his throat again, this time from a vague feeling of nervous awkwardness rather than a desire to announce himself. "How are you, Lady?" he asked. A reasonable enough question, he thought; one which presumed nothing and to which she could respond with as many or as few words as she chose.

Éowyn turned her face back to the view and seemed to think carefully about Faramir's question before answering it: "I am alive," she said simply, still not looking at the man to whom she was speaking. She glanced down at her hands, white as the moon against the dark gray stone upon which they rested. "I should be dead." She said this in a way that made it sound like a statement of fact; something one would take for granted until one was presented with compelling evidence to the contrary.

Faramir almost smiled. "As should I," he said. "At least twice over."

Éowyn gave him a questioning glance. Now it was Faramir who looked away. "I was injured at Osgiliath," he explained, "and it is for those injuries that the Healers are treating me. Before I was brought here, however, my father tried to burn my body, thinking me dead."

Éowyn gasped and looked at him with her large blue eyes. "My Lord?" she exclaimed in confused surprise.

Faramir's fingers clenched on the stone, so hard that his knuckles turned white, as he continued: "Gandalf and the hobbit Pippin knew that I was not dead and were able to deliver me from the flames that my father had set." His memory of the flaming pyre was vague; he had been very weak and barely conscious at the time, but he remembered feeling the heat on his skin. He closed his eyes briefly. "My father, however, they could not save," he said. Denethor had been covered in oil from the pyre and had been quickly beset by the fire meant for what he had believed was the corpse of his second son.

Faramir heard Éowyn's sharp intake of breath. "So that is how the Steward of Gondor came to death," she said softly. She raised her eyes once more to meet those of her companion. "My Lord, I am so sorry."

The pain of the memory softened as Faramir saw the genuine understanding and sympathy in the expression of the White Lady. "And I am sorry about the death of King Théoden, My Lady," he replied. "I know that he was a close kinsman of yours. It grieved me to hear that he had fallen."

"He fell in battle with honor, as he wished it," said Éowyn. Her voice was steady, but Faramir did not miss the way she bit down on her lower lip, nor did the fact that her eyes had begun to shine with tears escape him. "As I had wished to do myself," she added, lowering her gaze once more. She blinked several times in quick succession, staring out at the grounds. "I was with him when it happened," she said, her voice soft and thoughtful. "I was there when he took his last breath."

Faramir watched her swallow, sunken in her memories of a raging battle and a dying kinsman. He would have liked to lay a hand on her shoulder, but he thought better of it. "I am grateful that you did not fall in battle, My Lady," he heard himself say. Éowyn's eyebrows drew together in surprise as she looked into his eyes again. Faramir studied her carefully. She had proven her valor when she had entered into battle and slain the greatest of the Nazgûl, along with its beast. Faramir reflected that it was not necessary to die to prove one's courage, as Boromir had done. "My heart tells me that you have more to do ere you pass from this world," he said to Éowyn.

"How can you feel such a thing? You are not so well acquainted with me, My Lord," the lady returned.

Faramir inclined his head. She was right, of course, although for his part, he would wish it otherwise. There was something about Éowyn that drew him to her, as evidenced by the fact that he had chosen to approach her in the first place, instead of leaving her be as she would probably have preferred. "Forgive me," he said.

Éowyn nodded. "With your permission, My Lord," she said, "I shall take my leave. The Healers seem to prefer that I not linger outside."

Faramir bowed as well as he was able after his injuries, albeit somewhat reluctantly. "Of course, My Lady," he said. "I bid you a restful night."

"I bid you the same, Lord Faramir," Éowyn replied. Faramir watched her as she walked inside the Houses of Healing, leaving him on the balcony alone in the night air.