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The people of Minas Tirith turn out into the streets to greet the returning company. Faramir stands tall, his face placid, though she recognises the beginning of his smile that might appear any moment. He is well pleased, she thinks, for one about to lose the rule of Gondor.
Were it hers to give, not even for Aragorn would she surrender the land of her home and its golden hall. Much else might have been his, of course, had he any want of it.
"How is it you know," she asked Faramir some days past, "that he is your true king?"
"He called me back from death. Glad I was to answer his call. No other would I allow to rule me." He added with a smile: "Except you, lady."
For Faramir, standing quiet and sure at her side, she would give anything.
There is much work to be done in the city, but Faramir spares her all the time he can, for soon she will be departing for home with her brother. When the demands of duty allows it they walk together, in speech or in silence, as they had in those dark days before the shadow was overcome. Their hearts are much lightened and in these precious moments they play at being young lovers, free from care, naught but themselves to think of.
"The men of Gondor are as slow as their horses!"
She laughs, dashing along the garden paths, never really trying to lose him.
The White Lady, they call her, warrior-maiden of the north. At first the people talk much of her deeds in the Battle of the Pelennor, her defeat of the Witch King. And then, seeing her in the company of Faramir, their much-loved Steward, they begin to speak less, and smile more, knowingly, as they pass by.
She walks at Faramir's side and cares not that they think she has been tamed.
In the King's banquet hall and throughout the city drink flows freely as the Riders of Rohan are farewelled. It is a night of celebration, too, for there is much still to celebrate, with high spirits, good cheer, laughter, and song.
In a corner of the gardens of the Houses of Healing it is quiet and dark beneath the trees. Faramir's voice is rough against her throat. His beard brushing her skin makes her shiver.
"Will we not be missed?" he says.
"No," she grips his arms tighter, "no. I do not care."
"Well, which is it?"
She hears the amusement in his voice, and quiets him with a simple "hush" as she draws him deeper in the shadows. His lips on hers are gentle, seeking.
There is no speech for a time, until he gasps against her hair. "What will I do without you? Without my Èowyn?"
She has not the breath to answer. She can but kiss him, over and over. Tighten her arms around him. She is his already, she wants to tell him, what matters all else?
Though she misses him already, in time she will return to him, and they will wed. And though there may yet be dark days to come, of grief and hardship, she does not fear the return of darkness. The road ahead already seems so much brighter than she has ever seen before.