His own scars do not do him the same courtesy. But then, that is the way of Gondor.

She is not of Gondor. She does not belong here, this queen of the plains, in a prison of this cold white marble city. It traps her. He fears for her, here, and yet he dreads her return to her home.

She doesn't need his fear for her. She fights as a man would, all fierce shining glory with a sword in her hand. She is brave, and strong, and so beautiful it hurts him to look at her. The sight of her aches in his heart like a wound.

She opens her eyes. Before he can retreat, or even straighten, she turns towards some sound and sees him there, in the edges of the light from her candle. Though he expects rebuke, she only looks at him through a veil of fallen hair. She seems younger than the women of his city, but there is a sad wisdom in her eyes.

"Come here," she says. Her voice is husky with sleep.

She is Queen, but even without the title he has no choice but to obey. He goes to her, beside the bed, and stands at attention.

Reaching out a pale hand, she lays it on his arm. The warmth of her in this cold place is a balm to him. "Faramir," she says, not unkindly. She doesn't have to say anything else. He knows what this looks like.

It was another nightmare, another late hour spent pacing the halls of his father's great fortress. He paces because he knows he will have to leave Minas Tirith, soon. It is not his place; it never truly was. He belongs in the wilderness of the forest, in those deep cool silences untouched by human voices. The king has returned, the blight of evil has passed, and his duty here is over.

His war is over, and yet he lingers over her in the dark, afraid to close his eyes.

"Faramir," she says again, her smile warming. With a strength hidden by the gentle curves of her, she pulls him down beside her on the bed. He tenses, the words of propriety on his lips, but she quiets them with a single look.

She smells of growing things, apples and sweet wine, wheat and good harvest. He feels himself relax into her, coaxed by the shock of her -finally!- so close beside him.

Boromir would close the distance and kiss her madly. Boromir would be so bold. But, as he has been reminded so frequently of late, Faramir is not his brother and so he lingers there, in agony.

It would be a good kiss.

"You seem troubled," she murmurs. "Is it your wounds? Lord Aragorn is likely awake-"

"No." Even to him, the words sound stark. He looks at her, and feels his expression gentle. "No, lady. I am well."

"And yet you walk the halls at night." There is a wry, gentle humor to her smile.

"It is... a habit. A ranger rarely sleeps at night. Even before my father-" A memory sears him, and his words falter. At times he can still smell lamp oil and burning meat. He closes his eyes, composes himself, and forces the words to return. It is a weakness he would not trust with anyone else, save perhaps the halflings, but when he looks to her again she is simply watching him, waiting. "Before the end of my father's reign, I walked the halls when I was in Minas Tirith."

She tilts her head. Golden hair strokes her throat, and his hand itches to reach for her and to twine those strands around his own fingers, to press them to his lips, to follow the column of her throat. "And what are you guarding against?"

He cannot lie to her. "Memory."

The truth seems to startle her, but after a moment she inclines her head as if agreeing. She studies the pattern of the blanket for a moment, then draws in a deep breath as if bracing for battle. Her hand slides down from its grip on his arm, to his fingers, twining her pale hand with his own. Her hand is rough from work, rougher than any other woman he has known. It is the longest he has been touched since Boromir left for Rivendell, and did not return.

"You hear the cry of orcs," she said softly, as if hiding their words from some audience. "The clash of steel. The screams of the dying. You see the blood, and the death, whenever you close your eyes. You smell the fires."

The fires. Faramir felt himself shudder, as distantly as a nightmare.

A hand touched the side of his face, drawing him up to look at her. Her eyes were deep, deep like the sea, deep enough to carry you away so that you drowned. "It is over," she said. There was the steel of a blade, the strength of a queen, beneath her voice. "The nightmares will fade. Remember the dead, but remember also, Faramir, that we are still here. You are still here. And so we must live."

And so they must live. It is a strange sentiment, so alien to what he had been taught by his father, by his kin. And yet...

And yet...

When he pulls away, knowing it is only because she chose to let him go, his heart is fast in his throat, his breathing unsteady. He has known the touch of a woman, of course; in Gondor, there is little hope of future things that should be waited for. But her fire has burned those memories to ash.

He wants her with a desperation that is frightening.

Perhaps reading his expression, she sits up, moving to catch his arm, but he is faster despite the lingering aches of his wounds. He moves back, away from the bed, away from her. Bowing his head, he lowers his gaze to the floor with the proper respect.

"Forgive me, lady." Eowyn, Eowyn. He longs to taste her name, if only once.

"There is nothing to forgive."

He lifts his eyes, but not enough to meet hers again. He cannot risk that. "I will escort you to the road in the morning, and see that you are safe."

"Of course." Is there a thread of a sigh there? A touch of regret?

Bending down, though his wounds pained him in return, he bowed and left her then.

He would not sully her with his bloody hands.
***
End.