The first time he caught sight of her, running to her uncle’s side in the Golden Hall—proud, fearless, but steeped in sadness—he knew that he would do anything, even dance at her wedding, just to see her smile.

…

The Ceremony was everything she had ever dreamed of.

Dressed in cloth of gold, she swept into the Hall of Kings attended by half-a-dozen maidens; Eomer gave her his arm and led her down the aisle, to Faramir's side, symbolically placing her hand in his; Aragorn, splendid in his kingly robes, said the words; showers of rose petals—Gimli’s gift to them—floated down upon them; and, amidst the cheers of the Court and the people of Gondor, they walked out of the Hall, man and wife.

Merry and Pippin rushed forward to congratulate them.

And Eowyn, smiling happily as she hugged Merry, suddenly sensed his eyes upon her, and she looked up and saw him—a tall, lean, graceful figure, standing apart from the others, his normally serene face a mask of sorrow…

…

All the while she sat beside her husband, receiving the pledges of his followers, she could feel him, watching her; and when the formalities were over, and the dancing had begun, she saw him approach Faramir.

“May I request a dance of your lady?” he asked, his voice so gentle.

Faramir smiled, “Of course…”

Legolas turned to her, placing his hand upon his heart and bowing his head. “Your Highness,” he murmured, “would you do me the honour?”

Eowyn glanced at Faramir—he nodded towards the elf, a strange expression on his face—half amusement, she thought, but half compassion.

“The honour would be mine, Prince Legolas,” she said.

He led her onto the marble floor—the crowds fell back, to watch them—and, to the most exquisite elven music, they danced. And, though she did not know the steps, Eowyn found herself matching his movements, as though her body were somehow in secret communication with his…

Then the music ended. Legolas bowed and, to the guests’ applause, led her back to her seat—“Thank you,”—and he bowed again; and, as she watched him thread his way through the clusters of people, his simple dove-grey tunic and leggings a stark contrast to the finery around him, she found herself wondering—just for a moment—what it would be like to have him make love to her.

“He is in love with you,” said Faramir.

Eowyn looked towards the great double doors, but the elf had already left the Banqueting Hall. “No—I—no, he cannot be.”

“Yes. He is.” Faramir smiled, sadly. “Poor Legolas…”

…

Her bride’s maids undressed her, and brushed out her hair, crowned her with a simple chain of daisies, and led her to her marriage bed, strewn with lavender and heartsease.

Faramir’s groom’s men, having drunk to his health—and stamina—pushed him into the bedchamber; the women withdrew; and, with much laughter, and many coarse suggestions, the well-wishers closed the doors, leaving the couple alone together.

Faramir sat down beside her and, with a shy smile, took her hand.

“I did tell you,” said Eowyn, softly, “you do know that I am not…”

“I know.”

“I would never have done it had I not believed that I would marry him—”

“Shhhh,” said Faramir. “What happened in the past is behind us. All that matters now is the future.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, tenderly.

“You are such a good man, Faramir.”

“Eowyn!” Her husband shook his head. “Though it is gratifying to hear you say that, my dear, there are other words I would prefer to hear on my wedding night.”

“Words of love?”

“Can you say them?”

“Of course. But love is blind, Faramir, and may be misled. It is a man’s worth that wins his wife’s lasting affection.”

“What a serious spirit you have, my beautiful wife…” He kissed her hands again. “Shall I put out the candles, my dear?”

Eowyn opened the canvas door of her little hut and stepped outside. The air was cool and misty, promising a warm, sunny day.

She crossed the camp to where Legolas and the others were already sitting down to breakfast, returning the greetings of the elves who were packing up their belongings, and of Eomer, and Gimli (though his mouth was full), and of Lord Fingolfin.

“Good morning, melmenya,” said Legolas, holding out his hand. Eowyn sat beside him. “You have a letter from Caras Arnen,” he said, softly. “The messenger is waiting for your reply.”

Eowyn frowned. “From Faramir?”

The elf nodded. “His man says that Faramir plans to join us at the Falls of Rauros. But the letter is private…” He handed her the folded parchment.

“I will read it later,” said Eowyn. “After breakfast.”

…

Back in the privacy of her shelter, Eowyn broke the sealing wax—impressed, she noticed, not with the official seal of the Prince of Ithilien, but with Faramir’s own monogram—and unfolded the letter.

‘My dear,’ she read, ‘I am sorry to be reminding you of a time that caused you so much pain, but a matter has arisen that requires your attention.

‘As you will no doubt recall, amongst the lands granted to us at the time of our marriage was the Vale of Lothgeleb, which was to be held in trust by us jointly for our eldest son, until he came of age.’

Eowyn sighed. I thought all this was over…

‘Since our union was childless, and I intend to adopt Sieglinde’s sons, I am writing to ask whether you would be willing to sign your title to the land over to me—I would, of course, ensure that you suffered no financial loss as a result…’

Eowyn’s hands dropped to her lap, but she resisted the desire to crumple the letter into a ball.

“Melmenya?” Legolas—her precious Legolas—was hovering anxiously outside—and Eowyn could hear all kinds of concern in his gentle voice. “Is it bad news?”

“No… No, it is just something that I would rather have forgotten.” Eowyn wiped her eyes and put on a brave face. “Come inside, my love.”

Legolas raised the canvas flap. “We will be leaving in less than an hour, and—oh, melmenya!” He crawled in beside her and took her in his arms. “I am here,” he whispered.

“I know.” She hugged him fiercely. “I know.”

“What is wrong?”

“Promise me that we will always be happy.”

“Oh, Eowyn nín!” He held her tightly.

…

“May I read it?”

“Of course, Lassui.” With a sniff, she put the letter into his hand.

Legolas scanned the message. “It cannot be the land that is troubling you so much…” He folded the parchment and gave it back to her. “What is wrong, melmenya?”

“I wanted to forget the past,” said Eowyn.

“Why?”

“What do you mean?”

“I have heard others say that,” said Legolas, tilting his head to see her face more clearly, “mortals—they say, ‘We must put the past behind us’. Why do they say it?” He saw the pain in her eyes—as though his words had been a criticism of her—and he drew her back into his arms, to show her that that was not so.

Moments passed; then Eowyn answered, “Because our mistakes—our regrets—will taint the future, if we let them.” She snuggled closer. “I wanted to forget that Faramir and I had made that mistake. I wanted to forget the time that I had wasted—time that I could have had with you.”

“Was it wasted?”

“How can you ask that?” She pulled away from him. “You loved me, and I married someone else. How can you ask whether the time was wasted?”

“Because you did not love me when you married Faramir, melmenya—it was only after your marriage had failed that you came to love me. So how could I say that the time was wasted?” He kissed the top of her head. “Shall I tell you what I think?”

“I thought you just had.”

He laughed softly, his face still buried in her hair. “No, this is something even more profound…” He pressed his cheek to hers. “I think that mortals regret the past because they have so little future. For them, every false step—though they may learn from it—is a loss of precious time. But you are immortal now, my love. Your future with me will last the life of Arda. Had you forgotten that?”

Eowyn did not reply.

“You had.” He gathered her close. “So I must make sure that I am always here to remind you, melmenya,” he whispered.