He had known that they were unhappy long before he had understood the cause.

In fact, he had blamed himself. I am here too often, he had thought. I am spending too much time with her. Demanding too much of her attention...

His eyes had been opened one evening, in late autumn.

Faramir had reached for the pen just as his secretary had set it back in the inkstand; their hands had touched and stayed for just a moment too long; and their eyes had met and lingered...

And Legolas had known.

...

“I must find Eowyn,” he said.

Both men turned in surprise, their hands falling to their sides.

“I—er—I need to speak to her—about her lemon trees—before I leave.”

He found her, appropriately enough, sitting in her garden. She was shivering.

“You are cold, hiril nín,” he said; and he took off his cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. He had no idea what to say; he could think of no way to admit that he understood, no words that might ease her suffering. So he sat with her, in silence, as the sky darkened, and lights appeared all over the city.

And then, because he could not hold her—or kiss her, or make love to her—he sang to her:

I leaned my back up against an oak,
Thinking that he was a trusty tree.
But first he bent and then he broke,
So did my love prove false to me...

“Thank you,” she said, softly.

And Legolas heard a voice.

Trust us, it said. Trust the Valar.

Then Eowyn shivered again. And, without thinking, he drew her close, and cradled her head against his chest.