Éowyn had come to expect the Elf-lord’s presence in the Houses of Healing: Glorfindel had come to Minas Tirith as part of Lady Arwen’s entourage, just ahead of Lord Aragorn’s coronation, and he had sought her out immediately, wishing to meet the woman who had fulfilled the prophecy he had spoken long ago of the Witch-king’s demise; and the time he passed at her side grew each day, from aiding with the healers’ ministrations, to singing softly to ward away her nightmares, to helping her walk through the gardens when strength at last returned to her limbs.

And as the weeks had spun into months, something between them shifted, subtle but unmistakable, and Éowyn wondered at the impossibility of it; but even so, she could hardly mistake the tenderness of his actions, or the joy and unfettered love that now grew in her heart, slowly displacing the shadows that had shrouded it for so long.

Their love was impossible, but it was there, a green and growing thing well-nourished by the hope in her heart and the gentleness in his, and she delighted in the wonder of it, that an Elf and a woman should be brought together thus and that love should grow between them, its roots anchored in the deep places of their hearts.