Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

Two days before he’d tried to kiss her. His eyes had warned her, softening at the edges, focusing as he leaned closer; immediately her heart sped up, chills of anxiety spreading through her veins. His fingers coming to lightly press to her chin had only increased the feeling. Uncertain and overwhelmed by her uncertainty, Éowyn had turned her head so that he’d not touched her mouth and Faramir had stopped before his lips met her cheek, pulling back. She’d kept her eyes cast downward, anxious, not knowing exactly why she’d turned away. I was curious… She had been curious as to what his kiss would feel like, whether it would be like the ones given to her in her youth—messy and clumsy or irresolute and swift, both not at all thrilling…or cold and brutal with lust… Sensing her thoughts trying to blacken and her chest tightening, she took a deep breath. I will not think of him!

She lifted her eyes to the White Tree over the chest of the man who stood before her. Or he could feel different from all. The expected difference she had no definition for, no way to describe save knowledge she’d never had it. Éowyn dared a glimpse at his face, twisting her hands. His expression was mild, doubtful. Faramir looked at her like that often, his features made intent with concentration as though he were puzzling some especially difficult riddle.

After a few seconds he said quietly, “Perhaps I was overbold.” She didn’t respond and he added, “My apologies, Lady Éowyn.”

Again she said nothing, mind racing with explanations, all the while knowing she had none. He waited, but soon Faramir began walking again, shifting his feet to let her know, and she’d followed at his side, confused and nervous. Nothing had come of it, he’d simply returned to answering her timid question about the men that guarded the dead, dried and withered corpse of the White Tree.

But now he was gathering to try once more, she could feel it in the way the air seemed to thicken around them, the way he’d gone silent. His eyes were soft again. Faramir had halted near the walls and now he stepped closer, into her space. Trapped between the ledge and his body, Éowyn tensed, unable to watch his hands and face at the same time and deeply aware of it. She was looking at his eyes when his fingers touched her jaw and she jumped with a tiny gasp, surprised, a sudden spurt of fear running through her chest.

This time Faramir did not even bend. He lowered his hand, asking hesitantly, “Is something wrong?”

He stood for a moment, clearly awkward, then asked with care, “Do you not wish me to kiss you…and do not speak for fear of upsetting me?”

Éowyn didn’t know what she wished for; she was curious, yes, but also terrified. How do I know he will just kiss, would not ask for more, would not demand it…? She was aware that she didn’t know him especially well, that he’d always been restrained and courteously polite and that she’d never seen him angered or even truly perturbed. Opening her mouth, she had nothing to say, too flustered and confused to respond.

He nodded slowly and she saw a flash of hurt in his gentle gaze. “I apologize again, my—” Faramir was uncharacteristically indifferent, half-turned away to the view over the Pelennor and she knew at once that it was so that she could not see his great disappointment.

Abruptly she thought, will I have to wait another two days? The distress within her heart was astonishing and Éowyn blurted, some more intrepid part of her pushing forward to take the chance, “Yes, I wish…” Her mind caught up and she fell still, paralyzed with indecision. “But…”

Faramir turned back to fully face her and she shifted, nervous now under his direct scrutiny. When his hand came up, she looked at it, then his eyes, unable to keep her attention on them both. “Would you like this better then, here?” His thumb touched her cheekbone, gently pressing. He smiled warmly, “Just one, I’ll make it swift and we can see if it pleases you to have another.”

Éowyn nodded, unsure, but wanting to make him happy—it would obviously gladden him very much and he’d been so kind…

He bent and she inhaled thinly, chest tight, spine tense, forcibly holding herself still. He was so near! Faramir was taller and broader than she was, intimidatingly large and the nearness of his warrior’s body was an onerous weight on her mind, keeping her focused, drawn with strain. Éowyn’s thoughts went in swift circles, a maddening litany of what will he do, what will he do now…? He smiled reassuringly, like he could sense her nervous fear and she felt herself ease just a little. He is kindly, not cruel…

Faramir hadn’t taken back his hand; he’d merely moved his fingers to rest on her chin. His eyes were thoughtful, his face bent low to hers but not yet far enough, his thumb caressing the line of her jaw; he was delaying for some reason. Unable to fathom it, she waited, tension fading with his light touch, so light it was like to the flutter of a butterfly caught in the cage of her hand—harmless, utterly harmless. Then, bafflingly, he dropped his hand and stepped back to look at her. Faramir moved around her, each stride slow and careful, so that when she faced him, Éowyn stood parallel and a little away from the wall instead of being closely trapped with her back to it. Able to move now and retreat with ease, she relaxed further and his smile widened as he reached for her chin again and she didn’t flinch, but lifted her face within his hand, the better to feel the newness of his warm, lightly callused and cupping palm. He murmured, tone low, “Does that help…? You’re not so close to the edge any longer.”

He’d misjudged the cause of her anxiety. She swallowed, not entirely lying as the unaccustomed height from the wall did make her dizzy at times. “Yes.”

Then he bent further, purposely, and Éowyn stared straight ahead, wide-eyed yet not really seeing the blue sky, the tufts of fluffy clouds that crossed it under the power of Gondor’s strong winds or the snowy peaks of the White Mountains. All she knew was his lips meeting with her cheek, his dark hair falling to tickle her earlobe and graze her brow. The kiss was one of the softest pressure, gentle with surprisingly pleasant warmth; she felt a strange, sharp thrill along with a sense of fragility that filled her body, an urging that bid her to stand still, to not retreat from his presence. Closing her eyes, she yielded to this odd, entirely agreeable sensation. She could hear his breathing, feel his body as a faint, barely noticeable heat against her front. He was so near, so close to her. He’d not been this close since they’d stood together and he’d begged to pledge fealty and declare love.

Éowyn’s hand rose, daring to touch the leather of the sable surcoat he’d worn once he’d no longer borne the sling. It was rich leather, soft and buttery looking; she’d never touched it, never touched him and when her fingers slid easily over his ribs, feeling the warm smoothness of it, the warmth generated by his body, she found it to be very enjoyable. Timidly, Éowyn left her hand there, palm just resting lightly on the swell of his chest. It moved with his deep, slow inhalation, making her thrill again at the new physicality of it all.

But he did not kiss her just once. Faramir didn’t pull back as she’d thought he would, no, he was pressing another kiss to her cheek, and even another, lower now and touching to the corner of her mouth as she stood motionless with surprise and a growing sense of pleasure. Oh… It was nice, better than she’d ever expected.

This was a longer kiss; she felt his lips part gently, the heat of his breath against her mouth, the pads of his fingers stroking her skin. Not aware of it, she turned slightly to face him, opening her eyes to see his. How soft they are…how beautiful… Wondering, Éowyn stared up, willingly losing herself in the warmth, the love she could see so clearly held within their grey depths.

And so, long before she knew, he was kissing her mouth with profound tenderness, his nose brushing hers as he turned, pulling back just enough to tilt the other way. Faramir’s hand slid to cup her jaw in a firmer grip and his tongue touched her lower lip, hot and damp. It skimmed along the dip of her mouth, dampening their contact and adding an unknown sensuality that made her tingle all over, heat rising in her belly. She breathed faster, shallower, feeling the same quickening in him, a swifter rising and falling of her hand over his chest. He kissed again more firmly, asking entry with another light touch of hot faint wetness, nose brushing hers, lips moving against hers as he beseeched in an eager, intimate whisper, “Will you not let me…?” His other hand dropped to her waist, palm moving to the small of her back, intending to pull her closer as Faramir murmured against her mouth, asking with increasing urgency and excitement, “Not yield…?”

Yield? She frowned, dimly confused. What, what does he…what is he doing? Gasping, Éowyn came back to herself with a rush of nerves and outrage for his audacity; he’d only promised one kiss on her cheek, what was he doing? Alarmed, she planted both hands to his chest, shoving him hard, heart pounding against her ribs. With an exhalation of surprise, eyes widening in shock, Faramir stumbled back. Éowyn turned her face away sharply, unable to look at him; instead, she stared out over the view, finding that she was breathing fast. Her cheek and mouth were still heated from his kisses, still slightly damp.

He was frowning now, standing at the distance she’d forced him to, “What is wrong?”

Effort was needed to speak glibly and without a quiver, even more to meet his gaze. “You said one.”

He looked utterly confused. “You…but you wanted…you…” Faramir gestured and she had no idea what he was trying to convey. Frowning more deeply, he said, “You turned to me, like you wanted me to…” Hesitant, he added, “You didn’t say stop.” Éowyn heard his disturbance as Faramir finished, “You could have told me to stop. You didn’t have to push me, I am not a beast to be beaten back.”

She answered tensely, unsure of what she’d done or not done as a sort of hazy and not unpleasant softness had obscured her thinking and her memory of those moments. “No, I didn’t say…” She added with even more tension and a little anger born of guilt, knowing herself to be in the wrong, “I didn’t turn to you.”

His brow creased as he firmly asserted, “You did.” Anxious as his louder, persistent tone, Éowyn moved to step away and he caught her arm. She stiffened with instinctive fear, half expecting to be pulled sharply back and the next thing he said to be laced with dark hostility for her acting in what was so obviously displeasing a manner.

But instead, Faramir’s eyes studied hers, and then he released her and when he spoke it was with his customary genial tone. “I apologize if I upset you.” She nodded, not looking at him. Éowyn wasn’t sure if she was upset, which she thought disturbed her more than his boldness.

Faramir looked relieved. He offered his arm and she took it, feeling the warmth of his arm and side. Éowyn looked up surreptitiously, sneaking glances. His hair was thick, long and dark like a raven’s gleaming wings. Its color was striking to her eyes, never seen in her lands at all within Men and even rare among their horses. His skin was fair, and her gaze wandered to rest on his mouth, curious. It had felt soft, so warm and very, very gentle. It was not bad, not bad at all…better than any other kiss I’ve been given…far better. I’d like it again if he would not try to put his tongue in my mouth… The remembrance of its heat and wetness came to her and she thought, at least not at first…

A blush coming to her cheeks for her unchaste thoughts, she looked away, only to look back almost at once. Faramir’s profile was smooth except for his brow, which was very slightly furrowed like he was puzzling something. Puzzling me…Éowyn felt guilt.

Misgiving bloomed in her chest and she thought forcibly, defensively, no doubt he could be ungentle, too. I will certainly discover when he makes me his wife… Her heart jumped fearfully at the thought, making her pulse thready. His wife…why, why did I agree?

Éowyn looked at him again, this time with despair. I do not love you, dear Faramir…but he was well bred, gentle and courteous; to the full extent of her knowledge and perception, she could see that he was merciful and…he loved her. Certainly, since he professed love, he would be more benevolent and more disposed to think of her heart before he acted and she thought passionlessly, he is the best I could hope for, the highest in nobility. I will be well cared for, provided with all that my blood would deserve. And…her coolness faded; she looked again at his face and Faramir caught her eye. He smiled downwards, asking with hopeful amusement and even an unexpected trace of shyness,

Éowyn felt herself flush; she looked down but was careful to speak so that he could hear. “No.” Inhaling, she said further, “Not at all…just…” She used his word, “Overbold.” And he is kindly. That was why she’d agreed, because of all the men she could see walking within the City or her own land, Faramir was the only she could imagine joining with without terror of the unknown overwhelming her. But…Éowyn felt doubt. Is that because I’ve met him and he’s shown no boorishness…or it is something else? None of the other noblemen looked quite this kind or kingly. She was unsure, troubled.

“Good.” He sighed, then asked fervently, “Tell me, please, when did I go too far?” He was earnest, “I don’t wish to displease you,” Faramir admitted with the same shyness back within his voice, “I’ve not much experience.”

Éowyn had no idea of even how to begin to answer. He’d not spoken so intimately to her before; their conversations had involved offhand and easily forgotten things: weather, some small detail of the gardens or City, their healing wounds, not such like he asked her now. “I…I don’t know.”

“Was it this…?” Faramir’s long legs slowed, then stopped as his arm slid from hers, then around her waist, holding her far closer. He looked down at her, not at all uncomfortable.

Éowyn shook her head slowly, voice faint. “No.” His body was just apart from her own, hands resting easily around her middle; she felt his fingers stroking below the laces of her gown.

“Ah, now I know where I strayed.” To her relief, he loosed her and stepped forward to face her, asking with a smile, “May I try again?”

“Aye, this time I promise respectability…or you may shove me as you like.” Faramir’s smile became almost dreamy; in less a tense situation she would have laughed as he explained fancifully, “It’s just…you are so beautiful Éowyn, I could not restrain myself.” His hand reached out, fingers sliding through her hair, curling around a thin sheaf. “It’s like gold…and when I look at you I feel as a dwarf must in a room crowded with treasure.” Faramir smiled again, tone ardent, deepened and lowered to murmur intimately as he fingered her hair. “All greedy desire…” His eyes moved down her body, “To hold and possess.” He laughed softly, sounding embarrassed.

She was speechless at his talk, the first improper thing she’d thought she’d heard him ever say. Quickly, she replied, “I think not…”

“Please?” Éowyn looked up and saw how solemn he was, how honest about remaining courtly and subdued. She nodded, taking a deep breath and bracing herself as Faramir leaned to kiss her, hand moving from her hair to her cheek.

“The White Lady?” Aragorn inquired, “Is she within the gardens?” Éomer looked past him, shifting his feet and fiddling with Gúthwinë’s hilt in his fierce impatience.

“Aye, my Lord, she is with…” The guard nodded and he walked forward, not waiting or caring to hear any more. He was filled with the desire to bellow her name and call her forth, a want checked only by the presence of the King at his side.

“Easy, we will find her and she will be well.” Aragorn regained his side and matched his quick, eager strides, asking, “Now, what of the mares and studs I want?”

Éomer spared him a glance. “What of them? Tell me how many you wish to buy.”

“I was hoping to receive a better deal than most…I know of the quality of the horses traded to the South.”

“I know the difference and I expect better.” The King paused, “Some of the nobler lines.”

Any lesser man that asked and this would be an insult to the carefully bred horses of his country. Éomer stiffened, taking a moment from impatiently searching every corner of the gardens to growl, “Those cannot be bought.”

Aragorn contended in a shrewd voice. “But your law states that they can be given as gifts. I remember as much from my duty there.”

That was true and Aragorn had earned many gifts from him. My sister’s life… He halted for a moment, entreating gravely, “Do you ask a gift?”

“I could not give of the Mearas, it is forbidden, but the nobler lines, you may have those that you wish of them.” Éomer hesitated, “I must limit your take, of course…but you can buy as much of the lesser stock as you need to supply your folk at a low price and I would give you leave to breed to my studs as long as it was marked in the Book.”

His heritage prodded and he said sternly, “But you must take special care in the breeding of them. The lines cannot be profaned…” Éomer felt a stab of anxiety. These decisions rested on him alone now and he was not trained in the making of them. “All my fathers’ care would be wasted,” He met the man’s eyes, making sure his words were heard, “It would be a terrible affront to my country and my forefathers.” As well as the spirits of the horses… But he did not mention that, uncertain in this Southern land.

Aragorn answered with gravity, a seriousness that greatly relieved him. Éomer looked at the man with silent admiration—this was a Lord, a man of wisdom that he could trust with the higher bloodlines of his folk’s horses. “I understand.”

“There.” The King’s tone changed to one of slight disquietude, “Ah…Éomer…perhaps…”

“Where?” He turned and froze in astonishment, a torrent of undefinable emotion surging upwards along with his shock. So this is he…? Look what he dares. Éomer’s jaw tightened as his surprise curdled to rage; it was a depth of rage he’d not been especially prepared for and it soon swept him away beyond all reason.

“Oh…yes, yes.” Éowyn answered breathlessly, still flushed with pleasure and hearing her own confidence with amazement. But it was difficult not to be more confident as he’d kissed her slowly, softly, and many times but all with the same modest gentleness. He had taken license to embrace her; his arms were still about her waist, relaxed and heavy, their weight unaccustomed but tolerable, she thought. Swallowing, she dared to murmur, eyes fixed on the White Tree centered over his chest, “It was.”

“Good.” He was very pleased, voice lightened. When she looked up in a hasty scan of his face, his beaming smile made her heart glad to a extent that surprised her.

Éowyn smiled in shy return and he bent again, not asking permission this time and she found to her further surprise that she didn’t mind terribly, able to subdue her fears without too great a struggle. She begged, “Not so…”

Worrying her lips with her teeth, she muttered, “Quick.” Éowyn had wanted to beg him not to hold her so closely—his nearness made her tense just as much as it stirred her in strange new ways, which also made her grow stiff with tension. Can I trust this man I have pledged myself to…can I trust his hands not to grasp or pinch, his kiss to stay gentle and not demanding, to not be driven by callous lust…? She had no answers and so she concentrated desperately on holding her place and on not pulling back every time he moved his hands or changed his kiss.

“My apologies…” He began anew, mouth pressing to hers with pleasant, gentle variations of pressure and angles. Éowyn found quickly that she liked best the most delicate of his touches, but she did not speak, too shy and uncertain about voicing her preferences—he was the one who controlled this, not she.

Faramir paused to smile at her as a familiar and utterly terrifying roar of rage in the tongue of her country filled the air, “Éowyn! Hwa mann durst hrinan ge ná mid gewyrhtum min sweostor?” He looked up and over her head, features sharp now and wary as his arms fell from her waist; he took a step around her, in front of her.

Oh, no, no, no… Éowyn winced and then came to a wordless decision, all panic back at once as though Faramir had done nothing to ease her. Her brother looked furious, so furious and she was suddenly, terribly afraid of what he might do in the name of her maiden’s honor. As Éomer stiffly crossed the last few feet, she spun, skirts twisting, pressed her back against Faramir’s chest to shield him with her body, the only thing she had at hand.

Feeling her heart thudding in her ears, she grasped a handful of Faramir’s black surcoat, shoving him more fully behind her. He looked at her, startled and opening his mouth in protest, but Éowyn held him there, her hands aching with strain as her brother bore down on them. His face was dark with fury, making her even more afraid. She stammered, almost too rattled to speak. “É-Éomer…”

He halted close enough to make her push Faramir back a step in fear and stared over her head, lip curled to snarl, “Ond butan min wyrdsæf? Ge durst má, Hordere. Má toss.”

She tried again, growing desperate, “Éomer! Eart ge hlysting?” But her brother was not listening and Éowyn felt herself nearly weak with fright. She glanced behind her to Faramir, seeing with a heartrending rush of pity that his face was in lines of confusion and that he was looking to her for guidance.

Faramir, unable to understand the man’s speech, studied him with reserved fascination. He was fair-haired like Éowyn, tall—just short of his own height—and very broad, very well muscled under his armor. Clearly he’d just come from the saddle, boots and legs dusty. He spoke with the same accent and had similar features to his love, which, along with the protective attitude, made Faramir grimace as he came to a slow, reluctant conclusion. This must be, has to be Éomer, her brother, he thought with a sort of amused chagrin. Faramir had never been to Rohan, nor met any of the noble family since Denethor had seen no point in Faramir meeting or associating with other peoples—Boromir would have succeeded him as Steward. Unfortunately, events had changed that plan and Faramir realized with another grimace that he was meeting the new King of Rohan, his future blood, under less than ideal circumstances. Quickly, half-desperate, he thought, what do I know of Rohan?

Little came to mind, mostly gathered from his studies in history so many years ago when he’d been a boy. He remembered, however, his brother had once, under demand from a younger, enthusiastic Faramir, described the Rohirrim as a rash, hot-blooded, and yet valiant people who could be trusted.

Hot-blooded indeed, Faramir thought, listening to both the rising volume and anger in the man’s voice as Éomer snapped at him, seemingly uncaring that he could not understand anything more than the warlike tone,

“Ge eart ná weorð in wermet, bestandan min sweostor, Hordere.”
He was gesturing expansively and rather aggressively, but at a short distance because still before him and standing in posture of defense was his love. Touched, he looked down and saw that Éowyn’s knuckles gripped his surcoat so tightly they were white from strain. He could feel the tension making her slender frame tremble as she, he assumed, defended him.

“Is se æþeling æt má lond ná weorð in wermet, broðor? Hwa béon? Hwa béon?”

Éomer hissed through his teeth and raised his eyes; they were pale, afire with anger as he growled low at first, then rising to bellow. “He wille ná be min wedbroðor!”

Struggling to keep his face expressionless or at least amiable, Faramir was privately shocked at the vehemence of the Lord of the Mark’s actions. No man of Gondor would raise his voice in such a manner to a Lady in public, even if she were his sister. His brother had been correct—the men of Rohan were rough and uncouth in comparison to the genteel, courteous men of the White City. Forced silent from ignorance, Faramir could only watch them argue.

He wished he knew what they were saying, especially when Éowyn shouted something that included his name.

He was slightly disappointed as Éowyn’s hands left his shirt and she took a step away. His front felt cold without her against him, without the supportive nature of her gesture. But, to his delight, Éowyn’s hand slipped into his in replacement. Faramir squeezed it, still in the dark, but offering any reassurance he could think to. If only I spoke their language…then he could help her. Frustrated, he did what he could and kept silent, not quite daring to add his own anger to the fire of theirs.

She turned her head, looking up at her Prince. Do I? His features were blank, utterly unaware of what she’d said. She thought with wonder and pity, he has no idea of what is happening…

And suddenly Éowyn tensed, all fear vanishing as a great surge of protective ire rose from deep within her center. Faramir’s grey eyes contained nothing but puzzlement and in that moment he appeared terribly childlike, terribly dependent upon her to speak and reassure him, to make again their simple comfort in each other, their newfound, blooming and acutely fickle easement. She felt nothing but acid rage, directing her inner vow to his gentle, baffled eyes. I will not let him hurt you… Éowyn glowered, “Gea, Ic dá! He is min lufiend!” Behind her brother, she saw Aragorn coming swiftly, his face full of concern.

“Lufiend? Lufiend, ná mid min word, min wyrdsæf?” Resolute now, voice still burning with anger, Éomer said plainly, harshly to her Prince, “Ge willst gefaran wundordeð æt wroht æt eower blydu.” He stepped forward as she’d dreaded, one hand reaching for her arm to thrust her aside. His other, horrifyingly, came to rest on Gúthwinë’s hilt. The blade rasped as it was pulled, nearly four inches sliding free to spark in the sun. When she looked upward, Faramir wore only an expression of slight alarm; he did not understand the danger, would not understand until it was too late and then, warrior or no, her brother would cut him down in an instant.

With an effort, hoping Aragorn would soon come to her aid, Éowyn stood her ground, slapping her brother’s hand away. He grabbed her wrist, preparing to yank her forward so that she no longer shielded Faramir. Grasping his arm in return to pull him off-balance, she cried, “Éomer! Ge eart atel pucel ond Ic behat forloreness æt ge ná atstand!” She cursed him in growing fury, her temper rapidly unraveling as she made the nails of her free hand into talons, fully prepared to strike at him. “Atstandan hit!” He did not step away and so she raised her hand to slap his face. The three men seemed to freeze in disturbance as she lifted her open palm, fingers hooked; Faramir especially appeared wide-eyed. Knowing she had her brother’s attention, Éowyn spat. “Ná! Ná! Ic lufie Faramir! Ge ná wille wund him!” Shocking herself with her outspoken declarations, she fell silent. Ic lufie Faramir…do I?

But as she cried so, her brother glanced at her closely and Éowyn saw astonishment within his face as he took in her anger, her defensive stance and willingness to fight, even to hurt him. For an instant he stood still, wary, and looked not at all sure of himself; for that an instant she thought she saw fear bloom in his eyes and in those familiar eyes she saw also something that made her want to kill him—he was not sincere. Éowyn gritted her teeth so hard her jaw ached in sharp spasms, realizing that if her brother had been serious, he’d have drawn Gúthwinë in the first moment and challenged her Prince to a contest. He is…jesting, testing Faramir…? She found herself unable to comprehend it. What does he intend with this idiot display? Why, why…she couldn’t breathe with her rage.

Faramir, who’d been silent so far, spoke; within his gentle voice she heard steely outrage carefully contained as he stepped from behind her to knock her brother’s grasping hand away from her wrist with a sharp, irked motion. “Do not touch her so callously.”

Éomer seemed to check himself, staring at Faramir with the same wariness he’d regarded her, then he growled low and with a new and, Éowyn sensed, real note of danger, “Hwa dyde ge sæge æt me?”

Her Prince faltered and looked to her helplessly; he did not speak Rohirric. He wished to aid, to nobly come to her defense, but knew not how. She wished he’d simply kept silent and begged tensely,

“Éomer, stop this foolishness.” Aragorn was at her brother’s shoulder, one hand laid upon it with hard pressure. His firm, detached voice was a shocking dash of rationality; his features had become stern, eyes coolly angered. “Now.”

Outwardly it was as if her brother paid him no attention, but he did move to push Gúthwinë to settle fully into his scabbard. They stood in a tense tableau before Éomer slowly seemed to relax from his rigid pose. Éowyn did not, thinking she’d not been so simultaneously enraged and frightened since she’d been on the Pelennor. Brother, you went too far… Nearly shaking with her anger now that she was not alone held responsible, she seethed, “Apologize.” Éomer was stubbornly silent. “Ge wilst nu!” He frowned and Éowyn exploded, hands snapping into balled fists. “Nu!”

“Éowyn…” Faramir stirred. He began in hesitation, then more amiably with an effort that faded as he continued, leaving his words spoken with naught but easy, optimistic graciousness. “I’m sure if we but speak to another this…” Her brother’s eyes narrowed as her Prince finished, “Misunderstanding could be righted.”

“No.” To the best of her awareness Faramir was good-natured and reasonable at all times. Her brother was reliably neither, often giving over to his rash temper. Éowyn knew her betrothed did not understand; she said flatly, meeting Éomer’s eyes. “He will or I will force it from him.” Her brother blinked and she saw again his uncertainty. What did you want from this idiocy…to bully him into what? Did you think I would stand idly by? She had no idea but the very thought enraged her. Faramir was as good to her as any had a right to be and Éowyn knew with frank astonishment that she would not allow him to be bullied so easily, ever. Perhaps she did love him in her own weak, faint-hearted fashion—after all, she’d shouted it twice.

Éomer did not apologize, but instead echoed incredulously, as though he’d not heard any of their speech, “Misunderstanding? You call my anger on coming upon you…touching my sister without so much as my leave,” His voice rose, thickening again with anger, “A misunderstanding?”

Éowyn watched as Faramir chose his words with care and a profound look of relief that her brother spoke the Common Tongue. “Aye, I would maintain that there is a grave misunderstanding…” His grey eyes flickered and she saw very suddenly that her Prince was awash with cold fury. “I had plenty of leave, Lord Éomer, to…touch as you say,” He smiled thinly, “As I would with no displeasure and I fail to see why there would be any, as I am her betrothed, plighted with full willingness.” Her brother went rigid with the familiarity and implications in Faramir’s words and tone as he added coolly. “My Lady was not displeased until you came…” Faramir paused, voice lowering to scorn icily, “So brutishly into sight.”

Her brother’s fair skin was reddening; he was nearly sputtering with his wrath as he tried to answer when Aragorn interrupted. “Enough. Éomer apologize and end this.”

He ground his jaw, looking at her in a strangely agitated fashion that she didn’t understand and refused to sympathize with. Éowyn folded her arms across her chest. “Brother.”

Éomer heaved a gruff sigh, then said in a false voice of pleasantry. “I apologize for offending you with my brutishness.” She held her breath but Faramir did not speak, just gazed darkly at her brother. After a moment, he glanced at Aragorn, “If I may go?”

“No.” Aragorn’s single word was clearly a command. Her brother ground his teeth visibly, but stayed. “What will soothe you, Éomer?”

She kept quiet, tense and wishing her brother could act with reason. It has been so long… Éowyn had missed him terribly, unused to being parted from his side. Why must you be such a boor? Truly, it must have been a shock since she’d not spoken of her troth, but did he have to act like this? No, not at all. She closed her eyes in frustrated annoyance.

He shifted his weight, eyeing her, and then Faramir before saying haltingly, “I ask…speech with…him, to discuss this…” When he looked to Faramir again, Éomer’s distaste was plain to all, as well as his defiance. “Request for my sister’s hand.” He hesitated, then added in Rohirric, “A gehat æt min corennes.” Éowyn frowned, wondering what he could desire and why he chose to hide it in their tongue.

Faramir spoke again, still icy. “It is not a request. It is a pledge already made.” Éomer stared at him and in his face she could read both surprise the man had spoken and growing rage at his words. Éowyn moaned inwardly.

Aragorn raised a hand to silence him, then considered the entreaty for several moments before asking calmly, “Will it be speech of a civilized nature or…?”

Her brother’s temper held by a thread as he answered through half-bared teeth, “Yes, it will.”

Her paramour spoke in a voice slightly too cool for fellowship, “Whenever it suits you, Lord Éomer.”

The King nodded irritably and her brother inclined his head to them in turn; his eyes met hers and she saw his anger amid turmoil and an odd amusement. Éowyn swallowed, feeling her own ire still humming through her bones. She turned to her betrothed, unsettled and half-thinking he would demand an explanation of her, rage at her for her brother’s rudeness. “I will…meet you another time? Tomorrow?”

He was mild, nodding and giving her a soft smile; again she’d misjudged him. “All right.” Before she could move more than a step, he touched her elbow lightly, causing her to look back to his face. “Farewell, Éowyn.” Faramir cautioned and she could not tell how serious he was, if his words were no more than a tame jest or a pleasantly worded command. “Do not let it be too long a time.”

She mustered a smile in return, giving him a courtesy. “Farewell, and I won’t.” He dipped his head, bowing gravely. Éowyn backed away then turned, walking swiftly, seeking relief in her motion. Brother of mine, dearest brother, what shall I say to you? Her anger surged anew. What won’t I say?

“Not always.” Aragorn turned to him and broke into a wide grin. “I’ve not seen him so moved outside of a field of battle.”

“What did he say? I could not understand it, I’ve not been taught in the tongues of the North.” Aragorn just frowned. Faramir waited for him to continue. A few birds passed overhead, a small rustle in the bushes that lined the walls, a snake, maybe, he thought. Interestingly, he could see Aragorn thinking of answers and just as quickly rejecting them. Five, he counted. That was more than enough. A King should be quicker on his feet. Irritated, he asked. “Well?”

The King shook his head and said rather simply for all his long silence, “Éomer has objections to his sister wedding you, Faramir.”

“Indeed?” He couldn’t suppress his tongue’s caustic reply, “I am glad you informed me, I would have never guessed.”

Aragorn made a face of equal irritation. “He is very protective of his sister…an attitude I think worsened by her near falling in battle. And to be fair, you never asked his permission to court her.”

Faramir could understand that. But still, the man was appallingly rude. He asked again, more impatiently. “What did he say?”

A smile spread across Aragorn’s face as he recited, “That you touched her without deserving to do so, that you were unworthy and too bold, that you would die a wondrous death for your boldness… And he expressed disbelief that Éowyn loved you.”

“Yes.” The King looked bemused, adding with more seriousness, "He also wished for a promise of his choosing.”

She loves me… He stammered, eager to learn, “Was that what she said when she spoke my name, that she loved me?” Faramir could not remember the words, but the tone had been impassioned, strong and willful, entirely opposite of all Éowyn’s hesitant, shy actions within his presence. If only he knew how to soften her, to open her heart.

Aragorn nodded, all smiles in response to his happiness, and squeezed his shoulder. “Now I must go, my friend. I will meet you tonight, right? We will discuss what needs to be done next for Minas Tirith.” For a moment Aragorn looked away and his voice saddened. “I have a city to run.” Then it was gone and the sun shined again in the new King of the West’s eyes. They bowed slightly to each other as Aragorn took his leave.

Alone, the Steward took a deep, slow breath before he laughed and whooped for joy. For the moment it mattered not if she’d not spoken the words to his face or in his language, as long as he knew of Éowyn’s love, his heart soared like an Eagle.

She walked through the halls of the inner circle, skirt swishing against the stone tiles that made up the floor, her speed lifting her long, flaxen hair to float behind her as though a stiff gale were blowing through the corridor. Face set, Éowyn followed Éomer’s retreating figure; she could tell he was aware of her—his pace had quickened. He was returning to the rooms assigned to him, she soon realized, as her brother’s trail led her into the part of the city that held private quarters for visiting royal persons. Cursing under her breath at his longer legs, she bounded up the stairs. Dodging around servants and surprised men, Éowyn finally reached the door to Éomer’s personal rooms. Without pause she thrust it open, pushing with both palms for maximum force. It felt good to unleash her anger and she relished in the sound as the door slammed with a great CRACK! against the stone wall, rebounding behind her in a groan of stressed wood and hinges.

“Éowyn. How lovely.” Éomer deadpanned, sitting in a chair with his dusty boots carelessly propped on the windowsill. A goblet half-full of a dark liquid was in his left hand; a few papers were clutched in his right. The only evidence of his flight was his slightly tousled blonde mane and the faint breathiness of his words.

“What do you think you are doing?” She was breathing fast as well, feeling herself flushed high on the cheekbones. Shutting the door firmly, Éowyn stepped forward, glaring at her brother. Her hands clenched as she asked in a fury, “Why…why did you do that? What possible…outcome…could you have wanted from that?” Her voice rose with every syllable, “Why did you do that? What are you doing to me?”

To her shock, the mild expression of confusion he’d worn dissolved into laughter. “Did you…see…did you see Aragorn’s face?” Éomer snickered gleefully, his cheeks reddening as he gasped for breath. He eyed her, then snorted and broke into a boyish grin before uttering, in a mocking falsetto, “Éomer, stop this foolishness!”

Totally against her will, Éowyn found herself laughing. It had been a good impression. Clamping her hand over her mouth, she closed her eyes, then forced a stern expression and said,”You scared me, why did you do that? Why did you come at us like that?” More like terrified…

He smiled and stood, absently tossing the papers onto his chair. “I did not scare you…you knew I was jesting.” He snorted, but the lightsome cheer within his voice sounded forced, “I wanted to see what he would do.”

She pleaded to make him see, realize the depth of his actions. “You did scare me. And Aragorn as well.” Éowyn ground her teeth, “Why would you do that? What could you possibly learn by doing that?”

Éomer chuckled at the memory, making her think anew that her brother was a horrid, horrid creature. He crossed the room to stand near her, arms folded across his chest; he rocked back on his heels as he asked, “And what of Faramir? Did I alarm him too?” Éomer smiled widely at her grimace.

“Of course you did, but not as much as you did me. He didn’t think for a moment you would draw your sword.”

“Ah, your princeling is brave, then? It looked to me that he seemed content to stand behind you and let you fight his battles.”

Disregarding the nickname, she rolled her eyes. “He had no idea what you were saying! And if he guessed, he cannot speak our tongue so he could not answer! What did you expect? What do you expect?” Éowyn threw her hands up in acute exasperation. She pushed past him and walked to the window. After a moment of silence, she said, calmer now, “I have a better view.”

“Yes.” She sat on the hard stone sill and folded her arms, anxiously digging her fingernails into her palms. “I expect you to explain that outburst.” Éowyn turned to glare at her brother, voice tightening. “Why, why brother, did you do that? Why couldn’t you have been civil?”

To her annoyance, Éomer was beaming. “It was rather good, wasn’t it? They fell for it completely.”

“Of course they did. Aragorn hasn’t known you as long as I have. You’re completely incorrigible…worse than Merry.” She muttered the last under her breath.

He pretended not to hear that, instead giving her an ultimatum. “I will explain if you will explain, sister.”

“Why you shouted, “I love Faramir and I want to stay with him.” Why I had to meet this man you love in the gardens and learn his name from soldiers riding to Cornmallen from the City, learn his spirit by cursing at him.” His eyes held hurt. Éowyn looked quickly out the window, away from her brother’s wounded gaze. She wasn’t supposed to feel guilty. “I’m waiting, sister.” Éomer’s voice softened when there was no reply. “Come, you have never kept a secret from me before.”

That was untrue, but not to his knowing. She did not correct him, just looked away in silent shame.

Éomer had continued, “Why, then, did I have to catch you with your princeling and judge him by surprise? Why did you not send word or a rider to give me news?”

She frowned, stalling. “Don’t call him that.” Éowyn closed her eyes and sighed fitfully, gathering her courage to mutter. “Because it is true. I love him.” She hesitated, saying softly, “And I wish to stay.” Éowyn felt her heart twist, amending more truly, “I vowed I would stay and wed him. I cannot go back on my word. Faramir is kind and treats me well…he is the best I could imagine and he says that he loves me.”

There was a long silence; in it she could hear her brother thinking. He sounded loud in their quiet though he did not speak above a rough undertone, “And?”

Carefully, slowly, she whispered. “And I promised I would be with him, here or in Ithilien. I knew you would be angry with me.”

When she turned, Éomer was gazing at her, his expression unreadable. His voice was strange, happy in parts, mournful in others as he spoke, “I would be happier if I saw you smile and laugh again. You smiled in the garden with him.” He looked away, “Don’t think me so selfish, Éowyn.”

Éomer winced and held up his hand. “Not so quickly, little sister.” Her face fell, but she was unsure of how much his quiet objection saddened her. “Oh, I would, I would have you happily married.” Éomer paused to stare out the window. Seeming to come back to himself, he smile faintly, voice gaining confidence, “He is the Steward of Gondor, a fine match both in blood and rank. I have heard much about his valor in battle, knowledge of all things and civility in Court.” He smiled at her, “And we’ve learned he is bold enough.” Her brother frowned more darkly, “Too bold.”

“I would not consider it too bold when he speaks only to defend himself…” She added coolly, “And me from a senseless, unprovoked attack from a man he should have by all rights considered friendly as you and he will be kin soon enough.”

Éomer blanched at her words, then grinned and spoke as though she’d not. “It is just our people would not…take kindly…to a man from Gondor marrying their Lady without their knowledge; especially since if I died, wifeless and childless, you would be their queen…and he, a stranger, their King.” Again he smiled and it seemed far more self-assured. “But do not worry, I have thought of a solution.”

Éowyn had listened hopefully. Now she frowned. “What is this solution, brother? Is it anything like your idea of shouting and threats as a pleasant greeting?”

He grinned, a mischievous gleam appearing in his eye, “You and I shall leave for Edoras in a week. Before then I shall meet with your princeling.” At her impatient grimace, he laughed, continuing, “If he agrees to my proposal I will be solving two problems at once—replacing a warrior in my éored and helping him prove his worth to our people.”

“What…what do you mean by that?” Replacing a warrior? She could not understand; it was as though he’d spoken utter nonsense.

Éomer continued firmly, “In order for our people to take him seriously your princeling must prove himself. He must be able to perform all the tasks of a Knight of the Riddermark.”

She gaped at him, disbelieving. “But…” That is nonsense! He is a Prince, a warrior…her brother had said Faramir was not worthy but she’d not believed it. Does he believe that? Can he?

He overrode her; “Tomorrow I will discuss it with him. This is the only way they or I will accept him as your husband.” His face was stern, features as unyielding as the stone around them. “I would not have a man unworthy for you, sister…he must be strong in all ways.” He cracked a smile, “Or I think you would run him into the ground.”

And that I find him worthy means nothing? Angered but know she had little recourse, Éowyn bit her lip and looked at the floor. “It seems he has no choice.”

“No.” Again her brother’s voice was adamant. But when she met his eyes, they wavered. He was afraid and her heart softened. He wanted the best for her, that was clear and if this was the only way her brother knew to go about it, there was no bothering with him—he’d fully inherited all the stubbornness of their line.

Éomer did not walk as other men did. Well, at least not today… He smiled to himself. Today, on his way to meet the Prince of Ithilien, he stalked. He entered the long council room stiffly, eyes as steely as he could possibly make them. He kept his shoulders square beneath the heavy weight of his armor, glowering at the velvet wall hangings and cushioned chairs in open disdain, turning his head at last to meet the gaze of the man that awaited him so silently, so stilly it was mildly perturbing. At ease, he does not dare… Faramir had no reputation of aggression, but of calmness and patience. Both were evident.

Relaxing again, Éomer bit down on the insides of his cheeks in a desperate attempt to contain his gleeful laughter as the Steward’s still face broke; now his expression was marked with annoyance. He watched Faramir watch him approach and the sound of his boots was the only thing that broke the quiet. Nervousness coming to his features now, Faramir rose from behind his desk and inclined his head with proper respect as Éomer came to a leisurely standstill.

Clearing his throat, he smiled. “Greetings, my Lord Éomer.” Faramir seemed determined to be courteous today. Éomer did not smile, instead he watched curiously, wondering how long it would take to break that smoothly affable façade. “Did you…did you have any trouble locating the room?”

“Oh…I see.” Faramir looked flustered. Éomer was being kept duly entertained, as the older man seemed at a loss as whether to respond to the implication that Éomer was purposely late or to simply keep going. “So, my Lord,” He gestured to the seats. “Shall we begin?” Diplomatically, Faramir had taken the latter choice. Éomer had known he would. That was what made it so amusing when he said, voice hard and curt,

“You accept my tardiness. I did not know all men of Gondor disliked confrontation so much.” He added, allowing some of his amusement to show, “Perhaps it is little wonder you must call upon our folk to defend you.”

Faramir froze in the act of seating himself. There was a hint of anger in his eyes as he raised them and coolly asked, “What would you have done in my place?” Éomer was impressed with his further icy statement, “Please, I’m sure your experience is greater than mine in dealing with such rudeness.”

Hiding his delight, Éomer slammed his gloved fist down hard on the surface of the richly finished mahogany table; he was gratified to see Faramir jump. “I would have hunted him down and demanded a reason.” Éomer ground out his answer, making sure to emphasize it with his best fierce expression (practiced since he was just a lad).

There was definitely cold fire in his words now as Faramir recovered, snapping, “And what was your reason?”

“I couldn’t find it, all this stone looks alike.” Éomer said this easily, straightening up as he did so. Of course it was a lie, a test to see what new reaction would be brought.

There was none. Feeling a twinge of unease, sliding out his chair to dead silence, he sat. Faramir’s teeth were clenched, but he was perfectly quiet and slowly an expression of patient tractability came again to his face. Éomer had to pause to admire the man’s control before leaning back comfortably to see what he would do. So far, his plan was working perfectly. I must enrage him, goad him into accepting this…enflame his love and sense of honor…

Speaking as carefully as though to a mad man, Faramir asked, “Shall we begin now, my Lord?” His words were level again—Éomer was disappointed he hadn’t coaxed an outburst from this son of Gondor. Nevertheless, Faramir loved his sister and Éomer was fairly certain he would agree, although, sadly, without as much entertainment as hoped. It was dull in the White City.

He took a deep breath and began laying his trap with cool declarations of fact. “Éowyn must return to Edoras. Théoden named her regent there before he left for Gondor and I will need her help in putting things right in our land.” He added, “You have less than a week to give me an answer on whether or not you will marry her.” Faramir opened his mouth, eyes flashing in vexation. Éomer silenced him with a glare. “I have not yet named the conditions.”

A reckless sort of anger was in the Steward’s face and posture now. “Do not trouble yourself. Anything that you ask of me I will do. I love her. That is my answer.”

Surprised and a bit pleased by the show of emotion, Éomer chuckled inwardly; he had thought as much. Faramir was so besotted by his sister that he plunged recklessly ahead into the unknown, like a foolish young stallion after a mare. “Then we are finished.” He made to rise.

“Wait…aren’t you going to tell me the conditions?” Faramir looked confused, near panic as he stood.

“You said you would do anything I ask. I say that you must come with me to Rohan, South man and prove to me that you can complete all the tasks that a Lord of the Mark can.”

Éomer admired his courage. His sister had chosen well enough, if he judged by this alone. It is too bad he is a thin whip of a man who hides his pride and bows to others… He truly saw little that she could possibly like in Faramir. Calmly, he stated the terms. “You must learn our history and language, be able to carry and use a spear, care for your horse and tack, and ride in an éored with my warriors before you can wed Éowyn.” Faramir still looked confused, so Éomer explained; “Accomplishing these things will show my men that you are capable of leading them if some misfortune befell me.”

“I see…” His expression had cleared, but before he could speak a man in the dress of the Rohirrim walked through the door.

Éomer gestured at the man he’d chosen. “Since you have already agreed, then you cannot visit my sister without a guard by her side. I will not have her honor disparaged.” He met the Steward’s gaze, stressing his will. “If you wish to see her, summon Halorl.” The fair-haired man stepped forward and bowed deferentially.

“Now, if you will excuse me, my Lord Faramir, I have urgent business to attend to.” He really had none, but Éomer smiled his victory at the silent ranger and left quickly to be sure to preserve his triumph. If only wars were so easily planned and won…

As his Lord left, Halorl remained and stood quietly, patiently waiting upon Faramir’s command. I wonder, does he speak the Common Tongue? There was nothing but to try. After a few seconds, Faramir sighed. “Take me to the Lady Éowyn, please.”

Faramir blinked at the rough accent. He assumed that was an assenting reply by the tone and since Halorl immediately gestured for Faramir to follow him. Perhaps this man could help me in learning some Rohirric… He rubbed his forehead, wondering how he was supposed to acquire all the necessary skills and if there was a time in which he must. Are there any in my City that speak the North Tongue? None of his rangers did, nor noblemen that he could bring to mind. Merchants, traders? He could hire one.

The man, tall, blond and burly, moved quickly through the city, leading Faramir lower and lower through the levels. It was not a cheerful sight. Minas Tirith still lay in ruins; buildings were crushed from flung stones and blackened with fire, taverns stood empty, and nowhere were the usual peddlers shouting the importance of their goods in the debris-littered streets.

Faramir itched to help the men he saw, yet Éomer had mentioned that he had only a week with Éowyn and he did not intend to spend all his time in places not graced by her presence. His thoughts had been wandering along that line for a while, a somewhat silly expression on his face, when Halorl abruptly halted. He gestured, saying in his thick, foreign voice, “Min Ides is seo.” Faramir looked around, coming from his thoughts. They had arrived at the stables on the lowest level of the city.

It was not hard to spot Éowyn by virtue of the two hobbits sitting on the wooden bench with her. Their swinging legs made Faramir smile, then smother a chuckle as he and Halorl approached. Merry sat on her left, Pippin on her right. Curiously, she wore a wreath of small blue and white flowers on her head and another around her slender wrist. The flowers were very pretty against the gold hair he admired so much. Also, instead of the gowns he was accustomed to seeing her in; she was clad in men’s clothes: breeches, boots, and a buttoned wool shirt. The flowers added a distinctly feminine touch to her mannish attire, making her a curious sight, but one he found pleasurable. The hobbits wore the clothing of their respective lords with Pippin bearing the White Tree and Merry the White Horse. Faramir wondered, as he was unaware that they had to, but as he approached, he looked closer and thought that the halflings took pride in their uniforms and wore them out of pleasure.

Éowyn was smiling at Pippin and fingering her flower bracelet when Merry saw them. The hobbit immediately tugged on her sleeve. She bent her head to listen, then spoke. Pippin leaned in, sharp little face questioning. The three fell silent when Faramir with Halorl now in tow, was only a few steps away.

“Lord Faramir.” Éowyn was looking up at him, a slightly amused expression on her face. Pleased to see no shadows of grief or anger, Faramir bowed at the waist for her with a smile and nodded cordially at the hobbits.

“My Lady Éowyn.” He felt more inclined to place his possession on her title this day, unconsciously stressing it to an absent brother.

To his surprise Merry had barely glanced at him. Instead the hobbit hopped off the bench and looked askance at Éowyn. She nodded encouragingly, lips compressed over a smile. Stepping to Faramir’s left, he craned his neck up to look at the man of Rohan. “Hwa is eower naman?”

“Halorl, Ic wille weard.” Even in the foreign tongue, Merry’s voice carried an authoritative ring that Faramir could not quite connect to the foot-swinging Halfling of a moment before. Halorl looked startled as well.

Pippin covered his mouth. Faramir could see the smaller hobbit’s shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth. Éowyn played diffidently with her flowers, twisting them around and around her wrist, as though in no doubt Merry could cope with the Rider.

Halorl looked at a loss as Merry repeated firmly, “Ic wille weard.” He looked to Faramir, who understood his confusion—the soldier had his orders from his lord, yet how could he not be obedient to Éowyn?

Faramir noticed Éowyn’s lips moving. Merry’s eyes darted briefly to the side, and then he tilted his head back to better hear her. After listening the hobbit’s eyes narrowed and Faramir smiled as he growled fiercely up at a perplexed Halorl. “Ge inca me, Halorl?”

“Ná, min fréond. Ac…” He looked pleadingly at Éowyn’s bent head, but she ignored them all, content to play with her flowers. Faramir smiled to himself as finally Halorl came to a decision. The Rohir bowed low and said in quiet submission to her will,” Gése, min Ides.” He turned on his heel and left.

Éowyn praised instantly, a wide sunny smile on her face, “That was wonderful, Merry! Thank you.” Merry bowed as Pippin burst out laughing.

The Brandybuck turned to look up at his giggling cousin, who still perched on the bench and Pippin quickly scooted closer to Éowyn’s side as Merry scowled. “What’s so funny?”

Éowyn held up her hands with a laugh and a stern word. “Enough!” The hobbits quieted instantly. Faramir was amazed; he’d once witnessed Aragorn spend several minutes shouting the two younger hobbits down before getting the results Éowyn had gotten. She winked at him in an astonishingly but not displeasingly bold fashion and turned to Pippin. “Pippin, what did you come here to ask Merry, again?”

The smaller hobbit’s face lit up as he remembered. “Sam’s going to go and talk to the cooks in the Houses of Healing today and he wanted to know if you’d like “anythin’ in particular”.” The Took grinned before adding, “Like desserts or other stuffs.”

“I don’t know. Maybe he thinks Frodo would eat more if they made his favorites.” Pippin looked thoughtful as he resumed swinging his bare, dirty feet. “Anyways, I told him I wanted some puddings and pies.” He looked up plaintively, “Why don’t they have desserts here Faramir? Is it because Men don’t eat them?”

“Men eat sweets, too.” Faramir answered the question patiently, hiding his intense amusement behind a serene façade for fear of offending the younger halfling with his laughter. He allowed a smile, “But, perhaps not as much as Hobbits.”

“Oh.” He bobbed his curly head, “So, Merry, what do you want? Hurry up I’m hungry.” Pippin hopped off the bench, obviously ready to race back up the seven levels to Sam.

“Strawberry short-cake.” There was a dreamy smile on his face as Merry answered.

“No…coffee cake and …mmm … lemon cookies. Oh, and don’t forget to tell him I want some FRIED CHICKEN, TOO!” Merry was forced to shout the last item as Pippin had gotten rather far away. “What?” Merry looked confused as Faramir and Éowyn laughed. She hesitated, then offered Faramir her hand and he graciously helped her to stand, coincidentally moving nearer to her. She smiled, the flowers in her hair rippling in the breeze.

“Who made these for you?” He encircled her wrist with his hand, willfully using any excuse to get close or to touch her.

“Merry did. Aren’t they lovely?” She didn’t object as he stroked the little bracelet, but there was nothing in her words or face that she enjoyed it. In fact, Éowyn did not react to his touch whatsoever, passively allowing him to hold her wrist until he wished to release her. Uncertain, Faramir raised a questioning eyebrow at the hobbit, some of his anxiety disappearing as an irrepressible grin came to his mouth in the tease,

“Aragorn says I’m supposed to use my hands.” Merry’s tone was defensive. Éowyn smiled down indulgently; Faramir fancied he saw more adoration in her eyes for the hobbit than him.

Stop it… “Ah.” He nodded, suppressing both his grin and his frustration at her perfect air of detachment. It was as though she bore an invisible shield, hiding her heart and soul from him. “What did you two have planned today, before I interrupted?” Faramir asked in courtesy; he thought he could guess by her attire.

Éowyn nodded to the stable. “We were going to go horseback riding.” Her voice grew softer as she finally met his gaze and smiled, but she ducked her head almost at once, a thin sheaf of her honey-colored hair falling across her eye and cheek. It hid her from him as she glanced up and murmured, “Do you want to come?”

“I’d love to.” Faramir replied gladly, delighted at even the faintest display of desire for his presence. His day was finally brightening. He offered her his arm, pleased anew when she stepped to take it. Merry trotted behind them.

The stable on the lowest level was the largest, of course. Capable of holding hundreds of warhorses at any time, it was depressingly empty. Built mostly of stone, it was strong and located in a sheltered enough place to have survived most of the bombardment from flying stones and fireballs. The damage received had been quickly repaired as the stable had housed, instead of horses, those too badly wounded to carry to the Houses of Healing in the first few days after the battle. Thus, as Faramir, Éowyn and Merry entered the stable, it seemed surprisingly well kept; the street outside was swept clean of debris and the wooden doors had been replaced. Most of the front stalls were empty, although nearer to the far end they were occupied with not only horses, but also other stock animals temporarily out of lodgings. Stable boys trotted about, pushing wheelbarrows or carrying buckets of water. Eventually the three caught the attention of one of the boys and he shouted for the Master. A tall, thin man came rushing up on stork-like legs. He bowed low in recognition of his Prince.

It did not take very long to provide Faramir with a mount. An older grey gelding, retired from the field though still strong, the Stable Master assured them, would be quickly saddled and brought to him. For Éowyn, he said, bowing, “Our most gentlest of horses.” She attempted to smile and he felt her hand tighten on his arm. If it was a signal, Faramir was unsure of what it meant. He frowned, anxious to please, yet too uncertain of what move to make to do so. A movement from Merry caught Faramir’s eye; the hobbit shook his head rapidly, wide-eyed, curls flying, as the stableman continued, “…a most calm animal. You need not worry, my lady…”

Taking a chance he felt to be correct, Faramir cut him off. “That will not be necessary. The Lady can ride. Bring her a horse with spirit.” Éowyn shot him a look of gratitude and gave him a brilliant smile that more than made up for all of Éomer’s disagreeableness. Merry looked smug. However, the stable master hesitated before agreeing. Faramir could understand; few women of Gondor could ride at all and none he knew of could ride a horse “with spirit”. He ordered smoothly, “Go on, the Lady is from Rohan, she knows well how to ride, and get us a pony to suit Master Merry.” He nodded to the halfing standing at his side.

The man looked down at the hobbit and frowned. “There are no ponies here, my Lord. They are all pulling carts on Pelennor to aid our men in clearing the fields.”

Faramir was getting exasperated, almost feeling that the man was deliberately being difficult. Impatience to be gone rose in his chest, making him say more curtly, “Find the smallest horse and have him wear your smallest saddle.”

“Yes, sir.” He bowed and began to shout at the nearest stable boy. “Hi! You, there! Saddle me Cloud, Flame and…” The man blanched slightly before shouting the name in front of his Lord, “Blackie!”

Faramir laughed and Éowyn shook her head, trying and failing to hide a smile. He turned to her and the smile faded; she looked slightly away from his gaze. Swallowing at the mild rejection, he said, “Do you ride much…?” It was an absurd question, but he’d no other way of beginning a conversation—she helped him little or not at all.

“I learned to sit a horse before I could walk.” Éowyn had turned back, but barely. He was pleased to see her smile, even more to hear her laugh. “I love to ride. It is wonderful, I think, to feel the horse and my heart as one…” She trailed off, but her smile remained and her face was lightened when she looked to him, repeating honestly, “I love to ride.”

Well, that is one thing I know that shall please her for all time… “Do you have a horse here…what of the one you rode?” He’d softened his voice, ending the inquiry with gentleness in case it upset her.

“I don’t know what became of Windfola.” She frowned. “He either lies in a mound or will carry another on the road back…he was not my horse, I stole him when I left.”

He nodded, then said in hopes of pleasing her again, “If you wish a horse I will grant you one to your liking.”

Éowyn looked at him sharply, warily for all the simplicity of his offer. She nodded slowly and then managed a smile. “Thank you, my Lord. That is very generous of you.”

He wanted to argue that it was not generosity, but a direct attempt to please her and perhaps give her something to keep him in her mind, but in very short order their mounts were brought out and he kept his silence. Faramir’s grey was the largest, heavy-boned and strong, he chewed his bit and tossed his head, eager to go. Faramir patted the thick dappled neck and swung into the saddle, half-grateful for a reprieve from his love’s difficulties. As he did so, the young man at his bridle informed him shyly. “His name is Cloud, my Lord.”

Éowyn’s spirited horse was next, a smaller, lightly built chestnut gelding with a beautifully tapered head that he was shaking violently, trying to rid himself of the boy clinging to the reins. Merry took one look and scrambled away, out of range of a flung hoof. Prancing, the horse leapt lightly from one side to the other, little ears flicking, his shod hooves clacking on the stone as he was led to Éowyn’s side. He nosed her hand briefly before rearing and trying to break away. “He’s charming!”

She looked enchanted; Faramir was having second thoughts. “Are you sure you…?”

“Do not finish that!” Merry interrupted with a good-natured cry. His small face was stern, defending, “Lady Éowyn can handle a horse in the midst of battle!”

She laughed, looking to the hobbit fondly, then more sharply to him. “Aye, I beg you, do not insult me, dear Faramir.”

Dear Faramir? Had she ever called him that? His heart leapt and he bowed from the waist, returning the endearment, “I apologize profusely, my dear Lady.” She smiled in return and it was bright, easeful, and made his spirits soar like to Eagles.

Flame was finally stilled and two boys held his head while Éowyn mounted. She did it with shocking quickness in this City where so few women rode—boot rested in the stirrup for only an instant before she was swinging up and aboard, reins fully in hand. Once she was on his back, the gelding calmed, limiting himself to alternately pawing and snaking out his head and pushing on the bit to test his passenger’s resolve.

Merry looked apprehensively towards the stable door while Éowyn crooned soothingly to Flame. The thud of hooves on straw preceded an even smaller black horse. There was a sigh of relief from the hobbit as his mount walked comparably quietly alongside his stable boy; the only sign of restlessness was his quickening pace once outside. The little horse was well made with a finely boned head and trim flanks, and obviously well trained—he stood still as Flame circled the group and Cloud pawed noisily at the straw covered stone. Faramir still had a boy at his bridle but Éowyn had swiftly dismissed hers, preferring to handle the chestnut herself. He watched her anxiously—a fall would mean being dashed to the hard stone.

Merry walked to Blackie’s side and looked up…and up. The horse was much taller than any Shire pony, Faramir guessed; he could see the halfling needed help to mount. He gestured for one of the watching stable boys. “How did you get up on that great warhorse of Lady Éowyn’s anyway, Master Hobbit?” Faramir teased lightly, he chuckled as Merry scowled. One of the boys came and kneeled and cupped his hand for Merry’s foot. The hobbit grabbed the stirrup and put his foot in the boy’s hand so that when the boy swung upwards, Merry was able to get one foot in the stirrup. From there he climbed his way into the saddle. Faramir watched him closely, frowning when he saw how the halfing relied on one arm. He still hurts… He turned to his love, wondering if she did as well. Maybe that makes her shy from me…and she is too proud to say. Panting, the hobbit picked up the reins.

Éowyn laughed, answering his teasing question. “I had to boost him. Believe me, hobbits are heavier than they look.”

“I beg your pardon? I’ll have you know that I’m quite slender for a hobbit…” Merry began hotly. Faramir grinned and gestured for their horses to be released. He steered Cloud down the wide street, listening with half an ear as Éowyn and Merry chattered, arguing over the natural heftiness of hobbits.

He hummed to himself, heart light, thinking of the best place to ride. On the Pelennor would not be wise…and anything to the north would still be strewn with the last of the dead orcs and men. The river is east, and the City itself holds west…so Faramir would have to ride south. In a few miles they would hit the river and…he straightened in the saddle as the thought struck, they could look over the Anduin at the hills of Emyn Arnen that Aragorn had given him. Surely Éowyn would be interested in seeing the place of their future home. It was very beautiful and unspoiled still in the heart of Ithilien.

Faramir twisted in the saddle to look back. The flower wreath was still in Éowyn’s hair, the blue and white blooms flipping in the breeze as she teased Merry. Flame’s head was tucked into his chest, neck bent like a bowstring, mouth pushing hard against the bit. Faramir marveled that her slender arms could handle the pull. He knew he would be bracing hard against the horse by now. As he watched, confused, he saw her lift her hands to shoulder level and shake them gently. Immediately Flame eased back on the bit, relaxing.

“What did you just do?” He slowed Cloud so that he was beside Éowyn. Merry trotted his horse into the lead.

“I shook him off the bit.” She said it as though he were silly, glancing sideways into his eyes.

“Oh.” Faramir felt silly. He knew, of course, that the Rohirrim were superior horsemen, but still it was surprising how little he apparently knew.

Perhaps seeing his confusion, she explained further, “I lightened the bit in his mouth; he didn’t have anything to pull against, so he couldn’t pull and grow wild.” Éowyn stroked the chestnut’s neck fondly. “I like him. He’s very impatient.” Her question held a bit of anxiety that he could not understand, “We will go where they can run some, won’t we?”

“Of course, we’re riding south, there’s wide enough ground between the river and the road.” He continued, feeling oddly shy. “I want you to see some of Ithilien…where we’ll live.” Éowyn looked startled, then to his relief, she smiled up at him. Faramir was gratified to see that the same shyness within his heart was echoed in hers.

Her voice was a murmur hardly overcoming the clopping of their horses’ hooves. “Is it?”

“Aye. I think you will like it.” She swallowed and nodded, but the fragile moment was broken by a shrill hobbit voice,

“Come on!” They had reached where the gates had stood. Faramir stared at the broken, blackened remains in silent awe; the others hardly looked, but they’d not lived a life seeing the way blocked by the Great Gate, so he pardoned them their lack of interest. It is gone…he marveled silently before using his all attention as they dodged wagons and men on foot.

Soon, the three passed through the gateway and out into the open. The cobblestones their horses walked on were still scorched and when Faramir looked for them, he found the Great Gates lay twisted on the ground hundreds of yards away, pulled down from their ancient hinges. The city stretched on their right side, it’s smooth, impenetrable stone walls reaching for the sky, contrasting the level plain curving around its glittering river, the banks only a few miles away to the left. Faramir led the way, steering Cloud over the dusty road, down into the drainage ditch and then up onto the flat grass. Éowyn followed on Flame, sending the athletic chestnut up the incline with no trouble. Merry’s short-legged horse, however, boldly jumped both down into the ditch and up out of it.

“Whoa!” Merry yelped loudly, clinging for dear life. “I don’t have any stirrups!”

Faramir looked over. He was right. The smallest saddle in Gondor’s stables could have held two hobbits easily, even ones who drank Ent draughts. Merry’s stirrups, adjusted to their highest, flopped a good four to five inches below his feet; he rode with one hand clutching the front of the saddle, his legs wrapped around the top half of the horse’s barrel.

Concerned for the halfling’s safety, Faramir asked. “Will you be all right if we run?”

“Good.” Éowyn said firmly and nodded where the bend of the river, some two miles ahead began to straighten. “You see that? Where the Anduin comes back around? That pile of rocks there?”

“Yes.” It was a marker for the old Harad road. Faramir began to grin, sensing what she was implying. He rose slightly in his stirrups, instinctively tensing. Beneath him, Cloud’s strides began to lengthen. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Éowyn’s mount do the same. Merry’s little horse was already walking as fast as it could without breaking gait, the black head bobbing. Merry grabbed enthusiastically at his dark mane, preparing to hang on.

“Good.” Éowyn repeated. Then, with a final glance at Faramir, she gave a light laugh of pure joy—it was a sound he’d never heard her voice. “See you there!” and at her cry “Go!” Flame flew ahead like an arrow released at long last from a quivering bow. Éowyn rose, crouching in the saddle, her chin nearly touching the chestnut’s mane.

Faramir yelled and put his heels to Cloud’s flanks, sending him into a rough canter. His strides were choppy and clumsy at first, so that Faramir had to tighten his knee’s grip to keep his balance on the big horse. Beside him, closer to the river, Merry whooped and thumped his bare, furry feet against the littler horse’s sides. Accelerating smoothly, the pair surged into second, leaving Faramir as last.

Green grass blurring beneath their hooves, throwing chunks of sod into Faramir’s face, the two smaller horses’ course took them roughly parallel to the riverbank. Swerving beneath the onslaught, he lost ground, but Faramir was soon gaining on Merry, his ungainly mount finding his legs at last. Éowyn was still far in the lead, but Faramir was determined to catch her. Merry booed him loudly as the bigger horse galloped past, leaving the short-legged Blackie far behind. Faramir burst out laughing, exhilarated. He hadn’t ridden this fast for fun in years. The wind blew his hair back and made his eyes water, the thunder of hooves echoed his own quickened heartbeat; he stared through Cloud’s grey ears at the land that flew by with pleasure. Leaning forward in the saddle, he urged the gelding on with voice and heel. Éowyn had just reached the halfway point and Faramir had every intention of beating her. Trees and spring flowers flashed past and on the road various parties of men on foot on the road were cheering as he gained ground.

She was standing in the stirrups when he finally had Cloud’s nose at Flame’s tail. Faramir yelled a challenge that was blown away by the wind, but Éowyn glanced back and her eyes went wide; she hadn’t believed that his heavier horse could catch hers. Bent low, her cheek pressed against Flame’s red neck, pleading, she managed to squeeze a bit more out of him, but the little chestnut had been going all out and was tiring. His horse taking one stride to Flame’s two, Faramir hung at his flanks, waiting.

Slowly it happened. Faramir was not going any faster, yet he was gaining. Cloud’s nose was at her saddle when she turned again. This time her mouth fell open. Then Éowyn laughed at something behind him and whooped loudly, fist in the air. And Faramir suddenly heard the rush of hooves to his left and realized he’d forgotten entirely about Merry. It was too late. The rocks were directly ahead and both their horses were spent. Merry’s horse, relatively fresh, Faramir realized, actually flew by the bigger tiring animals as they slowed, stretched out to the max, black coat lathered, the light-weight hobbit grinning ear to ear as he beat them. Gradually slowing to a walk, they halted by the river. Several miles downriver Faramir could see the hills of Emyn Arnen, the area where Aragorn had bid him to make his home.

The horses dripped sweat, breathing fast. Faramir glared playfully at the beaming Merry. “You planned that all along didn’t you?”

“Course I did. I used to ride ponies in heats in the Shire, you know. I was good.” Merry’s tone was proud. He patted Blackie’s lathered neck. “Though I never went that fast before on our little ponies. Not even on good Buckland stock.” He added smugly. “I knew I could beat you. You went too fast too soon.”

“He had a strategy! Can you believe that?” Panting, Faramir asked Éowyn, who laughed immediately and lightly,

“Boys ride in races in Rohan every year, so yes. Men come from all over our lands to bet on the outcomes and see the quality of the horses. It is like a festival.” She was suddenly serious, troubled. “Do you not have such things in Gondor?”

“Not often. We are not such a horse-folk.” Faramir was pained at the sadness on her face. He did not want her to be sad, he’d always thought she should be happy, even from the first time he saw her. He reached across the gap between them to touch her shoulder. “Tell me more while we ride?”

Faramir smiled. “Your brother requires I learn about your people. I can’t think of a better person to begin my lessons.” His voice was warm and his hand reached out to squeeze hers. Éowyn flushed.

Merry cleared his throat. “Yes, and Éomer also said I should watch you quite closely.” Faramir laughed, but let go of her hand. He was hurt to notice that Éowyn smiled and seemed to relax and her spirits to lighten the moment he did. The hobbit’s voice had been mock stern, yet Faramir could see something was truly troubling him as he nudged his horse between them. “Now, you said we were riding somewhere?”

“Yes,” He sighed, downhearted, and pointed south. “We will get a bit closer to those hills.”

“Well, let’s go on. I don’t want to miss lunch. Sam’s got them making chicken pot pie.” Merry clucked to Blackie and they began to walk the sweating horses onward.

Éowyn did not start the lessons. She rode lost in her own thoughts as their path took them further and further along the river. The Anduin, both wide and deep, roiled and foamed brown with silt and bits of debris. It is nothing like to the Snowbourn… Her river was shallower, slower and gentler—the Great River looked merciless to any that chanced to fall into its powerful current. She watched her shadow stretch down the sloping clay bank, flirting with the edge of the water. The country on the other side of the river was green and rose swiftly to high, rolling hills—as though the land itself were trying to ease her homesickness. Her horse snorted at a passing stick and she steadied him with soft, all but inaudible words. “Gebinda, min freond.”

Merry spoke after a while, “It reminds me of Brandy Hall.” He pointed with one small finger to an especially long, low mound, “An entire clan of Hobbits could burrow under that hill…course the river would flood us out, it is bigger than the Brandywine.”

Éowyn smiled at Faramir’s curious tone, he sounded almost boyishly eager to learn something new. This side of him always appeared when she spoke of herself—encouraging and enthusiastic, completely harmless... She was a fool to fear him.

Her Prince asked further, “What river is that? I have seen maps of the West and I don’t remember it.”

“Oh,” Merry looked slightly embarrassed,”it is just a jest…my people are fond of naming things in fun. I meant the river Baraduin.”

“A clever twist.” Faramir chuckled in appreciation. Éowyn gazed across the swirling water at the land she would most likely look at for the rest of her life. It was a strange and frightening thought that someday she might know those hills better than the plains around Edoras. “I’m still deciding on the best area to build our home.”

She became aware that Faramir was speaking to her. His words registered and Éowyn sat up in her saddle, unease stirring in her stomach. Surely not… “Build?” She asked it in a voice slow with dread, carefully keeping her tone level. It would not do to fret like a child now, after so long a life of coolly dealing with warriors. Merry was craning his neck, looking back and forth between them. His brow was furrowed, guessing her distress.

“Yes,” Faramir seemed unperturbed as he answered,” we have made no great dwellings on the other side of the river since Osgiliath. I’m afraid it will take some time until it is built.” He hesitated,”I would like, another day, for you to come and walk the land with me, so that you can help decide where to construct it.” Smiling, his voice was gentle, tender, “It is your home too, you will have a voice.”

Éowyn smiled back, distracted. Faramir was kind. “I would like that.” Then, choosing her words carefully again, she asked, “Will we stay within the City?”

Éowyn clenched her hands tightly on the reins. Flame’s ears flicked back questioningly; he lifted his head as he felt her tense. Absently stroking his neck to reassure him, Éowyn tried to absorb what Faramir had said. Live in Minas Tirith, behind the walls, behind the gates and guarded like a bird in a cage? She felt her heart beat faster, her throat tightening in anxiety. With the women who laugh when I enter the room and the men that pat my hand and shake their heads when I speak? Impossible. She would die.

Merry piped up. “How long will it take? Surely it won’t be too long before I can come back to visit you.” He partly understood. She had found Merry eating elevenses with Frodo and Sam in the main dining hall earlier. The hobbits had spotted her across the vast room and waved eagerly to Éowyn, who had been forced to push her way past a large group of women, painted and perfumed, dressed in fine silks. She’d flushed, head high as they snickered and clucked at her clad in leather boots, a rough wool shirt and trousers for riding. When she’d finally reached the hobbits’ table her fists had been clamped so tight she’d retained the half-moon indentions her fingernails dug into her palms for nearly an hour.

“I’m not sure, Merry.” Faramir pointed to one of the highest hills still many miles away. Éowyn stared at its grey-green slopes; they were studded with the greyish rock that was so prevalent in Gondor and looked like they would take long to excavate. “That, I think, is the best place. However, our men will have to scout Emyn Arnen to be positive. It will be some time before we can even begin drawing plans.” He paused. “It is a shame it would take too long to reach it, I would love for you to see more of Ithilien since you did not visit Cornmallen, Éowyn.” Faramir smiled, “I doubt your brother would look kindly on a two day journey…even with a guard.”

He continued, less enthusiastic now. “The council is even now debating on the best place to build the new bridge.”

Éowyn swore inwardly, looking away from the river. New bridge? New bridge? Are they mad? The road had wound far from their course; the men and carts passing on it were no bigger than ants.

“But enough of Ithilien.” Faramir smiled brilliantly, eyes striving to meet hers over Merry’s head. “Come, let’s rest in the shade, and you can tell me about those horse races in Rohan.” He turned his big gelding, leading them to a small clump of spindly trees that stood higher than the rest of the ground.

She swallowed hard, watching the sun gleam brightly in his dark hair as he rode before her. Faramir is a good man…yet, what did she know about him? He seemed to accept her—at any rate he had not appeared disturbed to see her dressed in something other than the flimsy gowns the tailors had seen fit to send her. Nor was he surprised that he found her with the hobbits outside a stable, rather than sewing or chattering in Court like the women of Gondor did. He said he loved her and spoke gently, weaving words into beautiful things like no other man she’d met. The times he’d kissed her had been demonstrative, passionate; yet there was no lust in his eyes, only appreciation and control. What do I fear…she feared everything, oh everything.

Éowyn laughed bitterly and soundlessly. What would Théodred have said if he’d known she’d fallen for a man, almost purely because he waxed poetical about Númenor while the world was ending around them? He’d always teased her, saying “You’d spend more time picking out a horse to ride than a man to wed, my dear cousin!”

Oh, my cousin, brother to my heart…she could still hear his voice booming in her ears when he’d picked her up and swung her around, laughing over some victory in the field. I miss you…he could have kept Éomer in line, stopped his foolishness with a firm word.

Théodred had offered to take her to Gondor many times to survey her options, but Éomer had always begged her to stay a while yet, arguing she was young and had plenty of time. She bent her head, not wanting either of the males who rode beside her to see the tears prickling her eyes. She supposed she loved Faramir; he was noble and did not press her to be something she was not. But still, it was a hard thing to ask her to give up her people, her brother and her way of life to live with him. I have already given it up…

“Look, my Lady!” Faramir’s voice was animated as he dismounted, gesturing across the river. “Do you see where we shall live in happiness?” His grey eyes were so hopeful that she could not bear to answer only in silence.

“Aye.” They’d reached the trees and from the modest knoll where they stood she could see far down either side of the banks of the Anduin and from the slight height, far across the flatter hills of Ithilien. Blinking tears away at the austere sight of emptily rolling hills and copses of trees, she managed a smile in return. “It is a fair country.”

He’d dismounted and moved to hold the reins of her horse, large, warm hand extended upwards. She didn’t need it, but she took it, feeling it grasping hers as she slid from the saddle. Éowyn gasped as her legs failed and, to escape a fall, she leaned against his body. Strange, she could touch him at times like this and feel completely safe, even without the little dagger she’d carried ever since she became a woman. It was this feeling more than anything that banished the darkest of thoughts from her mind as his arms cradled her to his front.

“Are you well?” He was frowning; one hand was lifting to carefully brush strands of her golden hair from her eyes. Merry, turned to sit sidesaddle with his legs swinging, looked apprehensive.

“Yes.” Éowyn allowed herself a moment to lean into him, and then straightened. Her legs were shamefully weak. “I am…it’s just, I’ve not ridden at speed since…”

Looking at his mouth and remembering his soft kiss, she couldn’t resist her curiosity and reached up with one slim hand, thumb brushing across his lower lip. It was very soft, just as she’d felt when he’d kissed her.

She heard him inhale, features smoothing with surprise, eyes widening. Faramir shifted on his feet, not moving them, but nevertheless he was pressed to her more than he’d been an instant before. His body was pleasantly firm, arms and front drawing her closer; she could feel his heat in his palms as he held her wrist and arm above the elbow. Éowyn swallowed in apprehension, abruptly conscious of somehow doing more than she would have thought with her simple, utterly innocent-minded touch. Faramir was staring down at her, attentive, captivated, and waiting. His eyes had softened again at the edges and she knew if she gave him any sign of want, he would kiss her.

Éowyn took a quick breath, unsure how to retreat or even if she truly wished to—it was pleasantly thrilling to see his desire and feel it in how he stroked one finger gently along the skin of her wrist. She gathered her courage, wanting again to please him and finding that she did want his kiss, as long as he kept it gentle. Éowyn did the only thing she knew of how to signal her assent. Lifting her face to his, she waited, heart beating faster.

He smiled at once, eyes alight. Faramir lowered and kissed her, his mouth pressing hers just once in a very proper fashion. It lingered a bit as though he could hardly bring himself to retreat, but he did and smiled so gently and in such pleasure that she laughed, embarrassed. Éowyn guessed the reason for his restraint was near in the form of a hobbit.

Merry looked away, his small face screwed up and trying not to snicker as she arched an eyebrow and said lightly, trying to recover from what she’d seen in her Prince’s gaze—vast desire amid and checked by eager love. “Now, did you bring anything to eat or is my good friend Meriadoc going to shrivel up and fly away? We’ll never make it back in time for lunch, you know.”

Merry’s outraged cry banished the last of her moodiness and most of her tension. Éowyn laughed into Faramir’s perplexed eyes. Perhaps he is worth the price, the dreadful price of sundering myself from country and blood… She dearly hoped so.

He was confused by her ease, her laughter, but not displeased. Releasing her, he stepped back and admitted he had no food to the hobbit’s moan of distress. Soon, they were sitting beneath the largest tree; Éowyn was upright, her back to the thick, gnarled trunk with Faramir lying stretched out on his side next to her, propping his head on his hand. She had been gazing out over the river for some time as he waited for her to speak.

“Ahh,” Éowyn looked at him and frowned slightly, reaching out with one hand to gently brush at his face. “You have something…some dirt…here, Faramir. It must be from where you were behind me for so long.” She smiled impishly as her hand scrubbed at his cheek, first lightly, then harder. He held still under the onslaught, wincing once as she rubbed the hair wrong way; he’d not shaved in a few days and was getting shaggy.

Before she could remove her hand, he rubbed his stubbled cheek against it mischievously, kissing her palm warmly as his lips grazed it. To his surprise she blushed, quickly taking her hand away and bowing her head to look at her lap. Faramir frowned. She puzzled him; Éowyn did not act like any of the women he had met. She rode like a man, shouted down both her brother and the hobbits, she said she loved him and would marry him, yet when he touched her suddenly or moved unexpectedly close he sensed a hesitant shyness and even fear from her part.

Perhaps I am being too bold…yet surely, if Éomer was any example of a Rohirrim man, he must seem tame and even dull to her. Faramir faltered; he was unsure of how to act or what to say. Only a few moments ago she had leaned against him, laughing and now she was staring at her lap, not meeting his gaze. What do I do wrongly? His frustration was close to the surface, constant and unabated.

“Well, I for one would like to hear some stories about Rohan.” Merry coughed politely, looking down at them. He was still perched sideways, and to Faramir rather precariously, in the saddle with his brown-furred feet swinging a good four feet above the ground. “Surely there are some entertaining, and by that I mean embarrassing,” The hobbit grinned in an effort to lighten the mood, “tales about Éomer you happen to know, Éowyn.”

“Oh.” She frowned; still not looking at Faramir, then smiled a small, weak smile. “I suppose there are a few.” But she did not share them.

“Aren’t you going to come down?” Faramir, getting desperate, craned his head to look up at the still mounted hobbit. Merry’s horse was dozing, hind leg cocked, his tail swishing gently at flies while they spoke. The two other horses stood nearby, tied to trees, sweat drying on their flanks.

“I’m sorry.” Merry said apologetically. Then he winked bafflingly at Faramir and said sadly, “I just don’t think I could get back up.” He frowned, confused,

“He is very heavy.” Éowyn lifted her head and to Faramir’s relief, glanced at him before smiling up at the hobbit. “The first time I helped him dismount he slipped, fell on top of me, and nearly crushed the life out of me.” She laughed, “All that and with mail on.”

“You looked much lighter than you were, Master Hobbit.” Faramir was silent, watching intently. Éowyn was not awkward when she spoke with Merry; they bickered like old friends, like siblings. Did she feel he threatened her? Why and how so? Faramir shifted on the ground, running his free hand through the tender, matted blades of grass, listening not so much to the words, but the tone of their voices. It was something he’d learned long ago as a boy in a desperate attempt to tune his father’s brutally cutting remarks out and hear only his voice in hopes that it would not hurt so much if he could not distinguish the words.

“Do not worry, if he wants down he will jump. He did it before.” Éowyn was saying with a smile, her voice playfully indifferent.

“And break my legs?” Merry cried theatrically. “Do you see how far down that is? I almost killed myself the first time!”

“Oh, pfft.” Éowyn rolled her eyes. “You stubbed a toe. It was hardly worth all the wailing you did.” And suddenly Faramir could see what Merry was doing; the hobbit was directing the conversation away from deeper subjects in an attempt to make Éowyn feel more at ease, even at the expense of himself. It was admirable and baffling. Faramir had the feeling he was walking in on a conversation already in place. He felt lost between them.

“Wailing?” Faramir grinned up at Merry as he valiantly rejoined the exchange.

“Oh, like a girl. He nearly cried.” Éowyn teased. To Faramir’s lack of surprise she was once again smiling. He smiled back, even as he wondered why she was growing more and more shy around him. What was he doing wrong? He’d noticed her silence several times as they’d neared the trees; she had not responded to his attempts to include her opinions about what would be their new home or cheer her.

“Cried? Cried?” Merry gasped in shock, putting a hand to his chest. “Éowyn, how could you? You swore never to tell!”

She leaned against the tree, a slender figure swathed in baggy men’s clothes, laughing so hard she shook. Merry was shaking his head in mock horror of her inconsiderateness when he caught Faramir’s eye. “Patience,” the hobbit mouthed it silently and exaggeratedly. Faramir sat up immediately, frowning as he did so. He’d thought Merry had told him everything he knew about Éowyn before. Obviously he hadn’t.

But before Faramir could mouth anything back, there was the sudden thudding vibration of approaching hooves. A rider had left the road and was coming towards them.

Éowyn’s smile faded as Faramir and Merry turned to look at the approaching rider. Her palm still tingled where Faramir had kissed her; he’d surprised and overwhelmed her with his casual intimacy. It had been one thing to imagine marrying him when the world as she knew it was ending…now, things were different and with her brother here to supply conditions, to speak of the future as though it were just within grasp, she was facing the realization of her actions. Éowyn found that didn’t feel ready at all and she swallowed, clasping her hands loosely in her lap, fingers fiddling with the large buttons on her borrowed shirt. It had been one of Éomer’s, a hastily made thing; after all, he had no clothes here in Gondor.

She’d stolen it that morning, refusing to ride in a dress. She could ride sidesaddle, of course; she’d learned the foolish, difficult art of it for her mother. Éomer had always told her, a smile on his face that Théodwyn had given up almost immediately on Éowyn being the sweet civilized little girl of her dreams. A girl who would play with dolls and wear ribbons instead of wooden swords and her brother’s old castoffs; Éowyn the sophisticated woman, not the untamed shield-maiden. Yes and we saw how that went…she smiled thinly.

When she was very young and rebelling crossly against some womanly task, Théoden would hold her in his lap and say that that was why no one objected to her running wild and following her brother and cousin Théodred as much as they would allow her. That long ago, her mother had understood and given her wearied permission. However, before she died she had insisted that Éowyn learn to at least some of what a woman was supposed to behave like, so she must learn how to ride sidesaddle, and how to sew and cook and run a household no matter how terrible it seemed. Her Uncle had never once raised his voice, nor got angry when she exploded, pushed too far at a chore that she felt was beneath her. He’d understood, as well as any man could and loved her like a father. Théoden, uncle…my cousin, Théodred, why…why just as I needed you most did you leave me?

Now as a grown woman she would have to put those little-used skills to work and Éowyn found that she was terrified just wondering what Faramir would expect. She knew well enough what to do and how, she simply detested it to the point of an uncontrollable loathing. But is it different in the City…what do Ladies do there? Perhaps she didn’t know her duties at all. As Faramir stood to get a better view of the approaching rider, Éowyn gazed up at his form, a tall, lithe and dark shadow against the glare of the midday sun. She wanted to ask him what it was that he would desire of her, what he anticipated, but she dared not to in case she could not live up to it. He’d been so kind, how could she displease him? I already do, I cannot bear more.

“Who’s that?” Merry swung his leg back over the pommel and picked up his reins.

“I don’t know.” Faramir said quietly. To Éowyn’s surprise, he turned and offered her his hand. She took it, blushing as she stumbled against him, feet catching in the thick clumps of grass.

Quickly righting herself, she stepped away, expecting him to release her. When he didn’t she forced herself to look up, fighting the urge to jerk back as he brought her hand to his lips. He smiled reassuringly, lacing his warm fingers with hers and stepping close to her side. Éowyn tensed, not knowing what to expect. “It’s all right.” He murmured the reassurance with his eyes fixed to hers and all so quiet that she could barely hear. The hurt in his gaze made her look away, tears stinging. “Why do you shy away? I would not treat you illy …nor do anything without your consent.”

Éowyn bowed her head, fighting tears. It was true; he had done nothing to make her think so, yet old suspicions died hard. Too many men in the last years had looked at her hungrily, like starved hounds would a piece of meat dangled just beneath their nose or worse like they’d no memory of her, no memory of fealty or honorable conduct. They’d been like men enchanted, bound by witchery, cursed into dark dreams so that they knew not what they did or said and their voices and actions were ever ruled by insolence and forceful anger instead of bravery and respect. They had been men she had once trusted, men whose Marshall had directed them to ride too far west, perhaps…and once they came back, obeyed none but Gríma. Wormtongue himself had been the worst, following her, always watching with dead, fish-like eyes and trying to touch her with cold, pale hands that grasped tightly—he’d known of her hate-filled revulsion. But he did not care…never cared… Éowyn shivered at the memories that rose blackly and frightened her still more.

Faramir’s arm circled her waist. It was a shock to feel him when she thought of the other and she jumped before Éowyn leaned to his comforting gentleness; his manner was that solely of gentleness as far as she could see or feel. His breath came as a warm series of puffs against her neck as he pleaded with his voice soft and nearly desperate in her ear, “Speak to me, please, tonight…I beg you, Éowyn…my beloved.”

Her throat tightened apprehensively, but she squeezed his hand in reply and nodded. “If you wish it.”

“My Lord?” It was a Knight of Gondor. He saluted, politely averting his eyes as Faramir released her. “You’re presence is requested by King Elessar and the Council. There is an urgent state of affairs that requires your services. ”

Voice returned to calmness, he nodded. “Very well, you may tell them I am coming.” Faramir sighed. The man saluted again and, wheeling his horse, rode back to the City. Her Prince’s face was drawn with disappointment. “I am sorry, I must go.”

Merry nodded. “Don’t worry, “He said cheerfully, “I’ll get her home. I’ve done this plenty of times.” He winked playfully at Éowyn; she knew he was trying to make her laugh.

“Plenty of times?” Faramir bantered back, “Perhaps I should stay…” Now they were both trying to cheer her. Éowyn took a deep breath.

“No, go, please, if Aragorn needs you.” She gave the innocent Merry a mock scowl, “I can handle him.”

“As you wish.” Faramir bowed to her, his eyes serious, before untying his mount. He paused in the act of swinging into the saddle, “I will see you tonight?”

“Yes.” Éowyn smiled. “In the gardens would be nice.” The gardens were her sanctuary and she felt comfortable there. The last thing she wanted was to speak in the Hall of Feasts, to appear weak before those women…those faultless women of Gondor… All of her warrior’s training and her pride forbade it.

“Not to interrupt, but who is going to, you know… “Merry said, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. “ Now I could volunteer as a Knight of the Mark,” The pride in his voice made her smile widely, “And simply find something to occupy myself…”

Faramir looked to the hobbit, praising warmly. “That would be wonderful, Merry.”

“Is that all right with you, Éowyn?” Faramir was asking her, now in the saddle, gathering his reins and preparing to leave.

She collected her nerve. She could always scream for Merry if she wished; she doubted he’d wander too far. With a nod, she said quietly, “It is fine.”

“Good.” He dipped his head respectfully one last time and turned, heels touching Cloud’s flanks and sending him into a canter.

“Well,” Merry said after a moment, “what do you say we go and see if Pippin left me anything to eat? You can eat with us if you want.”

“That would be very nice.” Éowyn smiled sadly at him. “What will I do when you leave me, Merry?” He blushed again but had no answer.

Hwa mann durst hrinan ge ná mid gewyrhtum min sweostor?--What man dares to touch you so undeservedly my sister?

Ond butan min wyrdsæf? Ge durst má, Hordere. Má toss--And without my decree? You dare much, Steward. Too much.

Ge eart ná weorð in wermet, bestandan min sweostor, Hordere.--You are not worthy in status to stand by my sister, Steward

Is se æþeling æt má lond ná weorð in wermet, broðor? Hwa béon? Hwa béon?--Is the prince of many land not worthy in status, brother? Who would be? Who would be?

Ic lufie Faramir ond Ic wille lucan æt him--I love Faramir and I want to stay with him

Lufiend, ná mid min word, min wyrdsæf--Love, love, without my word, without my decree?

Ge willst gefaran wundordeð æt wroht æt eower blydu--You will die a wondrous death of torture for your boldness

Ge eart atel pucel ond Ic behat forloreness æt ge ná atstand!--You are a horrible goblin and I promise misery for you if you do not stop!

Ná! Ná! Ic lufie Faramir! Ge ná wille wund him!--No! No! I love Faramir! You will not hurt him!

Saddened and angered that his time with Éowyn was so swiftly cut short, Faramir returned his horse to the stables, patting the gelding's thick grey neck one last time as he dismounted. “Good lad, thank you.” The horse nosed him, brown eyes friendly. He slapped the beast’s shoulder and smiled, looking about himself. A boy was coming swiftly to take the bridle.

No longer distracted by Éowyn’s beauty or the constant, frustrating puzzle of her actions and heart, he paused before leaving his horse in the custody of a dirty stable boy. It was only midday but the lad was the only one in sight not rushing by hauling buckets of water or pushing overloaded wheelbarrows of precariously balanced hay.

“Here, my Lord.” The boy bowed low to him when he took the swinging reins. Faramir frowned and did not reply right away, studying the lad in concern. It was easy to see that the youth was skinny and his clothes were uncommonly caked with straw and mud, even for a stable boy. He did not remember the boys who worked in the stables being so pitiable before. Resolving to look into it, for surely, in his City there was some place for the child to have enough to eat and clean clothing, Faramir nodded his thanks to the lad, who did not move.

At once he smiled, remembering himself. The boy was waiting for a word of dismissal, “Give him an apple for me. He did his duty well.”

“Yes, my Lord.” The boy's head, hair dusty and peppered with bits of sweet feed, was bent as he murmured assent. Faramir hesitated, taking a moment to look at the stables again. The building itself was in undeniably decent repair, it was only the people who worked in it that were ragged and hurried. How long have I not noticed? He was appalled; he’d been here not an hour ago and not noted anything. Where is my mind? The City might be Aragorn’s in name, but it was his home. He should know better than allow it to slip into ruin or disgrace. This is my inheritance, my hallowed duty…

As he began to walk back up through the levels of the City Faramir had to admit, at least to himself, that for the first time in his life his mind was not focused upon Minas Tirith or Ithilien, but rather on Éowyn...as it should be as well. He frowned; there seemed to be little middle ground for him between the title of betrothed and the duties of Steward.

Hasty voices broke into his thoughts, “Excuse us, my Lord.” “I beg your pardon, my Lord.” A group of soldiers parted for him with earnest reparations for getting in his way.

Startled, he moved aside, saying in low reply, “My apologies.” Faramir looked around himself; he’d halted in the center of the street. Realizing that he was barely seeing his surroundings and had almost wandered into several people, Faramir firmly pushed the thought of his love away. Aragorn would need him at his best, not distracted by the memory of her blushing as she stumbled against him and the troubled look in her eyes when he had kissed her hand.

But his resolve to think of Éowyn no longer did not hold more than a moment. What bothers her? He could not understand. I do nothing and she flinches…had some other suitor in her lands treated her with dishonor? He worried his lips, gnawing them. Faramir did not like to think of another having courted her, having kissed her but surely it was so—Éowyn was ravishingly beautiful. Did this suitor strike her cruelly so that she fears my hand? But…Faramir could not imagine Éomer allowing the scenario he’d envisioned; the man was terribly rude and aggressive even when he acted with dignity and attempted rapprochement. But if he did not know…if she did not speak…perhaps that is why he acts so, why she does… There was nothing he could do but ask and he hesitated to broach such tender subjects—Éowyn barely replied to the most inoffensive of questions.

He frowned, deep in thought as his feet moved up the hill, stumbling occasionally on broken flagstones, following the back and forth curve of the road. It was so well known he could have walked it in a daze. Perhaps I do now…Faramir smiled, apologizing again to a maid he’d bumped into and nearly made drop her basket. “My apologies…” She nodded and swiftly got out of his way. He sighed. Think of something else!

It was strange to him, as earlier, his first impulse when the guard had approached them in their pleasant haven under the trees, had not been of submission, but of rebellion. His tongue had longed to command the messenger away and refuse to heed the summons, to stay with his dear, puzzling Éowyn. In that moment Faramir had found his heart stirred by anger, not compliance, which disquieted him. He stared at his boots as they strode so steadily, so confidently—he did not feel the same confidence within.

After a while he smiled, finding amusement in his perturbation, I nearly ordered him back to the City, to not disturb me again… Only lifelong courtesy and obedience had stopped him and smothered his sudden anger back into his chest, voicing itself in a wearily resigned sigh.

Frankly, he was confused about the summons; Aragorn had not mentioned anything to him about a Council meeting before next week at the earliest. For there to be a meeting now, and unscheduled, meant something was wrong or the Councilmen wished to make him believe something was wrong. Either way, Faramir did not think the status of the stable boys' welfare would be brought up.

They were his father's Councilors, or they were before…they belong to Elessar now…or myself. He grew grim as his thoughts turned to the men who had summoned him from his pleasant, frustrating outing. Consisting solely of the richest men, the most powerful, and those who boasted the noblest blood, Faramir doubted they had ever walked through the lower levels of the City, where the serving classes lived, to see the people whose lives they commanded. No, I expect they have little knowing of the dustiness of stable boys…these men spent their time squabbling over taxes and titles and gleefully voting down any of Faramir's suggestions unless he resorted to begging or bribing Boromir to sit in the chambers and say them for him. The only one they had ever truly listened to was Denethor.

Faramir smiled a tight, embittered smile to himself as he remembered his father's voice, “Well, Faramir, do you have another idea...or any idea?” His tone had been mocking as he chuckled, all the while underscored by the faint laughter and smirks of the Councilors.

Faramir had learned early that the ripple effects of his father's disapproval extended far. The nobles of Minas Tirith had admirable survival instincts and it was little surprise that they were aware of the knowledge that they were virtually useless. That they served no profitable or practical purpose in the ruling of the City and its lands was not lost on them, so they followed Denethor's whims and fancies like trained dogs. Boromir, who hated the very idea of sitting in a chamber and listening to old men argue, had been eagerly received as Denethor's successor. It made little difference to them if the Steward actually heard the debates or not so long as they remained assured of the power and respect that came from being named a Councilman.

In fact, Faramir had long suspected the Council's love of Boromir had more to do with pleasing Denethor and making sure the next Steward would not think to question their place than any loyalty or allegiance. Now, in the absence of his father and his brother, the unanimously approved heir, Faramir had no idea what to expect. They call for me…they have never done so…

Striding through the last Gate with a courteous nod to its guards, he wished it was not his responsibility now and that Boromir had not fallen. Then he could do as he'd always done: quietly helping him to steer his City and the Council in the right directions. But unfortunately, things had gone awry and Faramir found himself walking anxiously through the halls that led into the long, narrow room where the Councilors met. How I dread this…

Logically, if they stuck to their ways, these nobles would seek to flatter and heap praises on their new King in order to gain his approval and secure their continued position. However… Faramir debated with himself as he strode through the many, honeycombed halls with a nod to the saluting guards, the Councilors were my father's lackeys for many years and perhaps they will not accept Aragorn's rule so quickly. Either way, he could not deny the feeling of irritation. He was wasting precious time with his future wife to listen to old men who by their own admissions and actions disliked him. It was infuriating.

“Ic grete þe, Hlaford min Faramir.” A vaguely familiar voice broke through the mists of his thoughts. Faramir lifted his eyes and was surprised to see Halorl in his path, cradling Éomer's long, broad sword in his hands. The weapon held his gaze for a moment, as it was very large sword, sheathed in battered leather. The Rider was standing at attention just outside the tall double doors that led into the Council's chambers, which puzzled Faramir greatly. Why would the Council summon Éomer? He grimaced, what possible reason would anyone wish that brute into a room with them…and for hours at a time?

As though to gain his attention, Halorl said his name again, along with the foreign word he supposed was a title; it was said like one, pronounced with the tone of proper respect that transcended languages. “Hlaford Faramir.” The Rohir man gave him a respectful nod and even more surprisingly, a grin.

“Hello, Halorl.” Faramir answered politely, if still slightly flustered. “Ah, is Éomer within?” The Rohir frowned; Faramir pointed at the doors helpfully, asking, “Éomer?”

“Thank you.” Faramir wondered just what answer he would get to this next question, if any. “Do you know why?” Certainly for the Council to call Éomer, it was over an unusual occasion. The Lord of the Mark would have little input on City affairs. Halorl was frowning at him; the blonde man shook his head and shrugged. He did not understand the question and Faramir could think of no other way to put it so that he could. He sighed and smiled, “Well, thank you anyway.” The man nodded, stepping aside so that he could enter.

Faramir decided that Halorl must have been with Éomer while they rode and accompanied him here. He smiled, bemused. Obviously he is aware that Éowyn sent his guard away…I wonder what he thought of that?

But none of his speculation answered the puzzling question of why Éomer was in there. Faramir, who was not wearing a sword and thus could enter freely, grasped the door handle and took a deep breath, preparing himself for the ordeal. But before he could open it, Aragorn burst out. Halorl jumped out of the way just in time to avoid him. Faramir was not so lucky and was thrust back several steps when the King ran into him.

A strong arm grasped his and steadied him as he staggered. “Faramir! Oh, thank the Valar! Quickly!” Aragorn looked back into the room, eyes narrowed with suspicion. Faramir could just see through the slender opening between the doors that what appeared to be the entire Council was inside, some seated with others rising, their faces concerned. He heard their raised voices calling “Elessar...my Lord, wait!” before Aragorn slammed the door shut.

Faramir managed to squelch a cry of shock as Aragorn grabbed his arm and began yanking him down the hallway. Astonished at this highly irregular behavior from his normally proper Lord, Faramir allowed himself to be pulled into one of the smaller adjoining rooms before hissing in reply, “What are you doing?”

“They are mad and they wish to drive me mad!” He was pacing rapidly in the confined space.

“What? Who?” He jerked on his surcoat, trying to straighten it. Aragorn was still pacing; he paused only to rip off his cloak and toss it on the long table in the center of the room. His boots were loud on the stone floor and Faramir thought in bemusement that if Aragorn wished to remain hidden for long, he certainly wasn't doing a good job.

“Them! The...those...those excuses for Councilors!” He was seething, growling each word through a tightly clenched jaw.

Faramir was confused. Certainly they had been infuriating in the past, but he had never been enraged enough to walk out on a meeting before. I would not have dared…my father…

He was about to ask what had happened but Aragorn continued, “Elves! Elves are rational, they do not lie and say that they want something, only to change it at the last minute!” He whirled on the bemused and perplexed Faramir. “They insist on speaking of things that do not matter! They argued over whose turn it is to speak...for almost an hour...an hour, Faramir!” The last was cried aloud in the near wail of a man driven to his breaking point.

“Why did you not stop them?” He ducked reflexively as Aragorn threw his hands up.

“I tried! They do not listen!” He suddenly turned. “You must help me, Faramir. They will listen to you.” His voice was pleading. Faramir couldn't help it; he burst out laughing. Aragorn looked desperate, harassed as he asked. “What? What is amusing?”

“They will not listen to me...they...” He laughed harder, “They hate me, they take every opportunity to disgrace me and disregard my suggestions.” Faramir sobered some as he added with a smile, stating dryly, “I’m afraid you called me for naught. I will be of little help.”

“Yes.” Aragorn ran his hands through his hair, looking at him in irritation. “All they say, is “Where is Lord Faramir?” and “He will put it right, we must have Faramir.”” Faramir's mouth was open. “You have not seen such annoyances of men. I am utterly sick of hearing your name.”

“Are you jesting? They have mocked me my entire life!” But things have changed…he frowned to himself. Could their allegiances change so swiftly? If so, then the Councilors were as lacking of fealty as simple beasts, following whomever won the battle and uncaring as long as one stood above the others to rule.

“Not any longer, apparently.” Aragorn sighed and picked his cloak back up to shake it, then swing it over his shoulders. He fastened the pin, saying, “Come, my friend, or they will be combing the halls for us.” He stopped at the door and looked back at the still-frozen Faramir. “Oh, yes, Éomer had something he wanted to say to you as well...” The King smiled, “But I’m afraid that in all the disorder that I’ve been unable remember.”

“I’m sure it was quite polite.” Faramir was unable to curb his sarcasm, following Aragorn out into the hall. Éomer on top of the Council...it shall be a long afternoon.

They emerged to see one of the Councilors, a pudgy, white haired man, speaking angrily to Halorl. The obviously bewildered Rohir kept shaking his head and answering in Rohirric, followed by halting and heavily accented bits in the Common Tongue.

“I said, “Which way did they go?”” Faramir vaguely recognized him as one of his father's staunchest supporters. “Answer me...whoever you are. I demand an answer! Now!” He was advancing on the nervous Halorl, whose confusion was compounded by the increasingly rapid delivery of the unfamiliar words. The man of Rohan shifted Éomer's sword in his arms as he took a step back and found himself against the wall.

Halorl's eyes lit up at the sight of Aragorn and Faramir. He nodded in their direction, nearly begging for aid, “Hlaford min Faramir. Faramir.” The unfortunate Rohir was nearly breathless with relief.

“My Lord!” The man, whose name Faramir still could not recall, wheeled, forgetting Halorl in an instant. “Ah, my good Prince, you have come!” He bowed low, voice dripping with pleasure and commendation, “Perhaps now we can finally discuss the City’s affairs with someone who bears knowledge of them.”

At Faramir's side, Aragorn stiffened. Aware of him, he responded carefully, “Of course.” Faramir tried not to flinch back as the old man gestured towards the tall double doors. He did not wish to go in there, now or ever. Halorl gave him a sympathetic smile as he grasped the knob and opened the door. The Councilor breezed through, robes flapping, and Faramir had no choice—Aragorn was directly behind him, blocking his escape. I doubt he would take it kindly if I broke and ran. With a deep breath he entered.

The Council room's architecture mirrored its tall doors, being a long, narrow room that stretched to hold a massive table which could hold fifty, though as usual only about thirty held their chairs. It rested along the center and was made of an exceptionally well polished dark wood and, as rumor went, had been there for hundreds of years. The seating was arranged simply, the King at the head with the two most influential advisors on either side and the positions of the Councilors were ranked according to wealth and seniority, with the oldest and wealthiest being closest to the King. Tall windows ran down the right wall and tapestries covered the other three walls, cutting down the chill from the bare stone. The ceiling was high with the irritating tendency to echo.

Faramir followed Aragorn to the center seat. He was placed on his right, finding himself face to face with Éomer who, in a position of high favor, sat on Aragorn's left. The young King of Rohan was tilted backwards in his chair, the back propped against the wall. One elbow rested on the chair’s arm, gloved fingers hiding his lower face. He alone did not move or speak as they entered, ignoring the Councilors' earnest greetings. Faramir glanced around himself, utterly nonplussed to hear and see the enthusiasm sparked by his arrival. Truly, things had changed.

Éomer’s light eyes bored into Faramir's as he pulled out his chair. After an instant of anxious contemplation, he tilted his head in a brief acknowledgement. If I am civil, surely he must reply in kind. He could think of nothing he’d done today that would enrage the man. He cannot spend all his waking moments in rudeness…he hoped not.

At first there was no response; then a smile tugged at the corners of his mostly-hidden mouth and Éomer inclined his head, speaking smoothly, “Hail, Faramir.”

Startled, Faramir again dipped his head in respect as he sat, wondering at the quick flash of amusement and the innocently pleasant greeting. He felt hope grow, answering in kind, “Hail.”

The Lord of the Mark asked, his chair legs setting to the stone floor with a bang. “Did you enjoy your time without Halorl?” His voice had been easeful and low, contrasting the loudness and aggressiveness of his movement.

Faramir replied stiffly, preparing himself for an argument. “Éowyn sent him away. Master Meriadoc served in his stead.”

The man smiled and nodded. “Good.” Faramir stared at him, trying desperately to discern anything, anything at all to indicate the man’s mood.

“Prince Faramir, would you like us to begin?” Swathed in purple velvet, this Councilman was even fatter than the man who had been accosting Halorl was. Faramir nodded. Piggish eyes beamed at him as he smiled cheerfully.

Aragorn groaned softly at his side and muttered, “I...don't believe this...I’ve sat here for two hours...”

“Uh...yes.” Faramir was distracted—Éomer had begun to stare at him. Aragorn put his head in his hands as the Councilor answered.

“Excellent. Most excellent.” A very, very large amount of roll of parchments and loose papers began passing down the table to Faramir. One of the younger Councilor’s aides began forming them into three lots. “These are the estimated City repairs, country repairs and some suggestions for continuing to house our honorable Rohirrim allies in comfort, of course, until,” He bowed to Éomer, who ignored him, “They choose to leave.”

“All of these?” Faramir tried not to grimace as the stacks mounted higher and higher.

“Why haven't you approved of anything?” He turned to hiss under his breath to Aragorn. “Where's your seal?”

“It was lost...” He paused for effect and then waved his hand down the table. “I was assured that someone is looking for it.” This was preposterous; Faramir was going to have to go through each thing separately and all on his own. He glared back at Éomer, who seemed completely unimpressed and just arched a disdainful eyebrow.

“But couldn't you just sign...” Aragorn's expression went decidedly deadly and Faramir quickly moved on. “Fine, fine, let's just start.” He sighed and picked up the first list, a thick stack of repairs. “Damage to the upper level bath houses...” He gritted his teeth as he thought he heard Éomer smother a laugh.

Uncountable hours later, his eyes burning from the smoke of candles, his hand throbbing from stamping hundreds of papers and his voice scratchy despite numerous goblets of wine, Faramir picked up the last City damage report. He could see the stars beginning to show outside the windows, by the Valar, he would do no more today. The entire meeting would have gone much faster except for the Councilors need to debate the serial importance of each and every item and then, referring back to some far earlier agreed upon order, reversing it to accommodate the new order of repairs. Only a lifetime of control had kept Faramir from exploding with frustration.

However, this was the last and, as far as Faramir was concerned, the Councilors could debate endlessly upon it. He was leaving as soon as he read and sealed it. He shook it out, holding the paper closer to the candlelight. Aragorn's eyes were glazed over and he blinked slowly when Faramir glanced at him, trying to ignore the ever-present weight of Éomer's stare bearing down on his head. The man had not looked away for even a moment. Often, as Faramir had looked up he'd had the uncanny feeling that Éomer was waiting for something, but what he had no idea. The King of Rohan hadn't said a word so far, even when questioned. He is a boor…

“Lower level stables.” Faramir squinted, confused and wondering if his aching eyes had misread. He'd been at the stables this morning; they were in good shape, and in no need of repair. The roofs? He’d not seen those. He scanned the extensive list and began growing more and more perplexed. He raised his head, looking down the table and opened his mouth to ask what the meaning of this was and suddenly Éomer caught his eye. The man smiled with what Faramir considered rather out-of-place cheer.

Faramir turned to Aragorn. He was no help, trying not to yawn as he waited for Faramir to finish. He was unable to blame the King; undoubtedly his Lord had sat there for hours before him. The Councilors were respectful, unusually so.

“Oh, yes, my Lord.” The man in velvet said. “Quite in need of repair and aid.”

Éomer chuckled, so soft it was no more than a breath. Faramir looked from him to the man in velvet. “Is that so?”

“I'm afraid it is. All our horses lost, cattle, goats... Oh, and the main reserves of hay and grain to feed what few animals we have left.”

“A pity.” “Truly.” “Food will have to be rationed.” “Yes, a shame that the beasts will suffer.” The Councilors' voices echoed up and down the long table. Faramir turned to Éomer, utterly confused. The man was still smirking.

“Unless...replacements are found...” The man in velvet, the head member, spoke slowly, obviously waiting for something. He kept glancing at Éomer. When he ignored him, he scowled. Aragorn came to life, voice full of authority.

“I'm sorry to say, King Elessar, that the fields were fouled by Easterlings and orcs, the silos were burned and all our excess stores have...been used...” He paused delicately, fingering his collar. Again, he looked to Éomer. Faramir frowned. Why was Éomer there? They had not even touched the pile of papers concerned about housing his people yet. There was no logical reason for him to sit there all day. What was happening?

“So, my Lords, Elessar, Faramir, what do you suggest?” Aragorn shook his head slightly; he did not yet know the City's needs well enough to say. Faramir hesitated, the only thing he could think of was to purchase the needed goods from another realm. The closest being...

“All of them used?” Éomer’s deep voice shocked the men into attentive silence. It was the first time he'd spoken since to Faramir so many hours ago.

“Why...yes...my Lord Éomer...or, very nearly.” The velvet-garbed man bowed quickly, anxious to show his courtesy. “Indeed, that is a very good idea, Prince Faramir.” His expression became sly as he turned to Éomer. “I understand he is to wed your sister. Have you decided on a day...we would be happy to declare it a holiday and have all in the City come to celebrate.”

“No.” Éomer stood leisurely, not pushing his chair back in. Faramir looked it in supreme irritation. Could the man not perform the simplest of courtesies?

“Are you leaving?” “Where are you going?” “My Lord Éomer, please!” The Councilors burst out as one, panic on every face.

“What reason is there for me to say?” He looked politely curious. “You’ve not spoken of anything that concerns me.” Éomer’s politeness abruptly vanished as his face became marked with repugnance, “I have wasted a day within this cell.”

“As our most honorable ally, in these troubled times, sure you could not...”

“Could not what?” Éomer added disdainfully, coldly, “I’m afraid you will have to speak clearer…we have no Council in my lands and I’ve little patience for those of long-wind.”

“Refuse to freely give you the goods you need? Make you pay for them, when you must use all your gold to repair the widespread damages to the City?” Éomer’s lip curled in distaste. “Of course not, but I require something in return.” His eyes came to rest upon Faramir’s and he smiled, “It is but a small matter and worth little.”

The head of the Council looked relieved. “I knew we could come to an agreement, my Lord Éomer...after all, you're about to renew the ties between our two peoples. You are a reasonable man and…”

“That I am allowing him to marry my sister.” He grinned wider as Faramir stood, pure fury roaring into his heart, his chair falling aside with a great clatter.

His voice emerged thick with anger, “I agreed to your preposterous conditions…”

Aragorn grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back down; he looked weary. “At ease, wait and see what it is he wants.” He spoke with a cautioning tone, this time directed to the Lord of the Mark. “Name your small, worthless matter so that we may leave, Éomer. It is late.”

Finally some action… Éomer had sat in the dim, stuffy room for hours for this and he would not go about it lightly. With deliberate care he began, “I wish the Steward to ride to the Mark at the end of the summer.”

“But, Lord Éomer, he is much needed here…” The repulsive Councilmen immediately began to protest, as he’d known they would. Ah, but you do not wish to spend gold out of your own coffers to repair the City and feed its people when you can borrow from mine… He had them; he’d known it the moment they’d begun to flatter him, the reason for the flattery had taken longer to discover.

“Yes, you seem to need him here…” To sit in this little room and do nothing but pacify and stamp things that need no authorization, they are repairs, you fools! He made a show of troubling his brow and thinking, “But in order to wed my sister he must come with me to Edoras.” He lied boldly, smiling into the Prince’s face, “It is our custom.” Faramir’s jaw tightened but he did not respond. It is my custom, as it is my lands now…

They were unfamiliar, as he’d guessed. “Aye.” He shook his head. “It is a pity you cannot find the King's seal.”

“It will be found!” “Yes, it shall, do not worry...” The two closest Councilors spoke quickly.

“And then your Prince will be free to leave?” He looked smugly at Faramir; the man did not respond.

“He can be spared...for a short while, if it is necessary.” Despite the discouraging nature of their words, the Council was nodding eagerly to a man.

“For how long, Éomer?” Aragorn interjected. He looked aghast at the thought. “When exactly? Will he ride alone, will you fetch him, tell me plainly.” He smiled, “I have but one Steward and I am partial to him.”

“Not for a while yet. I will return for Théoden in late summer.” He paused in grief, then continued, “Faramir can return with myself and my Riders and stay after the funeral feast of Théoden.” Éomer smiled at the stern King. “I will only keep him for a few months.” Faramir’s face was incredulous and he chuckled, unable to help it. “What is your answer, Faramir?” Éomer stared at him, feeling an unconscious challenge rising to his eyes and words. Do you dare, little princeling? Do you carry boldness in your heart behind all your smooth courtesies? My sister will have you as her servant if you do not… He would not have them speak illy of her, would not have them say she ruled over all, but that she was a Lady respectable in all ways. Mother wanted that…

Éomer disregarded the fact that his arrangement would buy him many precious months with his dearest sister. Besides, he’d not had enough time with this man. I want to know how you will treat her, how you will deal with her when she does not wear gowns and swings a sword… If you will protect her from herself when she forgets she is a woman… Anxiety filled his heart. Éowyn was terribly dear to him. I will not lose her to just anyone, princeling.

Faramir thought swiftly, trying to truly absorb the daunting possibility of months in a foreign land far from his home, his people and all he knew save Éowyn and this brute of a man… He felt himself tense. Would he use himself to pay for his City? He remembered the thin, dirty stable boy; perhaps all the talk of food shortages was not false—it would show first with the lowest of station. Faramir felt anger stir, perceiving some injustice, “Would you refuse aid to my City if I said nay?” I will not be a pawn…

Éomer looked mildly surprised. “No.” He wore a wry smile, “I am not so brutish as you claimed.”

I doubt that. He thought further, asking without care that he’d already agreed, “Can this custom be overthrown without insult? I have much to do here.”

With a deep sigh of capitulation, Faramir stood, facing Éomer with as much respect as he possessed for a man he considered a boor. “Then I shall go and fulfill all that you require.”

“Most excellent.” Echoing the Councilor’s words with clear repulsion, Éomer clasped his hand over the table. The Councilors looked self-satisfied. Aragorn appeared disturbed.

Instantly he felt regret, a feeling that lingered as the Councilmen began to rise. What shall I do in Rohan? Faramir stood quietly looking down at the stack of damages as the room emptied. Aragorn was the last to leave, squeezing his shoulder gently in a gesture of support.

“Do not fear the Mark. It is a simple land of honest men.” He ended softly, “Listen to me, Éomer is not this way once you befriend him. His temper has deep roots, but I feel he means you no harm with this.” Aragorn took a stride towards the door, then halted. He turned to say further, “His heart lies with his sister, he has no others left to him…” His words came softer, “Much like to you, if that makes it easier to understand his mind.”

Faramir tensed, answering in a voice made uncontrollably hostile, “He is nothing like to me.”

There was a long moment of silence from his Lord. “I believe he would treat any man who came for Éowyn’s hand like he does you.” He heard the King’s smile in his words and felt again his hand on his shoulder as Aragorn said firmly. “Do not take it to heart, Faramir.”

Faramir nodded, too tired and overcome to speak. Soon he was alone in the long, dark room. Blinking in the pleasant darkness, he rubbed his sore eyes and stretched. Maybe tomorrow he would have the energy to pursue the damage to the lower stables.

He walked slowly into the hall and almost ran into Halorl. “My pardon, Halorl.” But to his surprise the man didn't leave. Instead, he stepped back into Faramir's path.

“Faramir...” He frowned and then said haltingly, “You...learn...Rohirric, ná?”

“Ná, ná...” Halorl held up his hand, forefinger about an inch from his thumb. “Fea, fea.”

“Gea.” He grinned. “Gaer knows má...” He shook his head slightly and widened the gap between his fingers. “Gaer...æt Minas Tirith.” He held up one finger. “Is fréond.”

It took Faramir a moment to process that Gaer, apparently a friend of Halorl's, knew more of the Common Tongue and had been to Gondor once, if not the City. “Good. Where is he?” Faramir, his exhaustion forgotten, was excited.

Halorl gestured towards the ground. He was in the lower levels. “Ealu.” He mimed drinking.

“Good. Let's go.” Faramir was both thirsty and hungry after the ages long meeting. The Rohirrim nodded and began to lead him down the hill at once; they ended up in one of the largest taverns located on the third level. Faramir had never been inside it before; he did not drink especially much and though his brother had taken him to many inns, he’d not kept the practice in Boromir’s absence. The sound and sight of the tavern made his heart burn. My brother… He smiled faintly. His brother would have thrown a fit to see him ride to the Mark and leave him alone in the City to manage the infuriating Council. I wish he were here to shout at me for not being considerate enough…

“Gaer.” Halorl pointed into a corner, while Faramir peered about the dim room. Everywhere soldiers of both Rohan and Minas Tirith laughed, sang and drank. In the corner was a party of five men, all of whose chests bore the White Horse. Halorl led Faramir straight to them. As he approached, Faramir noticed the clear difference between these men and the Gondorians. The Rohirrims’ hair was in shades of gold and red and they were all much broader in the shoulders and deeper in girth than he was used to. The men looked like bulls, all stout muscle, and he felt himself to be a reed.

“Wilcume Halorl!” A young man with fiery red hair cried out to greet them, rising a bit unsteadily from his bench. “Hwæt eart seo?” He offered Faramir a friendly grin.

“Heo is Faramir.” Halorl answered cheerily. Faramir was surprised and flattered when the Rider added, “Is fréond.”

“God, god. Wilcume, Faramir.” The men nodded, raising their mugs. Gaer waved his arm at them, pointing at each in turn. “Is Eanulf, Peothred, Ethbin, ac Deormud.”

Faramir blinked, wondering how in the world he was supposed to remember the names...if they were names... He smiled.

“Ná.” Faramir grinned hopefully as he slid into the spot they had made for him at the bench. Gaer laughed.

“Faramir learn fast, ná?” When Faramir said yes, Gaer shook his head patiently. “Gea. Say gea for yes.”

“Gea.” Faramir repeated. Halorl laughed and clapped him on the back, making him sway.

“Ealu! Má!” Eanulf shouted, and thus Faramir learned the word for ale. He took his mug from the many supplied, gingerly sipping the dark brew. It was good and, he winced, strong. Ethbin, a burly man even bigger than Halorl, leaned to ask Faramir something.

Gaer burst out laughing. “Say hwa!” He waved a hand at Faramir's questioning look. “Hwa is the word!”

“Hwa!” Faramir felt silly, but was rewarded when Ethbin repeated his word through his own laughter.

He knows that… He smiled. Deormud waved at a passing girl. Faramir looked at the six men, all heavier than he was and wondered if he had a chance.

“Ná! Ná!” Halorl defended him, reaching across the scarred table to slap at the white tree on Faramir's chest. He grunted, nearly spilling ale all over himself—he’d been taking a drink. “Cáf! Minas Tirith!”

Faramir, with only the tiniest understanding of what they were saying, nodded. “Gea. Drink game.” Eanulf whooped.

“Ful íeðelic.” Halorl said reassuringly, which, of course since Faramir didn't understand it, didn't reassure him a bit.

Gaer joined Deormud at waving at the bartender, but paused a moment to add, “He sæge…says it is easy.”

“Faramir, you win?” Gaer asked just as another round of large mugs with amber foam slopping down the sides arrived. He handed the Ranger a mug. It was brimming with the strong ale.

“Nu…” He raised his red brows, “Hara is mettas fore hafoc, dogga, earn, fox, géow, wulf.” Gaer spoke rapidly, holding up one hand. Faramir began to wonder what the word easy really meant in Rohirric.

He shook his head, interrupting, “What?” Faramir remembered, “Hwa? I don't understand, Gaer.”

“Faramir,” He pointed at him. “Hwa? Lator.” Gaer said and demonstrated, speaking slower and carefully enunciating. “Hara...is...mettas...fore...hafoc, dogga, earn, fox ond wulf.”

“Hwa? Lator?” Faramir looked beseechingly at Halorl. This was going to take some work.

“Ic þancie þe.” Peothred said slowly, carefully, then with a heavy accent repeated Faramir's words. “Thank you.”

“Ic... þan--þancie... þe.” Faramir's tongue almost refused to pronounce it though the words were not much different. This frightened him. Elvish was not so difficult...he tried to encourage himself.

“God.” Eanulf grinned encouragingly. He then said helpfully, “Hara is uh, um...rabbit.” He made a fist with his index and middle finger sticking up and hopped it across the table. Deormud and Ethbin, unprepared, nearly choked on their ale as Eanulf added tiny squeaking noises and zigzagged for emphasis. The Rohirrim howled with laughter as Eanulf glared.

“Gea, gea. Hara is rabbit.” Faramir was laughing too, clutching his mug and nodding to show he understood.

“Hafoc is hawk, dogga is dog, earn is eagle.” Gaer quickly clarified the other words and added some more, “Bár, cocc, eoh, fearh, fisc, forsc, colmáse.”

“Hafoc is food for....” Gaer smiled at Faramir's look of incomprehension. “Silly game. Ride long time, make new game or...” He spread his hands wide, shaking his head slightly. “Is game for má drenc…when you are drunk.”

“Gaer is cyst.” Peothred slapped the much younger Gaer on the back; he grinned self-consciously.

“Hafoc is mettas hara. Ná hara is mettas hafoc.” Ethbin spoke up. He held up his cup of ale, already half-empty. “Hafoc is mettas hara...” He looked at Faramir expectantly.

“Ná! Ná!” The Riders all laughed and pointed at Faramir's mug. “Drenc!”

Faramir shrugged and drank. As he put his mug back down, he noticed Halorl and Ethbin had drunk too. “Hwa?”

“You...Halorl, Ethbin...with you.” Deormud grinned from the far end of the table. Faramir nodded, understanding. He sat on the end, with Halorl to his immediate right and Ethbin on the end. Gaer was directly opposite of Faramir, with Eanulf, Peothred and Deormud.

“Umm, dog is food for mouse?” Faramir felt ridiculous until he saw Eanulf Peothred and Deormud look at each other.

A woman brought them another round. Deormud challenged Faramir. “Fisc is mattas earn?”

“Ná.” Faramir was beginning to feel the first pleasant warmth of the ale spreading through his chest. Halorl groaned and Ethbin laughed, taking a deep draft.

Faramir drank obligingly. Odd that he'd never been to this inn before, the ale truly was good. “Goat is food for oliphaunt.” Again, looks of confusion that mirrored his own a moment before. This was fun. Utterly ridiculous, but fun.

Innumerable rounds later Faramir, Halorl, Gaer and Eanulf were the only ones still playing. Ethbin had dropped out first, staggering out of the tavern, slurring good-naturedly, “Beoð ge gesunde.” Deormud and Peothred had left together, hanging onto one another for balance.

“Ná.” Faramir snickered at Gaer's last garbled question. He'd gradually begun to learn the words. Luckily it was before he drank so much he passed out. Gaer's “Dogga is mettas pecg, ná...gea...dogga is mettas pecg.” was understood as “Dog is food for pig.” And while this was debatable depending on the size of the dog or the pig, Faramir was in no condition to think that deeply anymore. He'd figured out that the purpose of this silly game was to drink as much as possible and had embraced the idea as brilliant after the mind-numbing Council.

“You learn fast, min fréond.” Gaer’s reply was slurred as he lifted his mug. His befuddled expression when it turned out to be empty sent Faramir and Halorl into a fit of giggles. Eanulf's head was on the table, one hand curled around a cup as he snored.

“Gea.” Faramir yawned and blearily looked about the empty tavern. A few maids were sweeping, gathering abandoned mugs and up righting toppled benches. Carefully, he braced his hands on the scarred tabletop and began to rise. “Ah...!” Faramir snatched one hand off the table and put it to his spinning head. Unfortunately, this had the negative affect of cutting his support in half and he swayed dangerously before Halorl grabbed his arm.

“Careful fréond.” Gaer was slumped forward, chin on his arms. He smiled as Faramir staggered away from the table, clumsily lifting his feet away from the bench as they tried their best to tangle and spill him to the floor.

Faramir yawned again. Halorl was gently weaving from side to side as they slowly lurched and stumbled to the door. With a considerable amount of effort, Gaer had pulled himself up and was following. “Gaer how did you...where did you learn the Common Tongue?” Faramir formed his inquiry with careful concentration. This question had been on his mind for a while.

“I...live in South. Closer to Mundburg. See more...more men of Mundburg.” The young man stood in the doorway, one hand on each side, grinning foolishly. “Halorl live in north. Far from Mundburg.”

“North? Really?” Faramir found this fascinating as he walked out into the street, legs wobbly and his head feeling as though it were floating high above him. Luckily, the stars were out and their light was just enough to see by. He stood in the center of the lane, looking back and forth. Which way are the upper levels? Faramir frowned. I cannot be lost…this is my City… He looked back and forth. Each side of the street appeared the same: blurry and dark.

“Gea. Má norðanweard.” Halorl was staring up at the sky. Faramir tried to think of what was northward of, of where?

“Wait. North of what?” He was still trying to decide which way to go. Whoever had designed the City in circular levels hadn't planned on someone trying to find their way home after a night of drinking. Uphill…go up…

“North of...” Halorl looked confused before brightening. “Entwash, the Entwash.”

“Where do you stay, Faramir?” Gaer asked curiously. He had staggered away from the doorframe and stood swaying in the road.

“Who is your...your...” He ran out of words and just batted at the White Tree on Faramir's chest, losing his balance and nearly falling in the process.

“Faramir is...is...Hlaford.” Halorl was laughing, doubled over. “Mundburg.” He finally gasped.

“Steward!” Faramir was very loud in the empty street; he tried to lower his voice. “I'm the Steward.” He managed to whisper his title this time.

“Ná. Læs; is ealdorman. Mæst æðele.” Halorl clarified. He found another word and said it victoriously, “Hordere.”

The Rohirrim ignored him. “Faramir is min Ides, Éowyn's ceorl þæs ymbe lítel Éomer...” And that was as far as he got because Gaer began to howl with laughter, clutching his sides.

“What? What? Hwa? Gaer!” Faramir looked back and forth between the men, confused and wondering if they were laughing at him.

“Éowyn?” Faramir froze, a sudden feeling of dread coiling through his guts, adding to his nausea. Éowyn… “Oh no.” He felt his eyes go wide. He'd forgotten. How could he have forgotten? “I was supposed to meet her tonight...in the gardens.” He closed his eyes, slumping with his back the cold stones of the tavern wall and put his head in his hands. What do I do now? There was nothing but to go on.

“This,” Faramir proclaimed very loudly to the guard on duty at the fourth gate, “never happened to Beren.” The man stared at him, obviously confused. “Or Túrin, for that matter.” Faramir stopped, thinking. “'Course I'd rather be Beren any day...Túrin had the curse and all that.” He waved his hands to vaguely illustrate his point then perked up. “Wait, wait, wait!”

“My Lord...” The guard began, looking rather helpless. Faramir felt a moment’s blurry pity—the man had no idea how to deal with this situation. None did, as the guards weren't trained to deal with the Steward swaying on his feet, closely followed by two drunken Rohirrim who were belting some drinking song far too loudly for the early hour.

“Is it prent...prente...no that's...pretnen...pretentions!” Faramir said triumphantly. “Is it pretentious to compare myself to Beren, you think?”

“Um...no?” The guard hesitated. “Can you quiet them, my Lord?” He nodded to the Rohirrim. “They will wake someone.”

“Oh. Halorl! Gaer! Be silent!” The Rohirrim quieted and he smiled, watching and swaying while the guard began trying to think of a way to get his Lord safely home and not abandon his post. Sympathizing with him, Faramir continued thoughtfully, “Well, there were three Túrins, you know. The first one was the first one. The second was the sixth ruling Steward of Minas Tirith.” Faramir snorted. “He didn't do anything. The third one was the, uh, the, uh, he was my great-great-grandfather.”

“Yes. He defeated an army of Haradrim. With, with King Folcwine!” He pointed at Gaer. “That's you…like you.”

“My Lord...Faramir!” It took a moment to get his attention. Faramir was muttering, hands over his face,

“What...am...” He moaned, slurring, “Amigonna...do? What do I say?” He focused on the man again. “Yes?”

“No, no. I'll be fine. It's only a bit higher.” Faramir, ramblings aside, was feeling much less intoxicated now that he'd thrown up on several poor individual's doorsteps on the way. “Good night, Gaer, Halorl.”

“Hæl ábéodan.” Gaer and Halorl waved as they stumbled off to the great block of quarters assigned to the Rohirrim. He yawned as the guard nervously stammered some more about an escort.

“No need.” Now that he'd found the Fourth Gate and sobered a bit, Faramir thought he could find the rest of the way. After over an hour of stumbling over rough cobblestones, he made it to the upper levels just before the eastern sky began to lighten. Shoving open his door and half-falling into his rooms, he went directly to the inner chambers and his bedroom. Once there, not even bothering to take off his boots, Faramir fell into bed.

Éomer was terribly bored. He wandered through the streets, staring at the broken stone lit in the morning light, the clutter and the chickens and various stable yard animals that ran about masterless until an approaching party took his attention. He recognized Imrahil even from a distance and walked slowly in the man’s direction, taking his time to look at the crushed and ruined buildings. It was near enough to make him guilty for taking Faramir, but not enough… His heart hardened. They have others to do his duties… He had but one sister. He smiled ruefully, and I am very thankful for that…

As Éomer wandered closer to Imrahil’s party, still looking about himself, he felt the distinct pressure of eyes and stopped to find their origin. A girl was staring at him; she looked to be his sister’s age, perhaps even less. Pretty in a way he was unused to seeing with her hair the color of chocolate and clothed in shimmering finery, she smiled. He hesitated, smiling back in a bland sort of friendliness that quickly turned to surprise as the girl took a step in his direction, looked to make sure none observed, then gestured boldly that he should come to her side.

When he frowned in pretending to not understand, she smiled widely as though pleased, something that confused him anew, and spoke to Imrahil. The Lord of Dol Amroth turned to face him, squinting. Alarmed at her boldness and perceiving that she was asking about him, Éomer quickly looked away, taking several strides and pretending to take no notice in their doings. He gazed out over the wall as he walked slowly, casually, feeling his stomach tense. The height was great as he stood on the fifth level and the view made him dizzy. How they live like this I cannot fathom…

He jumped and to his annoyance, she laughed at his fears. Taking a breath to steady himself, he asked in a voice of pleasantry. “Yes?”

Her eyes were locked to his and very eager, nearly luminous with curiosity. They were the same shade of chocolate as her hair, making him nostalgic for the taste of it. When was the last time I had…she was speaking. “You come from the horse-country? From Rohan, the wild land to the North?” He nodded in brief return, not wishing to invite conversation. For a moment he thought of turning back, of continuing his walk in another direction, but it was too late, she’d fallen into step with him. He halted at once.

They were side by side, yet not as a man could have moved between them with ease within the distance he kept from her. He pretended great interest in watching a group of men rebuild an arch, all the while feeling her eyes on him. Their weight was uncanny, making his skin feel tight, his nerves tingle. Is she…? Éomer knew it was unwise, but couldn’t help himself, he had to look.

She was still watching him and with the same bafflingly self-assured smile. “Do men not speak to Ladies in your rough lands, Lord Éomer?” When she spoke his name it was with an odd accentuation, not as he’d ever heard it before.

She was not quite a Lady, more a girl to his eye. He smiled faintly, then had a great burst of an idea. Éomer’s smile widened as he answered, deliberately thickening his accent. “Gea, we dá.”

Instead of puzzled, she looked charmed and he could have kicked himself as she laughed, “What did you say? Oh, tell me!”

He decided that the girl was utterly incorrigible as she commanded, “Speak more of that. I love your voice.” The girl gave a mock shiver and giggled with no modesty, “So rough and deep, like a ruffian…” She glanced up and down his form, “But you look the part of a Lord.” Her eyes sparkled, “I like the picture you make quite well.”

What possible response had he to that? Frantic, he tried to come with one and failed utterly. Éomer cursed inwardly. How was he to get rid of her? Falling back upon politeness, he bowed, saying quietly and with a purposefully distracted tone, “I’m sorry, I must go…”

“Go where?” She smiled, “I’ve somewhere to be as well…” The girl’s smile widened and she stepped closer to ask conspiratorially, “Why don’t we play truant for a while, you and I and enjoy each other’s company?”

She looked so terribly hopeful and full of mischievous cheer that he felt a twinge of guilt. Éomer shifted his feet, trying to think of a way to extricate himself. The girl seemed nice enough, pretty and amusingly forward but he was wary for some reason he did not understand, intimidated when he had not been before. She is just a girl! He snorted, so was his sister and she was a dreadful creature. Éomer sighed. “I apologize, my Lady.” He bowed from the waist, saying as gallantly as he could, “Another day?”

“I suppose.” Her face had fallen and he felt a great rush of guilt and misgiving.

Perhaps…no, he’d already told the lie. He could not go back. Éomer turned and walked away; as he did he felt her watching him. Her amused voice halted him in his tracks,

She walked to stand before him, chin lifted, a merry smile curving lips that he noticed were quite well rounded. “You wear the clothes of a warrior, but you scamper away like a mouse.”

He growled, showing his temper in hopes of frightening her, “I am not a mouse, Lady…” Éomer realized he didn’t know her name.

The girl laughed at him and growled fiercely, saying in a lighter tone, “You don’t think mice roar?”

She was too quick, moving from one incomprehension to another so that he could not keep up. Éomer tried to answer, irritated that he felt so defensive, she is just a girl! “I have not heard one…”

“Courtship is a field of battle where you pit your nobleman's sword to my maiden’s shield, Lord Éomer. You, my little mouse, have not won a yard.”

“I am not trying to…” His chest filled with exasperation, bursting out in an explosion, “I am not a mouse!”

The girl tossed her brown hair in scorn and stepped quite closely. Éomer was astonished when she fingered Gúthwinë’s hilt. “Indeed, I’ve got you at bay already and I quite plan to be storming your gates and planting my flag where I may. I’ve conquered Lords with far more of a ruffian in them than you…” She was trying to shock him and Éomer was slightly shocked; she looked far too innocent to speak of such things so easily.

Fields of battle…quite suddenly he relaxed. She comes so swift to disorient me. He’d used this tactic in battle before. It worked well unless his opponent kept his head, taking each blow in patient stride. She wishes to keep me off guard so that she shall look wise as I sputter, so that I do her pleasure with embarrassment. Éomer thickened his voice again, speaking slower so that he might seem duller in wit. Let us see who has had more experience in the field… “Ruffian?”

“Aye.” Her eyes were sparkling. “You might as well surrender and bend to my will, Lord Éomer. If you do I’ll let you keep your rough token, for I like it.” She touched Gúthwinë again, fingers tripping around the round head, the hilt long stained with his blood and sweat—it was distinctly personal, this touch and she knew it. He couldn’t help but stiffen in discomfort. “Did none tell you proper noblemen don’t wear swords?” The girl laughed, “No one will attack a great lump of a man such as you in this City.” Her voice lowered to provoke him as she’d done twice with such success, “They don’t know you’re a mouse beneath all that armor.”

He played along, lumpishly, he thought in amusement for his thick, dull-witted retort, “I am not a mouse!”

“Aye, oh surrender.” She smiled, “My line oft carries a pen in one hand, sword in another. You, my rough Lord, have little chance.”

This girl thought she was so much smarter than he was that Éomer was hard pressed not to howl with laughter. I think I like her. Arrogant or no, she was certainly more engaging then the usual woman, whether humble maid or proud Lady. He asked dumbly, “A pen, what for?”

The girl took his arm with a sigh as though he were too imbecilic to understand her gesture. “Come, if you walk with me I promise entertainment of the likes you’ve never seen nor heard.” She turned to him in sympathy, “Your rough folk have no theater, do they?”

Éomer hesitated. He was fairly sure he was supposed to sit in the infuriatingly dull Council, but… He laughed inwardly. I don’t even care. Making his expression blank, he had a great idea and stammered moronically, like he’d never heard the word, “The-theater?”

“I write plays, I’m quite good, folk from my country love to come and see them.”

Could you speak about yourself with more glory, you’re being too modest, he bit his tongue. Éomer fought to keep his expression properly vapid.

She smiled, “Like my cousin, I’ve read and learned too much history, save that I can only use it for my own amusements.”

He asked stupidly, as though he could not discern that she used history in her plays. “Amusements?” Whether she did so to retell it as his own folk did with most stories, men acting out the parts around fires in the duller winters, or simply to borrow elements from it for her own tales, Éomer was unsure. He’d seen theatre groups in the Mark, but they were oft from other lands and visited but rarely, telling foreign stories and amazing with their masks and costumes and ability to change voice and action. He eyed her with curiosity. This might be interesting. It would certainly be more so than Council.

As she led him off, he said in the voice of one who’d realized something blatantly obvious, “You did not tell me your name.”

“And I won’t.” She smiled, “I keep my secret, it preserves my memory long after you’ve forgotten other maids.”

He stared dumbly, thinking that was an odd thing to say, a terribly pushy strategy, but then she’d been on the offensive all along. “Oh.” The girl chuckled and he rolled his eyes at the stones as they walked, following the City street upwards through the gates, then turning to pace the wall about the Citadel. The next time he met with Imrahil, he would ask. We will see if I care to…he fooled himself and he knew it.

The girl spoke much of herself and her plays, all in such a boasting way that Éomer was at turns amused and exasperated. She was indeed interesting, as he’d guessed, and quite imaginative. The girl had written many works and gotten men from her land to perform in them; her spirited tellings of her stories actually made him laugh. He learned she was willful and clever; her swiftness was not all a diversion, but as he watched her closely, Éomer found it to his thinking that it masked the driving forces of a mind he guessed far too bright for what little was demanded of her. The girl was naught but a girl, as he’d seen, not a Lady with a house to manage, but a spoiled child with nothing to do but while away hours and days imagining and thinking until she was near wild with it. He felt some pity for her quickness and her machinations that really did nothing to amuse either of them and only served as words spilled, occupying her racing mind and tongue. She is like to a horse kept stalled then loosed suddenly, all bursting inside so that it all but falls over its feet to run and leap.

He’d kept to his dumbness, playing his game, but as they’d circled the Citadel for the unreckoned time, he tired of it, overcome with weariness. “Tell me something of truth.” All that she’d spoken was nothing but emptiness; he’d heard that she liked songs and tales of old, horses, games of cleverness, the City and many, many boldly stated preferences for this and that. But it was all nothing, a cloud of dust thrown into his eyes just as her calling him a mouse…the moment I turned away. Éomer felt pity again. She had had to prod at him with insult to keep him to stay at her side. Perhaps she thinks that if she ceases for even a moment, I will leave. Leave her to her quickness and the silence of a City peopled by those who do not care to hear it…

He felt the first ache of compassion rise in his heart for the girl with hair and eyes of chocolate and Éomer sighed inwardly. He didn’t feel right to leave her—she reminded him of his sister. Straining, always straining in her role, never satisfied, the only difference was that Éowyn had turned to a warrior’s skills and this girl went the other path and drove herself inward, only emerging to shake a spear forged with information at him to gain his attention. Not even knowledge, but information of things past, of things personal, nothing concrete, and nothing that could be put to use. He thought he’d never felt such pity.

“What…” She frowned, then shook her head. “What?” He’d startled her, maybe even insulted her. Éomer found he did not care, as she’d insulted him many times by her arrogance.

The girl had stiffened as if she were insulted, “How so?” But her eyes were quick, moving to his with interest.

“You tell me everything, but nothing…” He’d kept himself silent, now he burst forth, “You say you love horses…” To gain his favor or in full truth, he did not know, “But I’ve yet to hear you speak anything about them with wisdom. You say you studied history, the elven tongues…what good is that?” Exasperated still further, he advanced and asked, “What do you do that is good for anything, anyone? You think you know more than me and are so great…but what do you do that would not be missed? Plays? What are plays to a people faced with war?” His voice raised as he continued, swept away by his ire, “Tell me, did the peasants enjoy them while the orcs were burning their houses?”

The girl looked away and blinked rapidly before turning back to stammer in unsteady and terribly weak outrage. “I…have never heard such rudeness… Lord Éomer, do you always behave…so roughly?”

Oh, by Eorl…she was near tears and it was his doing. He wanted to explode with his simultaneous irritation and guilt. Clearing his throat, he said humbly, shamefully, “I apologize. I did not mean what I said…I meant…” He had meant it, but not so cruelly. I do not know when it is that a maid weeps! His sister did not cry so easily and he’d never had occasion to rant at another girl, they’d all been simpler, not arrogant at all. What do I say, why did I say such? He floundered, “I am truly sorry.” She did not respond, head bent, chocolate hair hiding her face and Éomer gritted his teeth, unsure. He’d only ever made Éowyn weep, he had no idea what to do or say to this strange girl.

Suddenly she looked up at him with a sweep of her hair and her eyes were watered, red, but burning with fury. Éomer was relieved; anger he could deal with, weeping he could not. She hissed at him, “What did you mean?” Her voice cracked, “I may be useless, but I am not stupid, Lord…Éomer.” The girl said his title as an insult, making it obvious of how little she respected it or him. Now she was openly scorning, “Tell me something of truth—what did you mean?”

Éomer knew at once that she would not allow him to withdraw his hurting words, so he compromised and added a further apology. “I meant it, but I am sorry to have said it.”

She clasped her hand to her breast, “Oh, I feel so terribly relieved…” Her eyes darkened and her false voice of nicety vanished as she spat, “That you aren’t so ill-mannered as to know of guilt. Have you any better apology?” Now she was insulting him; he bore it in well-deserved silence. “A quicker man might but you, I think not.”

Éomer surrendered anew to her righteous and rightful anger. “You are right. I have none better.” He hesitated, “Is there anything I might say…”

Her eyes flashed. “Your words are wind.” The girl gazed at him for a moment. “What is it you do that is so good to make you speak so disdainfully of me?”

His hand fell upon Gúthwinë’s hilt, seeking solace. “I fight, defend my people…”

“War is finished. You are just like me.” She smiled tightly and echoed him yet again, “No good for anything, anyone. You should not be so proud, Lord Éomer.” The girl turned then in a swirl of skirts and chocolate hair.

And Éomer followed, unwilling to let her go, not quite sure why he cared so much. He tried, “Will you not tell me your name so that I could apologize more properly…?”

“Whatever for? Hearing you speak it would only anger me…I no longer have any desire to let you think of me so familiarly.” She walked fast for a Lady; he was hard-pressed to keep up.

No longer? For an instant he was bemused. I should have held my tongue… Then his guilt came again, crashing down on his shoulders, making his heart that had pitied her turn against him to burn in self-scorn and urge him forward regardless of his skeptical feet. “What could I do to change you?”

The girl halted and faced him. Éomer kept his distance; too mindful of his sister’s tendencies to strike when she was similarly angered. “I am not a fool. You are a man who has no knowledge of words, no knowing of a gentleman’s attitude…you know nothing of how to soothe a woman’s injury.” Her eyes narrowed, “Why would I let myself by pacified by your hand, as you have so well shown to me that you wield it callously and with delight in your callousness?”

He pleaded, “I meant no callousness.” Éomer sighed, “I take no delight in any of this.”

“There was delight in cutting me down and that is what you desired and succeeded in doing.” He’d not thought for nothing that she was clever.

Éomer’s frustration had reached its limits yet again and he blurted, “I wanted to learn something about you that I could understand!” He quieted, “Something I held in common.”

“Incredibly, sadly so. You are a pitiful creature, aren’t you?” The girl didn’t seem so angered anymore, but Éomer could not understand why and so he waited to see what would happen. “Go on, Lord Éomer…perhaps before you ride back to your lands I will have forgiven you your stupidity and callousness.” She smiled at him, a smile of both ridicule and some nameless emotion, and shook her head before walking away.

Éomer stood frowning to himself and admitting that he wished he’d learned her name. At least then he could have tracked her, brought her some gift in hopes…without her name, he was at her mercy. Why do I care?

He didn’t know. With a sigh, he looked back over the wall. The White City wasn’t quite as dull this morning.

Éowyn had spent the morning in a mood that was a strange mixture of exasperation and melancholy sadness, which was not helped by Merry's dark scowl and immediate question upon her arrival in the small room in the kitchens which was reserved for the hobbits, “Have you seen him yet?”

“No.” Éowyn's voice was carefully neutral as she, not seeing a chair, sat across from him, Frodo and Sam at the small hobbit-sized table. It was a task requiring much folding of her legs and adjusting her skirts. Luckily she was just barely slender enough to fit under the tabletop built for Merry and Pippin's slightly larger than normal height. Éowyn, in the last month, had formed a habit of eating with the hobbits, at least breakfast. Frequently Merry and Pippin insisted she stay for second breakfast, claiming she was disgracefully thin. To this Éowyn had always laughed and replied she wasn't a hobbit lass, and couldn't possibly be expected to keep up.

As she squeezed under the table, across and slightly to her right, Frodo and Sam looked up from their plates long enough to offer polite, friendly greetings. Pippin, at her side, bobbed his head, mouth so full that he had to chew and swallow a few times before he could speak.

“Good morning.” Éowyn raised an eyebrow as Pippin slid his heaping plate over and scooted towards her.

“Want something? Toast, jelly, eggs? I’ve got plenty.” He did and she smiled.

Frodo offered politely, “We'll be having second breakfast soon.” She looked up from trying to choose from a packed together and mixed assortment of foodstuffs on Pippin's crowded plate.

“I don't believe it.” Merry grumbled. He'd stayed with her in the gardens last night, long after she'd known Faramir wasn't coming to her, an action she'd greatly appreciated.

“Oh. Right.” Pippin's tone and the way all the hobbits looked down, Frodo losing his smile, Sam's brow furrowing, led Éowyn to believe Merry had told them.

She sighed glumly, their concern was heartening and Merry's loyalty was flattering, but it was not their problem if Faramir declined to meet with her. And then declined to tell me… Her jaw tightened but she willfully pushed away her rage. “What kind of jam is that?”

Pippin brightened. “Apple butter.” He handed her the last thick slice of toast, liberally spread. Éowyn took it gingerly, hoping she wouldn't spill it on the front of her gown.

“It's very good.” Sam said quietly. Of the four hobbits he spoke to her the least, seeming to prefer his silence.

“Mmm-hmm.” Pippin took his plate back and began shoveling runny eggs into his mouth, often having to catch the yellow goop before it dropped back onto his dish. Éowyn, used to eating virtually her entire life in a hall almost entirely populated by large, hungry and not especially refined men, was not shocked, in fact she barely noticed, only smiling once. He has a great big mouth for such a small thing…

“Pippin!” Frodo looked up at the greedy noises and scolded. “Eat like a civilized hobbit!”

“Mmph...I can, too.” Pippin slurped up a string of egg white and Merry and Frodo adopted identical frowns of disapproval. She had an idea he ate so for the attention.

Utterly unaffected by the Took's atrocious table manners, Éowyn nibbled on her toast, unable to simply bite into it because of it's thick coating of jam. Catching a sticky drop before it could fall onto her collarbone, she sucked her finger.

“This is good.” Éowyn looked to Sam and smiled; he gave her a small smile in return before refocusing on his plate.

“I've got to stand in the throne room all afternoon and watch Aragorn look at pieces of paper and...” Pippin paused dramatically, “sometimes even sign them.” Merry stared blankly into space but Frodo, Sam and Éowyn's attention encouraged him to go on. Pippin asked cheerily, “What are you doing today, Éowyn?

“Learn about the healing properties of certain herbs.” Bemused, she waited for the next question. It was like this every morning.

The Gamgee protested in a nervous voice, “Now, I wouldn't say a great deal, Master Frodo...”

“What do you think his excuse will be?” Merry frowned, bringing an end to the easy conversation.

“I don't know.” Éowyn's voice was tight with emotion. She didn't want to talk about it. And as they sat in strained silence, a few serving girls burst out of the main kitchen and swept away any finished dishes. Finishing her toast and jam, Éowyn wiped her hands on one of the cloth napkins; it could have nearly doubled as a hobbit cloak; then gathered her skirts, preparing to leave before second breakfast came.

“I'm sorry, yes.” She smiled at the hobbit, resisting the impulse to ruffle his curls. Although he was four years her senior and had a year on her brother Éomer, it was impossible to tell.

“You don't have to...I'm sorry I brought it up.” Merry pleaded. Frodo and Sam were gazing at her.

“What's this? Have I missed second breakfast?” The elf's light, cheerful voice startled them all.

“I'm sorry to hear it, my Lady. You're superior company will be greatly missed.” Legolas inclined his head respectfully even as he took a mischievous dig at the hobbits. Pulling up a chair that Éowyn had somehow overlooked, he sat at the head of the hobbit's table. The sight of the elf scrunched up, with the tabletop only coming to slightly above his knees, made her cover her mouth to hide a smile. He looked ridiculous.

“Wait a moment...” Legolas brushed the corner of his mouth with his fingers to show she should mimic the motion. “You've got something right here.”

“You're quite welcome.” He smiled. “I would be remiss in allowing you to leave in such a state…” Legolas glanced to the younger hobbits in amusement. “Though it appears others would have with no trouble.”

She laughed. “Farewell.” Éowyn finally summoned the courage to leave and seek out the Warden in the Houses of Healing. The hobbit's and Legolas's farewells followed her into the larger, public dining hall. Resisting the urge to rub at her mouth again, Éowyn left the building, head high and ignoring the various admiring gazes of men, mostly soldiers about to go on duty. At the doors of the Houses, she somewhat hesitantly joined a small group of women standing nearby.

“Do you know where I can find the Warden?” She smiled as she asked, hoping for an answer as most had not even turned to her.

“We're waiting for him now.” The older woman answered politely and turned back to her neighbor. Éowyn shifted on her feet, feeling awkward. It was obvious most of these women knew each other; they spoke intimately, laughing at jests and gasping over gossip.

“Hello.” A girl that seemed close to her own age separated from the group and smiled at Éowyn. She brushed a few strands of chocolate colored hair behind her ears, her face expectant.

“Hello.” Éowyn smiled back, wariness fighting with hope. She hadn't interacted much with the women she’d seen in the Houses of Healing and she’d not spent much time in other parts of the City; she tended to avoid them as they often cast discouraging looks her way along with half-heard comments and intimidating laughter. Growing up in Edoras with no women friends didn't help to give her ideas in how to approach members of her own sex, much less befriend them, which kept her at a loss of how to deal with the women in the City.

The girl examined her, “You don't look ill, so you must be here to learn something.” She tossed more brown hair out of her eyes and gave Éowyn a sly look, “Who made you come?”

She hesitated, wondering if there were noblewomen that wanted to learn the arts of healing in the City or if it was considered absurd. What is the right answer? Éowyn told the truth, “No one, I wanted to come.”

“Truly?” The girl was open-mouthed with surprise, but there was no hostility in her question.

The young brunette leaned closer, lowering her voice with an air of secrecy, “My father made me come, he thought it would be good for me if I learned healing, but I’d rather be elsewhere. I met a most repellent Lord this morn...”

That seemed to be the end of the exchange as the Warden bustled into the room, calling, “Come along now, come along, there is much to learn and we need all the help we can get...”

Éowyn found herself alone at the back of the group as they walked. She told herself that this suited her quite well, leaving her free to look around and not be distracted by conversation. Once, as they started, the brown-haired girl glanced back, but an older woman took her by the arm, chattering. Éowyn took stock of the group around her, then pretended not to notice she was the only one walking alone. A few robed Healers soon joined the women and the Warden, and they passed under an archway and descended a staircase into the vast, cool and dry storerooms for all the dried herbs and medicines. Large, well-labeled containers were full of powders, or in some cases, the carefully preserved whole leaves, roots or berries of plants. Also lit by the flickering of torches were open doorways that led to still more dark rooms. Éowyn peered into one of these, squinting in the dimness. She could see what appeared to be great quantities of white cloths, bandages most likely, before the footsteps and murmuring voices grew too far away for comfort. She shivered in the chill as she hurried to catch up.

“Now, for pains in the head and in the body we use willow, poplar and beech bark, wintergreen and meadowsweet...” And so it began, slowly working their way through the use of innumerable herbs. It was a great deal of information and the learning of even a tiny amount of it easily occupied her day with only a small break for the midday meal. Éowyn soon found she was most interested when they were allowed to visit the sick and wounded men and she could see for herself how this herb or that one helped in each case.

Most of the treatments were fairly simple—poultices, mixes and the like, and other than grimacing at the taste, the injured submitted quietly. Others were not as simple or painless, such as a man who was brought in the late afternoon with a long gash on his leg, inflicted when a sharp piece of rock he'd been moving slipped in his hands. He had to be held down by several large attendants. Éowyn winced in sympathy as he sweated and thrashed, fighting as the men forced a stick between his jaws and stretched out his leg. The ugly, seeping gash was rinsed repeatedly with clean water to remove any bits of dirt. Red liquid stained the cloths under the man's body as four attendants kneeled, taking a firm hold. The Warden explained in a cool voice, unstopping a small wooden capsule full of a fine, bright crimson powder as he crouched over the man's leg,

“As you can see, “ He gestured to the thick, blood-soaked piece of cloth that had been wrapped around the man's leg, now discarded nearby, “The wound has not clotted.” The man's high-pitched screams and curses nearly drowned the Warden’s voice out as he patted the powder into the bleeding cut, “We must apply pounded and dried cayenne to stop the blood loss. It is an extremely painful solution, but guaranteed.” The women shuddered as one as the man fainted. After directing the attendants to carry him to a room and make sure his wound was stitched, the Warden continued, “Healing is very demanding and you must not allow your sympathies to rule you, my Ladies...”

Faramir opened his eyes. He was lying on his back under a tree, the deep blue sky above him. He stared up at the branches swaying in the wind for a while, comfortable in the cool grass. It was a dream, Faramir was fairly sure of this. But unlike the last truly vivid dream he'd had, this was...peaceful, heartening. It was perfect in detail--he could feel the warmth of the sun on his legs as they stretched out of the tree's shadow, smell the rich earth and the grass. He watched a Ladybug laboring across his chest, and down his arm. Faramir smiled and reached out to catch the tiny creature before it fell. The little red and black insects were good luck.

Suddenly he heard the sound of laughter and the muffled beat of hooves. The Ladybug quivered in his palm; Faramir opened his hand, releasing it as he sat up. “Careful.” He warned it. “Strong winds today.” Smiling, he rose, brushing lightly at the bits of dirt and twigs that clung to his clothes.

“Where am I?” Faramir asked his surroundings in general. At first glance he would have thought himself to be outside, yet upon further inspection, he was in a great courtyard, wider than anything in Minas Tirith. Though walled with the same grey stone of his City, there the similarities ended. These walls were low and had many openings, all of which had their doors propped open. Turning, Faramir squinted into the sun. The residence behind him was large and oddly designed. Like the garden he stood in it was astonishingly spacious, airy and would be virtually impossible to defend. Faramir wondered what people lived here that did not worry about war.

The laughter grew louder, as did the hoof beats. Faramir could make out words shouted in a young lad's defiant tone, “No…no! I'm going to win this time!”

“Faster! Faster! Faster! Make him go faster Hador!” The last was in the high-pitched voice of a little girl.

The sounds came from the nearest opening in the walls. Faramir began to walk to it, curious to see these children. As he moved, Faramir was distracted by flowers of many bright varieties he'd never seen before; in this courtyard tall trees and small rock-lined pools abounded. Birds darted back and forth and butterflies danced. It was entirely the most beautiful place he'd ever been in. Finally he tore his admiring eyes away and reached the wall to pass under the cool stone and into the sun. Faramir caught his breath, recognizing the land around him. He was on the other side of the Anduin, in rolling hills of Emyn Arnen...only as he'd never seen them before. Waist-high grass covered the ground, warring with multi-colored wild flowers. Far away Minas Tirith stood in the sun, looking cool and aloof next to the riot of yellows, whites, blues, purples and colors Faramir couldn't quite name. The children's laughter woke him from his appreciative daze.

There were three. Two boys and a little girl. The biggest boy looked to be about thirteen, and the other two appeared between ten and eight. And although their clothes identified him as children of Minas Tirith, none of the lads or lasses in the White City had hair that color. The girl's braids were the lightest, shining in the sun like the palest gold. She rode behind the younger boy, clinging to his saddle on the back of a short, sturdy pony. The lad's hair was unusual too--butter yellow, and the oldest boy's was the bright flaxen of ripe wheat.

As Faramir watched, the eldest, who was upon a small horse, kept glancing back at his siblings. He was carefully keeping his mount to a slow canter, even as it pulled eagerly against his hands, obviously wishing to gallop to the younger children's joyful urgings. Their chunky little pony was stretched out, hard hooves pounding as it ran. The younger boy, Hador, whooped and the tiny waif-like girl laughed delightedly as they gained on their elder brother, who peeked back and gave a cry of mock dismay. Faramir grinned as the older boy slowed his horse further as they neared, allowing his little brother and sister to pass. The oblivious younger children screamed triumphantly.

Their path had taken them past him in a straight line, about three hundred yards out; now they curved back towards Faramir, slowing to a jog. The little girl bounced, clinging to the saddle as the boys laughed and shouted back and forth, voices loud as they approached. Suddenly she peered over Hador's shoulder. As her pretty blue eyes locked with his and she smiled brilliantly, Faramir felt arms slip around his waist.

He looked down at his chest. A woman's slender hands were interlocked around his middle. Faramir could feel her slight weight as she leaned against his back, standing on tiptoe to whisper into his ear, warm breath tickling.

“Min léof.” Her tone was soft and happy, making him feel a rush of contentedness, making him feel warmly loved with just the briefest of greetings…even a greeting he could not recognize. He began to turn in her arms, to see who she was, when—

There was a loud, impatient call at his outer door and a rapping of knuckles. “My Lord Faramir?”

It woke him andhe bolted upright so fast the room spun nauseatingly and his stomach lurched. Faramir clutched his head, moaning. His eyes had shot open, allowing stabbing light to blind him viciously. To his disorientation it appeared to be late, very late. Did I sleep…? His thoughts were terribly muddled.

“Wmmmnnnggaatt.” Faramir grimaced as he moved his tongue; his mouth was dry and tasted terrible. He tried again. “Who is it?”

“My Lord, your presence is urgently needed at…” His groan drowned out the rest but he’d not really needed to hear it.

Raising his voice, he called, “Yes, yes…!” There was no more and he guessed the servant had mercifully departed.

Slowly, Faramir swung his legs over the bed. After a while of staring at his boots, he stood a trifle shakily, getting his balance on the stone floor. He felt terrible. Normally Faramir didn't drink much but when he did, he usually paid for it triple-fold. He groaned as he made his way through his dark bedroom and into his outer chambers.

Oh…ahh…that hurts. He raised his arm to shield his sensitive eyes. At least the shutters in the bedroom were closed, Faramir thought, hissing in pain as he pushed open the door and staggered into the next room. It was terribly bright in there, the sun shining through the two large windows, dust motes dancing over his mess of books. Tripping over a twist in his rug, Faramir cursed at it. He walked slowly, unsteadily, his head spinning, shading his eyes with one hand and frowning in confusion as he steered around a few unusual obstacles. What…? He stared blearily at the chair to his desk. It was toppled into the middle of the room and a cushion lay several feet from the long, lumpy couch it belonged to and had until recently not seen fit to journey from.

He smiled, feeling a little woozy. “Well, I don't remember doing that.” Faramir then paused, thinking. “I don't remember anything really...so.” He laughed, which made his head hurt. In retribution, he kicked the cushion aside, making his unsteady way to his water basin. Splashing some of the water on his face would revive him enough so that he could dress and act and speak with coherence, or so he hoped.

Leaning against his table, he groaned again. I hate Council… Faramir peered through slitted eyes. The light at his window held the faintest tinge of orange. If I take long enough it will be too late… He smiled. I have to find Éowyn…

His smile disappeared and his stomach was suddenly much more nauseous, roiling and twisting so that he didn’t dare move. What will I say to her?

The sun was setting, turning the light stonework of the City to rusty oranges and reds when Éowyn finally left the Houses. Her feet hurt and she was hungry, but her mind felt more alive than it had in a long time. There is so much…so much to learn… Names of herbs and instructions for treatments were pleasantly jumbled in her head. The promise of knowledge, ongoing knowledge and an art no one could ban her from, lifted her spirits as she walked so that she smiled and hummed under her breath. Éowyn glanced at her hands; they were dirty. A long bath before the evening meal, and a few minutes of peace… She quickened her steps. Deep in thought, it was a few minutes before she noticed she was being paced. Her brow creased with irritation as a figure fell into stride beside her, stopping as she did. Turning, she pushed her hair back, not sure who she was expecting to see. It was Faramir. He grinned sheepishly.

Faramir ná nemnan Rohirric—Faramir not speak Rohirric? (Simplified for Faramir)

Faramir is min Ides, Éowyn's ceorl þæs ymbe lítel Éomer—Faramir is my Lady Eowyn’s husband after the test of Eomer

He began slowly, grimacing half in dread, half in hope, “I'm sorry, I forgot...” and Éowyn's temper flared molten, then abruptly snapped as she gritted her teeth, hands clenching into fists. She'd waited for hours last night in the garden with not so much as a word to tell her he would not come…and then he put off all day to apologize…no! She felt her body grow taut, muscles knotting with fury. Faramir had kept on, voice coming even more slowly as his eyes scanned hers, “About meeting you and…”

She realized with incredulity that he thought she would accept this belated apology as though she were spineless. He thinks I will forgive so easily… Perhaps she was not benevolent as he, but she’d been begged to come, had gathered herself to try and speak and to answer any of his questions, then was ignored without so much as a kindly warning. I sat there for hours…!

Reaching out with both hands, palms flat to his chest, Éowyn shoved Faramir with all her strength, sending him sprawling to the dirty stones. He stared up, open-mouthed as she glared, breathing fast as she struggled not to kick or strike at him for his idiocy. You think I will forgive so easily? I will not! In the crowd around her, people quickly backed up, giving her the full space of the street in which to fume. Feeling her anger crest, Éowyn hissed, “Keep your apology, it’s too late and I don’t want it!” She spun on her heel and strode rapidly up the hill. The awestruck throng of people parted, none of them eager to face her wrath.

“Éowyn! Wait!” The sound of him scrambling up, then Faramir's frantic voice only spurred her on.

“Ná, Hordere! Ná, léasere!” she picked up her skirts, muttering, “Assa, snaca, wyrm, fearh...”

Footsteps pounded on the stones. Faramir stayed out of her reach as he kept up, his longer legs readily taking one stride to her two, “I'm not a snake, or a pig.” He smiled guiltily. “Maybe I am an ass, though.”

“What?” Éowyn halted abruptly, her skirts twisting; she yanked at them impatiently.

“No,” She shut her eyes briefly, struggling to keep her voice down and level, “How did you know what I said?”

“Well...” Faramir shifted his feet, looking down at the ground before meeting her eyes. “That was...that was what I was doing last night. Somewhat.”

Éowyn folded her arms and said slowly, “You learned the words for snake, pig and ass in Rohirric, nyten léasere?”

Faramir winced at her sarcasm and looked around them as onlookers gathered curiously, ready for entertainment, “Can we, can we do this some place else?”

“Cifesboren! “ Éowyn swore at him in her outrage, completely lapsing into Rohirric. “Ác ádung? Ác ádung?”

“How am I supposed to answer when I don't know what are you saying?” Faramir threw his hands up in exasperation. “At least speak the Common Tongue when you insult me!”

“What is this?” A familiar voice interrupted loudly and Éowyn turned, angered at the interference. A rather shocked Aragorn looked back and forth between them. Behind him, Gandalf leaned on his staff.

“I would ask much the same thing myself.” Faramir colored under the wizard's calm gaze. Éowyn folded her arms tightly across her middle, refusing to crumple under the weight of Gandalf's eyes. She was not in the wrong. “Faramir is correct. You should take this to a more private setting.”

“I have a place in mind.” Aragorn commanded firmly, in a tone that would brook no arguments, “Come.”

“Ow! Ow! Stop it!” Faramir yelped as he nearly fell backwards, tripping over a chair as he fled and sending it crashing. Luckily he managed to keep to his feet, perhaps sensing Éowyn would just as gladly kick him as slam her fists into the nearest body part: chest, arm or stomach. She smiled grimly as he tried to twist away, he can't protect everything at once. He'd eluded her ever since Aragorn had left. She’d not spoken, as he’d clearly expected, already flinching but instead simply came for him with hands raised to release her fury in a far more satisfying way than shouting. Faramir had briefly shielded himself around a large, dust-streaked table, but she'd outrun him to the door and caught him without any convenient shelter, trapping him in a corner at her mercy.

“No and stop it!” He grabbed her wrists, realizing his mistake an instant later when Éowyn stepped forward and used his grip to give herself enough leverage to ram her knee squarely into his gut. He tried to evade her, then got pinned between her knee and the wall; the air whooshed out of him and Faramir sank to the floor, kneeling as he wheezed and gasped. He turned his face to her pleadingly, gasping, “T-that hurt!”

Éowyn glared down. “Be grateful, I could have aimed lower.” She paced as he coughed, avoiding the dusty chairs, barrels and tables. Faramir had repeatedly tried using them as barriers, but she'd snared him every time. Waiting while he'd caught his breath, Éowyn looked disgustedly around herself. They were in what looked like an ancient storage room.

“Do I dare get up?” When he spoke again, Faramir’s voice was raspy; he’d inhaled the dust stirred from his fall. It caked his legs and lower arm, showing starkly grey and beige-brown against the sable of his surcoat and trousers.

“No, I like you there. Stay.” Éowyn brushed the thick dust from off of one of the nearest chairs and sat in it, impatiently jerking her dress into place. She hated the gowns she’d been given and the thick masses of skirts only added to her furor. “ Faramir, dearest,” She smiled tightly, voice steely with anger, “Explain to me why you left me with not so much as a word, in a city full of people serving you, to sit in the garden for hours last night?”

Éowyn looked at him darkly. “It is wonderful to know I mean so much that you cannot even remember a promise for half a day.”

He made a face, “I said I was sorry and if you would allow me, I would think of a way to make it up to you…” She watched him get his legs under himself. He was almost up. Éowyn waited until the perfect moment when he was poised precariously on both legs and his fingertips, then, coolly, she stretched out and kicked him in the shin. Off-balance, Faramir went down again and flopped back in surrender. “Oh, fine!”

She smiled. This was actually kind of amusing. Unlike Éomer, or even Théodred, Faramir didn't fight back. Despite the fact that her anger was slowly lessening, she snapped, “I told you to stay.”

He turned his head to look at her wearily and replied in what she thought of a horrible attempt to speak in her tongue; the words were correct, but the accent was terribly mangled. “Gea, min Ides.”

Before she could think of exactly how she objected to it, beyond aesthetic means, she blurted, “Stop that!”

“Why?” He twisted his head to look at her, propping himself up on his elbows. Puffs and messy particles of dust clung to his dark hair.

Éowyn gritted her teeth. “Because I said so.” He looked skeptical and about to challenge her, so Éowyn added tightly, “I thought you were supposed to be apologizing.”

He sighed deeply. She waited. “I'm sorry.” Éowyn looked down at him lying obediently on the dusty and surely uncomfortable floor and she wavered. But he soon continued, “I forgot after the Council when Halorl invited me to go with him and,” He looked at her with a hopeful smile, “You know, he was going to teach me some Rohirric, and…” Faramir trailed off, lacing his hands and resting them on his stomach.

“And I ended up drunk, wandering the streets until almost morning, then sleeping all day.” Faramir hurriedly finished, “Sorry.”

Éowyn rolled her eyes to the ceiling. She had to admit that he'd started off with the right idea. “That was what you were doing?”

“Then what can I do, my esteemed Lady?” He rolled to his side, tracing patterns in the dust with one finger as he looked up at her expectantly. Inwardly Éowyn refused to be swayed by Faramir's cheerful grin, but she already knew it was a losing battle as he looked up at her just like a boy released from some dreadful punishment and now allowed to go out and play.

He started to spring up, then froze, “You're not going to knock me down again?”

“No.” Éowyn smiled faintly. She watched as he got up, his eyes on her all the while. Her curiosity overcame her, making her ask, “Why didn't you fight back when I hit you?”

“Oh, I can't do that.” He laughed loudly at the very notion, pausing in brushing himself off to smile at her. “Why would I do that?”

“You're...you're a woman, a Lady. I can't raise my hand against you.” He frowned, thinking. “Why? Whom do you fight with?”

“Ah,” Faramir's grinned widened as he beat at his trousers; dust flew. “I bet you beat him.”

“Sometimes. He usually cheated.” At Faramir's curious look she elaborated, “He was a hair-puller.” Faramir laughed. The dust on the floor had transferred to his trousers; as he brushed them, it flew into the air. Her nose wrinkled, itching and she rubbed it furiously. For all his slapping and brushing, he was still covered in dust as he walked towards her. She feigned repugnance, really more concerned about dirtying her gown. “Don't you touch me. You're filthy.”

“True, but you're the one who pushed me down.” To Éowyn's confusion, he didn't directly approach, but instead carefully walked around her chair, giving her plenty of space.

“What are you doing?” She turned her head to look at him, a bit of unease wrapping around her heart that she could not see him.

Faramir was smiling as he dipped his brow in acknowledgment. “Respectfully staying out of your range, my Lady.”

He chuckled. “No, it's merely that I would eventually like to sire children and I don't trust you not to kick me.” She heard his smile and she blushed. “I believe you said you could have aimed lower.” Éowyn couldn't think of any response, so she turned away still further, hiding her burning face in her hair. The slow, steady beat of Faramir's steps on the floor came closer, then stopped directly behind her. Her skin tingled as she wondered what he was doing.

“Since we agree I've been foolish...how do you want me to make it up to you, my dearest?” He left off the formality when he finally spoke and his voice was a warm murmur as he leaned down and rested his palms on chair's arms. She jumped. He was much nearer than she'd thought, his breath warming her ear. Éowyn tilted her head up to look at him and he whispered softly, lips hovering just over her brow, “I also learned something interesting—þeos wif is faegere.” He kissed her hair as she winced a little; his accent was horribly off.

“Herigend...flatterer.” She managed to get a reply through her tightening throat. What is he doing? He was terribly near; she could feel the warmth of his body, the way the chair shifted as he put his weight on the arms.

“Another word. Hmm, I seem to remember asking you for lessons.” She could hear his smile again. He was too close. Éowyn could feel his smoothly muscled arms against her shoulders even through her dress and his surcoat, the broad expanse of his front pressed against the back of her chair. Faramir was barely touching her, yet she had the uncontrollable sensation of being smothered. It increased as he shifted to her left and crouched lower, his chest pressing her shoulder.

“Faramir...” She took a breath, then tilted her head up to ask him to move, to give her room and he kissed her. Like all the kisses before, this one began light, just the simple press of lips, but instead of ending it as she had grown used to, he lingered. Almost immediately Éowyn felt his fingers move to firmly cup her chin as he probed gently with his tongue, encouraging her to respond in kind. She resisted and he insisted, to her surprise, so that when she gasped for a breath, he slipped it into her mouth.

For an instant she was still, allowing him this new, peculiar privilege; but he was eager, passionate, and far too intimate. Éowyn could taste him, feel the slickness of his mouth, the movements of his tongue to her own paralyzed one and how he urged her to kiss him in return. He stepped to her side, nearly in front of her and she realized with a jolt of alarm that if he took another stride there would be nothing she could do, nowhere for her to go. I would be at his mercy… Uncontrollable claustrophobia rose, making her heart beat against her ribs as a wild bird, once trapped, did the bars of a cage. Unable to ignore her growing anxiety and unable to bear it, she twisted in the seat, felt how confined she was, and her control broke. I can’t move, I can’t…

“Stop!” Gasping, cold with shame and fright, partly of him, of what he might do now that she’d rejected him, Éowyn pushed him back and rose out of her chair, desperate for space.

“What is it?” Faramir straightened, frowning, but kept his place as she moved away.

Éowyn muttered, “Nothing.” She could hear her own quick breathing, her strain in her harsh voice, the lie.

He was silent for almost an entire minute, watching as she stood, arms folded, hands cupping her elbows, head turned away. Faramir’s words came slow and so terribly gently that her heart ached in knowing she’d hurt him. “Tell me, what is it that I do that is so wrong?” He took a stride in her direction and his voice softened even more, once again formal, “Why do you shrink from me, my Lady?”

“I…” Tears welled; Éowyn had no answer, or at least none she was ready to give. He took another step around the chair. She could take no more when he asked sorrowfully, barely audible with dread of her answer,

She wanted to reply with scorn for the very notion, to tell him no, to laugh and embrace him and do anything to erase the guilt and sadness on his face. It is not your fault… Éowyn felt the pressure grow with her silence; it was crushing and she had to get out now, to flee and escape his steady, mournful gaze. She turned her back on him, walking quickly to the door.

“Éowyn?” Faramir’s voice rose in alarm as she grabbed the doorknob, twisted and pulled back, opening the door to a now dark hallway well lit with torches. She didn't answer him as she went into the hall and stopped there, momentarily confused by the darkness. Is it so late already? They must have missed the evening meal. Éowyn looked back and forth and realized she didn’t know which way to go to return to the Houses. Debating, she hesitated.

It was enough time for Faramir to catch her arm. She jumped and stiffened and he immediately loosened his grip, sliding his hand down to encircle her wrist. Guilty, she turned her head away from his questioning gaze. “Will you come with me at least?” He still sounded very distressed. Her heart burned with the weight of the grief she caused him.

Wretched, knowing herself defeated and unable to meet his eyes, she asked the dust-smeared White Tree on his chest, “Where?”

He sighed and released her entirely. “The kitchens. I'm hungry, and surely you must be.” Faramir paused, and then vowed in the gentlest voice, “I promise to do nothing. You have my word.”

Éowyn hugged herself tightly, miserable with shame; surely he did not deserve this. Avoiding his eyes, she directed her reply to the White Tree again, whispering, “Yes, I will come.”

He led her down older, less lit and winding passageways, avoiding the more crowded corridors. His hand came to hold hers, almost, she thought, to make sure she was truly coming with him. Faramir said nothing to her as they walked, turning at what seemed to be random, once murmuring under his breath as he counted doors. Éowyn followed silently, mind stirring nervously, feeling jumbled up and confused inside. She tried not to think.

The torches, few and far between, flickered and sparked in the constant wind. It has grown chill… Éowyn shivered, wishing she'd worn a shawl or at least a thicker dress. It had been much warmer this morning, perhaps, she speculated, it would rain tonight. Stretching out her free hand, she brushed the corridor wall—it was cool, the stone losing its heat as the night fell. Her thoughts occupied, she almost bumped into him when he stopped, mesmerized by the symmetry of the stonework. Faramir said nothing; he just released her hand and held the heavy wooden door open for her to enter.

Head ducked, Éowyn went into the room, noticing that it was warm, much nicer than out in the halls and she shivered at the temperature change, goose bumps rising on her arms. He was behind her; the door thudded shut and she jumped a little at the sound. Faramir’s voice was soft, “It’s all right.” Éowyn rubbed her hands over her shoulders, chafing them as she nodded, feeling she had to explain,

“Sit. Please.” Faramir gestured to a pair of chairs at one end of the huge, high table that stood in the center of the room. These were the servant's kitchens, she guessed; empty now as everyone was out serving the evening meal in the dining halls, or waiting at the High King's tables.

Following his lead, she perched carefully on the chair, hands gripping the seat, wrapping her legs around it for balance; it was so tall her feet swung a few inches off of the floor. The big, long table in front of her was littered with dirty trays and bowls, whisks and stirrers, knives, and thick carving boards. Faramir left her for a few minutes, and returned with a large pitcher of some liquid and two cups. Éowyn watched as he poked around through cupboards and pantries, eventually rewarded with some bread, cheese, and a few apples. He brought these offerings to the table on a clean tray, positioning it between them as he sat beside her.

“Thank you.” Feeling her shame burn her again, Éowyn murmured her gratitude as he passed her share over. She was very hungry; utterly unable to remember eating much besides the piece of toast Pippin had been kind enough to share that morning.

“You're welcome, my Lady.” Faramir answered and his voice was just as subdued as hers was, his manner formal. Éowyn took a bite of bread, wishing she had butter or jam, but dared not mention it in case he felt obliged to fetch it for her. Her eyes roamed over the abandoned dishes lying on the table, wondering what had been served. She was aware that he'd pulled his chair further away from her when he'd sat, and she didn't know if she was saddened or grateful for what was an obvious attempt at making her more comfortable. She swung her feet, gently bumping them against the chair legs as she picked up a piece of the cheese. It wasn't as though she wanted him to avoid her, just... Éowyn pushed the troubling thoughts out of her mind, concentrating on her food.

It was not long before she'd finished everything but the apple; Éowyn ate it in silence, feeling increasingly aware of the crunching. Faramir had finished his own meal before her and sat sipping from his cup. He wasn’t looking to her, instead staring ahead of himself, obviously deep in thought.

“For pushing you.” Éowyn forced herself to meet his eyes. They were saddened, but patient.

“You shouldn't be.” Faramir blinked then frowned down at the tabletop. “If you don't wish me to...do that, then you should say so.” Abruptly, he met her gaze; his face was intense and she felt ill to see that pain lurked in his noble, handsome features as he waited for her answer. “Do you not...want me to touch you? It seems to me that…every time I do, I displease you so greatly you retreat from me like I were a villain.”

Éowyn had no idea what to say and strongly suspected she didn't really know what she wanted. Yes, she enjoyed him touching her, but not like that or really, not like that yet? That sounded closer to how she felt.

She opened her mouth, but he interrupted. “Tell me what I'm doing wrong. Please, I don't wish to cause you further distress, my Lady.” Faramir took a deep breath, “I beg you, speak.”

He was terribly serious, obviously trying to remain calm and composed. Éowyn bit her lip, fiddling with her cup. She was barely audible, “I wouldn't say wrong...”

“Yes, no…” Compressing her lips over a moan of frustration, she looked away. “I don't know, Faramir.”

“You can tell me what it is…you may tell me anything.” He was pleading now. Faramir lowered his voice to say softly. “I assure you, any truths could not hurt me more.” A hot lump formed in Éowyn's throat, choking her. She tried to swallow. He reached over and touched her hand, but seemed to stop himself and did not quite take it. “You can trust me, Éowyn.”

Her chest tightened until she felt like her skin would burst. She closed her eyes, thinking of his kindness, his gentleness, that he’d never given her a reason not to trust… Oh, but what of tomorrow? What of then? What if…even he was not so bad in the beginning… At the thought of Gríma her hands pressed flat to the table, white-knuckled. It is madness to compare them! She was ashamed to whisper, “Can I?” Éowyn blurted more loudly, “How do I know…?” She looked up, accidentally meeting his eyes. It was a mistake; they were stricken, aggrieved. He was obviously wounded by her question.

“Of course you can trust me.” Faramir spoke with a visible effort at restraint. Éowyn looked at their hands; his fingers gently intertwined with hers, his thumb rubbing the tops of her knuckles. It was soothing, pleasantly so. She raised her head as he said carefully, “Is there any way that I could prove it to you, my Lady?”

“I don't know, I wish…I wish I did. I’m sorry, Faramir. V-very sorry…” She felt miserable, near to sobs of guilt and grief. They sat quietly as she concentrated on breathing and not weeping; the only sound was the faint hiss and rustle of coals in the ovens. Faramir's hands cupped hers. They were warm and lightly callused, much larger than hers were and she wanted to run her fingers over them, explore them, but did not dare.

He smiled sadly, looking down. “Trust me?” Éowyn nodded, pained, and she slid off the chair, her hands still clasped in his. He brought them to his lips and paused briefly. “Is this all right?”

“Yes.” Éowyn gave a small, pitiful laugh. He kissed the backs of her hands and she smiled weakly.

“Good.” He smiled back and let go, soon leading her back out into the corridor. They walked for a long while, entering the highest levels and moving up a wide street she’d not seen, ever gaining nearer to the quarters of the Steward and the King's House. They saw few people in the streets, mostly soldiers who nodded respectfully. Two small children raced by in the growing gloom, narrowly missing them. They were laughing and shouting as they ran, dodging back and forth, their feet pounding on the stone. Éowyn had to pull up short to avoid bumping into him again as Faramir lingered in the street to watch them, a strange expression on his face. She studied him; it was almost as though he'd just remembered something. He glanced at her before continuing but did not speak.

When they turned into the Steward's quarters, Éowyn could guess where they were going, but not why. She only hoped Faramir would have a fire in his rooms; the air was becoming increasingly chill, winds blowing harder and colder as they climbed the hill. She tilted her head up before she passed under the arched roof and under the weight of all that stone, and felt a drop of rain gently splash on her cheek. The stars were gone, blanketed under deep clouds.

“My Lord, are you retiring?” A servant bowed as they approached. Éowyn flushed, turning away under her mildly inquisitive gaze. “If you wish I will start a fire for you and the Lady.”

“That will be fine.” Faramir looked unperturbed by the woman's curiosity. Éowyn supposed that in a city this large, he was used to people marking his comings and goings. It would certainly be difficult to find someone.

As he gestured, Éowyn walked through the thick door, noticing that it was strong and heavily reinforced. She tried to push away the nervousness of being alone with him in his room but did not succeed until the maid had lit the fire and some candles, then left. The light lessened her feeling of vulnerability somewhat; she guessed it was born of not being unable to see around her. Éowyn wanted no shadows, no darkness, there were too many horrible things waiting to come to her memory. He interrupted her thoughts, “Would you mind waiting? There's something I would like to show you.”

“Good.” Faramir rewarded her with a smile before he passed by her into his inner chambers. Left alone, she wandered curiously. Éowyn smiled, mildly disgusted; Faramir's room was in a state of terrible messiness.

The shutters over the windows were closed tight, yet they flapped in the rising wind. Éowyn jumped at a particularly loud bump. There was a long, low couch on the left side of the room, one of its pillows lying on the floor next to a rug whose edges were curling up. A dark cloak with dried mud still clinging to the bottom was draped over the back of the couch and a pair of filthy boots lay forgotten at the end. A quiver with a few arrows still in it sat in the middle, carefully propped up with the bow unstrung at its side—the weapons alone looked cared for or placed with any forethought.

Books overlapped each other on his desk, completely obscuring the surface and hanging precariously over the sides. She picked one up and flipped through it; it was surprisingly heavy and written in some language she did not know, so she soon put it down in favor of another. This one was so huge Éowyn could barely hold it. Bracing it against her stomach, she opened its leather covers and discovered a book of clever illustrations. Men and beasts, swords and other weapons were finely drawn and colored, surrounded again with words in that other language. She carefully replaced it, trying not to upset the delicate balance Faramir had made. She smiled again, wondering why he didn't just stack them sensibly. The books looked as though he'd absentmindedly set them down at different times, one on top of the other and most were dusty, opened with still more books balanced on their pages. Two of the desk drawers were wide open and the nearest was crammed chaotically full of papers. Éowyn glanced into the other noting several inkwells whose ink had long dried and cracked and dust-caked pens.

He came to her side before she knew it and she jumped. Éowyn smiled nervously and saw what he had with him. “What is that?”

Striding down the hall with Éomer in tow, Aragorn hesitated outside the door. He turned, frowning. “I do not hear anything.”

“She was being quite loud...” Bemused, Éomer sent a sharply defensive glare in his direction. Aragorn backtracked, saying more properly. “Ah, energetic in her displeasure before.”

Rolling his eyes, Éomer pushed the door open, hoping to find them within. He and his sister were to ride back to Edoras in a week and he wanted to discuss the terms of her dowry with Faramir. In light of the chaos that certainly awaited him in Edoras, he'd decided to get the discussion over with and, Éomer thought, undoubtedly, Faramir would rather spend Éowyn's last days unencumbered with such worries. And it leaves me free to…he smiled to himself, pursue his offended girl.

“No. Are you sure this is the room…wait.” Growing amused again, Éomer peered into the large, abandoned room where Aragorn had sequestered his sister and Faramir. He grinned to himself, eyeing the tracks upon the floor, all easily outlined in the thick, grey dust. Faramir's larger prints were erratic, circling the old furniture, continually crossed and recrossed by his sister's smaller ones. Remembering past scoldings he'd survived, Éomer chuckled. “Look at this and tell me what you see.”

Aragorn obediently stepped into the doorway, beginning to smile as he crouched over the tracks and deciphered them. “He fled. Repeatedly.” He pointed, “But see that? She caught him there.”

“It looks like she knocked him down.” Éomer laughed at the great, telling spot of cleared and smeared dust on the floor.

“It appears that way.” Aragorn laughed too, then became serious again. “Where could they have gone? Perhaps the Hall?” He frowned, hovering in the doorway, about to reenter the corridor.

Éomer heaved a tired sigh as he closed the door. He'd spent the afternoon wandering the City, trying to discern which type of goods Faramir would best appreciate and trying not to think of his girl with chocolate hair and eyes. He’d not met her again, to his simultaneous relief and disappointment. She was too bold, too arrogant, too…

I have more important things to think about than a girl with chocolate hair… He smiled faintly and concentrated again. Normally in Rohan land, gold or horses were exchanged, along with lesser animals and valuables. However, he was not in his own land, and a gift of property hundreds of miles away would not benefit Faramir or his fortunes any.

But there was one thing I could give… Éomer had seen the stables and had already increased the horses he had in mind to gift Aragorn with in both numbers and quality. Minas Tirith's mounted force was dreadfully pathetic. He had snorted in disdain, eyeing the miserable and ill-bred creatures standing in their stalls; they were barely fit to be called horses, much less fine chargers. Éomer had spent two hours visiting every stable, astonished to discover that half an éored of rough, untried boys could have demolished the City's mounted defenses in minutes. It was disgraceful and lucky that the City’s soldiers on foot were so efficient and well trained.

Noting that the ribs of many otherwise healthy animals were beginning to show, Éomer was beginning to worry over the murmurs of food shortages. Already this afternoon he'd sent the wholly unhurt riders and horses back to Edoras or their posts in the Riddermark with orders to gather surplus goods and stock and send it immediately to the relief of Minas Tirith. The dismissal of his healthy folk and horses would take some of the strain off of the City, but several thousand extra persons and animals of his country still remained. Estimating roughly a month for the supplies to arrive, Éomer hoped the City's stores would hold out that long. He grimaced. Or else I shall have to spare horses to ride somewhere to beg…those things they call mounts would not make the journey…

And if the stores did not hold? They are not even fit for eating… He shuddered. The eating of horseflesh was something utterly inconsiderable unless one was close to death; it would be akin to eating the flesh of his dearest and most helpless of family. Children, babes, innocent maids…he felt nauseous and tried to think of other possible sources of food.

“Have your farmers begun to send in the first lot of spring crops yet?” They were retracing their steps to the King's table, boots clunking loudly, Aragorn's cloak swishing as it brushed the floor. Éomer frowned, thinking, his fingers absently playing with a loose thread on his sleeve. It was spring, but late enough; surely something would have ripened by now. At least Gondor's stock animals: cattle, pigs, goats and fowl could provide fresh meat, and there was the river Anduin for fish, birds and even turtles if it got that desperate.

“That is what I wanted to discuss with Faramir. I need to know what and how much to expect if I’m to make any decisions.” Aragorn sounded frustrated. “He may not have been next in line for the Stewardship, but surely he knows about such things.” He sounded weary, “And all I can think of is...”

“I would not feel right in entering Denethor's office without permission. I think it would be improper...even distress Faramir.” He sighed, “Although…undoubtedly the information I need is in there. Yet...”

“I agree.” Éomer interrupted, nodding; he might not like the Steward, but he would have been angered if another had entered Théoden’s chambers without his permission. “It would be improper to do such a thing.”

“Pry him away?” Éomer's grinned, feeling a bit of protective nervousness rise. He forced it away to jest, “What makes you so sure he did not run away?”

“You saw that room—my Éowyn beat your Steward quite handily.” Éomer's grin widened as his nerves quieted. “Believe me, he will not have it easy. She is neither docile nor compliant, and the title of wife will not make her so.”

“Not at all.” He played along. “In fact, there was one incident when she was eleven and I had gotten a new sword and,” Éomer snickered, “I had to test it for sharpness of course...”

“But of course.” Aragorn shook his head. “I can't even imagine what you did.”

“Well, she was wearing her hair in two braids that day and,” He interrupted himself, grinning, “She used to be quite vain about her hair, drove me mad...”

“You didn't! How did you live this long, Éomer? That woman struck down that foul winged beast in a single blow!”

“I'm bigger, heavier than she—it makes me harder to kill in general. Do you want to hear this or not?”

“Well, I decided, since I'd cut one off already...” Éomer's voice was immediately punctuated by the King's guffaws as they rounded the corner.

“Who is he?” Thinking she could guess, but not willing to do so in case she erred, Éowyn held the framed drawing he'd handed her with care. It was on a great sheet of vellum, impressed with a stylus, the indentions shaded with soot or some dark chalk, beautifully done. The man, so like to Faramir’s features that it was startling, was looking up and grinning self-consciously in a moment of surprise, long hair hanging in his eyes. Obviously a work of love, it was so real the drawing could have almost been the reflection of some mirror, the man standing over her shoulder.

“He was...” Faramir swallowed and she heard his throat click. “My brother Boromir. I did this five years ago, when we were in the City together for Yáviérë…” At her blank expression he elaborated, “The harvest feast. I've kept it ever since.”

“Thank you.” Faramir accepted the compliment quietly and with obvious pleasure.

“You resemble him very much.” She spoke gently again, not wanting to hurt him. At least in any way I already haven’t… Éowyn flinched.

“I know.” He hesitated, “It is both a comfort and a great pain as I’ve passed a mirror and caught my heart lifting…” Faramir hesitated again before adding, “I wished to show it to you because I believe the only way you will trust me is to know about me.” Painfully and with obvious effort, he finished as she looked up again from the picture, “Boromir was my closest friend and my one confidant.” She heard the respect in his voice, “He was the only person I could ever be sure about, the greatest person in my life.” Faramir laughed softly, “My hero, if you wish the truth.”

Éowyn took one last look at the picture, admiring it and then handed it back to him. Carefully, Faramir put it on his desk on top of a well-balanced book. She watched the way he touched the frame, fingers almost caressing and remembered how hard it had been losing Théodred. He'd been as an older brother to both her and Éomer.

Her eyes stung. How long had it been the three of them together? They'd ridden miles unnumbered, laughed and played pranks, sat up late telling each other tales and planning how Théodred would manage his growing responsibilities to the Mark each year. She recalled sitting silent in his room the night he'd died, trembling, refusing to weep and Éomer finding her. Hugging her so tightly it felt as though he'd break her ribs, his tears had fallen then, hidden in the fabric of her gown. Théodred, he'd tried to comfort her, had died like a man, in battle and had gone to their forefathers with honor. Éowyn's mouth twisted in what could have been a smile. She'd tried that and failed. Gathering her courage, she asked, “Faramir?”

“Yes, my Lady?” His voice was still sad as he gazed at her, but he answered as courteously and composedly as ever.

“Would it bother you to tell me about your brother?” Éowyn straightened, gathering her courage. She would soon need it. “If you tell me some about Boromir, I...I will answer anything you wish to ask me in return.” He did not respond right away, as she'd thought he would. Instead, his eyes searched hers for several seconds.

“I don't think that is fair.” Startled, she wondered if he'd guessed her mind. “I would share freely, but…” He frowned, his grey eyes holding hers. “Clearly, it troubles you to do the same, Éowyn.” Faramir took a step towards her, “I don’t wish to trouble you more than I do already…” He murmured, brow creased fretfully, “I don’t know what it is that I do wrong.”

“I…I will be all right. I wish to know about him and it is all I can offer in trade for stirring your painful memories.” She replied simply enough, but betrayed her nervousness with the twisting of her hands.

“Very well. Now.” He stopped and as he took in his room, Faramir's voice became embarrassed. “Allow me to clear you a space in which to sit, my Lady.”

His step quick and eager, Faramir soon disappeared into his bedroom with his muddy cloak and quiver, a few arrows softly rattling, leaving only his bow on the couch. Alone and curious, she touched it, fingers sliding easily on the polished surface. It was taller than she was and well worn, but she could still make out faint engravings up and down its considerable span. Mainly leaves and the graceful curves of branches and vines, it was well carved, as the twisting branches were thick in comparison to the mere pen strokes of the delicate vines. Peering closely, she found tiny buds here and there among the small leaves; it was a nobleman’s bow, made with care and an eye for detail.

She traced the carvings with her fingertips, gently stroking the length of the smooth wood. There was a faint motion to her side and she jumped guiltily when she noticed him in the doorway, gazing at her intently. Éowyn flushed deep red when she realized what she'd been doing and what it might look like.

“You may touch it.” He reassured her immediately, his voice low. Then Faramir paused. “This,” She quickly backed away as he approached, pretending to give him room so that he could lift the bow. He gave her a slow, direct smile, “Has been my only companion for far too many nights.” Éowyn dropped her eyes to the floor, unnerved by his intimate tone and forcefully reminded that she was alone with him. However, he did nothing but disappear into the bedroom again and, perverse curiosity getting the better of her timidness, she followed him to the doorway. I can trust him…

Here, too, were books of all sizes liberally scattered around the room, but mostly on a small table by the bed. She saw Faramir did have a rather large bookcase, but it was comically crammed with books and loose papers. Éowyn smiled, seeing old, childish scrawls of things that could have been dogs or skinny horses shelved with newer sheets bearing the marks of a quick, easy hand. A few sketches sat on top: a bird perched on a limb, a black and white cat, a man standing in the uniform of the Guard and an unfinished drawing of a woman that piqued her curiosity. Taking one silent step into the room she could see he'd quite annoyingly finished everything but the face, making it totally impossible to tell whom the woman was. Not quite so vain as to believe it was she, Éowyn gave up after a few moments of squinting, turning her gaze to the rest of his bedroom.

Also liberally scattered were burnt down candles with dried wax of multiple shades splattering their bronze candleholders; they decorated any and all horizontal surfaces, including the covers of a few unfortunate books. He’s lucky that he’s not begun a fire… A great wooden chest was open in the far corner, full of unfolded and wrinkled clothing; another beside it was closed. Faramir had tossed the muddy cloak to pile next to the door; the placement of his quiver showed slightly more care, it was resting upright, propped against the wall. She watched him hang his bow, carefully balancing it so it would not drop from a pair of hooks. His muscles flexed easily, their movements outlined under smooth leather back of his surcoat. She quickly glanced away.

Faramir's bed looked comfortable and inviting with rumpled sheets, thick pillows and a great heap of soft furs that begged to be touched. Éowyn shot a wary look towards him, but his back was still turned, so she gave in and took the few steps that brought her to the foot of the bed. The sleek pelts were utterly divine under her hands as she smoothed them. She imagined lying on them, the furs shifting velvety soft against her bare skin...and suddenly she became aware Faramir was watching her. His grey eyes moved and Éowyn tensed; she could feel his gaze like a physical pressure firmly touching her body, from her hand, pale against the dark furs, up her arm...

“They are soft, are they not?” He smiled and she realized belatedly that this would be their marriage bed barring any change.

Faramir smiled again, saying in a mixture of cheek and formality, “The hide is not too rough for your skin, my Lady? I don’t want to chafe you…” He was teasing her, his voice and face all but begging her to relax and jest in kind. She swallowed, but had no reply. Coloring under his warm gaze, she jerked her hand back from his bed and swiftly exited his bedroom.

She was standing nervously in the center of his room when he entered. He gestured to the couch. “Sit?”

She folded her skirts beneath her, sitting at the far end. Faramir sat near, but not too near, his long legs sprawling. After a few moments of stillness, he sighed. Faramir wasn't looking at her when he began, but rather his eyes were far away, focused on something or someone else. “My first memory was not of Boromir, but all my favorites have been...” He stopped and fell silent.

“Go on.” Éowyn scooted closer as he began again; his voice was so soft that she could barely hear it, his eyes unfocused, one hand tracing circles on the cushions between them.

“I hardly remember anything of my mother. She died when I was very small. Just...she played with me, held me. Her eyes shone with love. I remember she sang to me, mostly sad songs of the Sea. I...I've been told Boromir looked much like her. Perhaps that's why I loved him so when I was a child. Perhaps that's why my father loved him.” He sighed, “Boromir took care of me, really. He was always there, even when he wasn't. He taught me many things of a warrior’s craft, many tricks that he learned the hard way in the field. I cannot count the number of times he’s saved my life.” He smiled, “The first was terribly early.

The winds were strong that day and I was no more than a boy of seven...it pulled me off my feet near the ledge...I was too young to have the sense to let go, but he caught me just in time. I lost two teeth when I hit the wall, but if he hadn't had grabbed my legs I might've flipped over it and lost much more.” Éowyn smiled. Faramir continued, his voice sobering, “He was the one who encouraged me to fight in Ithilien. He said it was logical, that I had a better eye for tracking, and I was a better archer than he, but,” Faramir looked down at his boots. “I think he wanted me to be there because it was safer than Osgiliath, safer in the forest with plenty of cover and room to retreat than stuck between the open fields and the river.” He sighed and paused for a much longer time before saying roughly. “He did all he could about my father. Boromir made sure he was between us whenever he was home; but it was an unfair burden to him...”

He was silent for so long that she feared she’d upset him. “My father disliked me. He...he made it quite clear in everything he did, from as far back as I can remember, but,” Faramir said slowly, his voice showing he was long resigned to the fact, “He loved my brother very much. It was always between Boromir and I—Father would give a word of praise and he would feel proud until he noticed that I had had none and his pride would curdle to shame…he could not feel proud as long as I did not and it hurt us both. I wanted him to feel proud; he was a great warrior, a great leader of men. He should not have been ashamed of his doings.” He looked at her suddenly and Éowyn was aware she'd moved very close indeed. “All my life I have fought against jealousy that he should be so loved and I should not when we were both equally worthy. I hated that feeling because I loved Boromir too and I never wanted to feel envious of him. He was my brother, my blood, do you understand?”

“Yes.” Éowyn thought of standing at the doors of Meduseld, watching Éomer's shield and helm gleam bright in the sun as he turned his horse away, one arm going up as always in a salute to her before signaling his men to move out. He was free; not only able but expected to ride out into the Mark to protect his home while she, well, she made sure the cook's new lad did not overcook the roast for dinner and that the women finished mending her brother's shirt before he came back this time. Éowyn bit her lip, twisting a lock of her hair round and round one finger; she was thinking that she and Faramir had more in common than she would thought. “I understand very well.”

It was almost a minute before he spoke again and his voice was miserable. “I tried to go to Imladris...it was my dream, but Father would not let me.” Anger came to his features as he spat, “He did not trust me to undertake such a journey, thought that at the first difficulty I would come back.” Faramir was staring straight ahead. She knew he wasn't truly aware of her any longer as his face crumpled and his head bowed, shoulders caving in. He muttered raspily, “If I'd gone, maybe... It should have been me, why would he not allow it…? He hated me, why would he not spare me willingly? I…I never understood…”

“Shh, it was not your fault. Hush.” Éowyn scooted against him, wrapping her arms around Faramir’s side, unable to bear any more of his pain. He shifted to meet her and his chin rested on her shoulder, his arms going around her waist easily, naturally. She felt him shake once, a sharp jerk, and then shudder as he suppressed it. When Faramir raised his head to face her, so close that she could see his eyes were red rimmed, Éowyn swallowed, sad yet uneasy and terribly aware she was virtually in his lap. It made her wary even if he didn't seem to notice for few seconds and when he did, he blinked and smiled hesitantly.

“I'm sorry.” Faramir removed his arms from her waist and sat back so that his face wasn’t so near to hers. Immediately she could breath easier.

“You don't have to say any more if you don't want to.” She tried scooting back unobtrusively, but his heavier weight tipped the cushions and she was pressed against his side. She thought about moving more openly, but before she could Éowyn found herself reaching up to wipe a tear from his cheek. Softly, she reassured, “It’s all right.”

Faramir nodded. “I know.” He sounded dismal until he sighed and looked at her more purposely. “Do you wish to speak now?”

“Oh, yes, I suppose.” Éowyn wanted a little more room, but it was impossible to get away when he had a hold of her and she didn’t wish to make it obvious. He always looked so hurt. Why must I hurt him? Her guilt was a hot ball in her middle. He shouldn’t be hurt, he was too good.

“Go ahead before I change my mind, Faramir.” Anxiety made her snappish and she flinched, saying lower, “Please, while I have the courage. It is difficult…”

“All right.” He smiled slightly, then twisted his finger around a bit of her hair and looked at it with his eyes filled with admiration. “Tell me, where did you get such a beautiful mane? It is like spun gold, so soft, so bright…”

“It's a beginning.” He was sober again and her stomach fluttered as his hand began to move.

“You,” His index finger ran across her cheek, down her neck, then his hand down her back, all just trailing over her skin and making her shiver. The sensation was not unpleasant, sending thrills all over her body and making the places he’d touched burn and alight with new awareness. “Said that you didn't know if you liked it when I touched you, so,” Faramir's hand kept going until it was pressed warm and flat to the small of her back as he moved from sitting sideways to almost directly facing her. “I'm going to do something and I'll ask you if you like it.”

“I do not think...” Éowyn objected immediately, her outrage and apprehension warring with a genuine curiosity that shocked her. Maybe she wanted him to touch her again. It was not bad and neither was the kiss…what is wrong with me? She squeezed her hands together, fretting.

“I haven't asked yet.” He scolded gently, tracing along her neck again. She tried not to flinch when he raised his hand to tuck back an errant strand of her hair.

Éowyn strained to speak in a jesting tone, “You are being awfully daring...”

“I know.” She watched his face soften. “I don’t understand why you fear me, have I shown myself to be cruel?”

“No.” Her eyes burned and she looked down, not allowing him to see her tears rise, her weakness.

“Then who do you fear…who do you see in me?” Her heart went cold and her blood seemed to freeze in her veins. Éowyn stiffened and did not respond. Faramir stroked his index finger over her cheek; surely he felt the dampness from her one tear, but he did not speak.

“Why not? It troubles you so…I want to help.” His voice was honest, so honest. “That is all I want.”

“It won’t help…the only thing that will help is if I forget…I need to forget…” She was babbling, terrified, blackness swirling into her soul, making her cold, making her unable to think or act with the horror of it all. I don’t want to remember anything, anything…if there was anything of greatness in her life with Faramir, it would be the promise of never again having to think of those dark, terrible years.

He would not cease now that he’d come close. Moaning inwardly, she felt the pressure of his soft intent crushing her and she lashed out, desperate to free herself from his gently inquiring face, his patient eyes that would search and search until he rooted out her distress. Voice sharp, she hissed, “What do you know that will help me?”

He flinched like she’d struck him, then nodded slowly, shifting away on the couch. “I apologize.”

“I’m sorry…I didn’t mean…” Éowyn closed her eyes tightly, wishing she could simply vanish. “I’m very sorry, Faramir, but please, don’t ask…”

“As you will it.” He sounded distant, saddened. She picked up his hand and pressed it to her cheek again, feeling its heat, the calluses he bore, the way he cradled her.

He smiled woefully. “I know.” Éowyn wanted to apologize again, wanted to apologize until the earth was washed away by the Seas, anything to make him merry once more. They sat in silence, his hand to her cheek for what felt like forever before she pulled it away and kissed the center of his palm.

Éowyn clasped his hand, then took his other, holding them both to her midsection, keeping him harmless. His features were quiet, puzzled, but waiting. He trusted her, clearly. “I’m sorry…” She held his hands and fought not to weep.

“It is nothing so great…” He laughed softly, seeking to cheer her, then murmured. “If I smile, will you not?”

“Yes.” She did and laughed shakily. “You are too good for me, too good…”

“I wished to see plainly where it was I sparked fear, to see and take more care to not tread on those lines, to not disturb you.”

“Yes, you may. I too want to know.” She hesitated, “I don’t mean to push you away…I cannot…cannot stand more…”

Faramir nodded slowly. He untangled his hands from hers and touched her cheek. Éowyn held still as his fingers smoothed over her brow, tickling her face. “Are you frightened?”

He asked tenderly, “Did he strike you, my love, is that why you fear my hand?” Faramir reassured just as gently, “I would never hit you.”

Éowyn closed her eyes. He was too close to her secret, her shame. “Please…”

“I’m sorry…” Faramir lowered his hand and leaned nearer. He was going to kiss her. Éowyn held still as he kissed her cheek, her mouth gently, both so softly, not at all with his previous insistence. “Are you…?”

She laughed, and then she couldn't breathe as he bent his head and attached his mouth to her neck and kissed. Surprised, tensing in fear as she felt his body pressing her lightly to the cushion, Éowyn’s hands went to his chest to push him away, but before she could he'd already stopped and retreated.

“I said I wanted to know where the line was…” He was teasing now, “I have many questions, many places to try.” Faramir bent and kissed the other side of her throat. “And there?”

“I...I'm not about to answer that.” Éowyn was shakily trying for a bantering sort of indignation, trying to match his easy jesting and failing completely. When he arched a brow, she nodded, giving her answer.

His smile was broad. “Then I'll just have to ask until you do.” Despite the carefree nature of his words, his eyes carefully watched hers as he leaned forward again and her hand went to his shoulder, pressing itself there limply as he suckled her neck, unable to push for the incredibly delicious feel of it. Oh…he was licking with warm lips fastened tightly enough for suction, pulling away too soon with the slight rasp of teeth and faint stubble. The sensation was wonderful, sending thrills down to her very toes, making her want to give in, to do whatever he wished as long as he promised not to stop.

“Yes. Yes!” She gasped and answered just to get him to cease before she died of it.

“Hmm?” He suckled just under her chin, pressed to her, all heat and firmness. Faramir felt good against her. He felt right.

Briefly warring with her modesty, she laughed in surrender and cried, “Yes, Faramir, I like it!”

When he leaned back, he was flushed. His smile was warm, his voice slightly breathy. “Good.”

Éowyn could still feel his mouth on her, but it wasn’t unpleasant, making her heart beat faster. “That...that had better be the last question you have.” She hoped it was, not knowing where he could test next. I don’t want him to do more…she didn’t wish to lose this agreeable feeling in a wave of fear.

“No, I'm afraid not.” He gave her a roguish grin that widened when she stared at him. Faramir leaned forward again and she did not protest, feeling his hot breath against her neck as he murmured, “This is only the beginning of my questions…”

“Tell me more Éomer.” When he raised an eyebrow, Aragorn expanded with a smile, “I'm curious; it seems I missed a great deal not having siblings.”

“Well, then there was the time she, she was ten I think, anyway she pushed me down the stairs.”

“She pushed you down the stairs?” Aragorn laughed. “Where? The only true stairs I remember in Edoras were the ones you climb to the doors...” He stopped, “You're jesting with me.”

“In front of everyone. All the way down.” Aragorn burst out laughing. Éomer grinned, feeling better about his girl, about the state of the City as he continued. “It was actually more of an accident than a deliberate attempt to kill me, but I broke three of my ribs, and it was all just because I'd... Wait, did you hear something?” Éomer frowned, turning as they passed the hall that led to the block of Steward's quarters. Both men stood in place for several seconds.

He hesitated, “Maybe Faramir is not within his rooms...” It was hard to tell which he would prefer—to speak with the Prince in his sister’s presence or without. Both would be difficult.

“It's early still, I doubt it. But if he's not in the main halls with the hobbits and Gandalf or with Éowyn in hers, then we'll check.”

“He'd better not be in her room.” Éomer muttered under his breath as they resumed walking. He thought of the girl again, wondering over her words, trying to discern a clue of where she hailed from so that he might find her house in the City. Not the City…she’d not spoken as he’d heard from the folk within the Citadel. Where, then? Many had come to defend Minas Tirith, he could spend days searching. Ah, she is not worth the time…he could not expect forgiveness.

The King broke into his thoughts. “Well?” He looked puzzled. “I thought you were telling me of Éowyn…”

Aragorn immediately gained a broad smile of teasing good cheer, “Did you meet a Lady?”

Éomer looked at him and laughed in disgust, “There is no call to make such a face…” He shook his head, “I made her weep, you have no need to be so smug…”

He broke off as the King put his arm across his chest, halting them both. Aragorn’s voice was slow with disbelief. “Made her weep?”

Aragorn’s face worked, his features struggling in laughter and incredulity. Finally he asked, “How? However did you do that”

“No…but…” He felt his guilt and tried to bury it in exasperation, “This girl was so arrogant you would not believe it.”

“You were not told about diplomacy as a child, were you?” The King gazed at him like a father did a willful, truculent son. Éomer sighed,

“She was being insufferable. I could not help but speak and then I could not stop my tongue.”

“No, of course not, not any longer as you’ve made her weep.” The King laughed, “Tell me, Éomer, how does a man like you of seemingly good heart go about sewing such a wide swath of discord in so short a time? You’ve enraged Faramir, Éowyn and now an innocent Lady…what or who is next? Dare I let you roam the streets?”

The King nodded, “I imagine not.” After a moment, he asked, “What was her name?”

“So that you could not find her? She is wise as well.” Aragorn snickered at him and Éomer walked faster, irritated. “Éomer?” He ignored him. “Éomer? Come,” He laughed, saying plaintively, “I didn’t mean it!” Aragorn caught up and they walked in silence for a moment. The King asked, “Was she pretty?”

Aragorn was grinning with glee. “Does she hold a grudge or did she forgive you?”

Éomer was unsure. “She seemed to…wish time to debate forgiveness, if grant it at all.”

“Let us see…you say the Lady was arrogant; it seems she holds a grudge,” The King laughed, “I could not have found a better match for you had I scoured the City! What possessed you to make her weep?”

Grinding his teeth, he repeated himself. “There will be no match. I did not mean to make her weep. I do not wish to speak about her.”

“Oh, stop it! Stop!” Drawing a breath, Éowyn cried out when she could take no more. He was driving her insane with his nearness, his hands on her sides, and his maddeningly slow exploration of the ever-broadening area she allowed him to touch. Not that he has forced me any…he’d been unfailingly gentle, but she could take no more for the moment.

“What is it?” Faramir's breath ghosted hotly on her exposed shoulder as his fingers nudged aside the hem of her dress to bare still more skin. “You don't like that?”

“Yes...I do.” She wiggled under his mouth, fighting to relax and enjoy it; it did feel nice, really. Her throat tightened, “But...”

He kissed below her collarbone, “Then why do you ask me to stop?” Éowyn gasped as he continued, tensing, her hands clenching his surcoat, involuntarily twisting the leather. Faramir’s mouth paused above her bosom and she felt the heat of his breath again, drifting into the valley between her breasts. Would he go lower?

He sat up when she shoved his chest and he was panting slightly, face flushed. The breathless sound of his voice made her tremble in knowing she’d made it so, affected him, even if only to make his heart beat faster and his voice come roughly. “That's not a clear answer you're giving me...” His grin faded when he saw she was upset.

“Yes, yes it is.” She glared at him as she jerked her dress back over her shoulder.

“Why?” He frowned but moved away obediently. Éowyn relaxed; she could breathe again without him hovering over her.

Faramir laughed. She leaned back when he reached for her and he sobered. “I'm sorry, I won't do it again.” Then, obviously unable to help himself, he added smugly, “Without your permission.”

“What makes you think you will gain it?” If possible, Éowyn thought, he got even smugger looking. Voice cool, she added, “You will not.” She took some satisfaction from his immediate despairing expression; all in play, of course. Faramir was astonishingly playful when she allowed it and did not give way to fear.

“No.” Though she was shocked to find she was already considering the idea. And what would he sound like if he did beg? She shivered. “Most definitely not.”

“No! Wait, is it a real question this time?” Éowyn was filled with exasperation. Her skin still hummed where his mouth and hands had touched. She wasn't quite sure she liked the way he’d gone about it, but the sensations had been undeniably pleasurable. Perhaps he will be a good lover…she bit her lip and looked down, filled with girlish laughter.

“Oh...” Annoyed, she raised her hand to smack him but he caught it and held it to his chest.

“Still frightened of me?” He asked it softly, his gaze focused on her face and she realized this was his real question.

“I swore I would stop when you said. I'm a man of my word. You never have to worry, Éowyn. I would never hurt you.”

“You don't have to…” He hesitated, “I can feel you tense every time I move or get closer, it is if you are waiting for me to hurt you, to push my will on you…” Faramir’s voice gentled, “Like some other has before.” He sighed, “I wish you would speak and unburden your heart.”

“I can't help it.” She was defensive, nervous and hoping he would not question her. Éowyn didn’t wish to snap at him again, didn’t want to see hurt rise on his noble features.

“I know, I’m beginning to understand…and I won't ask you why again.” Again it seemed he'd guessed her mind. “But,” He smiled, “I won't stop wanting to touch you. I can't help that. So, can I...”

She smiled. It did feel very good. He took her smile as accord and bent and kissed her throat before she could do anything, quickly moving to catch her earlobe between his teeth. Éowyn squirmed, “Faramir!”

Éowyn sat for a second trying to think. It feels so good…he would not do anything… Her fear answered, he might…and she defended fiercely, but he won’t! Careful, feeling herself blush a little, she allowed, “You may continue…for a while.”

“As you wish. Hmm…” He eyed her boldly. Éowyn followed his gaze down her front.

Faramir became jesting as he did when she grew tense, “And risk your wrath again my Lady? Your high opinion of my bravery is quite flattering. I have a nice collection of bruises from earlier.”

“Oh I barely...” She rolled her eyes, relaxing at his innocently merry tone.

He interrupted, “Here again? You like this, right? It is not too forward?” He leaned forward, this time pressing more of his body against hers as his mouth, hot on her skin, kissed and suckled her neck. Faramir’s voice was low, “I want you to enjoy what I do, answer me and relax, please?” He was murmuring reassurances, placing tiny, soft and repetitive kisses from her throat to her cheek, her brow, “I will not hurt you, I will do only what you desire…”

“I know…” Éowyn whispered it with all her courage. His hands did not circle round her waist as before or even tried again to, as he'd attempted once and been thoroughly rebuffed, slide up her thigh, but instead cupped her elbows as though he accepted and supported her shielding herself. Éowyn closed her eyes, I can trust him, she thought.

“You want me to stop?” He frowned, pulling back when she moved, forcing her arms to come around his shoulders, sliding them up and around his neck. Feeling strangely exposed, she shivered as his chest pressed against her, placing her palms flat on his surcoat, willfully holding them there.

“No.” She swallowed, trying to relax, fighting claustrophobia; her new position meant he was more on top of her than ever, leaning over her bent knees, pressing her to the back of the couch. Wrapping her fingers in his dark hair to comfort herself, she whispered again. “Go on, I like it.”

He smiled and bent quickly and she surprised herself by laughing at his clear enthusiasm for the task. He is good, gentle…I can trust him… Éowyn closed her eyes and concentrated on relaxing. She would have to trust him, she’d already given her word. Her heart wrenched. I have no choice but to trust…

“Gea?” Éomer turned to face the man who had come to stand before him. He frowned; he'd sent Halorl to find Éowyn and assumed he'd found her. At least the Rohir had not reported since and that had been hours before. The City is large…

“Hlaford Faramir? Ná.” Halorl was puzzled by the question, but answered anyway.

“Léoflic.” Éomer growled. “He agreed not to be in her presence without a guard.” He’d seen Merry in the Hall of Feasts. There are others…but he could not imagine his sister commanding them. It this rebellion his or her doing? Hers and he would merely be annoyed, his…Éomer felt a spark of fear for the anger the rose from deep within himself.

He’d been silent and the King gazed at him levelly, “Do not think about doing anything foolish, Éomer...”

Aragorn halted and when he spoke his words held a tone of command. “I mean it.”

“I'm well aware you do, that is why I said it.” Aragorn snapped, impatiently grabbing hold of Éomer's shoulder and stopping him in his tracks. Halorl stiffened automatically, eyes watchful for any harm to his Lord. “Faramir is an honorable man who does not deserve your wrath over so small a matter.”

“Give him your sword, I don’t want it within the reach of your hand.” He nodded at the wary Halorl.

Éomer gritted his teeth in frustration, but obeyed. He unbuckled the belt and roughly handed his sheathed sword to Halorl. He tried to lighten his voice, “So, you do think there is a reason to drive me to draw my Gúthwinë against him then?”

The King’s gaze was cautious. “Not at all,” Aragorn retorted, “I just do not want you to do something foolish.”

“Well, we shall soon find out if something foolish is necessary, won't we?” Éomer turned his back and stalked down the hall, impatient to return to the Houses and his sister’s room.

“Word.” Faramir raised her hand to press his lips to the tip of Éowyn's index finger.

“And this now.” He turned her hand over and kissed her palm. Faramir had pulled away from her minutes ago, sensing that he had better stop before he had lost control and did anything too forward. She is so fragile… He marveled that Éowyn could have slain the Witchking and its loathsome mount with such courage and yet still flinch at his lightest of touches. But, unable to resist the temptation, he'd slid back on the couch and pulled Éowyn to lie against him with her head resting on his chest. Faramir had had to hold her, to encourage her to stay with many puppyish and eager kisses to her cheek and throat before she’d relaxed in the new position.

“Ah.” He bent his head to kiss the top of hers. Faramir's right leg was hanging off the cushions, his left awkwardly bent with most of Éowyn's weight resting upon it and his left arm was trapped beneath her side; all three were beginning to tingle fiercely as they fell asleep. I’m too afraid to move and ruin this… He smiled and endured.

“Hafela.” He repeated the word with an inflection he judged to be as close to her accent as he could make it and ran his hand up her arm as far as he could reach.

“Earm.” Éowyn added the next word to his expanding vocabulary as he got to her shoulder. “Eaxle.” He heard her swallow, then say, “You'll never remember this.”

“Probably not.” Faramir smiled, agreeing easily. He wavered, not certain if he should, then boldly skimmed his hand across the front of her chest, fingers grazing bare skin just a few scant centimeters above her breasts. The skin was so soft, so smooth; he marveled and wanted to touch it again, but Éowyn yelped in alarm and slapped his hand away. “Word.” Faramir repeated it sternly when she didn't answer. Finally she did and he could see the curve of her cheek pinken. He grinned, but felt a rush of pity. So shy…my wild Shieldmaiden is so shy…like unto a creature in the wood, the slightest noise frightens her…

“Breost.” She wriggled onto her side, her weight shifting onto his stomach as she got comfortable. He winced as blood rushed stinging into his legs; Faramir glanced despairingly at his still trapped right arm, flexing his toes in hopes of restoring circulation. Éowyn pressed her cheek against his shoulder and said, “I don't know how many words you think you're going to learn, Faramir.”

“Inwitful, gálferhð mann.” She rolled her eyes in surrender. Faramir let it go unexplained. He touched her chin.

She held still when he traced her curving lips then the gentle oval of her face. “Lippa. Onsyn.”

“Which is which?” Faramir was briefly confused, mesmerized anew by the softness of her skin. Like the petals of a flower…

“Onsyn is the word for face. You're not even paying attention.” She turned to peer up at him after his hand left her.

“I am so.” She probably had a point, but Faramir wasn't ready to concede it. He was having too much fun to end this game.

“What was that?” He looked curiously down at the top of her head. She'd spoken in a rather amused tone, shaking her head.

Éowyn said innocently. “Náþing á Faramir.” She smiled a rare mischievous smile. “Min léof, andgietléas mann.”

Min léof. Faramir was startled, remembering those were the words the woman he'd assumed was Éowyn had spoken to him in his dream. It was she…his heart leapt with hope and joy. “Well now I shall certainly have to know.”

“No! Stop! No!” She squealed, then Éowyn thrashed, laughing and squirming as he tickled her side with his trapped left hand, his right wrapped securely around her stomach to cut off any attempts to escape.

“Tell me.” Faramir gave a mock growl, playfully wiggling his fingers in a threat of more tickling. Somehow she'd moved up and completely onto her back; now he was resting his chin on her shoulder. He nuzzled it, then kissed her neck.

“No!” To his delight, Éowyn seemed to soften at his kiss. She smiled and her objection was weaker, “No.”

“Then you give me no choice but to...” He began dramatically then trailed off, uncertain.

“What're you going to do?” Her voice was a bit nervous as she turned her head, luxurious masses of golden hair spilling over his front. Faramir hesitated, desperately trying to come up with an adequate consequence to his warning that would not upset her. Éowyn had just begun to truly relax, but now he could feel her stomach tighten under his arm. Finally, he just growled again, nuzzling her hair. “You sound like a troll...” But that was all she said before he began to gently nibble her earlobe. Faramir smiled, inwardly triumphant when she didn't object.

“Are...they?” Éowyn was distracted; he kept nibbling for a moment before pulling away to answer.

He chuckled softly, kissing the delicate curve of her ear. “That makes sense.”

“Stay here.” Aragorn left no room for objections and Éomer offered none, at least none verbal. The sharp clench of his hands into fists and the way he ground his teeth spoke for itself, he thought, silently gathering his rage just in case. Halorl, still holding Éomer's sword, hovered behind him.

When it was obvious Aragorn expected an answer, Éomer nodded impatiently, “Fine.” The King turned to walk down the short hall to the door to Éowyn's room, leaving him waiting in the wide corridor.

“If you're looking for Éowyn she's not in there.” A small dark figure popped out of the shadows in the quiet Houses. All three men jumped, startled. The hobbit, clad in his black guard attire, looked pleased, rocking on his large heels, hands behind his back.

“I was just walking by.” He pouted then grinned. “It's not my fault you big folk are so noisy you can't hear...”

“What for?” Éomer asked at the same time Aragorn frowned and said, “Pippin, what do you have behind your back?”

“Nothing.” His eyes went wide but he smiled and taking his hands from behind his back and holding them out for inspection. They were empty. He answered Éomer’s question second. “We just wanted to ask her if she wanted to go...go somewhere with us. Tomorrow.”

“Us hobbits. Merry and me.” Pippin thought for a moment. “Maybe Gandalf too.”

“We like her. Why, don't you Aragorn?” The hobbit looked genuinely curious. And suddenly forgetting his irritation, Éomer smiled. He was imagining a marriage proposal from the Shire.

Sighing and folding his arms in a remarkably parental way, Aragorn answered, “Yes, of course I do.” He eyed the hobbit. “Now tell me what have you got in your pocket.”

“Yes, I do still remember Rivendell,” Aragorn glared, “Although exactly how you found a snake in the winter escapes me nonetheless.”

“But it...” Aragorn rolled his eyes and said, “Oh, never mind. What do you have now?”

“Nothing! Wait, why are you looking for Éowyn?” Pippin asked hopefully, obviously attempting to change the subject.

“We are looking for Éowyn and Faramir.” Éomer impatiently stressed each word in order to make sure they heard him.

“Oh. Haven't seen them. Umm...Ihavetogonow!” Pippin squeaked and with a hurried bow, quickly trotted away.

“He had something.” Aragorn muttered, then he blinked and said cheerfully, “Well, I guess she isn't here. Éowyn must be somewhere else then. Perhaps we should check...”

“His quarters?” Éomer was not amused any longer. He'd hoped to find his sister in her room and Faramir alone. Now there was a real possibility he wouldn't like what he found when he eventually caught up with them. Éomer flexed his hands, tensely clenching and unclenching them; he hoped he wouldn't discover them alone together; it was a dangerous slight to his authority for Faramir to pay no regard to a direct command. And although a small portion of him admired the daring, he wondered irritably that if they were together, why Faramir couldn't have just taken her out with everyone else. I would not care if they were in the Hall of Feasts alone or in the gardens or even walking the streets! Why could he not do that? He calmed himself with an effort. They’d not seen everywhere; the Steward could have easily taken his sister to one of the places he’d thought of. Éomer gestured impatiently, “Let us go to his rooms. Now.”

“If you wish.” Aragorn sighed in defeat and Éomer fell into step with Halorl behind them.

Faramir couldn't take it any longer. When he’d run out of places she’d allowed him to touch, Éowyn had lain still, and he’d fallen silent. They’d stayed that way for a short while. He’d felt the effort of breathing with her slight weight on his chest, the warmth of her body, the tickle of her hair on his neck and closed his eyes, pretending that if he moved she would not flinch, but instead smile and welcome his advances with open arms. It is yet fantasy… Faramir opened his eyes and sighed. Éowyn then turned over so that she faced him, a movement he’d not expected. He looked at her, waiting, but she’d not given any further sign, just stared back at him. He could feel her heart beating fast.

Daring to take initiative, he’d kissed her, having to reach, and she’d not pulled back, but instead had begun with much hesitation to touch him in return. Her slim little fingers tiptoed over his cheek, sliding under his jaw with the softest of touches; when he’d pulled back from her mouth, she touched his, laughing and jerking away when he’d lightly caught her fingertips between his teeth. Éowyn had resumed her exploration as he’d resumed his kisses, the smooth pads of her fingers tracing his brow, running through his hair, then down to his shoulder, they felt of his arm, she’d passed her palm over his chest. She’d spent a long while with her hand on the White Tree.

But her tentative touches were driving him dangerously close to ideas he knew he shouldn't be getting anytime soon. Careful, she is at ease now, but what of the next kiss? It was all too uncertain, so he gently pushed her away and stood slowly, shaking his arm and flexing his fingers to get the feeling back into them. Éowyn sat up with her feet curled under her; she looked waif-like, an innocent child he’d simply found in his rooms. “It was asleep.” He explained absently, shaking his arm harder, hoping she would accept the excuse.

“Are you cold?” Faramir wasn't at all but then his sable surcoat, sable cotehardie and dark collared shirt beneath it covered him far better than her simple dress. He eyed the skin it bared—it looked as delicious as she’d felt within his arms. He smiled, thinking that wrapping her in something might ease his growing temptation.

“A little.” He took a moment out from forcing the blood back into his arm to throw some wood on the dwindling fire and for the first time noticed that most of the candles were burned down to sputtering nubs. It was far later than he'd realized. She looks tired too. Éowyn pulled her knees to her chest. Faramir guiltily remembered that he'd slept most of the day and she hadn't.

“You want a blanket?” He offered politely, nodding toward his bedroom, hoping to prolong her stay.

“Must you…?” He cut himself off, embarrassed. Of course she has to go. Éowyn smiled.

“I suppose I could stay a bit longer, if you read to me from one of those books.”

“Which one?” He glanced at his overflowing desk and chuckled. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“All right. Give me a moment.” Faramir picked up his drawing, though not without a pang of sadness, and carried it into the bedroom. He lifted the lid on the second wooden chest and carefully placed it inside before taking out an old book, the pages curling and tattered. Clutching it in one hand, he pulled the top layer of furs off of his bed and carried them back to the couch, dumping the hides into her lap. “Here.”

“Thank you.” And she was immediately lost in them, snuggling deep into the silky pelts. Éowyn’s voice held more cheek as she asked, “What else did you bring me?”

He grinned, heart light at her ease, and held up the book. “Elves, dragon's gold and silmarils, what else would be a worthy prize for my Lady?”

“Not one, but bits and pieces of the great elven stories. Do you not hear them in Rohan?” He was unable to imagine such a thing.

She shook her head. “We have our own tales and hear others only in scraps told by traders or sung by minstrels.” Éowyn’s voice became quieter, “We’ve not heard them in many years…few have traveled to Edoras.”

Trying to cheer her, he remained blithe. “Well, you'll have to tell them to me some night.” Faramir stole some of the furs as he sat down, intentionally giving her a little room, but he was pleasantly surprised when she scooted to his side at once and curled up there. Thinking he was probably pushing it, but not caring, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and opened the book on his lap.

“If you want.” She finally murmured a reply. Faramir smiled, wondering how long it would be before she fell asleep. If she can fall asleep against me, surely she trusts me… He turned the frayed cover and the pages fell open to a familiar place. Faramir began to read,

“The leaves were long, the grass was green, the hemlock-umbels tall and fair, and in the glade a light was seen of stars in shadow shimmering...”

“What is that?” Éowyn raised her head to peer at the book. “It's in that other language.” She sounded both surprised and intrigued.

“Aye.” He felt embarrassed and a bit proud to see how it impressed her. Faramir cleared his throat, aware he was boasting, “I’ve learned the high elven and the grey elven as part of my studies.”

Éowyn nodded and he continued, “It was the only copy I could find at the time. It’s a portion of the tale of Beren and Lúthien, beginning with the poem written about them.”

“Tinúviel was dancing there to music of a pipe unseen, and light of stars was in her hair, and in her raiment glimmering...”

Éowyn was smiling, piping up again from his shoulder; her hand had wedged itself against his side where she lay, all warmth and pleasing womanly softness. “I thought her name was Lúthien.”

“It is. Just listen.” He found his place, “There Beren came from mountains cold, and lost he wandered under leaves...”

Éowyn shook her head, “I want to hear it, I’ve never heard the elven tongue.”

Náþing á Faramir. Min léof, andgietléas mann-Nothing at all Faramir. My dear, senseless man.

Éomer eventually noticed the lack of footsteps behind him and turned, feeling his irritation rise. Halorl had stopped following and was no longer even in sight; he blinked at the vacant corridor, thinking it was an incredible display of waywardness for a man he’d thought of as quite biddable. The hall was empty save for flickering torches and a few men in the distance—they wore finery and were most definitely not Halorl—and he frowned in consternation. Where did he go? He glanced at Aragorn’s retreating back, then the long, straight passageway they were traveling down, calculating. Éomer sighed. Even with turning down a side hall, Aragorn could not lose him in the time it took to find and fetch Halorl.

Quickly backtracking to the last corridor that diverged from their passage, he found his aide standing in the center of the hall, doing nothing that he could see. Halorl jumped guiltily when he came to his side and demanded, “Hwa eart ge dáng?”

“Com, Halorl, nu.” He decided that he did not care what had distracted the man and had more important things to worry about. My sister…

“Gea, min Hlaford.” The man looked embarrassed for having fallen behind, quickly matching his long strides. Eager to catch up with the King, Éomer reentered the hall and halted, staring at the empty passageway in mild bewilderment. Aragorn must have rounded the corner already. Oh, where did he go? The King had not noticed his absence.

He tightened his jaw and walked swiftly down the hall; he was unable to believe Aragorn had gotten so far away in the few seconds they’d spent watching the mysterious figures. It is impossible, he thought incredulously. I just wish to find my sister…it was a task that had never been this difficult in Edoras. “Aragorn!” Éomer had finally reached the corner. It branched off into two different directions—left and right. Expectantly, he looked down both ways and swore in a surprised burst of frustration; both were empty. He had no idea which way to go and kept looking back and forth, uncertain, unable to remember which direction would take him deeper into the City or closer to the walls.

An anxious minute later, Éomer called out again, trying not to shout in the sleepy silence, “Aragorn!” He waited, listening as hard as he could, but there was no answer. At his side, Halorl shifted from one foot to the other, looking contrite, but Éomer paid him no attention.

“Éowyn?” Faramir glanced down; she’d not spoken or moved in a long while. “Are you asleep?” There was no reply. He closed the book, careful with its fragile, curled pages and set it down by his side, equally careful not to jostle her; it was getting too dark in his room to read with the fire burning down again, the shadows steadily deepening. Faramir looked down at her head resting on his shoulder and sighed. With her hand on his stomach, leaning against his body, Éowyn appeared so peaceable, so untroubled, completely at ease. I wish she could relax…but surely she has learned I won’t hurt her… He hoped so feverishly, wanting to wake her just to look into her eyes and see if they were soft or wide with nervous fear. Spending a few seconds admiring the way her golden hair gleamed in the faint light and pushing away the tempting thought of how comfortable he really was, Faramir finally collected himself and jiggled his shoulder in an attempt to gently prod her. But all that earned him was a mumbled complaint. His heart lightened. Surely she does not fear…

“Éowyn? Wake up.” He tried for stern and just barely managed. It was hard to be demanding while smiling with budding joy. “Wake up, my love…dearest…most beautiful of maidens…” Whispering, he brushed a few strands of her hair away from her brow, turning to look down at her more fully. Éowyn was beautiful even with her light eyes shut; to cover them she had lashes many shades paler than her flaxen hair and fair skin. The bridge of her nose and her cheekbones were just a little reddened from the sun, her blush-rose lips slightly parted. He could feel her warmth, her weight against him and the sensation was both foreign and acutely pleasurable. I don’t want to move…he did not wish to end the mellow, promising moment, afraid of speaking louder and waking her. Faramir breathed her name, “Éowyn?”

“Hmm?” She stirred, one hand stretching across his front to clasp and hug his side, her head burrowing deeper into his shoulder. Éowyn sighed and murmured, “What?”

He stroked the back of his fingers over her cheek. It was so soft, so soft. Faramir smiled, whispering tenderly to her creased brow, “You fell asleep.”

“No…” Éowyn shook her head in a tiny motion of dissent. “Did not.” She sounded childishly petulant and still half in slumber. Faramir chuckled and fingered her hair, wrapping a great sheaf of it around his knuckles and watching the fading light of the candles glow off of it.

Spun gold…gleaming like the Sun off the walls, shining on the Great River…all things rich and beautiful. He was in no hurry. But…he sighed and mustered a firmer tone. “Yes, you did. Now, come, get up.” She had to go, no matter what he desired.

“Wha—” Éowyn opened her eyes. For a moment she just stared at him, then she inhaled in a sharp little gasp of surprise and sat up, withdrawing her arm and pulling back all at once and so swift that she yanked the furs from his lap. She looked alarmed, as though she’d thought she was somewhere else or, he thought, studying her, speaking with someone else. Éowyn scooted further backwards and completely baffled at her jittery reaction, Faramir let her go, removing his arm. His heart gave a prick of distress. He’d been right to not wish for the moment to end.

“What’s wrong?” He gazed at her searchingly, observing everything he could: the slight difference in her eyes, her tense posture, her hands fidgeting, a dead giveaway for nervousness with her that he’d picked up on; from all these things he tried to determine her state of mind. Faramir smiled soothingly, “It’s all right, you’re with me.” Taking a guess, he murmured, “No other, just me.”

“I know.” Voice faint, Éowyn nodded, but her manner was no longer relaxed and he frowned in perplexity, reaching out to her mind. Faramir had long been aware of his ability to perceive the thoughts of men, though usually only those from persons in close range or whom he already knew; it was a valuable gift passed down from his father’s line, and he’d often used it to his advantage. However, to his annoyance Éowyn managed to escape this insight almost entirely. Able to sense only extremely forceful emotions from her and no thoughts at all, he found himself feeling partially blind even when looking into her face. Éowyn so utterly blinded him that Faramir had all but given up on ever being able to learn her thoughts. He was wondering if it were a natural characteristic of the Rohirrim, having noticed a similar, if not as severe effect with Éomer and Halorl when she spoke again, answering his earlier question. “N-Nothing’s wrong, Faramir.” She hesitated, licking her lips and slowly pushing the hides away; Éowyn did not meet his eyes as she murmured. “Just a strange dream. It startled me.” She gave him an uncertain smile, “I’m sorry if…”

“It’s all right, do not worry.” He touched her hand, feeling how it sat in his without reaction, and frowned again. Was that a lie? Something felt off. He stared at her, unable to tell and disoriented by his inability. Lies were usually so simple to discern.

She mustered another awkward smile and shifted purposely. He let her go and she looked away, finishing untangling herself from the furs, pushing them towards him as though to give herself a barrier. “I’ll—I’ll see you tomorrow then?” Éowyn took a breath and her smile grew a little less uncomfortable, “It’s late, I…have to leave.”

“Yes, yes, all right.” He smiled at her, pleased by how she’d offered to see him first, equally displeased by her distant behavior. “I’d like that.” Smiling in eager hope, seeking to instill the same in her, Faramir held himself in place for a second, concentrating and sensed…nothing but free-floating apprehension. Why can I not read her? Frustrated and again ready to admit defeat, he rose to politely accompany her to the door.

But once there, he laid his hand against the worn wood then pressed it flat, turning to face her and intentionally blocking the way. “When?” Faramir watched her eyes dart to his hand and felt his joy begin to fade. His voice reflected it, lowering, becoming more melancholy. What is wrong, my love? What, what…what can I do? He wondered if she were perturbed because she’d awoken next to him or if it had really been a strange dream and waited patiently for an answer while she licked her lips and crossed and uncrossed her arms.

“When?” Repeating him with a frown, Éowyn still avoided looking directly into his eyes. He smiled reassuringly, wishing he could sense anything at all from her, besides vague anxiety, that might help.

I want to help…why won’t you let me? “I was wondering when will I be able to see you tomorrow.” Faramir explained himself with another wide, patient smile. He hoped to spend most of the day with her. A week he said…it seemed a terribly short amount of time with all his duties taking most of the days. And how long will she be in Rohan? He frowned. How long will I?

“Oh. I don’t know. Um…” Éowyn touched her hair nervously. Growing more frustrated by the second, Faramir was about to ask her what was wrong again when a knock at the door that he leaned against startled them both.

“Faramir!” The voice was familiar, that of his Lord. Odd, usually it inspired confidence, obedience, optimism, but at the moment it did not; Faramir could read Elessar’s emotions, though he usually didn’t out of respect, and now he frowned, staring blindly at the door’s frame even as he moved to open it. The King’s mind was uncharacteristically anxious. “Faramir.” When he called again, he sounded slightly out of breath and unusually harried, immediately pounding at the reinforced wood.

The mystery faded when Éowyn shifted and he became mindful of her again. Faramir cursed inwardly, well aware that his chances at getting an answer from Éowyn would probably disappear as soon as she did. Turning, he asked quietly, hearing his own pleading, “Stay a moment?” She nodded with an obvious reluctance that made his heart ache.

Please…what can I do? He could do nothing unless she allowed it, which will not happen until she trusts me, but she can’t trust if she is still hurt…it seemed a baffling, frustrating circle and he could see no way out. His heart firmed as he glanced to her, seeing her hurt in her uncertain stance, how she hid behind a sheaf of her hair. There must be a way!

Opening the door was a task made easier by Aragorn rudely pushing inside. Faramir stepped back, astonished; if his Lord’s mind was usually composed, this brusqueness from the ever diplomatic and courtly Elessar was beyond strange, near incomprehensible. “Faramir…” Aragorn fell silent, staring at Éowyn. She blinked, quickly looking away in discomfort at his scrutiny.

“Yes?” Faramir kept his voice calm with long practice, but he was not able to entirely smooth over his annoyance and rising perturbation. It showed and his question held an edge. “Do you wish something of me, my Lord?” All confusion about his master’s behavior aside, he didn’t like the way Aragorn was staring at her; it was as though she wasn’t supposed to be here, as though they were doing something wrong. She is my betrothed! Not some harlot!

“Ah…” The King looked to be at a loss while gazing at Éowyn. Suddenly he came back to himself, turning to ask evenly, “Could I speak to you in private, Faramir?”

What for? It is the middle of the night, can it not wait? Controlling his irritation, Faramir politely offered. “Do you wish to go into the hall?” The last thing he wanted was to give Éowyn a chance to get away. After all the time he’d spent this night just getting her to relax, Faramir didn’t want to start from scratch tomorrow. He glanced at her, worried at how withdrawn she seemed already. What did I do wrong? He’d done nothing and knew it, which only frustrated him more.

“No!” Aragorn swiftly composed himself, taking a deep breath. “No…perhaps…” He trailed off pointedly, turning his eyes to Éowyn. Faramir ground his teeth in irritation.

“Oh, oh, of course.” Éowyn started. “Of course, Aragorn. I apologize.” She smiled unconvincingly, smoothing her skirts as she took a step towards the door. “Faramir…” She nodded at him, her voice already taking on the tones of farewell.

“Don’t.” Faramir extended a hand, stepping forward quickly to stop her. It came out sharper than he’d intended, so he asked again, more softly, “Please, give us a moment.”

“I need to speak to you in private.” Aragorn stressed, glancing back at the still open door. Éowyn looked back and forth between them, confused and twisting her hands.

And I don’t care. Full of rare rebellion, Faramir glared at Aragorn, who did not speak again, but returned his glance with equal determination. After several seconds of tense silence he said as neutrally and in a servile a tone as possible when he was so exasperated, “My Lord, I beg you, tell me what you want, you may speak in front of her.” Or leave, Faramir added mentally. He couldn’t imagine what it was that Aragorn would tell him that required Éowyn to go.

“I want an explanation.” Éomer’s deep voice startled them all as he appeared in the doorway. Aragorn grimaced and sighed deeply in defeat, his shoulders slumping; he rubbed his neck and frowned at the Lord of the Mark. Éowyn gazed skeptically at her brother.

They stood in uncomfortable silence until Faramir broke it again, tense and growing more vexed by the moment. I do not have the patience for this man…his patience was not an endless well and Éowyn took much of it. His tone was too harsh, even to his own silent recognition, challenging, “An explanation? Tell me, what for?”

Éomer’s stared at him as though honestly surprised, then his eyes narrowed and he stepped fully into the room. His voice was thick with sarcasm when he asked, “You can’t guess, Faramir?”

“No, I can’t.” Éomer’s insolence rankled him; coupled with his frustration over Éowyn’s renewed and erratic hesitation, his temper held by a thread. Not thinking, Faramir matched his sarcasm. “Why don’t you explain it to me?”

Aragorn interrupted; he was controlled, lending contrast to their tense, snappish words and stiff postures. “Éomer, I want you to step back into the hall and speak with me for a moment…” The King paused and allowed with less control, “Then you may reprove Faramir as you like.” He laid a hand on the Lord of the Mark’s shoulder; it was shook off.

“You remember our agreement, Faramir?” Éomer was visibly holding back his temper, his voice tightening, his jaw clenched.

He frowned, suddenly wary and not as confident. “No…” Faramir searched his mind, but could not recollect anything.

“You agreed…” Each word was stressed as though he spoke to a child; it only aggravated Faramir more, “That when you see my sister,” Éomer gestured impatiently to Halorl, “You see her with him.” Faramir frowned, remembering and feeling a stab of unease. “We had an—”

“Oh, brother…” Éowyn rolled her eyes irritably, saying, “Éomer, that is so foolish!”

He glanced at her, blanching, looking surprisingly vulnerable, even hurt and losing some of his ire as he protested anxiously. “No, he agreed!”

I did. Faramir winced and took a breath, prepared to apologize, quickly framing it in words of sincerity. I apologize, Éomer, it slipped my mind…no excuse…

But before he could, Éowyn shook her head at her brother, grimacing, “Éomer, you are being ridiculous! Faramir is a good, trust-worthy—”

Despite knowing himself to be in the wrong, Faramir felt a brief moment of elation; she was supporting and even defending him. He smiled at her profile, heart lightening, spirits uplifted with pleasure. She does love me…he felt himself relax. Éowyn was simply shy, simply frightened and needed more time to understand that he would not treat her as cruelly as she had been in the past.

“No!” Interrupting her, Éomer upheld himself, but with less and less enthusiasm, “He agreed!” He hesitated, “Sister…I will have any speak of…I won’t have your maiden’s honor—”

“My what—oh, you are being—” Scoffing loudly, Éowyn stepped forward and gave her head an impatient shake so that her flaxen hair, which had been lying over her shoulders, fell back.

“No, Éowyn, you are not listening to me!” He huffed with exasperation, “Please listen—” Already filled with slow defeat, Éomer’s voice cut off in mid-argument. His eyes widened and he stared at her for a long beat, taking in her appearance. An instant later it was restored to him and he turned to snarl thickly, voice rising with growing indignation and ferocity, “What have you been doing with my sister?”

Éowyn blinked, turning from her brother to Faramir as well, her lips parted, confusion ruling her face. “What…? What is it?” Reflexively, Aragorn and Faramir had both jerked, looking at her to find the cause of Éomer’s instantaneous fury.

Now Aragorn groaned softly. He tried again more sternly and again his hand was thrown off and his words went unheeded. “Éomer, please, into the hall…” The King’s voice rose in annoyance, “I am not asking you!”

The Lord of the Mark did not even glance in his direction, riveted, furious, “Answer me! Now!”

Looking at Éowyn, Faramir had noticed for the first time the marks he’d left on her neck from his mouth. They were many, purplish-red, roundish, marks of love, of his passion. He winced, but then suddenly grew angry himself. She was his wife to be and not some girl he’d found. Did he not have a right to her if she did not object? A rare burst of pure rage flamed in his chest and Faramir’s lips twisted scornfully, his eyes narrowing.

“What? What is it?” Repeating herself, gaze flitting from him to her brother, Éowyn’s eyes were wide, confused and growing frightened, but she was ignored.

“How…dare, you dare to touch her…so…” Éomer was stammering, nearly incoherent, face reddening.

Aragorn’s voice was rising, “Éomer! Do not forget whose lands you are in!”

Faramir repeated him slowly, hearing his familiar tones as strange, grown dangerous and cold and oddly familiar. “How…dare I?” Éowyn’s eyes were distressed; she looked back and forth between them, twisting her hands.

Her whisper went unheard, lost in the rising fury that blocked his ears and his wiser side and narrowed his senses to fix solely upon the disrespectful, uncivilized man before him. “Éomer…please, no, Faramir, no…don’t…”

“Éomer, listen to me! Faramir!” Aragorn stepped forward, speaking clearly, loudly, raising his hands, trying to distract one of them, either of them. It didn’t work.

“I did nothing she didn’t want me to.” Faramir shocked even himself at the way it came from his mouth, unplanned and unchecked; he felt himself flush at the implications, things he’d never inferred so willfully before, if ever.

But his words had had the intended effect of deeply scoring Éomer’s very heart and honor; the man gasped with a quick indrawn breath, face and cheeks blanching pale only to fill immediately with the reddish flush of rage. Aragorn looked astonished, open-mouthed; Éowyn was horrified and coloring as she turned sharply away, Halorl’s face turned dark like his Lord’s had. Faramir was struck just as silent as they, unable to take back his words, unable to find a way to make them right.

In the frozen, absolute quiet that followed, he watched every ounce of reason leave Éomer’s eyes as the Lord of the Mark comprehended just how the remark was meant to be read. Faramir felt a rush of panic. Wait…he’d done as he’d always tried not to and spoken without thought. Wait…he’d meant to hurt the man, wound him for his irritating mannerisms; I meant to say that, but…he’d simply not been quick enough to watch or catch his tongue. And he’d intuitively struck, with shameful callousness, in Éomer’s greatest point of weakness—his sister and her purity. Staring into the man’s pale, enraged eyes with part fascination, part unease, he opened his mouth, framing…I did not mean…I meant no such thing…

He was too slow and Éomer hissed in a threatening undertone that vibrated with the purest of rage and most blistering of convictions. “No man says that about my sister.” His jaw clenched and Faramir knew the thick, metallic taste of blood, his mouth blossoming into hot pain as Éomer’s fist rose and slammed into his face with incredible speed and force. He stumbled back from the force of the blow, but did not fall and an impossibly strong grip fastened onto his collar and threw him, unresisting, against the hard wall.

Faramir’s skull impacted with an explosion of intense white light, stunning him so that he slid downwards, eyes unfocused, fighting unconsciousness and struggling to stay on his feet. He…he hit me…he was utterly shocked, blinking at the Lord of the Mark, his vision blurred. No man of the City would have struck him so coarsely or acted with such violence. Éomer was a savage. Then he was jerked upright and Faramir swayed, still stunned and disbelieving that what was happening was truly happening. He’d never brawled before in his life, never been struck with such disrespect, never fought any Man of the West and had never expected a fight to occur.

Suddenly he gagged, grabbing at Éomer’s forearm, which held him up by the neck and pinned him to the wall. But the pressure only increased, crushing him against the cold stone as Éomer snarled through bared teeth, “You will not speak of her in such a way. You do not deserve to even touch her!” His eyes were full of a rashness that promised violence.

“Éomer!” Aragorn was at their side in an instant, pulling on Éomer’s shoulder, powerfully jerking him two steps back. Released, Faramir choked with his throat on fire, coughing so much that he was unable to breathe. Behind them, he could see that Éowyn and Halorl stood wide-eyed, frozen in equal horror and he felt a moment’s deep pity that she should watch such savagery.

I did not mean…he had and it shamed him. He was bred better. Slumped against the wall, hands on his thighs, all his focus on breathing, Faramir gagged again as Aragorn lost his hold and Éomer’s arm grasped his shoulder, forcing him upright as his fist slammed into his stomach, driving the air he’d so recently gotten in, out of him. He could feel Éomer drawing back for another blow, but Aragorn was succeeding somewhat, grappling and pulling the cursing Lord of the Mark backwards, and the pain in his throat had receded enough for Faramir to draw a deep breath, clearing his head. He panted, taking in huge, raw draughts before looking up and seeing the fury in the other man’s eyes. He hit me…he hit me…of all the uncivilized…his resentment and guilt combined as he slowly straightened, watching Aragorn speak into Éomer’s ear, watching both the man’s anger and his struggles for freedom subside just the least bit. He’d provoked this fight…but only because he is a boor, a scoundrel who bullies to get his way! At the thought,Faramir felt a great, cold wave of contempt rise from deep within his heart and goad him forward.

Éomer had been dragged another step back when Faramir swung with all his strength, hitting him square in the face. He felt an alien thrill at the sensation, the give of flesh and more, and was repelled by himself. There had been a sickening crunch of bone, but with the adrenaline burning like fire in his veins Faramir was unable to tell whose it was and didn’t care. His hand ached, knuckles throbbing from the force he’d used. Bellowing a strangely garbled cry of rage, Éomer grabbed him again. “Éomer, no!” Aragorn, furious, yanked at them and was completely unprepared as Éomer turned and struck him as hard as he could. He staggered backwards, leaving the Lord of the Mark unhindered and Faramir was thrown to the ground with Éomer on top of him.

He thrashed as the man’s full weight landed on him, but Éomer was heavier in bone and with armor and pinned him easily to the flagstone. Striking out blindly with his fists, he connected once, twice—a third time blood splattered over his face, revoltingly hot. Éomer cried out, his voice oddly muffled and thick and Faramir felt him shift backwards. He was viciously triumphant, grinning through his bloody teeth, breath coming fast and hot, but Éomer had only moved to pin one of his hands to the floor with his knee. Faramir didn’t understand, still striking out with his other hand, until Éomer bore down mercilessly, panting in a tone of vindictiveness that transcended all tongues. “Ge wæmmst me, Ic wæm ge!”

He struggled, the pain becoming terrible, feeling his fingers and palm crying out in agony, tears rising, but a second later Faramir’s fingers snapped under the pressure and he howled in bestial pain, striking Éomer as hard as he could with his other fist. His strike was true and he managed to twist out from under the Lord of the Mark as Éomer fell back. His hand afire, he lifted one leg to kick the other man in the throat, seeking to inflict pain in any way possible.

It was Éomer’s turn to gag and choke, falling still further back to gather himself. As they crawled to their feet Faramir could hear them in an odd, disjointed way and their sound was terribly foreign—they were blowing like animals, rasping harshly like orcs in the mid of battle. Éomer faced him and neither’s anger had receded. Briefly cradling his broken hand, the fingers horribly crooked and wrong, Faramir lunged forward and got in one hard hit before Éomer simply charged him, using his weight to throw him back to the ground where he held the advantage. The bigger man’s hands wrapped around his throat and Faramir couldn’t breathe.

I can’t…I can’t…! Feeling panic begin enfold his mind, he struck out, but missed.

The pressure increased; the Lord of the Mark’s bloody face was intent, still flushed with fury as he cursed him. “Swicful swin…unfæle eafora æt—!” For a moment he thought he would explode, not from the lack of air or the heaving of his empty lungs, but the indignity of being cursed and not even knowing what the man spoke. Faramir balled his fist and struck hard. His throat burning like fire, lungs screaming in their vacuum, Faramir swung again and again, connecting with all the force he could muster, his knuckles shining with red blood, the crimson liquid running in tiny rivulets down his forearm; he could taste it, smell it and was revolted. He could see Aragorn pulling back on Éomer and each time he did the pressure on his throat would cut free and he could take a tiny sip of air, but it wasn’t enough. His vision began to turn grey.

A voice and the long, thin scrape that steel made as it was drawn cut through his dimming mind, along with a powerful rush of terror that was not his own. Éowyn…

“Ætstanda, Éomer! Nu!” He couldn’t understand her, but the demand was clear. Faramir felt the pressure lessen almost imperceptibly.

“Now!” She cried out harshly, firelight gleaming down the length of the sword as it flashed into Faramir’s rapidly decreasing field of vision. His dulling eyes fixed on it and suddenly Éomer’s hands were gone. Faramir choked gratefully, at once inhaling, his throat raw and burning. He coughed, painfully rolling over onto his side, clutching his stomach and dryly retching not air but what felt like invisible fire along his abused gullet.

“Do not move.” Aragorn’s eyes were black with rage and Faramir looked up to see him push Éomer, unresisting, back against the wall. Looking about the room and seeing only Halorl, his liege lord and the King, Faramir frowned, panting, unable to understand. He focused and saw the sword was in Aragorn’s hand. Where is Éowyn? Disoriented and certain he’d heard her voice, he tried to get up and hissed in pain, jerking back his left hand; he’d forgotten it was broken. Faramir grimaced, looking at the fingers and feeling slightly sick. They were twisted at an odd angle, smashed and his whole hand was bloody. The sight made him nauseous, made his fury vanish, leaving him with cold, queasy shame and fear.

What…what happened to me? He was sure he’d never acted with such an incredible level of indignity as he’d just shown.

Éomer was breathing hard as well, slumped against the wall. His face was a mask of bright blood that ran down his chin and soaked his collar. Their eyes met and the Lord of the Mark straightened to come for him once more, but Aragorn shoved him back hard and he did not try again. Crouched on the floor, Faramir panted, smiling a weak smile of rancor through his efforts to breathe; he’d broken the man’s nose. Slowly, painfully, he got to his feet. Once up, Faramir bent over, trying to catch his breath. He grimaced and coughed, which ignited a fresh wave of fire all the way down his gullet. His throat hurt terribly and when he spat it was laced with the pink of blood.

“Both of you…are acting like children… I have never seen such idiocy! You…you are of noble blood!” Aragorn was enraged enough to be virtually inarticulate. His face, too, was bloody with one eye already swelling and blackening. Faramir vaguely remembered he’d gotten struck as well.

His throat ached fiercely and when he swallowed it brought tears to his eyes, but he managed to rasp, “Éowyn? Where…?” He turned to Halorl. The man shrugged and gestured to the door.

The word was familiar enough; Faramir cursed and drew Aragorn’s attention. He was suddenly exhausted, staggering as the King snapped, “Both of you are coming with me to the Houses of Healing and I will hear no excuses. Now.” Éomer said nothing, blood dripping from his nose and fingers onto the floor. Faramir was tempted to argue, but he’d had enough for one night. He nodded meekly. “Take this.” Handing the Rohir Éomer’s sword, Aragorn was still speaking in short, clipped bursts of anger. Faramir looked at the long, broad blade and wondered wearily if Éowyn had really had it or if it had been his King the entire time. “Come.” Aragorn’s face was red and as they moved to follow he stopped and faced them, saying coldly, fully meaning it. “If you decide to fight again, my Lords, I’ll will send him,” He gestured to Halorl, “for the Tower Guards and have you both put in cells for the week without so much as a hunk of bread! I don’t care who you are, or what your station is!”

Faramir managed to whisper thinly, painfully, already feeling his gut twist anew with shame for his churlish actions. “Aye, my Lord.”

Éomer just nodded, eyes downcast, one hand to his bleeding nose. They moved around each other, meekly giving each other distance, but the fight had gone out of them. Faramir’s throat and hand were beginning to throb and swell; his fingers were blackened with bruises in a florid shade of purple and red that made him grimace. He could see that Éomer’s nose still dripped, and it too was swelling—the sight brought him some petty satisfaction. Faramir bowed his head. I should be ashamed…

Éowyn ran as fast as she could with feet pounding, side aching, her breath catching in her chest and smothering her; she wasn’t weeping, she couldn’t weep and run so quickly at the same time. Darting down this passage, then this one, turning randomly, she ran until she couldn’t go any further and when she stopped, clutching the wall and panting, she didn’t know where she was and didn’t care. Her eyes tightly closed, Éowyn slid to the ground, folding her legs beneath her, her head leaning back against the cold stones. Sweat trickled down the sides of her face, matting her hair at her temples; she tried to slow her breathing, taking long, deep breaths, her chest heaving. For a moment she felt peace.

Then the awful image of her brother and Faramir locked together rose in her mind and Éowyn’s eyes snapped open. She shoved herself to her feet, swaying on shaking legs, prepared to outrun it again but it was no use. Moaning in the darkness, she leaned her brow to the cool stone and pressed her front to the wall.

She’d stood while they’d struggled, witness to too many men fighting to do something as foolish as try to step between them. But, for a moment, while she’d done nothing, frozen with shock, with Faramir’s vulgar words echoing in her ears, hadn’t she desired, hadn’t she urged Éomer to… Why did he say that? He made me sound like a…

Refusing to think or imagine it again, Éowyn struck her fist into the stone, welcoming the flare of pain with an intent to use it, to gain a distraction from her troubles. It worked all too well, making her gasp from the fiery sting. Raising her hand, she gazed speculatively at the blood oozing from the fresh scrapes on her knuckles, finding escape in observing the tiny remnants of rasped away skin, the crimson of blood, the black of embedded grit. Her mind had cleared of its jumble so that she thought only of the biting pain and felt only weary regret for scraping herself, as she would have to deal with it now on top of everything else. But as she flexed it, wincing, and the pain faded, her thoughts continued inescapably.

And what had been so horrible was that she hadn’t been able to, at least until she’d known Aragorn wasn’t going to be able to stop them with any words or physical action. Éomer had been stronger than Faramir, quicker, more experienced and he’d been winning despite her Prince raining blow after punishing blow upon him. Éowyn pressed her palms against the stone; closing her eyes again as her stomach rolled in nausea with the sound of bones cracking, the sight of their blood on the floor, the twist of their bodies; in an instant it all happened again in her mind and she felt sick. They’d fought like animals, straining, panting, each seeking to dominate the other and as she’d watched, horror-struck, her brother’s hands had wrapped around Faramir’s throat and squeezed relentlessly.

It was only then that she’d acted, crossing the room and jerking Gúthwinë from its sheath. The sword had been terribly heavy, as though it resisted being turned against its master, and when she’d raised it, hadn’t her arms trembled from its weight? So strange, she’d lifted Gúthwinë many times without the slightest of effort. Éowyn bit her lip, remembering Éomer’s face when he’d looked up and seen her holding it. Her voice had cracked as she’d cried, “Ætstanda, Éomer! Nu!” “Stop Éomer! Now!”

And he’d looked so betrayed it had hurt her heart. His hands had fallen away, unresisting as Aragorn pushed him back. The King had taken the sword from her before it fell to the floor and Faramir had not pressed the fight, instead stilling and gasping for air. His harsh breaths had made her weak, made fear rise so that she thought she would faint as she’d never done. Yet all the while Éomer’s eyes had never left her, their light depths so like to her own filling with something she’d been unable to identify.

Éowyn swallowed in the dark, her dry throat clicking painfully as quiet tears moved down her cheeks, a cool wind chilling the trails of moisture and making her break into gooseflesh. Why had they fought? It was all so foolish, her brother too protective, Faramir too defensive…herself too weak to stop them.

She began walking slowly; hugging her sides, head down. The only sounds in the corridor were the low moans of the wind and the slow thuds of her feet. It didn’t matter where she went, really, she wasn’t going back to her rooms tonight. They could easily find her there and Éowyn didn’t think she could stand to see either one of them.

“So where will I go?” She asked it aloud, her voice sounding hoarse and dull with grief in the deserted corridor and then she stopped. Éowyn knew of only one person in the City whose room she would feel secure falling asleep in tonight or any night. Lifting her head wearily, she began to attempt to try and discover where she was. Hopefully, she wasn’t too far from the Houses.

“Wake him, he is needed.” Aragorn growled his words and it was clear that his temper had not improved during the walk. The sleepy young man at the Houses took one look at his Lord, bloody and battered with the two Lords accompanying him in even worse shape, and scurried off to fetch the Master of the Houses. Éomer watched, outwardly impassive, as a good warrior should be. Inwardly, he was in turmoil, still seething, awash with rage, feeling his anger press against his ribcage, making it hard to breathe. How dare he…how dare he say such a thing! Faramir stood on Aragorn’s other side, just as expressionless. But merely looking at him made Éomer furious again, so he quickly glanced away.

It was inexcusable, what Faramir had implied about his sister, and he chafed, struggling to repress his desire to lunge across the petty distance that separated them and finish the beating he’d begun to mete out. No one says such things about Éowyn and goes unpunished! Yet, she’d stopped him. Éomer clenched his hands, feeling his rage and dismay mount again, emotions building to make him tense and confused. Why…he’d been justified, any court in the Mark would have upheld his actions. You dishonor my only blood! His inner voice was a roar, a white-hot flare of his fully awoken temper. But he held himself still and silent, teeth clenched, spine stiff with tension, trying his best to obey Aragorn’s commands and, more importantly, to obey what he guessed were the wishes of his only blood, his dear Éowyn. She did not wish me to fight…he snuck a glance at the Steward and fresh hatred surged so that he turned his eyes away for fear of his temper escaping its leash.

His side felt empty without Gúthwinë, further disturbing him; there was nothing to finger, nothing to fiddle with to ease his anxiety. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself, wincing with each as the air flowed through his broken nose. It had stopped bleeding, but it still throbbed painfully and he tried to resist the urge to touch it, knowing that it would only hurt more.

“My Lords! What miscreant has done such a thing to you?” The Master sounded taken aback as he examined Aragorn first, then passed to Faramir, then lastly, Éomer. They did not answer and, wisely, or perhaps guessing, he did not press them. He ordered the boy to fetch some clean cloths and warm water then casually probed the crooked, swollen thing that had been Éomer’s nose. Éomer tried not to make a noise, flinching and was mollified when Faramir hissed through his teeth as the Master held his hand, being just as ungentle as he felt the breaks in the bones. “We can set these now, but it will be painful. Perhaps some spirits first, or a tonic of henbane…” He turned to shout to the boy again.

Éomer swallowed, his throat still tasting of coppery blood, stomach rolling a bit from queasy anticipation in the pain that he would soon feel. He tried his best to give no sign of his nerves, shameful cowardice. Faramir had openly paled and Éomer regarded him with scorn. You are no warrior…

“Aye, my Lord Elessar.” The Master raised an eyebrow and gave them a sympathetic glance. “Follow me, my Lords.” They were led deeper into the sleepy Houses by lantern light. In a large room with candles already lit, weary-faced aides piled clean cloths and stoked a small hearth into life; left alone for the moment all three stood uncomfortably while the water gradually heated.

Shadows danced while Aragorn spoke, his voice firm and still cold with anger, “I do not expect another night like to this one.” He looked to the Steward, then Éomer, who said nothing, but Faramir nodded tiredly and rasped,

“Aye, my Lord.” Then his face tightened and he added, as though he could not hold his tongue, “If Master Éomer can learn to practice less rudeness.” When he turned, his stiff tone had become openly contemptuous, “I doubt it will be an easy lesson.”

His temper roared, making him grow rigid and spit angrily, “If you possessed more control we would not be here, I find you breaking your oath with my sister and you have her marked like a har—”

Interrupting, Faramir’s grey eyes had narrowed to slits like to a wolf ready to spring. “It would not be wise to finish your words.”

Aragorn’s bellow shocked them into silence. “Neither of you are wise!” Quieting, the King looked between them, anger clear in his face. “And the both of you will practice more courtesy when in each other’s presence or neither of you will be allowed to remain within this City, is that understood?” He sounded exasperated, “Have you not had enough of war?” Neither replied and Aragorn said firmly, answering his own question, “I have and I will tolerate no more within the boundaries of my lands.”

Aragorn stared at him and Éomer reluctantly agreed. His voice was muffled, thick and nasal; it hardly sounded like his own. “I understand.”

The Master returned and they fell silent. “Ah…” He looked pleased to see the water steaming and dipped the cloth in the basin, pinkening it, and using it to first swab away the minimal blood on Aragorn, then more from Faramir and lastly Éomer. The cloth was red as well as the water in the basin by the time the Master finished.

Large-boned men came to hold him and Éomer stood his ground, silent, outwardly stoical. His teeth gritted and he clamped his jaw as they grasped his arms firmly. Nearby, the Steward looked away; the King watched. I will not…the pain of it was horrible, if brief, and he bellowed in agony as they set the break, the bones of his nose clicking into place. Éomer jerked, tasting blood, breathing through his mouth in harsh gasps as the men who’d held him stepped quickly back.

It hurts, oh, it hurts! He groaned in wonderment, the vibration making it hurt more. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with fresh blood as the Master clucked. He was muttering to himself, but he looked pleased as he wiped the mess away with another cloth, eyeing it.

“There.” He sounded even more satisfied as he fixed the bandage. “It will heal nicely, my Lord.” Éomer, released, stumbled backward, trying with all his might not to put his hand to his face. Panting, eyes still watering, he was gratified to see Faramir looking slightly queasy. Aragorn stood in the corner, bruised features inflexibly stern, his arms folded across his chest; he’d barely needed aid; he’d used the steam of athelas, not allowing them the same and the blackening of his eye had already receded considerably. “Now, my Prince.” The Master dried his hands on a towel and looked up expectantly. “I am saddened to think that I had just thought you well…and even the very same arm, my Lord.”

Faramir hissed and though the two burly men held him, the muscles of his forearm still jerked and trembled while his fingers were set and splinted, the Master washing away blood that turned the freshened water in the basin pink, then red again. Éomer watched, thinking that most of it was probably his. The pale Steward turned away and their gazes met momentarily; the cold anger within Faramir’s grey eyes made his own anger spark.

Éomer snarled silently. You should not have spoken! The Prince, of course, did not respond, eventually looking away and giving a last, faint gasp of pain as his palm was wrapped in white cloth. He held his hand outward, looking at it, his expression appalled. Éomer felt satisfaction and restrained a smile. You ruin me, I ruin you!

The Master asked smartly, “Anything more before I return to my bed, Lord Elessar?”

Aragorn gave them both a long glance before shaking his head. “No.” They left the Houses, retracing their steps to the street. Standing on the cobblestones, Éomer turned to look back into the Houses, debating on whether his sister would be within or hiding somewhere else and the King spoke again. “You will return to your rooms and stay there, that is a command.”

Faramir, who seemed astonishingly obedient to every little word that came from Aragorn’s mouth, nodded and replied at once, if wearily, “Aye.”

Éomer spared him a disgusted look, then nodded as well, all the while having no intentions of submission. He needed to find his sister, but if it took a longer walk to pacify Aragorn, he would do so. He smiled faintly and trailed the Steward and the King. It might give her time to remember forgiveness…

“Merry?” Éowyn tapped at the door. It was late and she wondered if he would even wake. “Merry?” Please, she added inwardly, sure that before the night was over either Faramir or Éomer would come to her rooms. My brother will, I know it…

“Éowyn?” The door next to her popped open, startling her so badly that she let out a cry of fear. Éowyn jumped back, her hand going to her chest, heart pounding as the hobbit stared up at her. It was Pippin. “What is it?” Alarm made his voice higher than normal. She looked down and understood. There were smears of blood on the front of her white gown.

She took a breath and found herself ready to burst into tears. Éowyn asked, feeling her throat closing, lips quavering, near sobs. Not even her shame could contain them. “Can you…wake Merry for me?”

“Yes, yes.” He opened the door and came into the hall, still frowning, small face filling with concern.

“I’m all right.” She said it to reassure him only. Éowyn was not entirely certain that she was all right. I…I don’t want to think of them… She thought she might weep if she did.

“I…I hurt my hand.” She showed it to him; the blood had already dried to a dark, thin crust over her knuckles. “Please…Merry?” The Took was a fine hobbit who’d never been anything but kind and friendly, but she knew and trusted his elder cousin far better.

“He’s gone to bed.” Pippin took her hand to frown over it. Then he peered up at her and his face was much more cheerful. “Come, we’ll wake him. You need to wash this and he’s stolen my washbasin, the ruffian.” He was trying to cheer her. Éowyn managed a smile, surprising herself as she obediently followed the halfling. He padded next door. His small hand was holding hers all the way and it comforted her more than she would have guessed. She jumped when he raised a little fist and pounded hard on the wood. “Merry! Wake up!” There was a muffled groan from inside and she felt sympathy.

“Pip…” The door cracked to reveal the yawning, bleary-eyed hobbit in a nightgown, leaning against the doorjamb. He blinked and straightened when he saw her.

“Éowyn, what’s wrong?” He frowned up, his Brandybuck accent thickened with sleep and concern.

Pippin pushed by his older cousin and led her into the room while Merry shut the door. “I don’t know.” He answered for her, which made her smile weakly again, and then further explained. “But she wants to stay with you.”

Éowyn nodded when they both looked at her. She was suddenly exhausted and just thinking of an explanation made her want to collapse, curl into a ball and sob. Why…why must they fight? The image of Faramir’s normally serene, kindly face, the face from which his soft kisses and enchanting words emerged, twisted into an expression of rage haunted her—he was so gentle, where had that come from and would it ever turn on her? She shuddered, ashamed to have even thought it. No, never…but she did not know him very well.

Merry nodded with surprising capableness. “These great beds are big enough for two…” His expression turned shy, “If you don’t mind.” Merry frowned, and added, “I could sleep with my cousin, if you wish…”

Éowyn smiled again, this time less shakily. “No, I don’t mind.” She didn’t think she could hold back her sobs if she were alone. Feeling warmth for the kindhearted hobbit, she smiled, “I’ll not turn you out of your bed, Merry.”

And it was good she didn’t mind as Pippin immediately announced. “Three.” Then he lifted her hand for Merry to inspect. “After we wash this.”

“What did you do?” He frowned over her scrapes as though they were terrible wounds instead of fairly superficial nicks.

“Can I tell you another time?” She was so tired. The hobbits exchanged looks and Merry answered softly.

They’d washed her hand and fussed over her, binding the scrapes with a bit of cloth, but true to their word, neither hobbit had asked one question. Éowyn found this extremely heartening as she sat slumped on the bed, waiting. Neither hobbit was allowing her to lift a finger—Pippin carried in pillows from his bed to add to Merry’s and offered to fetch her something to sleep in, but she refused; Éowyn didn’t think she could stay awake that long. In the end she decided to simply take off her outer dress and stockings, leaving her shift to sleep in. She fingered the light linen through her skirts—it was as good as a nightgown, anyway.

Done stripping out of her dress, Éowyn yawned and watched the younger hobbit pull back the blankets. He was wearing a shirt that looked like it would probably have fit a man quite well. She smiled, for on Pippin the shirt fell to his knees. She glanced at the darkness outside the window. It is late…

Pippin looked at Merry. Merry glanced at her and his awkwardness was charming, reassuring. They crawled into the bed then, with Éowyn somehow ending up between the two hobbits. She lay on her side and closed her eyes, feeling her body relaxing with profound relief…and Pippin wiggled, kicking at the sheets. Éowyn squeezed her eyes tightly shut, trying to sleep, but the younger hobbit lying behind her kept squirming. In front of her, Merry was motionless, breathing slowly and she thought enviously that he was already asleep. She tried to follow suit, but the Took kept fidgeting.

“Pippin, lie still!” She hissed a reprimand, turning her head slightly, trying to be as quiet as possible.

“I can’t sleep.” Suddenly he pressed up against her back, wiggling right against her. Éowyn jumped at the contact and tried to move away without bumping into Merry; there was little room to succeed. Pippin gave an exasperated sigh and whispered in her ear. “You don’t share your bed much, do you?”

Éowyn turned to glare at him in the dimness, but the insinuative tone of the question seemed to escape the hobbit entirely. “What?”

“You are very stiff.” He explained by wiggling closer; she felt her back become rigid.

Immediately she was exasperated at herself. Oh, what? It’s just Pippin…the Took was hardly a threat. Éowyn couldn’t help but flinch away at the contact, her voice becoming constrained. Short of stature or not, he was an adult within his lands and she knew that, replying tensely. “No, I don’t.”

“You should.” And he snuggled up to her again, small face nuzzling her shoulder. “It’s nice. Warm.”

“It’s not proper and I’ve no desire or women to share with.” Éowyn just wanted sleep, even if it was crowded by hobbits. If I cannot sleep with an inoffensive hobbit acting so familiarly, how will I with Faramir…and when he desires my body? She bit her lip, feeling her eyes burn with silent tears, knowing her fear. How…I cannot…but…she must. Éowyn could not fathom her marriage bed and the very thought made her tense, made her guts cold and made her clasp her hands in nervousness. Then she squealed and Merry started awake as she jerked and writhed involuntarily, accidentally squishing him a bit. “Pippin!”

Despite being grateful for a break in her thoughts, she questioned irritably, “How can your feet be so cold with all that hair?”

“Sorry.” He moved his feet away from her thighs; it had not just been the coolness of his tough soles that had made her jump; Éowyn reassured herself with the knowledge that he could not reach lower on her leg and had meant nothing by the contact. He’d certainly not touched with any sort of hint of a caress. “Now I’m too cold to sleep.” The Took whined piteously when there was no reply. “I can’t sleep.” Éowyn rolled her eyes, gritting her teeth, determined to ignore him.

“I was asleep.” Merry groaned, moving from under her arm. Then, to her surprise he folded it over himself and snuggled back against her stomach. Éowyn fidgeted, twitching her toes, feeling confined.

After a moment she asked, unable to keep silent. “Do you always sleep like this?”

“We did when we were traveling…” For a moment the Took had sounded terribly soft and sad, then his voice lightened, repeating himself, “It’s warm and it’s nice.” Pippin’s little chuckle reassured her further. “Don’t worry, Lady Éowyn, you’re an honorary hobbit now.”

Éowyn laughed, touched and deeply reassured by their plain innocence. “Thank you.” There was silence for a while. She soon fell asleep, but it seemed Éowyn had just closed her eyes when small hands were shaking her awake. It was Pippin, of course.

“Wake up! Wake up, it’s late!” He moved and cried, “Merry, we’ll miss first breakfast!”

“What?” She opened her dry, burning eyes and groaned. He was peering down at her, his head topped with a ruff of dark curls that whirled this way and that, just as unruly as his grin. Éowyn smiled weakly, murmuring, “Hwa dest ge willst, ge lytle scréawa? Is hit se hwicung, Ic heah?” He stopped shaking his cousin, surprised; Pippin’s face screwed up as he began trying to figure out what she’d called him.

“What did you say?” She smiled again and Merry groaned into his pillow. “Come! Merry, we’ll miss breakfast!”

The elder hobbit groaned again as she sat up, blinking blearily. Completely unable to comprehend how anyone could be so energetic in the morning, Éowyn stared at the grinning younger hobbit. Pippin was already fully dressed. She sighed, throwing off the blankets and standing, self-consciously smoothing her thin shift. Would one of them, Faramir or Éomer, be waiting in her rooms to catch her? Éowyn felt like weeping; she didn’t want to avoid them, didn’t want to feel trapped and like she needed shelter. I’ve felt like this too long…she bit her lips, compressing them tightly and closing her eyes to fend off tears. Her anger rose, remembering. Curse you brother! She leaned against the bed, only looking at her neatly folded gown and stockings.

But if Faramir had not spoken…I can manage my brother, she shouted it to herself, to her absent Prince. He should not have provoked Éomer…but her brother had provoked Faramir the moment he’d met him. There was no excuse for their behavior and she only hoped Aragorn had dealt with them harshly. I cannot stand another fight…

“Really, that late?” Merry blinked in astonishment, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, running his hands through his curly hair. It was not quite as dark as the Took’s, more to the color of her own folks’.

Éowyn watched in sleepy bemusement as his messy ringlets bounced. He needs a comb. She was even more amused when Merry hopped out of the bed. Éowyn put her hand to her mouth, muffling her tired giggles.

“Your feet.” She laughed out loud, pointing. All the curly hair on his big feet stood on end, riotous and tangled into wooly mats. She smiled, thinking that the tops of his feet looked like a broom made of cattails. There were even a few bits of fuzz stuck on them.

“What?” He frowned. “I don’t have a proper brush.” Reaching down, he finger-combed the hair into something closer to neatness. Éowyn giggled helplessly, silly from lack of sleep, from emotional overload. Finally crossing to where she’d left her clothes, she slipped her stockings on, one at a time, slowly and tiredly, delaying. Her gown required a little more effort to wiggle into; she found it irritably uncomfortable and complicated in comparison to the simple dresses of her lands that rarely had laces or ribbons or anything to tie or pull.

“No, I’m sorry, I have duties today.” Éowyn felt her spirits lift immediately. She was helping some of the older Healers, learning at their side. But first…she had to fetch a clean gown. My rooms…would one of them, brother or love, be there? Her buoyed heart fell again. “Thank you for allowing me to stay.”

The hobbits smiled and bowed as one; Merry answered with a broad smile, “You are welcome, Lady Éowyn.”

She was dressed and ready, picking at the reddish-brown smears of blood on the front of her gown. “Enjoy your breakfasts.”

“We shall, that is if Sam has left us any!” Pippin grinned at her and she smiled in reply, leaving them to walk to her own rooms within the sleepy Houses, one stride at a time, each soft thud of her shoes making her gut grow colder with dread. Please…please be empty… She placed her hand on her door; it was cracked, her eastern window letting a thin sliver of morning light stream into the otherwise dim hall and she could hear the low, irregular noise of snoring within. Her brother had come and stayed.

No, no… Éowyn moaned, leaning her brow against the wall for a moment, gathering herself. At least it was her brother, him she could deal with; Faramir she could not, Faramir she had no idea of what to say to, if she would be allowed to speak…he’d not raged at her before for her brother’s rudeness, now, surely, he would. But…she’d misjudged her paramour before, perhaps…it was his fault as well! Éowyn felt a protective surge within her heart as she pushed open the door and her gaze fell upon her brother, his face discolored with dark bruises, nose bandaged, knuckles swollen and scraped. My brother…she sighed. He was terribly overbearing at times, often overreacting to any threat, but it was his nature, in his blood. My only brother now, my only…her face softened and she looked down at him with more pity than anger.

His breath had caught with a snort when she entered, her thin-soled shoes making a soft pattering. Éomer jerked and nearly fell from the chair he’d been sitting in, gasping thickly through the bandages over his nose. Éowyn felt still more sympathy at the obvious pain and discomfort he bore and stared at him, hoping he would be done swiftly with whatever it was he wanted. Please, say little to me…when he looked at her it was with deep shame and she waited, feeling her anger merge with her pity, not knowing which to express first.

Faramir opened his eyes to blue sky broken by the shifting green-browns of leaves and branches. For a moment he was confused; then, sitting up so fast his head spun, he realized he was in the dream again. Rising to his feet, Faramir glanced curiously at the tree. It didn’t seem as large this time. But, as he turned his attention to outward, he saw the otherwise, it was all the same: the ladybug crawling on his arm, the great, open courtyard carpeted with brilliant flowers, the low stone walls with the defenseless building rising behind him and, coming closer, the beat of hooves. A formidable breeze blew his hair, rocking his body and Faramir gently brushed the bug off of his arm just like before and smiled. That done, he then turned in a slow circle, admiring the gardens and looking for the woman. For Éowyn… he gazed at trimmed hedges, small pools with glittery fish, flowers of endless color, shape, size. Disappointed, he saw that he was alone.

Remembering the children, Faramir walked to the same arched opening in the wall he’d gone through before, marveling anew at the vision’s detail as the coolness of the shadows contrasted with the heat on his shoulders as he emerged under bright sun that shone over the grassy hills. But, as his eyes passed back and forth over the bobbing flowers, eagerly searching for them, he frowned. The two boys and the little girl were nowhere in sight.

“Where are they?” Faramir asked it of himself as he gazed at the far-off Minas Tirith. He wasn’t expecting any answers so he jumped when she spoke behind him, her hands coming to rest on the tops of his shoulders.

“Who did you expect?” She laughed, ignoring his question, and twined her arms around his neck, her body not quite pressing into his. “Do you know why the Horseman stands alone in the sky?”

“No.” Faramir had no idea what she was speaking of and was barely listening, too amazed. Instead of being uneasy or tensing at his touch, she’d touched him first and quite willingly. He gazed in her in wonder; her eyes were calm and trusting. She arched an eyebrow playfully, as he stared down at her, her lips curving in a smile. Hesitantly, Faramir wrapped his arms around her waist, noticing her hair fell in a long, thick braid down her back; he liked it, it was different from the loose way she usually wore it. He touched the braid, wrapping the smooth golden rope around his fingers.

Suddenly remembering his injury, Faramir frowned, flexing his left hand. Odd, he felt no pain; he wiggled his fingers, but there were only the slightest of twinges when he moved them. Then his eyes went wide as she shifted closer and he forgot all about his mysteriously healed broken bones. Faramir’s hands left her hair and moved to her stomach, fingers hesitantly tracing the gentle curve of it. She smiled into his wondering eyes.

“Then you had better learn.” Éowyn laughed again as she finally answered, pulling his face down to hers. Right before their lips met in a kiss, she whispered, “I told you, we have our own tales.”

“Will you tell me them?” He was slightly breathless when she pulled away. Faramir placed his palm flat on her rounded stomach, barely able to contemplate the thought of her carrying his child. His child. Delighted and overwhelmed by it, he kissed her again before Éowyn could answer his question. She responded easily, pulling him closer. Then she even, to his happy astonishment, encouraged him; her hands tightened around his neck, pulling him down. Faramir was only too pleased to obey.

“No.” She shook her head when he finally thought to pull away and let her speak. Her face became sad as he only gazed down, puzzled.

“Tell me, please, I beg you.” He meant it. Faramir desperately wanted this to be his future.

“Ná, min deore, Ic ná cann. Ge hæfð gefricgan hit ac eowerself.” She murmured sorrowfully, stroking his face.

And before he could ask what that could possibly mean, or even kiss her again as he wished to, Faramir awoke, his eyes opening to the familiar clutter of his bedroom. His broken fingers throbbed as he moved, accidentally brushing them against his side and he winced, holding up his hand. Glaring at the wooden splints fastened tightly to his three fractured fingers and over his palm, the wrappings of which were spotted with brown blood from multiple, raw scrapes, he hoped Éomer was in just as much pain. Perhaps that was a petty wish and beneath him, but at the moment Faramir did not care. His shame had not faded, yet his anger had grown to match it.

He eyed the thin rays of light poking around the shuttered window and tried to gauge the time. It, he thought tiredly, must be late morning. Wide-awake now, Faramir stared at his ceiling and groaned in frustration, which, of course, made his abused throat come alive to ache and throb.

He sat up, eyes going back to the shutters fastened over his window. With an effort, Faramir swung his legs over the bed and stood, tired and aching all over. Careful to hold his splinted fingers away from his body, he walked to the window. Muttering curses as he clumsily unlatched the shutters with his one good hand, Faramir flung them open and gazed out over Pelennor. Even after years, the miles-long view dazzled him and lifted his spirits. From his height he could see the great efforts that had been made to clear and cleanse the fields before the City. Faramir let his eye wander over the mounds under which lay all the fallen; the darker, barren mound of the foul winged beast Éowyn had so bravely slain; the plowings of the few cleansed fields; the first faint green of crops against the brown soil; tiny moving figures; carts with ponies, oxen…

Éowyn…he leaned against his window, suddenly without strength, his shame returning to overwhelm him. What shall I say to her?

Gasping, his eyes flying open, Éomer’s heart had been racing as the chair’s front legs thumped to the floor and nearly spilled him out of it; he’d panted through the bandages, focusing on catching his breath, trying to ignore his sister who stood before him in such cool silence. He’d been dreaming of a curious and upsetting battle where he was fighting in a land he didn’t recognize, against a people he knew nothing about, and even though they did not resist, he couldn’t win. Looking up nervously, he’d felt her anger though she’d not said anything and apologized, hastily, eager to placate her. But she’d not responded.

Suddenly, he looked up at her face again, anxious; she moved as their eyes met, striding past him with slow, spiritless steps. “You’re sorry.” She spoke flatly, anger and sadness combined to make her voice strained and rough. “Yes, I know. You’re forgiven.” Éowyn turned away, her back stiffly erect, her posture frostily rebuffing him.

He’d expected to have to grovel and had little reply. Éomer stared at her flaxen mane, unable to see her face. With careful hesitation, his guilt prodding him, he objected, “Éowyn… sweostor, linð…”

“Hwa, Éomer?” It was pitiless. Éowyn turned her head to the side, hair falling across her face, still hiding her from him even as she partially faced his direction. He strained to see her eyes, feeling a jolt of eager hope as her voice became less harsh. She said softly, sadly, “Ic synd líhtan it ac ge…”

“Léase.” Éomer interjected quickly, his guilt choking him. He switched to the Common Tongue and stepped forward to grasp her elbow. “Needlessly, sister. Please.” He wanted punishment, wanted to be shouted at, perhaps even slapped, wanted some action that would ease his guilt. This was terribly unlike her to forgive and forget transgression so easily. She still wasn’t looking at him. He frowned at her, asking with his voice puzzled, “Why should you?”

“Oh…” She sighed deeply. Éomer waited, partially in hope, partially in dread. “Because…” Éowyn trailed off sadly, then without warning, she exploded, glaring up at him and jerking back from his hand, “No! Why must you make everything difficult? You are forgiven, now leave me be!”

Éomer, exasperated and somewhat relieved in her display of emotion, snapped right back, “I don’t want it to be easy!”

“Why not?” She sounded truly beaten and sad, startling him out of his wounded, righteous ire.

But Éowyn demanded, her face set in hard lines, cutting him off once more. “Have you apologized to Faramir?”

“Then why are you bothering me for?” The sentence was virtually a sob, striking him straight in the heart.

“Sister, please don’t…” He reached out to her helplessly, knowing himself to be the cause of her pain. He flinched as she jerked away from him again.

There was a tear on her cheek now. It pained him terribly, sliding down, glistening as she spoke, this time in a whisper, “Why are you bothering me, Éomer?” Éowyn laughed bitterly, hurting him, ”You will do what you want, anyway. You know you should apologize, you wronged Faramir more than I…why are you here?” Her eyes dropped, and when they rose, reddened, teary, they were furious. “You know right from wrong, I know you do, and everything you’ve done to him has been wrong!”

“You are here for you!” She shouted it at him, then fell silent, weeping, hugging herself. “You don’t care as long as I forgive, don’t care what you do…” Her words broke up, lost in sobs.

He never knew what to do when she shed tears. He hated it intensely, and feeling weak and powerless, Éomer said the only thing he could. “I’m sorry. Please stop, Éowyn, sister, please.” He wanted to hug her, to offer comfort against the thing that disturbed her, even if it was himself. His tongue moved in his dry mouth, and he rasped, “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” She sounded tormented; when she looked at him her anger was clear, her tears ceasing. Sniffing, wiping her cheeks, Éowyn began jerking clothing from the small chests that lay on the floor, hands moving in abrupt, sharp actions.

All at once her hands fell still and she turned to him, saying exasperatedly, “I forgive you, did I not say so?”

“Why?” Éowyn did not answer. Guilt filling his heart, Éomer shifted his feet awkwardly, his body cramped and aching from spending all night sleeping in a hard chair. He raised his hands to rub his face, and then jerked them back as they brushed his nose. Éomer grimaced painfully as his broken nose began throbbing all over again from the fleeting contact. His scraped and battered knuckles caught his eye and he smiled, wondering if Faramir was just as sore as he felt this morning. Walking jerkily around her, he glanced about the small, simple room, stretching. His back and neck were sore from the odd position he’d fallen asleep in; he rotated his neck, feeling it pop and ache. Éomer glanced at Éowyn’s profile. It had been only a hope of catching her, and the immensity of the City that had kept him here all night instead of out searching for her. He sighed, staring at the made bed, trying to ignore her as she pulled a gown out and lay clean stockings over her wooden chests. In Edoras there were limited places in which his sister might hide, making the entire process much simpler. Especially in the last few years, all Éomer had had to do was call one of Théodred’s hounds and command it to find her. A slight smile twisted his bruised and split lips; Éowyn had not yet found a way to hide from the keen-nosed dogs.

Then as he stood and waited, he realized she would not speak. Éomer cleared his throat raspily, saying for a third time, his voice very loud in the stony silence that filled the room. “I’m sorry.” As he’d half-expected, there was no response. He was about to leave and go to his own quarters to change, but Éomer’s guilt rooted his feet. “Will you not even shout at me again?” Éowyn did not answer, still ignoring him utterly save to give him a stare and ask coolly, her gown in hand,

Feeling suddenly very wretched, Éomer turned his back to her, facing the wall, unable to leave just yet. Their silence mocked him. Shifting uneasily, he grudgingly admitted to himself that she certainly had every right to be upset with him. His conscious relentlessly pressing him, Éomer finally sighed in defeat, lifted his eyes to the ceiling and thought, that, perhaps, he’d acted very foolishly. Thinking also that it would be a very long ride back to Edoras with Éowyn still cross with him, Éomer began wondering how to make it up with her. “What would earn your forgiveness?”

He stared at her turned back while she brushed out her long, flaxen mane and felt his tension mount in her silence. Éowyn not even bothering to shout at him for his behavior was a bad sign indeed. Running a hand through his tangled hair, he lowered his eyes to the floor, depressed. Éomer hated it when he angered his sister. She was the most important person to him and her silence or purposeful attempts to avoid him cut him like nothing else ever did. From the moment he’d realized, as a scrawny boy all knees and elbows with a vulnerable and wide-eyed Éowyn clinging with both tiny hands to the tail of his shirt, that he was now held responsible for her, Éomer had accepted this great obligation with all his being, becoming a ferociously determined guardian. But it was a role he was beginning to feel slipping away and, staring at her, he was suddenly frightened. Éomer gazed at her cold face, her tight jaw; she was still ignoring him in favor of brushing out her hair. What will I do when Faramir claims her and takes her away for good?

He had no idea and it scared him, the blankness of his future. He stared at her, thinking fearfully…I fought him…perhaps he will not honor our agreement, perhaps he will demand her to stay, me to go… Éomer could not bear even the thought of returning to Edoras without her; his heart thudded in his chest and his breath grew shallow with dismay. I must apologize…now, before such thoughts cross his mind, if they have not already… He shifted, rocking back on his heels, trying one last time, “I’m sorry, truly…”

Her words were leading, expectant. He took them up eagerly, seeing a way out of her anger. “I will…I will go now.”

She was cool, but her icy rage had obviously lessened, “I will be in the Houses today…come by midday and tell me if he’s forgiven you.”

“I will.” Again he nodded, filled with earnestness, and to his delight, she relented and smiled gently.

“I forgive you, brother…and why?” Éowyn sighed, “He provoked you, he said…” She took a breath, “Faramir insulted me, greatly, and to your very face.” Remembering, Éomer felt his anger rise immediately, black and hot, and it must have shown on his bruised features, for she shook her head violently and declared, “Listen to me, you…” She smiled at him with a particular indulgence, softening anew. “You are forgiven because of that alone, my brother, my dear brother.” Éowyn’s smile faded, the lines of her face growing hard again, “Otherwise you acted unforgivably, like a beast, demeaning our line, our people…you are our Lord now, Éomer, this will not be forgotten like some brawl in an inn!”

“You don’t!” Éowyn had shouted the last, exasperated, then quieted, “You let your temper rule you, did not listen to reason…you tried to kill the man I…” She glanced away, “I love. Do you understand my anger and why I have no reason to grant forgiveness?” He nodded, looking down at the floor, newly ashamed and was surprised when she sighed deeply, then came and kissed his temple, one of the few unbruised places on his face. Éomer smiled at her, only tentative, afraid her next words would cut. Éowyn returned it and said softly, “But you are forgiven because you share fault…and you are my brother, whom I love, no matter his foolishness.” She gestured and ordered, “Now go and bring me good news.”

He nodded and left her then, realizing as he entered the hall that he had no idea at all of where to find the Steward. Glancing at her closed door, he guessed the man would be looking for Éowyn as well, wishing to make the same amends he did. Where would she be besides in her rooms?

The hobbits stared up at him, distractedly turning away from their lavish breakfasts when Faramir walked in. Their eyes widened as one and he flinched a little under the scrutiny, turning to look about in hope. But Éowyn was not within the room and his disappointment was great; he knew she usually ate breakfast with the halfings. It was one of the few things she told me…his heart felt low, still filled with shame and remorse over his actions. Faramir hesitated, giving the hobbits a civil smile and nod. “Good morning.” They greeted him in return and he was ready to take his leave, but reconsidered. Perhaps they knew where she was. “Have you seen the Lady Éowyn this morning?”

“No, I’m sorry, Faramir.” The eldest hobbit spoke, pausing as he sipped from his teacup.

“No, sir.” Sam echoed his master when Faramir desperately glanced in his direction. They looked puzzled and a little annoyed at the interruption in their breakfast, but soon recovered. Sam handed Frodo a small dish of pastries. “Mmm. These look good, Mr. Frodo.”

“Oh, they do. Thank you, Sam.” Faramir smiled as they peered at the tarts, trying to discover their contents. His empty stomach rumbling, he eyed them himself, coveting the one that looked like strawberry. Gently steaming, sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon, they appeared delicious and Faramir recalled it had been a long time since he’d had a strawberry.

“What happened to you?” Pippin finally asked a question of his own. He glanced with interest at Faramir’s battered face, bruise-blackened throat and broken hand.

“Ah, nothing.” Faramir answered evasively, self-consciously touching his bruised cheekbone; it ached as he spoke. His answer was ridiculous and their brows raised again. Uncomfortable, he added, “I beg you, nothing I wish to speak of.” The hobbits shook their heads and he continued awkwardly, “If you do not know where the Lady Éowyn is, then I will take my leave.” Faramir bowed in a quick, respectful display, “I wish that you have a fine day in the City. If there is anything you desire, you may call upon me, my…” He trailed off, noticing the hobbits’ faces as their brows rose in perfectly simultaneous expressions of surprise. Faramir turned slowly and with dread; he thought he already knew whom it was that would cause such a reaction. He was displeased to find his guess was correct—it was indeed Éomer.

Deeply gratified to see that the man looked as battered and pained as he did, Faramir felt himself instinctively tense for a struggle and tried to relax, perturbed by his aggressive reaction to the simple sight of the Lord of the Mark. Éowyn would only be further unhappy with him if he fought again. Waiting to see what Éomer would do, Faramir stood deliberately still, his face expressionless, sending the least provoking body language he could.

Faramir gave him a single glance, his grey eyes distant and cold. Éomer tried not to react in any way. Finally succeeding in looking docile, he smirked inwardly at Faramir’s slight expression of unease. Obviously he’d expected a more heated reaction. “Good morning.”

“To you as well.” The Steward’s voice was just as frigid as his gaze was. The hobbits’ looked back and forth as they conversed, their eyes wide and curious as they noted the bruises and abrasions on the two men. Éomer tried to ignore the urge to touch his face. It would only start hurting again. Glancing down at the halflings and their meal, Éomer smiled, amused. He coveted half the table. It smelled good enough to make his mouth water. These hobbits breakfasted far better than he did and Éomer was beginning to understand why his sister ate with them. But the anteroom to the kitchens, long reserved as the hobbit’s private eating quarters, was not especially large and two men and four hobbits filled it quite well. Feeling distinctly crowded to stand so near to his foe, Éomer took a step back from the table. He watched Frodo lift a small pastry to his mouth and bite into it with blueberry? Éomer wondered, his stomach growling.

The Steward frowned, asking, “Do you think the Lady Éowyn will come…perhaps later today?”

Directing his question to the hobbits, Faramir’s face was so disappointed Éomer almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Then he remembered the reddened marks on his sister’s neck and fresh dislike surged. You dared… He cleared his throat and remembered why he’d sought out her suitor. “She will not.”

He answered, keeping his voice calm with an effort. He hated this man. “I have.” But…Éomer sighed. For his sister’s sake, and only hers, he thought fiercely, he would make a truce. “Faramir,” It came out as a distinctly uncivilized growl and he tried again, “Faramir, I wish to speak to you.”

“Yes?” His tone was frostily polite, which Éomer could not fault him for—he’d earned it. The Prince of Ithilien gazed at him haughtily, eyes lingering proudly over the busted remains of Éomer’s nose. He was obviously expecting some sort of outburst, but Éomer’s anger drained and he just felt weary.

In the hall, Faramir simply stared at him. “I…” He swallowed and closed his eyes, his voice and his pride combining to refuse his commands. It took the treasured childhood image of Éowyn, smiling gap-toothed up at him, and giggling as led her around on his pony to make him finish the dreaded sentence. I love you, Éomer she’d cried laughing and tumbled into his arms, trusting he would catch her. Oh, my sister… His throat unlocked, but before he could speak, and shocking him with terrible contrast to the earlier memory, his mind presented her as he’d seen her last, sword point held against him, her face stricken with grief and fear. Tears threatened but he forced them away, composing himself. It was a vision he never wished to see again. Éomer opened his eyes. “I am sorry for…” coward, speak! he growled at himself, “I apologize for acting foolishly and attacking you last night. It was…unforgivable.” Faramir gawked at him, caught so completely off guard that Éomer thought it was nearly worth the indignity of apologizing. Bemused, he smiled inwardly and waited for his response, trying to remain unaware of how tense he was.

Faramir stared, stunned and warily searching Éomer’s eyes for any sign of falseness. The man seemed sincere; he still stood there patiently, obviously waiting for a reply. Faramir found himself shifting his feet uncertainly while he framed one and stopped it; he took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders and trying to order his thoughts into what they most definitely needed to be for his response: sincere, distinct and, most important, carefully courteous.

However, nothing came to him. It was only a moment before that he’d been bracing himself for an argument, or even another fight and it was taking Faramir an effort to adjust to this new, unexpected development. Frowning, his brow creasing, he looked at Éomer again, scrutinizing him closely, but the man showed no signs of the impatience or rudeness he’d half come to expect. Instead, Éomer seemed rather… almost, well, wretched, he looks wretched. Suspicious, Faramir wondered why he had apologized. Perhaps Éowyn had ordered him to make amends. It seemed most likely.

The Lord of the Mark was displaying a remarkable degree of tolerance as Faramir took his time. The apology, he felt, deserved his full attention. Faramir knew he couldn’t disregard it as a lesser, more spiteful part of him wished to; frankly, he doubted he would get another one, so he not afford to speak or act recklessly. Gazing back to at the waiting King of Rohan, he reluctantly came to the conclusion that this was a vastly important opportunity to attempt to save the small chance of a friendship growing between them. Bad feelings between them, he knew, would only strain his and Éowyn’s intimacy. What intimacy there is…

Still hesitating, Faramir thought that what disturbed him most was the way Éomer seemed to goad him so easily into thoughtless, irrational actions—he’d had never gotten into a brawl before in his life.

Several minutes had passed as he deliberated. Éomer nodded suddenly, a slight, self-mocking smile twisting his lips. He turned to move away and paused. “Perhaps it is too much to expect.” He laughed once, a short, bitter bark that greatly mystified. “I do not blame you.”

Clearing his throat painfully and feeling the bruises pulse where Éomer’s hands had placed the most pressure, Faramir spoke slowly, carefully keeping his voice neutral. “Wait.”

“Yes?” Was that hope he could see in the Rohir’s pale eyes or something else? Faramir cast out his mind, searching, but met with nothing more than the strong sense of anxiety and nervous anticipation of his next words. Éomer, like Éowyn, was virtually impossible to read beyond the mightiest, most prevalent of emotions. It was terribly frustrating.

“I accept your apology.” He met Éomer’s eyes and dipped his head slightly in acknowledgment for the next part. This was the hardest to say and yet, for peace, the most necessary, “Thank you, Éomer.”

“You’re welcome.” His voice was still uncharacteristically passive. Faramir wondered at the tone—it sounded forced, yet at the same time, incredibly relieved. Éomer bowed slightly to him, a gesture of respect that further puzzled Faramir, and completed his turn. But he only took a few steps before halting. His back to him, Éomer spoke, “You—” He’d turned his head slightly to the side and Faramir could see the muscles of Éomer’s jaw tense then forcibly relax as he closed his eyes then opened them abruptly, “You are welcome to see Éowyn,” Faramir blinked in surprise. Éomer took a deep, ragged breath, his voice stretched unnaturally taut and emerging unsteadily from his throat, “…with-without a guard today.” His eyes met Faramir’s for a moment, almost as though pleading for understanding. He could grant none, utterly confused. Another nod and Éomer walked away, his bearing stiff. It had obviously taken much out of him to say that and Faramir, to his own wonder, felt himself appreciating the effort. As he watched him go, the man’s unspoken words resonated in his mind, if she permits you to see her.

At the end of the corridor, the man halted again and slowly turned to face him. “Yes?”

“Why?” Éomer did not reply at first. Faramir was aware that questioning him was perhaps not the best thing to do, but he was curious. Logically, Éomer would demand Halorl or another Rohirrim accompany him. There was not much sense in this new concession, especially after last night, and especially since in the man’s point of view, Faramir smiled slightly, he’d hardly earned any trust. Or, he privately acknowledged, won the fight. Puzzled, and as there had been no answer yet, Faramir asked again, “Why, Éomer?”

“I may not trust you, but,” Éomer finally answered, speaking slowly. He looked into the distance, his eyes far away and sad before his gaze returned to Faramir. “I trust her.” For the first time a note of threat crept into his voice, and he seemed to stiffen all over as he added. “She knows she can come to me if she needs me.”

Faramir’s lips formed a skeptical smile; it was merely the tip of his doubt; he could feel his misgivings in his boots. “I doubt you have to worry, since she’s surely none too pleased with me, either.”

Éomer shrugged, looking as though he only wished to end the conversation. “You are free today, Faramir. Consider it a gift for my behavior.” And the menace returned to his voice, actually deepening it several registers, “But I do not wish to go searching for her.”

Faramir nodded, speaking evenly; he must project only a calm demeanor, although the words angered him. He would never do anything to frighten Éowyn. Does he think…? He pressed his broken hand into his thigh, the blossoming pain distracting him from the enraging thought that Éomer might believe he could be capable of attempting to force her into something she did not wish. “I understand.”

He was not sensing any confidence from the Rohir, only doubt and oddly, a sort of trepidation. Maybe it is dread over what I might do? Faramir wondered. In any case he answered smoothly, “I will not keep her late.”

“Good.” Éomer inclined his head again in farewell and resumed his way down the hall.

“Good.” Faramir echoed the man again, rueful. He only hoped Éowyn allowed him to see her. Faramir had no intention of letting her go back to Rohan with her heart still angered at him and so fearful of his hand, his touch. Please, he thought. Please, I need you, Éowyn.

She was sent to the gardens to gather herbs first, a review of her lessons the day before; Éowyn murmured the names and all the uses she could recall as she carefully cut some from each needed plant. It was a pleasant task as the sun was only soft, not hot and there was the ever-present breeze from the walls to bring her the scent of budding flowers. The buzz of bees and the song of birds added to her peace and she began to hum under her breath. Her basket was half-filled with herbs; she touched her gathered bounty, marveling at the green of them, color of new life, and the pliant, living feel of them. It was wonderfully refreshing to handle plants after so long she’d been gone from the Mark and she smiled, leaning to cut another when faint footfalls made her jump. Éowyn whirled, her fingers growing tight on the handle of the little white crescent knife that had been given to her, not raising it, but ready. The person behind her was close, had come too close without her knowledge, and she could feel her heart thudding in fear, her pulse racing.

Faramir drew back a pace, obviously just as startled by her swift reaction as she was by his presence. Éowyn stared at him, waiting, but he just held his distance and silence. There was a strange sort of cringe on his face. Perhaps he thought she would come to strike him again, as she’d done the afternoon before, but she’d seen him fight now and doubted she would ever dare to raise her hand with such fearless anger. He was stronger than she was and mercilessly brutal when provoked. I have no desire to be struck…

Her eyes widened as she slowly took in the sight of him, and only him, and Éowyn gasped, “Oh, your throat!” She had no more thought of anger, only terrible pity as his bruises were even darker than her brother’s, especially those that encircled his throat. He looked contrite, not speaking, only gazing down at her with his grey eyes very solemn and shamed. “Oh…your face…” She sighed at the marks. It was spoiled, though just briefly, not handsome at all.

Her hand, half raised to touch him in condolence, froze, then lowered; her anger had come at the sound of his voice, mindful again of his vulgar words and how they’d hurt her. I enjoyed his touch…was that wrong of her? Éowyn did not wish it to be so and her heart filled with rage, knowing he’d changed her hesitant pleasure into disgrace, tainted her thrill of enjoyment by likening it to animal baseness. As if we were no more than dogs in rut! Her eyes burned with tears—the feeling was familiar, the transforming of buoyancy to despair, and brought another, fouler man to mind, one she’d spent every waking moment trying to forget. How dare you…I trusted you, allowed you to touch and kiss as no other and that was my reward? Callousness, boorishness, pain! When she spoke, it was tense, words trembling as they emerged from her constricted throat, “What do you wish of me? I am busy.” Éowyn turned away from his face and bruises that inspired pity.

But her pity did not retreat entirely as Faramir’s voice was soft and raspy; clearly it pained him to speak. “I wished to beg forgiveness and assure you, my Lady, that I have not behaved with such crudeness before now…”

“Crudeness?” Her wrath flared as she turned to face him anew and she tightened her hand on the handle of her basket, half-tempted to waste her work and fling it at him. “You call your words…your foul words mere crudeness?” She was near to weeping again, heart full of pain, hissing. “Is it crudeness to cut me just when I’d allowed you near, say that about…me when you vowed that I could trust you…no, I call that cruelty.” Éowyn stared up at him, furious, “I have seen you show cruelty, ask me no more why I flinch from your hand!”

Faramir looked down at the grass and his plainly seen guilt cooled her ire. He hesitated, “Please, they were words not meant for you, I thought not of you when I spoke, I meant only to…”

“To provoke my brother, yes, I know, I am no fool.” Éowyn felt herself tremble with rage, “That does not change my heart…” Her breath caught and she admitted her pain in a ragged whisper, “Nor heal its wounds, Faramir.”

He looked at her nakedly, familiar features no longer so noble, distorted by bruises and places of swelling. His eyes were gentle, studying hers and growing steadily more ashamed. “What would?”

Faramir nodded slowly, looking down. She turned away and when he spoke it was very soft, hesitant, “May I walk with you a while?”

Éowyn raised her eyes to his face. He gazed at her in return, sadly, so sadly that she felt a pang of empathy. He had not meant to hurt her, though he had. She swallowed, nodding, “Yes, yes, you may.” When he took her basket, she got a look at his wounded hand and it tore her how it was swollen and bruised, the cloth and splints, the careful way he held it so that it was apart from his side and would touch nothing. She kept her silence for many minutes, cutting more plants, this time not thinking of their uses, but the man who stood near to her. Finally, Éowyn asked, keeping her gaze on the tender vegetation, “Does it hurt terribly, your hand?”

“Good.” He just sighed and made no objections to her anger, fully returned to the mildness she’d seen, and only seen, until the night before. Placing her cut herbs and little knife in the full basket, she grasped his wrist, careful not to touch his hand at all, turning it and examining the bandaging and the splints, telling herself it was curiosity alone that made her look with such intensity. I wish to know the methods of healing, here is an example… Éowyn asked, her question again born only of curiosity, in the wondering of what herbs would be given for his pain and to help heal his wounds. “Did they give you nothing?” She felt no sympathy whatsoever, or so she affirmed inwardly. He received what he deserved…

Faramir straightened and his tone became formal, accepting. “My Lord did not permit me anything for pain.”

Like a child with a burned hand…she smiled faintly. “Perhaps it is for the best.” Éowyn listened to her sternness, “You will be less swift to do it again.”

Her voice was small now, tight. “I would not have thought you to do it once.” Éowyn bit her lip, retracing her steps to the Houses; he walked at her side, listening closely. “I thought you were…”

“More gentle, mild…I would not have to fear.” Safer, more predictable, more civil…in all things safe and good. But you are not, my dear Faramir and I cannot love what I fear…she felt queasy. But I can wed it and I shall…there was no going back for such trifling misconduct as he’d shown. She could beg, but he would not yield, she knew that without trying.

He turned to her, protesting earnestly, “You don’t. I would never, I give you my word…”

Impatient, she questioned, “Would you have sworn the day before that you would never have brawled with my brother?”

“I…” He took a breath to begin and she waited, but Faramir did not complete his answer. When she looked at him, his brow was deeply furrowed.

“It is to my thinking that you should swear less and mind your actions more, my Lord.” Éowyn took her basket from him and stepped through the cool threshold of the Houses. Faramir did not follow, only gazed at her soberly before calling,

“Yes?” She turned nervously; from her position in the shadow of the white stone he seemed to glow, dark hair gleaming, the sun brilliant on his shoulders; without the bruises he would have made a handsome picture. He was still her Lord, no matter her anger, no matter the brawl; she’d given her oath to join with him. Her Lord and her betrothed and if he commanded, she could not refuse. And if I could? Éowyn wondered, feeling dread stir. It was a pointless question. I am trapped in this marriage to a man whose manner I thought I knew but now do not… “My Lord?”

“I am in the wrong, I admit that freely and you have all rights to reprimand me. But…tell me, what could ease your fears?” Faramir came closer and she stiffened, not at all in the mood for his caresses. “I wish to ease them, for my own sake, but to please you most of all.” He hesitated, softening, “It seemed you feared very little last night…”

Faramir interrupted her in a surprising display of ill manners, making her realize how very much he was serious. He sounded frustrated, “I did not mean them, they were not for you.”

“Nonetheless, they have changed my pleasure in your company and…” Éowyn felt herself flush a little, “Your touch,” Her flush vanished, replaced by pain that made itself known by her harsh voice, “To distress. You have wounded me, my Lord, and wounds take time to heal…” She glanced to his hand, “I suspect you will learn that lesson.”

He nodded, despondent, then begged. “If I promise my company shall be only pure, will you sit with me tonight at the evening meal…share my plate and consider forgiveness?”

Éowyn sighed, swinging her basket just a little. He looked very, very pitiful with his bruises and bandages. And…if she deigned to forgive, perhaps, at another time when he was angered with her, she could use this moment of gratitude to provoke some gratitude of his. It felt to her more cold deliberation than warm-hearted compassion, but she nodded. “Yes, I shall.” Éowyn bit her lip; she’d rarely ventured from the Houses and he spoke of eating in the Hall of Feasts, with the noblemen…and women… Her stomach fluttered with nerves.

But at her assent, Faramir smiled immediately and his shoulders seemed to lighten; he stood taller and when he bowed, it was graceful. “I cannot wait, my Lady.” Éowyn smiled in return, unable to curb it, and gave a courtesy to him before entering the cool shade within the Houses.

Hwa dest ge willst, ge lytle scréawa? Is hit se hwicung, Ic heah?—What do you want, little mouse? Is it the squeaking of mice, I hear?

Ná, min deore, Ic ná cann. Ge hæfð gefricgan hit ac eowerself—No, my dearest. I cannot. You must figure it out for yourself

He’d left her, worried and discouraged as he walked back up the street, head hanging, knowing his own black depression. His duties had called and now Faramir tried to pretend that he didn't notice the men of the Council staring at his bruised face and neck or his splinted hand. He was gratified, though, that their attention was divided between himself and Aragorn. Immediately this morning the King had been presented with his seal, the gold polished and its mold cleaned of any old, remaining wax. Faramir gazed at it, wondering at the great hands that had touched it.

Now the King slammed the heavy metal seal down hard on document after document, doing no more than glance at what he was approving, and as the stacks thinned, he sped up, slopping wax here and there to dry in hard, red drops. Faramir did the actual reading and sorting; discretely murmuring what each item was as it came across Aragorn's path. The Councilmen handed the papers to him, sometimes engaging in brief arguments over whom would go next, and Faramir simply sat there with his hand sticking out until they finished. He was too depressed to feel impatience. He rubbed his face, heart low. I was lucky she spoke to me. She ran from me, from us…because I lost control, lost my temper with him…a spark of anger came to his chest, burning and resentful. How can she be related to that boor?

“How many more?” Aragorn’s voice broke him from his dark musings, the King finally removing his hand from the seal's grip and shaking his wrist. From his grimace Faramir could imagine he was getting stiff and tired. He himself was sore all over, throat raw, and his face aching where Éomer had struck him, his hand throbbing angrily.

“Six!” A small boned, birdy old man screeched in a high, thin voice. Another roll of paper was thrust into Faramir's undamaged hand and he continued wearily,

“Six and they're of,” He scanned it, “uh, repairs to the streets and the walls in levels one through three.” Faramir added at Aragorn's raised eyebrow, “Some of the streets are still broken and it's creating a problem…” He went blank, then recovered, “Carts cannot get across them to even reach the upper levels for repairs there.” Faramir rubbed his temples. My beautiful, noble City…it was terribly ruined. “We'll have to have the spots measured and the rocks mined and...”

“It sounds agreeable.” He was all too willing to be cut off. Faramir gave the papers to Aragorn one at a time, trying not to flinch at the whump! of the heavy metal seal as it came down, smashing the crimson wax into the paper. Though deeper in pitch from the Steward’s seal, the sound still reminded him of his father, Denethor sitting in that same chair and frowning over papers only to fix him with a hard stare as though it were his fault that more work was laid upon his father’s shoulders. He stirred uneasily, not wishing for a reminder.

“Are we finished? Is there anything more today?” The King asked calmly, his question directed to the entire room, clearly wishing for an affirmative. There was a brief scramble of the Councilmen whispering amongst themselves. Finally, one answered,

“Good.” Aragorn stood and gestured for Faramir to do the same and follow him into the hall. Curious as he could be when he was so depressed, Faramir obeyed. Once outside, the King hesitated, “I need to know the status of…”

“Yes.” The stable boy came to his mind and he felt some of his dark mood evaporate, cleared by the opportunity to move, to act. I must inspect the stables…he glanced at his broken hand. How will I get to the roof now?

Aragorn sounded relieved. “I need to know what we can expect to have coming into the City in way of victuals. The dried and stored supplies are all but gone, they tell me, either destroyed or eaten. And Éomer’s provisions will arrive in a month; they can get here no sooner unless we called upon the aid of the Eagles, but until then…” Aragorn trailed off and gazed at him sympathetically. “Perhaps you could look within Denethor’s…”

“Yes…yes.” Faramir nodded in understanding; he knew where to find the information and he dreaded going there, stomach already tensing. “I will if you wish it, my Lord.”

“Good.” He clapped a friendly hand on Faramir’s shoulder, still speaking with the slight trace of sympathy. “I thank you.”

“You’re welcome, my Lord Elessar.” He answered as the man moved away, glancing at his Lord’s back. For a moment Faramir did not move, head lowered, breathing deeply, gathering himself for the effort needed. Then, straightening, he walked purposely down the hall, wishing he felt as resolute as he strode.

Reaching the deserted White Tower, he moved through the great, cavernous and colorless throne room, skirting the dais and the Steward’s coal black seat to gaze up the stairs that lay secreted nearby; many flights up was what his brother had once sarcastically named Father’s Lair. It was the place Faramir had been called into countless times for stinging reproaches. He shuddered, reluctantly mounting the stone steps and remembering his father’s bitter voice listing that day or that week’s faults in the dim, close room. He hated the little room, hated the emotions that came with it—despair, guilt, anger, all of darkness.

The stairwell had been stuffy and hot and he was sweating a little as Faramir stared at the door to his father’s study and wondered how many years he’d spent looking at it the same way he did now: with dread. Of course…he thought, his mouth twisting into a pained smile, the level at which he’d glared had slowly risen as he’d grown. His eyes had focused higher and higher until now he was looking straight into a thick, twisted knot in the wood. He sighed, knowing he was only putting it off. Faramir would rather have sat in the Council all day long than enter Denethor’s study. Behind this door are too many bad memories…even simply looking at it, he felt his shoulders brace for his father’s dry voice to ring through his ears, raised to berate and scorn icily, never, ever praise. After years of hope, he’d taken the lack of insult as praise, which hurt his heart even more in his pitiful eagerness for love, for a kindness. Never again, never again will I hear his contempt and feel small…the knowledge gave him meager comfort, which immediately turned to shame, the shame of his happiness in the thought that his father would not be behind the door. I am a terrible son, indeed…Faramir shook his head impatiently. Aragorn would be waiting.

The doorknob, when he finally gazed down at it, was dusty, something it had never been in his entire life; this caused a strange pang in his chest, the harsh arrival of an emotion he did not care to analyze. Faramir grasped the cold metal and heard another first—the normally well oiled hinges creaked and groaned. He swallowed hard and pushed the door forward, stepping into the room. It had been his father’s room all the years of his Stewardship and before that, Faramir’s grandfather had used it. But I will not use it, I will live in that great, peaceable house across the Anduin, with Éowyn in a country of flowers and sunlight. He smiled, temporarily warmed and reassured by the memory of her despite her anger and his chagrin for his behavior. But it did not last; gazing into the dark, close room, he realized he should have brought a candle or a lamp, but of course every time he’d ever come, his father had had light. I did not think…he’d not thought of this room as empty. I’ve never seen it empty…never…

Faramir closed his eyes, swallowing again as the emotion he didn’t dare to name seized him. When he opened them, he pushed it from his mind. The study, he found, cautiously extending his senses, felt lacking and his presence seemed terribly loud, terribly large in the small room’s silent void. There were not even the echoes of his father’s mind, as he’d foolishly feared, Denethor blatantly disapproving from beyond the veil of the world. He stepped more fully into his father’s study and took a deep breath. The air smelled stale, was thick and hot; the small window was shuttered, the wood grey with dust, the sill littered with the bodies of dead insects. Perhaps, he thought, he could gather the records and leave in peace.

That was when the door creaked and squealed, hinges grating, then clunked shut behind him, leaving him in darkness and heavy, stagnant air. Faramir’s heart raced; he could feel himself stiffen, whole body stilling as cold fear coursed through his veins. Calm, calm, remember, stay calm… There was no one here, just him and his fool imagination. The door was old and heavy. It had shut by itself. Aware his mind was gibbering, tossing explanations at him in growing panic, Faramir deliberately reached over with his right hand and squeezed his left one. The resulting explosion of pain briefly cleared his mind. Panting, nervous sweat trickling down his temples, he took a step back, right hand stretched out behind him.

Suddenly there was a low scrape and Faramir was a boy again, sweating lightly, shivering in the dark of his room, jumping at every sound, all the frightening stories Boromir had ever told him running through his mind…

“Stop it. It was you…your boot…on the stone…” He spoke aloud and his shaky voice startled him more, which angered him. I am not a coward! “Stop being a fool.” Faramir gathered himself mentally, reaching out blindly, extending his arm behind him, absurdly frightened to turn his back to the room. His questing fingers brushed metal, and then gripped the chilled doorknob with panicky tightness. Swinging it back open, he shut his eyes hard as a breeze blew past him into the hallway. Father? Faramir felt his heart leap with a strange mixture of hope and dread and he shivered, hating himself for his weakness.

He is gone…gone forever. His throat ached, but not from any of Éomer’s minstrations—this was the choking burn of approaching tears. When he’d finally backed into the hall, never taking his eyes from the room, the door shut itself again the instant his hand released the knob. The old wood groaned as it swung closed, unhurriedly, its neglected hinges squealing. Faramir panted, disturbed; he could feel sweat running down the sides of his face, sticking his shirt to his skin under his dark, high-collared cotehardie and sable surcoat. See, it was nothing, a door set on wrong…nothing…

Trying not to feel his nervousness, he focused on the excruciating throbbing where he’d squeezed his hand and not the fact that his heart was hammering so hard against his ribs that it felt like it would burst from his chest at any moment. Faramir stared at the thick knots in the door’s surface and shuddered helplessly. He’s dead, he’s gone. Reaching over with his right hand, he cradled his wrapped, splinted fingers gently, breathing deeply, waiting until the pain had receded to try and renter his father’s secret study.

“Imagination. It’s just my imagination.” He said it out loud, hoping to convince himself. Instead, the sound of his voice made wobbly and uncertain only served to disquiet him even more. Faramir swallowed, his throat dry. This was ridiculous. There was nothing unusual about that room, only that it had a door whose hinges were set on wrong, only that it held too many bad memories. You’re being foolish, just like Father always said—foolish and self-indulgent. Now get in there and find what Aragorn, your King, needs to know. Now, before you become any more useless.

It seemed like forever before Faramir stretched out his right hand and cautiously touched the knob. He tried to turn it, but it slipped in his damp palm. He wiped his hand hastily against his side and tried again. This time the door opened easily. As he stepped inside Faramir didn’t release the knob, but held it until he’d spotted a heavy old tome on the desk, its leather cover battered and spotted with ink splatters. Stretching out, he picked it up, wedging his foot against the door, keeping it open. It seems much smaller this time and darker in here somehow, Faramir’s mind babbled distractedly to itself as he dropped the book onto the floor, wincing at the loud bang! of several pounds of leather and paper hitting the stone. Then, stepping back watchfully, he let go of the door.

As he’d thought, it swung immediately, hinges making that eerie creeeeakking noise until it hit the book. Faramir breathed a sigh of relief as the door bumped the weighty tome softly, and then held still, hovering half-open. There was enough light coming in from the stairwell and window to ease his mind, so he walked to the desk, intent upon finishing this task as swiftly as possible.

Faramir soon bemoaned the use of only one hand as he flipped through stacks of papers. His father’s writing was on all of them—dark, angular and hard-pressed into the paper, his signature slashed at the bottoms, seal stamped with clear force, the crimson wax flattened thin from the pressure. Faramir, still leery of the room, ignored everything but the stacks nearest to the front, keeping an eye on the fickle door. Most were old, from the winter, and he barely glanced at their contents before moving onto others. Scribes’ lacy writing was thinly interspersed with his father’s harsh scrawl, but none told about what Aragorn had asked, instead listing skirmishes, numbers of orcs here and there, tracking the enemy in an attempt to predict its movements. Still more papers were concerned with doings in the City, minor political affairs, correspondences from his uncle in Dol Amroth, forces in the South and Pelargir. Awkwardly pushing the documents around the desk, his chest tight in the musty air of the room, Faramir eventually found what he wanted.

“Here, thirty acres of wheat…” He read aloud in his incredible gladness to find it. Now he could leave. The thick list of the lands to be planted this year told the number of people who would work the fields, and thus, receive a portion of the crops. Something that was annually sent to the Steward for approval, Faramir knew that his father usually only looked at it long enough to make sure the amount of harvest yielded would take care of the City’s needs before he approved it. But what is needed? Times were different, needs had changed. What do I do? How could he even help his Lord? I am useless.

He scanned the records, growing anxious again, lifting the papers and balancing them against the front of his surcoat; many, many fields were listed, more than he’d had any idea existed. Faramir looked back at the desk, but he could see nothing else that might be of value. He read for a few minutes, his fear rallying under this new source of anxiety. How…how do I do this? He could understand what he was seeing, read the locations of the planted lands, read what was planted on them, read how much would be fiefed to Elessar and how much would be kept by the working peasants…but… How did he judge what the City needed? How could he be certain that his folk within its walls and the common folk who farmed it would have enough? Faramir groaned. He had no experience; Denethor had controlled everything, leaving minor duties to Boromir, virtually nothing of consequence to him. I am disadvantaged…just like he was with Éowyn and Éomer.

Preparing to leave, he was distressed to find that he couldn’t. This was his father’s place, and his father’s alone. Neither of Denethor’s sons had ever spent much time in this small, solitary room. Faramir shifted on the balls of his feet, thinking uneasily that this airless chamber was the best place, nay, the only place to be aware of his father’s presence save the Hallows. And I will not enter there until I am dead…he shuddered all over, knowing he had no courage to visit his father’s tomb.

Why Father? He gazed at the varnished desk whose surface was thick with dust for probably the first time in decades. His eyes moved to the hard backed chair behind it, still tilted away from the desk, facing the hall as though Denethor had only pushed out of it a minute before and descended to the throne room, answering some summons. Why did you hate me, Father? Why wasn’t I good enough? There was no answer but the rising sound of his increasingly uneven breathing.

Fool. There never will be, Faramir thought bitterly, hanging his head, fighting the rush of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. Dust motes swirled in the small streams of sunlight from the blurred window and the piles of paperwork and books sat mute and forgotten as they had for months, the only witnesses to his struggle. Eventually, Faramir raised his head, stilled his trembling muscles, collected himself and left. Aragorn, he knew, would be waiting on him and he’d borne enough guilt.

He returned at midday as he’d said he would and she met him in the gardens. “This is where I met Faramir.”

Once he’d given word of the accepted apology, Éowyn seemed determined to speak of her betrothed with ease and to ignore the way he fidgeted, distinctly uncomfortable and disturbed both by her words and his own discomfort. I hate him…but he loved her and should hold his temper for her. Ah, but I hate him…he is too bold, too bold…odd, that had not been his impression of Faramir at all. His spine stiffened. He deceived me…how?

Ceasing his inner dialogue with an effort, Éomer swallowed and tried to sound pleasant, “Is that so?”

“Yes.” She gestured to the trees, the stone benches. “We talked a great deal.”

“About what?” Instantly he was jealous, thinking that while he’d been pining for his sister’s company, the Steward had been enjoying it. Éomer stared at the grasses, the greenery, the birds that hopped or sang, the small creatures that lived within the gardens.

Éowyn’s tone had become more curt, a warning. “Yes. He asked for my hand, there, against the wall.”

Were you so dizzy from the height, then, that you said yes? Éomer held his tongue, nodding in a farce of patience and acceptance. Her eye flashed; his sister was no fool to his moods and her own swiftly turned dark.

Éowyn turned her head, saying coolly, “I must return. I have promised my aid to the Healers.”

This was something new; he’d not known her to be so interested in the arts of healing before. He nodded more slowly, “Tonight, I will see you?” Brightening, he added, “We can dine together, I can tell you of Cormallen and you can tell me of the Houses, what you did.” His cheerful anticipation in their reunion this night, sitting together so that it was almost like home in this foreign City, nearly made him babble, “I’m curious, why do you offer your aid? Is it interest?”

“You held none before…” Or did she? He remembered words of Aragorn’s when the King had pulled his sister from the black abyss the Witchking had sent her into…I have been busy for many years, what have I missed in riding the Mark? He felt remorse, glancing to Éowyn’s face. I missed your pain…I missed much. No matter the danger to his country, it was a shameful negligence on his part. She is my responsibility…Éomer looked to his sister again and felt the stinging prick of anguish. Not for long…

She was answering his question with a faint smile, “No, but I do now.” Éowyn glanced away from him, her eyes alighting on the shadowy East, then looking away, deeper into the City. Her smile held a quality he’d not seen before and wondered at, as did her voice, softer, more gentle and contented. “My heart has been kindled to it.”

“Ah, tonight, you can tell me how it came about.” He smiled, gesturing, eager to keep her good will, “Go, if you must.”

But she did not leave him and hesitating, she replied, “Tonight, Faramir…” Éomer needed to hear no more; his teeth clicked as his jaw clamped tight with the formidable burst of irritation that rose in his chest. And yet, despite his ire, he felt fear course through his gut, making him terribly uneasy, not even knowing his own mind any longer.

He took a breath before replying, trying to steady his head and heart. “Tomorrow, then, I will see you.” Éomer lowered his voice to admit quietly, “I missed you, sister.”

“I missed you as well, my brother,” She smiled some, “My foolish sibling.”

“Only foolish?” He teased her lightly, “I must be forgiven if you have no harsher names for me, sister.”

She laughed, then shoved his side, admonishing, “Go, before I think of some of the names you have so richly earned.”

Éomer turned, then halted, facing her again. He stretched out his arms, hoping and she embraced him tightly, hugging with enough strength to ease whatever worries he might have borne about her injured arm. Éowyn pulled away first and squeezed his hand before returning to the Houses.

Alone, Éomer spent the day amongst his men, making sure everyone that could travel was ready. He walked through the City, boots clumping on the stone streets, ducking into the houses that had been provided for his people, nodding politely as they saluted or stood. Everywhere, in every house he entered, the white horse hung from the rafters, drawings on bits of paper, ancient, tattered banners, some even fashioned from his men’s own garments; they were symbols of his peoples’ homesickness. Éomer, walking alone, understood. He, too, wished for the great, free grasslands of Rohan instead of the cold, enclosed Minas Tirith. Slowly he moved through the levels, entering every narrow alley, and darkened archway to make sure he missed no one.

He could have easily gotten someone to do this for him, but Éomer had wished to do it. They were his people, for better or worse, and it was his responsibility. “You ride at dawn; make ready.” He said it over and over until he was hoarse, giving the order that would take all but his sister, himself and an honor guard from the City and ease Minas Tirith’s strained resources. “You ride at dawn.” All the while his mind was on something else, someone else—his sister. Black and silver, in disgust Éomer gazed at the Guard that stood at the fourth Gate, eyeing his sable surcoat, his stiff, forbidding posture. Their colors are as cold as the stones I walk on. There was no life, no heart to those colors, just as there was no life in the pale grey rock that composed the City. He wondered dismally if Éowyn would be happy in this bleak and cheerless place.

Outside the City, breathing in a great sigh of relief as the immense stone walls released him, Éomer strode through the crowd, walking to where the small ground tents had been set. Here were his, his, would he ever get used to that? best horsemen, his herders and the entirety of the remaining herds of unhurt war horses; released from their stalls and small pens in the City, they bucked and snorted, restless in their vast rope corrals, tossing their well-made heads and turning their eyes back west in anticipation. Éomer smiled, gently touching the soft noses offered in his direction, murmuring greetings; they knew where their home was and it was not in some cold city of rock, but the broad, grassy plains.

“We are ready, my Lord.” Scæmwin spoke quietly from behind him as he entered the largest tent; the Master of Horse sat on an upturned saddle, his fingers firmly working tallow into the leather of a war bridle.

“All of them, Master?” Éomer gave a small gesture to the vast herd, several thousand strong. All up and down the long lines of rope hung waist-high on wooden staves men tossed hay into the masses of horses, feeding them. Dust rose as the geldings competed for the best of the feed, squealing and kicking to retain their portions.

“Aye, my Lord. They would go all day if we let them.” The grizzled older man smiled slightly. He’d been Master of Horse for thirty years and was wise in the ways of the Mark’s four-legged brothers. He was irreplaceable, and had come along the road to Minas Tirith only after war—Scæmwin alone knew the names and breeding of every Mearas and highborn horse in the Mark. It was in his blood; the knowledge passed down by father to son, growing with every generation. Many injured horses had recovered their strength and courage under his understanding hands; Éomer stood respectfully, well aware of his ignorance in the presence of this great man.

He glanced at Scæmwin out of the corner of his eye, wondering, suddenly not at all confident. What does he think of me? I am young, rash, he knew of his reputation, unskilled in ruling… Éomer felt his chest tighten and spoke to relieve it. “Where is Byrga, Master?” He turned as he asked, looking for his gelding in the churning herd. The grey had been brought from the Mark as Firefoot was lame, one of his hooves cracked, ruined in the stony, lifeless soil of the Black Lands. For a moment he felt intense anger and regret. The chestnut had been a fine mount and shown great bravery in battle.

“That way, my Lord.” Scæmwin answered, nodding to the left without even looking up from the leather reins in his hands. “My Lord Éomer?” He spoke just as Éomer was about to go and see his mount, halting him in his tracks.

“We have no mount for the Lady Éowyn.” Éomer merely nodded. After a beat of silence, Scæmwin frowned, raising his eyes to continue slowly. “I can choose one or if you like, she can come and pick her own horse. I would not presume to know my Lord or Lady’s wishes.” The Master shrugged noncommittally.

Éomer nodded again, feeling foolish and inept; the man obviously expected him to take charge, to order him, to know what to do…I know nothing. “I will speak to her.” Weakly, he smiled and gestured to the vast herd, “Care for them for me?” With a nod, the Master went back to his bridle.

Éowyn had been ushered into the room, otherwise she would have fled, visiting the ill, the dying, the men so terribly disfigured by their wounds it was pain to look upon them, anywhere but here. The nursemaid looked only charmed by the tiny creature she held; Éowyn was horrified as it wiggled and wailed. The woman misjudged her expression, reassuring, “Do not worry, my Lady, this little one is not injured.” She smiled and cuddled it within its wrap of soft cloth, cooing gently.

Then why am I here? Éowyn shifted her feet, noting the stares of many children on her. One smiled gummily and stood on its cot, reaching for her hair, mumbling something with enthusiasm. As if it were a signal, many others did as well, giggling or speaking in incomprehensible babble and trying to touch her long, fair hair. They fell against her skirts and Éowyn fought to hold her ground, smiling in nervousness, wishing to extricate herself, but unsure how. “No, no…” She tugged back the hunk of her flaxen mane and the child wailed at once.

“Is that so?” Éowyn jumped at the sudden movement of what had been a perfectly still, deeply sleeping child. Her reaction was unplanned, as instinctive as the sideways leap of a spooking horse. I am little versed in the handling of babes… They seemed terribly odd little creatures to her, not quite human, yet not of beastly kind. Animals she could predict, their quiet language she could read, could understand—the movements and sounds of the children were terribly foreign, not at all like anything she was used to and it made her jumpy.

Her throat closed, only allowing her to laugh tensely and gasp, nodding, “Yes…yes…” The thought of being chained to one of the helpless, alien creatures was incredibly dismaying, much less her further imaginations of the pain of bearing it. Why…why could I have not been born a man? Free, free…her skin itched with long-known frustration. Her brother was free, why couldn’t she have been born a man as well?

“You should spend time with them, prepare…” The woman’s voice lowered to say, “The City will rest easier if Lord Faramir sires a son soon. We have escaped Shadow, but only narrowly…so narrowly…” The nursemaid rocked the little babe; it made aimless noises that Éowyn found perturbing, strange. “And our Lord Elessar has not yet wed or selected a bride. It would assure the peoples, comfort them to know the Steward’s line was held.” The healer paused, “Several sons would be best.” Éowyn stared at her and the woman smiled, “But none expect that of you so soon, my Lady.”

Was that an insult or meant as a comfort? “I see.” She did see and it was the greyness of her future coming faster than she’d ever imagined, like the rising wall of the Sea Faramir had described in his vision. It would soon crest, and then descend with all its weight to crush her and sweep her away until she could not remember what she was now. Éowyn felt trapped, adrift and frightened all at once. Her eyes fell upon the children that surrounded them, peeping from low-lying cots, cribs woven with reeds, some merely sitting on blankets. There were many children. Orphans…she felt her throat close. Once she’d been like to them, but Théoden…oh, kindly Uncle, do you watch over me and shake your head at my foolish weaknesses? had taken her in, taken Éomer and raised them so closely that it was hard not to name herself as his daughter.

Swiftly, interrupting the woman with quick intent, Éowyn begged, “Please, are there any I can help…others that need wounds dressed, given draughts…?” Something she knew how to deal with, anything but the alien babes and their big eyes that looked at her for everything. My own child, Faramir’s child…she shuddered, frightened and feeling claustrophobic. Oddly, it was not the idea of Faramir that brought her the greatest unease, but herself—he was gentle, good to her, pure of aim despite his conduct with her brother. I am not worthy…my heart and blood are not of worth to bear the Steward’s son, to care and teach the child…a child that will rule lands and people I cannot even understand… Éowyn glanced around the small nursery and was gravely dismayed. What have I agreed to? What will I do? She could beg for an ending of their union. It was not announced to all peoples and Lords that she knew of and had not been long-made. They would think that we came close, but did not meet in agreement. She swallowed, thinking…he said he would see me as Queen…Éowyn felt her soul shrivel, repelled by her own cowardice as her thought completed itself. Perhaps he would see me free as well…

The woman seemed surprised by her request. “Yes, my Lady, of course.” Éowyn nodded, pasted a smile to the children that watched her so stilly and left with quick, eager steps.

When she finally strode out of the Houses it was near sunset and Faramir was waiting for her, but his back was turned as he stood against the wall and looked out over the Pelennor. Éowyn halted before he could hear her approach. She studied him; his injured arm was held against his front, making it seem as though he wore his sling again, as though the days had not passed since the Shadow had been destroyed. His hair stirred in the strong winds; the dwindling sunlight that he faced into gleamed ruby-red and orange, tinting his sable surcoat, his dark trousers and boots, his fair skin and inky hair and all the grey stone about him with a warm, reddish glow. He seemed but a dark silhouette against the fiery sunset, a long figure, tall and noble. She smiled faintly, thinking more poetically, a shaft of steel before the forger’s flames, waiting to be plunged into them…her smile faded…fired and beaten into a more pleasing shape.

He turned, but still leaned against the wall, and she gazed at his profile, noting the bruises, the care with which he shielded his left hand. Éowyn frowned. She’d been taught this day in the uses of medicines for pain, had even carefully prepared remedies for the injured…it would be simple to take him within the Houses and relieve some of his discomfort.

But do I wish to? He’d hurt her, should she show mercy? Faramir turned fully and saw her. His face alighted at once, features glad even under their cloak of bruises, and Éowyn dropped her eyes, uncertain and wishing she could forget the night before. What I enjoyed he has turned to bitterness and dust, how could I trust it would never happen again? Her mind showed her the face of another man, his skin pallid from where he dared not to leave Meduseld, his pale eyes that were nothing like her brother’s, her cousin’s, but like to a serpent’s: venomous, uncaring. Remembering his cold hands that sought to catch her unaware, to touch, to even lewdly… She shuddered. Caress though he knew, skin to heart, I loathed him. Faramir was nothing like to that, but his words, his obscene words had exposed a part of him kept hidden by gallantry, by civilities and she feared what else might lurk beneath his gentle smile, his soft touch. Even the worm had not been a worm in the beginning. Over and over and I could not flee…her chest grew taut, years and years…pain upon pain upon fear… She stared at him, then gazed at the City around her. I cannot flee from my husband…no! Éowyn breathed slowly, evenly, masking her fright. She could not trust and would not dare to. I must beg freedom. But as he began to approach, her heart, which she had judged firm, wavered then abandoned her intention with panicky swiftness and she thought, tomorrow…

“My Lady?” His voice, though properly formal, held hope, pleasure in her appearance and a note of cheer which settled her thinking: mercy she would grant and swiftly.

If I am to break his heart… She smiled, hesitant, and did him a brief courtesy. “Lord Faramir.”

“I could not wait to meet you in the Hall of Feasts.” His smile widened, but his strides to meet her were slow, watchful.

“I am glad you did not…” His face lit up again and she felt a pang of guilt. Éowyn gestured to his hand, speaking more softly, “If you wish, I can take some of your pain from you…” She assured, “I have given draughts to many this day.” To her amazement, Éowyn felt her mouth curve up in a smile and she heard herself jest, “And none have died.”

“Is that so?” He chuckled, and then grey eyes held her. His voice was perfectly formal, slightly searching. “You do not think I need the lesson any longer, my Lady?”

She licked her lips, wary and knowing that she could not offer relief and still be called angry; she must give up her grudge. “No.”

Faramir seemed to glow with his delight and when he smiled, it was brilliant. He accepted her offer quickly, “Please, then, yes.” His formality dropped with his laugh, “Éowyn, my love, I thank you in advance; it has been difficult day, I thought I would have to call aid to even dress myself.”

Gesturing, she nodded. “Follow me, my Lord.” His face deflated, less marked by enthusiasm with her words, the precise and not at all intimate form of address. Pretending she did not see or feel just the slightest urge to call him by his name, Éowyn led him into the storage rooms, rooting for what she needed among many, many drawers of herbs—seeds of juniper, a cup and white wine. Her search was not swift and she felt his eyes on her as he waited.

More herbs hung from the ceiling, were laid to dry on racks, were packed into barrels or long, deep wooden bins; on the flat surfaces of the wooden containers, stone bowls were still half-filled with crushed remains. “Here.” She’d found a small packet of the seeds and the wine and laid them on the tabletop that was made before him with a cabinet of stacked drawers, each with a brass handle and a name penciled in the language she could not read. “Chew the seeds and drink.”

He obeyed, grimacing as he crunched the bitter kernels, then washed them down with the wine. Faramir cringed, moving his tongue and lips, drinking more wine before asking, “Are you certain none died?”

“Yes!” Éowyn felt wonder at her laugh. She’d been sure that all her pleasure in his company was tainted, but she found that she was wrong and that she was both amused by his distaste and touched by how he accepted her treatment without question. He made faces of disgust, but trustingly ate all that she provided, quickly drinking from the cup of wine to relieve himself of the acrid flavor.

“Yes.” She felt her stomach flutter as he came a little closer, but Faramir did not touch her. Instead, his hand rose to her arm, hovering several chaste inches from her flesh as he raised a brow,

“Come with me?” He smiled, “I have missed you at the meals.” Faramir’s voice lowered, deepened, became more affectionate. “You should have been by my side long ago…sharing my plate and my company.” In repeating himself, she saw his earnestness, his desire for companionship and for more, for love. “I have missed you.”

She had no answer, thinking with shame of her desire to release herself from her promise of union. It would clearly hurt him. How greatly? Glancing into his eyes, she read their warmth and grew silently defensive. He cannot be in love! He barely knows me! “Now?” Éowyn glanced at her gown, dismayed at its coarseness, the places she’d managed to get stained or dirtied. Her others were little better, but would be clean.

“I guessed you might wish to enter when it was not so crowded.” Faramir smiled brightly and she saw again his desire for companionship, “I would like you to meet others of my family…” His smile vanished and he dipped his brow, voice no longer light, but rough, “Those that are…here. My cousins, Uncle.”

She answered stiffly, wondering if she would displease him, “I would rather have a moment to garb myself in something more befitting the Steward’s,” The word stuck in her throat, “Intended than these,” Éowyn plucked at her skirt with disdain, “Castoffs.”

“As you will it.” As though his own will was meaningless, Faramir smoothly accepted and nodded. “I will wait outside the Houses, my Lady. Unless…” He paused.

“You would find something of my mother’s more suiting…” His expression was a mixture of eagerness to please, delicate hope and something that she could not read.

But she could read his desire for still more ties between them, for still more intimacy in every way. He sought to garb her in finery, like a Lady of the City, like that which had been worn by the previous Steward’s wife. I am not a Lady…she belonged in wool, in rough cloth, in boots, in men’s breeches…in a saddle, with a spear. Not in fine silks, cradling his babe to her breast. Her stomach tensing, aware that the grey wave of her future hung over her head, Éowyn found solace in formality. “If you think so, my Lord.”

“I would like to see you in them…her clothing has not been worn in a long time, it lies useless…I would not have it so forever.” Éowyn did not reply, setting a patient, open cast to her features, indicating that she was merely awaiting his command. He stared at her, his face falling into what it often did—puzzlement. She waited. Faramir finally nodded, but his lightsome smile had faded. “I will take you to where her things are kept…and find women to aid you.”

Éowyn did not wish for women, but held her tongue. She nodded, dipping her brow in acknowledgement to his words. The mantle had been beautiful, exquisitely crafted and dyed a rich blue she’d not even seen before in any cloth, the blue of the night sky just past twilight when the stars began to shine. It had even held the stars upon it, which made her marvel still at the care that some weaving woman had taken, making sure the mantle was spun with threads of silver that glimmered and twinkled. The promise of wearing another lovely garment tingled in her belly, provoking odd, girlish excitement. Éowyn could not remember feeling that way before, or at least in such a very, very long time that she’d forgotten. Uncertain, she hid her enthusiasm in another restrained nod. “As you will it.”

He began to walk, then halted. Faramir looked disquieted. “What do you wish? Tell me. Please.”

She averted her eyes, hiding once more in formality. “To wear what pleases you, my Lord.”

He paced before the door, troubled. All his concentrations had revealed no more than flashes of nerves, inexplicable sadness and…delight; at times the emotions had not even seemed connected with his words. Faramir was frustrated, pounding his unbroken fist rhythmically against his thigh. What can I do? Now that he was forgiven he had more liberty to act, but what actions did he take? I spoiled last night…that was clear. So he had to behave as though he’d not spent all that time kissing or caressing her, soothing her so that she fell asleep against him and snuggled closely without fear. But…

He groaned in harsh frustration. Why must it be difficult? Why must she? Faramir raised his eyes to the door; it was closed and he heard nothing within but the faint murmur of voices. He supposed he would find the reason for her difficulty when he found the reason for her fears. But for now…now he had to act with care, to repair the damage he’d caused with his break with control. I must act as highborn as I have ever done. He could do that, but it was hard not to touch her, to hold himself in reserve. I wish…feeling his impatience, Faramir turned to the door again, even knowing that he had no way of seeing her. My wife, my home, my garden and days ruled by peace and civility. He wished to forget orcs or foul men, to forget blood and death and pain and loss. A dark smile touched his lips. Is that such a great request that the Vala will not grant it?

He could tell that she was approaching, feeling the baffling and blanketing foreignness of her mind among the women whom he could read effortlessly—they were perplexed, disappointed. He frowned, not understanding, but guessing he would soon. The door opened and the women came first, curtseying and withdrawing, their duty done. Then his love came into the hall and he felt an echo of the women’s disappointment. Nothing but faint anxiety came to his senses though by her expression Faramir knew many thoughts ran through her. Éowyn looked beautiful; her hair was in a long, thick braid like his dream, which made him brighten, but to his surprise she was clothed in a very modest gown. In finding the mantle to shield her from the cold winds, he’d come across much rich clothing; however, the one she’d chosen was not one of them.

Instead, the garment was no more than a long-sleeved ivory tunic covered with a rose-colored and sleeveless overdress. It was simple, very simple, and not even of silk or velvet, made without threads of precious gold or silver and worn without jewels to adorn it. He sighed, not able to smother his reaction. Simple, not especially flattering, he wondered when his mother had worn the gown; most of her things had been richer as befit the wife of the Steward. Did she purposely pick this one…this dull frock? Why? Why would she not take any of the richer? He wondered, still gazing at her as Éowyn stood with hands clasped, eyes turned down, waiting for him to speak. It was very modestly cut, only dipping in a round curve under her collarbone and not showing a bit of her bosom; the cream-colored sleeves extended to her wrist. Neither the sleeves nor the bodice were tight enough to show her clear shape, all of it covering her equally well.

When she looked up, eyes wide in agitation, Faramir smiled at her and extended his arm, hiding his dissatisfaction that she had not adorned herself more lavishly. Perhaps she is shy to use my mother’s things… He glanced at her graceful throat, her slender wrists, her fair brow, wishing to see bright jewels, gold, a thin circlet mithril, treasures that befitted her loveliness and valor. Maybe someday he could convince her to bear them.

Éowyn took his arm, but with some degree of wariness. He wondered if she were intimidated by the prospect of eating in the Hall of Feasts and smiled again. She was frowning and her voice was faint, nervous. “You aren’t pleased with me.”

“No…” He sighed, exiting the short passage and beginning to walk up the last incline to the Hall.

Faramir chose his response carefully. “I thought you would prefer a gown…more rich in appearance.” He chanced to look at her, saw her frown and said, “To wear jewels, perhaps, to adorn it.” Her reply was slow in coming and so low he had to bend to hear it, but when he did he was surprised at her firmness.

“I do not wear them in my own lands. I do not wear silks or jewels or any of the other rich things I saw…” Éowyn seemed very intense, looking at him with her exotically pale eyes sober and forceful. “I am not a Lady of the City and…” Her forcefulness died in a flash of nerves and her voice was less strong, “Do not believe I will dress or act like one, my Lord…” She’d dwindled to a whisper, “Or you shall be gravely disappointed.”

Faramir tried to lift her spirits, smiling broadly, “You do not disappoint, merely surprise, my Lady, my love.” He ventured into more starry-eyed discourse, halting her and gathering her braid into his hand to show it to her. The fading sunlight gleamed off her lustrous, uncommonly straw-colored hair. “Here is gold more lovely than that mined in any dwarf mountain, fit only for the use of the highest of Lords, the richest in luster…” He lifted his hand much more slowly, carefully, to touch near to the corner of her eye, and murmur. “Here, color richer and brighter than any jewel sparkling in the sun, rarer than Silmarils to my eye, my love.” He smiled and she laughed mutely, turning away so that he touched her cheekbone. Faramir was pleased that she did not recoil in fear, heart lifting as she only turned back to gaze at him in demure silence, listening with an expression of amazement. I have thus far conquered…

He continued, stroking the gentle curve of her face and marveling anew at the softness of her skin, “Flesh fairer than costly ivory,” He lowered his voice, “And softer than silks to my rough hand.”

To his delight the cheek he touched darkened and Éowyn gave the smallest of shakes of her head, answering weakly. “Your hand is not rough.”

He added much more softly, teasing her now, his spirits buoyant, flooded with rapture that she both allowed and seemed to enjoy his touch and simplistic poesy. “Such delicate, snowy loam, where roses bloom every day…”

Her eyes had widened, were watching him with some new expression of awe and wonder that he did not understand. Faramir smiled at her, his soul warming as she did not flinch or draw from his caressing fingers, passing over her cheek, skirting the corner of her lips. Her eyes met to his and he felt a pull, the desire to bend, to kiss, and to take her in his arms. She seemed soft, seemed perfectly complacent and he bent, forgetting all his vows of pure conduct. But she withdrew before he could meet her, her pale eyes studying his. Faramir waited, unsure if her movement was a true rebuke; then, as he paused, she relented and her gaze seemed distinctly welcoming. With a smile he bent further, utterly delighted, almost forgetting his kiss as she lifted her chin to meet him, her lips colored rosy like the gown she wore, rising as a bloom did to the Sun.

It was her first true movement to meet him and Faramir kept his control, though it was an effort, wishing to hold her tightly, to kiss with passion instead of what he did—his able hand touching just to her waist, his mouth meeting hers with temperance, no more than a press or two which only teased rather than satisfied.

Pulling back, he jested lightly, heart so giddy that he wondered if his boots even touched the ground any longer. “Why, my Lady, perhaps you should not wear jewels or embellishments, they would only distract from your beauty!”

Éowyn laughed, faintly, but it was a laugh and pulled back, lightly slapping his hand aside. “Do not lie, Faramir.”

He was even more pleased to finally hear his name and grinned. But her words were mildly puzzling. “I am not lying.”

Her response was good-natured, making him wonder with bemusement if he should compliment her more often. “You praise too much. I am not that fair, nor beautiful.”

But to his surprise, for all that he’d thought it was plain his words were merely jest, her eyes dropped and she became quiet, then to his dismay, apologized meekly. “You, my Lord. Forgive me.”

Faramir touched her chin, making her raise her eyes, perturbed by her reaction. “You’ve not angered me, Éowyn.” She did not respond, looking away and he sighed a breath drawn from the very soles of his boots. So difficult…why?! “I jested.” He shifted his feet, “I thought it was clear…to you.” There was no reply and he despaired. Faramir glanced to the sun; it was very low and they would be late if he took much longer. “Come.”

He escorted her into the Hall of Feasts, glancing at rich tapestries that blocked drafts and adorned the pale stone walls, reaching all the way to the high ceiling and threaded with precious metals, equally valued jewels set within the fabric. The floor was smooth stone positioned into a complex pattern of dark and light, gleaming and stretching the length of the Hall with each ebony square decorated by silver inlay. Faramir led Éowyn deeper, seeking his own seat with servants bearing wine and platters dodging them and murmuring acknowledgments. He could see their surprise at his company and felt a great burst of contentment. It is as it should be…

He glanced at the long tables arrayed with plates and knifes gilded with silver and gold, lightly jeweled goblets and tall candelabras of gleaming gold topped with fat white candles that burned brightly. Faramir felt wonder. He’d not seen the Hall so richly ornamented in so long that each day he entered it was to lose his breath; in his father’s time it had been stripped, darker, colder and less rich, all the King’s finery locked away in chests, only the Steward’s more austere trimmings used. The great center seat had been empty, but now it was not and his heart lifted to see Aragorn there, his Uncle, Imrahil seated at his side. It is as it should be…should have been…

Éowyn seemed touched by wonder, too, gazing around herself. He smiled, pleased. Soon all shall be as it should…

Once she’d caught her breath at the elegant sight, she’d never been so horrified in her life. Éowyn wanted to shrink to the size of a mouse, then escape beneath the eyes of all the fine nobles and ladies that surrounded her. The Hall of Feasts was impossibly rich and she felt a deep longing for the comparatively inelegant Meduseld, for the soot-darkened wood and faded wool banners on the walls, the twisted gold tooling, the cups of ale and plates of common food, the straw and fresh herbs crushing beneath her feet. She looked at the fine plates and knifes and mourned for the plain wooden trenchers, her pewter cup. Even the drunken, singing Riders and the ever-present dogs, the stray hounds she’d always been irritated by, were part of her nostalgia.

Oh, do not say this is my home… Éowyn followed Faramir’s guidance with fainting steps, all the way to the dais and row of seats at a short table elevated above all others. She felt so many eyes upon her that her skin crawled and her breath came short. They stared, they whispered, they laughed; she fought to contain herself, concentrating on Aragorn’s pleased smile and friendly greeting. He half rose to bow, a gesture that even she knew as one of great respect and fondness.

She nodded and courtesyed in reply, feeling weak as Faramir, one-handed and quick, if not graceful, pulled her chair for her. Éowyn sat, tidying her skirts and noting the girl that sat before her was the same girl as in the Houses. The man who was seated opposite of Faramir was Imrahil; she knew him only vaguely but understood he’d been one of her rescuers. He smiled at her, and though his eyes bore the wisdom of great age, his noble face was only seasoned, still unlined. She dipped her brow to him, quick not to show offense and thinking that he reminded her almost painfully of Théoden—a warrior hale, vigorous and matured beyond all foolhardy rashness.

He spoke and his voice was warm, kind, too friendly for all that they’d not spoken before; it was the affection of family and made her flatten her fingers to her thighs not to fidget. “I see you are at last well enough to grace us, Lady Éowyn.” Imrahil’s gaze dropped and rested upon her gown for several beats, making her wonder.

It would be unthinkable not to answer; in looking up, she caught Faramir’s beaming smile. “Yes.”

“Briefly, my Lord, in the Houses.” The brown-haired girl smiled at her and Faramir beamed again. He was clearly happy and her heart ached. She should not have come, should not have given him this memory to mourn. I am cruel… Éowyn looked at her empty plate. Her wine was full, however, and she took it to sip, tasting its vibrant, sweet flavor. It was better wine than any in her lands.

Lothiriel leaned closer and asked in the tones of one who merely wished confirmation, “Lady Éowyn…your brother is Lord Éomer…?”

She is so shy…again the mystery of it baffled him. Faramir smiled as his cousin queried spiritedly, “Tell me, for I have met him, is he customarily so rude?”

She retorted with equal firmness. “Neither was he.” Faramir smiled again; though his interaction with her had been limited, his younger cousin often reminded him of his brother—both were strong-willed, impatient and commanding. Though I hear she had more inclination for her studies…his smile turned sentimental, longing for the days of Boromir glaring at his books and tossing quills out of the windows to float and fly down to the streets below.

But Éowyn merely smiled and did not look offended; as Faramir watched, she was slowly warming and relaxing, the frost that gilded his flower seeming to melt away quicker and quicker each day. “At times.” The first courses were being served and her attention was divided, making her answer a bit hesitant, “My brother…is more used to the field of battle than a civilized court.”

Imrahil protested again. “Lothiriel.” Faramir laughed, he could not help it. But his laughter dried with her words,

“Tell me, cousin, who marked your face and hand?” Lothiriel continued boldly, as though she already knew the answer, “And the eye of our beloved Elessar?”

Aragorn said nothing, allowing him to reply. Has the gossip spread so far? He swallowed, uncertain, thinking more of Éowyn’s heart in painting Éomer in the light of a villain, than the man’s reputation.

Faramir watched his cousin and her converse. “I pity him…he moves like a storm, striking swift to cause mayhem and yet he is not at all aware until he sees the smashed ruins, caught in the moment. He is lost, to my thinking.”

He knows what he does! He felt an rush of black fury, barely containing it and keeping his calm expression, his jaw grown tight, able hand balled into a fist under the table. His vehemence was strange, but felt good, almost too good.

The Lord of Dol Amroth appeared indignant. “Éomer is a good lad, he’s shown naught but honorable conduct in my presence.”

Lothiriel gazed at Imrahil with indulgence. “Few could be angered at you, Father.” She repeated, “I pity him” and Faramir could not hold his tongue.

Éowyn was looking down; Aragorn’s gaze rested upon him with some concern. Faramir refused to feel shame. Éomer was a bully, a man of crudeness who needed to be taught manners. I am not the one who should be shamed! He answered with a hard, cold and oddly familiar tone of finality. “No.”

Lothiriel’s reply was shocking, an unsubtle reprimand which stunned them all into silence. “Father, tell me again who sits as Steward?”

In the strained quiet, Éowyn gazed at the food on her shared plate; it sat neatly between her and Faramir. But none touched their plates and she carefully adhered to their example. When the tables had been served, Aragorn stood and all did as well, Éowyn with a sense of partial panic, waiting. She glanced up to Faramir’s face and he smiled at her as though he could sense her confusion. Kindly, he bent to murmur with his breath warming her ear, “At meals we stand and face the West…to remember…”

Éowyn nodded, still unsure. Remember what? She knew little of the history of Mundburg, but she obediently stood and when the others sat, she did as well, waiting to see if any other things would be required of her. Nothing seemed to, the Lords and Ladies beginning their repast, the sound of cutlery and conversation rising to fill the respectful void. She looked again to the plate she shared with Faramir.

The salad was familiar: various and tender young lettuces and herbs, last autumn’s nuts, chopped new cucumbers with a coating of red wine vinegar and oil. As for the soup, she had no idea what she was looking at and waited for him to make the first move, but he seemed terribly rattled, looking to the brown-haired girl with a furrowed brow and did not. Her stomach rumbled. It seemed he heard it, for he turned to her, and to all appearances, her Prince had regained his smooth courtesy. “This is…” Faramir stopped and when he touched his spoon to the soup, he smiled and she knew he was trying to ease her discomfort, to make her laugh if he could. “I’m not sure.”

He did and tasted it thoughtfully. “Cream…of beef, onions…” Faramir took another spoonful, “Almond milk.”

“Try for yourself.” He handed her the spoon and Éowyn took a dainty taste. It was fair and they traded the utensil, soon finishing the soup and then beginning on the salad. She eyed the other women surreptitiously and ate as they did: sparingly and with as much fastidiousness as she could muster. Sharing his plate was oddly pleasant, making her wish that she could stay with him. The feeling was strange, a melancholy longing in her heart. But he expects a wife…and indeed, her very place so intimately at his side and sharing his food was that of a wife, not simply a betrothed. To him I am in all but ceremony, his wife… She felt sorrow rise to overcome her fears. I should not have come.

The second course was served and Faramir spoke easily, tapping each dish with his knife, occasionally tasting with enough delicacy to make her smile; it was odd to see such daintiness in a man. “Roast coney in fruit sauce; pork in wine, egg and pepper sauce; roast chickpeas in olive oil, garlic, with cloves and pepper…”

Éowyn tried not to make a face. The food of her lands was much simpler, not so seasoned or elaborate. She had no doubt the carrots or pears would have been just as tasty alone than within a dish full of herbs or slathered in sauces. She carefully refrained from trying them, pleading fullness—around her she could see that the Ladies only ate what seemed an impossibly tiny dab of food from their plates. They are birds! Éowyn wondered how they did not starve; she herself normally ate only little more but it was of heartier foods than the delicate stuff they served in the City. She glanced down at her lap, her narrow hips, slight breasts…and I am thinner than they are.

Looking at his handsome face, Éowyn wondered what Faramir was so attracted to, what made him wish to court and make advances on her. The other ladies were far fuller in flesh and curves than she and no doubt would gladly take her place; she saw many that glanced to him, then her and she shared their disbelief. Surely they are more desirable…but the Prince of Ithilien smiled to her alone, listening with half an ear to Aragorn and Imrahil’s speech of the Easterlings; he was clearly attuned to her wishes, merely waiting for one to arise. She smiled back, tentative, and he leaned to murmur into her ear,

His warm breath made her flush, thinking of the night before when he’d kissed and suckled her skin, his eagerness and her own tense, weak responses. Éowyn was utterly surprised to feel no bitterness, to feel nothing but a thrill in the memory and nerves when he lingered to hear her reply. He’d tainted her pleasure but briefly. I could…she could have it again, if she wished. I could have it for the rest of my years…could have pleasure in his touch. His trusted touch…who else would she trust so quickly? None came to her mind and Éowyn despaired, knowing she could not stay, must not. I have hurt you enough…she felt guilt-ridden. Her brother had harmed him because of her, had broken and bruised him. Was there any more she needed to see, needed to do to him to know she was not meant for this life, this gentle man? Why me…why do you want me…? I am no prize among women.

Her voice was small, timid, wishing she could ask many questions of him, but unable to. “No.”

“They speak of darker things…” Faramir sighed, then turned more fully to her, ignoring all others. His voice was intimately soft, “I have had a splendid dream.”

Éowyn stiffened, but she knew he would not speak of something vulgar in the hearing of others. Relaxing, she teased, truly curious. “I should hope this was a proper dream, my Lord.”

His eyes twinkled at her. “Absolutely.” She could see the third course coming and it held a strange creation, the melding of a young pig and large hen, the skin and meat so neatly together that the dish looked to hold some inexplicable, impossible creature. Éowyn found it more repelling than appetizing, not charmed by the impossibility, but rather put off. There was little sense in the creation of an unrealizable creature to her mind.

“I saw a great house in a land filled with flowers, tall grasses that stretched far and green, a sky bluer than any above us…” His hand took hers under the table, his fingers gently moving on her own. It was a gesture of possession, tenderness. She gazed down, catching a glimpse of their intertwined flesh, the darkness of his warrior’s hand compared to her own pale one. Years ago she would have been darker, the sun bronzing her skin, paling her hair and years ago she’d been unafraid to leave Théoden, to leave Meduseld and venture on her own. Éowyn swallowed, pained, realizing that she was trying to commit his soft, pleasing touch to memory.

“The courtyard was a garden greater than the one that holds the White Tree…” To her amusement his voice had lowered. When their eyes met, he grinned and she laughed, but softly.

“Yes…and I speak not just of its size or flowers or pools in which bright little fish swam or tall trees or graceful hedges…it was greater because it held you.” Éowyn looked down again, unable to bear the delight in his face. Faramir went on, “The walls were of pale stone, low and with many arches…it was not a fortress of war, but a house of peace.” There was longing in his voice.

She heard the note of truthfulness in his reply and after a few moments of silence, asked, “Was that the dream, then?”

He hesitated, “I saw children…” Éowyn looked away quickly and felt his hand tighten on hers, his flesh pleading without words. “Two lads and a lass…all had hair just as gold as yours. They rode ponies and raced over the hills, laughing and merry.” His voice held a greater yearning now, bone-deep.

She nodded only faintly, frightened by his evident cravings, his eagerness to have what he’d dreamt—it was clear in his grey eyes that beamed at her, urging her to respond in kind. I do not wish children or a house in Gondor… Looking up at his face again, she thought, but I would have you… Confused by herself, Éowyn stared at her plate, dully whispering, “It does sound a good dream.” She could not have him without the other, which was plain—his longing would goad him into achieving all his desires of home and family.

Faramir’s words confirmed her thoughts. “I hope to have it again…to walk within it.” His finger touched her wrist, caressing, all his caresses properly out of sight. “In a few years…”

Éowyn did not respond, unwilling to promise again what she would not, could not give. He watched her, waiting, but she still did not speak. The pressure of his grey gaze was terrible now; she knew she’d only to smile in assent and he would be instantly aglow with elation. I cannot…her eyes pricked with tears. I shall not promise more…

In their quiet, the final course came and she was relieved to see desserts; they looked far more appealing. Faramir identified them without prodding, in a light tone, making her ignorance a game. “This…” He scooped up a bit, then dangled some of it from his spoon, letting the blandly colorless goo drop and squelch back onto their plate; Faramir grinned, “Is far tastier than its looks promise; it’s an almond milk and rice pudding.” He moved to another, smiling, “This is delicious…apples fried in batter then slathered with honey.” He nudged one of the wrinkled, shining little creations nearer to her. “And we have cakes,” Faramir indicated the thin, delicate pastry, “of rosewater and nutmeg.” His smile was bright, gently jesting with her. “I promise they are better than they sound.”

Putting an answering smile on her mouth, Éowyn glanced with sadness at his profile as he bit into a light cake. I’m sorry, I cannot be…he deserved better than she. I wish…she carefully looked around herself, seeing the others eating, hearing them speak with cheer or sobriety of the City’s affairs, topics she was once again ignorant of. How was she supposed to wed him when she could not even fulfill his wife’s duties? I do not know where anything is, who anyone is; save Imrahil or Aragorn, I know nothing, no one, how can I be a fitting wife? Her throat was closing, her chest filling with apprehension. He deserves more…deserves a woman who knows what to do, to make him happy…who does not shrink…

She thought for a moment she would weep, anxiety and grief overflowing her heart. Éowyn’s hand tightened in her lap, wrinkling her skirt; the other, at Faramir’s urging, was taking a piece of the warm, sweet smelling apple. It melted in her mouth, all softness and deliciousness. She smiled, relaxing some. “It is good…” The pleasure he took in her enjoyment was obvious.

The meal lingered, folk laughing up and down the long tables, servants clearing emptied dishes and serving more wine. Imrahil was gazing at her and Éowyn wondered if she’d gotten a stain until he spoke, directing his words to Faramir, “That is Finduilas’s dress, is it not?”

Her Prince fidgeted. “Yes.” He hesitated, then cleared his throat, adding carefully, “I offered the use of my mother’s clothes to the Lady Éowyn…” Again he hesitated, “I felt they had stayed long enough in uselessness.” His voice held the slightest tinge of defense, “They compliment her.”

Imrahil looked at her Prince and she saw love in his eyes, warmth and gentle reassurance. “It was a wise and kind thought.” Faramir relaxed minutely and the older man turned his gaze to her. “I remember it from her youth…” He chuckled, “It is too plain for a Lady Steward and came not from this land. Finduilas wore it long ago, when she and Denethor were newly wed and stayed in a house by the Sea where there was no court and no kingdom to impress with finery.” The Lord of Dol Amroth smiled at her in the same gentleness, making her feel again how he reminded her of Théoden. His fatherliness without sternness was deeply pleasant; she trusted him unthinkingly and was pleased when he added, “I agree, it suits you well, Lady Éowyn.”

“Thank you.” She bowed her head, nodding; beside her Faramir’s face had become without expression, only a strange mash of sadness, wonder and pain in his eyes.

Although she’d thought he’d finished, Imrahil spoke again and his words made her stiffen—it was as if he’d seen right to her heart. “My sister was frightened of living within the City.” He gazed at her, adding, “I received many letters, but when my first nephew came, it seemed she was more content.” Éowyn had no reply. He did not seem to require one, continuing in a reflective tone. “She found the City a cold place and complained to miss the smell of the Sea.” He smiled, lost in some old recollect, “I sent her a bottle filled with the water from our harbor, scooped with sand and shells and capped to keep in the scent.” Imrahil grew more intent, “What shall you miss most from Rohan, Lady Éowyn?”

“I…I don’t know.” Faramir was looking at her, as was Aragorn, but while the King’s expression was full of kindness, her Prince’s was of dread. The brown-haired girl whose name she found difficult to remember, as it was so foreign, smiled,

“There is not much to tell…” Éowyn nervously added, “It is not so grand as the City…” They were not put off and she licked her lips. “Meduseld is our great Hall. It is roofed in gold; there is much gold in our hills and streams.” Meduseld itself, without the rooms built onto it, was but half the size of the Hall of Feasts, neither as broad, nor as long. She told them so with hesitancy. “There is more gold within, on the walls…”

“Much gold in your people.” To her surprise, Faramir teased her, his hand briefly grasping her long braid. The table laughed.

“Yes…” Éowyn nodded, hands clasped in her lap, “Edoras is walled in wood…set on a hill to see over the land.” Her eyes closed, seeing perfectly her small city, the roofs of sod or thatch with grass growing on the tops of them. She heard the chickens in the simple courtyard, saw the tall barn, the stacks of hay that stayed in the fields, darkening and browning, small hillocks stretching far and wide to feed the herds in winter. A lump came to her throat as she saw white fields of snow, felt the smooth pull of horses drawing sleds, heard the chiming of bells, deep laughter of her brother and her cousin. I cannot leave…Éowyn opened her eyes and the immensity of the City and the richness of the Hall of Feasts seemed nothing at all in that moment. Too opulent, too alien, not at all a home as she remembered Meduseld.

Imrahil smiled at her and it was gentle. “Will you go on, Lady Éowyn?” He gestured, “Save Elessar, none of us have had the pleasure of seeing your lands.”

The King smiled, honoring, “The Mark is fair, wild and wide, I enjoyed my time there and would have liked more.”

She gathered her strength. “The land is open save that there are walls of stone around the fields we farm, as the horses of many Riders in Edoras roam freely.” So that they would not think her folk were savages, she added, “Most of our herds are within the Wold, under the watchful eyes of herders. The Snowbourn is not far and it is thinner, slower than the Great River. I swam in it as a child.” Her voice hitched, “It runs across our lands.”

Éowyn had to pause, homesickness making her near tears. “My folk like songs, riddles and games very much…in the past we played often, holding many tourneys and war games for the Knights.” She took a breath and gestured around herself. “This is very strange to my thinking…” She touched the fork gilded with silver and found a jest, “Very rich, so that I fear to use it.” They laughed at her with good-natured chuckles. Imrahil’s tranquil features seemed to give support and she continued, “I used to ride in the games with my brother and cousin…”

Éowyn braced herself for a rebuke, silent or not, but there was none; the brown-haired girl seemed to take more notice. Her name…it came to her after a second. Lothiriel. “King Théoden did not oppose it and I found it more pleasing than staying within our Hall…” Again she waited for a rebuke; again, none came. “I enjoy the handling of a horse at speed…the hunt, the chase, learning to wield a blade, spear and bow.” She smiled, feeling melancholy. “Since the Darkness spread to the Mark, I have not been able to…Éomer forbade me from straying beyond Edoras.”

Aragorn spoke, “He was wise.” His gaze turned to the others, “Many wargs roamed the fields of the Mark and orcs of Saruman. The villages and fields were under constant threat…the people had no retreat like those who live outside this City.”

“Yes.” Absently nodding, Éowyn had found what she would miss most, what she had missed for years now—the thrill of a galloping horse, the chase of a stag through a wood, the pull of a bow or heft of a spear. Command of men, of beast, of my world… She knew she would not experience it within the City and her heart firmed. I must go… She did not speak again and none prodded her. Éowyn gazed at her lap, feeling deeply miserable. She did not wish to hurt Faramir, finding she did not even wish to leave him, but…I will hurt him more, Éomer will hurt him with his foolish demands…what did her brother have in mind? She didn’t know and it worried her. Faramir is safe here, will be safe, will find a wife of worthiness who shall know his City and live the same length of years, who shall love his babes and bear his touch without fear… Éowyn sighed inwardly, heart aching. I wish…but she couldn’t. Tomorrow, I will part from him.

The meal seemed over; Aragorn rose and it was a signal. Others did too, the crowd dispersing as more servants came to clear the mess. Éowyn rose with Faramir beside her and she felt his gaze. “My Lady…would you stay a while longer with me?”

“Yes.” His smile was broad and she returned it with hesitation, focusing. I must remember…his caress, the queer but warm and gentle inflection of his voice, his courteous disposition and bearing were suddenly precious. She would find none like to him in her lands. Her Prince offered her his arm and led her outside the Hall of Feasts and to the walls; they were on the highest level and her head swam for a moment before the sight.

Enchanted, yet staying a pace behind the wall, she murmured. “It is beautiful.” He did not seem to fear and leaned against the pale stone, giving her another sight of his long, lean form against a horizon, this time of darkness blending with his sable livery and inky hair until he was near hidden. Only where he blocked out the stars could she see his silhouette, dark against dark. She smiled and reached to touch the buttery soft leather; Faramir turned in surprise, in clear hopes, smiling in welcome. Her heart skipped at his eagerness; clearly he wished for her to come closer, to touch, to act as affectionate as he did; ashamed under his smile, she only murmured what she’d meant to laugh as a jest, then explain. “Nihthelm…”

“Shades of night…colors of darkness…” She bit her lip, again touching his surcoat, this time under his gaze and deeply aware of it, lightly tapping his side. “You…wearing this, standing against the sky, it made me think…”

Faramir smiled at her then seemed to notice her distance. “Do you fear the height?”

“Trust me?” His eyes were gentle, as far as she could see. Éowyn stepped very hesitantly to his side and his hand came, not to clasp hers, but to hold her arm just above the elbow. His grasp gave her strange comfort, the sensation of being held, of safety as she peered over the drop.

“Look as long as you like, I won’t let you fall…” He’d taken a step closer, giving her the comfort of his mass; she leaned timidly against his body, feeling his hand over her arm, his chest against her shoulder. Faramir shifted and she knew he was smelling her hair. Despite her sadness and nervous contemplation of the empty space beneath her, Éowyn smiled. When he was not testing the boundaries of her fear with caresses…her smile trembled. He makes me feel…good. Her heart ached.

The smoke of countless fires rose to gently haze the sight of the City stretched below and before her. Éowyn squinted to see the faint flicker of candles through open windows. Brighter lights from lanterns were stretched back and forth on the incline, following the road upward along the sheer slope of Minas Tirith like gold dust sprinkled upon dark velvet. Especially glowing points were the Gates, six gems easily seen below her, the seventh slightly too near. It was a magnificent view that she’d not bothered to take in before. As her eyes adjusted further to the darkness, making out tiny spots of campfires on the Pelennor to torches carried by Knights that looked like ants on the roads, the largeness of the City became overwhelming. She turned up to the stars, finding familiarity in their shapes.

Faramir answered her words though many minutes had passed while they spoke and looked out over the ledge. “I think it is very beautiful.” He drew closer to her and sighed against her neck, “I cannot wait until we are not parted by nightfall.” She made no response, incredibly aware of his nearness and striving to remain as least agitated as she could. His hand rose to touch her shoulder, to gain her attention. When she jumped at the sudden contact, his finger turned, knuckle coming to reassuringly smooth the fragile skin of her throat. In the dim light of the stars his face was close to hers, questioning. “Tell me, do you like my City?”

“Would you like to?” He smiled, “I can escape my duties at Council for a few days…you don’t have much more time here.”

She almost laughed with despair, nodding, keeping her eyes downcast. “I know.” I know better than you, my dear Faramir…

“Would you like to see my City? Walk the markets, those that have been rebuilt, and see what else has been mended?” He sounded half-ablaze with the idea, half-melancholy in the discussion of ruins. “I can see the Pelennor from my window and I wish to ride and view the progress tomorrow…will you not come with me?” Faramir’s voice softened, “It is my duty as Steward to record the improvements and report to my Lord, but I would like your company, my love.”

Éowyn felt a moment’s unease when she glanced to the giant blackness of the field before the City; the mountains were invisible, making the darkness seem to stretch on forever. She would enjoy a ride. “I will come.”

His response ignited a fire of guilt in her belly. “You’ve made me very glad.” Faramir bent, smiling, and she stiffened. Acutely aware of her, he paused, asking very quietly, “Have I angered you?”

“No.” He’d done nothing, but she wished to pull back, to wean him of his caresses—it seemed that would not be possible.

His voice softened still further, nearly inaudible, gentle, “Are you afraid?” Faramir seemed to take in their stance, so close to the wall. “Me or the height?”

She shook her head, humiliated that he should have to ask. “Not…of you…neither.” He still held her arm. Éowyn gave the tiniest of acknowledging gestures to his clasp. “You have me.”

“Then…” He bent again and pressed a chaste kiss to her brow. Éowyn swallowed, closing her eyes, feeling how she enjoyed his soft touch, how strange it was, how unknown. She thrilled at his nearness, his warmth, his ardor that she could sense, not in his subdued actions, but instead with the pauses he took, the almost inaudible sighs of frustration. He kissed her cheek, his breath as warm against her skin as his mouth; she desired for a bit more, though no more than he’d done the night before. Éowyn remembered his mouth against her throat and shivered, feeling his kiss on her cheek. “I wish…” Faramir sighed deeply and repeated himself with a nearly imperceptible groan of longing that made a tingling rush through her limbs, “I wish…” His next words were more impatient. “How long will I my test be, do you know?”

She opened her eyes, confused, brought out of her near trance of peculiarly thrilling, tingling pleasure in his kiss, his nearness. “Test?”

There was a further note of impatience in his reply. “Your brother’s demands. I must fulfill them before we can wed.” His clipped tone fairly shouted how he felt about it—anger, contempt, and the same frustrated impatience.

His mood made her nervous, answering tensely, “I…I don’t know, my Lord.”

“Ah, well.” At once calmer, he smiled, lifting his broken hand for her to see. “The pain has lessened, I hardly feel it.”

Éowyn felt herself brighten with pride, forgetting all discomfort or sadness. She’d done something correct and used her new knowledge. “Truly?”

“Yes.” Faramir shared her smile. She laughed, embarrassed at how he beamed downwards, how proud he looked of her, how delighted in her delight. He offered her an arm, “May I walk you to the Houses?”

They walked slowly, past the Gate and down a level, the night wind ruffling their hair. Éowyn touched her borrowed gown, frowning. “Do you wish this returned…?”

She nodded, pained and wondering if his feeling would change when she begged freedom. I will leave it behind for him…

“Yes?” She braced for his kiss, his touch, perhaps more amorous than even the night earlier. They were alone now, with none to see what they did from the streets on either side of them and none visible in the lit hall of the Houses. What shall he do? Would he seek to touch her breast? Make her yield to some new caress? Anxiety rose in her throat, closing it.

Faramir smiled down at her and his voice held soft yearning. “Will you not kiss me, this time? Not take some action yourself…so that I know you wish for it, desire what I desire?”

Her mouth went dry, fear resurfacing, as well as relief that it was so simple a request. He wanted her to kiss, wanted her to control, to give the caresses. I don’t know what to do…she had no idea what would please him, what he would want. Éowyn frowned, aware of her heart beating rapidly. “I…” It wasn’t her place; he was strange to ask.

“I will make it easy…” He was smiling, so hopeful, so earnest, bending all the way down so that she only had to lift and meet his lips. His hair brushed her collar in teasing movements, “Please?”

He could feel her anxiety; it was that strong, piercing through the shield of her foreign mind to press him. Faramir waited and it was difficult to remain only inches from her lips, to not move. Her pale eyes were wide, searching his before turning inward and then she rose, planting a swift and somewhat ungraceful kiss on his mouth. It startled them both and he laughed, surprised and a bit disappointed that she’d not lingered. Perhaps it is too soon…

Éowyn smiled with him and even in the darkness of the lamp-lighted streets, he could see her flush, watch it spread to her throat. Faramir came closer, smiling down and she bent her head; he could feel her embarrassment; it too was strong. “I beg another…”

She lifted her face, but frowned. “C-close your eyes.” Éowyn smiled faintly, “You…you’re staring at me.”

“If you wish.” Faramir regretted that he would not see her come to him. He bent low, then closed his eyes, waiting again, not expecting much more. But this time Éowyn touched him and his eyes almost flew open in delighted surprise.

Her small, slim hands went to his shoulders, linked around the nape of his neck, fingers touching his bare flesh above his high-collared shirt. She didn’t seem to know where to put her hands and kept moving them, kept adjusting her stance, a little closer, a little farther. He waited, feeling an odd thrill of excitement, of anticipation. She was breathing shallower, quicker, and so close that he could just feel the movement of her bosom. It excited him still further and Faramir held himself in control with an effort.

When she rose, he jumped and they both laughed jittery laughter; his eyes slipped open, but she didn’t appear displeased. Éowyn took a breath and rose once more, not quite making contact. He could sense her trepidation and kept very still; his hands longed to move, to touch and cup one of the breasts that pressed and retreated in a quick, faint cadence against his surcoat, to at least wrap around her waist. She finally kissed him and it was terribly gentle, terribly hesitant, the almost clumsy and certainly inexperienced press of her mouth to his.

She still fears… At once Faramir cautioned himself to take note, to not forget. He gazed down, feeling his excitement fade to be replaced by love, by tenderness. I will not hurt you…never, never… Éowyn swallowed, shifted on her feet and moved her hands from being linked about the nape of his neck to his shoulders and came up for another brief kiss, pleasing him. Never, never…

When she drew back to frown, he became aware that he was whispering it aloud. “I would never hurt you.”

Faramir paused, then asked a question, seeking knowledge that might aid him in his purpose. “Have you kissed others?”

Éowyn’s pale eyes slid further away and her voice became even fainter; he felt her withdraw both mentally and physically, her feet moving a fraction to open a bit of space between them. “Some.”

He could sense a thread of a lie within her words, a moment of strong emotions, repulsion and fear repressed, hidden away so that he could not feel even a hint of them and once more had to rely upon her features, the language of her body to tell her mood. She smiled a little. “Lads, long ago.”

“One, two…” Éowyn looked at him. “Only curiosity, I held no desire or interest.” Her smile vanished and she bent her head. “I was to be a warrior, not a Lady.”

To distract her, to prolong his stay, he asked, “What were their names, the favored lads?”

Éowyn frowned. “I can’t remember.” She licked her lips, meekly asking, “And you?”

“Three Ladies and…” Faramir kissed her brow, her cheek, his hand to her jaw, teasing, “An wondrously lovely enchantress.”

“No? Not even if you have hair of purest gold that shines like the Sun has come down to grace me with her light? Skin of some extraordinary union of rare ivory and sweet silk? Eyes like precious jewels, wells of clear water reflecting the sky…?” Laughing, she ducked her head and withdrew, obviously embarrassed. He pursued, taking a step forward and gazing down her body though it was well sheathed in the gown. “A shape to stir any…curved as the Great River…” Faramir allowed his fingers to trace up and down the dip of her waist, restraining himself to the fairly proper territory of the uppermost curve of her hip and halting well below the loftier slope of her bosom.

Éowyn protested, but a secret smile rode her lips; she was clearly pleased with his flattery, if fighting self-consciousness. “No…”

He lowered to murmur into the cup of her ear, nearly laughing at his foolish recital, “I desire to be a fish, to swim within your cove, dive and wriggle,” She burst into red-faced laughter and instantly put a hand to her mouth, looking mortified as he continued, grinning. “Delight in its warmth until I’m wearied, then lie to bask on your shore…” She laughed as Faramir kissed her throat, hunger rising swiftly, making him wish intensely that he’d pushed for a wedding before her brother had had chance to arrive in the City. Her laughter fading, Éowyn softened against him, her curves melding just the slightest bit to his front, encouraging, willing.

“Oh…” Her voice was a breath, a spot of heat to further prompt his appetite. She liked what he did, that was clear. Faramir kissed both sides of her throat, carefully not suckling to leave marks; the last thing he needed was to break the delicate truce he’d struck with Éomer. When he lifted his head, she was flushed, eyes wide.

Éowyn nodded, smiling nervously in her fashion, but that nervousness had changed. She did not feel tense, but rather jittery, the same ticklishness that filled him, fueled his desire.

He felt his own nervousness in commanding her, rough-voiced with excitability, “Speak it.”

“I like it…that…” She took a deep breath and Faramir leaned to kiss her cheek, enjoying its softness, its warmth. Like a peach in the sun, he marveled as he trailed kisses to her ear, nuzzling, taking the opportunity to step nearer. He heard her laugh, “That, Faramir.” Like the previous night she’d relaxed some, no longer so stiff and afraid. He pulled her closer, holding her tightly. It was the wrong move; in the confinement of his arms, she stiffened immediately.

“Stop…!” She put her hands to his chest, but did not shove; like when she’d lifted to him, it was another tiny step in gaining courage and easement. He felt delighted by her meager trust and in realizing that he could feel her trust. It was there, faint, so faint, glowing among the foreignness of her mind like the lights of his City did within the dark night.

However, it was time for him to leave and he knew it. Faramir consoled himself with the thought that one day he would not have to and bowed from the waist. “Sleep well, my Lady, my love.”

Éowyn was flushed, some hair slipped from her neat braid to give her a wispy halo. She looked lovely, not quite meeting his eyes, shy but smiling, answering with a little laugh. “And you, Faramir.”

He bowed a final time and watched her walk into the dim corridor, watching until she was out of sight.

The day was fair, sunny and bright. She felt merry and tried to squash it, forcibly reminding herself of her task. I must break with him…stand firm…not yield to his words. It would be terribly difficult; her heart was not in it, confusing her. I must… Her boots were still dusty and the dirt fell in gritty clumps as she descended, slipping through the Gates without a word; the guards knew her by sight and, with smooth bows and ceremonial greetings, “Lady of Rohan,” opened the barriers so that she did not even have to slow. Éowyn smiled at them uncertainly, nodding briefly in acknowledgment of their courtesy. Do they think of me as their Lady…? She was disturbed by the readiness of so many to accept her, finding that she did not trust it. It is strange, as though they wish a Lady again…the words of the healer came back and she thought more cryptically…or merely an heir.

Her eyes lifted as she passed through the second Gate; Éowyn stopped in the street and gazed ahead, chest tightening in nervousness, spirits lifting in gladness. Both arising at the sight of her Prince, the emotions mixed badly, making her duck her head at once and tuck back a sheaf of her loosely lying hair, unsure of herself. Must I? Again, she gazed ahead at the man that awaited her. His hair shone ebony; he was very tall even among others, lean with long-shanks, and his features were noble, patient, caring.

Éowyn reminded herself of how many times she’d seen his face blanch with hurt at her words, her actions. I must…

But…his generosity made her sigh, wishing as he handed out coins, smiling and speaking with common folk that he had no obligation to acknowledge. I wish I were a proper woman…

Faramir stood before her in the street, his livery dark under the bright sun, the White Tree on his chest shining luminescent. He was surrounded by folk of common blood and ragged clothing, both male and female, children and elders, handing out coins to the children with a gentle smile and listening to the laudations of several women with patience. They looked to be the mothers of the children and a lump was suddenly in Éowyn’s throat as he slipped a few more coins into the protesting hand of a young man. The man bowed low, heartily vowing service and Faramir turned, pointing to the roofs of the stables. The man quickly nodded again and trotted away with a light step to fulfill whatever duty he’d promised.

When she approached, he turned and his smile was no longer quiet and somberly restrained, but welcoming. Briefly turning back to the folk around him, Faramir spoke, giving farewells, gentle vows of aid. His strides to meet her were brisk; he was smiling as he greeted in a perfectly proper, albeit very enthusiastic fashion, “My Lady.”

She followed his example, uneasy at how her lips wanted to form a smile in return. “My Lord.”

Faramir glanced to the dispersing people and his enthusiasm melted to quiet despondency. He was mute for a long moment before saying softly, slowly, “My City…my people, need help.”

“I asked them of their condition…where they slept, what they ate, if they had enough blankets, clothing…” He sighed, “Many answered with shame that they slept in the barns, in the back rooms of inns, in alcoves in alleys.” He bowed his head, dark hair falling around his face, but she could see his expression—it held anguish. “I asked them to tell me, what could I do…what was needed most.” Faramir glanced at her with sudden intensity. “What do you judge the folk on this level need?”

“I don’t know…” She looked about, focusing on the broken stone and wood of shattered buildings. Other than a few large and purposeful structures, the majority of the first level seemed to hold the thatched-roofed houses of peasants. There were many outlines of soot, cleared spaces within which had been rooms, the charred remains of stools, beds, blackened pieces of metal. Even now people sifted through them for useful materials or belongings and she felt pity. The carts full of supplies went by, steadily carrying fresh trimmed logs still shiny with sap, cut and dusty stone, long slabs of green sod for roofs. Bundles of firewood, casks of ale or wine, sacks of young, edible wild greens and baskets of eggs packed in straw did not halt on the streets. Instead, sweating horses and oxen carried their loads upward to the houses of the highborn nobles, the wealthy merchants. She saw squawking chickens in cages, goats and sheep walking on long leads, rabbits swinging from a pole gutted and ready for cleaning, nets of still dripping fish, limp ducks, slabs of butchered cattle…and forced herself to think not of Edoras with its few hundred, but Minas Tirith with its thousands.

He smiled and answered, but it was bittersweet. “Neither do I.” Faramir’s face was crossed with rare anxiousness. “And it is my duty.” His voice lowered, becoming saddened, “My responsibility…to my Lord Elessar, to my people, to my City.” Her Prince turned, asking, almost pleading, “What shall I do?”

Éowyn offered hesitantly, “Some homes have not yet been rebuilt…” The rubble had barely been cleared save from the streets themselves; plainly it was the upper levels that saw the first of the repairs as well as the best of the foods and care. The Citadel, she remembered, lifting her eyes to peer all the way up to the radiant White Tower, was all but new again.

“Food, drink, a roof…” Éowyn frowned and recalled the orphaned children in the Houses. Not all had been injured; perhaps they simply stayed and would eventually be taught the skills of the healers. She looked around herself, uncertain. Although the lowest level was still in need of repairs, she did not know exactly what was needed first or where. “This is not my City.” Éowyn bit her lip, wishing she could aid him, as he appeared unusually distressed. “I don’t know…”

Faramir sighed deeply and reached for her hand as he repeated himself in a soft, discouraged voice. “Neither do I.” He held her hand as he called for horses, asking courteously if she preferred the chestnut or would try another. Éowyn tried to ignore the soft warmth of his hand clasped to hers, requesting the spirited chestnut again. Her Prince only released her when her mount came; Éowyn swung into the saddle, picking up her reins and glancing down at him—she was surprised to find that he was looking at her, his expression solemn. Turning away to her horse’s orangish mane, remembering his name, Flame, she couldn’t keep her eyes downward and had to look at him again.

His eyes were still on her, full of love, of some gravity that she didn’t understand. There was something needy in his gaze, something that called to her, soul-deep, silent and touching and foreign. Without thinking, she extended her hand and he took it again, kissing the back and squeezing it with a fragile smile. Éowyn felt fear, knowing she’d liked his kiss to her hand, liked the faint pressure of his fingers to her own, liked how he’d looked at her a moment before…like no man has, need, a need without ardor…what is that? She glanced away, quickly, hearing the clop of approaching hooves on stone. He let her go to mount his horse and she swallowed. I must…she didn’t want to at all.

As he rode at her side, Faramir’s bay charger arched its ruddy neck like it was proud to bear him through the barrier and away from the crowded road and into the Pelennor. At the gap where the Gate had stood, a man in the livery of the Tower Guard came to meet them; he was mounted, too, and bearing the argent standard of the Steward on a tall silver-gilt pole. Éowyn frowned. Who is that?

Nervous at the addition of an unknown man, she glanced at him before he fell behind their horses, but the snowy pennon flapped, catching her eye. Made of rich silk and extravagantly large, it was a shimmering, luxurious symbol that boasted of the Prince of Ithilien’s passage, along with his sovereignty and wealth. To distract herself, Éowyn studied the banner, wondering at its plainness—snow-white, with no designs. Her Prince was no braggart, but had all of his kin been so pure and noble? She turned her eyes back to the soldier again.

He rode with straight, proud carriage yet clearly was not very comfortable in the saddle. She eyed his loose legs, his slightly slumped seat and imagined that he was trained as a footman, not as a mounted Knight at all. The blazing silver pole was secured at his stirrup and he bumped it every now and then, unused to carrying it. Perhaps he was new to the station, as well. Many men died…many others had had to take the emptied places. His features were vaguely familiar and now she remembered seeing him several times in the City. A guard is all…perhaps the Captain…that made sense, that he would be richly attired and trusted to bear Faramir’s emblem. If he were the Captain of her Prince’s guard, then he would seek to watch over her as well, if only to safeguard his Lord’s treasured, future mistress.

I have nothing to fear…of course she didn’t, this was the City and the darkness had long passed, she did not have to assess the threat and loyalties of every man around her. Look, his eyes hold no shadow! She scolded herself, reminding, there is nothing to fear, nothing to guard against…

Putting her nerves aside, Éowyn gazed at the long field of war; it would be no more than meager pasture if compared with the rich ranges of her land. Her gaze fell and before her horse’s feet were the tracks of innumerable hooves. She stared at the cupped, dusty marks. They’d gone early this morn; she’d heard the booming, deeply toned horns as all the Riders and Knights of her people galloped back along the Western road. She wished them well, glancing to the horizon and hoping they returned to find Edoras in better fare than the City. I wish I had ridden…the remembered sight of the Golden Hall was enough to move her to tears.

Lifting further, Éowyn’s eyes roamed far, studying the field before her in more detail. Pelennor was still browned, still churned from battle. As they rode along a small dirt road, she saw carts filled with broken weaponry, ruined armor, bolts that had missed their targets and strewn the ground, countless things that had not been burned in the fires or taken with the corpses of the fallen. There were massive bones, charred and cracked, from where the carcasses of the mûmakil had lain and been later burned into ashes rather than hewn or buried; she looked at the blackened earth and swallowed, fighting memories. Dark…it was so dark…it had been as twilight at dawn, an endless twilight that promised no break of happy day. So dark…

But everything had changed—the sun shone now, the grass or crops were green and growing wherever fires or thundering hordes of men and beasts hadn’t destroyed the ground. Stray dogs scuffed in the ashes, looking for food, men moved back and forth, renewing the best they could. To distract herself, Éowyn spoke, her voice rough and strained, “What…is it…that we are doing…my Lord?”

The guard’s presence made her more conscious of her speech and bearing. What did he think of his Lord’s betrothed in coarse men’s clothing? She snuck a glance, but the guard’s face was imperturbable, eyes scanning the road ahead, the land about them for danger, as was proper.

“I wish to see how many fields are planted, how many more that will be thought to be cleared and plowed before it is too late to set crops in them.” Faramir checked his mount, gazing at her in concern. “Are you well, Éowyn? Your face had gone pale.”

“I am…well.” She bit her lip, unable to look away from the high, grassy mound of the fallen, both Rohirrim and of the City; it bore no white evermind and the lack pressed her. My kinsmen lie beneath plain grass… “It is just…I remember…” Her eyes strayed of their own accord to the dark, dead mound of the foul creature she’d slain. So dark…it had been like riding in a terrible dream, a dream that had lasted for years. She choked, looking down at her hands.

He followed her gaze. Faramir drew his horse closer, reaching to take her hand—he took the chill one, as if by instinct, and his touch warmed her at once. Full of condolence, he asked, “What was it like?”

A cloud passed over the sun as she answered, watching its shadow creep over the earth, “Terrible.”

Her Prince murmured, able palm covering her hand, warming it; his fingers laced with hers, making her aware of his comforting grip. “Were you afraid?”

“Some…no, it was too quick for real fear.” Stammering, she glanced to the guard, but he’d turned away, giving them privacy. His dark horse, bridled and saddled in the sable and silver garb of the City, watched with pricked ears and made her smile at its curiosity.

Faramir sounded bewildered. “You fear me more…?” His hand tightened on hers, drawing her attention back to him at once. Grey eyes fixed to hers, his voice lowered to ask, “How can that be? I don’t understand how I rate more fear than a creature…a thing that froze my blood.” Éowyn looked down, ashamed. He squeezed her hand again and she peeped at him through her lashes. Faramir gazed at her in the same open confusion that he often did, the sun bright on his dark hair and raven livery, making the White Tree gleam. His reins drooped and his splinted hand lay in his lap; he’d abandoned his mount to hold to her. When he spoke again, it was a mere whisper, pleading, “Speak to me, please…unburden yourself…”

Éowyn felt the intimacy of their words; the closeness of him, a closeness that she could not push away as easily as she pushed his body; his familiarity sparked tension, making her reply clipped. She straightened her shoulders, answering with the blunt courage of a warrior, the warrior she’d briefly been, and on this very field. “I felt not fear, but vengeance. I killed it to repay in kind the loss of my blood, my kin. You would have done likewise, my Lord.”

Faramir did not answer, simply squeezed her hand once more. He looked ahead at the tiny dots of men and oxen plowing tracts of land and sighed, then asked courteously, “Does it trouble you to go on? I will have Beregond accompany you back to the Gate…” He faltered and she looked at him, seeing a rare moment of doubt; Éowyn understood. There was no Gate but to him it still remained, if only in memory. Her Prince smoothly recovered, “To the stables, if you wish.”

She gazed ahead to the small figures of working men and women. Is this a thing the Lady of Ithilien would do? She had no idea, but thought it was the thing of a wife to accompany her husband on his duties if he wished it so. Éowyn shook her head, feeling ill. She would not be a wife to him if she had her way. “No, I will go on.” Faramir’s bright smile proved what she’d guessed—he wished her company, and in full heart; she smiled in timid return and they began to jog their horses down the crude path, steering carefully away from the carts of wreckage or goods.

A wind came, raising a pale curtain of ash and dust. In it, the snowy pennon flapped wildly, silk cracking and spooking her chestnut. He bolted ahead and she rose in the stirrups, feeling the weakness of her legs and murmuring. “Líeg…gá eaðe, min eoh…” His small fire-colored ears flicked back, listening to her comforting tone, her quiet self-assuredness and she felt his tightly drawn frame relax. Halting to wait until the others had caught up, the chestnut dipped his head, chewing his bit and keeping a watchful ear on the flop and whisper of the approaching standard. She stroked his neck, giving him free rein to sidestep and snort at the flapping emblem; a tight hold would only make him more anxious. Luckily, the guard was attentive and gave extra ground. Éowyn smiled at the man and he nodded once in reply.

Faramir looked at her closely and opened his mouth; she could see him beginning to ask if she were well, then to her relief, he smothered the slightly insulting question. Instead, he now appeared curious, “What did you say to him?”

“I told him to go easily.” Éowyn could see him running the words through his mind, then her Prince smiled and urged,

“If it pleases you.” She sighed. They are useless lessons, my dear Faramir, you will not have endure an journey to my lands… She forced a smile and touched Flame’s withers. “Eoh. Horse. Mearh, too, is the word for horse.” Éowyn began to gesture around them, making Faramir crane his neck in a way that amused her. She pointed first to the guard, “Esne, servant. Ond gehola, protector.” The man’s face was still impassive, though she thought she saw a flicker of amusement. Going farther, she added, “Ierðling, plough man. Æcer, field. Horh, dirt. Rodor, sky…” She went on and on, pointing, dutifully repeating herself at times while Faramir echoed each word in a comically garbled imitation. Hand to her mouth to contain her impolite laughter, Éowyn could see some of the small, growing plants and began to identify them. “Bere, barley. Ryge, rye…”

Finally, they reached the first men near to the road and she murmured, “Fana, banner. Hordere, Steward. Hlaford, Lord. Cyne, King. Hláforddóm, lordship.” Éowyn ended with a grand gesture that encompassed all they saw. “Cynedóm, kingdom.”

“Ná.” To her surprise, Faramir smiled at her and stretched his able arm to point across the Great River to the green, sloping country that lay there.

Ithilien…her eyes followed his movement and she marveled for the land seemed impossibly verdant and stirring by the distance, nothing at all akin to the ruin in which she rode. It shone richly emerald, the sun and clouds giving it giant splotches of light and gloom; the Anduin gleamed brilliantly as a border and though she strained, she could not see the darkness of the Black Lands beyond the hills. Has it been so healed? She would have to look again from the City walls. Éowyn turned back to see Faramir smiling gently at her. His expression was hopeful, so deeply so that she felt a pang of shame and grief and looked away.

Though his accent had improved simply by listening to her, it was still purely awful, marred by his naturally exotic intonation. “Min c-cynedó-m. Cynedóm.” He faltered, then added very carefully and a bit roughly, “Mid me…wíf.” Her Prince beamed.

Because he was gazing at her so intently, Éowyn nodded assent but could not bring herself to say more than a whispered, “Gea.”

His smile had warmed, unable to yet hear the tones of uncertainty through her native tongue. “Gea.” Faramir reached to touch her arm and she looked down, feeling the light pressure of his hand, the warmth of it through her plain woolen shirt, the thing it expected. He wished her smile; he wished her eager agreement.

I cannot give…she did not lift her head and he pulled away as a man came, dusty from work in the fields, to bow and ask what his Lord needed. Éowyn glanced up and caught the guard looking at her; his expression had cooled and was, she thought, displeased before he caught himself and his features smoothed back into impassivity.

She stiffened, angered. All of what they’d said was between Faramir and her, and it was none of this…serving man’s business what she did or did not do. As her eyes narrowed, the guard glanced at her again. His face was impassive at first, then became politely and mutely questioning, asking if she needed anything. Éowyn could not help a feeling of brief shame, which angered her more so that she fumed in silence, glowering at the hard-beaten dirt of the road.

Faramir was speaking, but he’d dismounted, greeting the man who’d come as an equal. She smiled, captivated—he was terribly handsome, leaning against his horse’s side, one arm thrown casually over the saddle, handsome and irresistibly charming despite the bruises still liberally spread over face and throat. As they watched, he asked the laborer his name, then how his day had gone and remarked upon the fair weather, all the while seeming to pay the common man’s simple, stuttering words the greatest and most courteous of attention. Finally, her Prince got to what he’d wished to know, inquiring with a smile, “Can you show me what fields are sown? I must give an account to Lord Elessar.”

“Yes…yes, I can, m’ Lord. I can take you.” Faramir remounted, awkward with his hand, and the man walked beside their horses, directing them among many lanes that crossed the Pelennor. She looked about herself, finding little interest in hearing the man’s praises of Aragorn and her Prince. Faramir’s gracious, though slightly uncomfortable smile and the guard’s small, very heartfelt nods of agreement were amusing, but she soon devoted her attention once more to the Pelennor.

One side of their road might be green and plowed into ordered rows of crops while the other still charred and rough, the land was a patchwork of growth and destruction. Éowyn kept her eyes trained upon the neatly sown fields, the young crops and the men and beasts that farmed them. It was not so different from her home, less oxen than her folk used—only the poorest of horses were given the banal duty of pulling a plow. The great heavy-boned drafts might do so, but they were bred so and it was no shame to them, but a pride to pull the greatest load or plow the hardest clay. To any other finely blooded and bred horse it was a shame to toil; her horses were like to her folk.

My folk… She stroked Flame’s arched neck, comforting him as the standard waved again, the fabric fluttering and popping. The wind was strong here, just like about Edoras, which gave her a false sense of home when she closed her eyes. Saddle leather creaked, horses hooves thudded; she smelled grass, manure…soot, a stench of it. The illusion had been terribly real. When Éowyn opened her eyes and saw where she was, she nearly sobbed in longing.

Faramir looked to her at once, though to her knowing she’d not made a sound to alert him. His grey eyes inquired gently, brow furrowed. She shook her head and they went on, her Prince murmuring fields and crops under his breath, counting and almost sounding like he were arguing with himself. When they’d reached the last cultivated plot, so far beyond the City that the giant capital was but a shining toy, even Éowyn could see that only half the fields had been sown. She frowned and dared to speak. “Are all others ruined for this year?”

The man looked pained. “Yes, my Lady.” He nodded to the scorched expanse. “The ground is burned.” Éowyn nearly snorted. She could see that. The man continued humbly, “We tried again ‘n again, but nothin’ would come up.”

“Thank you.” Faramir sighed and slumped, deviating from his normally erect posture, his chin briefly dropping to his chest in defeat before he rallied enough to nod to the man and smile, “Thank you kindly, I’ve no further need of service.”

But…when the fires came in her lands, the soil was always better. Éowyn didn’t understand, wondering if they had no fires in Gondor. Could the flesh of orcs and Southrons ruin the earth? She highly doubted it; every dark patch but the ground over the foul winged creature’s mound seemed normal, simply burned dry and bare. Pelennor was only half ruined now, slowly returning to itself. Many of the deep trenches had been stripped of the orcs’ foul machinery and refilled, almost all of the deceased had been buried and the common folk worked dawn till nightfall to renew and plant their crops, aided by widowed women and fatherless boys. Many, many people worked hard and she could see the difference, which made her marvel all the more that the burnt soil would not be labored over and made to bear. She scanned the Pelennor, noting how much land was unused. There will not be enough of a harvest…will my folk be called upon to share the burden?

Éowyn frowned, leaning sideways to peer at the blackened soil, then, obeying an impulse, dismounted to kick the earth. She was conscious of the men staring at her, but ignored them; men had stared at her before and these three were far less menacing. The heel of her boot stirred dead ashes; the pure white of entirely burned things, then darker grey mixed with chunks that she did not wish to identify, but none of it was what she was looking for. “Have you plowed in other fields like this?”

The man looked to Faramir, who nodded encouragingly, then answered, “No, my Lady.”

I am weak! Her legs were disturbingly powerless, making it hard to really dig into the earth. Éowyn felt frail, lighter than air and, for a moment, chilled all over. The awful, idle years of waiting upon her ailing uncle had taken a toll, along with her battle with the wraith and its mount. She moved a few feet, then dug a second time with her boot but found only thin, crumbling clay that would hardly grow crops. Éowyn continued, determined to ignore all sensations of frailty, speaking strongly. “Have you plowed them again?”

“No.” He hesitated, admitting, “We’ve had to eat most of the seed as boiled meal, my Lady, or feed it to the stock.” Though the man’s tone had not been accusing, Faramir straightened in his saddle like he’d been struck by a quirt.

“I understand.” They could not afford to waste any grain on replanting dead fields. Éowyn went on kicking, digging her heel in deep to find the good earth she knew had to lie beneath the layers of ashes, burned crops, homes, flesh, inferior soil. She spied some fragments of bones and shuddered, moving again, ashes already greying her boots and the legs of her trousers.

Many fires had been started to burn the dead creatures—mûmakil, wargs, horses possessed by Southrons—then run out of control, singeing or blackening tracts of land otherwise untouched. Pelennor had been farmland, divided into plots either tilled or grazed by stock before the battle, neatly girdled with wide lanes for troops to ride down, carefully maintained roads crossing its expanse. Faramir had spoken of it as he’d courted her in the gardens, remarking upon the orchards, the tracts of fluttering grain that browned and bowed their seed-heavy heads. Looking around herself, she could still see remnants of what he’d described in the barely cleared roads, but the long field was utterly ravaged, only a poor echo of her Prince’s boast of ancient order and beauty. Éowyn returned to her task, still determined.

“Ah.” She was flushed with exertion, smiling in triumph. “Here.” Bending, she held up a worm, careful not to pinch the tender, valuable creature before putting it back into its earthen home. “The ashes are deep, but they do not go all the way down, the ground is badly stirred up from the battle…” Éowyn pointed to some of the light-colored and crumbly dirt. “Without the shade of grass, it’s dried to grit, where nothing can grow,” Under this broiling Southern sun! “And it will take time to renew, many rains to wet it and dissolve the…things within it…” The remains. She swallowed, “But beneath there is still enough moisture.” She shook soot and good, dark brown, fertile dirt from her hands. “Find a plow with a longer tine, then plow low again, twice, even trice if you have to, to get enough fertile soil, then plant what you will not have to eat. The horses will have pasture enough in another month…” Éowyn closed her eyes, remembering her country, the talking of her Uncle and Théodred, Elfhelm, farmers, “When it rains, the grass will come again and in a month it will be long and thick enough for stock without fear of overgrazing.” She added, “My folk are sending wagons loaded with supplies within that time.” She brushed the last of the sticky ashes and grit from her fingers, feeling a surge of well being, of confidence. It had been long since she’d given any counsel besides that pertaining to Théoden’s meal, his clothing, or the work of women: weaving, cooking, or upkeep of the Golden Hall. “Take that into thought when you decide what is needed.”

“Yes, my Lady.” His deferential reply startled her and she became aware that she’d given a command, nay, several, in a land that was not hers. Éowyn felt a heat that had little to do with exertion grow in her face.

She took a breath, acutely aware of Faramir’s motionless silence. What will he say…? Would there be reproach for overstepping herself? Éowyn’s heart sped up and she forced herself to glance upward to Faramir, mindful of the guard’s impassive stare. “I…meant…if that is your will, my Lord.”

“Your Lady is wise.” His smiling pronouncement was clearly not a rebuke, her Prince’s tone warming with affection so that each word was more approving than the first. She looked up again, startled. He was not displeased at all.

He is…pleased. And at once she knew why—I have taken initiative, given orders as would a ruling Lady …and under his cause, given wisdom and sound advice to aid him…she’d done exactly what would delight Faramir and what would lead him in thinking that she was embracing her future role… I am cruel. Éowyn dropped her eyes, guilty. I do not mean to be! She’d meant only to help.

He smiled at their guide, commanding gently, “And she has spoken. Do as she bids.” Éowyn snuck another glance upward. He beamed at her, the early morning sun behind him, glowing off his rich, silver adornments—bright thread work on his saddle, his bridle; the clasps on both were like silver wings; the sides of his stirrups were elaborately engraved. Despite these touches of silver light about him, his face was in shadow, making it seem like some odd, benevolent apparition had arisen to speak with her in the voice of a paramour.

“Aye, Lord Faramir.” He bowed low, offering to show them the easiest way out of the maze of small cart roads that crossed over the Pelennor. Her Prince declined with a smile and turned to look down at her from his place in the saddle.

Because of my brother… Feeling herself tensing, Éowyn gathered her reins, briskly answering as she put boot to stirrup and swung onto the chestnut. “I need none.”

“I know…” Faramir nodded as though he were eager to please her. He sounded wistful. “But I would have liked to offer.” She saw no point and merely awaited his next command, which came quickly and puzzled her. “Beregond?”

“You are released for the moment…” He smiled, “My Captain.” The guard blinked and Faramir added, “There will be a young man waiting at the stables, listen to what he has to say and if I do not meet you there, recount it for me this afternoon after the midday meal. I will be in the Tower.”

“Aye, my Lord.” Beregond’s frown showed that Faramir’s actions were strange, but he obeyed and rode swiftly away. Éowyn said nothing, her nervousness returning now that they were left alone. Under her, Flame quieted with the absence of the fluttering standard. She took refuge in watching his brown eyes quicken in eagerness as he looked from open path to open path, wishing to run down them. She patted his neck, feeling the same desire to lose herself in animal speed, to taste the wind.

His usually guileless countenance became pained, her Prince’s mouth instantly tightening, his warm eyes blanching, then fluttering shut in a moment that bespoke of gathering patience: all showed that he did not enjoy her respect. Faramir grimaced, exhaling before stating carefully, “Please, do not call me that…if you must, do it before Court and others, but never when we are alone.”

She hesitated, then asked faintly, “Why?” Éowyn knew why and it made her chest ache. Do you think you love me so much, dear Faramir, good Faramir?

“I am not your Lord…I am your betrothed.” He frowned and sounded frustrated, raw, his normally mellow voice turned rough with impatience, “Have you no gentler name for me?”

Éowyn stiffened, sensing his desire for intimacy yet again. Her chest tightened as he steered his horse nearer and she replied only coolly, heart beating faster. “I told you, I am not gentle.”

“No, your hand has not been…” Grinning crookedly, Faramir put his palm to his chest with a show of bravado evidently meant to soothe her. “I’ve bruises.” He leaned closer and sobered, murmuring into the space between their horses, “But your tongue has, my love…” Eyes alight with impishness, he was smiling, teasing her in a bold fashion. Relaxing almost against her will, Éowyn resisted the urge to smile too, embarrassed and pleased with his obvious pleasure. He finished lightly, expectantly, “And I do not expect your hand to name me.”

“I know of no names…” She was aware of her mount’s impatience; he pawed and shifted his feet, eager to move, to run. For a moment Éowyn thought of allowing him, then pretending she’d merely lost control—it would certainly get her away from her devoted Prince’s attempts at closeness. His constant attempts…will he give me no rest?

“What of…love? My Love?” Faramir had nudged his horse nearer to hers; they sat in the saddle as if they were facing one another upon the ground. She stared down at Flame’s orange mane, flustered by his insistence. “My Dearest, my Dear, my Sweet One?” The last made her laugh nervously, thinking she would never say it in all the years of her life. He was encouraged, giving more, “My Heart? My Beloved…?”

Éowyn could hold back her laughter no longer, crying, “I will say none of those!”

Screwing up his face, he protested in a drawn-out appeal, making her laugh again, “Noo…”

“Yes.” Her fingers played with her reins, nervous even with her brightening heart. Her Prince was strange, so light and merry, jesting to lift her spirits even if it made a fool out him. She smiled, feeling the warmth of affection gather in her chest.

Faramir stared at her, his grey eyes narrowed. Finally, he declared with much passion, “If love and the names of it are foolish, then I am as well!”

Éowyn laughed, looking at him and the determined set of his features; under the bruises, she could see his mirth. She smiled, then shook her head, agreeing more docilely. “Then you are.” Unable to resist, she felt her smile widen as she named him, “My Fool.” The fondness that coursed through her was unfamiliar, but pleasant. It was also painful; I must remember…he was precious to her now.

Faramir bowed from the waist in acknowledgement, the best he could do on horseback. His smile was gentle, not at all objecting. “My Love.” Éowyn stared at him, sensing his sudden desire—his eyes softened again, as they always did, and he fell quiet. When he leaned forward to kiss her, holding himself at an angle over empty space, the space she must also cross if they were to meet, she hesitated.

As she sat, motionless and divided, he perceived that she would not move. His darkening expression, the immediate and entirely unconscious flash of hurt that came over him settled her inner debate.

He’d nearly sunk back into the saddle, defeated and terribly saddened, but her outstretched hand froze him in the act. Éowyn smiled at him, shakily, tensely, and leaned forward; her eyes were wide, flicking away and back again like flighty birds. His heart thudding in eagerness, Faramir stretched, putting his weight in his stirrups and wrapping his able hand in his horse’s mane. Carefully, he met her and they kissed, only lightly and a bit awkwardly at the angle, though he tried to keep her as long as he could, enjoying the soft, tentative way she kissed him, so unpracticed, yet trying to please him and herself. “Oh…” With an indrawn breath of dismay, she wavered, her balance failing, and he grasped her timid hand, completing its half-rise to put it to his shoulder. Faramir chuckled under his breath; acting as a prop of sorts was perfectly honorable duty while kissing her. Éowyn smiled at once against his mouth, making his spirits rise.

“Easy…” Hearing his voice made rougher with desire, Faramir lifted his only able hand, cupping the nape of her neck, careful, so careful not to exert any pressure—she would retreat the instant he did so. Her pretty pale eyes searched his, and then her horse came closer, moving to release the strain of supporting her canted form. It made it easier, so that he took more time to coax her into parting her soft, rubicund lips for him. After her first adamant refusal—she actually pulled away with a faint gasp of surprised indignation—he paused to gaze at her and smile in supplication.

Éowyn stared back, a trace of a smile rising. Her cheeks had flushed a bit and her eyes were heavy-lidded, bosom moving quicker under the floppy men’s shirt, all signs that she was stirred from their chaste kisses. Reaching again, delighted when she met him without retreat, Faramir admitted that his were striving to become less innocent. Yet Éowyn steadfastly refused his coaxing, though he could at least tell she enjoyed his efforts.

And at least she does not fear them…but that could be that she had merely to lean back and kick her horse and could be far from him in a moment. Faramir swore to himself that he sensed a flicker of amusement and pleasure from her mind, but he was uncertain; it could just be the reflection of his own.

There was possibility of more; under his leaning weight, his horse had mimicked hers and shifted a step nearer so that he could more easily reach her, but he knew he would not get it—Éowyn was already retreating. Faramir sighed inwardly. It was enough that she’d reached, enough that she’d done some movement of showing that she wished what he wished. Éowyn smiled faintly as she withdrew, as he’d thought, clearly enjoying his kiss, the moment or both. Faramir felt his heart leap and beamed, thinking that maybe he could feel a glimmer of her pleasure. Or is it mine alone? He still couldn’t tell, his mind was too filled with delight. Reaching to touch her cheek and seeing that she did not flinch, only her pupils widening a bit, he smiled broadly, declaring, “I love you.”

She flushed, eyes widening still further; her mouth moved hesitantly and his heart leaped into his throat, ready to choke him with his joy, but instead of speaking, she just looked down. Dazed, conscious of the horribly absolute silence in which they sat, he watched her hands play with the hem of her shirt. Soul withering, he waited, but Éowyn did not answer and with every mute second, his joy died, his heart choking him for an entirely different reason now—the pain of rising misery. When, when will I have earned trust for words of love? When? Faramir bowed his head, trying not to betray a sound as he stifled his pain.

Questions spawned and spurred by his constantly denied yearnings came to the fore of his mind and struck against his tightly compressed lips, bringing madness with them. What man raised his hand against you? What man? Who? Who, so that I can slay him and bring you the corpse so that then, then you will laugh and love me the way I love you?!

The depth of his frustration surprised Faramir. It even frightened him a little, a raging sea beneath his breast, throttling him and causing his muscles to draw taut with unbearable yearning. Control…any loss would only spook her. He smiled, mustering enough courage to let the moment go. “Éowyn?” Faramir nudged his mount and they began to follow the dirt paths back to the City.

He took a deep breath, remembering the core of his Ranger’s training, patience. Patience, but patience for how long?

Patience, fool, or you will wreck what little you’ve earned already. Acceptance shoved his anger and frustrations back down into his gullet where they churned, unfulfilled. At least this time she had not answered with the cold, formal title and he was undistracted.

Each of his questions held another beneath it and he sensed her understanding and caution. “Tell me, did you enjoy eating in the Hall of Feasts?” Would you like to join me tonight…every night until you leave me?

“No, I don’t mind.” She gave a firmer answer and he was pleased. Éowyn looked to Ithilien then, surprising him as she mused. “It looks more…inviting from here.”

“Does it…? W-would… Tell me, would you like to cross the River tomorrow?” Heartbreak vanishing in a surge of rapture, Faramir’s eagerness made him stutter, forgetting all other questions or obligations at once. The bridge had not yet been rebuilt, but… “There are ships, the Corsair vessels, to take us and our mounts across the banks. We could ride for a morning in our country.” Faramir smiled at her, desperately hopeful as he added in a softer, gently imploring voice, “We could not reach Emyn Arnen, but you would see what the land will be like around our home.” Say you will…say you that shall…please…

“All…” Her hesitation showed she was less than enthusiastic, but he saw a glimmer of curiosity in her gaze. “All right.”

Faramir remembered his duties. “Then let us return. I must listen to my folk today, but tomorrow…” He felt himself beaming.

Éowyn smiled faintly and he knew why; his enthusiasm was easy enough to hear, and, he supposed from the feel of the wide, irrepressible smile that he wore, to see. “What are you doing?”

“Claims of my people. I must sit as judge.” In the Steward’s chair…he felt himself tense. He’d never so much as sat in the place of honor, the great ebony throne placed at the widest, lowest step of Elessar’s magnificent dais.

“If you wish.” Faramir smiled at her, pleased that she wanted to see what he did, pleased that she wanted anything to do with him. I’ve made progress… Impossible as it seemed with her refusal to match his statement of love, it looked like he finally had.

As he politely gestured, she led the way. To his surprise, Éowyn immediately let her mount loose and they sprang into a gallop, weaving at speed down the narrow dusty lanes, not halting and barely slowing even for the curves. Chunks of flung dirt came back to strike his chest and explode, making him duck and pull back his horse. His bay was difficult to control, wishing to fly and overcome her chestnut; one-handed, Faramir hung onto it as well as he could. He watched her ride easily, not touching her reins and even urging her mount into further speed. They slid to a partial halt at a sharply curved lane, the gelding kicking up his heels and tossing his fiery mane as he sprang again into a run, tail flagging in high spirits.

Éowyn laughed at the motion and he heard the clear note of joy in her voice. Faramir, slowing his mount to make the same curve, despaired that he’d never been able to create that note. Not yet… His determination was fierce as he stared at the waving mass of her golden hair and allowed his charger to come to the side of hers. Faramir was delighted when she turned, laughing at him, then stretched out her hand. Their fingers met, brushing lightly, then clasped, arms moving in the motion of their horses’ gallops. Éowyn laughed again, giving him a squeeze before releasing and urging her mount ahead of his. Her hair flew out behind her in a wave of gold, her breasts bounced gently under the plain woolen shirt; her cheeks were pink with excitement and she looked beautiful. He stared admiringly at her unadorned loveliness and kept his horse close as they galloped between the imposing walls and up the wide street together, slowing to a jog, then halting at the stables. Beregond, ever faithful, was waiting for him.

The moment her horse slowed, she jumped out of the saddle, cheeks flushed and eyes alight. Éowyn looked invigorated, roused, not at all pale or chill, but laughing and girlishly exhilarated, even approachable. “That was wonderful!”

Faramir dismounted far more slowly, careful and awkward with his wounded hand. He met her smile, “Yes.” Really, he was surprised that he was surprised at her appearance. She told me she loved to ride… Immediately, gazing at her radiant face and wide smile, he decided to schedule as many excursions on horseback as possible. Every day if I must!

Hugging the chestnut’s neck, she peeked at him, her temple pressed to the horse’s mane. Their hair mingled, the fire-red of the animal’s with her bright flaxen. “Does…it hurt as much today? Your hand?” She’d watched him dismount.

He glanced at the appendage in question, noting the bluish, red-purple and yellow bruises, the splints and cloth. “Yes.” It ached dully but constantly, throbbing whenever he brushed it against anything.

At her quiet, he met her eyes. Éowyn licked her lips, murmuring, “Do you have time for me…? I could prepare something…” She sounded guilty now, “To help take away your pain.”

Always. Faramir strangled his enthusiasm before it could leap out and frighten her. He beamed, pleased by far more than the temporary easing of his pains. She cares…she offers solace… Éowyn loved him, even if she did not yet say it. Deep within his chest, his wounded heart eased. “Yes. I think so.”

“Good.” Éowyn appeared even more shy, gazing away before she admitted tinily, “I…I enjoyed tending to you, Faramir.”

His name and the admittance made him grin at her, delighted. She laughed faintly, then looked away, only to glance back and laugh again in embarrassment. Heart blazing in joy, Faramir was smiling when Beregond straightened and came to attention. He turned, feeling his Captain’s rising attentiveness, even wariness.

Éomer moved down the street, clearly coming their way. At once, Faramir was seized with the urge to usher Éowyn away, to keep her for himself, and he smothered it, reminding himself to act with courtesy and to keep his temper. Nearby, Éowyn had bitten her lip and he could see, not feel, frustratingly, that she was anxious. Faramir smiled gently at her, hoping to reassure.

“Sister.” The Lord of the Mark did not acknowledge him at all and he noted Beregond’s tight jaw, his displeasure. He was right; Éomer’s lack of recognition was disrespectful. I do not wish to provoke him… Well aware of his love, Faramir gestured discreetly, indicating that the Beregond should remain silent.

“Brother.” She hung onto the horse as if for comfort, scratching behind its ears and allowing it to rub its head against her.

Éomer stared at the sweating chestnut like some thought had just come to him. “You have no mount to return…I was supposed to ask you…”

Quick to see an opportunity for earning favor, brother’s or sister’s, he interrupted, “The Lady Éowyn is welcome to any horse within the City stables.” Faramir smiled at her, “Provided it is not owned by another.” Éowyn shyly returned his smile, but her brother scowled.

“Thank you, Faramir.” She stroked the chestnut’s neck. “I think I like him well enough to take…”

Smiling, Faramir corrected, “To borrow.” You will bring him back when we return from my ridiculous tests…

Her brother looked him up and down in a slow, disdainful fashion. His voice was too arrogant for any hope of pleasantry, even if his words could not be faulted. “That is generous of you.”

Now, how could that displease him? He was baffled and reminded, incredibly, of his father, who had never been pleased with him. Faramir felt a simultaneous urge to laugh and sob at the comparison. I need no more abuse…Elbereth, I beg you! He composed himself, but could not stop his tongue. “It is the least I could do…until we build and fill our stables in Ithilien.” Possessively stressing the word, Faramir did not miss the flare of anger in Éomer’s pale eyes. The knowledge that he’d struck a blow gratified him, making him add; “I will be able to supply as many mounts as it pleases her to have.” I am richer than your entire country…the lapse into arrogance gave him a moment of unease. It was unlike him. I am not a beast and I will not let this man make me into one!

Éomer did not respond. His expression was cool, features stony with distaste, even his pale eyes harsh and forbidding. Éowyn pressed her brow to her horse’s neck as if to hide from them both.

He could think of nothing to add save insult and Faramir turned, finding stable boys waiting. Handing his reins to them, he offered his arm to his love. She hesitated, but stepped forward to take it in a weak grip, eyes downcast, clearly uncomfortable. Faramir could see the anger and impotence in Éomer’s gaze. He wishes the day with her…I will not yield! He felt a bit of shame as he goaded, “Is there anything you need, Lord Éomer, anything that I can aid you with?”

The man ignored him, but his features tightened again in anger, jaw clenching over any answer. Faramir experienced a moment’s satisfaction—in her presence, the Lord of the Mark did not dare to antagonize him. Despite his plain outrage, Éomer’s supplication was low, almost soft, “Sweoster…”

Éowyn responded to the plea in the same tongue, leaving him with ignorance. Faramir listened intently, thinking many of the simpler words seemed the same in Rohirric as the Common Tongue, just altered in sound by a foreign accent. “Ic…Ic wille sæge ge…niht. Se niht, gea?”

“Gea.” Éomer nodded, frustrated. Suddenly his face brightened and he objected, declaring in a deep tone of authority. “You have no guard, Steward.” His brow furrowed, barely hiding his near glee, “I gave you yesterday, no longer, and you must…”

Unruffled, his chest filling with a self-satisfied laugh, Faramir called, “Beregond.”

You think you have me? He would have to keep Beregond closer than he’d had of late, but it was worth the grimace: raging and fully aware of his inability to act, that flashed across Éomer’s face as the guard responded and stepped forward. Faramir paused as the man came to his heel and stood at attention, awaiting his next order with polished equanimity. “Beregond is my Captain…does he suit your command of a guard?”

Both Rohirrim seemed startled by his words. Éomer nodded very slowly and very reluctantly, his hands tightening into fists. “Yes.”

“Good.” Not wasting another moment, not even to rub in his victory, Faramir swept Éowyn away, moving quickly. Her feet lagged for a few strides, but soon kept to his pace. Wordlessly, they climbed the hill and came before the White Tower. He felt her slip from his arm as they walked under the shade of the doorway, nervously asking. “Where…?”

Faramir was uncertain. Of course he’d never seen his mother sit in the Tower—children were not allowed within it, even the sons of the Steward. There is no place… “I’m not sure.”

“In Edoras…” Éowyn paused, her hands twisting, and he nodded to encourage her. “I stood behind Théoden…to wait upon him.”

“If you desire to stand there, I do not object.” He would not object to anything she wished as long as she stayed. Faramir drew closer, “Though I do not expect you to wait upon me. I have enough attendants.” Éowyn smiled a little and he held up his broken hand. “Save, you spoke of fetching…if it is no trouble…?”

Before the Tower, under the eyes of Beregond and multiple guards, he watched her depart. The doors opened for him with his Captain’s hand attentively rapping at the stone. Slowly, Faramir walked down the long, narrow hall, then stepped onto the wide, pale expanse of the first stone stair. The chair that awaited him was ebony, so resplendent in its blackness that it almost seemed unreal, especially against the ashen room; made entirely of some dark stone, it gleamed, showing his ghostly, trembly reflection. The arm was chill to his hand and Faramir lowered himself into the seat, feeling the same chill against his back, his legs. He tried not to shudder or hunch forward, instead struggling to appear comfortable. With a small gesture he’d seen his father do many times, he commanded the doors opened again. He watched the art of it, the deft guards who wore nothing of bright silver and thus were near invisible in the gloom behind the doors, slipping back and away out of sight into tiny antechambers to create the illusion of some enchantment or power of his. Clearly awed, the first of his folk timidly made their way to bow and stand before him at a proper distance. The doors shut again, pulled with slender ropes by the hidden guards, and the men jumped—the cords were pale to match the doors and at the length of the room, they could not see them. Faramir smiled faintly; as a lad in his first livery of the City guard, he’d long discovered the secret.

Taking several slow steps to come before him, Beregond made certain that the men kept their distance, standing in their way, though only indirectly, allowing a direct line of sight. His shoulders were squared, mail gleaming, sword angled on its sheath, making him a pleasing, yet intimidating figure. He spoke firmly, calmly, “Your Lord wishes to know your names.”

The men obeyed, voices quavering in contrast. Faramir smiled and forgot some of his discomfort, too focused on the nervousness of the men before him. He spread his hands, leaning forward in the chair, saying quietly, “Please, tell me why you have come.” Keeping his voice low reduced the echoes—echoes that might intimidate his already intimidated appellants.

As they began to speak, he felt a tickle in the back of his mind, a sense of wrongness. Faramir’s smile faded as he looked back and forth between the two men who’d come to argue over the ownership of a herd of unbranded cattle scattered by the attack on the City. Who is telling the truth? The sense of a lie flickered, making him think it was but a small one, bolstered by truth or passion and difficult to find. Listening closely, he concentrated on their words, their tones. Who…

Returning, Éowyn hesitated at the doors, uncertain of what to do. They were far taller than she, of pale stone and looked cold. She’d no more than raised her hand with the idea of timidly knocking before they began to open, startling her. Light sprang ahead, illuminating the dim throne room and she inched into it, a little frightened to see that there were no doormen whatsoever. Who opened them…? It was some strange trickery and she felt herself shudder. Where were the honest, smiling doormen of her country? Men who wished her well, some even being so bold as to flirt with her in past times…slowly growing grim and hard as Théoden failed until they could do no more than warn her with their saddened eyes. Éowyn felt her skin prickle, repelled by the doors that moved on their own. This is not my country…

Far ahead, Faramir’s eyes rose, gazing at her. He smiled, but it was brief; he was occupied. Her footfalls echoing, Éowyn carefully skirted the men before him, aware of their and Beregond’s gazes, and approached the Steward’s chair. She hesitated at the broad step, unsure of if she were allowed to come closer without a sign, ignorant of how to act in this foreign land—if it were Théodred or her brother on the throne in Meduseld, she would have not hesitated.

To her surprise, Faramir solved her dilemma, halting the men’s accounts, “A moment” then rising to descend and take her hand, pulling her onto the step. He smiled kindly, more affectionate now as he whispered. “You can always approach me.”

Clutching her steaming cup, Éowyn did him a courtesy, deeply conscious of the others and of being within the White Tower. “My Lord.”

His grey eyes flickered, but they were within quite formal settings and he could not reprimand her—or so she thought. “Thank you, my dear Lady.” The intimate word was a soft reproach, though only a gently hurtful one.

She looked down, offering him the cup and slipping behind the arm of his chair, taking refuge in its solidity. Faramir held up the simple earthen vessel, peering at its contents with suspicion. “Dare I drink? Is the lack of pain worth the pain of this, my dearest?” Again he stressed his affection.

Quiet, she answered, feeling like they were dueling in words, his affection coming to clash against the coolness of her reserve, a gentle, caressing hand to the hardness of an iron-plated shield. “There is no pain in it, my Lord.”

She smiled as he sniffed the faint tendrils of steam and looked dumbfounded by its pleasing smell. Faramir still appeared cautious, sniffing again. “Perhaps…” He eyed her in a suspicious fashion that made her cup her hand to her mouth to keep in her laughter, momentarily forgetting their duel, their audience and their proper surroundings. “Are you certain, my beloved?” Again he contested with a firm endearment.

“Go on…” Feeling a rush of fondness, she relented and left off the formality. The naturally bitter willow bark tea was sweetened with honey and the juice of berries, seasoned with spices; it was flavorful, not at all foul. But that secret she kept to herself, finding a strange pleasure in watching him sip at the brew and not recoil, instead his brow raising and his eyes turning to her, pleased and questioning. Faramir smiled at once, then drank again, clearly amazed that he did so without a single grimace.

Éowyn watched a servant come to take the cup once he’d downed the tea. Reseating himself, Faramir glanced at her, smiling lightly. His voice was low, playful. “The other must have been punishment, my love, this was much more palatable…are you sure it was a proper draught?” He was teasing her even here, and ending their duel with a smoothly interjected devotion, making certain of his victory with two. “My dearest?”

“Yes…Faramir.” She smiled, giving in, bashful at both the spectators and his warm gaze. His satisfaction gave her satisfaction, which made it difficult, made her forget her purpose.

“Very well.” He beamed warmly at her, making her surrender to his endearments feel more like victory. Turning back to his audience, Faramir commanded them to speak and finish their tale. Éowyn listened with half an ear, gazing at the throne room from her perch. It was very cold and sterile, making her fidget, conscious that even though she’d washed the dust and scent of horse from her hands and face and once more clothed herself in the borrowed rose and ivory gown, she was not fit for the grandeur of the White Tower. Delicate, pale stone made up almost every surface; statues of Kings, pillars, the smooth floor, the walls; and where it did not, hard, glittery black stone did. She peeked behind herself to the raised throne. It was similarly hard and cold and of pale stone. Éowyn shivered though the White Tower was not chill; the frigidity was purely in her mind, making her long for the warm and rustic simplicity of Meduseld. This place was terribly barren to her eyes, not at all a place of welcome; she did not feel that in this hall, one’s Lord would listen with a kind heart. Perhaps it was meant to make her feel like this, to make her uneasy, conscious of her lowly status. Éowyn cupped her elbows, shivering. What Lord could be kind here?

Éowyn glanced down to her Prince. The only part of him she could truly see, Faramir’s inky hair was as dark as his chair. She wondered why his seat was the only material thing of darkness in the room. Turning her gaze to his shoulders, she saw that his livery was warmly raven-colored against the cool black of his seat, the silver and white embellishments of his raiment shining like stars. He looked rather magnificent and she smiled with woeful affection. Carefully, some impulse prodding her, she laid her hand on the back of his chair, fingertips just brushing his shoulder. His hair fell upon them, soft, ticklish. She shifted her fingers, feeling the pliant, tanned leather, the coolness of its surface and, below, the heat of his body.

At once he leaned back, clearly aware of the touch and encouraging her. Tentative, Éowyn slipped her hand from the cool stone to rest her palm on his surcoat. She hid near to the nape of his neck, feeling the firmness of his shoulder, the softness of the high-collared shirt that he wore beneath his surcoat and longer, split cotehardie. It was embroidered with tiny curls and scrolls of white gold and she brushed the pads of her fingers against it, marveling at the richness and attention to detail. Again, sensitive to her touch, Faramir’s head turned almost imperceptibly. She couldn’t see his face, but she caught the brightness of his small smile and was once again struck by sorrow. I would not leave him…the City she would be gone of in an instant.

Suddenly Faramir turned back to the speaking men and his voice changed. She looked up, uneasy, alert to the rare and imposing sound of his wrath, gingerly taking away her hand as the shoulder she’d been touching grew rigid. “You are lying.”

“You are lying to me.” Her Prince rose at once, towering over them. Éowyn took a step back, listening. His every word was severe with exasperation. “I see your falsehoods. Do not deny them.” She frowned, mystified. How could he see them? It seemed an odd choice of phrasing.

With a sharp gesture, he indicated the man to the right who’d merely looked puzzled and outraged. “The animals are yours. Go.” The other, his face increasingly guilty and frightened, Faramir bid stay. He stepped down to the level of the man and gazed at him; behind his Lord, Beregond took a step closer, adding his presence to the menacing display. The silence lengthened and Éowyn fidgeted, nervously clasping her hands. But the man who cringed before her Prince was in a worse state, nearly trembling. Finally, Faramir spoke and was calm, if cool, “Why do you lie to me?”

“You seek animals that are not yours, waste my time with a false complaint of thievery and drive a decent man from his labors.” Her Prince paused, then asked, “What of the cattle?” His frown became more hesitant; his eyes focusing on something Éowyn could not fathom. “You had some?”

“And you would not work honestly to rebuild your herd?” Faramir looked repulsed, wearied. The man had no reply. “Beregond?”

“Find this man a duty worthy of his experience; if in a week he shows no more falsity, pay his wages and keep him in service.” Éowyn frowned, seeing that Beregond was just as puzzled as she was by the sentence. Faramir was terribly lenient.

“Aye.” But the guard obeyed, sending the man away with another garbed in the livery of the White Tower.

Climbing back to his seat, he sighed and gave a small, nearly imperceptible gesture. “Whoever is next.” As the doors opened on their own, Faramir caught her looking at him. He gestured her to lower, murmuring into her ear, “He lies out of desperation…I have no heart to punish fear with the harsher burden of pain.” He smiled wanly, “I give him service, a chance to earn money to buy what he needs. His cattle would have been sold to others or butchered for himself…the end result would be to feed his folk, to clothe them, pay fiefs to Elessar for his home within the City walls. He is not wealthy…and has family, several daughters too young for marriage, no sons that survived…” His eyes had gone out of focus, like he was seeing something beyond her. She stared wonderingly, not remembering that the man had mentioned all those details. Her Prince came back to himself, voice firming, “Now he has wages to do what the cattle would have.” Faramir’s hand went to his temples, rubbing them. “Why he did not choose this path, I do not know.”

She nodded, still thinking he was lenient not to punish a liar, a potential thief who hadn’t enough knowledge of honorable conduct to labor to earn what he needed. Faramir sighed as he turned, smiling readily at the next small group of men that came to seek justice. While he spoke to them, Éowyn replaced her hand and his voice lightened at once, as though she’d soothed him. Staring down at the dark crown of his head, she felt sorrow. I would have you…but what he came with was not what she wanted at all. I’m sorry…

She stayed the day with him, breaking their fast at noon with light cakes, wine, fruit and cuts of hot, roasted meat at a table that servants fetched, sitting in carved chairs pulled near with cushions of velvet. Éowyn was hungry, but tried her best to eat as the Ladies had, taking little and savoring it daintily. Faramir wolfed his, making her envy his ability to freely display his appetite. He turned to her, asking, “Is this wearying you? Would you rather go?” Her Prince smiled, “You will not hurt me, my love.” He’d returned to his endearments, making her smile in mournful return, knowing she would not break him of them save when she broke his heart and their troth.

“No.” Éowyn found his consistent mercy and charity in the peasant’s appeals to be comforting. It shamed her to doubt him as much as she’d had. He is good…but it also showed her how good, much better than what she was worth. Faramir deserved a woman he did not have to pursue and tame like…like I was a wild creature. She stared at her fine plate and rich goblet. Why do you love me?

“Why not?” Éowyn could hear his smile. “I would have been gone already…you have more patience than I.”

She heard the clunk of his knife as he set it to his plate, the soft creak of his leather surcoat as he leaned closer, intently asking, “Do you?”

“Yes…” Éowyn looked up long enough to admit, “You are very good to them, merciful.”

Faramir glanced away, frowning at the long, thin windows that let light into the Tower’s base. “My folk have enough troubles without some punishment of mine.” Yet he’d inflicted many, setting numerous drafts of service upon thieves or those who’d committed petty allegations. Men who’d beaten other men in fights, been accused of rape or otherwise endangering others were dealt with more harshly. To her surprise, for how the civilized the people of the City seemed, there were a few murders to puzzle over and dole punishments for—the harshest of punishments, stripping a man of possessions, rank, even clothing, and sentencing him to lifelong labor, imprisonment without the hope of freedom, slavery.

Many of the guilty were assigned to the brutal, dangerous work of hacking out the blocks of pale stone from the quarries in the mountains or of mining gold and gems from the hills under the watchful eyes of Guards. More were sent to fill out crews of workers within the City, made to toil on the Pelennor, clean the stables with the stable boys, do countless menial and physically demanding tasks. Higher-ranking men were punished severely, made to do peasant’s work in view of their peers, stripping them of their dignity and their soft, pale noble’s hands; Éowyn watched them blanch and stiffen, seeing the rage in their eyes. It was anger that wilted before the fury in her Prince’s as he lectured them of their place, of their history and hallowed duties to their people before sending them away with particular distaste.

The truly contrite in heart were punished less, though still sternly; and how Faramir could tell the truly ashamed from the ones without regret, Éowyn didn’t know, nor how he always knew who was at fault. She’d listened to many accounts and Faramir seemed to have an eerie ability to discern the truth, to cut through lengthy pleas or tearful explanations. He is wise…but it seemed to her, little experienced in judging. Perhaps the former Steward had not left this duty to Faramir.

She’d eaten all she’d judged she should if she wanted to maintain the appearance of a Lady. Éowyn turned her hungry eyes from the platters and sipped the wine. Faramir still ate, stabbing bits of fruit with his knife and turning to call, “Beregond?”

“Tell me about the stables.” The guard obliged, reciting quickly. Faramir frowned, “The roofs?”

“In need of repair…as most things in my City.” He gave her a careworn smile. Éowyn nodded, toying with her skirt beneath the table. “Have you had enough?”

She glanced at her empty plate, wishing it had held more. “Yes.” Tonight, with her brother, she would eat. Éowyn smiled, looking forward to it. Éomer would not care if she devoured a whole ox in front of him. He has not the manners of my dear Faramir…she smiled a little wider. Few in her country did.

Faramir rose, his chair scraping, and she followed suit. Servants came to clear away the mess, carrying away the table and chairs. But her Prince did not mount his sable throne again, instead standing where he was, gesturing that she should come nearer. When Éowyn obeyed, he sighed, asking in a low voice, “If you wish to go…”

“Good.” He came closer now, raising his broken hand, “It feels like new again.”

Éowyn smiled, delighted and yet apprehensive because now he took another stride, coming still closer. Would he seek to kiss her here? Her tone grew more formal, nervously hiding in cool decorum. “I’m glad to be of service.”

He frowned; she’d displeased him, of course, she’d known she would the moment the words had left her mouth—they were far too stiff. “I do not need or want service from you, Éowyn.”

Impulsively, she blurted, “What…w-what do you need, want?” Faramir did not answer for a long time, his grey eyes searching hers for the briefest of instants before she grew uncomfortable and dropped her gaze. In their silence, he leaned forward and kissed her brow, no more than a gentle press of his lips, perfectly chaste and acceptable within their surroundings, she guessed, for she heard no gasps of outrage.

If that was his answer, she did not understand it save in her skin, which tingled from his touch. Éowyn frowned and looked up again. Faramir smiled down at her, the curve of his mouth somehow very sad. He held out his hand and gestured grandly to the black chair. Her Prince murmured, “Accompany me?”

She could do no less. Nodding mutely, Éowyn took his hand and followed him, mounting the wide stair to stand at his side, her palm to his shoulder, feeling the shift and warmth of it. His hand rose, pressing hers gently to his surcoat before he spoke, greeting the next commoners. His fingers laced with hers, making her realize he wished the support of her hand, her gesture. Éowyn delicately squeezed back, knowing her sorrow. If I could…but she was unfit in all ways. You chose wrongly, my dear Faramir…and I am very sorry. Safe from his gaze, she bowed her head.

It was late when he bid the rest of the appellants to their homes and rose, stretching. Éowyn’s legs and feet were weary, making her glad the Houses were not far. As the tall, pale doors closed and dark-liveried guards materialized to stand before them, Faramir turned to her, his hand outstretched. She took it reluctantly. “Will you go now…or break your fast with me in the Hall of Feasts?” The last was lit with a blinding smile of hope.

My brother…she hesitated then shook her head. Éomer would be jealous enough as it was. He might even come searching for her again. “I must go.”

“Yes…” He brightened anew, “But, tomorrow, you will ride with me in Ithilien?”

“Yes.” Éowyn became mildly perturbed; he wasn’t letting her go. He is so pressing…he needs me or thinks he does…how can he think that? She’d never met a man who desired her companionship so much…save one…oh, one…Éowyn forcibly squashed the reminder. When her Prince’s constant attention was not pleasant, it was almost suffocating, but it had never been frightening or detestable.

“I cannot wait.” Faramir brought her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss there. He smiled at her, turning his hand so that his clasped hers rather than held, their fingers now interlacing and brought it up again to hold to his chest. She remained passive, uncertain and wishing he would just release her.

He bent and she moved closer, relieved. Faramir would kiss her and then she could go. He glowed at her movement, grey eyes like stars, a great, wide smile appearing. Éowyn knew she was giving him false hopes, but couldn’t help it. She enjoyed his kisses, his company and yet she wished to go and sit with her brother. Faramir came lower, meeting her eagerly, almost too eagerly. Éowyn felt his tongue seek entry again and though the warm, smooth touch of it to her lips, adding slight moisture and much more intensity, made her thrill, she denied him. Faramir asked again, opening his mouth a fraction, letting her feel his heat, his slight, electrifying wetness.

It was an invitation, a question in flesh that she had no idea of how to answer or what she even wished to answer, yea or nay. I…I don’t…parts of her were near faint with nerves, others eager to acquiesce, to match his ardor. She couldn’t decide, feeling her breathing grow shallow, terribly aware of the heat of his body against her front, the feather-light touch of his thumb to her cheek, his fingertips to her skin.

He moved against her, slow and urging her with kisses more rhythmic, deeper, and though Faramir was not demanding, he was not giving up, either. Like before, after their quarrel and confinement in the dusty storage room, Éowyn gasped for breath and he succeeded for a moment in his quest. Her astonishment and the sudden, feverish thrills that ran under her skin nearly allowed him to succeed completely.

To his credit, he was much gentler this time, much more leisurely, only tickling her tongue and barely entering her, his mouth shifting against hers in tiny urges, seeking to inspire passion. He kissed and retreated, opening a sliver of light between them, all hotness, wetness and roughness of stubble against her when he moved to close it; out of the corner of her eye she could catch his gaze, see how his eyes had changed and darkened with appetite. Again, Faramir kissed and retreated, lapping at her tongue, trying to get her to come forward to him, smiling in between attempts as though to show her that he held no displeasure in her frigidity. His little smile was ingratiating, pleading as he breathed, “Please…? Have I not shown good conduct…?” Another kiss, his mouth hotter this time, somehow more impassioned though he’d not been any more forceful and Faramir was almost grinning at her, imploring without pressure, lightly jesting, “Have you no reward?”

Putting her free hand to his arm, she stayed him a bit, making him pull back enough to smile more sheepishly. “Faramir…!” It was more exclamation than objection, she had almost thrown back her head and laughed at him, long and with abandon. Reward, oh foolish man! Shaking her head, Éowyn was delighted, even with his boldness, gazing up and seeing his flush. I…oh, look at…his grey eyes had darkened like storm clouds, turning a beautiful sterling grey. She’d roused him, that was clear and she felt a bit of nervousness return, glancing around the Citadel street; as she turned, he moved into the hollow of her neck, simply breathing there and she felt her limbs grow heavy and weak, unable to carry her away. His mouth fastened, not suckling to leave a mark, but kissing hotly, the tip of his tongue teasing, teeth pressing just enough to feel them.

Oh, wonderful…she remembered the softness of cushions under her, his kisses to her throat and shuddered, wishing she were within his rooms once again and could lie loose and relaxed with pleasure and let him do as he wished. I am less afraid, she would enjoy his minstrations even more so than the first time. How could it be better? She was unsure, but…I would find out, oh, yes…now Éowyn did laugh, half-embarrassed with herself, knowing her lust for his caresses. He makes me feel…wanton, I would want him, would desire, if I was not ruined…her breath caught and she closed her eyes. Fury rose against the memory of the worm, the worm that had driven her to fear so that she fought to enjoy Faramir’s caresses. I like his touch; do you hear me, Gríma? I would let him take me to spite you, would give myself to this good man to destroy your memory, make you nothing but a dream of darkness!

She felt unease; such dark, cold rage did not belong near her Prince. What had that foul creature of a man done to her? Ruined in heart, in mind, I can never let go, never be good enough, never allow what he desires…pity for Faramir briefly ruled her and she became aware that he’d drawn back a little, knowing her thoughts were elsewhere. Faramir’s grey eyes were troubled as she dared to meet them. Éowyn shook her head quickly, frightened that he would question her again. She stepped closer to him, trying to encourage him to return to his caresses. After a moment, he did, but with more care and less of his charmingly single-minded enthusiasm.

“Did I not say…” His nose brushed her tender throat, his lips moved ticklishly, “With you I am a dwarf?” Faramir kissed her skin softly, making her shudder and her tensions melt, her mind turn to him and him alone, especially as he chuckled and rose to smile hopefully against her brow, “All greedy desire…?”

She ducked back from his one-handed embrace, embarrassed, feeling her pleasure in his company return. Éowyn laughed and nodded minutely, shyly directing her answer to the White Tree. “Aye.”

He was stepping forward, his wonderfully deep, foreign voice rumbling from his chest as he pressed his cheek to hers, his renewed smile curving against her skin, warm breath puffing to her ear. “Hmm…you must pardon me, then.” Plainly no longer troubled, Faramir stepped still closer and she could feel the light press of his front, not unpleasant at all. His able hand came to her waist, resting there without movement, flat and warm and oddly heavy as he embraced her, not kissing yet, simply holding.

“No, I mustn’t.” Well aware of his touch, Éowyn was surprised when she laughed and kept her composure, not yet able to feel the first tendrils of iron-sharp fear spread through her chest. Maybe…she felt a strange, powerful surge of hope and shifted her arms, wishing she could enfold him in them, hang onto his body and relax. Maybe it was all right, maybe she could just…let go, oh, let go, I could trust and just…enjoy…her reservations snapped back, making her catch her breath in a deep, ragged inhalation.

I misjudged… Éowyn had underestimated another’s lust and determination before, thinking little to the man that stared at her, scorning him with silence, shocked into terror when one day he broke his deference and grasped her arm to try and force her to accept his caress, threatening death and worse to those she loved… That day I learned fear didn’t I? Learned I was no warrior, but a helpless girl, vulnerable, weak…her heart hurt, remembering how it had broken into cold shards of fear, knowing all she knew was flawed and nothing was right any longer. I thought I was a warrior…

But Faramir is good…no, she couldn’t. She didn’t know what he would do if she yielded to him and to risk it might mean the destruction of the very enjoyable, warm feeling that even now filled her veins and heart with delicate contentment. I want to feel like this…forever. Her eyes pricked.

“No?” His smile was broad, but his grey gaze searched hers and her face, acutely, even pre-naturally aware of her mood. Éowyn broke then, hugging him tightly, wishing, wishing she would not leave him. Faramir’s one able arm wrapped around her at once; he crooned soothingly into her ear. “It’s all right…” His words sped up, became more urgent, “Tell me, please, I will not care what it is, I want to help…”

She untangled herself and stepped back, feeling herself struggling to keep her composure and renew their banter. “Mind yourself, Master Faramir.”

“I’d rather mind you…” He bent his knees so that they were level, smiling with a touch of sorrow and kissing her again, his hands rising to cup her face—both of them, which meant he almost immediately jerked backwards, wincing. “Ow!”

“Are you all right?” Anxious at the pain that had flown over his features, she grasped his wrist, then looked up at him. Faramir smiled, a bit chagrined. Éowyn cradled his wrist, aware of the tenderness inherent in her gesture, an unconscious gesture, at that.

“Yes. I just…forgot for a moment.” His smile broadened, “Your skills are great, my Lady.”

She laughed at the compliment, incredibly flattered. “Aye, to brew tea!” He bent again and she pulled back. Éowyn shook her head and bit her lip to contain another smile. “Did I not say…?”

She’d drawn a step back and he spoke a final time, saying rather simply. “I will miss you at the table.” Faramir bowed gracefully and turned away, walking to the Hall of Feasts.

Éowyn hesitated, staring at his broad back, his thick sable mane that swayed just slightly with each long stride. Once more, he made a handsome picture, lank, moving with steady confidence, clothed in leather and cloth dyed raven black. She watched until his tall, lean form slowly blended with others garbed in similar dark leathers, indistinguishable in the twilight. Nihthelm…

Her heart gave a pang of regret. A call would bring him back and she could enjoy his company again. It would be too cruel…she shook her head and made for the Houses and her brother.

Eating with Éomer and his armed guards in some dining hall for soldiers and common men, she was forced silent, unable to speak of Faramir or any of her fears. They stayed within her breast, bottled and raw, making her strain to concentrate. It was all too familiar a plight and Éowyn despaired, feeling the same lying smile on her face, the same feigned indifference. No, she had little to speak of, tell her more of Cormallen, tell her more of the Black Land and the horrible Gate to the Dark Lord’s domain, Sauron’s Mouth…more, more, anything so that I do not speak of what you do not wish to hear, brother of mine… Listening to his descriptions of Eagles, the limp bodies of the hobbits and how they’d slowly healed and the ghastly, sunken field of war, she found her mind wandering down humiliatingly familiar channels.

Gríma…she’d been unable to speak of him either for fear of stirring her brother’s awesome temper and causing incalculable devastation. But there was good reason, then… Faramir was nothing like him; did her brother not see that he had little to fear? She closed her eyes briefly. If she did not see and still felt nerves at his touch, his kiss, what hope had she for her jealous sibling? Pity for her Prince rushed through her heart. The sooner she rid him of herself, the better.

Éomer finally asked her of her new fondness for the healing arts and she still could not even say what she wished; if she did, Éowyn was certain that his smile would vanish and the light in his eyes would fade. Her brother’s face would become still, turn sullen and the meal would be strained, stiff with tension. It was better to lie and speak of her injury inspiring curiosity, not really a lie, but it was Faramir, Faramir who made me forget about stealing a mount and riding to the end of glory…when he spoke, he held me spellbound, his voice! So deep and warm, sounding so alien with unasked for kindnesses even as it spoke so kindly, saying things of such beauty… Saying she was beautiful, speaking nervously of love and troths, more reassuringly of the end of Darkness. Oh, how I wish it would end!

Her hand made a fist under the rough table. Her liar’s voice was practiced, many years had she told untruths to the one who knew her best. “I wished to know what they’d done to aid me and the others in the Houses, I wanted to help, since I could not ride with you.” She bowed her head briefly, thinking, no lies yet… But she’d omitted her Prince’s smile, his generous offer of a new room in the crowded Houses, his courteous speech and constant, if restrained devotion…I leave out the heart. As she’d guessed, here he changed, but only to gaze at her with fierce protectiveness and some fear.

“Are you…healed, truly?” Éomer stared at her arm as though his eyes could pierce the white cloth that covered it. Faramir’s mother’s dress was comfortable, simple, more to the clothing of her folk and she took solace from its warm folds.

“Yes.” Éowyn sighed, thinking of the chill she’d felt on the Pelennor; others came to her mind, her dread of Faramir’s devotion, the City, the trap disguised in the masses of rich clothing within the former Lady Steward’s rooms. “For the most part.”

“But you will be? You will be well, sister?” Éomer had put down his knife, his voice suddenly full of anxiety, almost high with it, creases arising on his brow to pile onto one another. She smiled and nodded to reassure him, uncertain of herself. It was but one more lie to one who was sure she’d never lied to him.

“Yes. I will be well.” Éowyn felt her throat constrict and poked her meat to hide it, smiling with all her strength. “This is good.”

“Mm.” Éomer nodded in agreement, reassured and suspecting nothing, and she felt like weeping.

That, too, was familiar and made her wonder dismally if it would ever end, if the darkness that hung over her heart would ever rise and blow away, a cloud on the horizon, to make way for sunny day. Sometimes Faramir made her feel like that, but…

Love or no love, especially love, I cannot harm him more…she stared at her knife, the plate messed with grease and gravy, the meat and simple fare that the lower levels enjoyed. This was where she belonged, where she was home. Éowyn glanced up at where the shining Tower would be seen if she were not within the confines of a dim, loud hall. I should have ridden to Cormallen, and before that? I should have followed what the Master said, asked Prince Imrahil to release me…at least then she would not feel such grief.

Her brother began again, stealing her attention and she smiled weakly, feeling only sadness. To bolster her spirits, she thought, when I am home, when I see the gold of my Hall, I shall be happy… It was not the first time Éowyn lied to herself, either, the lies binding like spider’s silk, keeping her still and cold. My womanhood was born of lies, was it any wonder that honest, gentle Faramir terrified her?

I love him and I must leave him. She laughed at her brother’s jest and felt like sobbing. To enter Ithilien was foolishness. I should not go… Dangerous, deceiving foolishness. He will think…

I should not go…but she would and his merry smile would cut in every late memory…oh, memory, when she broke from her oath and his love. Her dread made her sick and she pushed the plate away.

Faramir woke early and his eagerness would not let him wait abed; he rose and dressed, swiftly flagging down a serving girl to call for Beregond, thinking to send his guardian ahead on horseback to warn the closest of the seized Corsair ships that he needed transportation. If they could not bear him across the Great River, something would, he would will conveyance into being if he had to! Before midday I shall stand within the borders of my land with my betrothed or…he felt desperation. What would move her, what would open and warm her heart save his land, his beautiful land?

He’d sworn he’d heard some deeply felt emotion in her voice the morning before…and she offered her knowledge, commanding the man as though she were already his Lady…surely, surely… Faramir paused and ran his hand over his face before splashing it with water, trying to still his racing thoughts. If the dazzling sight of his country did not shore up his faltering flower, then something else would—Éowyn had shown moments of true warmth, laughter and enthusiasm…he had only to coax her, as he did already, and show devotion, desire and regard. As I do already. He laughed soundlessly as there was a rap on his sturdy door. Women of Rohan are not easy to court!

Almost before he explained his intent, Beregond saluted, moving swiftly away to serve him. His Captain was his shadow now, constantly at his side and awaiting an order unless he thought to dismiss the man back to his family, which he’d done much of late. Truly, in these times of peace, he needed no such guard, but Elessar had commanded and it was done. He harrumphed to himself. No guards save that to protect me from the brother of my plighted! It was still unthinkable that he and the man had actually fought. Unthinkable and, even more, unbelievable had he not still the bruises, the broken hand.

Shaking his head, Faramir moved swiftly through corridors, finding his way to lesser-known passages and into the servant’s kitchen, startling many women as they prepared a breakfast for the nobles. Red-faced, arms powdered with flour to the elbows and aprons already spotted, they courtesyed with astonished cries, “My Lord!” even as he smiled and waved for them to refrain, greeting light-heartedly,

“Good morning.” He broke his fast there in the heat of many ovens and the almost overpowering scent of new bread, thinking over his plans. First horses then ride to the ships, across the Anduin, then into his lands and…

Perhaps…he sent someone in the kitchens to prepare a basket of uncomplicated fare and wine, thinking that a meal outdoors might be something Éowyn would enjoy. My country! Faramir sucked in a breath, trying to think as hard as he could, to remember every place of beauty or wonder within riding distance of the River. They would have little time, but he could show her some places that were dear to his heart, he thought. It was spring and he was sure he could find the hidden meadows of tiny, exquisite flowers again, the little splashing brooks lined with miniature flowerets, the thickets of blooming trees… Faramir retraced his steps to gather two of his cloaks to sit upon as he thought of the smaller, less-known caves whose walls glittered with wonders and gave shelter to his Rangers in times of danger; the cloaks could also shield them from the chill. Sending for ready made torches and retrieving his personal bit of flint and steel to light their way, he glanced over the wall of his City and imagined climbing the steep hills to look about at the beauty of his unspoiled lands.

None had ventured into Ithilien yet, awaiting his command to claim rich plots of land, but soon… Faramir felt his heart give a great blissful leap within his breast. Soon…the house of my dream, the love. Faramir, unable to wait for his eagerness, went to the Houses to see if his beloved was awake yet. The streets were pale with the morning sun, little traveled and he moved swift, the Gate’s guards opening the barrier wide and at a distance so he would not even have to slow, recognizing his face and eager stride. Another of his guard had managed to find him, having the good sense to wait at the first Gate, and now stood with the plain reed basket filled with simple food and a flask of good wine about one arm and the assembled torches in his hand. The men on first watch bowed and he nodded, restraining himself to a walk as his escort fell into place behind him.

The Houses were near silent, a few Healers moving noiselessly, the dawn hush broken by fretful cries of children, moans of men and, oddly, as he sprang up the stairs, there came the sound of song. Leaving his attendant behind, he followed, curious as it grew stronger with each step to the east. The lilting melody with its utterly foreign sound, familiarly voiced, made him sure of its owner so that Faramir smiled, awed and delighted all at once to hear her. He’d not known she could sing.

Éowyn murmured the words, the melody that Faramir just barely heard and certainly did not understand, floating down the hall to him. “Ǽ, æftergǽð me tó se ea, æftergǽð me tó se scead, iernð mid me a, missenlice…” But as he neared and peeked through the cracked door, the careless tread of his feet, carelessly loud from wonder and a strange feeling of being transported far away to a sad country and a melancholy girl, stopped the song in mid-verse. As before when he’d accidentally snuck up to her in the gardens, Éowyn whirled from her window, pale eyes wide in shock, meeting his and then dropping in mortification. “Oh…” For an instant, before the blush came to her paled cheeks and she muttered his name, “Faramir, you…” her hand had jerked, going to her waist as if to grasp something, yet halting inches above her plain shirt and falling away to hang idle.

He frowned, not understanding the movement—it spoke of defense, of fear and her mind was terribly agitated, from what little he could gain a sense of. Does she fear attack? That seemed to make sense but…it didn’t make sense. Who would attack her, a lovely and noble Lady, sister to the new King, adopted daughter to the former one? Who did? Protective anger rising against his unnamed, unseen enemy, Faramir smiled at her in apology, cracking the door further and leaning against the jamb, not sure he should approach yet. Who dared face that brute she calls a brother? It was a baffling mystery, like so many things about his beloved. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

Taking a breath, she pushed it out, making her fine hair move. “It’s all right.” Her brush was still in her other hand. Éowyn set it aside, smoothing her men’s shirt and trousers, then moving so quickly to the door that he really didn’t get a glimpse of her room. She slipped past him, giving the impression of nervous haste. “Are we…?”

“Yes.” He hoped to get a smile, offering his arm, but she just seemed uneasy, refusing him with a quick gesture. “Is…something wrong?”

Éowyn cupped her elbows with her palms, shifting from foot to foot. “No.” She brightened just a little, “Do you wish a draught before…?”

Faramir lifted his broken hand to glance at it; freedom from the pain’s mild distraction would be welcome. “I think so.”

He tried to make conversation. “I’ve brought us a basket, I thought we could take refreshment in Ithilien.”

“That’s…nice.” She all but lead the way, moving down the hall and deeper into the Houses with an eagerness that he did not sense or see within her, whether in her mind or the way she held her body. Éowyn seemed apprehensive, turned away, shut off from him and he felt the gloom of defeat try to blanket his thoughts.

No! He would not give up, not surrender to her disturbances or fears. Faramir strove to remain cheerful. “Yes, there are many pretty places in our lands to picnic…” The word slipped from his tongue before he could curb himself, but he was careful to not put emphasis on it, not to pressure her. Éowyn seemed to hesitate anyway, nearly skipping a stride. Faramir offered his able hand and she shook her head. Unable to keep the eager, ardent air from his voice, he added, “I cannot wait to show them to you…the few we shall see today, of course, we cannot go far.” Éowyn only nodded answer, quickly gathering bits of herbs, spices and heating water.

He watched, curious. Faramir knew many healing plants, it was part of his Ranger’s education and he watched her put them together, fascinated by the quick assurance of hands that seemed so unsure so often. Was his Lady was only unsure about and around him? I cannot say; he’d had no way of indirectly observing her. Éowyn glanced at him and smiled, no longer quite so distant. Faramir returned it, bantering lightly, “Do I dare hope there shall be no pain in this, as well?” He teased, “I startled you…”

“I promise you will feel no pain.” Her smile froze in the act, slowly growing more natural as the tea brewed. She leaned against the wall, folding her arms to her stomach and making a beautiful picture; he ached to draw her, inspired to put pen or pencil to paper, a feeling he’d not had in a long, long time. There was silence and stillness between them for a moment, not entirely comfortable. He broke it, leaning to draw a few long strands of her hair forward, watching them catch in the corner of her mouth, her head moving slightly away, aware, eyes cautious. Somehow that was even better than his original thought. Éowyn gazed at him, her chin up, stance more alert than it was before, yet still somehow remaining feminine and demure, hair caught against her lips, golden strands falling over her shoulders and her collar to hide the plainness of her garb. She appeared some unearthly radiant maiden; a peasant blessed with light and nobility or a noblewoman hiding within rough clothes. He sighed, wishing he had before him a canvas, a stylus, anything.

“What is it?” Her frown only made sweet creases in her pale brow. Faramir smiled, thinking she looked perfect. His hands itched to draw her, the desire consuming him.

“How is it that you come to my City unbound to any man?” His voice lowered, “I cannot imagine that no suitors courted you…”

Her pride was audible and visible in her erect bearing, her strong voice; so were her nerves as her hands chafed one another and her eyes bolted from his like startled deer. “I would have none.”

“Surely they would have thrown themselves at your feet to beg you reconsider…”

Éowyn’s eyes snapped back to his and her teeth gritted; her body was suddenly tense, almost rigid with constriction, arms tightening over her breast as though to protect herself. “I said I would have none.”

Startled by her forceful tone, Faramir both marveled and fretted at the constant mystery. He tried to redirect their conversation, teasing lightly, “And now?” She relaxed, turning her head away to bite her lip.

“Now?” Had he thought her frown sweet? Her smile was honey, golden, slow and spreading over her lips. He gazed at her steadily and her embarrassed laughter was as musical as the dulcet strumming of harps. Éowyn shook her head, more hair coming to hide her, and handed him his steaming cup. She still sounded embarrassed, clearing her throat and murmuring, “Your potion.” Then, to his amazed delight, she added affectionately, “My Fool.” Faramir laughed, unable to keep from beaming while he took the cup, gingerly handling the hot thing. Éowyn covered her mouth, compressing her lips and shaking her head at him. “Drink!” When he did, her eyes fell upon his hand. “Have your wraps been changed?”

“Let me?” Faramir nodded, pleased at her care. She cannot say the words of love, but her intent is of love…for an instant he felt tight under his skin, frustration prodding him to demand why that was so; fortunately, it faded as she stepped closer. He could sense her more easily as she approached, feeling irregular flashes of emotion at her touch. Curious…had his gift ever been like this? Had he ever moved from a complete inability to read a person’s heart to the slow increase in what he could sense? Physical contact usually helped, but for Éowyn it had not before, what had changed? She no longer fears so much…he watched her hands tenderly gather his wounded one, feeling her uneasy heart whenever her skin brushed his. It’s all right…Faramir tried to give her a moment of relaxation, uncertain if he could reach her thoughts; he’d never been strong in that. Do not fear me…I would never hurt you, never…

Éowyn glanced up, apropos of nothing he could determine save his mental encouragement and Faramir’s heart jumped. Had she sensed him somehow? Heard his support? She smiled faintly, reassuring him, “Does it hurt, when I hold you?”

You, she’d said, not it, not just his hand, but him. He glanced down, seeing his battered, bandaged hand in her slim, deceivingly feminine ones. “No, not at all.”

His love laughed a little at his admittedly mawkish statement, then gently, terribly gently, she untied and unwound the gauzy linen, careful not to catch the thin splints. They both frowned at his bruised appendage, the scabbed scrapes, some reddened about the edges. “If I wash it with…” Éowyn stared blankly at the ceiling, then smiled, “Valerian, it will heal more swiftly.”

Automatically, he checked his memory, finding her correct. He nodded again, not speaking and savoring the expression of triumph and pride she wore. She likes to help…help me…his heart swelled with content, a quiet sort of happiness. The words of love would have to wait; at least he had proof here, in her care, that she loved him.

As he watched her toss away the grimed old bandages, another fact about the plant came to mind and Faramir nearly guffawed—when drunk in neat wine, it was rumored to turn even the most virginal woman lustful. He eyed her, just containing his smile, unable to imagine Éowyn in a state of lust. Well…that was untrue, making him suppress a little shudder. He could imagine, but the reality of the spectacle was beyond him. It was difficult to even coax her into returning his kisses, for her to lust for him was a dream. Faramir sucked in a breath, feeling his chest growing taut with distress, attempting to imagine their wedding night and how she might fear him, might be utterly terrified if she could not so much as allow his impassioned kisses. No, no…the thought was horror, that he might have to face accepting her submission without passion, to look down at her face and see no love, no desire, only tightly closed eyes, a clenched jaw; endurance and passivity, distance instead of contentment. I—I could not.

He felt ill at the idea, any desire immediately sinking to cold ashes. I must try harder…no matter what Éomer had in store for him, it would not last forever and the reality of a fearful bride was unacceptable. I must try harder, coax her from her shell…he wanted to join with her, to make them into one, but that was impossible unless she allowed it, unless she wished the same. And if she did not, then all he did to her unwilling body, no matter how gentle, would be only ugly animal lust. He swallowed bile. I am not an animal.

As she made her bracer, he took opportunity to sneak glances at her, memorizing anew the curve of her narrow hip, the way her usually loose clothing briefly clung to her flat stomach, her shapely, if lean, thighs. Her long, strong legs enclosed in their humble woolen trousers, her lightly muscled arms ended in small, improbably delicate hands, the line of her throat where gold at the least should lie: it all moved him to equal parts desire, protectiveness and unease. Hands that should hold rings, wrists that should be adorned with bracelets…riches for my love…riches he doubted she would wear. Faramir frowned, what has happened to her that she refuses beautiful things, refuses intimacy, refuses everything I would give? Sighing, he found that he could not imagine, or rather, refused to imagine such horrors befalling his love.

In the course of her movements, he was graced with a fleeting view into the slack collar of her floppy man’s shirt. Faramir did not waste it, greedily eyeing the invitingly secret and pale flesh between her small breasts, noticing the faint stirring of her bosom, always an instant behind the rest of her as her breasts moved, impelled by their own soft weight. He measured them in his mind, already knowing just how he would caress her flesh. If she will ever allow it…or allow it from desire of hers rather than my own…he shuddered; there was little pleasure without her consent.

As she bent to add more sticks to the tiny hearth, Faramir eyed her narrow backside, thinking how she might look with the rounded body of a woman in child or who’d borne a child or two. It might suit her, she was awfully narrow and slender as it was, thin, if he were to put it bluntly. He remembered her eating little at the table; perhaps he should send for more appetizing dainties for their picnic and tempt her in their intimate, less intimidating setting.

Suddenly Éowyn met his eyes and she caught him looking. He smiled feebly, sheepish and unsure of how she would react, if at all. She seemed to stiffen and to watch him with disquiet, then close her eyes for an instant before looking at him more closely, like she were studying his face. Indeed she was, studying it for…something, he knew not what. Puzzled, Faramir was careful not to move, to keep his silence, his stillness, unconsciously holding his breath. Please…

The corner of her mouth twitched in amusement, her stance relaxing. Éowyn gave him a faint laugh, accepting his ogling without the fears that he was certain would have shown a few days ago. “Are you finished?” She reached for the cup, but her gaze held his, making her words into a jest.

“Yes…and no.” He grinned, enjoying her half-chiding, half-blushing smile, feeling himself relax some. It will be all right between us…

“Come here.” Her wash was prepared, the liquid cooled. Éowyn daubed it on with gentleness, concentrating her efforts over the scabs and bruises. “Tell me if I hurt you, Faramir.” Her direction held more emotion than was necessary, making him wonder.

“Good.” She was distant again, finishing and then hunting for more of the thin gauzy cloth.

Faramir didn’t know he was going to speak. “Do…you think I did well…in the Tower?”

A weight seemed to rise from his shoulders. He’d had little experience in judging matters save those that arose within the ranks of men under his command. Taking a deep breath, he smiled; his enthusiasm for the day had returned to him in full, making his question light-hearted, “Have you ever ridden on a ship?”

“No.” She bit her lip. “My people do not have many boats…and no ships.”

“Neither have I.” Faramir watched her gather the cloth, conscientiously beginning to wrap his hand. Her draught and the wash had helped considerably—he hardly felt her light touch and his scabbed over scrapes appeared cleaner and well on the way to mending, evidenced by their returning to the healthier color of flesh instead of an irritated red. Éowyn tied a knot in the cloth to hold it in place, using a small knife to slice off the excess. He smiled, reassured by her care. “My ancestors did, I’m sure…as did those of Aragorn. My people once lived neared to the Sea, sailed…” He found another spark of excitement for the day’s adventure; it glowed in his chest. “I’m excited.” She nodded, but without eagerness. “Aren’t you?”

“I’ve never been on a ship.” Éowyn hesitated, then admitted quietly, “I don’t like boats.”

“I’ll hold onto you…like I did the last night,” Faramir smiled at her, jesting. “And make sure you won’t tumble into the River…or at least without me.” He added, “Not that I’d be much help, with only one hand.” Faramir laughed, “You’d have to save me from the current, I’m afraid, hardly dignified of me, don’t you think?”

Éowyn smiled back, holding his wrist, lifting and turning it to peer at his hand to make sure that he was adequately cared for. When she was finished, she looked distinctly pleased with herself, making him smile in secret. His love beamed. “That’s all I know to do.”

Eager, he grinned back. “Let’s go then, there are many places I want to show you.”

Beregond had done his duty and beyond—there were horses waiting at the stables, the same they’d ridden the day before, plus another; the second guard mounted it and lifted his silver banner. A moment later, they were racing across the hard-packed road that led to the River. Faramir could see one of the Corsair vessels there, waiting with its black sails limp, long paddles just barely hanging out. The little he knew of ships had come from the books he’d read in the great libraries of Minas Tirith—accounts of battles on the Sea, poetry of Sea Kings or elves and small, rough master’s books that he’d read as a child.

He gazed wonderingly at the barnacle-studded hull, its sloping dark sides of broad, smooth boards towering over the river’s brown, rippling surface. The horses balked and wheeled, equally amazed with the ship’s magnificence and size. The snorting animals had to be led up the wide, steep plank by some of the freed slaves, cajoled and urged with every stride. Taking the reins, the men smiled and nodded with eager complaisance, speaking in foreign tongues that immediately provoked his curiosity. Where were they from? The far lands to the East? Faramir glanced behind himself, staring at the horizon as though he were looking at it for the first time. What lay beyond the Black Lands? Beyond Harad? Anything? Everything? He felt an urge to go, to see and suppressed it with difficulty. After all, who had mapped all the lands since the last time the Sea had rose out of its confines? Elves? He doubted it; they stayed to their own country for the most part, rarely moving among the holdings of men. Here, they say we know all that there is…what Men were greater at surveying than those of Minas Tirith, what Men held such history? There could be more…he hungered for foreign vistas, then admonished himself. This is my place, my home…my responsibility…Faramir sighed, feeling a strange discontent.

Éowyn hung back, her eyes wide, as nervous as the horses. Faramir smiled, taking her arm. She grasped onto it when they mounted the deck and he felt the gentle sway of the River. It was hardly noticeable; the Anduin was full and calm this day. Curious, he watched the long poles of the paddles extend as men gave orders, then turned, gazing at the younger boys who swabbed the long wooden decks or mended the black sails. Far below he heard rough voiced chants in a foreign tongue and felt the ship move, gliding slowly out into the River, leisurely beginning to cross from one bank to another. The poles dug deep into the rushing water, pushing off the muddy bottom until they hit the current, then the chant changed and they rowed in slow, perfect alignment. He smiled, awed and very suddenly wishing he’d spent his summers in Dol Amroth. The sound of water splashing, voices chanting, the soft flap of the limp sails, it all called to his soul.

The horses tossed their heads and pranced, anxiety rising with each of the peculiar hollow sounds that their hooves made on the wooden deck. Arms clasped to her chest, looking equally anxious, Éowyn did not follow him to the wooden rail; Faramir peered far below to the choppy, brownish water he’d known all his life and felt a moment’s disappointment that it was not the reportedly brilliant blue-green of the Sea. When he turned, she was staring at him. “Come see.”

“Come here.” Chiding her playfully, trying to keep her anxiety in the realm of jest, he tugged her all the way to the side. There, he put his arm around her, hugging tight. He could feel the tension in her frame. Faramir rested his chin on the top of her golden head; her hair was warm, heated by the sun as he murmured. “Look at the water.”

“It’s so far down…” He’d never ridden on any watercraft larger than a skiff and then rarely; it was more common to ride to Osgiliath and cross the bridge. Faramir was used to barely riding above the water’s edge and to see the river gleaming many lengths of men below him was a novel sight.

Repeating herself without emotion, Éowyn still sounded tense. Faramir smiled, saying reassuringly, “We’re almost to the other bank.” They were, the Anduin was wide, but not so wide that it took a great ship more than a minute or two to cross. As he spoke the oars had plunged into the depths again, striking bottom with a jolt that made the whole craft shudder as it lost its freedom, chained to the earthen riverbed and inching clumsily forward. The horses’ eyes rolled whitely, her chestnut rearing high in fear, and Éowyn jumped against him, her hands clutching his surcoat as the deck vibrated. He hid his pleasure in her movement, catching her hand to squeeze it. I am her comfort… As she relaxed, he watched the sailors move about and Faramir could barely keep his fascination with the foreign commands at bay, only absently soothing, “It’s all right…” He listened fervently, wondering at each strange word. None were spoken in the melodious elvish of Dol Amroth, but instead a new rough tongue of Men. Men I have not heard or read of…and he’d studied nearly every book that lay within or had crossed through his City, spent hours in the merchants quarters, searching for said books, queried dozens of men he’d found wandering in Ithilien or Minas Tirith! How can that be? Faramir glanced around himself, feeling for a moment that Boromir had had the right idea—books were useless. Slightly melancholy, he hugged her taut form again. “Another moment…”

“My feet are more used to solid ground.” She licked dry lips and nodded at the unstrung animals, their heads tossing and hooves skittering loudly over the planks. “Like my brothers’.”

Éowyn finished with a shiver, “This big.” He could sense her thoughts moving below his awareness to read them, but her emotions had become clearer—definite agitation, tension, some fear of the unknown intermixed with…trust, of me.

He smiled and let out a deep breath. She turned, craning her neck to look up at him. Her voice was soft, somehow sad. “I would like to see the Sea.”

Faramir smiled at her, delighted, “Then we will go soon.” He couldn’t help adding, softening, “After we are wed.”

She nodded, but he caught the feel of her sadness again. The ship coasted forward, then halted with another shudder. Shouts heralded the plank’s being thrown to the opposite bank; the freed slaves led the horses down again, barely keeping them from bolting across the rattling wood. Once down, the poor beasts pawed and snorted at the grass, nearly ecstatic to feel land under their hooves again. As Éowyn slipped from his arm and just as quickly down to the familiar earth, Faramir hung back, looking around and above himself at a maze of rigging and sails. He felt an overwhelming urge to learn and sighed. Not today… His footfalls seemed to resound with dejection as he walked down the long, wide strip of wood to take the reins of his bay from a smiling man. The man was clearly one of the former slaves, clothed in rough, coarse fabric, face scarred, his arms thickly muscled and his hands so heavily callused from rowing that Faramir marveled that he could feel at all. He bowed, grinning jovially, and Faramir smiled in return, “Thank you.” The man answered in his rough, foreign tongue, nodding merrily before turning and loping back up the plank.

Beregond and his mount joined their party and they waved at the sailors and former captives lining the rails of the ship, calling thanks. His Captain turned to him, saying quietly, “I have arranged that they will return this evening, my Lord.”

Faramir brightened. “Good.” As the great ship reversed its course, he swung clumsily aboard his mount, finding Éowyn had already done so. For a moment, he just looked about himself, orienting. “This way first, I want to show you a little cavern, one I’ve spent many cold, wet nights sheltering in…” Her smile was somewhat lacking, but it spurred his determination all the more. She will see how beautiful my land can be…and that shall change her heart…with the two guards holding position behind them, they rode swiftly into the hills.

My apologies for only posting this chapter...but I wanted you to know that I was still alive! This semester has been very difficult so far. I do have 7 and 75 begun and hopefully I will be able to find time to finish and post them soon. Thank you for your patience.

Her chestnut galloped roughly into Ithilien and Éowyn was hard-pressed to keep him from bucking at first so lively was his mood to leave the frightening boat, ship, behind. She put her weight into her stirrups, ignoring her weak legs to balance herself over his withers, keeping her back erect, her hands light but firm on the reins. Using her seat and still cursedly impotent legs, she told him to keep his spirits within check.

His back lifted some, head dropping in effort, but she did not let him drop it far, soon insisting that he lift it and get on with his business. “Come along…” The country about her looked just as verdant as it had from the Pelennor and Éowyn smiled with pleasure as the unscathed, long-stemmed grass tickled the soles of her boots. It also tickled her gelding’s belly; he finally bucked and then snorted, longing to rid himself of his burdens—saddle, bridle, rider—and frolic. Éowyn could understand; his flared nostrils were filled no longer with soot and decay, but the green smell of young grasses and wild, open air. “No, no, lad, be a good lad…” Prattling, she clucked and rocked in the saddle, moving her horse nearer to Faramir’s bay, keeping her gelding close within his wake and under control.

On the top of a grassy ridge, the River already shrunk to a slender chocolate ribbon below them, her Prince slowed and halted. Their horses were puffing and shaking their heads to be freed. He looked back and forth over the country, then smiled at her. “It’s easier with the stars; I’m used to moving under the cover of darkness, but…” Despite his frown, he was clearly full of enthusiasm. Éowyn smiled again and felt her stomach turn with guilt.

Today, she could put it off no longer. Today, tonight…he would not look so blithe later, so she soaked up his bright smile, his lightsome grin as he urged his horse into a gallop down the hill, up two more and then down a long slope past multiple small groves of bent trees, their roots clinging to the hillside. It was shady here beneath a giant cloud and pale rocks rose above the earth; she slowed her horse, carefully steering him over the uneven footing. “Good lad…” Éowyn patted his sweating neck in rhythm to his strides, her gaze fixed on the ground.

When she looked away from the earth, Faramir had disappeared into a maze of thickets that had sprung up in what Éowyn now saw was a long, shallow basin surrounded by sloping hills. Hoof prints led her still further into the thin forest. Before the trees closed in, she turned, but saw no River, no hint of the City. How swiftly we are lost…her spirit felt an odd kinship with this wilder land, clearly untouched. Her horse tossed his head to fight for his freedom and Éowyn laughed, standing in the stirrups to stare and feast her eyes upon naught by herbage, relishing the lack of high walls and stone. Faramir’s guards exchanged quiet glances, but did not remark; how unlike the men of her land they were!

Soon she’d crossed the little wood and followed fresh prints onward; Faramir must have galloped ahead. A narrow stream ran along the deepest part of the dale and the embankment above it was steeper than the others, liberally studded with the pale stone common in the South. Where is he? Self-consciousness kept her from crying out his name. Reaching the stream’s banks, Éowyn was relieved to see that they were muddied and tracked; she was still going the correct way. Heated, her chestnut drank and pawed the water up to cool his belly and flanks before she urged him out of it, still following hoof marks she hoped belonged to Faramir’s bay, steering about slim boughed trees and high brush.

The sun was bright, but the basin was empty save for grass and thickets of trees. Nervous, for it had been a minute since she’d seen her Prince, she reined in her mount and turned this way and that, bracing herself on the saddle, unsure. Her voice wavered on the warm, unmoving air, “Faramir?”

The two guards halted their geldings close to hers and she sensed the distress that lay behind their stoical features before her Prince spoke, “Here” and stepped into view. His nearness startled her chestnut into a sideways jerk. As she steadied her mount, he frowned. “My apologies.” Éowyn sighed a great breath of relief.

“The cave is here, hidden to keep anyone but my men from finding it.” He beamed, walking into the leafy copse with all the natural grace, self-possession and familiarity of a wolf within its home grounds. His quick, easy stride struck her, hard to reconcile with the image of a man she’d only seen in civilized settings. As she dismounted, Faramir called back, “Beregond?”

“Which of you has the cloaks, the torches?” The guards conferred and soon were striking together flint and steel, carefully aiming the spark onto the torch.

Loosening her mount’s girth, Éowyn watched and marveled—Faramir lifted the torch with the ease of familiarity. He’d always seemed so cultured, but his familiarity with the primitive implements belayed all her earlier impressions. Perhaps there are other things I do not know or have guessed wrongly about…angered by her doubts, even after you see his charity, his mercy! she shook her head so hard that her hair whipped her face and commanded her coward’s heart harshly. Be silent! Her teeth gritted and she added tensely, bother me no more!

Faramir held up his burning brand and gazed at it critically, making sure it burned correctly. Its flame seemed weak in the bright sunlight and Éowyn wondered where the cavern was. She could see no dark mouth anywhere. “Here, for the chill.” Smiling fondly, her Prince gestured to his escort that he should hand her a cloak, one of his, she guessed for it was worn by use and dragged the ground behind her.

Though she had a moment’s trouble with the foreign clasp, Éowyn was surprised at how good it felt around her shoulders, how it smelled somehow like the pale stone of his City, like him and comforted her. “Thank you.” She pulled the long edges, holding them so they would not trip her up. Feeling like a girl again, Éowyn smiled and hugged the worn garment to her chest, an unaccustomed sense of lightheartedness flooding her spirits and brightening them. Perhaps it was this country; it’s green emptiness that made her feel so…at home. Éowyn gazed at Faramir as he attempted to clasp his own cloak with only one hand. It could be home… Not knowing how that made her feel, save great anxiety amid a deep sorrow with both rising to choke her, she shook her head and dismissed the idea. Not see the Golden Hall, not hear the tongue of my folk raised in song or ride through snows so deep my horse might have well as been swimming? Impossible. All of Faramir’s efforts were almost pathetically fruitless and she was about to step forward and aid him when his Captain spoke,

“Aye.” Relief shone on Faramir’s face as Beregond fastened the clasp with a deft, delicately respectful touch, inclining his head as he stepped back. “Thank you.” He turned to her with an affectionate smile, “Come, my love, this way.”

Her heart blanched guiltily at the endearment. Faramir and his flickering torch led her a short distance into the nearest thicket; she could see no trace of a path, but his strides were confident. Kneeling at the base of a tree, he brushed aside a few thick, low-hanging branches and the black mouth of a cavern was revealed.

“Oh.” She started, surprised at how the dark opening seemed to spring up into being, so well was it concealed from passing folk.

“I told you it was hidden. I wouldn’t want it infested with orcs or ruffians, would I?” His grin was crooked, delighted. Éowyn smiled a little in return, unable to not respond to his high spirits.

“Now, let me,” He grinned again, “Act lordly and…” A cool breeze hit her in the face before Faramir’s body blocked it. “Here, my Lady, it is to your convenience.” He twisted to the side and considerately held the branches, pressing his backside against the limbs and mashing them to the tree so that she could enter with ease.

Éowyn ducked inside, chest tight under the gleam of his smile, “Thank you.” It was large enough that she only had to stoop; the entrance was rough, nearly wild looking, strewn with small, craggy rocks, gritty dirt and dead leaves, but after a few steps the floor became sandy and clear. She could not see far, perhaps a few lengths before the light faded entirely and there was only blackness. She gazed into the darkness, unease rising in her belly, knowing that she did not particularly wish to enter the cave’s murky passage, to brave the blackness or the icy gusts that made her hair and borrowed cloak flap. The slap of tree limbs and the light dimming meant she was not alone. Immediately, Éowyn relaxed, turning to take in the torch’s glowing light with greedy eyes.

“Ah, look at that.” Coming to her side, Faramir sounded displeased, kicking a bit of charred wood. “They are to leave no sign.” She glanced around, but could see little to indicate the cave had ever been used, much less multiple times, before her eyes adjusted to the torch’s flickering orange light.

Ah…there was a residue of soot on the ceiling and the dirt was blackened in a few spots from too hastily buried fire pits. Behind a hollow in the stone, cords of wood were stacked to keep them dry along with a half-full skin of water and a wrapped bit of leather; she guessed it held food or primitive medicine for burns, infections, bee stings or snake bites: yarrow, wild lettuce, thyme. Éowyn smiled briefly, pleased at her quick memory. Beside her, Faramir scowled at the remains of a campsite and muttered to himself about discipline. Suddenly he laughed and turned,

“No.” She smiled again, knowing what he meant and sharing his rueful glance. Sheepish and full of softly amused humility, Faramir grinned and moved further into the dim, rocky cave. As they made their way from the broad, sandy floor, the ground sloped downward and became dangerous. Éowyn started as he brushed her arm in a quick and awkward touch, unable to clutch her with his broken hand, the other holding their torch.

“I will.” Nervously hearing the warmth in his voice, she exhaled and paused to survey the floor of the cave. It was increasingly littered with rocks and small but unpredictable protrusions, like some enchanted child had piled earth up, clay that had hardened in the sun to knee-high minarets of slick, creamy stone. A drop of water hit her cheek and Éowyn started. Over her head were petite, dripping stalactites that dripped infinitesimally slowly either onto the protrusions that sought to trip her or into tiny puddles ringed with the orangish color of minerals. Pretty…she gazed at them before Faramir and the light passed the formations by. Helm’s Deep was prettier, its structures larger and more ornate, but this cave was not without its share of attractions.

Éowyn trembled as a wintry draught blew from ahead, slipping and snaking around Faramir’s wider form, making his coal-black hair whip, the edges of his cloak flap with ghostly noise. The chill…silently thanking his tender foresight, Éowyn held the cloak tighter as they walked still deeper into the cave, following a long, twisting passage. Cold seemed to seep from the very walls around her; above her head were long, contorted slivers of rock stained in shades of coppery red, peach, dulled grey and whitish yellow. They looked frail, positioned to fall and skewer her. Spiders and insects ran, scurrying down the walls to hide in crevices as she passed. As her foot sent a stone skipping ahead, there was a flutter of wings that made her squeak with fear and draw closer to her Prince’s back; the leathery swishes and thrashes sounded horribly akin to the flapping mantle that the foul wraith had borne.

He turned to glance at her and she gasped, ducking low with another twitter of fear—a few bats had fallen from secret nooks and swooped over their heads. Luckily the stringy things winged out of the cave, not eager to battle Faramir’s bravely upraised torch. He did not look frightened, merely ducking his shoulders a bit while shaking the burning brand at the creatures until they swirled by in a cloud of squealing darkness.

Watching the bats flee in their whirling fashion, Éowyn noticed that the guards had not joined them and her apprehension did not fade but instead grew. Why are we here? If he had a tryst in mind, this was the perfect spot. She clutched the cloak’s ragged edges, becoming more aware of the dark, the chill, her throat tightening in the oppressive, almost cage-like feel of the cave. He has his wrap, his maiden, his privacy…her teeth ground, her soul wrestling between trust and misgiving. He could do whatever he wished to me and none would know…she shuddered and glanced back at the mouth of the cave, having to peer about a spider-silk covered wall. At once Éowyn blinked, seeing the bright sunlight through the tree’s limbs, utterly amazed at how small the opening appeared. One of the guards moved across it, making the passage around her dim considerably. Could they even hear me if I screamed? She hesitated, watching Faramir move forward.

Coward, what would you scream at? His chaste kiss? A few fond words? An endearment? Éowyn felt acid hatred boil up from her belly to scorch her throat. Coward, wretched coward, you are allowing that worm to manage you still! You shame your blood…thankfully her Prince spoke, stopping her inner rebukes.

Obeying an impulse, she stretched out her hands and met clammy rock walls. Close…it is so close in here! Éowyn caught her breath, chest heaving, breathing cold, moist air that smelled strongly of rock, rusty metal. She didn’t like the smell, the cold or the darkness, the rough walls so close and making her feel confined, trapped without recourse. The caves at Helm’s Deep had been vast, not at all tight like this one. What is here?

Many paces ahead of her, Faramir frowned, halting to turn and caution, “I cannot help you, my hand…be careful, the footing is perilous.” Éowyn nodded, not sure where they were going or why. Her eyes caught a dazzling gleam in the next chamber, which seemed extraordinarily large compared to the twisty tunnel they were in. Watching it eagerly, she followed him, moving faster and no longer paying attention to her footing. She’d even forgotten to hold onto her cloak and almost immediately stepped upon the long, ragged ends, jerking the garment tight. Off balance, Éowyn listed back into the darkness that rimmed Faramir’s torch and blundered against the unyielding rock wall, scraping her palm in an attempt to gain purchase. At her yelp of self-disgust, Faramir turned. “Are you all right?”

He sounded terribly concerned and her disgust grew. I fear this man? “Yes, yes.” Éowyn blew on her burning palm, shaking it.

“Careful…” Faramir watched her come, holding his light high to give her what illumination he could. She was very near when she stumbled over a narrow crevice hiding within his long shadow. Éowyn cursed loudly in her native tongue, feeling herself teeter.

But Faramir moved then, leaping forward with smooth grace. His grey eyes, dim in the torchlight, held hers as he dropped the brand to grasp onto her forearm, pulling her close and keeping her from falling. Éowyn held him back, grateful, gasping, “Thank you—” Nearby, the torch thudded to the gravelly floor of the cave and rolled, its mossy cap shredding and cheery flame dying into messy smoke and guttering one last time before leaving them in blackness so complete it was shocking.

Immediately panic rose, a grey, numbing wave. No…please…she couldn’t see anything but the gloom, couldn’t feel anything but cold clamminess. The wraith… Her lungs refused to fill. Éowyn felt herself grow rigid in his one-armed embrace and rasped out, her heart pounding in her throat, “Call for…for one of your guards now.” Light, call for light!

He’d spent days under the same dark spell; did he not remember the cold blackness, the helplessness? She shuddered. “Call!” Desperate, Éowyn hissed it again through gritted teeth and he stepped away, his hand reluctantly falling from her side.

“I will…” He paused, then soothed, “We’re in no danger.” Still close to her, but no longer touching, Faramir asked more intently, “What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong with you? Éowyn heard the question inside his question and clasped her arms across her body, silently echoing it. What was wrong with her? She wished he’d not moved away, now she couldn’t even take comfort from his nearness.

He hesitated and she could hear his deep inhalation, “It’s just very dark, I’m here…” But his words were too uncertain to reassure.

She licked dry lips and ordered, “Call for your guards now, tell them to bring light.” Why does he not call? He does not call for them, does he not want them to come?

Oh, you idiot… Inside herself she was divided, each side hardening into equal parts suspicion and fear, and sharp fury at that suspicion and fear. He is kindly, you thrice-damned fool, and you would let the one good man go and keep the foul one in your heart forever, coward!

But Faramir finally obeyed, raising his voice to bellow, “Beregond! We need light!”

She let out the breath she’d been holding in a rush. See? You fear nothing! Old ghosts that trailed your footsteps, dread, pain, terrible silence…

His hand reached out, fingertips touching her forearm. When she did not protest, he groped slowly along her arm to clasp her hand as he asked softly, “What is it?” Her Prince squeezed her fingers, “Don’t be afraid,” He brought her hand up to his mouth, kissing her knuckles, “Don’t…are you hurt?” Faramir turned her palm up and ran his fingertips over the fiery scrape there.

“Ow! Yes…yes, a little, just a scratch from the rock.” She swallowed hard, fighting herself. Éowyn let out her breath, her eyes straining against the absence of light that surrounded her; “It’s dark…” It was utterly black in the cave.

“I know.” His voice was above her, giving reassurance now. Faramir shifted his stance, coming a little closer and she allowed herself to find him with an outstretched hand, to embrace him, then rest against his front, lying her head to his chest and breathing unsteadily. As long as she could feel him, she could prove that she was not back within the wraith’s dreadful dream, couldn’t she?

Tremors filling her words, Éowyn whispered, “I don’t like the dark…and it’s cold in here. Don’t you remember…when…when it was dark, before Aragorn came…before his voice…?”

“Yes.” He was pleasantly warm and firm, his able arm clasping her waist. Faramir’s chest moved as he inhaled, answering more raggedly. “Yes, yes…I do.” For just a moment his chest surged against her with a deep shuddering breath, and the iciness of fear made his voice thin. “Aye…I do.”

She could see nothing, but closed her eyes anyway, oddly comforted by this break in his calm, princely demeanor. There is nothing to fear from him, nothing at all. Éowyn took a quaking breath, tears rising, feeling like some dim bird was winging up and out of her breast, taking her doubt with it. Nothing to fear…if he had intentions, this would be where he acted upon them, and he has none, you know it. She took another short stride, pressing herself to him, waiting with aching heart.

“It’s all right…it won’t be like that again, ever, anywhere, you slayed…that thing, remember?” Speaking softly, Faramir did nothing but adjust the arm that lay about her waist, awkwardly holding her with it.

Yes. She hugged him tight, as she’d never done, taking comfort in his strength, his body. “You would…” She wanted to ask if he would keep to his insistences of intimacy, would hold onto her pledge of union no matter what her conscious drove her to argue…but fell silent at the last moment.

“What?” Faramir had lowered and she felt his warm breath stirring her hair. Éowyn’s skin prickled, abruptly aware that they were alone in the dark and that she’d never been alone in darkness with a man who was not her kin. His hand rubbed in a small circle at the small of her back, comfortingly, brotherly, but his voice let her know that he, too, was aware of what she’d only just noticed—and he sought to reassure her before she could take fright. “Don’t worry, Beregond will be here in a moment…I have the flint and steel with me, they’re kindling a fire by might alone, I imagine.” Faramir murmured soothingly, “It will take them time to gather wood, tinder, to spin it into a flame…” Éowyn felt herself relax, almost able to picture the scenario he described.

She frowned, looking upwards to where she knew his face was. “If he couldn’t hear you?”

Again, he spoke in a low, pacifying rumble. “Then we’ll attempt to find our torch and you may relight it…or we shall find our way out, step by step, hand in hand.” He chuckled, “Looking like fools.” Éowyn smiled.

“At least I shall.” Nearly inaudibly, he laughed. Faramir took a breath, “Then I’ll show you what I came to show you.”

She’d forgotten her nervousness and the darkness, captured by the warm blur, the comforting roll and tumble of his exotic, beautiful Southern voice. “What was that?”

“The next room. It is small and its walls are laced in some pearly stone, with the light of the torch it is like standing inside a sunset…” Faramir paused and she heard his simultaneous embarrassment and hope, “I like to think it is…enchanting.”

“Oh.” There was only the feel of his body against hers, the sense of his masculinity, pleasing in a new way as she snuggled closer. Perhaps he would release her, perhaps not; she rather hoped not, but she had to argue her case, give him the choice of a better woman. Éowyn frowned. I would not have him look at me with disgust, with regret… She shivered, only now thinking of that horrible option. In response, Faramir hugged her tighter with his able arm.

He added, “Beyond that is the white forest, stone charmed somehow into shapes of trees. And stone that looks like castles of old with towers and walls, pools of water like moats about them.” Faramir smiled, she could hear it, “When I was younger and more fanciful, I would dream that little fairies lived in the stone and fought wars…the moats always seemed to grow deeper, the rocks ringed with red like spilt blood.” He laughed, then continued, “Hidden in the corners are the hideous lumpy backs of trolls, warts and all. Perhaps they murdered my fairies, or merely terrorized them…I never saw so much as one and I have spent many nights in this cave.”

She smiled against his cloak, thinking he was speaking this delightful nonsense to distract her.

“Many nights…” Faramir’s chest expanded against her front. “Lonely nights, not knowing if I would ever not be so…” Éowyn was silent, abruptly conscious of his hand. It was rubbing her back still, but less in a brotherly fashion, now higher and with more pressure. Faramir’s slow, thoughtful comment made her doubly tongue-tied, listening timidly. “Naught for companionship save my bow, my sword, my bedroll. Wood and steel cannot warm a man’s heart.” After a moment, he leaned low and kissed the top of her head with a soft chuckle, squeezing her with his able arm.

Nuzzling her hair, Faramir asked, “Are you all right?” He sounded lighthearted but searchingly so, trying to see if he would be rejected or not.

She leaned her brow against his collar, feeling his arm about her, perfectly chaste, perfectly reassuring. There would be nothing less from her Prince and now there was nothing for her to fear but…everything else. Éowyn stirred, feeling a bit of unease. It was very dark and they were alone. But still…fairies! “I think…yes.”

“Mm.” Faramir’s kiss pressed itself to her temple, his arm loosening as she pulled away to tilt up her chin. She kept her eyes closed, not able to use them anyhow. His warm, blunt-tipped fingers touched her jaw, then slid down, tickling her throat and making her laugh a little, conscious of her pulse throbbing. He smoothed her hair back from her shoulder, each movement careful. Faramir’s hand rose just a little, his thumb brushing her lips, finding them, managing to do so without poking her.

With his soft inhalation, Éowyn knew what would come next and gooseflesh rose over her arms. She liked his kisses, his touches, why couldn’t she relax and realize that all his fondling would be the same as that he did now—gentle, considerate, pleasurable? Relax, relax, if she’d managed to stay this long in pure darkness without bolting and breaking her fool neck, what was she still worrying about? Her chest loosened, her arms less tight about his middle. Nothing. Lifting up, she slid her arms around his neck, hugging him closely, enjoying the press of his body to hers. As she did, he found her lips and to her surprise, she felt his smile before anything.

The curiosity of it caused her to pull back, then return, smiling self-consciously. Faramir chuckled against her mouth, warm breaths melting into modest kisses; he was clearly satisfied by her action. Éowyn returned the smile the first chance she got, making his reappear and widen.

This was new and pleasant. She liked knowing she pleased him, he deserved happiness. My Prince, my good Prince…he laughed softly against her cheek, sounding very happy. Mine…her arms tightened around his neck. Do not let me loose, do not…Éowyn closed her eyes as her urgency grew, hugging him tightly, fearful that he might be too kind in heart. Do not… He clasped her closer in return, turning to her neck and burying his face against her skin. First he held her, simply hugging body to body, her own nose against the line of his bent shoulder, then Faramir inhaled and withdrew just far enough to kiss, scorching her with his hot, suckling mouth as it pulled strongly, marking her again. “Oh…” It felt so good, so deliciously good that she moaned involuntarily, the wanton sound sneaking from her before she could muffle it. Hearing herself, she flushed; he drew in a soft breath, then bent back to his task with more vigor.

Her brother would see and scowl, but it was not worth stopping Faramir for even a moment. Éowyn felt dizzy in the dark and grasped onto his surcoat to steady herself. The movement didn’t help; she was dizzy from more than disorientation, legs tottery from the intertwined desire and confusion that arose from his advances. With the utter darkness around them, her remaining senses were magnified so that his touch was a thunderclap on a silent night, her skin prickling and astir in the wake of his fingertips, his lips. The very sound of his breath made her thrill, the rough inhalations, breathy little noises she rarely noticed, the infinitesimal, yet obscene pop or smack when he withdrew, breaking the seal of his lips to her skin.

Faramir smiled against her neck, the only way she could know now that he did smile was to feel it against some part of her bared skin, and Éowyn was glad of the darkness. It kept her from seeing just how much light was in his eyes at the moment, how much bliss.

He was seeking entry again, kissing her with more and more eagerness, pressing his mouth to hers and letting her sense his heat. Persuaded and feeling strangely emboldened by the darkness, Éowyn let her lips part just the tiniest bit and he slowed at once, recognizing her bare allowance. Faramir smiled against her mouth, encouraging her. Carefully, she allowed him to kiss her as he’d always liked to try, to slip his tongue to hers and use his mouth to gently open hers. The texture and landscape of his was unfamiliar, making her want to laugh and grimace at once in the strangeness of it. He chuckled as she pulled away, finding her again to kiss more chastely, once, twice before he grew impatient and eager for more.

When she refused to similarly yield, withholding her mouth and shaking her head, he dropped to give attention to her throat, her collarbone, the cup of her ear, trailing kisses, pressing a smile into her skin at the junction of neck and shoulder. Éowyn hugged his neck and marveled that her brief surrender had delighted him so much. Am I so cold to his thinking…?

She frowned as Faramir nibbled at her earlobe, taking it into his mouth. After a moment or two, he murmured in a voice of husky fondness, “Do you like this?”

“Yes.” Éowyn opened her eyes and saw only darkness. She swallowed, closing them once more and pulling him closer, not caring if she gave him notions. The darkness beneath her eyelids was better than the coldness that surrounded her; here she could pretend that when she peeked she would see his warm grey eyes, his handsome face looking down at her.

“Good.” He was meeting her prim kisses and soon surpassing them. Faramir pressed his mouth to hers over and over in warm kisses that were as obediently chaste as she liked, but lingering, terribly stirring with soft, breathless desire, as though he were determined to break her detachment in any way he could think. The naked fervor of his actions made her clutch his broad shoulders, thinking her body was a beast slowly awakened, shaking and stirring, rising from its maiden’s slumber to heed his voiceless enticement.

Oh, nice, wonderful…she felt intoxicated, no longer noticing the chill of the cave, paying no heed to anything but Faramir’s eager minstrations. As she gripped him, he seemed encouraged; Éowyn felt him nudge the collar of her man’s shirt downward with his furry chin, mouth touching the skin above the furrow between her breasts. “Faramir…”

“What is it?” Faramir stopped at once and they breathed together, quicker than normal, faces close; she felt his hair tickle her cheek as his forehead clunked softly against hers. “Are you frightened to be with me, here, alone…?” His voice sounded oddly tremulous, possessing a new quality, a vulnerability; or maybe she simply heard it now since she was blind in this lightless cave. “In the dark?”

“You do?” Incredibly, she could hear his smile again. He seemed to smile more when she yielded to his caresses. Éowyn’s lips tightened, compressing in frustration. Is this the only way to please him, to yield to his body, his heart? He is too much for me…he goes too swift, desires too much…she swallowed, feeling overwhelmed.

Faramir nodded and let his brow rest against hers again, “Much better than a yes. You even said no first.” His arm hugged her as he laughed in warm encouragement.

“I don’t know.” He’d asked this before. Faramir sighed deeply and dropped his forehead to rest against her shoulder in a movement that startled her, it was so natural.

She could feel his quickened breathing against her neck; he was just as nervous as she, plainly more nervous as he swallowed and his throat clicked loudly in their silence. Poor man…he did not know how she would react, if some dainty caress would spark fear and inspire her to further wound him. Pity rushed into her heart as his hand rubbed gently, up and down, smooth and firm.

Éowyn was still, knowing she liked the delicate touch and that it made warmth spread under her skin, a thick and deep sort of peace. Just from…he was barely touching her! She laughed at herself for being a fool, then again—tittering laughter was surely not the reaction he was hoping for.

But he was smiling when Faramir’s mouth met hers, kissing more tenderly than he’d done since the first kiss they’d shared. Her laughter had relieved him; no longer did she perceive his hesitation. Confident now, his hand slipped upward a fraction, the wide palm of it slowly caressing and not simply up and down along her spine, but over her shoulders, her waist, the low curve of her hip. Their kiss broke apart and she felt him withdraw slightly, in case she was displeased. “Are you…?”

He didn’t finish as Éowyn closed the distance, standing on tiptoe to kiss further, spine and belly taut. What he was doing was certainly not a threat. But it made her tingle, made her awareness shrink to just that ticklish little sensation, especially when his hand slid upwards, thumb lightly tracing through her men’s shirt, rubbing in little patterns, back and forth along the small of her back. Faramir left his hand there, lying still with possessive pressure as he asked, voice huskier, somehow more male now,

Éowyn was acutely aware of her chest, almost for the first time it seemed, conscious of her breasts and their fullness, small as she was. Her hips, too, held her attention, her whole body felt newly alive as he hugged her. As she sought words, his hand moved anew, caressing her in his deliberate, virtuous fashion and she fell still, enjoying it; if he’d moved to touch her in a brash hand, she might have jerked away, but this delicate little outset was perfect.

“Good.” Slowly, with kisses that lingered agreeably, he took back his hand, leaving her to quiver inside, stirred in new ways that would take her time to sort out. Éowyn felt like she’d come alive, fully aware of herself, of him, buzzing inside, filled with the beat and motion of wings of awed delight and instinctive caution. His nose brushed hers, their mouths aligning easily, practiced now. Faramir was smiling as he whispered, “Good. Very good.”

“Yes.” Answering bashfully, laughing, she smiled in return, knowing he could feel it against his lips. He reached for her, pressing a soft, partially open kiss to her mouth and she tried not to retreat at the strangeness of it. Faramir was so warm, so eager to experience intimacy; it was all so different.

“It’s all right…do you…not like…?” Éowyn shook her head, but did not speak, helpless to respond. He nodded and his lowered arm slid forward and around her middle to squeeze her waist, pulling their bodies closer. This time he kissed only simply, the chaste press of lips she was more comfortable with and leaned his temple to her brow. Faramir’s nose brushed hers, his smile touching her skin, their stance intimate, close, little to no space between their bodies. Her feet were between his widespread ones and she could sense the movements of his chest to breathe. Éowyn adjusted her arms, slipping them about his neck again, discovering that she enjoyed this, the closeness.

Admitting it took more effort. “I…I like this.” She felt foolish, mortified by the admittance though it would doubtlessly make him very happy.

“Good.” His next word was unfamiliar, so that she wondered. It sounded like the elven tongue for he murmured it with lilting grace, yet it bore an abundance of emotion: shyness, tender affection. She felt the silvery thrill, then warmth of it even as the word itself floated musically from his lips to her ear, “Vanimelda…”

Éowyn frowned, wanting to know what he’d said. Like his elvish story, this made her spirit stir; unlike it, this word made her feel close and loved. “Wh—”

He muttered one last time in the elven tongue, “Umin hanya, vanimelda. Umin hanya…”

This sounded more like a plea, again ended in that word that kindled her heart. “What…what did you say?”

Before he could do more than sigh, there was a clatter of boots on loose stone, making them both jump, then a flickering light that hurt her eyes and Beregond’s voice, “My Lord?”

“Here.” Faramir’s hand clasped hers and he took a step aside, putting a more proper distance between them as the light approached. Éowyn ducked, tossing her hair to lie over her neck and pulling up the ragged cloak to cover the fresh marks, her chin dipped in sudden modesty.

What was I doing…? She sighed in regret, twisting her hand into the cloak’s many excess folds with an inexplicable sort of contrite pleasure. Encouraging him.

Offering the second torch, Beregond looked at them strangely, but asked no questions and Faramir offered no answers, instead relighting the dropped brand and handing it to his guard with a quiet word of thanks. Éowyn smiled as he turned to her and a slow, delighted grin came to his face in reply. “Come, its not much farther.” Tugging her hand, he led her forward, picking the way with care.

He watched her face discreetly as they entered the next chamber, the first real chamber in the long, narrow and twisted cave. Éowyn’s eyes glistened, pupils widening until her pale irises were all but invisible; her cheeks and brow were glowing in the torchlight. The orangish gleam reflected on the opalescent stone imbedded in the walls around them, then back to her skin, making her face rosy now, her hair ocher. “Oh…I see how it makes the light red.” She smiled and he did, too, glancing at her hand wrapped around his arm. She held onto his elbow because she could not hold his broken hand and she touched him so freely now for more comfort than anything, he guessed. Faramir was not a fool, but it was nice, regardless.

Gazing at her as she turned to take in the room, he felt his heart swell. He’d pushed her a little further with his caresses and not been disappointed in either response or relaxation; indeed, Éowyn had seemed to take the same enjoyment he did in their closeness and touches. Perhaps that is all she needs…a push…he frowned, unsure. If I push too hard, she might flee further and I might lose ground. Letting out a frustrated breath, Faramir sighed and briefly concentrated on the set of her mind—minute senses of surprise, awe, pleasure and curiosity. He smiled, pleased once more to be able to touch her heart even this lightly. Earlier she’d been near paralyzed with fear and dread; he’d felt the negative emotions slip out of her with each of his reassurances. That, too, was gratifying.

Éowyn touched the stone, running her fingers along the pearly trails, then turning to him with a smile. “It’s pretty.”

Nodding, he waited until she looked at him again, her face full of eager expectancy. “This way.”

“Where?” Éowyn stared about herself, clearly at a loss. “Back the way we came?”

“No.” Faramir smiled. “I didn’t find it for quite a while.” He led her to the back of the room, finding again the jagged, narrow breach in the wall that opened to the final chamber. It was close, but luckily tall, so that Faramir could just slide past. Taking a long breath, then releasing it, he sucked in his belly and flattened himself to the wall, feeling the rough rock scrape at his surcoat, grateful for the cloak and thick leather to protect his skin. Once through, he stepped carefully aside and lifted the torch for her, lighting the way. Other than hurrying anxiously through the confined space, Éowyn had less trouble, as he’d suspected; some of his heavier Rangers would not even been able to enter the tight passage.

He observed her closely as she straightened her clothing and turned, lifting the torch high as he could so that she could see the miniature, fanciful kingdom. It was worth it. Éowyn’s eyes flew wide and a great smile appeared. When she turned to him, her face was aglow with laughter and wonder. “There are fairies here!”

Her fair hair jerked as she shook her head. “I don’t even believe in fairies!”

“You should.” Smiling, Faramir turned. The bone-white forest had grown some, the mark of a tiny Lord’s good woodcraft. Petite, shin-high trees of delicate, pale stone covered the floor, some hanging onto the sweeping rock that rose to tall spires and towers colored creamy oranges, rusty reds and burnt yellows, linked with thick, mounded walls of the same colors. In the very center was a great snow-white citadel higher than the rest, its damp turrets nearly touching the thick, dripping ivory spears that hung from the stone roof, its banked walls sloping to the bedrock. Faramir gazed at it and smiled with warm recognition. My City… “Do you see them, the castles?”

“Yes, and one greater than the others.” Éowyn looked to him, then the white tower that had been crudely fashioned in stone, and laughed in such a light-hearted tone that he marveled. She crept closer, half-bent, careful not to tread on any budding trees. Delighted by her reactions, Faramir turned his head up, gazing at the sky that hung above the castles.

Before the silent, crude citadels were many long, shallow puddles and high above their heads were thin spears that dripped gradually down, ringing the water with red and orange. Tiny fingers reached upwards from the pools, reddish, ocher, like bloodstained hands of raging fairy kings. Looking quietly at the red-rimmed puddles, he spoke again the words he’d first uttered as a young Ranger sent on short trips that did not allow him far beyond the River. “Fairy blood.”

“Aye.” She laughed again, gazing about herself with bright eyes. “Show me your trolls, Faramir.”

Ah…his heart sighed in content. “There…and there.” Using the torch, Faramir pointed at lumpy outcroppings in the stone; colored muddy yellow and brownish red, they looked remarkably like the hunched backs of trolls, their lumpish heads ducked and hiding shamefully in the room’s corners after glutting themselves on innocent fairies— as no troll would do. He chuckled under his breath.

Éowyn was smiling with delight, crouching to peer at the delicate stone trees. Watching her, his soul was warmed, knowing she felt the same pleasure in this place as he.

After she’d looked all she’d liked, Faramir led her out, wincing at the brightness of the sun, pleased by her hand that kept to his arm, his elbow; she needed him, if only for comfort. As he extinguished the torch, he asked, “Would you like to ride to another place and see what I’ve brought in my basket?”

“Yes.” Unbuckling her cloak to give back to his guard, Éowyn’s spirits were clearly higher than they’d been all morning. “Yes, I would. What is it, this new place?” Her smile was blinding as she mounted her chestnut in a swift leap and twist, a womanly movement doubly graceful and startling to his eyes: no maiden born or bred of his City could have duplicated the feat.

“No more than a little dale, with a spring.” Faramir was certain the flowers would be in bloom by now and did not speak of them, keeping his secret. Her face…so happy, so delighted…that I could make it so every minute! He remembered the pale, unhappy maiden who’d first come to speak to him and glanced sideways, pride rising in his chest. I have so far healed, so far coaxed warmth.

Riding across the low, rolling hills of Ithilien’s high ground, she kept to his side. Éowyn piqued his curiosity, occasionally glancing sideways, scrutinizing him in odd little looks that he could not decipher; riding one-handed took too much of his attention to try and ascertain her mood. What is it…? He smiled and she returned it, but her eyes held some solemnity now. What is it…? Perhaps, if he plied her with tales of his country, with wine and good food and warm sun, she might relax her guard and spill her distressing secret. I can only try…Faramir smiled across at her again, receiving the same smile in return, the same guarded shadow. I must try.

Loping down into the vale’s narrow mouth, he pulled up his mount with an effort and turned in the saddle, dropping his reins to brace himself with his good hand. Éowyn’s eyes met his in curiosity, then swept around him and widened in appreciation as her horse jogged slowly forward into the thick carpet of flowers: mostly white and yellow, some scattered red or orange, tiny blue. When they met his once more, her hands turning her gelding in a slow circle, they were full of delight. “It’s…so beautiful.” For some reason her voice faltered and softened with a peculiar sadness.

“Yes.” He tried to recapture her fleeting exultation. “I found this place long ago, it’s a favorite of mine.” A shadow touched his heart, looking to the dale and seeing Boromir and himself released for a day. He smiled faintly, hearing the clack of wooden swords, their cries as his brother indulged him with games of warriors.

Éowyn followed him into the small dale, no more than a deep dip between hills, riding at his side again. Her hair hid her face in a golden curtain that shifted with each movement. “Your country is very lovely, Faramir.”

Your, not our…Faramir tried not to be affected by her distance. It is early yet, you push too hard! But he desired her, yearned for his dream and it burned his heart. Are we not plighted, is mine not yours? Before he could answer, she continued,

“It reminds me of my own.” Éowyn did not speak again as they found the little knob of a hill that he remembered and dismounted, the guards doing likewise to present his basket and their cloaks before remounting and riding a short distance away, taking up self-assigned posts to the east, the west. Faramir noted that she watched them ride up to the green ridges that edged the little dale.

“Sit, please.” He found a smile, attempting to enliven her unexpected gravity, “Allow me to wait upon you.”

“If you wish.” Her gaze stuttered away as she seated herself gingerly upon his spread cloak, its worn wool ragged and threadbare in places. The grass was thick as a carpet, uncountable tender shoots in shades of jade, beryl, emerald, jewels pulled into strands, plaited and charmed into wonderful, fragrant softness. As he kneeled on his own frayed mantle and began setting out the wrapped dainties, she relaxed, leaning on one arm, then eventually lying on her back and stretching. Éowyn sighed and tangled her fingers in the thick, lush lawn with obvious pleasure, unable to resist the indulgence.

Faramir set out the wine, cups and a pair of knives and glanced at her. Her smile was warm, just peeking from under her arm. “You are very good.”

“No.” He felt himself lose a bit of his tension; she’d relaxed and appeared rather pleased. Faramir held up his bound hand for emphasis, smiling. “You did not have to treat me, the least I could repay is a small, humble meal in my plain country.”

“I like to treat you…I like…knowing what to do, to ease pain and heal, to do something.” He basked in the kindness of her admittance. “Plain.” She sighed and stretched further, sliding down, flattening her flat body to the earth. “It is beautiful like the Mark in spring, the Westfold, all rolling hills of flowers that slope to the river then to Wold where it is flat, so flat and the grass grows taller than a man stands…” Éowyn’s fingers tangled in the grass again, murmuring in a pensive voice. “I could close my eyes and be home.” Her chestnut snuffled in the distance and she smiled widely. “I could be home.”

“We call it the Mark.” Éowyn took a deep breath, staring upwards to the blue sky. “Yes.” The smile faded and she swallowed audibly. “Wouldn’t you miss your home if you were not in it, had not for weeks?”

“Yes, of course.” He longed to tell her that this was her country, that she had but to ask and he would give. If you would but yield your painful secret, let me to soothe, only stand at my side and smile… Faramir began unwrapping the food he’d brought from its covering of clean linen, arranging the meal between them in a pleasing order: thin cuts of cheeses, fresh bread still warm from the morning’s oven, salted meat, a tin of warm pottage, more delicate offerings: candied fruits, sweetmeats, honey-smeared bread with jams and a pat of butter. She’d not said more and he added gently, “I have spent a great deal of time within sight of my City yet unable to return to it because of my Lord’s orders.”

He sighed and set out the last of it: cloth napkins, two dishes. “Yes.” Faramir watched her mouth pinch, her throat move and her brow crease; she looked terribly vulnerable and he stretched out his able hand to touch her arm, to comfort…

Unexpectedly she sat up on her elbow and took in the spread, seeming to make an effort to shake off her melancholy state. “What is all this?”

Withdrawing, he smiled quietly. Under her clear enjoyment of the day, the ride and the things he’d shown her, there seemed to lie a great and distraught sort of hesitation, though he knew not what or why. Be happy…for me… “Our picnic.”

Her gaze moved from item to item before meeting his, a crease forming again on her brow, this time the more natural crease of subdued merriment. Faramir did not quite understand her amusement when she laughed at him, rolling onto her belly. “For a Lord!” Éowyn’s eyes sparkled so that he felt a bit of embarrassment and he admitted,

His love was smiling, the distance and sorrow having fled from her face. “Yes.”

“But there is no reason we should sup like beggars.” Faramir smiled and acknowledged, “In Henneth Annûn, a cave my Rangers frequent even larger and more beautiful than the one I just showed you, we have table and linens that would not be out of place in a Hall, fine cups and utensils… I think it makes the pleasure of a meal greater.” He frowned, “I might fight in hiding and wage war only when my enemy is weak in comparison to my forces, but I shall not eat or sit my table like a ruffian.” He sighed, “I cannot explain.”

“As you like, my Lord.” A frown began to rise before he realized the title was no more than a jest. Éowyn smiled and sat up, crossing her slim legs to take a bit of cheese. For a while they did not speak, but ate in silence, the guards within sight, occasionally trotting about the area in a wide sweep, making sure that none would come upon them unwittingly. Éowyn had lain back again, propping herself up on her elbows and was nibbling at a sliver of salted meat. Faramir watched her and remarked,

“No more or less than other Ladies I’ve seen in your City.” Her glance held a hint of defensiveness.

Does she think I compare her to them and find fault? Faramir was disturbed by the guarded shadow that he could see in her face and perceive within his limited sense of her mind. “Would you not help me finish?” He gestured to the wide spread of foodstuffs, pretending ignorance to her mood.

Éowyn eyed him carefully, then nodded, drinking from her cup and plucking up a sweetmeat with quick fingers. “Aye, if you want help.”

“I do.” Again they ate in silence, but this silence seemed more comfortable. She returned his warmly smiling glances, sometimes looking away with shyness and ducking her head so that her long, golden hair fell across her face and hid her from him. She tossed it back in a smooth gesture, licking fingers messed with butter and jam, smiling at him whenever she acknowledged his stare. Éowyn seemed to like his looks, her mouth pressed firm to withhold laughter, finally giggling under her breath and turning away to their guards who still maintained their posts with no sign of impatience.

“Aye, the Guards are well-trained, the highest of our servicemen save those who stand before the Tree or Elessar.” He spared them a glance, uninterested in any but the woman before him.

“No, they would not think to do so.” She’d noted his stare again and flushed. Faramir smiled.

Éowyn compressed her lips, twisting them in an effort not to laugh. “What?”

Her control broke; laughing and slapping her thigh, she asked again, “What?”

Faramir was captivated by the shy pleasure he could tell she took in their banter, his admiring glances. At the moment her sadness seemed very far away. Leaning forward, he handed her a bit of honey-covered bread. “Here, I cannot have more.”

He laughed, surprised by the jest, feeling her fingers brush his as she delicately took the sweetly laden bread. “Yes, yes.”

Faramir carefully replied in an equally light voice. “It could use some honey-bread.”

Curiously, she looked at him and her free hand self-consciously touched her thighs, rubbing them in a pretense of smoothing her trousers. “Could it?” Éowyn ate the piece in several slow bites, savoring them.

“Aye.” He lifted another slice thickly coated with golden honey, bits of comb floating in the rich covering of sweetness. “More?” Faramir warned, “It will go to waste.”

“All right.” Gingerly, she took the thing and bit into it. “Mm…too much!” Honey dripped down her chin, her cheeks. Éowyn giggled, catching golden drops with her fingers, her hands attempting to hold the sagging bread. “Help me!” On impulse, Faramir leaned over and kissed her lightly, tasting the sweetness of honey. First withdrawing some in astonishment, Éowyn smiled in an encouraging fashion, the honey pooling on her palms as she laughed and desperately cupped the slice of bread. “That is not help! I meant…” Her words dissolved into lighthearted giggles, an utterly delightful sound. “A…cloth!”

With a great laugh, he kissed her again more zealously, feeling the stickiness of her mouth, tasting the honey that lay on her tongue; she tasted like he imagined a flower would to a bee and he tried to kiss deeper, fascinated by her sweetness. She laughed at once and pushed his chest to leave a tacky smear, her smile becoming brighter than it had been since the cave’s fairy kingdom. Éowyn gulped wine and laughed again. “Now a cloth?”

After a few swallows, dabbing at her sticky cheeks and fingers with a napkin he provided, she smiled faintly and cleared her throat. “Here…” Her gaze became very shy. “I think…” Setting her cup aside, she simply looked at him, waiting.

This was a good idea…leaning on his able hand, he met her to share a few brief kisses.

It was not long before they’d finished the meal and Éowyn groaned as she stood. “So much…” She hugged her slim waist and moaned, “You are trying to fatten me!”

It would take more than that meal… He laughed and scolded, “Come, quickly, it is already past midday.” The guards had noted their rising and now rode down to them, untying their mounts and retrieving the cloaks, the basket without prompting. Faramir nodded to his Captain in silent recognition of his service and observed Beregond’s quiet pleasure. Elessar was a wise Lord, indeed.

His love swung into her saddle and sighed, leaning low over the chestnut’s withers and hugging his neck. “Where now in this lovely land, Faramir?”

“There is another place near, then back to the City, I suppose…” He mounted with care, his hand just beginning to pain him again. “Will you eat with me again, Éowyn, please?” Faramir could not help adding the supplication. He’d missed her the night before, feeling the empty place at his side like he’d never earlier.

The guards mounted again and they began at a walk to crest the hills about the dale, Faramir looking about himself to find the way. Purposely, for he could not read her thoughts and would never learn them if he did not question her, he asked, “Do you not enjoy it?”

“I don’t know…it is…your folk, Aragorn, you’re all very kind…” She frowned anxiously. “It is…so different.” Éowyn finished lamely, looking down and away. “I miss Meduseld.”

She smiled a little, the grief resurfacing in her pale eyes, her features and her mind, puzzling him. “I will come.”

“And…” He hesitated, then plunged, “If I beg, will you wear something…that you would not, in your lands? Something richer,” He smiled ingratiatingly, “A gown, jewels more deserving of a Lady such as yourself?”

Faramir tried to explain in as light-hearted a fashion as he could, smiling, “You deserve them, my Lady brave and beautiful. I would see you in them on this night at least.” At her frown, he hastily added, “It is only to please me, to humor my fancy, I would not command you or be disappointed.”

“You would be.” Her jaw had tightened, her body tensing as he asked these things of her.

“I do not wish to disappoint as I did before.” Her voice and bearing were stiff, cutting him, but she nodded and agreed again, smoothly, coolly saying, “I will do as you wish.”

Faramir winced; his gratitude sounded terribly hollow and trite in the face of her restrained displeasure. “Thank you.”

What do you want from me? Éowyn snuck looks at him as they rode, increasing to a lope over the green hills. The land was just as beautiful as it had been earlier with grass thick and high, the sky above a deep shade of blue mottled only with white clouds. As they went, the horses raced through patches of flowers, passing thickets of lithe trees and pale stone outcroppings that rose and fell on the sides of hills and steeper inclines; tiny rills were bubbling and chuckling here and there, running down hills and around banks, waiting to be splashed through. Ithilien seemed full of little streams and rivers; its many foothills sloped down and hid open dingles and leafy copses. Climbing high, she could spot gorges in the distance, multihued with pale rock and dark hollows, the prelude to caverns or shallow grottos. Éowyn wondered if they cut rock from those places to use in the City…if they would cut rock from them to build Faramir’s house. What would be my house, if I let it…she bowed her head, uncertain. I like him very much, he is all and more any could ask…oh, would it be enough or would I lament forever my ending in this South country…?

My brother, my folk…tears rose and she suppressed them as Faramir led her, following a muddy little brook, its pure waters rushing and leaping eagerly, the pale outlines of fish visible even from the saddle; soon, the brook turned and vanished, but she could still hear it. His country was rich, fertile and likely full of game with all the shelter of trees and water shielded by glens, its long hills perfect for the growth of crops or the grazing of stock. It held rock quarries for the settling of men in rich houses, sod could be cut to house farmers, herders, wood to warm and aid them; there was plenty here for his reign to flourish in the command and tax of those men. She sighed. He is a good man, gentle, rich and soon to be richer, noble of blood with fair lands and a fair manner…what does he want in me? Éowyn could not fathom his desire. Were there no other women of high blood in his City that he had to deign to wed her, a Shieldmaiden of another land, a bride of no practical use save that of producing heirs and assuring alliance? She stared at his broad back, the dark wing of his hair swinging with the strides of his horse. What do you want…dear Faramir? I cannot give much and you ask too much, too much, too swiftly. Dropping her eyes, she wished to scream or weep, anything to break the tension in her bones. I would have you, but not your City, your country, but not your folk…

“Careful…there is a fissure here.” He slowed their pace to a walk and after a moment she could see the deep, dark crack in the earth, partially covered with tall grass, craggy moss hanging from the raw stone. Éowyn peered down it, but could see no end to its depths and she shivered. Ithilien was clearly just as full of caves and chasms as it was running water and trees. Faramir looked with her and remarked, “I do not know where that one goes.” He twisted in the saddle and she followed his gaze as it moved from hill to hill as though his grey eyes could see through the grass and earth to the bones of the world and follow the thin cleft to its end.

He answered absently, like reciting some long learned lesson. “The caves and crevasses were searched and mapped under command of Túrin the II, a Steward many years ago.”

“The largest recesses were marked and made known, the lesser were forgotten for the most part, too small to hide a man or company of Rangers.” Faramir glanced at her, eyes bright, his voice airy now with enthusiasm. Éowyn smiled bittersweetly; of course her Prince was thrilled that she took an interest. “He wished to hold the land, but knew that it was vulnerable being so close to the Dark Lord’s domain. Folk used to live here then, long ago and it was a fair country with a great City even more grand than Minas Tirith. That City, Minas Ithil, I would fear to tread its road and streets even now with the death of all foul things…” He fell silent and she became aware that the guards were listening and had become grave and pale. Faramir continued, “The Steward was wise and came to the idea of fighting the coming darkness with small forces and cunning rather than bold assaults. It is how I fought, how I was taught: to lie low and strike with care and suffer the least amount of risk to my company.”

She nodded and he added, “I spoke of Henneth Annûn, the greatest of our hidden sanctuaries; there are many others in the North where it is hilly and the land is riddled with caverns, very few in the South where it is bare and runs to marsh and naked rock.”

Though she had limited knowledge of the South’s geography, this foul, barren land was burned into her and Éowyn spoke the name that, till the Pelennor, had been the sole bane of her house. “Emyn Muil.”

“Yes.” He must have heard the tone of mixed resentment and grief in her voice, but did not question. Instead, after a few moments, Faramir smiled. “I would show you Henneth Annûn if I had the time…” He chuckled softly, “It is secret, known to our Rangers alone and kept so under pain of death, but I doubt that would matter any longer. There is nothing to secret it from and the waterfall is magnificent at sunset and in the moonlight.” He sighed as though it were very beautiful indeed.

Éowyn just nodded again and they rode in silence for a while, only broken by the breathing of their mounts, the creak of leather and thudding of hooves. As they left the ridge of hills and jogged down into another short gully, she sat up, curious. The sides of this dale were steeper, cut by pale rock and dirt; it ended rather abruptly, curving into a small basin. Éowyn gasped, enchanted by the view before her. At the end of the small ravine was a high, rocky ledge and under that, a pool that shimmered under the sun. It was fed by a waterfall that, while no higher or much wider than a man, still managed to splash and mist prettily. About the narrow cascade were carpets of rich green moss that clung to black, wet rocks; farther out were multitudes of flowers in many hues that stuck up above thickly interlaced patches of soft grass. “Oh…”

Faramir was beaming at her. “I like this place as well. Good for fishing,” He winked, “And to bathe under the fall.”

Éowyn laughed as they drew to a halt by the pool and looked about herself in pleasure. It was so green, so lush! She inhaled deeply, savoring the green smell of growth and spring after so long in the City. Laughing, spirits buoyed, she cried, “Are there many little places like this all over your land, wonders hidden to reward a bold traveler?”

“Aye.” He glowed, “I would show you them if I had but time,” Faramir’s smile turned more wry, “And permission.”

Not even the reminder of her brother’s foolishness could stop her from smiling. Éowyn dismounted and walked closer to the pool, then, feeling the thick carpet of moss and grasses under her boots, could not resist unlacing and stepping out of them. When she glanced to Faramir, he only laughed and waved her on, so clumsily standing in a one-handed attempt to unlace his own that she felt pity and went back to him. “Here, or I’ll have to do more than give you a draught!”

He grinned close to her face, lifting one foot to her thigh so that she could swiftly free him, arms out and keeping his balance. “That is no incentive.”

Éowyn laughed loudly in merriment and surprised herself. Faramir smiled in silent welcome, such warmth that she glanced away, unable to meet his deep devotion.

“Lady, allow me to attend to my Lord.” Beregond had come, leaving the last guard to hold their mounts. He took her task, swiftly finishing it. Faramir looked mildly embarrassed, thanking his man with a glance to her that spoke that he would have rather her finish, as he could not tease his guard. Éowyn laughed and walked ahead, soon giving in again to her impulses and dashing barefoot through the moss and grasses, relishing the sensation. How long had she walked on stone or dry, rustling straw, whether in the City or in Meduseld? How long since she’d gone barefoot, not worrying about having to run or battle, to relish the childlike defenselessness of bare feet?

“What?” She spun, turning her face up to the sky. She’d not been so blissful in so long, returned to childlike delight with the feel of cool grass under her feet, warm earth, the sun on her shoulders. Despite her uncertainty about this man and this joining, her guilt in what she felt she must do, her heart lifted and soared. Éowyn laughed and jested, “I thought you would be swifter with those long legs, my Lord!”

“They are already weary.” He moved to her side, keeping pace with her as she neared the water. “I have not ridden so much in a long while.”

Strange folk! Éowyn shook her head. The waterfall had a fuzzy rainbow above it, shining and flickering as the water danced. She smiled happily, “This…your country…”

Faramir seemed to accept her refusal, gesturing, “Walk with me, we can pass under the falls, there is a path.”

“Can we?” She followed him over the slick pebbles and small boulders, sliding as her toes squelched in mud and ached to grip the rocks. More than once she had to grab his arm, laughing as he listed with her new weight before bearing her up easily. Her Prince was stronger than his lank frame would suggest, unexpected as she’d not thought he would be so puissant; he looked to bear no more muscle or girth than a lad of her folk did. Éowyn reached down to roll up her trousers to her knees and frowned. Would he think her immodest? Her eyes fell upon her muddy feet and she laughed. It is too late, I fear.

“Aye!” They were close and she had to talk louder over the rush and tumble of water. The spray chilled her skin and made her clothes cling damply. It felt good in the warmth of the day. Droplets clung to Faramir’s cheeks and dark eyelashes as he grinned at her, long legs slipping and jerking as he made his way off the slick, mossy rocks and to a sandy path, drawing nearer and nearer to the fall. Éowyn gazed at him, awed; the delicate vapors that arose from the splashing water glossed his hair, making it shine like a raven’s wing, and gleamed off his skin, his surcoat, running in tiny drops off of the sable leather. As he approached the cascade, a fine mist rose about him so that he seemed an apparition and not truly real, her good Prince. She smiled and followed with care, eyes widened in wonderment; nothing like this was in her lands. Beautiful…she did not mean the fall. He waited at the edge, wet hand extended, grinning as she took it. Faramir was very, very handsome. Éowyn found she could not turn away.

“Look!” They’d come behind the waterfall, ducking into a small craggy grotto filled with moss and ferns, just large enough for both, their bodies pressed close in a cool, dim space made riotous with foliage. Before her, Éowyn could not even extend her arm without it being engulfed in falling water, so close was the fall. Faramir had to bend a little, hunching his shoulders; he was really too tall to fit comfortably under the little rushing cascade. She could see through the water, but barely, a view that twisted and wavered, green and blue and white, shimmering, brilliant. Wherever it was still there was a thin, shadowy reflection of herself and Faramir.

“It’s so…” Dazzled, she turned to smile at him and, already bent, he kissed her, lips wet and cool at first, the fine spray lying upon them still more thickly as they stood, dampening their hair, their clothing, their skin. His eyes were full of love in that moment, love undeniable and she swallowed hard, a hot lump growing in her throat, a tightness in her chest. He loves me…it was not mere fancy, nor passing infatuation, but deep attachment; his heart would break if she tried to leave him. Oh, but I must ask…must beg him reconsider…

His wet hand touched her cheek and she lifted for his next kiss, enjoying its light press, the way his lips were cool, then warming with the heat of his flesh and blood. I must, because he is too kind. Éowyn smiled weakly and let him think the wetness on her face was mere drizzle from the fall. “I like…” Éowyn laughed and surrendered, “I love this…it is beautiful, wonderful.” She peered through the mirror-like fall again, seeing darker streaks of their guards, horses, then a pale, shimmering reflection of herself. “There is nothing like this in the Mark…we have less water, I think.” Éowyn reached out and felt the spray enfold her fingertips, her palm, then with a shock, she took the incredible force of the falling water; the cascade appeared weak, but it bowed her arms downwards without effort. Tasting the water that lay in the cup of her palm and finding it deliciously cool and pure, she laughed and flapped her dripping hand to shake some of the moisture free.

“Is that so?” Faramir looked pleased, smiling contentedly as he watched her.

Nodding, “Yes!”, she stuck out her hand again, then both, laughing and feeling a delightful thrill of joy in the foreign sensation of water bowing her down, her arms aching as she withdrew them. Éowyn stared at the fall, experiencing an intense desire to throw herself under it, to feel it beating down and then leap into the pool that gleamed and roiled before her.

He smiled, “I found this long ago when I was expected to roam and learn the lands in ways no map could teach. The path was already here, whether for shelter from passing foes or lovers, I do not know.”

Éowyn turned, feeling his arm pressed to her side, his long legs brushing hers. Faramir chuckled and clasped her waist, pulling them even closer. His bent head nearly touched hers, looking out through the water, then back to smile softly, intimately as he murmured. “I’d none to share it with save you…”

His body pressed hers, their faces close in the little grotto. Éowyn swallowed, torn between enjoyment and new nervousness, both emotions rising equally within. “No Ladies?”

His teasing eyes lowered to her rolled up trousers, her muddied and bared feet. Éowyn flushed, relaxing as he laughed and shook his head. “No, no Ladies.” Faramir teased, whispering into her ear, “Still none, I suspect…and I am quite glad.”

“Aye, it is.” He squeezed her waist. As she smiled, his eyes softened and he took another kiss. Faramir’s expression was tender enough to make her glance away, too guilty and unsure to meet his warmth and clear love. “Come, before we are sodden and catch chill, I’ll not have the Master of the Houses angered at me.” Her Prince held her hand as he led her out the other side of the fall and back under the sun. There Éowyn stopped, moving away to stand with her feet in the cool, whirling water and wish that she could strip and swim in the pool, to wash away her fears and anxieties in the pure waters of this foreign land. Her desire must have shown, for he smiled and gestured. “I promise I would not look upon you…” Faramir laughed boyishly, just as lighthearted as she in this place, and ended in a playfully fiendish growl, “Much.”

Éowyn felt her face heat as his gaze rested upon her, all the while smiling gaily in his jest. Harmless, my Prince. Licking her lips, she pursed them and answered primly. “No thank you.”

Faramir burst into laughter and she turned away, admiring the little canyon to hide the fact that she was embarrassed by his cheeky ease. “If that is what you wish.” His grey eyes were on her again, appreciating, warmly pleased by what he saw in her form, her face. Éowyn tried to use the moment to become used to the knowledge that she enjoyed his look and the admiration within it, so welcome. Ithilien was too bright and beautiful. This good man belongs here…she beamed up at him, affection growing.

“Sit with me?” He gestured to a large pad of moss that grew on a rock near enough to the water’s edge that she could dip her feet or fingers into the pool. She did and with pleasure, slipping her toes into the water and splashing lazily, the moss softer than cushions beneath her. Faramir dropped carefully, sitting an arm’s length away; Éowyn watched him decide how far, glancing at her and measuring the distance of her possible fright, of his own sense of decency.

They were alone; their guards had tied the horses and were once more on their self-appointed courses, leaving them be. Éowyn left her feet in the water and lay back, looking at him from her inverted perspective: Faramir was upside down. He smiled bashfully, “Do you…truly like it here in Ithilien?”

“Yes.” She moved her feet, feeling water droplets slide along her skin, splash up her shins. It was so nice, cold like the Snowbourn and with no current. Éowyn closed her eyes and felt her heart ache.

“Good, I’m glad.” He did not speak for a few minutes, their silence filled with the sound of falling water, of birdsong that she just now noticed, the thudding hooves of their guards’ horses as the men moved.

“It is…” Éowyn sighed from the very depths of her being, her detachment breaking as she moaned, “Oh, I love this land.” Behind her, upside down, he was smiling broadly now. “It is so peaceful, so beautiful, so beautiful…” Running her fingers over the soft, springy moss, she laughed.

“It does seem more beautiful this year…” Faramir teased her with a fond smile, “Perhaps my land knows it finally has a Lady that matches its fairness.”

“Yes.” He was firm enough to silence her. She sighed and said no more, closing her eyes. Faramir began to speak, his voice low and deep, telling her about his land and the history of it, about Minas Ithil and men who had been as Kings and Lords and fought and died in honor. His words moved over Ages, rolling and gentle as the waters that lapped her ankles and she stretched out her hands, reaching, fingertips accidentally touching his leg, his knee. He stopped as she curled her hands, withdrawing them a fraction.

Éowyn felt a small thud and peered through her lashes—he’d laid beside her, not quite an arm’s length away now, propped upon his elbow. Faramir smiled and, drowsy with the warm sun, she returned it, whispering, “Go on…I want to hear…”

He did, speaking with obvious pleasure, and her mind filled with the shine of silver and sable, of banners and horses and men, of the laying of stone to stone, the singing of bows and clash of swords. He talked of the City she knew and the other she didn’t, the White Tree, the lands about Minas Tirith that had been mostly abandoned for generations of men and how they would grow to look under the reign of Elessar. It seemed he knew much, and when she said so, he told of reading countless tomes, of seeing pictures drawn with scribes’ hands in the margins, colored in rich greens of growing crops, browns of fertile soils, golds of full harvests. Those pictures had shown great, courtly kingdoms kept so by happy, healthy common folk and ruled over by magnificent and charitable Lords; he sighed and murmured softly that he would have it again, making her throat ache with his merit, his goodness.

“The book in your room, the great big one, in the elven tongue…” She smiled, “I opened it but I could not read it.”

Éowyn remembered the pictures within it so exquisitely rendered, so mysterious. Nodding, she replied. “I wish that very much.”

He took a breath, “If it pleases you, I could teach you some of the elven language…my folk use it often in the Houses or in the Tower.” She could hear his slight nervousness, “In weddings.” Faramir paused, “You might understand our ways better if you could understand the words…”

She compressed her lips and nodded tinily, thinking of the many, many drawers and containers in the Houses labeled with the incomprehensible elven scritches and scratches. “Yes.”

Faramir wavered, drawing in a breath; he asked in a very soft, very earnest tone, “Will you help me, my Lady, to make my country as great as it once was? You know of things I do not…you showed me the day before and I would love your aid.” He exhaled and vowed, smiling fervently, “It is your land, too, my love, your will shall be followed as mine.”

Her throat constricted, eyes squeezing shut; Éowyn could not say yes and then beg freedom, could not say no and see or hear the hurt in his face, his voice, his heart. I do not want to…I must…she had the horrible feeling that she’d gone too far already. When she opened her eyes again and met his, the warmth in them confirmed it: she had gone too far, traipsed into his country, his heart. I cannot…she might be cold, but she was not cruel. I have pledged, I shall hold. Éowyn nodded and smiled faintly, feeling her chest compressing with icy, queasy nerves…what path am I treading?

But in response to her subtle affirmation his face lit up, handsome features repelling their lightened mask of bruises, ablaze now with joy, his grin confirming her thoughts. Faramir or naught…I have pledged the man, the title of Lady… She smiled weakly, trying to concentrate on the pleasure he gave, to breathe past her shriveled lungs, “Yes, I shall.” My brother, my brother, my brother…my land!

“Thank you…I thank you, my Lady…” He laughed softly, happy creases coming to his mouth, “My folk shall know your deeds and thank you as well.”

Her hands tightened, nails digging into the warm soil. Éowyn tried not to sound as faint as she felt. “You are too good…” She just barely curtailed the formality, instinctively feeling the need for distance.

Faramir smiled brilliantly, nearly radiating his happiness. He scooted nearer to her, grass flattening, fragrant and bruised under his weight, leaning on his good arm still. His broken hand carefully lay on the earth between them. Éowyn took her feet from the water, letting them lie chill on the ground and watched him. Under her skin, her muscles twitched and fidgeted. His gaze lowered to her hair that lay spread in a wide, flaxen swath under and around her head, murmuring, “I would put flowers in your hair…gold on your hands, your throat, wrap you in silks…” She felt herself tense and glanced away. He must have noticed. “Why would you not want them?”

Faramir was silent for a long while, and then began speaking again of his country. Éowyn closed her eyes, feeling like she’d disappointed. If it contents him…she sighed and listened, letting herself float on his gentle voice.

She’d gone to sleep again, looking much like Lúthien to his admittedly besotted eye. Faramir sat up carefully, freeing his able hand to touch the strands of hair that lay loose upon the grass. He looked at her for a long time, studying her features, noting the slight difference of theirs to most women in the City. He marveled at her pale eyelashes and brows, raising his hand to stroke her hair with feather light touches. My love…he felt protective warmth rise. Faramir carefully slipped some of her flaxen mane aside to expose her neck, marked in places from his mouth, her delicate ears, the soft hollows and lines of her collarbone and the tender flesh of her throat. Beautiful…he’d never had the privilege of gazing at her for so long without interruption and his eyes wandered greedily.

As he sighed, Éowyn’s eyes opened and she inhaled sharply, half-rising. She blinked a few times before he sensed her relaxation and subsequent embarrassment. Her cheeks darkened and her hand fell to playing with the grass. Heart aching, for she jumped at his nearness still, he pretended ease, “Shall we return?”

The return was swift, Beregond galloping ahead to summon the ship. Faramir was captivated once more by their brief stay aboard its decks; the horses and his love both withstood the ordeal far better, Éowyn even coming with him to gaze over the side to the River far below. But despite this, he felt…downcast, his heart low with rejection.

She does not feel safe with me…he snuck glances at her as they jogged their horses through the Walls again. “You will wish to refresh yourself…” It was not yet sunset, merely afternoon.

Faramir found he had no desire yet to return to his quarters, to bathe and ready himself for a meal before Court. He made a swift decision. “Beregond will go with you…” She had no maidens, he realized suddenly. Would she accept some? Where would he find suitable women for her? The younger women he’d found and corralled had seemed eager to serve… He looked at her, but had no energy to begin to put forth the idea.

Éowyn’s brow had creased, as did that of his Captain, though his Captain’s smoothed at once. Faramir managed a smile, a light tone to encourage them both. “He is my best servant. And what is mine is yours my Lady, though we are but trothed. Call upon him for your needs.”

“If you wish.” Clearly ill at ease, Éowyn glanced to Beregond, who bowed to her.

His voice was curt with his weariness, his utter disappointment. “Till the meal, Éowyn.” He turned from them as they dismounted, nudging his mount into a quick walk, as though he were a man who had many tasks in mind. But he had none and so Faramir trotted his horse between the Walls again and then halted there, simply looking over the Pelennor, Ithilien, letting his gaze fall upon all that could be seen.

Umin hanya, vanimelda. Umin hanya… (Q)— I don’t understand, my beloved. I don’t understand…

My apologies for not updating Chapter 75, as I know it is the one all would rather have. This was closer to finished and I have had less time to work on both. Also, I wanted to assure you that I was still alive. :)

Faramir moved slowly through the trees, muffling his footsteps with the Ranger knowledge he’d learned over the years, now so ingrained it was virtually instinctual. Ghostly, even in the sunny afternoon, he was a shadow, moving with the wind, waiting for the slight sways of the branches. He felt oddly naked without his bow, but he kept moving, stepping around tree roots and flowers, barely disturbing the foliage. Boots pressing the green growth to the earth, lightly holding his position, checking his prey for any signs of jumpiness, he stepped on, closing in with each vigilantly controlled stride. Passing through the gardens, he felt himself drain out, the familiar, welcomed sensation of pure tranquility as all the fear, anxiety and pain of before disappeared into the soft air. Stopping in the shadow of a pine, his mind gently focused on the hobbits’, well aware of their location. Careful, Faramir reminded himself nervously, and probed just a little bit deeper for their thoughts. It was easy; hobbits’ minds were unguarded and receptive. He wondered with envy, what kind of land do they live in to be so open-minded and unafraid?

Merry was thinking, his hands anxiously digging into the dirt, “Oh, no…he’s gonna get us.” He squealed mentally, but was outwardly silent.

From Pippin’s mind he gathered, “I bet I can get away, Merry’s slower, Gandalf’ll get him for sure.” The younger hobbit made the bushes rustle as he fidgeted, readying to bolt, startling himself into stillness. They were looking at the wizard, who was approaching them directly, staff raised. Faramir inched closer, knowing he was unseen.

“Meriadoc Brandybuck! Peregrin Took! Get out of those bushes!” He bellowed, raising his staff to slam it on the ground. There was no response. Faramir moved, slipping around the trees, his good hand trailing on the rough bark, silently commanding/asking the small woods around him to not remark upon his passage. The afternoon, the bright sun just beginning its slanting, dimming descent through the undergrowth, grew more and more quiet. Birds settled their feathers, snakes flicked their tongues, and mice twitched, eyes wide, all watching the man slip through their domain. Here he was but a lowly servant, clumsy, loud and foolish; while they, the bird, the mouse, the snake--they were the ruling monarchs of this green little thicket in King Elessar’s garden. A king snake froze in his path, black scales gleaming, ocher eyes watching him and Faramir carefully gave it room even though it was harmless. There was the slight fluttering of an observing bird, but obedient to his wishes and placated by his courtesy, none spoke or made any movements. I thank thee verily, Faramir thought, projecting the ritual response to the earth, sky, plants, and animals around him. There was, as always, the warm, vague answer that comforted and gave him confidence—Go on, man of the south people. With their permission, he slipped forward in the calm silence, both his hands twitching, the left rather painfully, feeling empty without his bow. The only loud thing now was Gandalf. “Do not make me come in and get you!” He growled, shaking his staff. There was a tiny yelp of fear.

Pippin, Faramir thought; he was now close enough that a leap would catch them. He held still, listening, blending in as the trees extended their shadows for him to veil himself in. I thank thee verily, may thee live long with bright sun and cool rain. He watched as Gandalf moved forward, crouching and energetically poking the bushes. Faramir tried not to laugh; he felt surprisingly good, centered and calmed as he crept through the woods. There were sudden cries as the staff connected with plump flesh and two hobbits hurled themselves out of the bushes and ran for the arch to the Citadel, dirty bare feet pelting the grass. Effortlessly extending himself into a sprint, Faramir lunged forward from his hidden spot, his fingers catching Merry’s collar. He snatched him up and back as Merry yelped in shock; obviously, he hadn’t even known Faramir was there. Using one hand, he held the older hobbit tight, grip firm on his shirt even though he twisted desperately, bucking. Pippin dodged impressively, arms pumping, head down, but didn’t make it. Gandalf, moving with surprising speed, tripped him up with his staff. The younger hobbit fell to the ground with a whoompf! and Merry gave up, going limp against Faramir’s leg.

“That was easy.” Faramir remarked. Merry scowled up at him, dirt smeared across his face. He wondered why Éowyn and the hobbits were so dirty and resolved to ask her.

“Always is with hobbits.” Gandalf chuckled and prodded the surly Pippin with his staff. “Up, lad. You have work to do.” Pippin scowled and Gandalf raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t think you’d get away with it did you? As if, after stealing him, I’d let you put Shadowfax away without so much as cleaning off all that mud you let him roll in?”

“Let him?” Pippin snorted, standing up. He didn’t bother to brush himself off, and Faramir, eyeing the remarkable amount of dirt on the hobbit, had to agree with that decision.

Gandalf glowered. “If you’re lucky I’ll give you a curry you insolent little thing.” He smacked Pippin’s shin with the staff, jabbing the hobbit into line.

“I thought you’d left.” Merry was staring up at him wide-eyed as Faramir tugged him over to Gandalf. “I saw you walk out. How’d you get back in?”

“It was magic.” He smiled wanly, not entirely over his incident with Éomer, but much better after tracking the hobbits.

“Ah, Meriadoc.” Gandalf said. “You can aid your cousin in,” Merry made a face of horrified disgust that Faramir felt was a bit over the top, “cleaning him.”

“But…” Pippin wailed in protest. “He’s so big, it’ll take ages! We’re too small!”

“I want that horse to shine, Peregrin. I don’t care how long it takes you.”

“But…” Merry opened his mouth. Gandalf glared at him and he wisely shut it.

“You took him out, you clean him up. Thank you, Faramir, for your assistance.”

Faramir smiled as the wizard herded the two hobbits away and began to wonder how long it would be before Éowyn would come. She’d said an hour, so he walked back into the wood, forming a purpose to kill the remaining time. The cooling shadows comforted him, soothing his troubled thoughts. He’d loved learning the Ranger craft—stealth and the merging of man and earth. Coming to the very middle of the thicket, he sank to the ground, resting against the base of an oak. The tree was welcoming, curious as Faramir settled his back to its trunk.

Control, Faramir thought, leaning back against the rough bark, find the center. This was a trick, a centering exercise that he’d been taught long ago to clear his mind. Closing his eyes, Faramir stretched out his legs, resting his hands on his lap. He breathed slowly, in and out, trying to hear his heartbeat. There, he found it, the firm thumping of muscle rising to his attention. Body relaxing, he focused on the sound, and then began to concentrate on steadying his pulse; this took skill and practice, it was several minutes before he could succeed in gradually slowing it further, monitoring the beat. He floated in his mind, trying not to think. Only when he was completely centered would he try and relive Éomer’s memory. Faramir wished to see it again; he felt there was something important about it, to make the man remember it so vividly.

He lost track of time, utterly relaxed and balanced, until a new sound brought him back up through the subtle, delicate levels of his consciousness. A breeze cooled his cheek and he opened his eyes, gazing around for what had disturbed him. The light was slightly more orange as it slanted through the trees; Faramir guessed he hadn’t been too long. He moved to sit up, and stopped, listening, knees bent, good hand braced against the tree. A woman was singing softly. He extended his consciousness; more confident now that he’d centered himself, and discovered it was Éowyn. Her voice is beautiful, he thought in pleased surprise, pulling himself up to his feet and leaning against the oak. Low and heartrending, she sang,

There was a pause, in which Faramir began to walk through the copse, his boots making no reverberation on the ground dampened with the evening’s first dew. A squirrel darted across his path, but Faramir’s attention was focused on his beloved’s voice. Clearer and rising, Éowyn continued; she not so much mournful now, but almost desperately pleading with something,

The last three lines were almost grim, yet with a deeply bitter undercurrent that fascinated him. He stepped from the trees, still ghosting unconsciously through the orange light of the slowly lowering sun. Enthralled by her soft, melancholy voice, Faramir did not announce himself. Instead he stepped closer, gazing upon her—Éowyn’s head was bent as she sat on the bench, her thick hair pulled back into a golden river that flowed down the back of blue gown she wore, it folds gleaming like fire, capturing the sunlight, and he stopped, doubly enchanted by her voice and her beauty. With a sigh, she continued, gently swinging her feet,

The bitterness tore at Faramir’s heart. She laughed once; darkly and completely unaware he was only a few feet away. He stepped closer, now almost to her side and spoke,

“Why is that song so sad?” Éowyn jumped, whirling on the bench, her eyes wide. Her fear pressed against him and he blurted, “I’m sorry.” She nodded slowly, one hand to her chest. “I...I didn’t mean to startle you.” Faramir quickly added.

“I didn’t know you were there, or else...” She fell quiet, looking down at her hands, twisting them in her lap.

Faramir hesitated, wondering how upset she was. “I liked it.” He got an inkling when she immediately snapped back, looking up at him,

“So?” He sat on the end of the bench, careful to give her plenty of room. “It’s still beautiful.” Like you, he added silently, watching her closely, noting a strand of her hair had come down. It clung to her cheek, a tiny flaxen river on a soft peach plain and he wished to brush it away, but she was wary of him, and he sensed if he tried to move closer, she’d retreat, maybe even leave. “Tell me what it says.”

“It is a woman’s song.” She’d looked away, her voice tight, but her hair couldn’t hide her face, tied back like it was. Faramir gazed at her profile, trying to find a way to smooth things. Will it be like this, he thought in a sudden burst of despair, will it always be one step forward, two back?

“I am only a man, but I will try to grasp it.” He managed a hopeful, supporting smile through his annoyance.

She sighed deeply. “It is about a woman, whose lover does not love her any longer.”

“It begins, Oh, follow me to the river, follow me to the shade, run with me forever, here and there…you never sleep, while the cold winds blow…” To his delight she’d been singing very softly, her voice low and sad, notes dropping like silver tears. Suddenly Éowyn abruptly stopped and stood. “This is foolish.”

“I do not wish to, Faramir.” There was now the distinct sound of steel but, wishing to hear the rest, he rebelled.

“Does it matter?” He was silent at her grim, vicious tone. Again she spoke, “I only wanted to say this to you,” She looked down at him, and licked her lips nervously, then straightened. However, the level of her anxiety spiked, alarming him. “I…” She took a deep breath and composed herself, “I am sorry if I wasted your time Faramir, but I can’t…”

“No.” Faramir was on his feet before he was even aware of moving, his heart stuttering with fear in his chest. “No.”

“Don’t, Éowyn, please.” If she didn’t say it, it would not happen and he could make it right. He stepped forward, but she pulled back. “I beg you, do not.”

She continued doggedly over his protests, her eyes grieved as she retreated, “I don’t want to waste your time, making you be with someone who can’t…”

“It’s not a waste, please, just stand still, listen…” Faramir paced her as she moved, continually keeping the bench between them. His heart was pounding with fear, all of his control gone. He tried to touch her mind, but couldn’t, his own was too turbulent to concentrate. “Éowyn…” Finally, desperate to reach her, he gathered himself, adrenaline racing through his veins, and sprang over the stone bench to grab her arm.

She gasped as he grasped her. “Let me go.” She whispered, but did not pull back.

Faramir was adamant; gripping her so tightly he would later be able to see the individual bruises from his fingers. “No.” He pressed his forehead to her temple as she turned her head from him. “Never,” She took a breath to speak, “and you can’t say anything to make me, Éowyn.”

“Why not?” It was desperate, but he would not be moved. She choked, a short sob of defeat and slumped against his shoulder. “Please, why won’t you let me go?”

“I don’t just say.” He swallowed. “I do.” Then, the question, the one whose answer might send him over the walls, plunging to his death, body breaking on the hard, merciless stones, or let him live in happiness, with a new life, all his old griefs behind him forever, “Don’t you love me…the least bit, too, Éowyn?”

There was no answer, only her rapid breathing. Faramir’s heart turned black with despair as the silence mounted, pressing against his chest, making it hard to breathe. He trembled, awaiting.

Éowyn’s eyes were tightly closed. “Don’t you love me? He asked, stepping slowly towards her. His voice was mocking; he knew she hated him with all her being. Turning almost pitying, he murmured, “Why do you shrink?”

“Get back.” Éowyn whispered. She wanted to scream the words and he knew it. Gríma grinned confidently, stepping closer in the dark hall. Her eyes darted to the left, ten paces away was safety—Éomer’s room. But between her and it, he stood, his face gloating and hissed,

“Do it. Cry out for him.” She shook her head once. “You should, my dear.” He took another step towards her. “The King’s men would give him a quicker death than the orcs.”

“They will kill him slow, take their pleasure in torturing the son of Éomund,” He cocked his head, a smile forming on his thin lips as he stepped even closer, now only a few yards away. “They will make him scream and beg…cut him, beat him, they will press hot steel to his flesh and watch it curl up and fry…” He chuckled at her pale face, trembling form as she whispered,

“Théodred was strong, a good warrior; if he died what makes you think your brother will not?” Her back touched something hard. Éowyn clamped down on panic as she realized she’d stupidly backed into the wall. Gríma’s eyes lit up as he realized her position. Éowyn’s heart raced, her stomach roiling in revulsion as he came to within a step of her. “Scream and he will kill me, yes,” His mouth twisted, “But he will die, too.” Gríma smiled, pleased when she made no sound as he stepped to within inches of her. She was keenly aware of his foul presence, when he touched her cheek Éowyn choked on a moan, a weak noise of vulnerability and loathing.

His hand went to her breast, cupping it. Frozen, she trembled, repressing and biting her lip so hard it bled to keep from making a sound loud enough for her brother to investigate. His lips touched her neck and nausea made her retch, her gut clenching. Trapped, her mind begged her to scream, to cry at the top of her lungs for Éomer. Théodred, I wish…inwardly she wept, grieving. Théodred was more levelheaded; he would have held her brother back from killing Gríma and from being sent to death. He would have banished this worm that dared touch her.

Gríma chuckled, then grunted against her neck and Éowyn’s skin crawled—it was the unthinkable—he pressed against her and her eyes flew wide; he was hard, fully aroused, rubbing her through her gown, his knee going between her legs… No! For a second she was utterly paralyzed with shock and horror, then her teeth bared, and animalistic in her terror, Éowyn’s hands formed claws. Hissing, she struck out, scratching at Gríma’s face and eyes in her fury. He stumbled back, clutching his face in pain, red lines of blood streaming down his cheeks. She looked at the wet, crimson stains on her fingertips, feeling viciously glad. “I will make you mine.” He promised, snarling low in his throat. “Soon.”

And if you do, they will find me with my throat cut, lying in the trash pile, like they found my poor dog, you bastard, she thought, clenching her bloody hands into fists, ready to strike if he came again. It was something she knew without a doubt—one of Gríma’s men had murdered the puppy Éomer had given her as a watchdog. It had been barely six months old when Hámahad found it, its throat jaggedly cut; limp and lifeless on the pile of refuse outside the hall. I would not live to see morning if you covered me, Gríma Wormtongue; Éowyn’s heart grew cold and hard as this resolve took her. She watched him move away, his face twisted with anger but beaten for the moment and thought, no man will touch me, ever.

Faramir’s hand held her arm tight, his body pressing against her, mouth hovering over her ear as he whispered, “Answer me, for the love of the Valar, please.” His voice shook slightly and she felt wretched, opening her eyes. I shrink from the harmless hobbits, and their childish intimacy… how will I stand his hands or his body on mine when he finally demands his right to me? It would be his just due as my husband when…oh, I cannot! Éowyn hardened her heart against his plea.

She raised her head and pulled back, holding herself very straight. He let her go only keeping his grip on her arm, sliding it down to hold her hand. His fingers laced with hers, his expression hopeful and earnest. Inwardly she was warring; don’t, don’t, please, he’s good and safe and—oh, gods, how do I know that? She argued desperately with herself don’t make me… I love him. Then the cold part of her spoke, if you love him, you know he should have better than you. She lowered her eyes, furiously forcing back tears. It was weak. She could cry later, she’d have plenty of time alone. He’s not like Gríma, he’s good, no, no, please, no…oh, gods, I have to. When she spoke, looking at him and holding his gaze, her voice was formal, composed and absolute. “No, Faramir, I don’t. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

It was as though she’d sliced out his heart with her dagger and held it before his eyes, steaming, blood running in thick rivulets down her arm, the scarlet tissues still contracting as they died, and then smiled. He actually stumbled back a step as though his legs would not support him, letting go of her, his hand falling to his side. Faramir’s face was so wounded, Éowyn wanted to look away, but she held her gaze to him firmly, punishing herself. This is what you have done and you will remember it.

He ran his fingers through his hair, looking away, and then Faramir stammered, “But…you…” He shook his head, obviously trying to speak, to comprehend, “Éowyn…”

“I am sorry.” She tried to sound as coldly unfeeling as possible, trying to make it easier for him to accept it and move on.

“You said you did.” He whispered. It came out almost childishly piteous and the more heartbreaking for it. There were tears in his bewildered eyes; they shone, wide with betrayal. Éowyn dug her fingernails into her palms, relishing the pain that distracted her. She would not weep; she would not break from her course.

“I made a mistake.” She held herself stiff, unmoving, a sharp contrast to Faramir’s sudden pacing. He strode quickly, jerkily back and forth. Abruptly he stopped and stood still, giving her a swift, distressingly probing glance. His grey eyes locked onto her and Éowyn fought to keep steady under his scrutiny. “I’ll just go…just leave you alone.”

“Say it again.” Faramir demanded, his voice cracking slightly. “I want to hear it again.”

Finally, Éowyn understood. Swallowing hard, she looked him in the eye. “I don’t love you.”

“Did you ever?” She saw it in him, the terribly willing desire to make it right, whatever he’d done. It was not you, Faramir. Please, don’t make this harder.

“No.” Éowyn stressed it, trying to end this torture. Her tight control slipped and she sighed, letting some of her sadness come out, “I don’t love you, Faramir.”

“What changed.” It came from him as a thick growl, rumbling in his chest then rising from his throat. It was a frightening, dangerous sound. Suddenly he didn’t look so much miserable as enraged.

She frowned, not understanding. “What? I don’t…” This is wrong, Éowyn thought; she backed away as he walked slowly, deliberately towards her. His face was almost compassionless, his grey eyes intense on hers. Faramir’s gaze felt like pressure, hard against her, pinning her to her place. She looked down at his good hand—it was clenched into a fist so tight his knuckles gleamed through the skin, pale bones easily visible. Éowyn took another hasty step backwards, unease and panic rising in her little by little, tightening her chest, and cutting off her breath.

“When Éomer found us in the garden you said you loved me, you would marry no other man but me.” Faramir bit off the words harshly, as though they left a bad taste in his mouth. He was frightening her. “What changed, Éowyn.”

“Don't lie!" He caught her upper arm, holding her tight again. When he spoke it confused her, “I can feel it. You’re lying to me.”

Panic blossomed in her chest, rivaling with relief. She’d been almost free…but hadn’t she wanted that? She kept her voice calm with a huge effort. “No, I’m not.”

His eyes bore into hers and she jerked her arm, but he might as well have been made of stone. His voice was cold, hard, “Yes, yes you are. I know you are.”

“No, Faramir.” She just managed sincerity only to have it shaken out of her as he lost his temper.

Faramir shouted it in her face, clearly furious, “Tell me why you’re lying Éowyn! Why you would toy with me like this?”

“Please, no, no…” She whimpered, jerking, trying to free herself. With a sound of irritation he pulled her to his body, forcing her against him, denying her escape. Éowyn shuddered. “Don’t…oh, don’t…”

He snarled, spitting out, “Don’t what? Let you go back to being what you were?” His hand squeezed her arm painfully tight as he spoke. “I remember her, cold and hard. You stood on the walls of the city, a ice maiden, all hard edges and sharp planes.”

“I thought I softened her, but I guess I was wrong.” Pain moved across his features, quickly replaced by anger. “How could you do such a thing? Toy with me like you did?” Faramir scowled at her, not letting go.

“Stop…you’re hurting me, Faramir.” She whispered, tears burning in her eyes, blurring her vision. “You swore you wouldn’t.”

Control, control yourself, he remembered with a shock. She looked at him, trembling in his hand like some small, wild bird, heart beating fast, her blue eyes wide. Éowyn’s mind, a chaotic mix of fear, dread and strangely, relief, pressed against his. She sobbed then, turning her face away in shame with an almost breaking sound of a woman not used to crying; that was all it took to fully cut through the haze of fury that had filled him. The sheer misery in her voice brought him further under control. “Yes, I lied. Are you happy?” She no longer tried to pull away, but stood meekly, “Please let me go. You’re hurting me.”

“I’m…I’m sorry.” Faramir faltered, releasing her arm. Bonelessly, she slumped to the ground, her head bent, her arms going around herself. He was ashamed and horrified for having hurt her. Already bruises were rising from where he’d grasped her flesh and Faramir took a deep breath, focusing on the slowly reddening light coming over the walls of the garden, trying to center himself. Perhaps an hour had passed since Gandalf had left with the hobbits, yet it felt like an eternity. He stared down at her golden head, miserable and confused. Faramir rubbed his face, trying to find his composure.

A few heartbeats later he decided he was calm enough and then went to one knee, crouching at Éowyn’s side. Back under control, he asked gently, “Why did you lie to me?” She didn’t answer, so he took a chance and touched her hair, running his palm over it. To his surprise she immediately unfolded, rising to her knees, wrapping her arms around his chest and pressing her wet face to his neck. Faramir curled his good arm around her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” She didn’t answer; her breath came in short, warm bursts against his collarbone as she struggled for self-possession. He cursed the lack of two hands as he held her to him, his left arm awkwardly about her waist as his right hand rubbed her back. He moved it in soothing circles, projecting calmness the best he could.

“Why would you lie?” Reliving the moment he’d realized still sparked anger. Faramir forced it down with an effort. He sat back, scooting a little way across the grass until his back met the end of the stone bench. Faramir rested against it. Again, to his surprise, she followed, virtually curling in his lap, wrapping herself around him. Their legs tangled and Faramir pushed her hair aside, kissing the nape of her neck. “Please tell me. I love you.”

“Who?” He could feel the revulsion coming off her in waves and felt his temper rise again, this time protectively channeled against this unfamiliar man. He despised him already, unseen and unknown. “Who, Éowyn?”

“Gríma Wormtongue.” She spat it like a curse. Her pent up rage, disgust and fear swept through him; it was unstoppable, as he sat pressed against her, his skin on hers. The mixture of her emotions were so strong they made him want to vomit, and the shockingly clear thought he got from her stirred his anger to a vicious, white-hot wrath. Pale, he licked greasy lips as he moved towards her… “Beautiful, so beautiful, mine…” Faramir tensed; he would kill this man Gríma.

“Who is he?” What he really wished to ask was where is he, where is he so that I can cut him to bloody ribbons? The way her emotions projected onto him was mildly frightening. Faramir closed his eyes, seeking his heartbeat. He’d lost control twice already today.

“He served Saruman. He…he was a traitor to my uncle. He’s gone now.” He could feel her relief and he let it wash through him, cooling his seething anger.

Suddenly she pulled herself up, her eyes fixing on his as though she were trying to make him understand, “I couldn’t do anything when he tried, I wanted to scream when he…Éomer would have killed him and then they would have” She bit her lip, crying again, “…he would have been put to death. My brother, a murderer, a killer.” The last was a miserable whisper, punctuated by sobs. “He… would have been dead… and I would have been alone...all alone…forever.”

“I understand.” So this was the source of her fear. Faramir hugged her to his chest, and thought about it. She feared being touched because this Gríma had stalked her relentlessly; perhaps he had even tried to take her against her will. Éowyn said something, low and pained. “What?” Faramir bent slightly to better hear her as she murmured,

“I lied because I wanted you to find someone that would not be afraid of you, who would make you happy.” She swallowed hard, her voice small and thick. “I didn’t want you to love me, Faramir.”

There was no answer for a long time. Faramir watched the sun sink beneath the walls of the garden, turning the light to shades of purple and indigo. If he looked over the edge, he would see the rest of the world still bright with orange light, yet overhead, tiny specks of stars began to show in the evening sky. He sighed deeply, determined to wait her out. She was warm against his entire front; Faramir’s eyes followed the long lines of her legs, tangled with his, gown tight over her calves, then up her hip only vaguely outlined in the folds of her dress, the blue of it darkening in slowly dimming light. Her fingers splayed on his chest, pale against the black of his tunic, but warmly alive on the silver tree’s outline; he gently stroked her hair, smoothing the rebellious, wavy strands, her cheek resting against his heart. Finally Éowyn spoke, “What do you want from me?”

She pushed herself away and he let her go. Éowyn faced him, her eyes searching his suspiciously. “Truly?”

“Of course.” Now he was somewhat confused. “Why would I want more than you could give me? Why would I push you?” She muttered something and turned her head away. Faramir frowned. “Is that why you didn’t want to love me? Because you thought I would…” He didn’t get it. “Would want more of you than you were willing? I don’t understand that, Éowyn.”

She smiled bitterly, sitting back on her heels. He mourned the loss of her warmth and light weight against him. “Of course you don’t, you’re a man, and you’ve never felt what it’s like to be vulnerable, have you? To realize that you’re all alone with people who are stronger and bigger than you and could force you to do anything they wished?”

“I don’t know.” Faramir snapped in frustration. They’d come full circle to last night when he’d asked how he could prove she could trust him. She looked equally frustrated.

“Do you know what I did last night and today to decide to lie to you?” She suddenly inquired.

Éowyn winced, looking down but continued, her fingers twisted a bit of her gown in her lap as she spoke, “I went to Merry. I ended up sleeping in his bed and the hobbits--”

“Pippin joined us—I slept with them curled around me like kittens.” She smiled then made a face, “Then around noon I got kissed by Pippin and he looked down my shirt.” Faramir laughed out loud. “It’s not funny.”

Faramir sighed, and then asked, “So, how did that make you decide to come and tell me you didn’t love me?”

“I…they’re harmless, Merry and Pippin.” Éowyn fidgeted, searching for the right words. “They couldn’t hurt me, yet, I flinched back from them and I thought, if I can’t handle a little hobbit, how could I ever…”

He interrupted her, disturbed by the tears reforming in her eyes. “It’s all right, I understand.”

“Come here.” Faramir pulled himself up to the bench and sat. When she didn’t move, he patted the stone beside him, specifying his right side. “Sit here.”

“You’ll see.” Warily, Éowyn climbed to her feet, absently straightening her dress though it was wrinkled beyond saving. She sat down a few inches away, looking suspicious.

“I’m not going to touch you anymore.” Faramir smiled a little at her confused expression. “You’re going to touch me.”

“Am I?” Although she looked only shocked, he gently, carefully touched her mind and was pleased to learn she was very, very slightly intrigued.

“Yes.” He held up his right hand. “It’s hard to touch you with this one, since it’s right here at your side and,” Faramir grinned, “Éomer took care of my left, so it’s up to you.”

“What could it hurt?” He understood her hesitation. All of this rested upon his self-control, which had been fairly erratic so far. He joked teasingly, “I may be a great, powerful warrior, but I think you could overpower me fairly easily with this broken hand.” He smiled, “Give it a poke if you don’t believe me.” She still frowned, so he bumped her with his shoulder, “Come my love, don’t be afraid, if you don’t like it you don’t have to.”

Faramir swallowed as she glanced up and down his body. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

He waited, holding himself very still on the bench. Éowyn bit her lip, thinking. Suddenly she extended a hand, fingers hesitantly curved, and then stopped herself. She frowned at him. “Close your eyes, you’re staring at me and it’s making me nervous.”

“Sorry.” He shut his eyes obediently, leaving himself in a world of darkness. There was a puff of gentle wind to stir his hair back from his brow, and with his sight taken Faramir felt much more vividly with the rest of his senses--the growing coolness as the sun sank, the smell of the shampoo she’d used as Éowyn bent closer. He wanted to fidget but didn’t. What is she doing? He wondered, waiting for her. He could hear her breathing softly, slowly, and feel the warmth of her side against his arm, but she wasn’t touching him. Curious, he reached out mentally and was surprised to sense that Éowyn was far more relaxed than he; Faramir’s fingers twitched as she kept him in suspense. “Are…are you going to…” He asked.

“Quiet. I’m deciding.” There was a new, unfamiliar tone in her voice; he listened close--it sounded like a combination of amusement and wickedness, as though she were making him wait out of spite. It made him edgy and Faramir had to concentrate to keep his eyes closed. He gave a jolt when he felt her touch his cheek. “Hold still.” Éowyn commanded firmly.

“You surprised me.” His voice was higher than usual as his pulse jumped in his throat. The pads on the tips of her fingers brushed his cheekbone from the center of his face back, her thumb trailing just above his jaw line. Faramir tried to remain motionless but it was difficult; her light touch tickled him. There was a sudden pause as she took her hand away, and then she used both to tuck his hair back behind his ears.

“You need a comb.” She said as her fingers tangled briefly. “Here’s a leaf, all snarled.” Éowyn murmured, running her fingers through his hair to get it to lie smooth.

“I tracked the hobbits for Gandalf through the--” Faramir attempted to explain, but he heard the amused, why was she amused? frown in her voice as she asked,

“Did I say you could talk? I thought I told you to be quiet.” Is she scolding me? He thought, astonished.

“Shh.” It was a reprimand and she tapped her finger on his forehead. Faramir closed his mouth and attempted to relax. The muscles in his arms were jerking, jumping with the overwhelming need to reach out and touch her back as she playfully ran a finger down his nose. Her fingers, then her thumb skirted his lips with gentle pressure. He fought the desire to capture it in his mouth before it passed. Hold still; don’t frighten her away, he snapped at himself as she ran curved fingers under his jaw, doing both sides as though comparing them. “He hit you here.” Éowyn said softly. “And here.” Suddenly she pressed harder, directly on a bruise on his mouth. His abused flesh throbbed, surprised.

“Ow.” Faramir pulled his head back, starting to open his eyes and she ordered, in an amazingly assertive tone considering the tearful girl she’d been a few minutes ago,

He grimaced, but did as he was told. His face ached faintly where she’d pressed. “Why’d you do that? It hurt.”

Her answer was on the hostile side. “You deserved it. Éomer was right to strike that time.” A beat. Éowyn’s voice was heated now, “For what you said about me.” Oh, that. Damn. He’d forgotten.

Faramir wished he could open his eyes to see hers and read how angry she was. “Sorry, truly, I am.” The last thing he wanted was another disagreement.

She’d taken her hand away and his feet moved nervously. Éowyn sniffed, “Of course you are.”

“Well, what else can I say?” Faramir turned his head to the side, wishing he could see her face. He touched her mind, but found little there but gathering annoyance. “I didn’t mean it.”

Éowyn shifted, her thigh brushing his. There was a long pause in which he felt her annoyance change into something he couldn’t identify. Faramir waited. At last, she said tentatively, “You did it to anger him, then?” He tried to put as much honesty and sincerity into his voice as possible as he answered.

“Yes, I did.” There were several more seconds of silence as she thought that over. Finally, Eowyn’s fingers touched his chin and Faramir was relieved when she resumed her exploration. He relaxed as Éowyn rubbed his chin, her fingers scraping in the short stubble.

“No.” She traced down his neck, thumb catching his Adam’s apple as he swallowed self-consciously. She paused at his collar, careful not to put pressure on the still dark bruises around his throat,

“You should have stopped when Aragorn pulled him back.” Her tone changed from gently chiding to sadness, “I’m sorry he hurt you.” He opened his mouth to speak again, but then Faramir clamped it shut and his knuckles whitened on his right hand around the edge of the bench as she nonchalantly passed a hand down his chest, her palm flat against the dark, richly tanned leather. Eowyn’s fingers traced the silver and white threads on the front. She placed her fingertips on the high points of the branches, pressing firmly as she slid them down the trunk to his midsection. He gulped, trying not to move, ridiculously conscious that he was more nervous than she was. Éowyn commanded, “Tell me about the tree you wear.”

“T-the tree?” Faramir’s mind was a blank. Oh, the white tree. Idiot, pay attention. “It’s a honored reminder of lost Númenor and the white tree Nimloth.”

“The stars?” Éowyn tapped them one by one, yet her other hand was sliding up and down the weather worn leather, caressing it and his chest beneath. Faramir was finding it increasingly difficult to think.

“A symbol of…” One of her slender hands had moved to his side, “of the Sickle of the Valar and—“ He jumped again as she undid one of the fastenings. “W-What are you doing?”

“It’s handsome on you.” She gave a small laugh and almost before he knew it, she took her hand from his side to pull his neck down. To his absolute shock, Éowyn kissed him. It was the first time she’d initiated any form of intimate contact and he was almost too astonished to enjoy it. Easy, no sudden moves, Faramir thought, cautioning himself. His heart pounded, but he allowed her to kiss him and made no objections when she stopped. It was over quickly, though, and Éowyn asked, her voice as composed as though people surrounded them, “Why do you have it instead of something else?”

His own voice was a bit tighter. “Uh, I…I don’t know—What are you doing?” Faramir turned his head towards her as she kept slowly unfastening his tunic, fumbling at first. He twisted away, nervous about these new actions and where they might lead, but she gripped the leather. Her fingers pinching his arm in punishment, Éowyn said firmly,

“Hold still.” He opened his mouth to speak, but she growled at him, “Eyes closed. No peeking.” Faramir frowned and Éowyn asked, her voice perfectly calm, almost conversational as she let go of his arm, “And what?”

“And…what?” It took enough time for her to undo nearly all of the fasteners and pull open the side of his tunic for him to remember. “Yes, right, uh, the stars represent the Sickle of the Valar and…to remember the downfall of Morgoth.” He reached out to her mind and found her relaxed, even enjoying herself. What happened? Faramir wondered in confusion. What changed her from a few minutes ago, a girl shrinking away from me to—this woman with her hand slipping between my clothes?

It was indeed; Éowyn had opened his outer tunic enough to put her hand beneath it. Her palm was cool from the outside air as it slid up his bare stomach. Faramir’s chest expanded with his quick intake of breath. “Your people think about those old tales very much don’t they?” She’d moved much closer now. Her lips almost touching his, she spoke again, “Answer me.”

Faramir touched her mind and found it, again, strangely unperturbed; amusement, yes, even enjoyment but no fear. What happened? “Yes.” He choked it, trying desperately not to move or to open his eyes as she kissed the corner of his mouth. Her fingers spread as they moved upward and if Éowyn noticed the way his skin contracted beneath her small, cool hand she didn’t speak. “This is torture.” Faramir groaned as she pulled away as soon as he turned his head to meet her lips. Her mouth hovered over his without fully kissing him, and he groaned, “You hate me, don’t you?”

She smiled; he could hear it in her voice as her hand rested over his heart. She tugged gently at a strand of his chest hair, curling it around her index finger. “No.” Curiously, he heard her snicker, and then she asked, “Is it as dark as the hair on your head?”

“Not yet.” A jolt of excitement ran through him and Faramir suppressed it viciously. Digging his nails into the stone, he hesitantly asked, “Can I…can I touc—“

“No.” It was stern now. Éowyn was still smiling, though, as she murmured, “I like this.”

“Cruel. You’re cruel.” Faramir asserted weakly, trying again to catch her mouth. Unable to see, he failed and she laughed again. Her palm, warming against his chest, moved and Éowyn fell abruptly silent. He could feel her fingers quiver, but then she held her hand still.

“Your heart’s beating very fast.” Was that the slightest bit of shyness in her voice? Surely, not now, Faramir thought.

“Is,” He swallowed; he’d been hoping she wouldn’t notice how tightly wound-up he was, “Is it?”

“Yes.” Éowyn had moved away, an insignificant distance, but to his heightened senses it felt like miles. Cool air moved to chill his side where she’d been confidently leaning, warming it. He reached out to her mind and felt the first tendrils of unease return to her thoughts. Faramir gritted his teeth in frustration. What did she expect? Did she not know what she was doing to him? Perhaps not, he realized suddenly; she has little experience in men and none of it pleasant.

“Don’t be afraid.” Faramir whispered. His good hand gripped the stone edge of the bench, the rough surface scraping his palm as he struggled to keep himself from reaching out.

“I’m not.” Her voice was fearless, yet her mind wasn’t. He could feel it doubly so with her hand pressed against his bare skin. A moment later Éowyn betrayed her nervousness, asking, “You won’t touch me?”

She didn’t speak for a few minutes. Instead, she moved her hand across his chest, back and forth as though measuring it. Her dragging fingers threatened to drive him insane. “You’re thin.” Éowyn murmured; he could hear the frown in her voice.

“Yes, I can feel muscle, but,” Her fingers poked his sides. It tickled and he chuckled. “Ribs, too.” Then there was a sudden intake of breath as though she’d thought of something. Éowyn withdrew her hand from his shirt. She laughed again, an absolutely impish giggle, then her voice firmed as she commanded, “Take it off.”

“Do it.” He could feel her body shake with her laughter. “Come, come, I want to see.”

It was time to end this, Faramir knew. He opened his eyes, momentarily startled at how dark it had become. There were many stars now; the sun had gone down beyond the walls. He stared at her as Éowyn pouted. Ignoring temptation, he said loudly and firmly, “NO.”

What? He got a turn? Since when? Faramir blinked. His fingers, which had been refastening his tunic with the ease of long practice, froze. “Wait, I’ll do it.”

She giggled again. “Too late.” Éowyn held out her hand. “Come, Frodo and Sam walked by a moment ago. It’s time for the evening meal.”

As usual, he didn’t sit by her, but again, as usual Faramir often looked down the table at Éowyn. The food barely held his attention and Aragorn, sitting beside him, was silent. Several places down, Éomer returned his gaze more than once, obviously noting the direction his eyes were going. He wasn’t sitting beside her, either, and looked displeased. Éowyn was placed rather far down between a surly looking Merry and a weary faced Pippin; at first she’d folded her arms and gazed at them very sternly, but now she laughed as they spoke. The hobbits were loud, their sentences overlapping, vying each other for her attention. Faramir, alone, was jealous. He stabbed his fork into a bit of meat and ate it sullenly.

She’d released him once they’d entered the hall, letting go of his hand and leading the way. There had been a high-pitched shout and then, confusingly, Faramir had been immediately latched onto by two hobbits. Jerked to a stop, he looked down. Merry and Pippin had grabbed him by the legs. They gave him angelic gazes. “Hello Father.” Merry said sweetly.

Pippin, not quite able to keep a straight face, snickered, then added, “We missed you so.”

“’Course.” Pippin said. The hobbit frowned, and then asked, “Why, did you want someone else?”

“No, he’ll do.” She laughed and gazed at Faramir in wry amusement. “Enjoy them, they are the only children you’ll have.”

“What are you talking about?” Faramir was confused. She raised an expectant eyebrow at the two hobbits clinging to his legs.

“Well?” When they just grinned and didn’t answer, Éowyn rolled her eyes. “Never mind, it’s not important.”

Faramir asked quickly as the hobbits let him go and she started to move off, “Will I see you afterwards?”

Éowyn pretended to think about it. “Yes, I guess you may.” Faramir smiled, delighted. Then, boldly, he grasped her wrist when she turned.

“No kiss goodbye?” He gently teased, stepping closer. Faramir touched her mind, but felt no disquiet. She made no objection, the corners of her mouth curling up in a very small smile. Faramir took this as encouragement, so he bent and--

“Ughhaaahh!” Merry and Pippin made retching sounds, holding their stomachs and staggering comically. His lips almost on hers, Faramir abruptly straightened, self-conscious; the hobbits were watching, and he couldn’t kiss her with them commenting like that. Éowyn giggled as he glowered at them. Pippin stuck out his tongue as Faramir, irritated, snapped out, “Stop that!”

“Make me!” It was an instant and childish reply that confused him. Éowyn touched his arm and Faramir looked down at her. She smiled up at him.

To his surprise she said sharply, glaring down at the hobbits, “Children!” and pointed to the open door. “Go!”

Merry grimaced. “Yes, Mother.” It was sarcastic, but they went and Faramir got his kiss.

And now he waited out in the hall for her, eagerly shifting on the balls of his feet. Éomer, moving by in Aragorn’s wake, stared at him in obvious suspicion. Refusing to be baited, Faramir nodded, inclining his head in a friendly fashion and was pleased when the man grudgingly did the same. At least we’re to that now, he thought ruefully. Which is good, as she loves him so. Faramir sighed, turning back to the door. Inside, he could see the servants clearing off all the tables but where the four hobbits, Éowyn and Gimli were sitting. They spoke, laughing as he paced, impatient. Servants carried off dirty dishes and began to wipe the tabletops. He watched the candlelight shine off her golden hair and jealously coveted the burst of laughter Merry got from her.

Turning away, Faramir was distracted. The sight of Éomer had started him thinking about the memory he’d unwittingly experienced again. Another glance into the dining hall showed Éowyn hadn’t moved, so he leaned against the ledge overlooking the city. From where he stood Faramir could see almost all of Minas Tirith. Light from torches flickered like little orange stars and there were thin streams of grey smoke rising from cooking fires all over the city. Resting his arms on the white stone, he focused his eyes on the horizon, clearing his mind. Only darker black against the night, the city was an island of life and light in the world. Staring into nothing, the sounds behind him faded away and Faramir’s eyelids lowered as he tried to remember. A second later it hit him like an arrow through the chest and Faramir clutched his head as Éomer’s inner voice reverberated through him, shockingly loud—“Gods, the storm!” Looking over her shoulder, he missed the strike, only hearing the cry of triumph in her voice and the ring of metal, then the thumping vibration as his sword hit the ground a moment before he did. “Éowyn,” He'd begun to say, to warn, but she’d knocked him off his feet just as easily as she’d knocked the sword from his hand and it came from him as a whoosh of air as he fell, grunting as he hit the hard-packed earth. She wasn’t paying attention, instead, crowing her victory. The clouds, thunderheads, were almost black now, billowing. Their grey undersides swept forward and Éomer was afraid, but not for himself. Her foot planted itself on his chest and he heard the crack of lightning. Éomer thought, it’s coming…

There were only sounds and sensations as it hit—the swish, swish of flying ice slamming through the dirt and grass all around him, the thuds as the hail struck the ground, his chin digging into the top of Éowyn’s head, making sure he shielded her, and then silence. A final rumble of thunder and the day brightened again. Éomer raised his head cautiously and heard the sound of boots.

“Even in a skirt, cousin; she took you to the ground.” The voice was known and on the verge of laughter. Éomer rolled off of his sister, the freshly-bruised backside of his entire body complaining as he sat up, and he tried not to groan. Thin streams of cold water ran down his collar and onto his skin, chilling him as he rocked back on his heels. Éomer shook his head and bits of ice flew. Grimacing, he rubbed his shoulders, trying to work out the dull pains and shivered as a cold breeze brought goose bumps to his arms. He looked up at the sky, noticing with relief that the dark clouds had all but passed. His clothes squelched and dripped as Éomer shifted, getting his legs under him so he could stand; after the hail there had been a, mercifully short, downpour and he was soaked all over. Beside him, Éowyn sat up, rubbing her arm. He glanced at her in concern, but she’d already taken an offered hand and was climbing to her feet.

“You two all right?” The man to who the appendage belonged to grinned down at him and for a disturbing moment Éomer found him completely unfamiliar.

Then he blinked, feeling foolish and wondered if a large chunk of the falling ice had caught him on the head. Théodred, it was Théodred of course. Who? It came from far away, in another place. Cousin, friend, trusted brother, he answered and the voice did not reply. Éomer rubbed his arm and said,

To his annoyance, Théodred did not offer him a hand. Instead, he was beaming at Éowyn and asking her, “You did it just like I taught you?”

“Yes.” She smiled gleefully, laughing, and a part of him marveled She seems so happy, but before he could wonder it was gone. Laboriously, Éomer got to his feet and began brushing off some of the mud that had splattered from the rain. Like him, his sister was soaked and dirty, but she ignored her messy appearance to snicker and ask Théodred, “You saw me, then?”

There was instant curiosity from inside him, but Éomer could find no reason for it. Why should he be angered if Théodred called her little sister? He was more an older brother than a cousin to them both. The curiosity intensified, but he pushed it away. Then, obeying a distant command, he turned in a small circle, gazing at his surroundings. He stood in the center of a great ring of hard-packed dirt. A short distance away stood several small buildings. He named them in his mind—spare supplies shed and its lean-to, containing a few stalls. Lifting his eyes, he followed the line of a hill. The incline rose and curved to Meduseld and he gazed at it in strange awe for several seconds before resuming his circle. The rest was either open fields (both paddocks and crops) or the houses of the people who lived in Edoras. Inside the small, open shed he could see all the training weapons—dulled swords, spears, along with shields and old, broken saddles used on difficult horses. In the lean-to’s stalls his sister’s bay, and his and Théodred’s geldings were nibbling hay, unconcerned about the brief squall and waiting for the ride to the schooling field. The voice began to ask about them, but was interrupted.

“Éomer!” Éowyn smacked his stomach to gain his attention, but luckily, not very hard and he dutifully turned to face her. She smirked as she extended his blunt training sword. Grasping at it, he absently noticed Théodred was staring off to the side and Éomer began to follow his gaze until Éowyn poked him with the blade’s point. He gave her a mock scowl as he jerked it away; inwardly he was quite delighted she’d knocked him to the ground. Again, there was odd curiosity.

“What did you teach her? That was new.” He began to question Théodred, but his cousin wasn’t paying attention. Instead, he was watching a rider come up the hill. Éomer straightened, eyeing the approaching man as well. He didn’t wear the clothes of a warrior, or a peasant, so Éomer turned to an easier way of identification-- his horse. It was sweaty, lean and coarse, obviously hard-ridden and ill-bred—not the mount of a wealthy farmer or trader. A man of little importance, he assumed, turning away. He was just beginning to think about walking to the shed to get his cloak to dry his hair when the rider abruptly switched courses and trotted towards them.

“Greetings my lords…and my lady.” He yanked the horse to a halt, pulling at the poor beast’s mouth. It shook its head, hooves scraping in the earth as it was wrenched to a stop and Éomer grimaced with distaste at the man’s poor horsemanship. The stranger looked at them in turn and Théodred nodded politely,

Éomer allowed his cousin to speak, barely paying attention to the stranger. Théodred was the elder and the heir. In fact, he didn’t consider this his matter at all until,

“Who are you?” Éowyn asked, as usual having no patience for etiquette, and all three men glanced at her. The stranger’s gaze lingered and Éomer stiffened. Soaked by the rain, Éowyn’s gown clung to her body. She held herself erect and confident, not noticing the stranger’s attentions.

“Éowyn.” She gave him a scornful look for his sweet tone, but Éomer narrowed his eyes, glaring. Bastard, it came from far in the back of his mind, along with a surge of rage. Fingers twitching around the hilt of his sword, he was just about to step forward when his cousin spoke,

“Pleased to meet you.” It was polite, formal. Théodred, as always, was impeccably mannered. He gave Éomer a familiarly stern look; it was one that he could have read in the dark—stand down, it is my watch now, little brother. The voice spoke-- Explain, it was immediate and urgent, but Éomer did not understand the order. “Here, Éowyn.” Théodred commanded. She turned from frowning sympathetically at the lathered gelding Gríma sat upon to gaze at him while he swiftly undid the clasp to his cloak and extended it to her. When Éowyn just looked puzzled, he scolded, “You’ll catch a chill, put it on little sister.”

“Indeed.” Gríma said, but his eyes were on Théodred as Éowyn wrapped the cloak over her shoulders. They were not friendly, Éomer noticed; but, instead silently fuming. Éowyn playfully smacked at her cousin and Éomer relaxed slightly as Théodred fussed over her under pretense of worry she would catch cold, moving the cloak until it completely masked her blossoming young body. Gríma spoke again, sounding as though he were forcing it, “We wouldn’t want that.”

“Not at all.” It was agreeable, but Théodred looked displeased. “Do me a favor, Éowyn?” He asked and Éomer immediately calmed, understanding—he was getting her out of Grima’s presence and away from his all too obvious interest. Calm? The voice asked; it sounded surprised, bemused. That’s something new.

“Come with me and watch the men practice at formations today?” Théodred grinned confidently as she smiled; it was a task he knew she enjoyed. Éomer, ignoring Gríma, took his sister’s training sword and began to walk to the shed to return it to its place. Why do you not fear? The voice asked promptly. Théodred will watch her, he answered with assurance.

Théodred glanced at Gríma. “Yes, I think now.” Smiling, delighted, Éowyn whistled for Lýtling and the colt raised his head from his hay. Hooves stepping lightly on the damp ground, ears pricked, he readily walked out the open door of his stall to his mistress and stood for her to mount. Éomer halted to offer his cupped hands as a stirrup, and since she’d ridden side-saddle, she accepted. Éowyn stepped into his hand and seated herself, yanking at the wet folds of her skirts to get them in place. As she gathered the reins, Lýtling pawed, ready for her command.

“Make sure they don’t slack! Shout at them for me.” Éomer grinned as she murmured into the bay’s small, back turned ear and he enthusiastically stepped away, strides short and quick as he paced Théodred to the lean-to. While his cousin swung aboard his horse Éomer stood and watched the stranger watch his sister. It angered him, the obvious hunger in his eyes. He was used to stable boys and young servants gazing at her all moony-eyed and adoring, but they were harmless. Gríma did not look harmless.

He opened his eyes, gasping. For a moment he did not smell the familiar scent of earth, grass and horses and Faramir was disoriented. Then the memory faded away and he now knew why Éomer had remembered it so vividly. He straightened, his back creaking from leaning forward, braced against the wall and motionless for so long. Still looking out over the city, he ruefully thought that re-living it raised more questions in his mind than the memory had answered. Éomer had seemed so—relaxed and at ease then, even, Faramir thought, shaking his head in bafflement, with a stranger ogling at his sister. It made for a strange comparison to the man he knew. Faramir sighed, rubbing his face wearily. His head was throbbing and he would have many occasions to think about this later. When Éowyn is gone, he thought with a burst of depression, I’ll have plenty of time.

Turning, he looked back into the dining hall and was pleased to see that Éowyn was slowly walking toward him. His depression faded and Faramir smiled. Her head was bent, inclined to listen to Merry speak as they walked and Faramir noticed when the hobbits took their leave she did not ruffle their curls like he might have been tempted to do. Instead, Éowyn laid a hand on their shoulders, treating them as though they were men. Perhaps that is why they love her so, Faramir thought. He observed them walking at her side, instead of trotting as they often did with Aragorn or Gandalf. It puzzled him until, smiling, he noticed the way she subtly shortened her strides to match theirs.

Halfway between him and the entrance to the dining hall, Éowyn stopped. She spoke kindly, dropping to one knee. The hobbits’ faces were solemn, saddened. Curious, he watched as she hugged them tightly. Pippin’s darker curls pressed against her shoulder first and to Faramir’s surprise the hobbit went on tiptoe and kissed her cheek. With a laugh, Éowyn playfully swatted at him and he jumped back. His cousin was next and Merry hugged her with all his strength. Éowyn pressed her chin to his temple, murmuring. When the hobbit finally released her, he smirked and kissed her as well. She pretended disgust, wiping her cheek and Merry laughed out loud. Faramir glanced away self-consciously, then back again as Merry and Pippin bowed to her. Éowyn smiled as she bid them goodnight. While Faramir was still grinning at the hobbits’ impertinence, Merry suddenly glanced over at him, standing against the wall’s edge, silhouetted in the faint light, and he got the distinct impression that if the hobbit were a man he would have a fierce and determined rival. There was a formidable glint in the Brandybuck’s eye and Faramir nodded to him respectfully.

“Sorry I kept you waiting.” Éowyn had come to within a few feet of him now. She glanced out over the city, then back to his eyes, “What were you doing?”

“Thinking.” He replied, automatically offering her his arm. She smiled and took it. Faramir began to walk, not knowing where they were going, but enjoying her warmth and presence against his side. He was doubly happy when she leaned her head against his shoulder. I could do this for a while, Faramir thought, this is nice. He glanced down at her, matching his strides to hers.

“Did he say something to you?” Now she sounded concerned and stopped to stare up at him. “Do something?”

“Tired, I suppose.” In reality he was. Faramir’s head ached from repeatedly applying his gift. He rubbed his forehead, grimacing slightly. He’d done more today than in years and the unaccustomed use made his temples throb.

“Oh." Eowyn began walking again. "I won’t keep you late, then.” She said. Does she sound sad? Disappointed? he wondered and almost hoped she did. They walked in silence for a while, getting closer and closer to where his path and hers branched in different directions.

“I don’t mind,” He said and glanced down. He didn’t want to say goodnight yet; just then inspiration hit and Faramir asked, “Can I walk you to your door?”

Éowyn took a second to agree, her voice low, “All right.” They turned toward her quarters at the hall’s fork and Faramir began to try and think up a way to stay for a while. Suddenly, by accident, his broken hand brushed his leg. Wincing at the small flare of pain, Faramir noticed his fingers had touched something in his pocket. After a second of concentration, he remembered what it was he’d placed in there. He glanced at Éowyn’s golden head, her cheek lying on his shoulder and thought, I hope she likes it.

Éomer had had enough of Aragorn’s strange, melancholy mood. It was damned irritating and he just wanted to sleep. He fought a yawn as he paced him through wide, dark streets. I have a long ride to start tomorrow, he thought, glaring sideways at Aragorn. First the man had asked to speak with him, but then he’d barely said a word. Next, Aragorn had bid him walk around the Citadel and Éomer had reluctantly agreed. He had no idea what the man’s problem was and as the silence dragged, cared less and less. “Aragorn, what is it that you wanted?” Éomer tried to be as tactful as possible, but it was difficult as they’d just passed the same broken statue for the third time. He stared at it's carven face, wondering who it used to be and if the person had really been that unattractive.

The King shrugged, looking sad. “Company.” He sighed. “I’m losing two friends tomorrow, you know.”

“It’s the beginning of the end.” It was a strange statement that made Éomer uneasy. He stopped walking. Aragorn halted as well, moving to the wall and placing his hands upon it. He hesitated, wondering how late it was, then decided--he’s your friend, ask him. Aragorn was looking out over the city when he questioned,

He seemed startled and embarrassed. “Nothing, nothing. Go on to your bed.” Aragorn summoned a smile. “Don’t let me keep you.”

“All right.” Éomer moved to go then stopped, “There is…there is nothing else you wish to discuss?” He cringed inwardly, but managed to ask anyway. In Aragorn’s current mood there was no way of telling what he might say.

“No. Go on.” The King stood gazing over the walls of the city, a glum expression on his face. He didn’t speak again and Éomer shrugged.

“As you wish. Goodnight.” With a small bow, he turned and walked away. Navigating the dark halls, Éomer’s mind began to wander and specifically, down a familiar road—Éowyn. Although she hadn’t spoken to him, his sister had touched his shoulder when she’d passed him at dinner and he couldn’t decide if he should try and speak with her tonight or wait. She’s not a morning person, he smiled. It might be better now. Turning his steps toward her rooms, Eomer walked faster. If he was lucky he could make this quick.

They reached her door all too soon for Faramir’s taste. He stood quietly as Éowyn lifted her head from his shoulder, slipping her arm away from his grasp. She gave him a small smile, her hands rubbing each other nervously. She knows I want to come in, he thought. He reached out to touch her mind, trying to determine the extent of her discomfort; he was relieved and puzzled to find it didn’t seem to be directed at him. Wait—he blinked, how did I know that? Yesterday I would have been lucky to feel her anxiety, much less so clearly or get a vague idea where it was aimed. Uneasy now, Faramir waited for her to speak.

Finally, she took a breath and straightened. “I…um,” Éowyn began. “Do—“

She seemed a bit startled at his directness, but quickly recovered. “Uh, yes. Yes.” Éowyn opened the door, holding it for him to enter. It was dark, so he stood in the doorway as she went in. The servants had started a small fire, and she jabbed it with a poker. Soon embers flared up, sparks flying, then a few flames rose, feebly flickering. She stuck two candles into the orange flames, lighting their wicks and using them to light others. Soon it was light enough to see a bit and Faramir gazed around her rooms in curiosity.

Éowyn was neat, that was the first thing he noticed. There were no clothes or miscellaneous things on the floor, nor any clutter anywhere; the only slightly off thing was a chair pulled near the wall, angled outward. Taking a step to the right, he peeked into the cracked door of her bedroom—her bed was made and all the drawers were closed, with the top on her dresser clean of any objects. Inwardly he smiled, imagining his own rooms and secretly feeling like a slob. But, as Faramir moved his eyes, he frowned. Both rooms were very visibly and almost purposely unadorned; there was nothing in them to say that Éowyn had been here for as long as she had. He turned, carefully looking while she lit candles. Even as the light improved, he could see nothing he’d expect in a woman’s rooms. Not that I have any comparisons, he thought, but was still slightly troubled. Finally, he alighted on two things—a hairbrush, and the faded, dried blue flowers she’d worn in her hair and on her wrist when they’d gone riding. These things were sitting on her small sofa alongside the same two lumpy, dirty sacks he’d seen her toting in the street. Merry’s gift, however, still woven into wreaths and obviously set down with care, was the only real personal effect and feminine touch in the entirety of her rooms. He absently ran his fingers over the tiny bulge in his pocket, wondering if he should give it to her now, in the morning, or at all. Perhaps she wouldn’t like it, he fretted, gazing at the room’s unsociable air. Abruptly breaking his thoughts, Faramir noticed the slight pressure of her attention Wait, how? I can’t, that’s too delicate of a thing and turned. Éowyn had fitted the candles into their holders and was looking at him. Her blue eyes met his, and then quickly flicked away as she looked at her hands. He was about to speak when she looked up again, seeming to gather herself and make up her mind.

He returned her gaze and was mildly surprised when she walked forward, head shyly bent. She stopped, standing directly before him and Faramir was completely astonished when she stood on tiptoe, looking up, one hand going to the nape of his neck, pulling him down to her level. Her eyes searched his as she bit her lip, then Éowyn kissed him lightly. As she did so, her front pressed against his and Faramir automatically pulled her closer, his right arm going around her waist.

She stepped away immediately and her tone was playfully chiding, “I thought you weren’t going to.”

He sensed no real anxiety. Perhaps a slight bit of nervousness, but overall she’s far more relaxed than last night, which is very, very nice. Éowyn raised an eyebrow, waiting. She was teasing him and, Faramir, warmly remembering her hand beneath his shirt, was willing to play a bit more of this game. As long as it doesn’t go too far, he thought firmly, doubting that it would. Despite her more demonstrative attitude, he didn’t think she would do anything too aggressive and still, he’d best be easy with her. A slow smile spread over his lips as he replied, “I did say that, didn’t I?”

“Yes.” She took one step forward. Another and she would be within his reach, if he were allowed to reach, that is. “Will you keep to it?”

“Yes.” His smile widened as he bowed, inclining his head. “I’m yours to command, my lady.”

Éowyn licked her lips, looking down and smiling as she thought. He waited, impatient and trying not to be. Her tone was mischievous when she finally lifted her head and spoke, “Is that so?”

“Well, then, this is your first command.” She laughed then sobered with an effort. “Faramir, I order you to…” Éowyn giggled suddenly, interrupting herself.

“Now you’re frightening me.” He teased her by taking several steps back of his own. Éowyn rolled her eyes at him and authoritatively crooked a finger.

“You could be.” She raised an eyebrow as he purposely slowly, and reluctantly came to her. He dragged his feet, pasting a panicky expression on his face, trying not to laugh. Éowyn looked exasperated and annoyed, but he could tell she wasn’t. This is fun, he thought, teasing her. She smiled, “Perhaps you should be frightened.” When he was only a pace away she stopped him and Faramir waited, excitement mentally warring with his desire not to do anything that might scare her away. Éowyn looked him up and down and suddenly, her hand was on his side again, fingers flipping the fastenings on his tunic back and forth, playing with them. He turned his head to watch her slender hands move on the dark leather. Éowyn tugged experimentally, twisting her fingers and one metal snap unfastened. Faramir swallowed, suddenly nervous. She smirked. “You know what I want you to do.”

Éomer made it halfway there, rehearsing arguments and pleas in his head, before he remembered his promise. Damn it, he swore, stopping in the dim hall. Torches snapped and flickered all around him, their erratic light making shadows jump as he frowned. Faramir, he’d promised him the night with her unbothered. For a second Éomer was tempted, but then he shook his head; it would only annoy her further if he visited. Ah, well, the silent stage never lasts too long, he reassured himself, turning back. But yet…he hesitated, wondering how long Faramir might stay. Still…it’s just that…it bothers me the worst and she knows it. There was a breeze and Éomer watched the shadows surge on the walls. Later, perhaps? He shifted his feet, trying to decide, a matter complicated by the fact that Éomer was not used to having to share his sister’s time with anyone. Later.

He retraced his steps back through the corridor and outside the Citadel. Here, on the wide streets that were edged by the towering walls of the city themselves, he began to walk. It was dark now, with only a thin, pale moon to light his path. Carefully watching for breaks in the stones that might trip him, Éomer had just passed the place where he’d left Aragorn when he heard the small rattle and thuds of pebbles from above. Freezing to listen, his well-honed senses of self-preservation kicked in and he gripped the hilt of his sword. There was another tiny scrape and he took two quick, silent steps away from the buildings, keenly aware of the drop at his back, from which his only defense was a four foot stone barrier.

The origination of the noise seemed to be high above him, on the roof of the nearest building, its arch overhanging the city walls —it looked like a small shop of some kind, the door and shutters bolted for the night. Éomer listened closely, confused by the now rhythmic soft pound of boots maybe against stone. Someone was up there. Taking his hand from Gúthwinë’s hilt, he noticed a barrel pulled up against the lowest part of the building. If he stood on it, he could conceivably pull himself up to the roof. Éomer listened to a few more seconds of someone swinging their feet and decided it was a good a way as any to kill time.

Éowyn walked backwards and sat on her sofa, carefully moving the little flower wreaths, then waited, eyes trained upwards at him. She hid a smile behind her hand and Faramir felt ridiculously self-conscious as he began to unfasten his tunic. After all, it would be only baring him from the waist up. Still…the possibility of where his mind could take this scenario made him edgy. “Stop staring at me like that.”

He could swear she was enjoying every second of this. Exasperated, he asked, “Blink or something at least.”

“Nothing.” Finally, he had it and he slipped out of it, tossing his tunic onto the chair. Underneath, he wore a dark grey shirt. “Happy?” Faramir asked her cheerfully, pretending ignorance.

Éowyn leaned back, one hand on her stomach, the other held to her mouth, “That too.” She stretched her legs, making herself comfortable. Her eyes studied him closely, almost entertained by his nervousness and Faramir tried not to fidget. It's not like she's stripping, he thought resentfully, and then had a moment of amused regret. As he prepared to struggle out of his shirt using only his right hand, he remembered she’d mentioned something about his turn and he brightened.

He wiggled out of his left sleeve, and then a beat later sighed heavily, hanging his head, “This is humiliating.” Faramir was stuck.

Éowyn snickered, and then gracefully pushed herself to her feet. She charitably offered, “You want help?”

“Uh…” He imagined her hands on his bare skin and stepped back. “I, I can manage.”

“I doubt it.” Still, she stood, her arms folded and waited. Faramir twisted, trying to use only his left thumb and pinky to pull the thick shirt off. It was impossible and doubly so with her watching. “How did you get it on, anyway?”

“Very…” He ducked his head into the neck, “…carefully, I assure you.” Another tug with his handicapped left hand and he was now truly stuck. Faramir had no choice. He sighed, and decided he could live through her standing close and warm with her hands on his bare chest long enough to get out of this shirt. And afterwards…he refused to think about it. “Help.”

He cleared his throat meaningfully. “Help me.” Éowyn came closer. He touched her mind, hoping to find out her intentions and was perplexed with what he felt—something completely new. But before he could pursue this unfamiliar emotion, Faramir was distracted, jumping when her hands touched his stomach. But, to his relief they slid up to grip the bottom of his shirt and did not linger on his skin. “You—your hands are cold.”

“Sorry.” She murmured; and the tone of her voice was new, as well. He puzzled over it as she straightened the sleeves at the top. Éowyn swayed against him as she stood on tiptoe to pull it over his head; he could feel her hold her breath. His nerves tingling, Faramir bent to aid her, still feeling utterly foolish. A second later it was off, though and he shook the hair out of his eyes. Éowyn folded the shirt and tossed it onto the chair to keep his tunic company.

But she didn’t move away and he shifted his weight nervously. They were only inches apart and Faramir concentrated on the sound of the fire faintly crackling behind him and casting shadows on the walls, anything to avoid looking at her lips slightly parted or her eyes, soft and wondering. He could tell she was getting ready to touch him. Valar grant me restraint to survive this, he desperately prayed as Éowyn raised a hand.

Éomer silently climbed up the roof, careful not to let the sheath of his sword clunk against the building. At first he saw nothing, but then he turned his eyes to the part that overhung the drop. Carefully staying far from the brink, he inched closer. There was indeed a figure—sitting and swinging his legs over the edge and over several hundred feet of empty space. Éomer shuddered just thinking about it. He stepped closer, feeling that the man’s silhouette looked vaguely familiar. Just as he’d come three paces closer his boots scraped and the man turned his head sharply, obviously surprised. Éomer blinked in the dim light and then scolded, “What are you doing up here, don’t you know you could fall?”

He smiled and relaxed, replying in an oddly melancholy voice, “I used to stand, you know.”

Éomer got goose bumps just imagining. “Well, get away from the edge at least, you’re making me nervous.”

Éomer gritted his teeth and admitted from his position, a wary twelve feet from the sheer drop, “I do not enjoy heights.”

Aragorn grinned, and swung his feet again, thumping his heels against the building. “Want to know how high it is?”

“NO.” He shivered all over, eyeing the ridiculously tiny tile lip that would catch him if he slid towards the edge.

“Yes, now get away before you fall.” Suddenly Éomer grinned to himself and his voice turned crafty, “Or, you could just jump and Éowyn and I could rule all the civilized lands.” He chuckled. “Yes, do that.”

“That’s right, I did.” He was silent, and then he looked up at Éomer in exasperation. He snapped, sounding uncharacteristically irritated, “Aren’t you going to sit at least?”

“About what?” Gods, what could you possibly think about up here? Falling to your horrible, horrible death?

Éomer weighed his curiosity over the threat of certain demise. “No, tell me on the ground.”

“Fine.” Éomer carefully lowered himself, paranoid. “Tell me why you’re up here, thinking about miles of all things.” And tell me why you’re in such a damn mood, he added.

Faramir shivered as she touched him. Goose bumps instantly rose under her feather light caresses over his skin. Starting at his collar, her fingers trailing in swirls, brushing his chest hair, and then hovering lower, lower…his breath hitched in his chest as she stroked his stomach. Her palm was flat and warm as it moved and his control could take no more. He rasped out, “Don’t. Éowyn, stop.”

She took her hand back quickly, as though startled, and her eyes were wide, “All right.”

“It’s just—“ Faramir’s voice was strangely tight, even to him. I barely sound like myself, he thought in astonishment. “Just no more of that.” Please.

She nodded, licking her lips and frowning. “Want to put it back on? You look…” Éowyn trailed off, but she seemed slightly nervous, as she had when she’d felt how fast his heart had been racing. Oh, but if you could hear it now my love, Faramir thought in uncontrolled, almost hysterical amusement.

“Yes, please.” Thank you. Éowyn picked up his shirt, turning it back right side out and scrunched it up around the collar to make it easy. She seemed familiar with this, so he asked, “How do you know to do that?” as she raised it over his head.

She pulled down, careful not to catch on his face and Faramir put his arms in the sleeves as she stepped back. “You knew how to do it so well. I mean, bunch up the collar.”

Éowyn seemed uneasy, as though she really didn’t want to tell him. “Oh, I broke my wrist once. It's just easier.”

“How did you do that?” Faramir pulled the shirt down; feeling much better covered and hoping her explorations were over or, at least, would be less intense. He gazed at her and thought despairingly, I just want to hold you and you won’t let me. Odd, you’re afraid when my arms are around you, but these other times…

“Actually, I didn’t do it.” She hesitated. “Théodred did.” Seeing his next question in his eyes, Éowyn added, “He didn’t mean to. He--it was an accident. He snuck up behind me.”

She sighed, folding her arms and rocking on her heels, “I almost gutted him, but he grabbed my wrist instead.”

Faramir put the mysterious cloth bags on the floor and gestured at her couch. “Sit and tell me?”

“…and I saw her.” He smiled reverentially. “She was like…like a dream, like the dream of a woman before there ever was one—utterly beautiful, so serene and compelling...” Aragorn’s expression turned awed, almost worshipping and Éomer clenched his jaw to keep from howling with laughter. This is unbelievable. The man had been going on for at least ten minutes in this fashion. There was a moment’s pause and a cool wind blew past, pushing clouds in the night sky and then he continued, “But…and yet she’s so delicate—just like a flower, slender and swaying in a summer’s breeze—” His tale was abruptly and rudely interrupted--Éomer could take no more. He burst out laughing as Aragorn turned from contemplating the stars to frown at him.

“Yes. Why?” Éomer kept laughing, gasping for air, his chest hurting as Aragorn looked alternately puzzled and annoyed. “What is so amusing?”
“Nothing. Nothing my friend. Keep going,” He flapped a hand at the scowling King, “on about your perfect,” He sniggered, unable to help himself, “perfect elven woman.”

“She is matchless.” Aragorn smiled dreamily and Éomer turned away to keep from laughing again. His good intentions were all for naught as the King sighed and added, “In every way possible.”

This time he was on his back, breathing in slow, deep draughts and clutching his sides when he finally stopped laughing. Weary, he smiled while Aragorn glowered at him and Éomer managed to sit up on one elbow and say, “You’re pathetic.”

“Listen to yourself—“like a flower, slender, and,”” He chuckled feebly, propping himself up with his palms, almost laughed out and then, grinning, quoted the rest in a high-pitched, mocking falsetto, “swaying in a summer’s breeze…matchless! Ah, Arwen!”

Éomer snorted at the grumpy tone. “You practically did.” He grinned, then and said, “Admit it.”

“No, I won’t.” He pitched a pebble over the wall. “Because I didn’t.”

“You sound like a child.” A love-sick child, Éomer added, hugely amused. “Go on.”

“Why aren’t you asleep, anyhow?” Aragorn asked crossly. “I thought that’s where you were going.”

“No, I was going to see Éowyn, but,” he sighed, “I decided to go later and I heard you up here, swinging your feet.” Before Aragorn could speak, he added, “Why are you in such a mood?”

So it’s going to be like this…well, not up here, he thought. “You know, Théodred did this sometimes, but,” Éomer began to stand, “he was courteous enough to do it in a tavern where I could drink and look at women if he got too moody.” He brushed at his clothes and commanded, “Get up, Aragorn.”

Éomer rolled his eyes to the sky and determinedly continued, “We’re going somewhere where you can get drunk.” And not be this high up.

Aragorn smiled and shook his head in annoyance. “I forgot how it was like in Rohan.” He chuckled as he gave in and swung his legs back over the wall, scooting back and standing. Éomer felt his stomach plunge with vertigo just imagining getting to his feet that close to the edge. Aragorn laughed again. “You know, if you and Faramir had gotten into that fight in a bar, you’d be best friends by now.”

Affronted by the idea, Éomer stiffly growled, “I do not think so.” Inwardly, he grimaced; you are a fool if you think that a few pints of ale would make him my friend.

“Don’t lie; I remember what it was like now.” Aragorn followed him back to where the barrel sat, sounding far more cheerful now that he was picking at Éomer. “You’d already have married them and…” He chuckled again. “He’d be naming his son after you.” Éomer gave him a disgusted look then he carefully began to climb down, not wishing to fall and crack his head open upon the hard stones. He’d just reached the street when Aragorn added, “Did you apologize to him?”
“Yes.” He stepped back while the King jumped off of the barrel.

“That was kind of you.” Aragorn paused then asked, obviously irritated. “So, where’s my damn apology, Éomer?”

Faramir waited quietly while Éowyn thought of how to begin. There was a strand of hair in her face that he wished to move, to tuck back, but didn’t. He was rather afraid to. She bit her lip, staring at the wall and not seeing it. He’d intentionally given her room, sitting down a short distance away from her; he told himself he was honoring his agreement to not touch her, but really his growing unease had prompted the gap.

He could hear her thoughts, especially the strong ones. Théodred, no, well, really…oh, gods just tell it. Irritation, anxiety, old shame…it poured off of her with increasing ease, making him fear. Faramir didn’t understand it and he worried. I don’t want to hear her thoughts. Why can I? He fretted that it would get worse if he touched her, skin to skin. It was always easier that way. Could she hear me? I don’t want to burden her. Yesterday this was impossible. Hastily, he tried to clear his mind. It had never worked like this before; he’d always had to put out some effort to hear even the hobbits’ lively, unguarded thoughts.

“It was...” Éowyn rubbed her right wrist, frowning. “…six months ago, I think.” She swallowed, looking down. “He wasn’t supposed to be at Edoras. He and Éomer had ridden out almost a week before.” She glanced over at him. “They tried not to be gone at the same time, but sometimes they had to…of course, neither of them knew about Gríma—I…I didn’t dare tell.” He could feel the humiliation course through her at the mere mention of the man’s name. It hurt; twisting his heart and Faramir started to reach out, but stopped himself with an effort. If you touch her, it will be worse, he warned. Éowyn continued, “They didn’t want me to be alone.” She smiled wanly. “It was two days after my birthday and Théodred rode all night to come and get me. They’d gotten me something special.”

“Do you want to know what they said it was, or what they really got me?” Éowyn laughed, a small sound.

“Théodred…I put six stitches in his stomach—it wasn’t deep,” She shuddered, “but it needed them to keep it closed. Anyhow, he and I rode back to meet with Éomer the next day.” Éowyn looked near tears, “There were men picking up orc corpses everywhere, piling them up. Théodred turned to me and said, “You can throw the torch, little sister. Happy birthday.””

“They constantly jested and neither of them could ever keep a straight face.” She smiled sadly, “Éomer always broke first and he did this time, too. He was trying not to laugh while I just stood there, my mouth open.” He smiled. “Théodred got all apologetic and asked, “Don’t you like it?”” Of course I told him no and he paced around, pretending to think. “I think she’s grown out of it, Éomer. She doesn’t want to play with swords or spears any more.”” Éowyn swallowed, her voice weak, “He acted like nothing had happened. I—I…he knew something was dreadfully wrong, that I was afraid enough to carry a knife, to strike at someone without hesitating.” She looked up suddenly, “I thought he would weep, he was so concerned when he asked me but,” Now she wrapped her arms around herself, and he saw a tear course down Éowyn’s cheek. “I couldn’t tell him. He would tell Éomer and--” Faramir couldn’t keep himself from comforting her.

“Shh.” He slid nearer, putting his arm around her shoulder, still terribly careful not to touch her bare skin. The closer contact alone heightened his sense of her mind, making him worry. She was miserable with guilt and despair—it made his chest ache with pent up emotion.

“So, he said, “How about something pretty then?”” and called one of the men up to ride and pick me some flowers.” Éowyn laughed, pained. “Éomer was still standing there, this big, silly grin on his face and I knew. They knew I did, they were just—“ She went quiet. Faramir planted a fleeting kiss on the top of her head, risking contact. “So, they made me wait for a while longer, going back and forth, “I don’t know.” “She won’t like it.” Until I finally just screamed at them and Éomer reached into his saddlebags and pulled out a puppy.”

“Yes. They got it to watch over me and keep me company.” Éowyn hesitated, and then finished her tale. “Théodred was strong—he broke my wrist trying to get me to drop my dagger and I was glad he did, otherwise I might have seriously cut him. I was so afraid then, always imagining I could hear footsteps behind me…I did for real that time, but I didn’t think it was him.” She leaned against his shoulder and Faramir closed his eyes, trying to find some mental distance at least. Elenya, Anarya, Isilya, Adulya, Menelya… “I thought it was Gríma, and I didn’t care anymore. I remember thinking, let them call me a killer, let them hang me if they wish—just no more.” Éowyn sighed. “So, he got closer and closer, then he grabbed my arm and I turned and tried to gut him and he took it from me. That’s how I broke my wrist.”

It was a terrible story. I wish it had been Gríma, he thought firmly, viciously. Then Faramir’s blood ran cold when Éowyn moved her arm and her skin touched his. She answered his mental voice, saying softly, “So do I.”

“What apology? You knew there was a good possibility I would hit you when you grabbed me.”

“Are you mad?” Aragorn stopped, glaring. “How would I know that?”
Éomer halted as well. This was ridiculous. “Everyone knows. Haven’t you ever been in a fight in a tavern before?”

This was so completely astonishing that Éomer just stared. Finally, he asked, “Are you serious?”

“How could you not have been in one? Isn’t that what you did? Skulk around inns?”

Éomer sighed and began walking again. “You said you hid under a cloak in the shadows.”

“Now, I didn’t put it like that…” Aragorn protested, following at his side.

He continued, “You might as well have. That’s skulking.” He shook his head, unable to believe it. “Never? Its impossible, I mean, you’re not very menacing…”

Éomer critically eyed the crushed velvet tunic, the silk and elaborate stitching in his shirt and Aragorn conceded the point, “Well, I was.”

Aragorn was a bit vague, “People, lots of people in different towns. They thought I was a ruffian.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes until the King burst out, “Éomer am I going to get an apology or what?”
“No, but you are going to get something.” This has potential to be the most entertaining night of my life, Éomer thought, grinning.

Éomer glanced at him, and said merrily, “The experience of getting thoroughly drunk, and then getting into a brawl.”

“I can’t do that—I’m a King. King’s don’t get into fights. It’s undignified.”

He sighed, “Look, we’ll put you in one of your old Ranger cloaks and go down to the first level. No one will know it’s you.”

Aragorn was obviously refusing to consider this as a learning opportunity. Éomer thought he was being gutless. Come on, you’ve fought orcs and who knows what else. “And you want me to get into a fight?”

“Of course.” It was sarcastic and Éomer grinned. At least he’ll shut up and stop mooning over his woman, he thought, walking faster.

Faramir watched her play with his sleeve. Éowyn’s fingers twisted it, and then smoothed it, over and over, touching his wrist; she hadn’t spoken for a while and he wondered if he should leave. I don’t want to, he thought, his mental voice strong with desire.

Éowyn shifted against him, moving her arm and he could feel her suddenly nervous, but gathering her courage. “You don’t have to.” Again, I don’t like this he shivered, and then thought, What?

Éowyn smiled at his hesitance, curling her legs up under her. Her shoulder was warm where she leaned against him and it was nice and she didn’t want it to end. What will you do with him, though? She frowned. He won’t do anything, you know it. Do I? Yes. It was firm. “Only if you promise to behave.”

“I promise—“And as he said it, she took Faramir’s hand in hers and his voice was strange, as he said at the same time, words flowing together, “…to... Valar, why…behave… must she go…myself… when I’m just getting this far?...I… It is…will… unfair,...do… terribly so…nothing, I swear.”

Éowyn froze, her skin prickling all over. “What did you say?” She whispered nervously. He frowned at her.

This time, it was, No, no, I don’t believe...“I said, I promise to do nothing, I swear.” Faramir paused, then looked at her more closely and asked, sounding gentle as ever, “What’s wrong?”

She let go of his hand and stood, quickly backing away. His gaze searched hers, and she waited but heard nothing. “No, the other. First it was about the Valar, and then you said you didn’t believe something.” Faramir’s eyes widened and he looked away from her, staring at the floor. “What...what was that?”

He touched his right temple and then took his hand away. He was obviously uneasy. “I don’t know—“

“Yes you do.” She was certain, she’d seen the flash of panic in his grey eyes before he’d turned away. There was a beat of silence. “Faramir.” Éowyn pleaded and reached out—but he immediately batted her hand away.

She swallowed, hurt and frightened. Faramir hadn’t acted like this before—almost as if he were guilty of something. “Why not?” She stared down at him. “What’s wrong?”

When he finally spoke, it was slow, his voice dull, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened. I didn’t mean to.”

Éowyn felt cold. Something wasn’t right at all. “What are you talking about? You’re frightening me.”

“It’s a secret, an advantage, I suppose.” He gave a forced laugh, “It’s a nuisance, really. I can...” He hesitated, then, reluctant to finish.

“What?” When he hesitated again, still not meeting her gaze, she said tightly, “Tell me.” I trusted you, now you have to trust me. Éowyn thought her heart would stop in her chest when he looked up and gave her a small, sad smile.

Éomer shoved open the door; it was heavy and creaked on its rusty, grimed hinges, announcing their arrival to the most secluded ale house he could find in the City. He was grinning as he entered, shooting an enormously entertained glance back at Aragorn. Cloaked and hooded in anonymously dull and mud-stained clothes, the man looked nothing whatsoever like a King. There was a crowd of men—all ages, some in uniform, some not. Éomer noticed a sudden dispersal as he walked further inside; to his amusementand irritation I said dawn, did they not listen? a few young Rohirrim quickly downed the last of their ales and slunk out the door, not meeting his gaze.

“Come on.” He moved to a far corner table, Aragorn silently trailing him. Grabbing a chair, he turned it around to sit, folding his arms over the back. Aragorn slumped across from him, his long legs stretched out carelessly. Éomer tried not to laugh, thinking he was overdoing it a bit, and then with a shout and a gesture he attracted the attention of a barmaid. She’s not bad looking at all, he thought, perking up slightly as the woman pushed her way through the heavily occupied tavern carrying a tray with two mugs gently sloshing. Foam splattered the already filthy floor as he glanced at the dark, shadowed face across from him. “Are you going to talk at least?”

“Good.” An ample brunette in a low cut red dress, the woman set the mugs down in front of them, sparing both men a curious look. Aragorn ignored her, of course, staring at the scarred, stained tabletop. Don’t pay attention to him, love, he’s no use, Éomer thought; he gave her a winning smile, over here, lovely. That’s it. He smiled again as she gingerly eyed him. Come now, I can’t look that bad. But, to his dismay, with an arched eyebrow and a contemptuous toss of her skirt, she left them alone. Damn it.

“What the hell’s taking them so long?” Aragorn growled suddenly. “He’s doing it on purpose, you know.”

“Who? What?” He was still watching her disappear into the dimness; regretfully Éomer turned back to the man opposite him.

“Them. Arwen. Elrond.” Aragorn glared into his mug. “I’m king. I’ve fulfilled my part. I want her here.”

“Oh.” Again, damn it. No woman to keep him engaged and Aragorn was still talking about his darling elves. At least there’s something to drink, Éomer thought. He lifted his mug and took a long swallow. It was very strong and fairly tolerable. Aragorn can’t talk about her forever, can he?

He’d put his head in his hands, mumbling something she couldn’t quite hear. Éowyn asked again, this time less forcefully, “Tell me, Faramir, please?”

He heaved a sigh. “It’s hard to explain.” Faramir raised his head; he looked tired and rather ashamed.

Cautiously, she moved forward, her hands clasped in front of her, still very much keeping in mind his swatting her away a few minutes ago. “I’ll try to understand.”

“I can—“ He frowned, stopping to say, “I won’t hit you again. It was just, I…” Faramir grimaced, his voice frustrated, “I don’t want to burden you.”

“Burden me with what?” How did he know I was thinking of that? She was increasingly nervous but trying not to be.

“I—believe me when I say I can’t help it and I don’t know why. It was never, never this strong before.” Faramir looked away from her, and said, his tone sincere and yet somehow bruised sounding; “I can read your thoughts, your emotions…even memories.” He glanced at her before finishing, “Everything, I think, if I wanted to—which I don’t, of course.”

It took her an eternally long second to reply. Éowyn felt frozen, her mind unable to grasp his words. “What did you say?”

Faramir leaned back on the small sofa, not looking at her. “It’s true, I’m sorry.”

Éowyn tried to comprehend but failed again. “Is this…a jest of some kind?”

“No.” He gave a short, harsh laugh. “I would not jest about such a thing.”

Her hands clenched each other painfully tight. My thoughts, my emotions…gods, even my memories…“You can..."

“You’re hurting yourself.” Faramir sat up abruptly, looking concerned. Éowyn shivered and closed her eyes tightly as an icy chill went down her spine, coiling itself like a serpent in her abdomen. My thoughts, my emotions, my memories…andwhat occurred to her next was inevitable and utterly monstrous. Gríma could have only trespassed upon my body, but—“Don’t think that!” Faramir’s voice was sharp, pained.

Éowyn sounded far away to herself, dim and foggy as she opened her eyes and gazed at him. “Think what?”

He seemed to be trying to get through to her, speaking carefully and forcefully. “I would never do such a thing.”

You are a fool, Faramir. He flinched, as she slowly answered, “Haven’t you already?”

Faramir sounded alarmed, which she supposed, he should be. Weak spots: bridge of nose, eyes, throat, broken hand, stomach, groin, knees…it was running through her mind as she took another step backwards. Gríma could have only trespassed upon my body, only raped my flesh, even if he killed me he could have never touched who I was inside…I am defenseless. Completely without a shield. “Please stop, Éowyn. Don’t…don’t think that, please.” He was trying not to horrify her further and failing.

Then, the unthinkable occurred to her and Éowyn felt her rage and humiliation balling up hot and heavy inside her chest. It was an effort not to scream, to spring at him, her hands distorted into claws. Oh, gods, what if…“Have you been doing it the entire time?”

Faramir looked honestly sickened. “No.” Then, to her outrage, he blanched and muttered, “Well…”

I let him…I even almost began to want him to…“Is that how you got me to trust you, to allow you to—“she shuddered, repulsed and appalled, “kiss me, touch me…” Éowyn straightened then. The shame was too much to bear. Wretched and entirely unable to stop the tears that burned and began to fall hot on her cheeks, she spat at him in tones of venomous hatred, “You made me care about you, didn’t you, you bastard?”

She noted his expression—it was one of admirably sincere looking distress. Perhaps…NO! I will not be a fool’s toy, least of all yours, you son of a bitch. Curse you! “It’s all been lies, hasn’t it?” She laughed then, her throat tight with the sobs that she refused to loose in front of him. And to think, I was almost rid of him. “All lies. Tell me, what did you want—me as a prize in your bed? Or was fooling me simply a pleasant diversion from your duties?”

“No. Please…” Faramir stood then and she backed further.She was roughly eight feet away at this point. He’s a warrior, watch him. Gods, what am I doing? It doesn’t matter, Éowyn thought in despair; there’s nowhere to hide, is there? He frowned, obviously disconcerted, “Just, will you just listen?”

She laughed again, a high, taut sound. “I think not. That time is over, Faramir.”

He took a slow, deliberate step in her direction. Éowyn tensed and he stopped. “It’s all right, I know you’re angry—“

“Just calm down and listen, listen to me.” Faramir held up his hand, holding her eyes. “Just a few minutes, I promise.”

She hesitated, wanting very much to believe all he’d said and yet…what else don’t I know? What does he know about me? I wanted to love you, you bastard. “You may speak, but quickly.” Éowyn’s throat tightened with humiliation and fury. “Tell me your excuses.”

“I know it’s far…but, still, I should have had some word by now. Something. She always sends me a letter if she knows where I am and that it’s safe. She knows, Éomer and nothing.” Aragorn’s ale sloshed over the rim of his cup, foaming light brown onto the tabletop as he slammed it to the chipped wood. Éomer blinked, waste of drink, you fool. Suddenly processing what he’d just heard, he wondered, whom does she address it to? The dirty, rascally-looking man lurking in the corner? Éomer snorted laughter and then, because Aragorn was a friend, he tried to think of some reply to the man’s half-furious, half-miserable and lovesick jabbering; a reply that did not involve poking fun at him, “Perhaps—“

“Do not give me excuses!” Aragorn glowered at him for a moment. Éomer took another drink, completely undaunted by his glare. The King sighed deeply and wailed into his still almost full mug, “I just miss her so terribly.”

Oh, gods… “Yes, with the—the perfect…ness and all.” Éomer was trying not to titter hysterically as his head finally began to buzz. He took another deep draught, draining his mug. Dismayed, he glanced at Aragorn, but he didn’t seem to notice when he raised his hand and shouted for another. Trying for the last drops, he mumbled past the cracked rim, “Drink, drink. You’ll forget about all that.”

“I don’t want to forget. Ever.” The King replied peevishly. Éomer was barely listening, instead peering through the shifting mass of people to find their maid. Ah, there she is. He gave her a slow, purposely inviting smile as she approached. But, again, he was rebuffed as, using excessive force that caused the foam floating at the top of his mug to splash into his lap, she put down his new drink. Disdainfully, the brunette snapped,

“’Ere you go.” Come now, why so cold, my lovely? It’s naught but a broken nose and a few bruises Éomer thought, glancing down at his wet clothes. Drips of ale splattered onto the floor when he shifted and he grimaced.

“Thank you.” He said politely, still not yet accepting defeat in this encounter. Narrowing her eyes, she flounced away in a swirl of ample bosom and skirts, clearly uninterested. He frowned in consternation as he moved on the chair, trying to get comfortable in his damp trousers. Perhaps not this one, he mused. Then, as he was looking around the tavern for any other good-looking women, Éomer abruptly noticed Aragorn was still talking and had been for quite some time,

“Yes.” He smiled and picked up his mug. Éomer took a long drink before adding, “In fact, I agree with you.”
Aragorn looked pleased and then his face fell. “You weren’t listening, were you?”

“Not a damn word.” He snickered gleefully. “Drink you idiot, you can’t enjoy a fight if you’re sober.”

“I told you, I’m not fighting anyone.” Aragorn protested, but drank obediently anyhow.

Éomer grinned. “We’ll see about that.” He gestured to the room. “Plenty to pick from.”

“I’m sorry I can’t help it and...I’m sorry you feel this way, but…” Faramir paced a few steps, searching for words. “I’m not…I wouldn’t…” He sighed and stopped, facing her.

“Go on.” Her voice was as dead and dull as the rest of her; the fires of her fury had banked into chill ashes. Cold tears now threatened, but she managed to keep them at bay. It didn’t matter what he said. Nothing particularly matters, does it? She moved his tunic and sat on the chair, holding it in her lap. Éowyn smoothed her hands over the cool leather, feeling the raised stars and the intertwining branches of the White Tree. She remembered tracing them in the garden, amazed to see how he caught his breath and feeling a strange new sense of power; it was something she’d never dreamed existed. Her hands tightened on the weatherworn leather and she looked up at him, thinking I’m sure you can hear this and I hope it hurts you to know how you make me feel. Faramir winced and she smiled wanly at her victory.

He looked away, then very abruptly back at her. Éowyn gazed up at him as Faramir’s eyes turned slightly inward. Their grey depths darkened, turning turbulent and suddenly she felt an odd touch of some kind, feather-light and all but unnoticeable…he was inside her… as he said softly, “Very vulnerable…afraid, too… sorrow, anger; but you want to believe me…” His grey eyes refocused on hers. “It does.”

Éowyn’s voice was high, tinny in her closed throat. I felt him, I felt him…“Don’t do that, please.”

“You’re trembling.” Faramir frowned. As she shut her eyes, he came to kneel at her feet. His hand hovered over hers (she felt the warmth) and then withdrew. “If I touch you it will be worse. I won’t be able to control it at all.” Then he hesitated and added, almost surprised, “At least, I think.”

Damn you, she thought as one tear escaped her restraint. If you’d just… “That’s how you knew, wasn’t it?” Éowyn looked at him, kneeling before her, “How you knew I lied?”

His expression contained more than sorrow; there was also the slightest trace of anger. “Yes.”

There was no question of trying that again. She still loved him. And why? I want to hate you, she thought. You make me feel defenseless and utterly naked, just when I felt safe at your side at last. “Faramir?”

“I’m still sorry I lied, but I think I’m more sorry now that you didn’t believe it.” Éowyn stood and held out his tunic.

She did warn me there would be some taming involved, he thought ruefully. And, yet, he was not ready to give up. There was one more thing to try. If I have the courage. “I will leave if you wish.” Faramir moved as if to reach for his tunic, but instead he captured her wrist and her eyes went wide as it he felt his mind flow through her.

“There’s nothing I can do.” Aragorn sighed. “I know that, I know, but…I just want to do something.” Éomer stared at him. “You know?”

“No.” He snickered, but Aragorn paid him no attention, instead swirling his ale.

“I know I shouldn’t…I’m being selfish, I mean, Elrond’s leaving and she isn’t—because of me— and,” He grimaced, “And, I’m being selfish. Aren’t I?” Éomer blinked, thinking that Aragorn had started to make less and less actual sense as the night progressed. It’s an improvement, though. Makes him more interesting.

“I don’t know.” He tried not to laugh imagining what the next hour would sound like. “Go on.”

At this stage, Aragorn needed very little prompting. “So, like I was saying,” He frowned, looking slightly puzzled and Éomer grinned in delight as he continued, “I was saying…what was I saying, Éomer?”

“I don’t know.” He chuckled at the King’s irritated expression. Then, getting an idea and deciding to mess with him, he added, “You’ve been speaking elvish.”

“I have?” Aragorn was almost comically startled and nearly dropped his drink. Éomer hid his burst of laughter in his mug. Swallowing, he stared at Aragorn over the rim and with an effort he made his voice sincere.

“It’s all right, you’ve,” He snickered, “you’re having a tough time.”

Aragorn was actually looking very contrite and Éomer was having a difficult time of it himself trying not to laugh hysterically. Warm all over from the ale, he smothered a grin as Aragorn seriously said, “I’ll try not to do it again.”

“Good.” He pasted on a sober, understanding expression. “Go on, my friend. Get it out. I’m listening.”

“It’s all right.” Faramir whispered it over and over; Éowyn’s eyes were wide, her pulse fluttering as her breathing came faster and faster and he could feel her disorientation and panic as he opened to her. Don’t fear Éowyn. It was surprisingly easy and curiously simple, once he’d done it, to hold himself back and give her free rein; it was as though he’d been waiting his whole life to do this—Faramir pulled her to his front and she swayed against him, her forehead resting on his shoulder. He released her wrist, instead wrapping his arms around her waist, sensing how close she was to collapse. Trying not to bend too much of his attention on her, he murmured softly into her ear, “Don’t be afraid, I will not harm you.”

She trembled in his arms. Faramir gazed down at her in empathy; he knew how she felt, of course, far better than ever—all night she’d been in control, with his promises not to touch her and his eyes closed and now he’d taken that from her quite suddenly. I’m sorry, but I could not leave, I won’t let you get rid of me. He directed it to her, knowing she could hear him.

There was no answer, but after a moment, Éowyn’s hands crept up his back, fingers and palms pressing against his shoulder blades as he held her. She shivered again, her nose burying into his collar and then whispered, “Who is that man?”

“What did you see?” Faramir asked the top of her head, shifting his feet, spreading them for better balance as he held her up. Éowyn, though not any heavy weight, was still swaying and barely keeping her feet; overwhelmed, he assumed.

“A tall man, he…he looks at you—and your brother.” She looked up, with her eyes half-lidded and muttered, in a voice that came as much from within her as without. “You, you were playing chess. You were winning—never played, never, but…” Éowyn frowned, “Boromir knew how to, so you knew how to.”

“That was my father.” Faramir remembered that day with pain. It had been easy to know when to move and where on the unfamiliar board; his brother’s mind had told him everything he’d needed.

“He looked at you, when he knew, he—your brother couldn’t but you could. He knew and he looked at you…” She swallowed, her arms hugging him tighter. “Like a snake that must be quickly killed.”

“Shh, it was long ago. It doesn’t matter anymore.” There was a moment of silence before she spoke again; in it he could feel her warming his front, swaying against him. Faramir took a better grip on her waist, not wanting to drop her.

In a strangely vague voice, she murmured, “It always matters. You were a puny child; small, thin and pale,” She smiled faintly, “You had freckles on your nose and little stick arms and no front teeth.”

Faramir laughed in surprise. “I don’t remember having little stick arms, but the teeth? I told you the kite story. I knocked them out and had to wait until they grew back.”

When Éowyn next spoke, she sounded afraid. “I can see you; you were alone in the dark, alone because it hurt...too many people…” She was shaking, her voice coming faster and faster, “they were all thinking at once, all together, couldn’t block them…”

“Shh.” Faramir hugged her tighter with his left arm, using his right hand to lift her chin. “Look at me, focus on me.”

“It does, it does,” Éowyn swallowed, her voice tight and miserable, “He made you forget how, forget...so strong, so strong, you don’t know, but I do and…” She trailed off, moaning slightly and her eyes shut as she went limp, almost slithering out of his grasp. Surprised, Faramir barely caught her in time. For a second his own balance was in jeopardy, and then he lifted her. It was an awkward effort with one hand, but he managed and carried her into the bedroom to lay her on the bed.

“And so, I was in Lorién and—it’s very enchanting there, you know, with the elves and the trees—and,” Aragorn took the mug out of the brunette’s hand, paying her no mind. Éomer gave her a friendly smile. So far he’d been rebuffed four times, but the night was still young. She ignored him again. “And, Arwen tells me, me!” Aragorn threw his hands out for emphasis and Éomer laughed. He won’t need me to start a brawl if he keeps doing that. It’s gotten crowded in here. He’s gonna hit someone. “That my poetry is awful! Can you imagine that?”

Aragorn looked about as horrified as Éomer had felt when he’d revealed he’d never been in a fight in a tavern. The King’s mouth hung open, as he parroted, “Never written poetry?”

“I’ve sung a few times for a woman. But poems? No.” Eomer looked at him in disgust. “How hard could that be anyway?”

Éomer chuckled into his mug, resting his arms across the back of his chair and leaning forward to leer at Aragorn. “Not the women I know.”
“Harlots.” He said it as though it were disgusting, curling his lips and shaking his head in pity.

“Now, don’t assume that. Some of them actually weren’t.” Éomer chuckled again. “Besides, it doesn’t sound like your woman liked it.”

“Years I write it for her…I spent a lot of time on it and, and she just one day—“Estel, it’s awful!””

Éomer giggled. “Let’s hear it, then.” He was snickering uncontrollably as he added; “I’ll tell you if it’s any good.”

Suddenly he caught up with some thought, “Wait, did she call you Estel? That’s a woman’s name if I ever heard one.”

“Hope of what? That when they meet you, you will be a man?” He sniggered at Aragorn’s irritated expression.

His head buzzing pleasantly, Éomer leaned back and howled with laughter. “I think it is...the—the,” He was almost laughing too hard to continue, “damn elves just never told you.”

“Hope! It means hope!” Aragorn pounded the table in outrage, making the empty mugs rattle loudly.

“They laughed at you behind your back, I know they did. Imagine—it’s the greatest jest of all time—the High King,” Eomer could barely breathe now, “of Gondor, named after a woman!”

Suddenly he sobered, “I think I’ve made love to a woman named Estel.” At the expression that crossed Aragorn’s face, Éomer lost it completely and guffawed, uttering great, deep and stomach hurting belly laughs. Gods, I think he’s going to kill me.

Her eyes opened and she stirred, highly conscious of his presence. I never knew I was so alone…Éowyn gasped, still shocked at the sense of veiled, tightly controlled force so close but unused. Faramir was everything, he was the world, and suddenly she could see it much, much better. I was deaf and blind… She could feel him all through her, filling her, pressing against her. It was both strangely pleasant and terrifying to know his thoughts…his anxiety, super-controlled passion, gentler love, and even his anger from when she’d tried to reject him… all this was perceivable, completely bright. He shone like a star, brilliant against the wailing and unknown blackness that had surrounded her before. I was alone, but now I am not…This knowledge made her feel secure, not completely, but more so.

Now he hovered over her, sitting on the edge of her bed. His grey eyes shone with worry and it pricked at her as though she’d stuck out her hand in a driving rain—it was silver and firmly hitting her skin in driving torrents. He’s so heavy, she thought; he’s so strong, I can feel him—like the sun in summer, beating down…

It was a surprise, to hear him speak without moving his mouth, his words seeming to originate from her. “No.” She licked dry lips, “No.”

You’re very loud. Éowyn sighed, it was becoming hard to pay attention to him since he was everywhere—past, present and small, barely seen bits she knew were the future. It looks quite acceptable really she smiled and gazed up at his grey eyes. They were worried again.

“What does that mean?” Faramir frowned at her, holding her hand. His thumb caressed the top of it and she was briefly lost in the sensation of both stroking and being stroked.

What? She opened her eyes again (when had she shut them?). She’d been far away, following him as a gawky teen through a brown and snowy wood, his steps soft on the damp ground. Silent, his hands light on his bow, arrow loose and waiting between his fingers…he was hunting deer. No one else could find them and the winter was harsh, but they bedded down in this glade, he’d seen them here, perhaps if he could prove he was good at something, then…

“Éowyn!” There was a burst of panic that pressed her hard. He was so strong--and you don’t even know it. “Tell me what’s happening, Éowyn.” Awkward with only his right hand, he sat beside her, touching her face. His hand was detached, carefully impersonal—yet it felt good and strange to feel from both his skin and hers and she was saddened when he took it away.

All right. He was quieter now, restraining himself and seemed startled and pleased to hear her so clearly.

It’s nice. Faramir stroked her face, his fingers gently curving over her cheek, over and over from her brow to her chin; it felt good, but still he worried. Suddenly he was talking. Éowyn tried to follow the words, but it was too hard when she was racing Boromir, running through the streets, lungs burning, feet pounding, laughing…

She opened her eyes, wondering again when she’d closed them. Your dream, it’s very nice, but I don’t want so many children.

She smiled and carefully picked up his broken hand. Cradling it gently, she laid it on her stomach. It was healing well, she could tell. The color of his pain was a bright, pulsing orange, but she didn’t see it; there was only the silvery pinging and prickling of his worry. “Good.”

Eomer howled, his amusement fed by Aragorn’s sour glare. The King finally spat at him, “Stop it, Eomer.” I don’t think I can. He snickered helplessly, shoulders shaking, his broken nose throbbing. “It’s not funny!” Aragorn whined loudly.

Eomer snorted and gave him a look, “Please, how could they not,” He paused and added with a chortle, “Estel?”

“They don’t! Elves are civilized!” He gave him a disgusted look, “Unlike you.”

“See, you’re ashamed because it’s a woman’s name.” He snickered as the man rolled his eyes, blowing loudly through his nose in frustration. Just like a horse.

“I’m not! It’s not! Its—you’re damn annoying.” Aragorn drained his mug in one lengthy swallow and bellowed for another.

“What?” It was wearisome to speak, to return. Easier to float in his memories, his mind—Faramir was steadfast, loyal and good, how had she ever doubted him? Foolish, I was foolish. He wants me, us to be happy.

His worry pricked her and annoyed her so she had to open her eyes. Faramir was biting his lower lip, his brow creased. My, he’s handsome, she thought and laughed inwardly. “You said nothing for a long time.”

“Sorry, it’s hard…” She sighed and shifted her legs, “hard to pay attention.” He frowned at her and Éowyn wished to pull him down, to press herself up against him and feel how differently their hearts beat. It seems so slow…ah, he wouldn’t let me. She laughed inwardly again. We are both cowards.

Faramir’s brow furrowed as he tried to keep up with her inner and outer voices. “No, we’re not.”

“No? You’re afraid of my fear.” She sat up, focusing and, with an effort, pulled herself away from the deepest parts of his mind. Distanced and more lucid, Éowyn challenged, “And I’m afraid of what you might do.” He frowned. Leaning forward, she touched his face and smiled. “Man of honor, right? My prince?”

“Yes.” She could feel him wondering how much she could see, hear in him. Éowyn gathered to her what little courage she had, taking comfort in the low, constant touch of his love for her and spoke,

“Then take off your boots.” Faramir glanced down, obviously confused. She laughed; it was easier to think with the mental distance. “I don’t want them in my bed.”

She shoved his stomach, pushing him back and swung her legs over his. Her feet on the floor, Éowyn said, “You heard me.”

She smiled as she let him read her mind. Faramir’s brow creased, “I don’t think—“

Though part of her still quailed, she was firm as she added You’re keeping your clothes, idiot.

That was a relief for him. Fine, if this is what you want. He bent and began unlacing his boots. As she stood, he looked back up to her. Are you sure?

I can’t be sure of that. She stopped from moving to her dresser, turning to face him. His mind was full of her brother.

Torn between protectiveness towards her brother, and curiosity, she asked, What did you see?

Éomer blinked blearily and surveyed the empty mugs crowding his and Aragorn’s table. Not enough yet, he thought. Most were his anyway; however, the drinking had gone a bit faster in the last ten minutes—Aragorn was childishly ignoring him after he’d ended six sentences straight with “Estel”. Éomer chuckled, as the King, with his hood flipped back over to hide his face, packed and lit his long pipe. Embers glowed redly and the sweet smell of pipe-smoke floated up around them. Aragorn inhaled, and then, eyeing him blew the smoke into his face; Éomer coughed, thinking That’s going to get you noticed, fool. “Don’t do that.”

“What? You don’t like it? Isn’t it terrible when someone keeps doing something you don’t like?” Aragorn inhaled again then blew another draught into his face. Éomer glowered at him. Child.

They sat in ill-humored silence. After a few seconds, Éomer drank deeply, barely tasting the ale now. Across from him and still brooding, Aragorn puffed his pipe, and then drained his mug. He shouted for another without turning, his voice gruff and Éomer perked up. The amply proportioned brunette was coming their way. Hello, darling.

“Yes.” Aragorn snapped and gestured impatiently to the clutter of mugs. “Clear this, will you?”

The woman replied between clenched teeth, but managed to keep her tone civil. “Yes, sir.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Éomer asked the moment she’d left. “What, a woman has to be an elf for you to be polite to her?” He shook his head, “You know, I may despise Faramir, but I would have abhorred you. Utterly, utterly hated your very existence.” Éomer chuckled, “I owe your woman a debt. What does she like?”

Jealous? “Gold, silver, jewels?” He chuckled, “Not poetry. Maybe a good ballad or two?”

“Forget it.” Aragorn frowned, swirling his new ale. The foam splashed onto his hands and he licked it off. “Why would you hated me—why would you have hated me more?”

“Easy.” Éomer held up one hand, fingers closed. He put one up as he went, pointing at Aragorn for emphasis. “One, I know he’s got a gentleman’s education—Faramir is no wild ruffian; two, he’s supposedly a good warrior and three, I did not find him in my lands, springing out of the grass like a jackrabbit from a hole.”

“No and now you can see why I owe Arwen such a debt.” Éomer grinned, leaning forward, “So, what would your woman like?”

If he tells, I don’t know what to do…laugh or cry? Probably I’ll just laugh until I cry. “Come, if they were good, you’d tell me.”

Aragorn shifted uneasily in his chair, fingers playing with the stem of his pipe. “Well—no, not here.”

“Fine.” Aragorn leaned forward, his voice lowering as he spoke. Unfortunately, it was quickly drowned out by Éomer’s giggles.

Faramir tossed his boots under the chair in her front room. He picked up his tunic and placed it on the seat, stalling as she undressed...part of him was still in her bedroom and he could see her, feel her like he was looking through a fog and it was terribly distracting. His eyes closed and he could see through hers—her hand picking the nightgown, slipping it over her head, material falling silky against her bare skin and moving to the mirror, untying the leather thong that held back her hair and looking for her brush…

Jumping and feeling oddly guilty, he looked at the door. Strange, they were in separate rooms, yet the link between them remained strong. Yes?

All right. It lay on the floor near her sofa. Picking it up, he opened her door, absurdly thinking he should knock and froze in the doorway. I know she’s dressed—aye, but by the Valar it’s not much is it? The white nightgown hugged to her body at the breast and hip, falling in soft folds down her legs. It hung well past her calves, essentially covering her and yet, as he came closer, drawn inexorably, the candlelight showed right through it. He absently handed her the brush, unable to look away from the silhouette, his hands suddenly itching for a piece of charcoal, a pencil, anything with which to draw. “Here.”

“Thank you.” She gave him an amused smile as though she were perfectly at ease and then began to tug the brush through her thick hair. You look like you’ve never seen a woman in a nightgown before.

Faramir gazed at her, entranced and noting that for all her nonchalant tones, she was still slightly shy. If I have, I can’t remember any longer.

Éowyn glanced sideways at him, I don’t believe that. She struggled to smooth her hair, pulling at it in frustration. Damn stuff, I hate it.

It’s beautiful. Appalled at her attitude, he murmured, “I love it…it’s gold,” He touched the strands as he named the colors, “Gold, flaxen, straw, wheat, fawn, look, it’s tawny here and here it’s almost bronze, shading all the way to pale cream.”

She raised her eyebrows at him, looking skeptical. You like it so much, you brush it then.

He blinked in surprise, and then took the brush from her. Éowyn sat on the edge of her bed; hands in her lap, waiting for him. Her head was bent and she licked her lips as he moved to stand behind her. Feeling her nervousness, Faramir hesitated then began gently stroking her hair with the bristles. It would be complicated with one hand—yet, he wanted to very much.

All right. It was as difficult as he had expected, trying to hold her hair down with his left wrist and brushing with his right hand. But as he took his time, Éowyn did not complain and Faramir began to enjoy watching the tangled and snarled strands smooth under his minstrations. Her hair shone in the candlelight and he found even more colors—honey, butter yellow and the paler yellows of corn silk, the light cream of rice, a few almost red strands, and another that reminded him of the rare pelts traders sometimes brought from Harad—a deep tawny, lion-color. It fit her. My lioness, he thought in amusement.

A very fierce and beautiful creature,” He smiled, “a great female cat, bigger than a dog, but smaller than a horse. They are feared for their skills as warriors and hunters. One can easily take down a man or an ox. In Harad they hunt them and sometimes they sell the skins here.” He parted her hair down the middle, choosing one side to concentrate on. “If you like, I’ll get you one to see.”

Éowyn’s hair was fanned out over her shoulders, flowing and untangled and he was only stroking it out of enjoyment when she finally asked, “Are you almost done?”

“Yes. I’m done.” Faramir placed the brush on her dresser and looked about her room, noticing again the lack of personal items. It bothered him and he absently touched his pocket. Where is everything?

There’s nothing here. No women’s things—ribbons, rouge, powders, jewelry...

It earned him an immediately irritated response. “And that means I should be like every other woman?”

She cut him off defensively, “You don’t expect me to be like,” She gestured back towards the door, indicating the rest of the city, “Like those women do you?”

“No.” Then, because it was true, he added, “I wouldn’t want you to, I think.” I like my lioness, my wild shieldmaiden far better. And, deeper, he thought, she thinks nothing of being a Steward’s wife—what I could buy her, riches, regard and people’s admiration…no, I prefer my wild woman of the North who fears my touch and loves me for other things.

“Then why do you ask?” She was clearly aggravated, unable to hear his deeper thoughts now that she’d pulled herself away.

Éowyn folded her arms and there was a moment of silence between them before she spoke, “Sorry.” She tucked her hair back behind her ears, glancing at him when he asked,

“It is nothing.” She stood and pointed at the bed while picking up the candleholder. The small flame flickered with her delicate breath as she murmured, “Get in.”

“She—she,” He snickered into his hand, trying to muffle it without success, “she was right.”

Aragorn glowered at him, his head down on his folded arms. “Éomer quit it.”

“Damn it! I knew I shouldn’t have told you!” Aragorn sighed. “She’s very difficult to describe.”

Cackling madly, he continued, “How hard could it be? Actually, I could improve it if you want—let’s see raven rhymes with what?”

“Raven, raven…haven, cave in…” He burst out laughing. “I don’t think it rhymes with anything remotely good.” This struck him as the funniest of all and Éomer laughed so hard his ribs ached while Aragorn glared murderously at him.

“Will.” Éomer snickered and peered into his empty mug. Once again the tabletop was strewn with them, many more tipped over this time than last. “We need more. Make yourself useful.” Laboriously raising his head, Aragorn managed to give a small shout. Éomer frowned, “That was pathetic.”

“Hi! Hey! More!” Across the less-crowded room, the brunette looked up. She did not appear pleased to have him bellowing for her and Éomer sighed. What does she want me to do? Wait until she happens to look?

“Aye, I could.” Éomer chuckled. “You want to hear a song? Work on your poems? Get into a fight? Moon about your woman some more?” He brightened, “I bet I know a song about at least two of those things.”

“Didn’t elves teach you to sing?” Éomer laughed, feeling fine. His head was just slightly spinning. “They obviously didn’t teach you good rhyme, or how to brawl, so they had to spend time on something.”

Aragorn looked like he was attempting to burrow into his own arm to hide. “Yes.”

“Well, we’re not just going to sit here.” He glanced around the room, noting the men in it. “Come on, there’s still time to pick a fight.”

“Or what? You’ll compose a bad poem about me? ” He giggled. “Éomer the never-silent and annoying?”

Éomer, impressed, grinned wider. Finally broke him. “No, I won’t. Now sit, you’re not fighting me.”

Faramir climbed into her bed, pushing the blankets back, feeling his and her tension mount. Easy, he cautioned himself. She watched him, the small candle’s light wavering across her face and when he’d gotten in fully she blew the candle out. There was only the faint sound of her feet moving and he reached out for her mind. After a few seconds had passed without her coming, he asked, All right?

Yes, it’s just dark. It was almost grateful that he should be so considerate and yet, he felt her jump at the mental contact. It was dark, the kind of deep velvety blackness that would hide her from his eyes—he glanced over at where he knew she was.

Éowyn spoke, her voice soft, breathless, “When you watch me it’s hard to relax.”

Sorry. Again, he touched her mind, willing some of his relative calm to her. Éowyn froze with her hand on the shutter.

What was that? She opened it and soft starlight filled the room, giving everything a silvery glow. He could see her as a white shape against the dark.

Water, cool water...on a hot day, how it feels so nice running over your skin? Her inner voice sounded calmer and her weight dipped the bed. Suddenly he was much less composed, wondering what the hell he was doing. One wrong move and he could ruin it—Faramir fretted, silently waiting as she swung in and under the blankets. A second later she reached for him, not quite able to find him as easily as he’d found her and her hand touched his arm, and then hastily withdrew. Barely able to breathe, Faramir held still as she slid over close to him. She was hot in comparison to the cool sheets, a contrast that made him shiver with imaginings. Valar have mercy upon me, he thought and then asked her, “Can I put my arms around you?”

“I…I suppose.” She was nervous and he was surprised to find he missed the alarmingly bold girl of a little while ago. He moved against her side, putting his arm around her side and resting his other hand upon her stomach. Éowyn scooted up, her head against his shoulder. He tried not to think about the fact that under his hand and the unbelievably thin material of her nightgown he could feel the heat of her skin, knowing if he thought about it, it would drive him mad. She shifted and turned her head to sigh a warm breath against his neck. When he didn’t move or react, the taut muscles of her stomach relaxed under the limp weight of his hand and he clenched his teeth, searching for something else to think of.

But Éowyn frowned, not listening, instead asking, What is that little thing poking at me?

“You’re so damn tiresome, how the hell did you get a woman at all?” Aragorn glared at him, but did not speak. Wishing for entertainment, Éomer kept needling him. “Are you a man or an elf? Men brawl, it’s what we do.”

“No, I don’t dammit!” As Aragorn shouted, his elbow hit his mug of ale and it went skidding across the floor, smashing against a chair leg and splashing all its contents onto the boots and trousers of several nearby men. Éomer grinned as they all looked up and glared at the King. One stood slowly, stomping his wet feet. Aragorn grimaced under the hood of his cloak, pipe forgotten.

“What is that?” She asked it again in the tones of a woman, who, once she started laughing, would never stop. Éowyn sat up, her hair lit from behind with the starlight as she looked down at him. She was smiling in glee; he could feel her keen amusement and wondered at the swift return of that bold girl in the garden. It’s awfully small, Faramir. Éowyn snickered, holding one hand to her mouth as he shook his head in surrender and mock displeasure.

She laughed through her fingers and reached out her hand palm up. “Let me see. I know what, but I can’t see it.” Éowyn smiled, “You thought about it earlier.”

“All right.” He sighed, unable to refuse; he had to give it to her now. Faramir rose up, awkwardly groping in his pocket for what he’d put in there. His fingers closed around the small, hard shape and he pulled it out. It gleamed darkly in the starlight as he put it in her cupped hands. Éowyn’s face grew puzzled and she looked back at him.

“A fish that swims in the sea; they’re called dolphins. They’re about as long as a man and they talk in a strange, squealing language.” He sat up fully, leaning back against the headboard. Barely able to make out her face through her shining hair, he brushed it out of her eyes, but Éowyn did not look up from what she cradled. He smiled at her fascination and for a moment Faramir was somewhere else and his voice was not his own, but his brother’s, “They swim in front of ships, leaping and darting past the bow; some fishermen won’t go out if there aren’t any. They’re good luck.”

He gazed at her, frowning slightly over the pendant. Éowyn sensed his curiosity and murmured in reassurance, “I like it.”

Yes, this is not like jewelry, She glanced up, “I have my mother’s things—all gold, silver, jewels and the like…but this is something different and uncommon.” And special to you; I can feel it. She held it up to the faint starlight. Hanging on a long rawhide thong, it was about two inches long, a deep, shining blue stone slightly mottled with green. It was carved into a smoothly bent shape, an almost perfect half circle with a small arched fin on top and then ending rather abruptly into a small point at one end. At the other was a wide, flat fin. Along each of its sides were tiny indents of eyes and small nubs for side fins. “It is a strange fish, so bent.” Éowyn held it, her fingers running curiously over the smooth surface. She glanced up and he could see the dim light emphasizing and gilding the planes and curves of her features and again Faramir’s hands itched to draw her. To take away the powerful desire, he explained,

“It was my mother’s necklace. It is one of the few things we had of hers and…” he smiled sadly, fondly, “My brother used to tell me about it over and over when I was a child, repeating her words to him when he was small. He said we would go one day to the sea and look at these creatures, but,” Faramir sighed, “When I was old enough he was already in training for battle and there was never any time.”

That’s terrible. Her inner voice was hushed with empathy and Éowyn scooted closer to him, folding her legs and sitting upright, propping herself with one hand. He was glad for only the dim shine of the stars because her movement tightened her nightgown across her front and he could suddenly see its contents much better. Faramir glanced quickly away before his thoughts could betray him. “It’s warm,” she murmured, as lifting the necklace, she put it over her head. The stone dolphin settled between her breasts and he could see it plainly against the thin, cream-colored nightgown, very gently swinging and darkly shining.

He searched for something to say to occupy him before he disturbed her with his thoughts. “It was in my pocket all day.”

“Yes and no. I have two other necklaces—one a pearl, but not like the ones ladies wear in the city, these are different shades: creams, pinks and yellows. The other is shells strung together, all different with a great, gleaming one in the center and the ring is silver with red coral.” He nodded at the dolphin pendant, though Faramir did not look at it—there was too much enticement there to prevent him from staring like an awestruck teen. “This was always my favorite.”

She smiled at him, fingering the stone and apparently oblivious. “I like it.” Éowyn unfolded her legs and slid up the bed to lean her shoulder to his; taking away his temptation and he relaxed slightly.

“When I was small, I used to look at it and think of my mother, but not as I knew her…” He glanced at Éowyn as she played with the pendant, her fingers tracing it over and over. “It is not something my father would have considered appropriate for the wife of the Steward to wear. Boromir said it was dusty when he found it and the other things tucked in a drawer and asked her about them.” Faramir put his arm around her shoulders, feeling her warmth, “I used to imagine her as a girl laughing by the sea, not a woman singing sad songs about it in a city bound on all sides by earth, the Anduin only a poor substitute.”

His voice was sad, resigned and Éowyn leaned against him in what Faramir knew was support; it was welcome. They sat in silence for a while, and then he heard her thought, I will be the wife of a Steward; it was as if this had just occurred to her and Éowyn looked at him. Even in the starlight her eyes appeared guarded, yet hopeful as she touched the necklace.

Faramir smiled sadly, “Wear what you like, my love, either dresses or men’s clothes…Do what you like, I don’t want you to pine away for anything; he shuddered, remembering his mother’s voice slowly growing thin and cheerless as she’d held him in her lap.

Éowyn bit her lip and asked very quietly, “Is that what happened to your mother?”

She curled her knees to her chest, leaning her head back against his arm, her fingers wrapped around the little stone dolphin. “Why did she not leave for a while at least if she was unhappy?”

Faramir shook his head; he’d asked himself the same question many times. “I don’t know.” He sighed. “All I know about her came from my brother and my own scraps of memories—my father forbid us to mention her name. He took all her things except this.” Faramir reached out to touch the pendant and she took her hands away for him to cup it as he continued, “And of course the other two necklaces and the ring—those Boromir saved and hid away.” He hesitated and added, “I felt almost guilty taking them—they would have, should have gone to his wife when he wed. I doubt my father even remembered they existed.”

Éowyn folded her hands around the dolphin as Faramir handed it back. She said softly, “He must have loved her.”

“Yes.” My brother too, oh, why couldn’t he have spared some of that love for me? It came from the deepest part of his mind and went unheard by Éowyn. “Once my brother accidentally mentioned her in front of him…it was the only time my father ever struck one of us.”

“That’s horrible.” Her shoulder pressed tighter against him and he felt her compassion and understanding. It was reassuring and Faramir listened as she spoke, “I don’t remember my father except for,” Éowyn smiled sadly, “a great booming voice and a smile as his strong arms swung me into the air; he was often gone in battle or his duties. My mother I remember better. She picked my hair ribbons out of the mud,” She laughed suddenly, “I stamped them into the dirt on purpose—they were pink and I hated them.

She tried rather unsuccessfully to teach me a lady’s proper manners and scolded me for tearing my dresses when I was playing with Éomer. Of course she also got me cookies and cakes and let me pat her mare’s new foal. I remember its eyes were very big and it had soft little whiskers all over its nose…I don’t know what ever happened to it.” Éowyn fell quiet and looked up at him, “I remember playing with my toys the second morning after Mother died, being very quiet because Éomer was finally sleeping—he didn’t sleep at all the first day—and Théodred walking into the room. He asked me, “Are you hungry little sister?” and I said, “I’m not your sister.” She smiled sadly, “ He just looked at me and then picked me up and said, “Now you are.” Her hands played with the dolphin and she asked him, almost begging, “Can we speak of other things?”

“All right.” He, too, wished to talk of something less sad. “Tell me something.”

Faramir tightened his arm around her shoulder. “Anything, just something pleasant.”

At least they’re not especially big…well, except for those two in the back, I suppose they could be called big, Éomer thought as the three men Aragorn’s ale had splattered stood.

“I hate you.” The King growled it under his breath, slowly rising from his own chair and turning to face them. He peered from under his hood and Éomer had to admit, he looked slightly daunting—dark eyed, grim and hard faced…he chuckled, I must be quite drunk. From his seat, he watched in interest, eagerly awaiting the outcome of this. Shooting him one last glare, Aragorn hesitated and then addressed the leader, “Forgive me, I meant not--”

Sticking his chin out, he snapped, “Aye, but ye did.” Clad in a dirty shirt and battered leather chaps over trousers, he looked like a blacksmith—all wiry muscle. The two behind him were heavier built and appeared to be masons, stoneworkers? he wondered for there were still pale stone dust clinging to their clothes. As the blacksmith spoke they began pushing back their chairs for more room. They were true brawling men then and already drunk enough to be quite ready for a good fight. Éomer wondered if he would need to get involved. Only if he looks in trouble, something he doubted Aragorn would be—he’d seen the man in battle several times. Of course this is not battle this is a contest. Things are different.

Then Éomer’s eyebrows rose in surprise. I’ll be damned; he chuckled as the King flipped back his hood. His lips curled and apparently Aragorn was also drunk enough to forget or temporarily put aside all the pretty words he’d been spewing about civilized and educated men as he sarcastically asked, “Well, what do you wish me to do about it then?”

The blacksmith grinned with yellowed teeth, recognizing the challenge. Éomer prudently picked up his mug of ale and stood, not wanting to find himself in the middle of this. I’ve already had my fight, he thought and that reminded him he’d wished to see his sister. Damn, its probably too late now. All over the tavern people were looking at their corner, curious and eager for entertainment. Aragorn stood his ground, an almost contemptuous expression on his face as the blacksmith sneered and one of the stonemasons growled, “Teach ‘em a lesson for that mouth.”

He laughed thickly in his narrow, barrel-chest and tensed his stringy arms; the chuckle was an ugly sound from an ugly man. “I will.”

“Yes, something cheering. A memory, a tale, anything—just happy.” He could still feel her gloom; it weighed on him, adding to his as he very slowly began to ease back on some of his control.

Her head turned sharply towards him, chin pointing, then just as sharply back. Her hair swung and her voice was strangely indistinct as she muttered, “I can feel that.”

He instantly restrained himself again and Faramir worriedly asked her, “What does it feel like?”

Éowyn sighed as though she’d just woken and her eyes were dark in the dim starlight. “Felt like you were, oh, like…” She turned then, sitting up on her bent knees and touched his face with her hand. Her fingers curved around his cheek and the dolphin pendant dropped lightly against his chest as she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. It was almost fierce and Faramir was surprised, but had the presence of mind to respond with control instead of the alarming eagerness that he’d wanted. Éowyn then pulled back slightly, her eyes on his as she held her upper body against him, her arms wrapping tight around his neck. He swallowed anxiously, holding himself immobile and thinking she’d been right—he was terribly afraid to scare her, but with good reason, she’d tried to dismiss him twice already in one night. Valar, please…Faramir begged inwardly.

Oh, hush…you’re so good, noble a laugh against his mouth I’m not afraid when I can feel you like that. With a small smile Éowyn twined her fingers in his hair, so close he could feel her front press against him when she breathed, the dolphin’s nose poking hard against his skin. Then, she kissed him further, again with stirring heat that drove him all the more mad for being unable to respond as he’d like.

Pulling away just as his hand escaped him and rested upon the small of her back to urge her closer, her voice was serious as she said, “It felt like you were pressing against me. All intensity and unwavering force—so strong I could hear your heart beating, feel its rhythm and how patient and good it was.” Éowyn sighed, sitting back on her heels, blankets puddled low around her thighs and her golden hair shining silvery in the starlight, “He made you forget somehow, he thought it was…” She hesitated and he felt a surprising flicker of dishonesty from her, “a kindness. But I can show you because part of you still remembers and I saw it.”

It took Faramir a second to pry his eyes and suddenly riotous intentions away and sternly order himself to act befitting a gentleman before he could ask, though a bit hoarsely, “Show me what, saw what?”

It was not an answer; but it came from her as almost a strange chant: “You hid in the libraries, hiding in the darkness all alone until you were pale and thin and all wide eyes. Boromir worried, but even his mind was too much.”

“I know.” Éowyn smiled nervously, biting her lip. Faramir wanted to bite it too, but contented himself with just watching. “Do you want to?”

He did, oh he did looking at her in the starlight. Stop it fool, Faramir lectured himself grimly; she showed no signs of hearing him or guessing his struggles. Thankfully, oh thankfully. “Yes, show me.”

Éowyn put her hand to his temple, her eyes searching his. She scooted right up next to him with her front against his side and asked in a breathless voice, “Ready?”

She was beautiful and desirable and her breasts were soft against his arm—Faramir cleared his mind, focusing. “Yes.” And her fingers were light on his eyelids as she closed his eyes and then the world fell away as though the tight bindings that held him in her bed, her room, his body had been abruptly cut and he remembered. Valar…oh…

Aragorn, still wearing an admirably contemptuous sneer, ducked the punch with surprising speed and slammed his fist into the blacksmith’s face as Éomer watched over the rim of his mug. Absently swirling the ale in his mouth, he swallowed as Aragorn, his knuckles already a bit blood-splattered, took a good hit in return. The stoneworkers moved around the two and Éomer watched them closely and suspiciously—three on one was hardly fair Ranger, Dúnedain, and King or no—if they jumped upon Aragorn all at once he would have to join the fight.

In the dark tavern Aragorn’s cloak rippled and eddied as he moved, its drab and tattered edges merging with the dim light and making it hard for the blacksmith to aim for anything other than his face. But, as he ducked again, he was able to double the other man over with a hard hit to the gut. Wheezing, the blacksmith stumbled back and growled a cursing command at the other men. Aragorn moved his jaw back and forth, fingers rubbing it as he waited. And here I thought civilized men don’t brawl, he’s doing well enough, and Éomer grinned to himself.

One of the stoneworkers stepped up next to take his place and Aragorn looked disgusted as he evaded the man’s heavy, slow punch. Much faster, he was confident, unaware as the other man came in from behind. Éomer’s eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted in repugnance as the second stoneworker struck Aragorn in the kidneys with both hands interlaced. Surprised, hurt, the King stumbled right into the first man’s fist. It was a hard blow and he stumbled again, barely able to keep his balance on the slick, filthy floor and when he went to one knee the second man kicked him in the gut. The blacksmith grinned through bloody teeth as Aragorn nearly fell, only managing to stagger back up at the last second. The two men circled him and Éomer, utterly incensed with the dishonorable display, set down his mug of ale. It looked as though he’d have to get involved after all. Too bad, he was doing so well and he could have really used it.

It took him a moment, floundering, to gather himself and remember—I always believed I only dreamed doing this as a child, Faramir thought in amazement; my entire life I didn’t think I was capable of anything like this…he laughed inwardly, feeling completely unrestrained, utterly free. He hovered near Éowyn’s familiar presence, watching as she sat back and gazed at him. I look asleep, Faramir thought to himself, watching his eyes move back and forth under their lids. She touched his cheek and he hesitated but then, rising, rising he was flying across the city, lighter than the wind and he looked down to see it. The world was dark, dim and shadowy, lit only by the gleam of his people’s minds. Some burning bright, others soft, some flickering with pain, dying, some happy, some sad, some…he knew suddenly he could see through their eyes, read their thoughts if he bent upon them…angered. Moving farther and ever swifter he passed them by, his reach expanding to that of the outer walls and beyond…small tents of Rohirrim, most sleeping as their horses stood or lay quiet. A few Tower guards stared out into the night, not expecting to see anything and terribly glad for it…then over the Pelennor. He curved closer to the river, and swooped through the ruins of Osgiliath, finding slumbering crews of men who’d spent the day gleaning stones from the broken city to repair Minas Tirith, over whom a small net of guards stood watch. They, too, expected to see nothing.

The landscape was dark with the night and he turned back and forth, searching. To the east he sensed black panic rising from the very few orcs who still survived. They were crouching in holes, growling weakly, nostrils snuffling at the horribly fresh air, bitterly gazing at the ruins of Barad-dûr…but farther still were the strange minds of the men who lived in different, distant lands. Faramir could not reach them, though, so he turned back to the west. It was bright with the light of peoples and he drew closer the edges of his range, curious until--

It was concerned but he wavered. From far, far away he felt her touch his face, felt her worry, her fingers gently brushing his closed eyelids and his brow. Éowyn. But the world pulled strongly, luring him with more and more horizons to pass over, things to behold…the brilliant, powerful glow of the elven realms, their shielded forms barely seen. And then roving with increasing freedom, his inner eye peered into the far west, then the easier south and strained over the waves for a glimpse of what lay beyond, knowing if he tried just a little harder…but he resisted. It was not for him yet or possibly at all...but there was one thing here that was his.

Feeling at once both awkward and confined back in his body, he opened his eyes to her wide blue ones, dark in the starlight. Hovering over him, Éowyn smiled; she was obviously glad to have him back and Faramir laboriously straightened. Sitting up, he lifted his hand; it was so heavy, seemed so heavy now, to cup her chin as he gave her a brief and warm kiss. He murmured in gratitude as he pulled away, “Thank you” and settled wearily back against the headboard. His head ached and his muscles felt oddly stiff. He flexed his knees then toes, frowning, but was relieved as the unpleasant sensations began to fade.

“What did you see?” she moved back over to his side, curling her legs beneath her, the blankets bunching. The constellations gleamed down through the open window, lighting on the dolphin as it swung gently back and forth across her front and he captured it in a swift movement, enfolding it in his fist.

“Everything.” He laughed as energy flowed back through him. Faramir was about to speak of the way he’d flown out of himself and then stopped, feeling her growing self-conscious—she was very aware, not frightened, but just very aware that his hand was only inches from her breasts. Éowyn’s eyes were slightly averted and Faramir smiled gently at her, deliberately setting the pendant back against the front of her nightgown. Her skin was warm beneath his palm and fingers, the bottom edge of his flattened hand resting very lightly against her and brushing against the curved and sensitive swells as she breathed. Éowyn flushed, her head turning quickly away; her hair hid her profile and he wished for his other hand to tuck it back.

She swallowed, her hands moving in her lap, fidgeting nervously. He was confident, however, feeling her emotions vividly, fully—he’d been released from whatever constraints his father had out of kindness or no, placed upon him. Éowyn wasn’t panicky any longer; he’d gotten her past that at least, but only untried and untouched and she didn’t know how far he would go before he stopped.

“Faramir…” She shifted under his palm, licking her lips, uncomfortable with such behavior. But she did not attempt to get away and he didn’t remove his hand.

“Don’t worry, I’m noble, virtuous and good.” He teased her, sensing no fear of him at the moment, although he had an entirely certain idea that if he slid his hand much or at all to either side she might become rather alarmed. The temptation to cup one, even if it resulted in a slap in the face, was great but he withstood it; moving gently under the tide of her breath, they were soft, yet firm and he knew damn well if he wanted to touch them again anytime soon he’d better not.

“Yes…” Éowyn held still, tolerating his touch, though obviously with misgivings. Determined to get her used to something more impassioned than a kiss, he didn’t withdraw, feeling her breathing speed and then grow slightly irregular with anxiety as he slowly spread his fingers. The dolphin twisted to nosed his palm and she blurted, “Please stop, don’t...”

He smiled to reassure her, although he was more than saddened, he was almost mournful with longing for that bold and brazen girl Éowyn sometimes showed him. “I told you I would not dare before,” He took her hand and squeezed it, showing his care for her feelings, “I think I’d probably end up being pushed off the bed.” Éowyn smiled, relaxing as he took his hand back. The blankets felt even colder than before against his palm and she immediately moved against his side, chin resting on his shoulder to block any other teasing attempts. Faramir looked down the bed. Her front was tight against him but her lower body, with her far leg stretched out and the other with her knee curled toward his, left him easy access to the dip of her waist and the low swelling of her hip. In the starlight he gazed her curves outlined by the blankets and the sudden desire to run his hand over them almost overwhelmed him. Perhaps…he looked down at her head mischievously but in defeat already. Surely she wouldn't be too distressed or angry—it wasn’t as though he’d be grabbing himself two handfuls of her backside. Not yet, anyway, Faramir smothered a laugh, I have to wait for my other hand to heal first and even then, he eyed her—she’s awfully slim for two hands.

“What’s so funny?” Éowyn stretched an arm across his chest, her fingers gripping his side and he felt her curiosity and swiftly subsiding anxiety through the link between them as easily as he felt her breath on his collar or her hair tickling his chin.

He grinned in the darkness. “Nothing. You still haven’t told me anything pleasant.”

“Oh,” She sighed, now fully relaxed, pulling the covers up and added, “let me think.”

Take your time, love. He smiled and moved his hand to lay it back on her upper thigh, feeling his palm and the pads of his fingers heat immediately even through the blanket. Éowyn paid him no mind, as he wasn’t doing anything remotely threatening and his smile widened. In the depths of his consciousness, Faramir thought, One step forward, none back yet … at least so far.

As the second man kicked Aragorn again, trying for his knees to send him to the ground, Eomer stopped to think. His nose was already broken and rushing into this could get him further hurt. Mindfully picking up the King’s pipe and checking to see that it was fully out, he stuffed it in his pocket and selected one of the empty mugs still laying on their table. Although he was only slightly unsteady on his feet Éomer moved very carefully, mindful of the slick, ale-splattered floor. The two stoneworkers circled Aragorn continually and the King, trying to watch both of them at once, was not having much success. For every blow evaded, he got hit from the other side and Éomer, noticing, moved quicker. Aragorn was still impressively holding his own, though, and returning most of the punches thrown at him even as he came closer.

He shifted his grip on the mug and stepped directly behind the second man, grasping a handful of his shirt. Spinning to face him, he looked surprised as Éomer grinned pleasantly and he asked in confusion, “Hey, what’re--”

The mug, thick and well-fired clay meant to withstand many a clumsy drunk, smashed across his face and the man, stunned, stumbled to his knees. “There are rules of conduct to follow in a brawl, you know.” Éomer sternly lectured, pulling him back up. The stoneworker stared at him, as he grinned, “Two on one is against them.” and punched him in the throat. Gagging, the second man fell backwards. Éomer paused for thought, then added bemused, “Unless of course, he was a giant.” At his side, Aragorn straightened, panting and blinked at him, in confusion, so he asked, “What? You’ve never seen a giant before?”

Rubbing his back as the first man backed away, uncertain now that his victim had an ally, the King shook his head in what could have been disbelief or simply disgust and said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Éomer cheerfully replied and turned to the three men. He rolled his shoulders, and cracked his knuckles getting ready and foolishly hoping none of them would hit him in the nose. Of course they will it’s what I would do right away. The blacksmith glowered at him furiously but did not step forward. After a moment of contemplating—eyeing the scarcely injured man and large fresh one—and trying to guess the odds of victory, the first stoneworker half-dragged his friend up and the three pushed their way out the door. The crowd began to disperse back to their tables and Éomer fished Aragorn’s pipe out of his pocket and handed it to him.

“Thank you.” It was far more grateful than the earlier thanks, piquing his curiosity.

A slow grin spread over Aragorn’s bruised and slightly bloody face. “You want to try some? It’s South-farthing, straight from Isengard—it’s very good, the best of hobbit leaf you’ll ever come across.”

Éowyn’s nose itched and she rubbed it against Faramir’s shirt; she didn’t want to speak, really. It was much nicer to just lie here curled around him safe and half-asleep under the blankets. Finally, she could feel his expectation and murmured, “You go first.” Her ear against his chest, his voice sounded deep, muffled and loud as he said,

She nodded and as she waited she smiled, amused by herself; lifting up the pendant, she made the dolphin swim bumpily across his chest, turning back when the little blue and green stone carving reached the end of its tether. The cloth sea rose sharply with his laugh and she smiled, twisting the rawhide thong between her fingers to watch the fish spin around. His fingers tapped a rhythm on her hip and her toes curled with apprehension; he was a good man and a kind one, the only one whose touch she’d ever borne without feeling as though it would make her sick with hatred and self-loathing, but it was difficult. The stars shone and shimmered through the window and Éowyn closed her eyes tiredly, thinking to herself that it was late.

However, almost immediately she opened them again. Faramir’s hand on her thigh had been warm and flat but now, curiously, as he thought he moved it in slow circles. His fingers gently pressed and massaged, reaching to stroking up and down her side. She doubted he could reach anything consequential without sliding himself up or down, not to mention putting his hand beneath the blankets. Not terribly concerned, Éowyn closed her eyes again as he kept on. It feels good actually, she thought and felt herself flush with embarrassment when he replied,

“It does feel nice.” It sounded as though he was smiling and she swallowed as he moved his fingers, still gently kneading. Then he took them away and she was almost disappointed until his hand was suddenly beneath the blankets and resting lightly on her side. It didn’t move and she could tell he wanted to expand the area he was touching, but was waiting for her. Don’t be nervous. Faramir’s inner voice was soft and she felt the connection between them deepen as he let her in. Éowyn’s eyes fluttered with the sensation—the gigantic increase in her awareness of him, his body, the way he was carefully holding back his desires—until feeling what his intentions were, all of them clearly outlined, she loosened her grip on his shirt and turned to face away from him. His hand led his body, descending until it finally rested on her abdomen as Faramir carefully slid down from the headboard and curled around her. His breath was warm on her earlobe as he murmured, “All right?”

“Yes.” This was all he’d wanted and it was fine with her. Faramir’s entire front pressed warmly to her backside, his left arm a cushion beneath her neck, with his right wrapped around her waist. He blew some of her hair out of his way and thumped his fingers on her belly playfully. “Take turns?”

Éomer frowned, remembering coughing earlier from the smoke blown in his face. How could it be any better directly inhaling the stuff? “I don’t.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

Looking at him with something bordering delight, Aragorn picked up his drink at their table and asked, “Why?” He grinned widely, “Chicken-hearted?”

“Clever, that’s very clever.” Sprawling back into his chair, Aragorn drank; he spilled some on himself, wincing at his split lip and Éomer sighed inwardly as the King set his pipe on the tabletop.

Shooting him a glare, Aragorn added, “And I fought.” Next taking out a little package, he broke off a small section of compacted dried weeds, crumbled them and began packing it all in the wide pipe bowl, all the while grinning. Éomer found it rather disconcerting and he reluctantly agreed,

“Here.” Aragorn was finished and he held the pipe out expectantly, frowning when he didn’t reach for it.

Éomer stirred uneasily. I don’t wish to look like a fool, he thought. “Not in here.”

“Why?” The King looked practically gleeful now; he glanced around in mock suspicion. “You think someone’s watching?”

“Yes.” He poked the pipe-stem at his hand. It looked chewed and Éomer was disgusted. Aragorn snickered. “I think you do.”

“Yes.” He was poked again and withdrew in irritation, taking his hand away from the middle of the table.

“Yes.” A much sharper poke this time, Aragorn leaning forward to get him, a mad grin plastered on his face all the while. Éomer stared at him in alarm. Gods, I’m never getting him drunk again…he’s terribly annoying! “You’re doing it.”

“No! Stop that!” He slapped at the pipe and tried to reason with him, “Tell me—what would I light it with anyway?” Gesturing at the lanterns, he arched an eyebrow.

For the first time Aragorn appeared confused. His forehead creased as he thought and then he brightened, “Oh, fine, we’ll go out and grab a torch or a candle or something. Get up; this is an gift,” He looked pointedly at Éomer, “I don’t have much you know.”

“I feel so appreciated,” he deadpanned and waited for Aragorn to realize he wasn’t the one paying for all the ale they’d drunk. Éomer grinned slightly. “Really, I do.”

“Let’s see.” His breath was warm on her ear as Faramir began. “I can—hmm,” The rest was rushed, “I can…playtheharp, you’re turn.”

“What?” Éowyn shifted onto her back to look at him. He seemed almost mortally embarrassed and she tried not to giggle. “What did you say?”

“I can play the harp—and the flute; neither very well any more, of course,” Faramir frowned, “it’s been over twenty years.”

He looked uncomfortable, his index finger tracing a circle on her hip but for once she ignored him completely. “They made me.”

Éowyn turned still further, facing him fully, using his left forearm as a pillow. Faramir’s hand now rested on the small of her back and she barely paid attention to it when he tugged playfully at the back of her nightgown. “What were the other parts?”

“It’s your turn.” One of his lower legs was between hers and she laid her arms against the front of his chest as he moved closer, then twined one around his neck—reasoning there was no where else to put it. Faramir didn’t seem to mind at all; he even felt pleased, urging, “Tell me something.”

“They kept leaving.” Éowyn smiled. “Or Éomer kept releasing them.” She frowned, thinking, “The last one went when I was thirteen; she slapped me—I was being horrible, I assure you it really wasn’t her fault—and I slapped her back, of course, and called her,” She giggled, “a dried-up old bag.” Faramir laughed as she continued, “And then she really slapped me and I screamed for my brother and he took one look at the big red mark across my face and ordered her out of the house. Your turn.”

She wiggled her toes, gripping his trouser cuffs between them and tugged. “Tell me the other parts of your education.”

He sighed, “Let’s see—I had to learn music, art, history—lot’s of that, and mathematics. Then, I learned how to wage war, diplomacy, how to command and survival skills.” Faramir sighed again, even deeper, his chest moving against her arm as he listed, “I know how to play the harp and the flute; I can’t sing at all, but I know many songs,” He paused, “You can sing very well, you know.”

“Yes, you can. Anyway, I can draw—I actually started one of you, but I’ll have to burn it.” He leaned forward, suddenly making her realize just how close he was, all wrapped around her, their bodies touching. Faramir kissed her very lightly, his mouth just brushing hers and added teasingly, “It’s all wrong, not you at all—a woman all cool and unapproachable.”

Fighting to ignore his flattery, she hesitantly asked, “Will you do another?”

He chuckled, “I would do as many as you and my hands would abide.” Faramir’s hand caressed her side, her back. It felt very large and she nervously clutched the dolphin, rubbing the hard little carving. “I want to right now, this nightgown in the candle light—it would give me lots of brightness and darkness—lots of contrasts, and it shows your shape quite well.”

She blushed, a little alarmed at all the thought he’d given it, but when she concentrated on him, she could feel nothing but amusement and contented love. Reassured, she asked, “What else?”

“Not much, I didn’t give them a chance—they had enough trouble keeping me in my dresses and out of the dirt.”

He laughed again, his mind linking, connecting to her; ah yes, my wild one. Suddenly feeling his longing, Éowyn’s arm slid back around his shoulder as Faramir leaned in to kiss her. It was gentle, only small, repetitive kisses with his mouth barely touching hers and his mind encouraging her to respond to him, to willingly deepen them. She resisted, pushing her other hand against his chest, but he only moved to kiss her neck. Éowyn swallowed as he asked What? His mental voice was puzzled, and then calmly murmuring I am no uncontrolled boy. Don’t worry about that—but if you want me to stop tell me.

Her voice hitched as he hit a particularly sensitive area then moved on and then she was completely taken aback—she’d come damn close to tangling her hands in his hair and dragging him back to the spot. Éowyn quickly choked out, “Stop.”

“Can’t believe what?” Faramir frowned at her.
“Nothing, nothing. Umm.” Éowyn nervously fingered the stone dolphin. “No, I’m giving my turn to you.”

“All right.” He sounded concerned, but thought for a moment. Faramir’s hand moved idly up and down her spine, fingers gently pressing as he said, “I can sew.” And she forgot her astonishment and discomfort in an instant. Éowyn giggled helplessly, flopping a little away from him, laughing harder as he asked, “What is it?”

Unable to stop, she answered mentally. Oh, Faramir—the harp, the flute, dancing, and sewing…you are more womanish than I am.

Yes, yes you are. I bet you can cook, too. At his embarrassed silence she exploded in giggles, kicking her feet in delight and tossing the blankets.

Stop that. Éowyn laughed harder as he frowned. A cold breeze from the open window blew across her exposed toes and she shivered, still snickering. Deciding that it really didn’t matter anymore, she threw back the covers and got out of bed to close the shutters. Faramir sat up, worriedly projecting,

Éowyn glanced back and laughed at him. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it dear.

Faramir watched her walk to the window, wrapping her arms around herself as the wind made her thin nightgown flutter. “It’s gotten cold,” Éowyn turned back to explain; her hair blew silvery and pale gold in the starlight and her silhouette made him itch to draw her again. Then suddenly perceiving her intentions, he sat up further and begged, “Oh, don’t close that.”

She frowned and gave a shiver for emphasis, saying, “It feels like winter in here.”

“Don’t close it; I won’t be able to see you.” Faramir pleaded. Éowyn looked puzzled and he added, “Please?” Then, teasing, he patted her side of the bed, “Come back, I’ll keep you warm.”

Ignoring his small jest, she shook her head, still puzzled. “You don’t need to see me; you know what I look like.”

“How long?” His voice sounded tense, almost angry and he tried to control himself.

“What?” Éowyn asked in worried bewilderment; she appeared slightly nervous at his tone. Poised with her hands stretched up on the shutters, another breeze flapped her nightgown and made her hair fly out behind her like a tawny cloak. Back and forth across her breasts, the dolphin pendant swung in the light wind, glinting from the stars. The urge to draw her, to command her to stand in that position while he ran to his rooms took him. Valar, but if I had paper and a pencil, I would draw until I could no longer move my hand—the light of her garment, the dark of the window against the black of the wall, the way she stands so erect against the night sky, looking back! Oh, even her expression—it is so vulnerable, so touching! But after a moment it passed and Faramir succeeded in sounding more normal as he continued,

“Then leave it.” He came across as harsh again despite himself, so he added, “Please, my love” as she glanced quickly at him. To his intense relief her hands fell from the wooden shutters to rest at her sides.

“All right, if you wish.” Éowyn frowned then, looked at her feet, then back to him. “Why did I walk across this icy floor then?”

A rare and teasing smile came across her face as she curled one of her feet on top of the other, hands held out and spread to balance. It was a childish and yet endearing pose—again he cursed the lack of drawing supplies. “Will you make it up to me?”

Now she was jesting, but he didn’t know what about until Éowyn added with an even more rare, wicked little-girl giggle, “Let me plait your hair?”

“Please? I’ll make it pretty. I can get ribbons—different colors; I can braid.”

She was still teasing him about being womanish then. He gave her a glare of mock fury, which only made her laugh. “Never, now get over here.”

To his surprise Éowyn bounded quickly back over the floor, and into the bed, making it bounce. She pouted at him, hair hanging all around her shoulders as she sat, her legs folded under her and he knew there was no way she could know how adorable she looked. Her lower lip stuck out, mischief hiding in her eyes as she tilted her head, “Please?” and Faramir wanted to yank her over to his side and do a great many things he knew he shouldn’t.

Was I looking for that bold girl? He wondered; ah, here she is now. Faramir scolded, “Come over here, you said you were cold.”

“Then…” Pretending exasperation he leaned forward and then sideways, wrapping his hand and forearm around her waist and tugged. Éowyn allowed him to pull her down; she even slid close in on her own to lie facing him like before. Yanking the blankets back up to cover her, Faramir was surprised as she put her arm around him again, fingers twirling the hair at the nape of his neck. Her other arm folded against his chest and she stuck her lower legs between his, shivering at the temperature change. He slid his hand beneath the blankets, running it up her back. Her nightgown was chilled from the wind and Faramir murmured, “You are cold, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Her nose touched his chin and he jumped—it was ice-cold. Aren’t you?

No, but I’m wearing more. He snuggled closer, gently chafing her arms and reminded her. “It’s your turn.”

“All right.” Éowyn closed her eyes, shifting her head back onto the pillow to get more comfortable. “I can cook—nothing elaborate, really—only roasts or stews or things like that. I can sew—but only because Eomer won’t let any of the women do it.” She sighed in deep and long lived resignation, “He says they don’t do it right, but he’s just being foolish.”

“Yes, always. He throws his clothes all over my bed and expects me to mend them as if I had nothing else to do.” Éowyn moved again and nuzzled her chilly cheek into his left forearm, pillowing her head on it like she’d done before. She laughed, “I can throw a spear more accurately then he can, you know.”

“Well, not as far or as hard, of course, but I can hit the target every time, even if it’s very small.” Éowyn’s fingers had moved to tracing intricate patterns on the back of his neck and Faramir found it distracting, although in a pleasant way. “Also I can organize men into mounted defense, offense and lead them in the patterns of attack—and recognize and correct errors, both horse and or rider.” She smiled, “Once I got rid of my governess’ I spent many, many hours on a training field with both Théodred and my brother.” And then, to his surprise, she leaned in closer, her hand tightening on the back of his neck and she gave him—he saw her, hair tied back with wisps floating as her horse galloped up and down the line of mounted men. The sun was bright on the grass and Éowyn shouted commands as she rode, twisting in the saddle. Lightweight training shields were raised, along with blunted spears and the men replied in chorused yells, “Aye!”

Wheeling her horse, she pointed downfield and as her hand dropped Éowyn touched her heels to her mount’s flanks, letting her reins slip through her fingers. Rising up, all four feet briefly leaving the ground in its eagerness, the gelding bolted; the voices of the men behind her became a roar, under which there was the thunder of hoof beats as they followed. Stretching into a long line, they galloped strongly, presenting an impressive show of mounted force. Looking ahead, Faramir saw an equally long line of what looked like infantry, but they weren’t. Instead they were clothing stuffed full of straw and propped upon stakes to look like men. Shields and swords of thin foil were tied on as well as old, dented helms and armor.

The horses, he now saw they were young and green—moved awkwardly, pulling half-sideways, they shied at the flags flapping in the wind and bucked under their riders as they neared—swiftly bore down upon the mock army. Some wheeled away or tried to jump the mock soldiers, but the majority galloped through and in an instant the puppets were reduced to scattered clothing, armor and straw. Éowyn was to the side, turned in her saddle, one hand planted on the rump of her horse as she watched. As the riders slowed, lavishly praising their young mounts, she reorganized them to go again, men setting the mock army back up behind her.

And suddenly it was over. Impressed with the vision, he listened as she continued, her voice low at first, then more normal as she went on, “It’s important for them to feel no fear about charging a line.” Éowyn sighed, “I’m also skilled with a sword and I’m a fairly good shot with the small hunting bows—“

“The big war bows are too much for me.” Éowyn didn’t seem at all bothered to admit her weakness and he wondered. “I’m not strong enough to pull them back.”

He watched her face in the starlight: peacefully smooth, closed eyelids with pale lashes; only her mouth moved as she spoke. Her hair hid her ear with more gleaming strands lying on her neck; he could still see the marks he’d left on her through them and it made him feel strangely possessive. I am the first, the last and the only, he thought and Faramir nestled closer as Éowyn murmured, “I can train a horse; take it all the way from a halter to under saddle or before a cart.” Her eyes briefly opened to his and she smirked, “I can ride sidesaddle, even jump and hunt game from it; which is far more difficult than what you do in a regular saddle—it takes learning an entirely new way to balance.”

She laughed at his tone when he replied, but Faramir thought the idea was completely absurd. “No.”

“Why not?” Éowyn giggled, opening her eyes again. They were mischievous once more and the thought passed through his mind, Somehow, I’ve been rendered harmless again. How? I need to know. She smiled at him, her hand twisting his shirt, warm on his chest between them. “We’ll do it somewhere where no one will see.”

He objected, forgetting his thought and still a little appalled, “No, I’m not sitting in a sidesaddle—those are…”

“You’re already far more womanish than I am, I don’t see why—” she stretched out her legs, resting her feet on the tops of his. The soles were chill and he twisted involuntarily. She scolded, “Hold still” and pulled his hair.

“Hush—see? You sound just like a girl.” Faramir snorted in disgust and Éowyn arched an eyebrow, wearing a little triumphant smile. “What? You know it’s true.”

“Just because I can sew, dance and cook doesn’t mean that—I can’t cook very well, you know—just enough to make something decent for myself when I’m in the wood.”

She pinched him and to his astonishment felt her light, questing touch through their link; Éowyn giggled, “Liar; you made a pie once.” She bit her lip, gazing at him in undisguised glee, “Blackberry, was it? Boromir laughed at you, too.”

Faramir ignored that, pressing onwards even though he now knew it was a losing battle. “And I can’t sew that well, either—mending rips in my clothes is about it.”

“Again you lie.” Her hand touched his face and her voice was sly, “What’s this about a butterfly stitch?” Éowyn giggled again and then asked, “Don’t you have men to do those things for you?” She was playing with the back collar of his shirt, rolling it between her fingers now and one of her feet tapped repetitively at his leg.
He ignored her assertions; he’d only told partial lies. “Yes, but if one of them is hurt I’m not too proud to do it for myself or others—once we’re out of the city our safety and success depends upon everyone helping and working together.”

It was a moment before she spoke again. “Hmm, you didn’t say anything about dancing.”

She laughed, teasing him, her fingernails lightly running up and down the nape of his neck; her other hand now played with her necklace between them. Curious, Faramir wondered why she was so fidgety—he felt no anxiety coming from her. In fact, Éowyn felt quite comfortable with him as she scolded. “Braggart.”

“No, I’m really very good.” He paused, thinking of their wedding. Undoubtedly it would be large and extravagant event, a pleasant diversion for all the nobles and an excuse to show off their finery as anything. “I’ll teach you.”

Éowyn must have caught his thoughts then, because she sobered and quieted, her hands lying limply on his skin. “All right.” Her feet shifted between his. “Your turn.”

Oh, don’t shy away. Not now, love, he pleaded. She did not reply, so he searched his mind and answered, “I can write—not exceptional by any means, but decent—poetry.”

She seemed intrigued, her eyes dark in the starlight as she looked up. “I like poetry.”

Faramir hesitated, wanting to ask what he’d guessed since he’d heard her sing. “Answer me something?” He knew she could feel his faltering, but not its cause when Éowyn frowned, then nodded. “Was the song you sang yours—did you write it?” She looked away and he felt her tense physically and emotionally. Quickly backtracking, anxious not to upset her, he began, “You don’t have to…”

Her voice was small, but he heard it. “I thought what you told me was.” Faramir rubbed her back in what he hoped was an encouraging way, “Tell me the rest?”

“I’ll—” He grimaced, thinking of what had been running through his mind off and on lately. “I’ll share something of mine.”

She peeped up through her lashes at him, twisting the dolphin pendant, obviously surprised and interested. Faramir felt her discomfiture recede and he relaxed as Éowyn nodded, “All right.”

A small and weakly flickering torch in his hand, Aragorn was bent over, staring at the ground as he walked back and forth. He was looking for a twig or bit of something with which to light his pipe and having little luck. Éomer sighed deeply, watching. He’d been bored ever since they’d left the tavern. Shifting his back, trying to get more comfortable as he leaned against the wall, he asked, “Give up yet?”

Aragorn looked about some more. His shadow flared and swooped wildly, making strange shapes. Éomer didn’t even want to smoke; this was a waste of time as far as he was concerned. “How about now?”

“No.” It was exasperated and that gave him some small satisfaction. Several minutes, fruitless on Aragorn’s part and dull on his passed before he spoke again.

“The one in the tavern, the dark-haired in the red dress with the...” He motioned up and down with his hands in front of his chest and the King burst out laughing.

“That one?” He shook his head, kicking at the ground and then looked back up. “I don’t know—how should I know?”

“I just wondered.” Éomer leaned back against the wall and thought while Aragorn kicked at the ground again, apparently in hopes of stirring something up. “I think it was you—I’m usually very popular.”

“Me?” Again he laughed and then louder, more amused. “Popular? —You’re a boor, an uncivilized brute. I don’t believe it.”

Éomer snorted his contempt for the names. “You were rude and now,” He sighed mournfully, folding his arms, “I go home cold and unloved.”

“I was rude?” Fixating upon the word, Aragorn seemed offended. He switched the torch to his other hand as he frowned. “I am not rude.”

Ah, here we go Éomer perked up; he answered deliberately casually. “You were.”

“You refused to pay for the broken mug.” He smiled, and waited. Here was some entertainment at last.

“You’re King.” Éomer shrugged, maintaining his most innocent expression. Inside himself he grinned, delighted.

“You’re a King too!” Aragorn had forgotten about the twig, which was the point. Now he concentrated on getting him moving, so as to forget about the pipe. So there will be no possibility I will look like a fool, he thought in silent triumph.

Éomer stepped away from the wall as Aragorn sputtered. “What? What does that have to do with anything?”

He’d stopped looking at the ground entirely, which was a good start. “It is your city; I’m a guest.”

Judging by Aragorn’s face he’d managed to both perplex and infuriate him. Excellent, now let’s move, Éomer thought as he walked to stand near the King, poised to stride into the corridor. “Yes.” He took a step away, hoping Aragorn would just naturally follow.

Instead he frowned, “Wait, where are you going? I have to—” For a hopeful moment he looked confused and then to Éomer’s despair he finished, “I have to find something to light this with.”

Damn, he swore inwardly as he returned to his spot on the wall. “Hurry up.”

Several minutes of watching the man poke at the ground and walk back and forth later, he didn’t mean to annoy, really, it was just he was so utterly, completely bored. “Now? Have you found something now?”

The King abruptly straightened and his voice was triumphant. “Yes!” In his hand was a tiny twig. Éomer stepped away from the wall, defeated as Aragorn held the wee bit of wood to the wavering flame. It caught and he hurriedly dropped the torch and held the burning twig over his pipe, cupping it in his hands and puffing. After a moment a small cloud of smoke rolled up and he grinned. “Here.”

Éomer looked at the pipe as it was extended and made himself take it. However, he was unable to keep the look of distaste off of his face as he prepared to put the chewed stem to his lips. Disgusting.

“Promise me you won’t laugh…” he began, then jested to take away his tension, “I’m very sensitive, you know.”

“I won’t.” Éowyn removed her hand from his shoulder, then Move, she commanded.

Back like this. Under his arm, she rolled back over to face away from him and he curled around her backside. Faramir smoothed her hair down out of his way, and rested his hand on her stomach. “Better?” Unlike before, there was no unease when he moved his hand up a little to a more comfortable position, or when he wiggled one foot between hers. Éowyn had finally relaxed with him in her bed.

“All right.” It took him a moment to mentally compose it; he reviewed it, still finding it rough and poor and he wavered. Maybe I should wait…

“Faramir, just go.” She took his hand, interlacing her fingers with his against her stomach. It was a surprising gesture of support and he reached to kiss her shoulder in gratitude. “I won’t laugh, I swear.”

“All right.” Faramir took a deep breath to steady himself, then murmured into her ear.

He held still, waiting tensely. Usually he hated speaking his verses before he’d perfected them. Éowyn breathed in and out and he felt her hand go around the stone dolphin, but she said nothing and he began impatiently moving his fingers against hers to try and goad her. His idea met without any success and Faramir waited nervously. It was only a few more seconds, but it still seemed an eternity before Éowyn turned her head to look him in the eyes. Faramir asked, stammering, “Well--well, what did you think? I mean, it’s not finished and I know, it, I mean it could be better…”

She smiled at him, mercifully ending his tongue-tied stuttering, then with a small laugh that was almost embarrassed, Éowyn said, “It’s wonderful.” Her thumb rubbed over his knuckles as her eyelids lowered, and she glanced away, licking her lips, “I—I love it.”

Relieved to the core, he relaxed and teased “You just say that because it’s about you.”

“No, no. I do.” Something was wrong, he could feel it like a darkness growing in the pit of his stomach. Faramir frowned, leaning his chin against her shoulder as she turned back away. Éowyn was silent and he gently touched her mind, astonished to find she was near despair. Her hand clenched his, feeling his hesitant questing; she took a sharp breath and let him in. At once he sat up, looking down in concern.

It grew ever easier to hear and receive her thoughts. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I am so cold to you when you’re so good to me.

“Oh, no, shh.” Faramir lay back down, wrapping his arm tightly around her waist, holding her the best he could. He pressed his lips to her shoulder, and then to the warm skin bared at the neckline, jesting in sheer desperation. “No more poetry, I swear—don’t,” She sucked in a shuddering breath and Faramir rushed, “Don’t cry…I’ll—I’ll ride sidesaddle, I’ll let you braid my hair, I’ll make you a fancy tart or something—anything.”

Utterly relieved, he leaned his forehead against her shoulder. “If you want.” There was silence in which she held his hand and he squeezed her fingers. Faramir sensed her weariness and became aware of his own. He glanced over her shoulder at the window, noting the position of the stars. It was late or early, depending how one looked at it.

“All right.” Faramir slid closer, wanting to feel her against him. “Goodnight kiss?” She turned her head, wearing a small smile and he raised up to kiss her. Éowyn’s lips were cooperative, slightly parted and soft for him; she wasn’t cold any longer—he’d succeeded in warming her. Giving her hand one last squeeze, he settled behind her shoulder and Faramir closed his eyes, at ease.

Aragorn picked his torch back up; watching him expectantly as Éomer held the pipe. It was narrow, long stemmed and awkward in his hand; he eyed it uncertainly, fearing he would drop the thing.

“Sometime before it goes out.” He arched an eyebrow, grinning as Éomer put it to his mouth again. Under Aragorn’s watchful gaze he carefully inhaled, absently noting the way the small embers flared red in the pipe’s bowl before the smoke hit his lungs. It was hot and unmistakably not air—his lungs refused it and Éomer choked.

“Gah!” It was awful and he blew it out immediately, grimacing at the bitter flavor coating his tongue and throat. Odd, the smoke smelled sweet, yet this—this is horrid, Éomer thought. He spat onto the ground, trying to rid himself of the taste.

Aragorn laughed at him and he would glower if he weren’t so busy spitting. “Everyone does that.”

“How,” Éomer looked at the innocent pipe in disgust, “How can you enjoy that?”

“It’s an acquired taste.” He grinned, the torchlight flickering over his face. “There’s an art to it.”

“It’s disgusting.” There was a tiny bit of thick white smoke coming up from the bowl.

“Coward—it’s not that bad.” Aragorn grinned again. “I suppose you just can’t handle—”

“Fine!” He put it to his mouth, attempting to follow directions, but it was still bad. He coughed deep and hoarse, unable to really get much before his lungs rejected it. The taste of the smoke was forever tattooed upon his tongue—Éomer spat again as soon as he’d exhaled. “You like this?”

“Well, here, let me have it.” He gratefully handed it over and watched as Aragorn smoked easily, gripping the pipe stem between his teeth and then blew a perfect smoke ring.

“Ugh.” Éomer spat again, but it was hopeless. He doubted even ale would kill this horrid taste.

Now they walked, moving aimlessly through the dark corridors. “It’s not fair.” Aragorn eventually said, his words slightly muffled through the pipe.

“That the hobbits—Merry and Pippin, no less—used Shadowfax. I could use him; I mean, he’d do it for love, you think?”

“Do what?” Éomer considered licking something in hopes of getting rid of the taste. But what? He only came up with the wall, his hand or his boot. None were appealing.

“Carry me to intercept Arwen so I don’t have to wait so long; what the hell did they steal him for anyway?”

He looked at his hand; it was by far the best choice. “Weeds; sacks of plants or something. That’s all Éowyn was carrying.” Aragorn halted so quickly Eomer was two steps ahead before he noticed. “What?”

“That’s what if felt like.” Éomer stuck his fingers in his mouth. They tasted of ale and dirt? I don’t know. Better than pipe-weed, he reasoned. Sucking them, he added, “A bunch of stems that... poked me...” He jerked his fingers out of his mouth with a grimace as he hit a new taste; all right, maybe not better. Éomer wiped them on his trousers, moving his tongue and lips in disgust. I will never be rid of it.

“You think Éowyn still has it? The sacks of weeds?” Aragorn seemed excited for some reason.

Aragorn’s eyes lit up alarmingly and he eagerly commanded, “Come on, take me to her room.”

“No! It’s too late. She’s asleep.” She’ll be mad at me he added to himself and blinked in surprise when Aragorn promptly proposed,

“Listen, she won’t be mad—I’m a ranger, I’m quiet, I’ll never even wake her.”

“No.” Éomer was not allowing this foolishness. “You’ll get it tomorrow. Or I suppose, now, in a few hours.”

“So—don’t you get it? They found pipe-weed—they don’t, won’t share!” Aragorn hissed impatiently and then, his tone wheedling, he virtually begged. “Come on, Éomer, you don’t like it but I do and…I’m running low!”

Éowyn shouting at him and then weeping earlier came to mind and he hardened his heart. “So?”

“So…” Aragorn couldn’t think of anything; he frowned, his tone trying for imploring and edging into outright begging. “Please?”

Damn, look at him. It was pathetic and he wavered. “You won’t wake her?”

“I don’t know.” He weighed his sister’s anger against his friend’s increasingly pitiful expression. He looks like a kicked dog, Éomer thought, impressed and then with huge amusement, the student learns quickly. Frankly he hadn’t expected this level of manipulation from the straight-laced Aragorn and he was unprepared to defend himself. Sighing, he gave in. “Yes—but if you wake her...” A delighted grin was his reward. “I won’t be there to save you.” Aragorn nodded, following him. Éomer sighed as he took the torch. They were far, but not too far, perhaps ten minutes distance.

Éowyn lay silently. She was listening to Faramir’s breathing deepen and sensing his mind slowly quieting. He was almost fully asleep and she envied him. I can’t sleep, she thought, staring at the stars through the open window. She closed her eyes in determination, but opened them again within seconds. I’m so tired and yet…there was a great, cumbersome man in her bed. His presence alone, even fairly trusted and loved, kept her awake. The bed sloped gently under his heavier weight, making it impossible to move away. Even if I could, she thought in irritation.

Damn it, damn everything; his arm was back on her. Éowyn gritted her teeth and turned to carefully lift it away. She placed it on his side, as she’d already done twice, but a few seconds later Faramir stirred, murmuring something incomprehensible and it was wrapped tightly around her waist again. Grinding her jaw in silent frustration, she resumed staring at the stars. Éowyn couldn’t even throw off the blankets to cool herself because his big, dumb leg is over mine. His arm was heavy around her, pressing her stomach in; it hadn’t weighed nearly this much when he was awake, she was sure. Her entire body was boiling—from her neck to her ankles Faramir was pressed against her and even worse, draped over her—Éowyn was burning alive. She remembered being cold fondly and with longing. Faramir breathed on her neck; it was hot and she tried not to slap at him.

How can he sleep like this? It’s stifling! Éowyn felt his hand move on her stomach and behind her he unconsciously moved closer. How many women has he held like this to be so comfortable? It was the first time it had occurred to her and the thought was disturbing. She hadn’t seen any in his mind, yet she hadn’t seen a great many things. All the images, voices and thoughts had been fairly random from different points in his life, at different times. How many women? She wondered jealously, unable to sleep. He was deeply gone now; she couldn’t feel anything but the soft and low beat of his nearness. It was comforting and she closed her eyes again. A breeze blew across her face; it cooled her a bit. Perhaps, now…

Suddenly Faramir’s hand slid upward to cup her breast and Éowyn rolled her eyes to the heavens as he stirred again, his mouth now on her shoulder, moving against her skin. Gods, no, just no. Would he try to…do what? She had no idea…before he awoke? His fingers did something, almost a combination of a squeeze and a rub. It felt strange. Nervously she grabbed his arm, moving it back to his side and sent sternly, behave! If he heard her there was no response. Éowyn relaxed when he didn’t try to grope her again, knowing he hadn’t meant to.

He did, however, put his arm back over her. She gritted her teeth, still on fire, sweating lightly and looked at the window. It’s not long till dawn; I can last. Faramir shifted closer again and she thought, maybe.

Aragorn was practically tripping over his heels and Éomer glared at him. He didn’t want to wake his sister and even doubted her door would be unbolted. As they neared the hall her room was in, he spoke, “I’m not going in with you.”

“There. That one. Be quiet.” He pointed to the second door, stopping in the middle of the hallway. “Be quick.”

“I will.” Amusingly, Aragorn flipped up his hood and Éomer wondered whatever for. The King grinned. “Here, hold this.” He handed him his pipe. It was still lit, very slightly smoking.

He grimaced, but took it. “All right.” As Aragorn walked to the door, his step silent on the stone, Éomer hissed, “Be fast!” A jerk of the head was his only answer as Aragorn quickly pulled open the door and stepped inside. I hope he doesn’t wake her, he worried.

Éowyn had had enough. Lifting Faramir’s arm and wiggling from under his leg, she managed to extract herself from the bed. Panting, she watched warily. His brow furrowed and his fingers moved to clutch the sheet, but he didn’t awaken. She sighed in relief, pulling the nightgown away from her sweaty skin. The cooler night air was unbelievably delightful and she decided she wasn’t staying in that bed. Sofa, yes, that will be better, she thought, truly sorry to leave him. Éowyn moved to the door, walking quietly. There was a tiny bit of curiosity from Faramir, rising up like a mental bubble, but she answered it with reassurance. I’m not going far.

As Éowyn carefully opened the door to her outer room, cracking it just enough to slip through, she thought I can shut it. She smiled, her fingers plucked again at the nightgown; I can shut it and take this hot thing off.

Éomer shifted his weight from one foot to the other nervously. At least, he thought, there was no noise. He was pretty sure his sister would scream at least once if she saw a hooded and cloaked man in her rooms in the middle of the night. And then he’d run away, because she was already mad at him. Briefly amused at his own cowardice, he was soon nervous again.

There was nothing to do but wait. Anxious to see Aragorn reappear, he fidgeted in the dark corridor, moving the torch back and forth to watch the shadows. Come on, come on, he pleaded, fingering the pipe. It he didn’t come out soon he’d have to resort to smoking—at least it was better than futilely staring at his sister’s door.

She closed the door, slowly, ever so slowly so it wouldn’t make a sound. Éowyn leaned against it, reaching, but Faramir was still asleep. Thank the gods, she thought, I don’t want to hurt his feelings and moved into the room. It was slightly warmer in here, the coals of her fire mostly dead but still putting out a bit of heat. Walking to the window, she silently unlatched it and swung it open. Suddenly she froze, the skin prickling on the back of her neck—it felt as though someone were watching her. Éowyn glanced around the shadowy room and irritably dismissed the feeling. She was acting womanish and silly. Exasperated at herself, she yanked her nightgown off, tossing it onto the floor without a second thought. There was no one here to see, after all—she was just being foolish. Leaning over the windowsill, she let the wind blow over her hot skin, cooling it. Shivering in delight, Éowyn’s last regrets about leaving the bed disappeared.

Her weariness came back tenfold and she turned back to the room. She’d just stretched her arms over her head, yawning wide when there was a low, muffled sound—what was that? she thought in horror. An electric jolt running through her body, Éowyn’s eyes went wide, darting around. There was nothing but shadows in the dim starlight and her breath stuck in her throat as she heard more, hastily muffled noises. Her heart raced and instinctively she crossed her arms across her bare breasts, glancing at her bedroom door. It was still closed tightly. Someone is in here and it is not Faramir, she thought in growing fear, insanely aware of her nakedness; it made her sense of vulnerability much worse.

A large shape in the darkness—it rose up from the corner and she trembled. The wraith, the wraith…oh gods, it’s come back! Her mind wailed in fright as it took a soundless step in her direction. Éowyn inhaled deep, preparing to scream at least once before the foul thing took her and sensing her intent, it lunged across the room. She watched, unable to move and frozen in terror as, in the faint starlight, it seemed to fly at her.

Its cloak made soft flapping sounds, its boots scraping as its hand clamped itself to her mouth, the other awkwardly grabbing her in the dimness—sliding up off her bare hip with a snort of strange laughter? to her waist, then quickly finding her arm. This was no wraith, though—it’s skin was warm and she could hear it breathing. Éowyn wasn’t sure if she were relieved or not; she thought not as it grappled clumsily, behind her now, arm around her waist as she jerked back. The man was strong, but recovering slightly from her fear, she bit the hand over her mouth hard enough to taste blood. There was a yelp of pain from her attacker and triumph replaced the fright in her heart. Éowyn thrashed in his grip, uncaring of her bareness, biting harder, trying in vain to free herself long enough to scream for Faramir to help—until a familiar voiced hissed,

It wasn’t the wraith or a strange man—it was much, much worse. Aragorn—OH GODS, ARAGORN! Éowyn thought in humiliated horror, going limp against him. From her bedroom she could feel Faramir come slightly awake with a start, reacting to her gigantic shifts in emotion. Go…go back to sleep, Faramir...everything is fine. It was a huge effort to answer him with Aragorn still gripping her from behind, less than inches away while she was—naked, I’m naked! In the bedroom she felt her awareness of him dim as Faramir went back to sleep. Aragorn’s bruising hold on her waist loosened, attracting her attention to her immediate surroundings again.

“Be quiet? No screaming?” He asked her tensely, his voice a rough whisper. Éowyn nodded, feeling herself flush all over to feel him pressed against her backside. But worse, even in the dim light she knew her body would be clearly visible once he stepped away. She shivered in humiliation, feeling trapped as slowly, watchfully, he took his hand from her mouth. Aragorn moved away and his eyes briefly dropped to look at her as Éowyn stood helplessly. He snickered then, just like a boy, obviously unable to stop himself and she bolted for her nightgown, grabbing it up to hold as a pitiful shield.

He was laughing through his hands, making the same muffled noise that had originally startled her. He sobered long enough to say, “I’m…I’m really,” Aragorn’s eyes dropped again and she desperately pressed the thin material to her body as he wrenched them up to hers “…sorry.” He finished and helplessly laughed again.

“What—what,” Éowyn took a deep breath and hissed in fury. “What are you doing here?”

He managed to sober somewhat, his voice low. “What were you doing anyway? Do you always go about naked?”

“No!” She glared at him, still clutching her nightgown and whispered. “Why are you in here?”

“I came for—” and then what she’d hoped would not happen did; in the other room, Faramir moved, found her not there and awoke. Éowyn stared at Aragorn, wide-eyed as he went on, totally oblivious, “the pipe-weed, of course.”

“What?” It was loud and he shushed her, waving his arms. “What?” She asked again, whispering.

“Éomer’s outside; I told him I would be quiet and not” He chuckled, “wake you.” In the bedroom there was a rustling noise and the thump of Faramir’s feet hitting the floor. Aragorn didn’t seem to notice. His words penetrated and she fought back a moan. Not again, not another fight, Éowyn thought. She glared at Aragorn and as Faramir took a drowsy step toward her bedroom door, pausing to yawn, she hissed in desperation,

“Not without the—” and of course he called out to her. Faramir’s voice was thick with sleep,

“Éowyn?” Aragorn’s eyes went wide and he fell silent. Nearly giving himself whiplash, he jerked his head, staring at the bedroom door, then back to her. Éowyn stared back equally as wide-eyed and suddenly, without warning Aragorn burst out in laughter. He clamped his hand over his mouth, snorting through it as he bent over. There was a strange mixture between shock and fascination on his face as he whispered, his eyes agog,

She answered Faramir in a low voice, feeling herself flush at Aragorn’s amazed and delighted tone. “I’ll be there in a minute; go back to sleep.” She sensed him hesitating then turn back to flop in the bed; he had never truly awoken.

Abruptly sobering, Aragorn spoke while shaking his head slowly. “I’m very disappointed in the both of you.”

“Do you know how long I’ve waited—” Giving her a look of deep and faked distress (she could still see the glint of amusement in his eye), he continued. “To bed my—” she was disgusted and she didn’t want to know. Éowyn glared, hissing,

“Be quiet! I don’t care!” She stared at him, suddenly remembering her nakedness and wondering why he was still there. “And…get out, Aragorn!”

“What? No! Get out!” There was no way he’s getting it, she thought, purely out of spite for really she didn’t care either way.

“I said—” Aragorn looked in danger of coming closer and she gave up. Let the hobbits scream! I want him out, Éowyn thought.

“Éowyn?” Faramir had reawakened and lost patience with waiting; in her mind’s eye she saw him sit up and rub his face. My love? He asked.

“In a moment.” She called desperately, trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to alert her brother. Aragorn pointed at her nightgown, struggling not to laugh.

“Put that back on in case he comes and finds me.” Éowyn began to lift it, then gave him a look. Aragorn turned his head obediently, grinning as he did so. “I think it’s a bit late for that—you know, it’s nothing to be ashamed of, the elves teach— ”

“I don’t care! You will put the image from your mind. Now.” She gritted out, furious and straightened the nightgown, struggling into it. Smoothing the thing down, she felt far better covered. Gods, it had to be Aragorn, didn’t it? Éowyn thought, feeling her embarrassment heat her cheeks.

“All right.” He snorted laughter, going to the sofa to choose the larger of the two bundles.

Éowyn watched as he picked it up and looked at her, sensing Faramir rising again and yawning wide as he padded slowly forward. This time he’ll come, she thought. “Get out. Now.”

Aragorn nodded and moved silently to her door. He paused, one hand on the knob and whispered in obvious glee. “Say goodnight to him for me.”

She looked at the ceiling, wishing it had been the wraith and the thing had slain her—it was preferable to the knowledge that the next time Aragorn saw her he would probably be picturing her nude. Or perhaps worse, thinking she’d made love to Faramir. “Get out, Aragorn.”

Éowyn glared at him, hissing, “Out!” Aragorn chuckled again, and slipped out her door just as Faramir stumbled into the room.

“What’re you doing?” He muttered with a frown, blinking blearily at her in the starlight.

She smiled in relief that he hadn’t seen or sensed Aragorn and pointed to the open window. “I was hot.”

Faramir yawned, taking her hand. “Why didn’t you wake me? Come back, we’ll throw the blankets off.” Éowyn allowed herself to be led back to bed, wondering if she’d ever get to sleep.

Eomer jumped to attention as Aragorn slithered through the cracked door and out of his sister’s room. Whispering, he asked angrily, “What took you so damn long? Did you wake her?”

He smiled strangely. “No, I didn’t wake her.” Aragorn held up his prize, one hand oddly tucked back behind his back. “I got it.”

Éomer looked at the dirty, wrinkled sack of weeds in contempt. “Wonderful for you.”

The King grinned widely as they walked away, stuffing one hand deep in his pocket. “Nothing, nothing.”

As Éowyn lay in bed, Faramir asleep and wrapped around her again, the same thought replayed itself over and over in her mind: Aragorn saw me naked, Aragorn saw me naked and eventually she began to giggle. She laughed soundlessly, first only in small bursts, but then hysterically with her hand clamped to her mouth, her body shaking and tears streaming down her cheeks. It was horribly embarrassing, true, but it really was no worse than her brother seeing her nude was—Aragorn had no desires, nor intentions of any kind towards her. The last thing she remembered thinking before she finally fell asleep was, thank the gods it wasn’t one of the hobbits.

Faramir dreamed; he awoke slowly, his head pillowed on something soft and warm. Opening his eyes, he realized he was lying on someone, Éowyn, to be precise. Faramir blinked in weary surprise. Lifting up slightly, he found he was lying sprawled between her legs, his head lying on her stomach with his arms just below her breasts. She was asleep, one hand resting on his arm, the other thrown over her head. She wore men’s clothes—they looked like his and he smiled and then he noticed the shirt was unbuttoned, leaving a long handbreadth of bare skin from her neck to where he’d been lying. The rawhide thong of the necklace he’d given her hung limp around her neck, the dolphin pendant rising and falling with the movements of her breathing, poised in mid-leap against the pale swell of one breast. A breeze blew a leaf against her bared flesh and he reached out to brush it aside, delighting in her soft skin. Éowyn stirred, her eyelids fluttering, but didn’t wake. Faramir gazed at her longingly, his chin on his arm. He could see fading bite-marks on her breasts and neck, slightly reddened skin from his stubble and her lips were still swollen from his kisses; with a sigh, he wished vehemently that he had come into this dream a bit earlier.

It took him a few minutes, but finally looking away, he blearily took in his surroundings—the same giant tree that was in every dream, but the rest of the landscape had changed. There were no walls, no garden, and no buildings, only the tree and multiple markers to signify the positions of future structures. Not yet, he thought, construction hasn’t started yet.

Propping himself up on his hands, each one planted at her sides, he watched her sleep and wondered impatiently when he would get to this.

Éomer knocked on the door, glancing at the sky. It was just beginning to lighten, though the stars were still bright. There were footsteps and the door opened, revealing several Rohirrim men in various stages of dressing and packing. “Min Hlaford?”

“Beoð ge gesunde.” He greeted them, and then turned to one in particular. “Halorl, gesibling, Ic þe axige a mæst þéowhád.”

He looked curious and willing; Éomer was encouraged as Halorl asked respectfully, “Ac, min Hlaford?”

“Ábenð se Hordere in eower geþiode, gewuna ond drohtoð gelíce and a cempa-gelíce and miccle ge cunnan.” Halorl looked slightly disappointed, so Éomer quickly reassured him, “Efne hwænne se hwil of se metsung cuman.”

Éowyn’s eyes opened blurrily to, after what felt like seconds, loud knocking and a male voice calling. Pale light gleamed in the lower corner of her window, but the rest of the sky still dark and she groaned, burying her head back into the pillow. Behind her Faramir was still deeply asleep; without the blankets his crowding had been tolerable enough for her to sleep as well. At the loud noise she felt him stir, felt his chest rise to touch against her back as he sighed deeply and murmured something into her neck. The pounding at her door went on and on. “My lady? My lady it is time to rise! Min Ides! Sǽl!”

He’s not going away, you have to answer, she thought and finally lifted her head. Éowyn licked her dry lips and shouted wearily, “Yes, yes.” There was blessed silence; delighted, she laid her head back onto the pillow, but only for a second. Faramir’s arm had tightened possessively around her middle at the disturbance and she pried it off. He didn’t move when she put it on his side and, blinking and yawning, she made herself sit up before he replaced his arm. She forced her eyes open; knowing if she didn’t get up she’d just go back to sleep. Éowyn felt horrible, her whole body seemed to weigh a ton, especially her eyelids. Sitting on the edge of the bed, unable for the moment to make herself stand, she said in an exhausted voice, “Faramir, get up.”

“Yes, get up.” She glanced over at him, but all she could see was his dark, tangled hair and his long body stretched out as he unfolded. His shirt rode up, exposing his midsection while his trousers had slid down and bunched. Starting just below the center of his flat stomach, a sparse trail of dark hair led downward and Éowyn found herself gazing at it and wondering curiously. She’d seen men naked, of course, mostly finding them amusing. Between her brother and Théodred, plus several of the young Rohirrim soldiers who cared little for modesty in the summer heat, she’d been quite entertained, always wondering how they managed to get around with such crude, awkward bodies. But none had hair of this kind, she thought, and there were none that I wanted to touch. The wiry strands on his chest had been darker than that of his head and she reached out with one finger to stroke the darkish stuff on his abdomen; it was something he hadn’t let her do earlier.

His stomach twitched and she glanced up quickly, but although he’d turned his head, his eyes were still closed. Éowyn skimmed her fingers over his skin, running them through the light trail of hair. It grew thinner and thinner as she went up, finally stopping altogether; further up on his chest she knew there was more, but his shirt hid it. Still running her hand up his middle, she slid it under his shirt, questing past firm muscle. She lightly pressed his skin, frowning at the easily felt ribs and had just pushed his shirt up a bit when suddenly Faramir’s hand moved to catch her wrist through the cloth. His voice was raspy with fatigue,

“What’re you doing?” Teasing me at this early hour? Go back to sleep. Startled and caught, Éowyn looked at Faramir’s face again, but his eyes were still closed. His hand was warm around her arm, holding her through the shirt. His fingers moved, rubbing gently.

“Nothing. No.” She scooted closer, turning to face him, and twisted a strand of the hair on his arm between her free fingers. When there was no response, she smiled in tired amusement and tugged at it. This earned her a noise and Faramir’s eyelids lifting long enough to frown at her in bewilderment. Suddenly she looked at him again, this time eyeing his frame—his body was lean, long and his shoulders were less broad—he was sparer than her brother was, and she thought, he would probably fit a little better, not much, but better. A few things stolen from Éomer were the only men’s clothes she had, and besides the fact that they were filthy from the two days she’d already worn them, they also billowed off of her like sheets in the wind. Éowyn shook her head; she wasn’t wearing a skirt to travel in, it was ridiculous even to consider. “Faramir, now, get up.” She poked him in the stomach. He groaned again, but didn’t move. Éowyn sighed, “Now, before Éomer decides to come and make sure I’m awake.”

That made him open his eyes and Faramir’s head came up with a drowsy start. “What?”

She yawned, using her free hand pushing her hair out of her face, knowing she should brush it or the snarls would be horrendous by nightfall. Éowyn stared out the window as the sun just began to peep over the horizon. The beginning sunrise was pretty—all red and gold streaks up through the blue-grey clouds. “Go and get me some of your clothes.”

“What?” He sat up slowly, his shirt sliding down a bit. Finally letting her go and scooting back to lean against the headboard, he yawned; his head gently thumped the wall as he wearily leaned it back. Unruly hair in his eyes, Faramir squinted at her in confusion, “What did you say?”

“I said go and get me some of your clothes to wear—you’d be a little better fit than my brother.” Éowyn shook her head, looking at him and thinking he was curiously attractive all tousled and disheveled like that, far more than the impeccably attired Prince she’d first seen. She dangled her legs over the side of the bed, too tired to stand yet. “You don’t think I’m riding all the way home in a sidesaddle, do you?”

“I don’t know. No.” He rubbed his face, blinking and then said determinedly, “No, you’re not riding home.” Before she could speak, he grabbed her arm again, pulling her back to him. Landing with her head resting on his lap, sprawled crossways across the bed, Éowyn almost gave in as Faramir muttered, “I forbid it.” It was so nice, to lie still with her eyes shut and her cheek pressed against the folds of his clothing…she opened them with a moan. Pressing her hands to the sheets, she quickly found she couldn’t get up anyhow—he was holding her down.

No, Faramir’s inner voice was colored with desperation as he came closer to actual wakefulness and bent his attention on her, strengthening the link between them.

“Yes.” She tried to rise, but his arm clamped down across her with surprising strength and she didn’t have the will to fight. Éowyn’s eyes closed on their own and she thought, just a moment, only a moment…she reopened them immediately, knowing she’d only fall back asleep. “Yes, let me go.” The only reply was him tightening his hold. She sighed and gazed at his face. His eyes were closed again, his brow was creased, the corners of his mouth tight, and she felt his supplication like a dull rasp grating between them—it tried to wear her down.

Faramir, he may come and I don’t want either of you to get hurt—which would happen if he found you here. I’m not strong enough to stop him. Please let me go. I know you can hear me.

Heaving a great sigh, he took his arm away and opened his eyes to look at her as she slowly stood up. Éowyn stretched, feeling her weary muscles protesting. In a dull and tired voice, Faramir asked, “What do you want?”

“You know—shirt, trousers, socks.” She leaned against the bed. “A belt. I have boots.”

“All right.” He pulled his shirt all the way down as he swung his legs over the opposite side of the bed. Faramir yawned and stood as she smiled in sudden amusement. His hair was a crow’s nest; it looked tangled up even worse than hers did. He scratched his chest and muttered, “I’ll be back soon.” Éowyn nodded, watching him walk out. Through the opened bedroom door she saw him bend to pick up his boots, shoving his feet in them and grabbing his tunic before leaving her rooms entirely. At the soft clunk of her door shutting she felt his mind slowly fade in intensity and thought, I could lay down a bit while I wait.

Stumbling wearily through the hallway, he saw Aragorn, who grinned at him. Faramir frowned, thinking he looks like he’s been in another fight. There were indeed more bruises and scrapes on Aragorn’s face, but he appeared quite cheerful, calling out,

He answered politely, though he would have rather not. This was no good morning for him. “Good morning.”

“Oh?” Faramir fought back another yawn. He felt as though he hadn’t slept at all.

“Yes.” With that puzzling exchange, Aragorn continued on his way and so did Faramir, mentally prompting himself as he walked. She wanted, what? Socks, pants, shirt and a belt. Right.

Éowyn jumped when she heard the knock. She’d lain back down to wait for Faramir and fallen asleep. Wishing she had a robe or something, she moved to the door and opened it a crack, expecting Éomer. When she saw who it really was, she sighed, already flushing in embarrassment. “What do you want?”

Aragorn leaned against the doorway grinning, although he looked just as weary as she felt. “You look tired, did he keep you up all night?” When she frowned, he shoved his foot in the door, preventing her from closing it. “What, what? I have to want something?”

He didn’t look any less cheerful, saying, “Well, in that case, I wanted to see you—you’re leaving soon and I’ll miss you.” He pushed against the door. “Can I come in?”

She didn’t believe him for a moment, however there was no argument, irrational, rational or otherwise that she could come up with at this early hour to bar him. “I suppose.” Éowyn gave in, inwardly cursing him and stepped back, allowing him to enter.

Immediately he eyed her, and in an almost disappointed voice, Aragorn sighed, “Oh, you’re dressed.”

She felt herself blush slightly and folded her arms across her chest. “Yes, I am.”

He walked fully in, glancing at the bedroom and then back at her. Aragorn’s voice lowered conspiratorially, “He’s not still here, is he?”

Again she blushed; he was so thrilled looking it embarrassed her further. “No.”

“I know.” He grinned as he turned in a small circle, taking in her room; his voice was nonchalant. “I passed him in the hallway.”

“To see if you would blush.” And damned if she hadn’t. Hating him, she watched Aragorn look around and then smile widely and mischievously at her. “Did you tell him?”

“That’s probably for the best—” Anxiously, she followed as he wandered into her bedroom, looking at everything. “It might have gotten awkward, you know.” What? Éowyn thought, awkward? What is he talking about? What is he doing? Aragorn had stopped at her bed and he was smirking in a way that made her feel distinctly uncomfortable. He gestured at the blankets that were tossed to the floor, “Rough night?”

He laughed, delighted at her and pointed at the bed. “Which side did he sleep on?”

Even further appalled, she sputtered, “Aragorn—what? Why—why do you care?”

“Éowyn,” He held one hand to his chest, looking dismayed, “I have always cared.” Suddenly he grinned, “So which side?”

He laughed, “Right or left?” Staring up at her ceiling, Éowyn knew she must be bright red this time as she finally responded,

“Neither.” Still not meeting his gaze, she sighed in frustration. “He slept an inch away from wherever I was.”

“Ah.” Aragorn sat on her bed and swung his legs out in front of him; he grabbed a pillow and stuck it behind his head, getting comfortable. Gods, what is he doing? She wondered. Where is Faramir? He raised an eyebrow, looking at her. “Aren’t you going to get ready?”

She turned to her dresser. His legs and middle were visible in the mirror and she directed her reply to them, “Faramir’s bringing me some of his clothes to wear today; with anything else I can steal of Éomer’s, I’ll have enough for the journey.”

Aragorn yawned, “That’s nice of him—a skirt would be rather,” He crossed one leg over the other, obviously settling in, “inconvenient for such a long way.”

“Yes.” She looked for her brush, wondering where Faramir had set it and wishing he were here to do it for her. It was so nice, last night. Éowyn smiled fondly to herself, he was far gentler than I...even with all the knots and tangles he didn’t pull once.

“All—” he yawned again, putting one arm over his face, “All packed then?” Éowyn laughed in genuine amusement, looking back at Aragorn.

“Pack what?” She waved an arm around her room. “All I really have are those horrid dresses they brought me—I’m leaving them here, by the way—a filthy pair of Éomer’s clothes, my hairbrush,” She plucked at the front of her nightgown, “this, and the little flowers Merry gave me.”

He sounded disconcerted though she couldn’t see his expression, “Well, I suppose you’re quite ready to go.”

Éowyn looked at her self in the mirror. “No. I need to brush my hair, and I’ll probably braid it or something to keep it back.” Finally spotting it, she picked up the hairbrush and had just begun to pull it laboriously through her tangled mane when, in a voice far softer than anything she’d ever heard him use, Aragorn asked her, almost timid sounding.

“Hum while you do it?” He didn’t move his arm, so she couldn’t see his face, but Aragorn’ tone was almost pleading, “So I can…I can pretend that—?” He really didn’t need to finish—it was all in his voice—sad and beseeching.

Éowyn swallowed and turned back to the mirror. She raised the brush, murmuring. “All right.” Beginning to brush her hair again, she heard him sigh. Her heart melancholy, she hummed softly along to her strokes.

Faramir, after getting dressed in fresh clothes and tossing the ones he’d slept in to the floor, stared into his wardrobe looking for something for Éowyn to wear. Several minutes passed, but he only sat on the end of his bed and gazed dully into the wooden chest. His choice was hindered by the fact that he didn’t want to choose something—it would only aid her in leaving him. Why does she have to? It’s not fair. He was aware of the childish tone of his thoughts and became disgusted at himself. Valar, I am a man, not a lovesick boy. I can live for a while. Sighing deeply, Faramir finally grabbed up a blue shirt he could picture as quite flattering on her, a nondescript pair of pants and some socks. Wait, wait. There was something else. Frowning, he paused in his outer room, looking down at his armful of clothing. What else did she want? Faramir couldn’t remember, so he just shrugged and began walking back to Éowyn’s room.

The halls were mostly empty with only a few servants to gaze curiously at him as he traveled back. It was not an especially great distance, luckily, and he was soon at her door. Not bothering to knock since he was expected Faramir pushed it open awkwardly; the heavy wooden door resisted his efforts to slip through with only one hand to push but he made it. Using his foot to help close it, he began to call out and stopped to listen. Éowyn was humming—it was a low and pleasant sound that drew him. His footsteps silent on the floor, Faramir entered her bedroom, smiling at her, about to speak and stopped short.

“Am I interrupting something?” He stared down at Aragorn, the last person he’d expected to find sprawled in her bed. He’s in my spot. The man sighed and took his arm away from his face to frown up at him.

“Not really.” Éowyn was quick to disagree. Aragorn sat up, looking at him curiously and appearing not to notice that he was scowling. You’re taking my valuable time away, Faramir thought in irritation; I could have my arm around her waist, kissing her right now—even if and when she pushed me away, it would still have been preferable to standing with these clothes in my arms, looking like an idiot.

Why do you care? Why are you here? His annoyance mounted, but he kept his voice polite—Aragorn was his lord, after all. “This.” Faramir dropped them on the foot of her bed, turning away to watch Éowyn run her brush through her hair one last time. She began picking up a thin leather thong to tie it back into one long pigtail but then stopped and began to braid her hair instead. Faramir was fascinated at how quickly and easily she did it—from behind and without looking. I could never do that.

Finished, Éowyn ran her hand over the long braid repeatedly to check it, and then as she was apparently satisfied, she set down her brush and faced them. Spotting the clothes he’d brought her, she picked up the shirt and gave him and Aragorn a look. “Out, both of you.”

Faramir nodded, reluctant but obedient. If they’d been alone he might have teased her for a while to fluster her more than anything, but of course…he shook his head in disappointed irritation. He’d begun to turn when Aragorn sighed, “Why do I have to go? I’m very comfortable.”

Faramir was confused at the chuckled reply, “There’s no point anymore and you know it.”

“You don’t—I’m not…” She rolled her eyes, fingers tugging on the dolphin pendant; he could feel her frustration and embarrassment? Why is she so embarrassed? Faramir didn’t have time to try and find out because she immediately snapped back, “I don’t care, Aragorn, you’re not staying—get up and go!”

Warily, he glanced at the grinning man on the bed. A sense of merriment practically oozed from Aragorn’s mind, while Éowyn felt distinctly uncomfortable. Concerned, Faramir asked, “What are you two talking about?”

“Do you want to tell him or shall we,” Aragorn snickered, “let him find out on his own? I warn you though, he’ll be jealous. I would.”

“Jealous of what?” He looked at Éowyn, who staring at the floor. “What is he talking about?”

There was no answer from her. Aragorn was silent, wearing a smile, his arms folded behind his head. Abruptly she burst out, “Oh, this is so damn ridiculous!”

“What?” He touched her mind, reassuring at the same time he sought the source of her distress. Éowyn? You can tell me anything. “What’s ridiculous?”

“Aragorn—”she looked at the ceiling, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, her hand clasped around her necklace. Her embarrassment grew and he waited until she blurted, “Aragorn saw me naked.”

Faramir frowned; he wasn’t quite sure he’d heard her correctly. “Pardon me?”

There was a snicker from the bed, as Éowyn looked him in the eye. “Aragorn saw me naked—completely naked.”

“When?” I was here the entire time, wasn’t I, except for a few minutes just now? “How could he have seen—have caught a glimpse—” Aragorn interrupted with a loud burst of laughter.

“You only wish I’d caught a peek or two.” He grinned as Éowyn went red. “How long was it that you were walking around until you put that back on? Ten seconds? More? Probably more.”

Inwardly Faramir counted. One… two… three… four… He got that far before he exploded in outrage. “Ten seconds! More? Completely naked?”

Éowyn sighed. “I didn’t know he was there.” She glared at Aragorn, crossing her arms over her front. “Believe me.”

Faramir did, he knew well she wouldn’t have run about nude in front of an audience; furious, he focused on his next question. “When?”

“Last night—I was hot, remember? I opened the window and took this,” She plucked at the hem of her nightgown, “off. You were asleep and I didn’t expect him to be hiding in my room.”

“Why were you in there?” He directed this to the cheery-looking Aragorn, completely enraged. It is not fair, who knows when she’ll let me see her naked, I can’t even get her to kiss me back half the time…damn him! I am supposed to be the only one!

“Pipe-weed.” It was matter of fact. “I was stealing it.” Aragorn added off-handedly, “It’s interesting, I had a more appropriate reason to be there than you.” He lifted one hand, grimacing as he flexed it. “She actually bit me, you know. Still hurts.”

“You…grabbed… her?” He was appalled, stammering; “You, you grabbed her while…”

“Yes. Oh, yes.” Aragorn grinned; looking pleased with Faramir’s reaction. “Nightgown on the floor. Nothing but the necklace, which, by the way, is nice. Did you give it to her?” He chuckled and Faramir stared at him, incensed. Éowyn had been right—the entire thing was ridiculous. So ridiculous I might kill him. Flabbergasted and furiously jealous, Faramir did the only thing he could think of. He pointed at her and ordered,

He could feel her shock and her arms tightened defensively around her middle, as she objected, “No!”

Jerking his head at Aragorn, he snapped another order, “You, out!” Éowyn looked horrified, as he demanded again, stepping toward her and gesturing, “Take it off.”

Her eyes wide with dismay and anger at his imperious tone, she cried, “No, I won’t!”

Faramir glared at Aragorn, wanting him out. Leisurely uncrossing his legs and swinging them over the side of the bed, he sighed at Éowyn, “I told you he’d be jealous.”

She hissed back, echoing Faramir’s thoughts—he’d rather have been ignorant, “Why’d you have to bring it up?”

He shrugged, looking innocent. “I told you I was comfortable. I didn’t want to get up.”

Éowyn snapped at him, “Comfortable?” She stared, incredulous, then ordered, “Go! Now!”

“Fine, fine.” Aragorn stood and stretched then walked past him to the door. Faramir watched, hardly able to stay himself until he had gone. “See you at breakfast?”

“Yes, yes.” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling as he left, sounding exasperated.

He gazed at her expectantly. Éowyn smoothed the shirt on the bed and looked at the pants, ignoring him. Finally, Faramir sighed, “Well?”

“Well what?” She frowned, feigning naiveté. “You didn’t bring the belt.”

“The belt?” That’s what it was I forgot. He looked at her once more, but frowned himself, his words dying unspoken. She felt slightly distressed and angry; she was waiting for him to command her to get nude again and preparing herself for a quarrel. Damn Aragorn, he thought. I don’t want to argue. This is absurd. Fine, fine, I’ll behave myself. I can wait, can’t I? Faramir sighed again, thinking, aye, but for how long? “Do you want me to go and get it?”

Éowyn relaxed. “No, it’s all right.” She hesitated, fingers fiddling with the buttons on the shirt, “Leave for a moment?”

He smiled at her, trying to show his acceptance of her shyness with a tease. “Only if you want me to—I can be helpful—” He glanced down at her hand on the shirt. “I can do up the buttons.”

“One handed?” She relaxed further, mentally as well as physically, a small smile on her lips. Faramir even felt himself calming as the irregular press of her anxiety faded. It wasn’t as if he were angry with her anyway, she hadn’t known Aragorn was there. I can’t really be angry with him, either, can I? He wondered and then his jealously took over. Yes, yes I can. Éowyn had her head tilted slightly, as though she were listening. She asked him, teasing, “How are you going to help like that?”

Éowyn laughed, turning her head to smile as if she thought he was silly, then gave him a tolerant look. “Yes, I want you to.”

“No!” She laughed again. He could feel her relief that he was no longer angered as she shooed him with her hands, “Go, go so I can get dressed and get something to eat.”

“All right.” He sighed heavily, as though he were terribly disappointed and walked back through her bedroom door. Éowyn shut it behind him and he glanced back at the keyhole, and then shook his head. It’s too small, I think. Besides, that’s rather beneath me—I’m not so desperate yet. Faramir slumped tiredly down on her little sofa, careful not to sit on the last sack of pipe-weed. Stretching his legs out and folding his arms behind his head, he closed his eyes, feeling his weariness.

Éomer glowered at his eggs and stabbed them vigorously. They were good, that was not the problem. The problem was that he couldn’t get away from this place fast enough and his sister had yet to make an appearance. I wish to go home, he thought impatiently, if I don’t see her soon I will have to go and get her. It would be a long journey, but one he was eager to begin. It has been too long since I saw Meduseld gleaming in the sun. A spark of unease arose in his heart as he chewed his breakfast. This time it will be I in the high seat. Gods, what will I do all day cooped up in the throne room? Éowyn will have more freedom to leave than I will! What do Kings do? I never paid much attention—that was Théodred’s charge, not mine…and yet through fate, it is now. At least I don’t have to attend a foolish Council, only speak regularly with the Marshals, the Master of Horse…

His thoughts were broken at a clunk and thump of some bit of food falling to the floor. Metal and dishes clinked clumsily; across the table from him sat four hobbits perched on their chairs, each eating something with their eyes half-closed. Legolas had been in briefly, his elven eyes bright and entirely unwearied—he’d made Éomer feel exhausted. It was early for them, he supposed, watching Pippin sluggishly lick jam from his palm. Merry stared at the floor, looking despondent and Éomer wearily speculated on what he’d lost. Bread, egg, ham, cheese or all four at once? The possibilities on a hobbit plate were nearly endless. Frodo buttered some toast, his movements just as slow as Sam’s, who was eating a piece of what appeared to be sausage. Éomer wondered where he’d gotten it, envious. Suddenly he heard footsteps and straightened in hope, looking at the doorway, but it was only Aragorn.

The King looked tired, his eyes blood-shot. And he should have, like Éomer he’d never gone to sleep. His chair creaked as he sat heavily and servants bustled in, bringing him a plate and a drink. When they’d left, the hobbits murmured things that might have been greetings then bent their heads back to their meals. Éomer felt he should say something just to be polite, although he’d really only hadn’t seen the man in about an hour. “Good morning.”

“Mmph.” Aragorn had a mouthful of food. He chewed, bleary-eyed and uncommunicative for a man who’d been arguing heatedly with him about two hours before.

Well. He looked back at the doorway, hoping to see Éowyn appear in it and Aragorn caught his gaze. He swallowed and spoke, seeming to perk up slightly.

“Good.” Wonderful, perhaps we can leave on time. He returned to his meal, this time more light-hearted.

Faramir started awake when Éowyn stepped out of her bedroom, embarrassed to have found he’d fallen asleep in such a short time. She carried with her a small knapsack and was busy stuffing some dirty clothing into it as she moved, glancing around the room. He frowned, “Is that all you have?” What about the gowns?

“Yes.” She added quietly, not looking at him, “I didn’t bring anything—it wasn’t like I expected to be wearing anything besides a helm and armor.”

He didn’t want to think about that, so he quickly changed the subject, though, he didn’t really like the new one either. “Ready to go then?”

She carefully wrapped Merry’s flowers in her nightgown and placed them in the knapsack. “Yes, yes I am.” Faramir rose, feeling his exhaustion pulling at him. Éowyn looked beautiful in his shirt, the blue bringing out her eyes. He told her so and she smiled, ducking her head as though embarrassed. He was surprised and pleased as she moved beside him willingly, taking his arm with a light tug and saying, “Come, I’m hungry.”

As they entered the hall, he asked, mainly to be polite since he doubted it was any burden, “Let me carry that for you?”

It was light and he despaired even as he took it. I don’t want you to leave, he thought sadly.

Éomer looked up again at the sound of footsteps. This time he was pleased to see it was Éowyn, though less delighted to see she had Faramir in tow. Merry swallowed a mouthful hastily, beaming up. “Morning.”

“Good,” After a large yawn for a small hobbit Pippin finished, “morning.” Frodo and Sam followed suit as Éomer scrutinized his sister. She looks tired. What is she wearing? Those don’t look like anything of mine. He frowned, and then wondered immediately, what is that around her neck? However, all he said was,

“Good morning, sister.” Unable to help himself at the weariness in her eyes, he added, “You look tired.” Immediately there was a chuckle from his left—Aragorn. Éomer glanced at him, puzzled as to how the statement could be amusing.

“A little.” She rather coolly allowed and her eyes flicked to his side to give the King a scathing glance.

She’s still mad. This will be a long ride. Nervously, he asked, “You didn’t stay up all night did you?” What he really meant, and was not entirely able to keep from his voice, was He didn’t keep you up all night, did he? Confusingly, Aragorn chuckled a second time and Éomer wondered what was so damn funny. The hobbits ate, ignoring them all in favor of the food.

“No.” Again it was rather cool and he fretted. Faramir was silent at her side, holding her bag. He stands there like a damn stump, he thought in exasperation, wishing one or both of them would at least sit or something. Suddenly he knew a way to gain her approval…if I have the stomach for it. I would prefer to disregard him entirely, something I’m sure would work quite nicely for us both. It was a bit late, since he’d been standing there for a while, but he had to try it. Éomer grimaced inwardly, then deliberately looked at Faramir, openly acknowledging his presence for the first time. “Good morning, Faramir.” As he’d hoped, Éowyn gave him a far warmer look. Faramir appeared surprised then nodded courteously, if a bit warily.

“To you as well, Éomer.” However, his true reward was his sister smiling at him and almost immediately sitting by his side, leaving Faramir nowhere to sit except by Aragorn or scrunched at the far end by Sam. Éomer tried not to smirk at the man’s brief expression of irritation. I win Faramir. She still loves me best. Again servants hastened out and he took the opportunity to take a closer look at Éowyn. She wore men’s clothes as he’d expected, but they were entirely unfamiliar—a foreign cut and slightly better fitting—and he had the unsettling feeling that they belonged to Faramir. She always wears mine; she hardly ever borrowed from Théodred even and now she’s wearing his? The top two buttons were undone and he eyed the rawhide thong around her neck with feverish curiosity. Is that a necklace? Did he give her that? What is it? In the end Faramir chose to sit by Aragorn, though he looked highly displeased, actually glaring at the man and Éomer wondered about that too.

All were weary and they ate in silence at first; he pretended not to notice when she stole the last of his toast, using his knife to spread jam on it, delighted to have her interacting with him again. Eventually, Merry spoke, “Uh, Éowyn, is the…uh, the stuff we left with you…do you still have it?”

Frodo and Sam appeared curious, Pippin anxious. Faramir didn’t even look up, but Éomer listened his sister replied, sounding startled, “It’s in my rooms. Still.”

“What did you leave with her?” Aragorn asked. Again, he seemed amused for no discernible reason. Éomer wondered if the lack of sleep had made him foolish.

Merry rapidly answered, “Nothing, nothing.” Pippin was rather wide-eyed as he bit into what looked like a hunk of ham wrapped in a biscuit.

Éowyn came bluntly to their rescue, looking down the table at Aragorn. “Don’t worry about it. It has nothing to do with you, I assure you of that.”

“She said it didn’t concern you.” Faramir sounded uncharacteristically short-tempered and Éomer glanced down at him in astonishment. What is with everyone’s mood this morning? That’s my job anyway dammit. Quit stepping on my toes, you bastard —first clothes, now this? I can’t wait to leave you behind. Faramir’s eyes flicked in his direction as though he’d heard his thoughts, unsettling Éomer and silencing anything he might have said.

Aragorn sighed, “Fine. Pardon me for being curious.” He looked at Frodo, who was looking at Merry. “I was just curious, that’s all. It seemed like something important enough to mention...I was only curious...” He trailed off, biting into a piece of fruit. Éowyn stabbed her fork at her plate as though she was angered, hard and loud enough to make them all jump with the sound but Éomer cared little—it clearly wasn’t directed at him this time.

The King smiled triumphantly. Merry became nervous. “I’ll tell you later.”

It was Pippin who answered and his words were quick as to the point of tripping over each other. “Later, later, Frodo, this afternoon.”

The rest of the meal was in silence. Éomer contented himself with his sister’s presence—her anger towards him was gone at least and all he’d had to do was say three words. I could do that, maybe not everyday, but often enough to please her. I love her plenty enough to be barely civil to him and, happily, I won’t have to see him again for a long time. The unsettling thought occurred, the one he’d been pushing away ever since he’d heard of Faramir. What will I do in the great Hall all alone? Éomer stared at his plate, disturbed. He was no longer hungry.

Faramir stood with Éowyn. Éomer, standing himself, still blocked her from him, of course, but he was determined not to be separated. Luckily, because he had no plan, she stepped around her brother, coming to his side. Her arm slipping around his warmed Faramir, though he didn’t miss the brief flash of irritation from Éomer’s mind. Aragorn drifted to stand next to Éomer as though he were a shield between them, asking, “Are we going down to the gates now?” He glanced at Éowyn. Faramir waited, pained. Soon, so soon, he thought in anguish. She nodded, quiet, and Éomer answered after her confirmation.

“Yes.” The hobbits slid from their chairs, Pippin grabbing a last biscuit. Merry was looking at Éowyn, his small face sad. The hobbits padded up to their circle on their bare feet and Faramir found himself making room for Pippin as he tugged at Éowyn’s sleeve. She leaned down to his level and the dolphin pendant fell out of her shirt. Éomer appeared quite interested in it but said nothing. Faramir was glad—he did not wish to explain—it was something between him and her alone.

“What is it, Pippin?” He pressed something into her hand and gave her a smile, saying in his little voice,

“For later.” She smiled back, taking the small wrapped item and putting it in her pocket.

“Let’s go.” Aragorn, too, seemed unusually subdued all of the sudden. Faramir could sympathize as he looked at Éowyn. She walked at his side as Aragorn and Éomer led and Faramir was gladdened when she leaned against his shoulder.

Concentrating, he glanced at her golden head, and then directed, you will miss me, then? Éowyn missed a step; he must have startled her from her own thoughts. He sensed her discomfort; even this non-physically demonstrative intimacy was slightly unsettling to her. Perhaps she didn’t feel he needed to hear it, but Faramir felt very different. He did because she’d rejected him multiple times, even lied flat out to his face in an attempt to extract herself from his desire to be with her. Yes, I need to hear it and one other thing, too before she goes, he thought, then softly touched her mind, somewhat lighter this time. …Éowyn, would you answer me please?

Yes, yes I will miss you. It had the feel of are you happy now? and he frowned. Her saying it under coercion didn’t make him feel happy at all. He asked another question that was important to him.

Faramir began to ask something else when she murmured into his arm, “Please be quiet—I’m thinking.” This earned him a mystified glance from both men in front of them. Éowyn didn’t seem to care.

“All right.” He kept walking, as though everything was perfectly normal, as though his heart were not twisting in sorrow.

As they came exited the second level, Éowyn stopped short and pulled him aside, out of sight down a narrow, dead-end alley between the sides of two buildings. The hobbits glanced curiously at them, but kept moving. Faramir asked, his voice low, “What are we doing?”

She leaned back against the grey stone wall, then scooted sideways and hopped up on an empty beer keg. Swinging her legs girlishly, she explained, “You’re getting your talk in private.”

“Oh.” He hesitated then admitted, “I’m not ready, I don’t know what to say.”

Éowyn laughed, and then crooked a finger at him, sliding back down from her perch. She leaned against it, commanding, “Come here, Faramir.”

Cautiously he approached her and she reached out to grab his shirt, pulling him to stand closer to her than he would have on his own. Éowyn gazed at him seriously with her hands still clenched in fists around his shirt. “Listen closely, I want you to remember this and be able to say it...”

“What is it?” Faramir became aware he was terribly near to her, almost standing on top of her. Éowyn didn’t seem at all troubled as she let go of his shirt and smoothed out the wrinkles.

“It’s a traditional farewell,” A strand of her hair fell on her cheek and she blew it away, “usually the man says it, but since I’m the one leaving…” She smiled at him, teasing. “Now, are you listening?”

He nodded, paying close attention. “Yes.” She opened her mouth, then stopped, eyeing him.

“I don’t want any complaints about goodbye kisses; you get two with this.” Faramir waited as she added with a smirk, “I’ll tell you when.”

“Ic þe axige, æfneð bisgu ná, min frendscipe,” As she spoke she sobered, almost saddened. “It means, I ask you, don’t worry, my love.” He unconsciously leaned closer when she touched his face gently, pressing his body to hers against the cask. Her voice was soft as she continued, “Ic þe axige, ná cearo. Efne a coss. That means, I ask you, no sorrow. Only a kiss.” Faramir stood quietly attentive and she giggled suddenly, “Now you fool.”

“Oh.” Feeling daft, he bent to her. Éowyn’s arms went around his neck, holding him close as he pressed his lips to hers. She can’t leave, she can’t leave, Faramir’s mind protested desperately as she pulled away. Her hands still twined around him, she murmured,

“Min langoð ac eower geférscipe, genǽged sweoloð me hwænne Ic eftsið. Giet, a coss tó habban me.” She tightened her arms around his neck, translating, “My desire for your companionship, will warm me till I return. Still, a kiss to hold me.”

This time he was ready, eagerly moving into her, almost cutting her off. Éowyn seemed surprised at his enthusiasm, but not afraid even as he pressed her back against the keg, wrapping his arm against her waist. To his astonishment and pleasure she kissed him fearlessly, even ardently, parting her lips for his tongue to explore her mouth. Projecting encouragement to her hesitant and gradually emboldened responses, he put his fingers on her cheek, slowly sliding his hand down her neck to gently cup her breast. Instantly Éowyn stiffened, tensing. He felt her falter, felt her anxiety and he kissed her lightly again, murmuring, “It’s all right.”

After a moment, she relaxed, trusting him and he moved to her neck, trying to remember what she liked. Suckling her warm skin, he was abruptly tugged—her hand tangled firmly in his hair—over a bit. “There, Faramir, right…there. Oh, yes.” Éowyn made a surprised and pleased noise as he kissed, swirling his tongue and the sound heated his blood. Moving his hand from simply cupping her breast, he ran his thumb over her nipple. This earned him another small, but sharper sound of enjoyment; Éowyn gasped and it hardened immediately. He circled it slowly at first then faster through the shirt, wishing he had the use of both hands as she moaned, going soft and yielding against him. At that sound Faramir desperately wanted to take her. Uncaring, right there in the alley, he wanted to push her back on top of the keg, rip off her clothes and have her before she left him. Aroused, he didn’t pull away from kissing her neck even as she pushed his chest and breathlessly objected, “Stop, stop. They’re already at the gate by now, we have to catch up.”

“No, no...” Stop? Was she mad? He nipped at her warm skin, lapping his tongue at the faint red mark he’d made as he pulled gently at her nipples through the light cloth. If I had both hands, I could have unbuttoned this damn shirt, and this could be my teeth, he thought longingly. His fingers rolled the stiff nub, circling it, going from one breast to awkwardly tease the other. Éowyn’s breath caught in her throat, pulse jumping under his mouth, but then she pushed him again, harder, her voice louder.

“Yes…oh…—No, stop, now, please...” Faramir was about to kiss her again, protest or no, when suddenly a door neither of them had seen banged open against the wall. Two burly men came out of the building, carrying an empty wooden keg between them much like the one he’d pressed her against as he lifted his head and she squeaked in surprise. The men halted, staring at them in bewilderment and Éowyn buried her face against his shirt. Glancing at her, he saw she was laughing soundlessly in embarrassment. Her cheeks flushed, she slipped around his side and grabbed his hand tightly. “Cymð, Faramir.” Her meaning was plain as she pulled at it to get him moving. The men were smirking now, waiting until they’d moved to set the cask against the wall and as she led him off Faramir glared back, furious they’d been interrupted.

The sun was a great fiery disc balanced on the horizon when they reached the gates. There the rest of the Fellowship and many of the nobles in Gondor met them to see Éomer and Éowyn away. Aragorn raised his eyebrows, looking smug as they walked up, Éowyn still holding his hand. Éomer glanced at him suspiciously. Faramir gazed back levelly, concentrating on Éowyn’s mind. She felt subdued again and he squeezed her fingers. Éomer excused himself rather quickly as one of the Rohirrim rode to his side, leading a saddled grey whose ears pricked in recognition of his master. The man spoke in a low voice, beckoning him to the front of the line and he glanced at Éowyn, saying, “I will have them send your horse back here so you can join me when you’re ready.”

She nodded, giving him a smile. He bowed courteously at the assembled folk and mounted the gelding, turning it to follow the Rohirrim man. Éowyn was left alone. Faramir stood at the end of the line, watching. This time she got no hugs from Merry and Pippin, only bows and formal farewells from all the hobbits and folk. Aragorn bowed low with a smile, wishing her well, as did Gandalf, Legolas and Gimli—Éowyn looked slightly overwhelmed by their respect as she nodded to them.

Stepping aside with her, Faramir waited for his second and far more restrained goodbye. It came much too soon. She looked at him pointedly, “Remember, Ic þe axige, ná cearo. I ask you, no sorrow.”

He smiled faintly, feeling wretched and tried to remember the next line. “Efne a coss, gea?”

“Na, ge dol mann.” She stood still for his brief and chaste kiss, then translated for him, “No, you foolish man.” Éowyn hesitated, and then murmured almost too low for him to hear, “I love you.”

He swallowed, his throat gone tight with tension. This was the one thing he’d wished to hear from her and yet feared. “You mean it? You won’t take it back this time?” It would kill me, my love.

Faramir leaned down to press his forehead to hers. “I love you.” Always and forever, Éowyn. He opened the link between them, willing her to feel his devotion and anguish at their parting. She put her hand on the nape of his neck, holding him to her. Both of them breathed roughly as his emotions surged. There was silent wonder from her and he kissed her cheek, her lips. I told you I loved you. I will miss you everyday until I see you again.

There was the sudden clomping of hooves and a man came, leading the chestnut gelding Faramir had offered for her. The moment broken, she turned her head and smiled weakly at the horse. “Wes ðu hal, Líeg.” The gelding’s large brown eyes gazed at her and his nostrils quivered as he reached out to her hand, snuffling in hopes of a treat.

“You renamed him already?” Faramir tried to jest; he was presuming it would make him less melancholy. It didn’t work. He looked at the chestnut he’d offered for her, wishing it wouldn’t carry her away.

She took the reins from the waiting Rohirrim man; polite, he turned away to give them the illusion of privacy. “No, I just gave him back his name in a proper language. Líeg means flame in Rohirric.”

“Oh.” He was in pain, handing her knapsack back to her and watching as she tied it to the back of the saddle. A horn blew and Éowyn looked out toward Pelennor. There was the entirety of the Rohirrim forces, every man and beast able to travel. The many, many horses milled over the spring grass and Faramir could hear shouts from their riders. Their departure, he guessed, watching one gelding buck high, would look more like a race than anything. He looked back at the chestnut; he was tossing his small head and pawing. Líeg’s neck and flanks were already lathered gleaming white with sweat and Faramir was suddenly concerned for her safety. Will you be all right? He touched her mind, nervously watching the ranks of mounted men scatter and reform on the field as their horses plunged and reared with eagerness to begin.

“I’ll be fine.” Éowyn felt calm and she smiled at him as though he were foolish to worry so. “Hold onto him for me?”

Faramir nodded, firmly grasping the gelding’s bridle. She took a hold of his mane at the withers and bounced twice on her toes before springing easily into the saddle, never once touching the stirrup. Prepared, Éowyn gripped tightly with her knees as Líeg spun. One-handed and unprepared, Faramir barely able to keep him from bolting; he shouted, “Whoa! Whoa.” Putting his weight behind the bit, he finally halted the horse and she shoved her feet into the stirrups. “All right?” He hesitated to let the gelding loose, but she gathered her reins and nodded, crouching in the saddle. Immediately, Líeg came off the ground, trying to bolt and Faramir leaped back as she turned him in a circle, her voice low,

The horns blew again, louder this time in warning and Éowyn looked down at him. Faramir nodded. There was really only one more thing to say as Líeg finally stood, his neck arched like a bow, pulling hard against the bit with his jaw champing. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he smiled at her, trying to appear unperturbed. “Good bye.”

As the Rohirrim swung his horse in to escort her to Éomer at the front of the line, Éowyn gave him the same smile he’d given her—strained and unhappy. “Good bye Faramir.” She wheeled the chestnut, letting him loose and putting her heels to his sides with sudden violence. Kicking up dirt as his hindquarters surged, his tail snapping, Líeg immediately carried her away. Faramir was left alone to dust and the sound of hoof beats ringing in his ears.

Éowyn leaned low over Líeg’s neck, his mane whipping at her face while his powerful muscles drove between her knees, moving her forward. The man who’d come to guide her galloped at her side, keeping his horse between her and the surging masses of riders, protecting her against any runaways. The riders whooped at the sight of her and Éowyn straightened in her saddle, sitting tall and erect like she should. Tears were in her eyes and she wiped them, cursing the strong wind. Líeg’s strides slowed when she tugged lightly at the reins, asking him to check his gait. At the very front, past which was only the long empty road between here and Meduseld, Éomer was waiting. He gazed at her, his eyes full of strange emotion as she wiped her face, but his voice was steady, supporting. “Ready sister? Ready to go home?”

“Yes.” Éowyn nodded, “Yes I am.” He smiled at her, happy, and then Éomer raised his arm. Flags flapped in the wind, the white horse already galloping, spears clanged against shields and the horns blew a third time, signaling. The riders voices rose in yells, and their mounts sprang forward and the horns were deafening, the rich sounds rolling across the length of Pelennor, through the City and into the dawn sky, crying the presence of their masters—here were the Eorlingas, here were the Horse-Lords.

I am going home, where I belong, Éowyn thought in bittersweet happiness as Líeg catapulted her forward once more. She felt the little stone dolphin thump against her skin and she dropped her reins, allowing the chestnut full freedom. Run, she screamed in her mind. Run damn you, run… Inside her she felt, what had, since he’d first touched her thoughts, become so much a part of her, she’d forgotten it was even there, slowly begin to fade. Éowyn rammed her heels into Líeg’s sides, and he stretched out, hooves pounding the ground, obeying her savage desire for speed. Faramir’s presence in her heart was slipping away with each iron-shod hoof striking the earth, taking her farther from the city. Surprised at herself, Éowyn clenched her jaw, refusing to sob. It hurts, gods, it hurts to be alone. Against her will, rebellious tears were on her cheeks and at her side Éomer’s horse breathed into her ear, galloping closely. Go Líeg, she thought, go until I am too tired to feel.

Byrga ran strongly beneath him, his grey, black-tipped ears back in annoyance as Éomer kept him close on his sister’s heels. All around him was the overpowering thunder of hooves as the riders allowed their horses to run the edge off, yet he could still hear her breath hitch in her chest. I only want her to be happy, he thought, feeling miserable. I will not let her be sad. Éomer clucked to Byrga, sending him closer as his resolve firmed. I will do whatever it takes for her to be happy. Yet, even as he thought this, there was, in the back of his mind—if she is happy with him, then I must let her go and how can I live without her? Gods, hear me and grant me strength!

Faramir stood and watched until the riders were no more than a faint smear of dust on the horizon and all the others had left. Closing his eyes, he reached out mentally, but could feel nothing. Perhaps if he rose out of himself he could reach her, but other than that he was cut off. And now what shall I do? He wondered. Sit in at the Council? Search all of Ithilien for the tree that is in my dream? Hope for a letter from her? There was a tug on his shirt and he looked down in surprise. He’d thought everyone else had already returned to the Citadel. Merry was solemn; he was sad, too. “Do you want to help us dry the pipe-weed, Faramir?”

His only alternative was standing here, miserable. He had to move on. “Yes.” Faramir laughed, pained. “Yes, I think I would.”

It was nearly an hour after they’d left when she thought to check her pocket. Éowyn, her horse and all the others walking calmly now, their excess energy spent, pulled out the little package Pippin had given her; she was curious to see what it was. She carefully unwrapped it, Éomer glancing inquiringly at her. Éowyn laughed when she saw what it was, showing him. “Chocolate.” It was a palm-sized hunk of rich, dark chocolate. I can’t imagine where they got this, she thought and broke off some for herself and a piece for her brother, leaning across to hand it to him. It was good. Not too sweet, not too bitter, melting on her tongue and her throat grew tight with sadness. I will miss those two.

They rode all day long, pausing to rest only once before setting up the small tents that evening. Retiring early, she lay in her blankets, rubbing the warm stone dolphin. The pads of her fingers slid rhythmically over and over the little knobby fins, as she lay unable to sleep. Strangely, Éowyn felt alone. Odd, he annoyed me so, yet…she wrapped her arms around herself, frustrated, then folded her hands under her cheek, it would be nice to have him here with his arm around me...what am I saying? It drove me mad. Yet…I could feel I wasn’t alone, that he was there…and I was safe. Oh, I am foolish—how could I be safer than sleeping in a tent pitched no more than five feet from Éomer’s, surrounded by thousands of my own people? Gríma is long gone. She sighed and tried to clear her mind. As she finally slid into sleep, it seemed to her that Faramir was close by, watching and Éowyn slept deep and dreamless, content.

Faramir spent his morning sneaking into Aragorn’s room to steal back the hobbit’s pipe-weed while Pippin distracted him, and his afternoon learning the finer points of leaf management. Merry and Pippin had been outraged to find Aragorn had stolen half their hard-earned pickings and had demanded Faramir aid them in getting it back. Thinking of the man’s glee at seeing Éowyn naked while he hadn’t yet, he’d quickly agreed. The theft was easy, obviously unexpected and the hobbits had been grateful. Faramir offered the use of Boromir’s empty rooms to dry their pipe-weed in, reasoning Aragorn would hardly think to look there. Merry and Pippin spent the entire afternoon and evening teaching him about pipe-weed, to the point of Faramir staring at them in mute astonishment that they could and did know so much about what was to him a fairly useless plant.

Although rather silly, the small adventure and then the lessons cheered him somewhat and took his mind away from its depressed rut. It was only when that night, lying on his back in bed, alone and remembering sleeping warm and close to Éowyn that his heart ached, paining him terribly. It has been one day, he thought in despair. One day. Closing his eyes, he concentrated, trying to rise out of his body again. It was more difficult this time, but he didn’t give up. Slowly, slowly he felt the restraints keeping him in his flesh and his room slip off. Free, Faramir floated up into the sky, turning immediately to the road. Like an arrow he shot forward, seeking Éowyn’s familiar mind. She was within his range still and it was not long before he found her, the glow of her consciousness growing soft with slumber and Faramir came close to where she lay. He touched her mind gently, wondering if she could feel his presence. I love you, he thought, already fading. He was rapidly tiring and his body pulling him back.

He opened his eyes to the darkness, his muscles and his head aching. Grabbing his pillow and wrapping his arms around it, Faramir sighed deeply. One day. Valar, help me I may not see her again for months. The thought was horrible enough to keep him awake until the early hours. Valar, help me to endure this.

Halorl, gesibling, Ic þe axige a mæst þéowhád.—Halorl, kinsman, I ask you a great service.

Ábenðse Hordere in eower geþiode, gewuna ond drohtoð gelíce and a cempa-Gelíce and miccle ge cunnan. —Command the Steward in your language, custom and way of life as a soldier-as much you can.

Efne hwænne se hwil of se metsung cuman—Only until the first of the supplies come. Gea, min Hlaford. Ic genǽged.—Yes, my Lord. I will.

Ic þe axige, æfneð bisgu ná, min frendscipe—I ask you, don’t worry, my love

Min langoð ac eower geférscipe, genǽged sweoloð me hwænne Ic eftsið. Giet, a coss tó habban me—My desire for your companionship will warm me until I return. Still, a kiss to hold me.

Éomer’sByrga—is the word for the concept of surety, certainty. He’s a dapple-grey gelding.

Her hand went to the little carving, self-consciously clutching it as she looked up at him. Éomer was pleased when she said, “Yes.” It had taken him three days of small, partial glimpses to discern what Faramir had given her and now that he had, he was puzzled.

Éowyn laughed; it was a light-hearted sound and he felt great relief that she was no longer as subdued as she’d been the first day. “Yes, it is.” She walked in front of Líeg, already having begun teaching him the proper manners of a Rohirric horse. He was saddled and bridled, but she didn’t have a hand or lead on him—he was expected to figure out that he was to follow on his own. So far the horse of Gondor had proven quite intelligent; he kept his nose close to her shoulder as Éomer paced them aboard Byrga. His sister smiled at him as he asked,

“It’s called a dolphin. They swim in the sea. Here.” She stopped. Byrga and Líeg did so as well; the chestnut eyed her for further instructions, his ears pricked, obviously enjoying this game. Around them, riders kept moving as Éowyn lifted the necklace from around her neck and handed it up to him. Éomer took it carefully. It was a dark blue stone, mottled with dark green. Bowed into a half-moon shape, the fish was odd and one he’d never seen; he couldn’t picture it swimming all bent like that. Handing it back down to her, he continued, teasing,

“It was his mother’s; he thought I might like it,” She resumed walking and Líeg followed obediently. Byrga lifted his head from the grass he’d been nibbling and did so as well, Éomer gently bumping his heels against his gelding’s sides. Keep up friend, he thought. “I do like it—it’s not…” She trailed off, frowning, not quite able to express herself.

He finished for her, knowing his sister well and slightly disturbed that Faramir could have learned so much in such a short time. “It’s not something he picked because it was glittering with jewels or gold.” It means something—it’s valuable in personal, expressive way. Gods, he’s a quick study, isn’t he? A great deal of women would have been quite pleased with the gold or jewels—things my sister does not care for.

“Yes.” Éowyn brightened and he relaxed, glad she was no longer in a mood. Byrga pulled on his reins, asking for more freedom and he rubbed his neck, checking for damp sweat or heat—his horse was cool. He looked at the chestnut, scrutinizing him for any lather on his flanks or chest, but he had cooled as well.

“Ready to go?” He asked her. It was time to canter again if they wanted to make good speed. They were three days out and he guessed they had about that many more until they reached Edoras. Only three to four days, he thought, and we will be home. It both gladdened him and made him nervous. Nothing will be the same.

“Yes, I suppose he’s done enough of this.” Éowyn stopped and patted her horse’s neck, cooing, “You’ve done very well, Líeg.” Éomer rolled his eyes as she produced a carrot, prattling sweetly, “Hasn’t he?” The chestnut’s ears pricked and he looked at her in new interest, chewing his treat. Éowyn scratched his neck. “Líeg’s a smart horse, hmm?”

“Oh, stop it.” He pretended he was repulsed; really he was watching her pleasure in a new horse and delighted that she was happy again. The first day they’d left the City she had been silent and melancholy, but now she seemed herself once more. “You’re spoiling him.”

“What? Never.” She smiled at him and pulled out another bit of carrot. The gelding took it, gently plucking it from her flattened palm—it was clear that he was being careful not to bite her. When he finished chewing, Éowyn planted a kiss on the side of his muzzle. “He’s a sweet boy, isn’t he?” Éomer feigned more disgust; he was really far more pleased by her cheerful attitude than annoyed with her bribing her mount with treats.

“Byrga does not need such things—look at him—he is a man’s horse and cannot be bought.” The grey’s ears twitched at the sound of his name, but he stood still and quiet, only his long tail moving; he was waiting for a signal to move again.

“No?” Éowyn smirked mischievously, showing him another bit of carrot in her fingers. “Byrga, darling lad? Do you want a kiss?” She held out her hand and to his amazement the grey immediately moved forward beneath him, lowering his head to gobble up the offering. She laughed and gave him the treat, lightly kissing his dark nose. “Man’s horse.” She mocked. “They’re all able to be bought when it comes to carrots, brother.”

This time Éomer did not have to pretend disgust. He eyed his mount in real distaste. “What did you do to him?” Byrga ignored his voice, taking another step toward his sister, lifting his nose to her face.

“Nothing.” It was innocent as she kissed the air over the grey’s nose and he narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her.

Éowyn laughed as he accused, “You spoiled him, didn’t you? That time I left him at home for you to use?”

“No. No, I didn’t.” She rubbed Byrga’s forehead, stroking his muzzle. Líeg’s ears flattened and he tossed his head at the bigger horse. “Now, don’t be jealous.” She scolded the chestnut. “Neither of you are getting any more. Come, we need to go again.”

The gelding stood quiet, his brown eyes blinking docilely as Éomer nudged his mount, positioning him slightly in front of hers to block any sudden movements. He caught her eyes flash annoyance at him, but he couldn’t help it, taking care of her was habit too ingrained. Éowyn checked her girth, tightening it again and sprang quickly into the saddle. Líeg, already calmed considerably, stood still for her to put her feet in the stirrups. Éomer nudged his heel against Byrga’s side, moving him out of their path. As he clucked to his horse, Éowyn dropped her reins, only holding onto the knot at their very end. This, too, was more training and even though he knew she was completely capable of handling him, Eomer watched worriedly as the chestnut flipped his nose, searching for restraint. It didn’t come, even as he crab-stepped into a trot, his neck arching and his ears back. Éowyn murmured something he couldn’t hear, rising in the saddle as her horse tossed his head rebelliously and broke into a fast canter. Byrga followed more sedately; he was an experienced horse, well versed in long journeys back and forth across the Riddermark and knew there was no point in galloping about like a colt. Éomer had to push him into a run as Líeg gave a small buck and threw himself forward. Behind them and to their sides, the Riders followed suit, each keeping their position as they asked their horses to pick up speed.

He urged Byrga into a gallop, trying to keep up with the quick chestnut. Smaller built than his horse and carrying less weight, Líeg sprinted away easily, his sister’s golden hair whipping in their wake. Soon, though, Eomer knew he had to slow if he wanted to maintain the easy pace that would not tire his mount and he nervously watched Éowyn get farther and farther away. She can handle herself, he repeated over and over in his mind; she knows what she’s doing. As his seat came back into the saddle, Byrga settled down into a smooth lope. His sister took Líeg off the road to avoid the Riders ahead of them and Eomer fixed his eyes on the chestnut’s tail. Pick up the reins, sister, he chided anxiously. Pick them up—you can train him at home where I can follow.

Éowyn already had picked up her reins. She tugged gently, deliberately putting very little pressure on the bit. Líeg paid no attention to the soft pull—his tongue and the bars of his mouth had toughened after years of restraint and she wondered if he could even feel it. I doubt it; he needs a bitless bridle to soften his mouth again. “You will run yourself out, Líeg,” she scolded. The gelding was stretched out in a racing gallop, his ears flat in excitement; he thought he was running away with her. The grass whipped by, swishing loudly as they barreled through it, riding at full speed parallel to the road. She rose in the saddle, her feet firm in the stirrups, waiting for him to tire as they passed scores of Riders as though they were standing still. Pulling back would only encourage him to resist and the muscles in his neck were already overdeveloped from doing just that. Éowyn dropped her reins again—she wanted him to learn to go at an easy pace and that he was not going to be thrust back into a cramped stall after his ride.

Relax, she thought, stroking his neck. One ear tipped back and she said it aloud, “Relax, easy, we have all day, many days Líeg. I will not put you into a stall in Edoras—you will go into a great, wide paddock with the others to eat grass.” Her voice soothing, she continued, “This winter I will not ride you; no, you will go into the far pastures to learn to be a horse living in a herd. You will like it and in the spring you will be ready to do things with me again.” His strides had shortened a bit, though she couldn’t tell if it was from his tiring or her words. Líeg had both ears back to listen now as she spoke, “In spring…” Éowyn faltered and he slowed still further into a smooth, rocking-chair canter. She’d caught herself, remembering, “If I am at Edoras in the spring—I,” She frowned, “I probably won’t be.” I might not be there all winter or even past fall…for the first time ever. I must go with Faramir when we are married and he will want to be in Minas Tirith. He said it would take a while to build our home; I remember the image in his dream, it was great and beautiful place—it might take over a year…we may spend a year or more living in the White City.

This was a somewhat disturbing thought and she stroked his neck as he jogged now, moving along to his quick, elastic strides. He has good suspension, she distracted herself, still patting him, he will be a good jumper—I like that. When he finally halted, with her putting no pressure on the reins, she immediately slid off of his back. Loosening his girth as a reward while she waited for her brother to catch up, Éowyn apologized, “I’m sorry.” Slightly lathered, his nostrils flared and breathing hard, the gelding turned to rub his forehead against her shoulder. “I don’t know where I’ll keep you when I’m in Gondor, but I won’t forget you in a stall, I promise.” She braced herself, as he rubbed roughly, sweat itching him below his bridle. Scratching behind his ears, where she’d found he liked, she scolded fondly. “You’re getting me dirty.” The gelding blew, snorting, then turned to her. His brown eyes were hopeful as his nose hovered over her shirt.

Fishing in her pockets for another piece of carrot, Éowyn fed it to him. He’d stopped, after all, with no restraint. She smiled, pleased at this small progress; he chewed and she looked past his hindquarters and slapping tail at the Riders. Her brother’s armor shone in the sun as he broke off from the main force to come to her. “Even if you did run away with me for a bit.” He neared and she sighed in a long-suffering fashion, “Watch, he will think I fell off of you.”

Byrga slowed to a walk, his grey ears pricking and she waited. “Did you fall off?” Éomer gazed down at her worriedly, eyeing her closely for any scrapes or bruises. Resigned, Éowyn smiled and moved to retighten Líeg’s girth.

“Oh. That’s good.” The Riders curved away from them on the right, keeping the same easy canter that their horses could maintain for an hour or two. Her brother kneed Byrga closer and grasped the reins, holding Líeg in place while she got up on him. Éowyn could understand that, it was courteous and probably safer with a horse not trained as well as a Rohirric mount, but it still annoyed her. I can take care of myself, has nothing I’ve done proven that?

Her feet in the stirrups, she said pointedly, “You can let go now.” Does he look upset? she wondered as Eomer nodded and released the bridle. Feeling slightly guilty, she glanced at him as he urged Byrga back into a lope and back into his place in line but he didn’t look at her. Holding onto the knot at the end of her reins again, Éowyn was glad when Líeg followed her lower leg directions docilely, having run out his excess energy. Her brother looked sad, even distressed. Surely her remark could not have hurt him so. Éowyn bit her lip, disturbed. What did I do?

Faramir repeated carefully, “Ic frignan, motan sceotan.” He looked at Halorl, translating, “I ask permission to shoot. Right?”

“Gea. God.” Halorl nodded then gave him another sentence, “Ic ag se eoh.”

He felt like a student again, frowning over crumbling elvish texts, trying desperately to remember the words. Frustrated, he was in the worst stage of being able to recognize some words and yet not recall what they meant no matter how long he stared at or said them. “I…something… this horse...the horse?”

The Rohirrim frowned, searching for the word in the Common Tongue. Like most people he could understand and communicate far better in a foreign language by listening than by speaking. “Is yours. Is eower eoh.”

“Is your horse. To own?” He quickly figured it out. Glancing down at the lengthy scrolls on which he’d scribbled all the verbs and their accompanying tenses he and Halorl could come up with, Faramir searched for “ag”. It was first person, agan--to own. He’d been studying as much as possible the last few days and while Faramir knew he was making good progress, there was so much in a language, any language, that the next week and a half he had with Halorl would have to count for a lot. He’d already went through all the nouns he could think of or point to and written them down as well as the pronouns. Guessing at spelling and accents and even creating some of his own to give him an idea of how to pronounce the strange words, he’d worked almost all day long every day since Éowyn had left; now he stared at the rolls of paper. They were thickly covered in writing. It’s so much, Faramir thought in brief despair, I’ll never be able to be fluent enough for Éomer by the end of this year, much less this summer.

The Rohirrim, unnoticing, answered. “Gea. Ic ag se eoh.” He was looking out of the window in Faramir’s small, cramped study. There were books and papers all over the place, and many stains on the desk from spilled ink. He’d had to find a chair for Halorl, but the man usually stood at the window, looking out at the limited view of the fifth level. Faramir didn’t blame him—his study was entirely undecorated with bare walls and only the messy arrangement of papers to entertain. People-watching was undoubtedly far more engaging. I don’t use it much, he thought, eyeing the dusty books. There was really little need, suffice from having a private place to escape to. The libraries were far more convenient.

He looked at him as he translated, “I am... Ic eom...” His accent was terrible, Faramir knew. Halorl had grinned at him often in the last three days; obviously amused by his inability to make his mouth move and create the sounds the same way the Rohirrim did. “Something. I don’t know.” Faramir sighed deeply, putting his head in his hands. They’d been doing this for hours now.

Halorl frowned and shook his head. “Horse is many words.” He held up his fingers, ticking them off as he listed, “eoh, hengest, hors and mearh are some.”

“Oh.” Faramir should have known better—they were the Horse-Lords, after all. “What is a horseguard?”

Halorl just shook his head again, but didn’t speak; he didn’t have all the words to explain it accurately, though it sounded important. Faramir closed his eyes in frustration, asking, “Something else, give me something harder.”

Well, I wanted something harder. He sat silent for a long moment. He’d recognized the words I, “Ic”, was, “wæs” and you, “ge”. Faramir admitted defeat. “Something easier, then.”

“I am a soldier in the éored of Lord Éomer.” I will be, he thought, shaking his head. My brother would laugh and laugh to know what all I am doing for a woman, though, Faramir smiled faintly, I think he would be jealous that I’m going off to have an adventure in Rohan while he was stuck here. I wish he were here to glare at me for leaving him; Faramir’s smiled widened, or flirt relentlessly with Éowyn just to anger me.

Halorl sighed, sounding just as tired as he. “God, Faramir, god. Now say,” He grinned suddenly and sat in the chair. “You wish to speak to our Lady?”

“You will…Ge wes—” He pointed across at his chest. “Soldier, cempa. Ná Ealdor, not Prince—you must bow, not speak. Is ná gecynde. Is not proper.”

I won’t be able to talk to her in public? Faramir was astonished and suddenly angry with Éomer. Did he plan it that way? Because, if so, he’s more intelligent than I’ve given him credit for…and more cunning. He sat up, leaning over the desk, “Tell me how to speak properly to her.”

“Must say—“Min Ides,” Halorl paused, “Ic frignan ge lætan me to—” He nodded, almost to himself. “That means, My Lady, I ask you allow me to…” Halorl waved a hand in Faramir’s direction, “then you speak.” He frowned, “If she allows you. You wait for her.”

“Touch her.” Faramir slumped down in his chair, feeling depressed. I hate Éomer. I will truly be a soldier then, no more. I must do his will. Valar, this is a hard test.

“Gea.” Halorl looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “Næfre come close, næfre walk next to her.” He nodded, “Be soldier. Understand? Ge wast, gea?

Wast…wast…witan, to know. You know, yes? I wish I didn’t. “Gea.” He rubbed his forehead. He was getting a headache when Halorl added,

“What?” He frowned, trying to understand where that fit into the conversation. Halorl repeated and elucidated in both tongues,

“How?” He was thinking of when soldiers ascended in the ranks and he was wrong as the Rohirrim clarified, or rather confused further,

“Éored are brothers. Will test—bravery, know things…test, understand?” Faramir wasn’t sure he did. Halorl kept on, “Must be careful. Not hurt, næfre, but not easy to you. They don’t know you...” He shook his head, “Witon ná eower blod, eower cynn. Understand?”

“No.” My blood? Does he mean my lineage? He still had no ideas; sometimes the language and culture barrier was too much. Faramir was baffled and since Halorl naturally thought in Rohirric, he would have to figure this out on his own. “My blood?”

“People of horse. Firas of eoh. ” He frowned and thumped his chest for emphasis. “Halorl, son of…they know me...even if not meet before.” He pointed at Faramir. “Faramir of Gondor, fah, ná mǽgðhád mid our firas. Ná mæg in Riddermark.” Halorl hesitated, then said, his voice more respectful, “Nænig in se Riddena-mearc.”

“I don’t understand.” I don’t even know half of those words. Only people; no, or not; horse; our and with. Not with our horse people? What is the part about the Riddermark—that is their name for their land, right? Valar, this is confusing! “Can you explain it better?” But Halorl frowned and shook his head. He was unable to reword it any clearer and he grew grave, saying,

“Ge wes nawiht to min firas.” His expression was serious, “You take our Lady, Faramir. She is highest, brave, noblewoman. They will test much. I warn you.”

Great. I am nothing to their people. I understand that, don’t I? Putting his head in his hands again, he groaned. He was definitely depressed now and Faramir was ready to stop for the day.

She felt it a second before it happened; he’d been cantering smoothly alongside Byrga, and she’d tugged back on the reins. Immediately, Líeg bucked high, his hooves slamming into the dirt on stiff legs as he came down. With a snort of pleasure, his muscles convulsed again, tossing her up with him. Éowyn clung with her legs, trying to keep her balance. When she took a breath, she gasped out, “Easy, easy.”

He ignored her and plunged forward, head between his knees. The earth wheeled around her faster and faster—brown earth/green grass/blue sky then…earth/grass/sky/earthgrasssky and his back kinked again as she hung on. This was Líeg’s first day wearing a bitless bridle. She’d tied his reins to a leather halter, careful to make sure they would not slip when she pulled them and that the halter fit well enough that her commands would not move it around on his head. It had not taken him long to figure out what the lack of the metal bar in his mouth meant and when she’d asked him to slow, he’d exploded.

“Sister?” Éomer hovered nearby on Byrga, halting him and turning him on his hindquarters, keeping his head facing her no matter where Líeg flung himself. The calm grey gelding watched and his brown eyes were startled as Éowyn decided enough was enough and let go. He’s not going to stop anytime soon and this is not teaching him anything. Líeg’s next buck threw her and she rolled as she fell, tucking her body. Pressing her face to the grass, Éowyn waited.

“Sister, are you all right?” It was louder, more anxious. She moved her hand, irritably signaling him away and then lay motionless, crumpled up where she’d landed. There were a few more thumps as Líeg bounded again, kicking his hind legs and then he stopped. Éowyn peeked through her eyelashes at him. The chestnut blew loudly through his extended nostrils, shaking his head and looking at her. His ears moved, and he leaned down to rub his nose against his knee but he didn’t step forward. He was waiting for her to get up; he’d thrown people before. I’m dead, she thought. You’ve killed me. Éowyn closed her eyes, relaxing all over. The sun was warm on her skin and it was almost pleasant as she waited. There were the slow, hesitant thuds of hoof beats and after several more seconds Líeg’s nose touched her hair. Éowyn didn’t move, allowing him to nudge her gently. His muzzle rolled her arm off of her face; he snuffled and she opened her eyes. Líeg looked concerned and almost apologetic. As you should be, she inwardly admonished.

Slowly, she moved her hand to stroke his nose and he lifted his head, taking a small step back as she rose up. Éowyn winced as she stood; she would have bruises tomorrow. Líeg was quiet as she took a hold of his halter. “Let’s try this again, friend.”

Éomer wanted her to put the damn bridle back on. Byrga shifted beneath him, reacting to his anxiety and he absently patted the gelding’s neck. Beside him, on the road, the concerned Riders that had halted to watch resumed walking. It would be another half-hour or so before they cantered again and many were on foot, resting their horses’ backs and stretching their legs. “Maybe you shouldn’t…” That was as far as he got before she leaped back into the saddle. Éowyn gave him a sharp glance.

He frowned, “I know.” Damn Faramir, if he were here I’d kick him in the teeth for sending this horse—even though it makes her happy because she can do things with it and teach it. He sighed deeply, knowing he would be unable to stop her from riding the chestnut. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, sister.” Don’t you know what that would do to me? You are the only thing I have left to lose.

“I won’t get hurt.” She scoffed at him, already clucking to get her horse moving again. She was probably right, he thought; Éowyn is, like most women, good with dumb beasts. However, he knew horses, too and the gelding hadn’t gotten everything out of himself yet. There was a slight hump to his back as she walked him and he kept tossing his head and feeling for the bit. He’ll buck again soon as we speed up. He knows there’s nothing stopping him and he doesn’t have our training. Gods, if she falls and gets hurt, we’re nowhere near any real healers—we’re still at least two days away from Edoras, maybe three. Sister please put the damn bridle back on!

She could feel him under her and he was jumpy. He walked quick, throwing his nose down and out often, moving his jaw, always in anticipation of restraint. He wasn’t used to being ridden without a bit in his mouth and she could feel him want to erupt again. Éowyn rubbed his neck. “It’s all right.” I sound like Faramir, she thought, amused. This was no time to think of him, though, with a horse jigging under her, his feet hardly touching the ground before springing back up. I wonder what he’s doing, if he’s thinking of me.

Stop it, she lectured herself as Líeg shied, leaping sideways, his head turning to peer wide-eyed at a rabbit leaping through the grass. She swayed in the saddle and thought sharply, Focus you idiot or you’ll end up on the ground. Picking up her reins she tugged gently at the halter, using her lower legs to reinforce the request. The gelding moved reluctantly and Éowyn wondered if she would have to teach him respect. He did not understand that she could control him quite well without a bit, but chose not to—his whole life he’d been ridden with a bar of metal to force him to go as his rider wished. He crowded her brother’s horse and she gritted her teeth, using her legs and heels very lightly to push him off of Byrga. One more thing, Líeg and we’ll have to have a talk about this foolishness.

Faramir balanced himself in his stirrups, leaning out across the empty space between the horses, reaching for the dangling reins. His own mount galloped straight, but the other swerved—he was becoming convinced it wasn’t being rebellious, but acting in obedience to its master’s wishes. “Pippin stop it!”

“Stop what? I can’t!” The hobbit hung on with all four limbs as his horse ran away with him, curving away back to the city. Faramir cursed, turning his and slapping his reins against its neck to urge it back into a gallop. He might have been more sympathetic if this hadn’t been the third time he’d had to chase Pippin’s horse down. He begged and begged for a big horse and now look at this…I’d be standing under that damn tree right now if it weren’t for him—Faramir yelled across the slowly closing hole between the two racing geldings,

“I’ll fall!” Like the previous two times, Pippin refused to let go of the saddle.

He was close, only three bow lengths away and he pounded his heels rhythmically against his horse’s flanks, keeping his legs tight to urge it on but the weight gap between him and the hobbit disadvantaged Faramir’s mount and he wasn’t getting any closer. “No you won’t!”

“Yes!” Pippin’s horse flattened itself out still further, speeding up and he wondered if it had been raced before—the cursed thing was faster than the wind. “I will!”

Feeling as though he might explode from frustration, Faramir bellowed back, “No you won’t!” His horse swerved suddenly and he grabbed the mane to steady himself as another gelding moved alongside. Halorl had joined him in the hunt and Faramir wondered who was holding Merry’s horse now. Valar, don’t make me chase them both down! The Rohirrim was cheerful as he rode to Pippin’s right, humming something under his breath. Faramir, seeing his plan, stuck to the left, keeping the runaway horse to a straight line. “Pippin!”

He asks me what. There was going to be one less hobbit staying in the Citadel once he caught him. “Pick up the reins!”

“No, no.” Halorl laughed loudly, as though the runaway horse was a great jest for his amusement. His grasp of the Common Tongue was improving at a far more rapid rate than Faramir’s knowledge of Rohirric and he sometimes wondered who was teaching whom. “Make him go! Kick him!”

“What?” Faramir yelled, horrified. “No, don’t you dare Pippin! I swear if you—!”

“Gea! Yes!” The Rohirric man laughed again. “Make him go so he wants to stop!”

“What?” He looked across at him in confusion; his horse’s nose was at the hobbit’s saddle blanket and he was prepping himself to make the reach across empty space again, knowing full well he didn’t have the use of his left hand to catch himself if he slipped. “What does that mean?”

“Watch!” To Faramir’s horror Halorl leaned forward and slapped his gloved palm against the bay hindquarters of Pippin’s big horse. It immediately leapt into a full, hard gallop and Halorl slowed, gesturing for Faramir to follow suit. “We follow, he runs. We stop, he stops.”

He closed his eyes, furious and confused as his gelding came to a halt, breathing hard. “No, he’s getting away and he’s carrying Pippin with him.” There was the brief sensation of the hobbit’s alarm when he noticed they were no longer following and Faramir blocked it forcibly.

Halorl grinned, waving emphatically to the miles of empty land around them, “To where? Horses don’t like to be alone—is bad to them, dangerous. He will come back. We are where he wants to be.”

Faramir had begun his search for the tree in his dreams, though so far he hadn’t gotten far enough away from Minas Tirith to really begin. The city still loomed just across the river and he was beginning to think it would have to be an overnight trip, maybe several nights. Feeling his anger drain, he asked wearily, “Where is Merry?”

“Back there; on the ground, holding his horse.” Halorl was leaned forward; speaking into his horse’s ear as it turned back to listen. “He wile comon. Faramir is ná gleaw, is dumb.”

He chuckled, “God, ge eart gebetende.” Faramir didn’t fully understand that, though he said nothing. Suddenly Halorl pointed. “See? I was right.” Pippin’s horse had halted about a half-mile away and had turned back to face them. The hobbit shouted something Faramir couldn’t understand but he guessed consisted of a plea to come and save him. He took some small pleasure in not doing so. “He will come.”

His horse sighed deeply, lowering its weary head to crop a bit of grass. The Rohirrim frowned at him, his eyes narrowed. “You don’t know?”

Faramir slumped in his saddle—this was the look he got whenever he said or did something Halorl considered extraordinarily stupid. After five days it was a familiar expression. “No, I don’t.”

“Ge wat ná hu a mearh hicgan?” The Rohirric man shook his head slowly and the emotion Faramir read was pity mixed with incredulity. “Turn your horse to face away from Pippin’s.”

Obeying, he asked, “Hwa for?” Why should I do that? What difference could that make?

Faramir could only wait and frantically try to memorize the Rohirric Halorl was considerately translating for him. Suddenly a thought occurred and he remembered something. Éowyn never told me her song; dammit, I can’t remember it all. Only the last bit. Stumbling a little over the words, he clumsily asked, “Halorl, what does cymð bæc…min lufiend, Ic synd eower, a…a ge eart na min mean?”

“Éowyn. What does it mean? I think, Come back…my…I…yours…you are not mine…” Faramir could only partially translate it and now that he had, he was anxious to hear the rest.

Again, there was proof that Halorl was learning the Common Tongue far quicker than Faramir was learning Rohirric; the man had no trouble translating, though with a confused glance, “It means, come back my lover, I am yours, but you are not mine.”

“Oh.” That’s puzzling and slightly disturbing...she is mine, but I am not hers? What does that mean? She said it was her song, but not when she made it…I don’t understand. “What would that mean?”

Halorl laughed at him again, shaking his head and glancing over his shoulder. “Ic nat, Hordere—min Ides is eower cwen, ná min.”

She is my woman, yes, but still…what does it mean? Anything now that she said she loved me? He stared at the horizon, pondering.

“What are you doing?” Pippin’s voice startled him. Faramir turned in the saddle, the hobbit was only about ten yards away now and his horse was leisurely returning, stopping every few feet to crop a bite of grass. Halorl grinned,

Faramir did see, he just didn’t understand. That’s becoming the usual, these days isn’t it, he thought tiredly. “I see. Now, come on, I’m sure Merry’s worried sick.” He leaned over and took Pippin’s reins to lead his horse. “Let’s go back.”

Éowyn could practically hear her brother’s thoughts as he looked at her; it was time to canter again and he kept glancing sideways, working himself up to speak—he wanted her to replace the bridle, he wanted her to ride another horse, he wanted, he wanted. I don’t care what you want, she thought fiercely. I am a grown woman, no one’s charge but my own and no one has mastery over me... Éowyn wavered, remembering. Until I am Faramir’s wife that is…she hastily put the thought from her mind.

“Maybe, sister…” He faltered, hesitating. “Maybe…” Her knuckles whitened as she clenched her fists around the loose reins; the leathers flopped against Líeg’s neck, moving with his strides. He’s only trying to do what’s best for me, I know how he is…he loves me, he would be unbearable and feel guilty for not saying something or trying to stop me if I actually got hurt… Remember the time when I was so ill? She closed her eyes briefly, trying to hold onto her temper as he began anew, “Perhaps you should leave his training for later, maybe in a few months at Edoras, when he’s settled.” He gave her a quick look, surveying her mood.

She was composed, answering, “I think he’ll be fine.” Will I even be there in a few months or will I be living at my new home, the cramped Citadel where I know no one except Faramir and Aragorn? Gods, what will I do? What duties is the wife of the Steward expected to perform? Any at all—except for keeping his house and bearing of his children…? The thought struck her that that very future was the one she’s always rebelled against and Éowyn’s teeth gritted. I am not a broodmare, dammit—to be put to a stud as soon as I may! Or, worse, will I have to sit idle all day and chat politely with the same women who mock me? He said I could do what I want, that he wanted no more of me than I could give, but…I don’t think I could give those things for anyone…I love him, he’s a good man—gentle, patient and loving. I need to know what he expects now, before … Her thoughts were broken by her brother’s careful arguments.

“I’m not sure he will.” Éomer’s brow furrowed and emboldened by her calmness, he kept on, “You could get hurt, he’s not trustworthy and…”

Éowyn failed utterly in her attempts at tranquility, snapping, “If you don’t think I can do it, why don’t you just say so, Éomer?”

Yes, it’s all about what you want, I know. And what if I want to ride an unreliable horse? If I were a man we would not be having this conversation. “You may as well have—what do you think? That because I’m not a man…I’m…I’m weak, that I can’t do it? That I should just sit in the house like all the others?” Furious, she spat, “You know damn well I can ride just as well as you!”Around them Riders gracefully maneuvered their horses away, allowing them privacy. Éomer halted Byrga; his expression was disturbed as he turned in the saddle to speak to her and Éowyn leaned her weight forward, clucking loudly and rapidly. Reacting, Líeg bolted directly into a canter, striding strongly forward off of his hindquarters in an athletic and coordinated fashion—it was something that would have pleased her if she weren’t so angry.

“Sister, wait!” He sounded saddened and again she felt a stab of guilt. No, brother, I will not stop.

Éomer swore under his breath and leaned forward, his weight sinking into his stirrups as he cued Byrga to canter. The grey smoothly obeyed and they weaved in and out of the lines of Riders, following the chestnut. He’d known, of course, that she would be angry, but he hadn’t expected this. Since when does she run from me? When we fight I’m more likely to get hit than watch her run off...and why would she think I think she is weak? It angered him and he took Byrga off the road; they thundered through the spring grass as Éomer shouted, “Éowyn!” Not caring in the slightest that he was making a scene, he yelled again, “Éowyn! Stop!”

She ignored him, riding low on her horse’s neck and Éomer stubbornly kept following. Of course I would be concerned about that damn animal; it’s run away with her almost every day since we left and we have no real healers here to help her if it threw her. I’d rather Faramir had married her then and there in Minas Tirith and be riding home alone than have her hurt…gods, does she not understand? She is my responsibility; mine alone now. Théodred is gone—I have no one to aid me in my watch. Eomer touched his heels gently to Byrga’s belly and the gelding leapt forward. She can’t run forever.

But she could run all day. Although she’d avoided him until now, Éowyn was caught. It was evening; fireflies blinked greenly and the stars were beginning to show as the Rohirrim halted for the night. Her tent, as usual, was being set up next to her brother’s and she curried Líeg’s sweaty coat vigorously, ignoring him as he tiredly dismounted off of Byrga. The chestnut had his neck stretched out, his upper lip quivering and his eyes half-closed in pleasure as she rubbed the stiff curry hard into his body. Her brother began unsaddling Byrga; he wasn’t looking at her and she did the same, taking out her frustrations and guilt on Líeg’s glossy hide. Already he’d lost all of the excess fat he’d accumulated from living in a stall and gained a great deal of muscle—he looked like a much better horse. Exercise and free-grazing had improved his body, all she had to do was improve his mind and convince him he could be ridden without strict control, that riding wasn’t work, it was play. All you need are a few months in a field, Líeg, she thought; six months without even seeing a person would help you a great deal. I only hope I can give it to you...I may not have more than two months of freedom myself.

Done with the curry, she picked up her brush, energetically sweeping all of the dirt, salt sweat and loose hair from his coat. Éowyn’s arms were tired by the time she finished; she’d already picked his hooves and checked his legs for any signs of heat or swelling—lameness on a journey was to be avoided at all costs. She put the hobbles on his pasterns, making sure the padding was tight and in place so they would not chafe and that the buckles were well fastened so it would not come off and with a final pat she let Líeg loose. Éowyn turned to go into her tent before her brother could speak to her, gathering up her saddle, bitless bridle and grooming tools. Hauling her load, she glanced up and jumped in surprise. He was standing right in front of her, his face stony. Éomer spoke, sounding upset, “I never said that.”

She swept by him, “Said what?” Éowyn sat her saddle upright, piling her other things around it, too tired to wipe down the leather as she knew she should. I must do it tomorrow or it will be filthy and it might dry out and get cracks. Her brother followed, standing just inside the canvas flaps. They fluttered behind him in the evening breeze and she turned to face him, folding her arms.

His expression was still unhappy, sadness on the edge of anger. “That you were weak.”

“You think it.” One of her hands wanted to play with the dolphin but she didn’t. Éowyn lifted her chin, incensed. “Admit it—you try to oversee what I do everyday, Éomer. Don’t do this, don’t do that…” I am not the little girl you could simply lift off the horse and carry away kicking and screaming, brother! “I’m not a child anymore!”

“Then quit acting like one!” He was angry then, too, shouting at her. “You know it’s dangerous and when I try and discuss it with you, you have a tantrum and run off!”

“Tantrum?” She hissed it at him. “Discuss? You told me what you wanted and expect me to do it!”

“What I want is not to see you get hurt doing foolish things! Éowyn…” He abruptly sobered, turning away. When he spoke again, he sounded beaten, resigned. “Never mind. Do what you wish.” Éomer left her and she wasn’t angry anymore, she was contrite again. Damn him.

Éowyn stood silent for a while, wanting to pace, wanting to shout, to do something. In the end she just washed her hands and her face, scrubbing dirt from under her fingernails. Looking down at herself, she set to wiping off the dust from the road. It was almost impossible, but she brushed relentlessly at her clothes, trying to get the worst of the dirt and horsehair from them before she left her tent. Hungry and tired, she moved to where the great stew pots were set up; they were bubbling and smelled wonderful. A few young soldiers smiled at her and moved aside so she was first in line. Éowyn smiled back. “Thank you.”

“Min Ides.” They inclined their heads; their eyes were curious, admiring. Feeling their gazes, she quickly got her meal and then walked slowly back to her tent, careful not to spill her stew while still hanging onto her piece of bread. Gods, I’m starving, she thought, looking down. It was thick with dried meat and vegetables and smelled delicious; spices floated on the surface and the steam warmed her hands.

“Why?” Éowyn looked down at her stew feeling tired and saddened. They had often had similar arguments and each one made her feel inconsiderate of her brother’s love. After all, he couldn’t help a certain amount of anxiety for her welfare—hadn’t he taken care of her her entire life? How long do I have with him? She wondered and turned. Éomer kept his eyes on hers as he spoke haltingly.

“To be honest…I’m not sure.” That made her smile; she did love him dearly. “But, usually, if I apologize you’re not mad anymore.”

She sighed deeply. It was so difficult when it shouldn’t be. “I’m not mad that you want me to be safe. I just…it’s all right. It doesn’t matter. ”

He seemed as awkward as she did. “Good. That’s good.” And she could hear it there between them—the desire not to spend their last time together in quarrels. Éowyn’s heart hurt. I will miss him very much when I go. I do not think Faramir will fuss over me as he has...or at least with less determination.

“Do you want to sit with me?” He pointed away toward a group of men. In them she could see no one she knew well; two of them, off to the side, she thought she could guess—they were tall and slender as reeds among the stoutly built Rohirrim and their eyes gleamed. Those must be the sons of Elrond, she thought, they look elvish enough, though not as fair as Legolas. Éowyn hesitated, weary, but he looked hopeful and then pleased as she nodded slowly.

“Yes, I would.” Take care of me while you can, I suppose that’s perfectly fine. Éowyn’s eyes burned with tears she didn’t shed as she followed him. Sometimes I’d rather be a little girl again, hanging onto his shirttails and running after him asking silly questions—it was easier. Gods, was it easier.

That night he hugged her before she went to her bedroll; fiercely, his arms so tight around her that she couldn’t breathe and Éowyn hugged him back sadly, her cheek on his shoulder. I will miss you, brother of mine.

Faramir tried to dream of her every night, but every morning, like this one, he awoke dreamless. He lay in bed and concentrated on her face, her blue eyes glinting with mischief in the few times she’d teased him, her soft lips, her arms around his neck…but it was no use. Even in his dreams she evaded his embrace. He stared at his ceiling, feeling bitter and wondering if she had reached Edoras yet.

I wish she were back here. I never noticed how…lonely it was. His bed seemed yawning and empty. The sheets were cold and not even the soft furs under his chin were any comparison to her golden hair tickling his nose. Faramir smiled faintly, listening to his thoughts. I am a fool. He reached out with his mind, straining, but there was no answer. The Rohirrim had swiftly ridden out of his range and he could not hear nor feel her. A city full of people pulsed vivaciously just outside the walls of his room and Faramir felt alone. Lovesick? Me? Nooo. He sighed and sat up. It was time to begin the day.

It was still early morning and the perfect time to catch some of the Rangers at their breakfasts. Faramir planned on speaking to them about the possible location of the tree in his dream. Aragorn had wished him to live in Emyn Arnen, so he thought it was there—recognizing the rolling, hilly landscape of his dream supported his idea. But Emyn Arnen is vast…without narrowing my search, I could wander for days, weeks perhaps before I found that tree. He dressed swiftly, fastening his tunic and running his good hand through his hair. Eyeing his broken one and wiggling his thumb and pinky, he thought it would be another month at least before he’d have the use of it again. Still hurts. I’ll go and ask about the tree and then spend the rest of the day cramming as much Rohirric with Halorl as I can. He’s due to leave in a week, which doesn’t give me much time. I wish Éowyn were here to give me lessons. I wish she were here at all.

They rode into Edoras in the evening. Torches burned bright in the slow dusk as men, women and children ran out of their homes to greet them. Éowyn, dismounting off of Líeg, found an old man, bearded grey and stooped, holding the reins. He gazed at her seriously,

“We were worried, my Lady. We did not receive word for some time…and then,” She bowed her head, ashamed at his voice, “when we heard you were injured…”

“I am sorry, sir.” She’d not thought of her people’s reactions…I was heedless, so desperate; I should have known they would worry greatly when I was found missing.

“It is no matter. You are safe and did a great deed—we are proud.” He chuckled and she relaxed, realizing she would receive no hard welcome from her people. The old man released her reins, smiling, “We soon grasped where you’d gone off to.”

“Come sister, let us enter...” Éomer faltered, “my hall.” Éowyn patted Líeg’s neck and handed him to one of the boys running about. Inside there would be feasting and stories told—undoubtedly she would be called upon to recite hers in all its detail—and tomorrow would be Éomer’s official crowning ceremony. Éowyn followed her brother’s broad back and when he turned to throw an arm around her shoulders, squeezing hard in his joy, she thought, I am home. She sobered as they climbed the stairs, watching the gold of Meduseld gleam dark bronze and russet in the sunsetting. I will tell my tale, should it prove to be my only, and I will feast and laugh and be merry because soon I shall go again…only this time for good. All my days here will be bittersweet and spent too swiftly.

“Brother?” Éowyn’s smile reappeared and widened as they reached the great doors. Eomer turned to look at her and she slid out from under his arm. She was still regent here, after all, not he and she was suddenly giddy with joy at the familiar surroundings.

“Don’t you mean my hall?” Despite Théoden’s words on Pelennor, it was hers for the night at least; tomorrow at dawn her brother would be crowned.

“No! No, you don’t!” Éowyn laughed as he caught her and she tugged hard against him, struggling. He was too strong and knew her too well; he evaded her stomping feet or her thrashing elbows, panting, “Give up, yet?”

Éowyn went limp, smirking secretly. “You can have it.” And when he let her loose, she ran. Éomer’s shouts followed her through the corridors, close on her heels. He found her plunked in the great chair, giggling in anticipation, and proceeded to drag her out. Éowyn laughed until she was breathless, lying on the floor as he shook his head, rubbing his jaw where she’d slapped at him. The throne of Rohan was never easy to win.

She lazily lifted her leg and kicked him, sighing in contentment. There will be no orcs nor wizard spies, nor Gríma to fear—she was home and it was perfectly safe for the first time in years. “Perhaps, brother, perhaps.”

Éomer wrote swiftly, careful to word it both polite and pleasant, all the while cognizant of the fact he was leaving out the one thing the man would want to know. It was amusing and yet…could I be so cruel? Oh, probably.

She walked in, her hands stained with the first, barely ripened berries, mumbling through a mouthful, “What’re you doing?”

“Writing a letter.” He stared at the rawhide thong, still securely around her neck—as far as he knew she’d never taken it off once except to show it to him.

“Want me to take it to the messengers?” Éowyn licked her fingers. Éomer smiled at his sister, amused, knowing she was never able to wait until the berries fully ripened. He’s waiting, he thought suddenly, he would like to sit here and see her. I liked him for a brief period…I could still like him—he seems good to her, she’s never given me a moment that she doubted her love…

“Yes.” He looked back down at the polite letter. It was missing something. “Wait, just…one more thing.” He ripped another sheet and scrawled a message. It would bother me…I’ve gone soft, I suppose but still, she wears the necklace. Now, let’s hope he can read this. Éomer chuckled and she looked at him. “Nothing. Here, take it.”

Halorl had left weeks before and now Faramir walked around muttering Rohirric to himself. Of course, he could ask Aragorn, but he’d still rather not. “Min nama is Faramir, bearn of Denethor II, ond Hordere of Ithilien.”

“Here you are.” He’d been found. The King arched an eyebrow at him, coming down the stairs into the small courtyard Faramir had hidden himself in. He sighed and replied in clumsy Rohirric.

Aragorn chuckled. “Your accent is terrible.” Faramir frowned, turning away to mutter some more and he asked, “What? What?”

Stopping in the center and staring irritably at the small trees, he answered. “I know, I don’t need you to tell me—Halorl was quite emphatic.”

There was a moment of silence and Aragorn burst out, “Oh, by the Valar, are you still angry because I saw Éowyn naked? It’s been almost a month!” The King shook his head. “Let it go, Faramir!” When he stared at the tree and did not reply, Aragorn chuckled, “Do you want to see me naked?”

“No!” This was enough to spin him around, a look of intense disgust plastered across his face.

“Then I can’t help you, my friend.” He pulled something out from behind his back. “But, I can give you this.”

“Hwa…hwa is hit?” He frowned at his own vocal stumblings. Have I gotten worse? Is it possible to get worse?

“A ærendgewrit.” Aragorn compliantly answered in Rohirric and for a moment Faramir was grateful for someone else to speak it with though he had no idea what the man had said. He admitted as much,

Aragorn nodded, “I said it’s a letter.” He held out the package. “Hwæt Rohan.” From Rohan? Éowyn? Faramir immediately lunged across the few feet that parted them and grabbed it; Aragorn looked startled then amused as he broke the seal and ripped off the protective covering of thicker paper. His eyes flew across the page and his shoulders slumped in disappointment—it was from Éomer.

The King moved to peer at the small trees, then the bright flowers of the small courtyard. As Faramir read, he asked, “Well? Does she already miss you in her bed?”

Giving Aragorn an irritated look at which the man only blinked innocently, he answered, “It’s from Éomer.”

“That’s going to be a less entertaining letter. What does he say?” He whistled at nearby bird; it chirped in reply and Aragorn looked pleased.

Faramir sighed, disappointed as he read. The letter, written in a quick, rough hand, was brief and to the point—he would have predicted as much. “He tells me that Halorl reported I would need more instruction; he’s sending another man with the next group of supplies.” Aragorn interrupted,

“About another week, according to this.” Faramir remembered the ongoing food worries and was reassured as well; he continued, “He expresses his pleasure that I’m doing so excellently in learning Rohirric and reassures me that I still have at least…” Here Faramir nearly groaned the next three words. “Two more months…in which to learn before I should be in Rohan and expected to be fluent enough to get along.”

“And he’s coming to the city in about a five weeks. He also says to tell you the mares you bought are coming with him…there’s nothing here about Éowyn.” Perhaps she’s forgotten about me after all. More likely he doesn’t care to mention it or takes pleasure in knowing that without any word I’m going slowly mad. “Wait, there’s another piece of paper.” It fluttered to the ground, a tattered scrap with only seven hastily scrawled words on it; it looked like something Éomer has stuffed in at the last second. Stooping to pick it up, Faramir frowned as he read them, unable to understand the two verbs. I hope it means…oh, I hope…

Aragorn took it and read aloud, “Min sweostor giet lufaþ ond gemunen ge.” He smiled at Faramir’s blatantly hopeful expression. “My sister still loves and remembers you.” Beaming, Aragorn asked cheerfully, “Well, isn’t that nice of him?”

“Be quiet.” He stared down at the bit of paper, far too delighted to be bothered by mere teasing. This is a good day, the best since she left me. She loves me, still remembers me…Valar and all things holy, I am terribly glad to hear it.

Éowyn slipped the shirt over her head and shoved her feet in the boots, lacing them quickly. Grabbing up her small bow and slinging her quiver over her shoulder, she slipped out of her room. Looking both ways, she thought she was free when suddenly her brother’s voice boomed down the hallways, “Where are you going?”

“Out.” Éowyn looked at him defiantly. She’d been cooped up in Meduseld far too long and she was dying to gallop out in the open air again.

“Out where?” He eyed the bow and quiver. “Hunting?” Éomer’s frown appeared. “Alone?”

“Yes, alone.” He looks at my little bow as if I was wielding a heavy spear for coursing bears! She sighed and spoke, deliberately making her voice cheerful, “Don’t worry so, brother! I’m taking Byrga and Théodred’s hounds—they’ve been chained far too long and you know it, too.”

Éomer hesitated, trying to find a flaw in her plan, but Éowyn knew he was unable to since she was riding the safest horse he could provide and taking the hounds, who would return on command or on their own if she were injured. Gods, will Faramir fuss like this? I don’t know if I could take it…skies above, what if my brother visited? The thought both amused and horrified her while he frowned. She smiled in triumph, as he sighed, “You won’t stay out too late?”

“No.” She rolled her eyes at him; he’d gotten better at least, in three weeks, at letting her out of his sight but this was still ridiculous. How many times have I gone hunting with you and Théodred, brother? Dozens upon dozens and in a sidesaddle no less. I hunt little rabbits today; together we’ve pursued wolves and rogue stallions! Relax and let me be!

“All right, go on.” He sighed, obviously hoping for sympathy, “Leave me here alone all day.”

She smiled blithely and walked by him, uncaring and unable to resist a small jibe. “Gladly, my King. Enjoy your halls.” The sun was bright; it was midmorning as she took Byrga out of the barn, having saddled him, but not bridled. She needed to concentrate on perfecting her leg and weight cues; Éowyn was thinking of when she took Líeg out of the fields. I want to be as clear and concise as possible in my aids, she thought, stroking the calm grey; remembering an old training adage, she repeated it inwardly—confusion is my enemy. Byrga stood quiet, only his ears moving as she tied the stirrups around his belly so she would not be tempted to use them. Éowyn hummed as she knotted the twine. He was the safest horse she knew of, too; the Master of Horse had picked him especially for her brother, reasoning his calmness would temper Éomer’s rashness and for eight years it apparently had—many times her brother had come home unscathed, praising the gelding.

“You are a good lad.” She murmured and he turned, his soft brown eye regarding her. Éowyn walked forward, trusting him to follow and Byrga did not disappoint as she led him down the short, twisting trail between buildings to where Théodred had kept his hounds. There were fourteen great, lank and lax dogs chained; most lay half in and half out of their thatched houses, with their heads on their paws. She saw they’d grown fat from lack of exercise. She whistled softly and they leapt to their feet, baying hoarsely in excitement as they recognized her scent. “Are you ready, my lads?” For a moment, she was near tears…the sound of the dogs’ voices reminded her of riding at Théodred’s side. He’d never been as obsessively worried over her welfare as Éomer and had often moved over to allow her to lead the chase. I miss him so much, she thought as she unclipped the dogs one by one. Their tongues lolled and their ears flopped as they bounded joyfully around her; once they were all freed she mounted Byrga and turned him, her lower legs gently pressing his barrel. Obedient, he walked through of Edoras, the hounds trailing eagerly.

At the gate she was called to, “My Lady, do you ride to fetch us supper?” Using her weight to halt Byrga, she turned to look at the speaker. It was a young, redheaded man. He’d paused to speak with his arms full of chunks of wood. Feeling joyful at her freedom and in the beautiful day, she jested back,

“Don’t doubt the might of a fair face, my Lady.” He smiled at her from beneath his large load of firewood. “I would eat whatever you put in front of me.”

“Gaer.” He bowed as low as he could with his burden. “At your service, my Lady.”

Feeling herself flush from his revering tone, she smiled as she cued Byrga back into a walk. “Have a good day, Gaer.”

“You too, my Lady—I beg you, don’t stay out too late, or no doubt our Lord will send us to fetch you—and I for one, already have a full day’s work.” He jounced his load playfully.

“I won’t.” Éowyn replied, feeling pleasant and not minding his mischievous jests. He, like all but a scarce few Rohirric men, was honorable and completely harmless to her. But still, does no one think I will come back unharmed? This is bordering ridiculous.

Once out of the city, she clucked and Byrga went into a lope, his grey ears pricked in pleasure at getting out of his stall. She steered him to the north; there was a small, winding copse of trees about ten miles away where she’d hunted rabbits before. The hounds raced alongside, their long tails whipping back and forth, their keen noses high. Éowyn smiled; the day was perfect with a blue sky, white puffy clouds and a soft breeze, unusual in June, when the sun grew so fierce. “We will see what we will find, my friends.”

It was hours later that she dismounted next to the stream, Byrga’s nose plunging into the cold water, gulping it. Three fat hares swung from her saddle, tied on by vines and Éowyn was quite pleased. The hounds barreled past her, splashing both her and the grey with muddy water. She laughed as they frolicked, growling, jumping and rolling in the cool stream; it was early afternoon and it had grown hot. Kneeling upstream from the dirty dogs, she rinsed her bloody, grimy hands in the blissfully chill water; her reflection made her smile—she had mud on her face, twigs in her hair and burrs clinging to her clothes from the hunting. Byrga had taken her at full speed through the thickets and she’d gripped with her knees, her head ducked as he galloped and gleefully leapt logs and dodged rocks to stay at the dogs’ heels.

Standing and moving to the grey’s shoulder, she gripped his mane and was remounting when one of the older hounds jumped with a start, his hoarse voice rising into a piercing howl and Byrga snorted in alarm, plunging to the side and sending her back to the dirt. Éowyn grimaced in pain, her hands scraped raw. Confused, she began picking herself back up, a task not helped by the fourteen dogs suddenly crouching tight around her, whining low in their throats. “Back, back.” What’s wrong? Éowyn wondered. These dogs have faced bears and not acted in such a fashion…they seem almost afraid.

She eyed the alert grey, “Since when do you shy, friend?” He looked sorry, but he tossed his head, hooves stamping and the whites of his eyes showing as his nostrils flared. Ears going sharp to the right, she followed his direction as he snorted long and low and she felt herself freeze in mortification and shock. She was not alone.

“Are you all right, my Lady?” One of the sons of Elrond had materialized in the little wood. Behind him were a great many mounted people, each gazing at her in quiet concern; the elves were almost on top of her before the hounds and Byrga had noticed. Acutely conscious of her bedraggled state in the presence of so many fine folk, Éowyn flushed, ducking her head.

“Are you sure?” She felt the sting of fresh abrasions all over as she stood and his bright eyes were distressed, looking her up and down—she knew what she must look like, not a lady of noble blood, but a mud-streaked savage. Blushing, she asserted, her voice still low with embarrassment,

“Yes, I’m sure.” I must seem a wild thing to them…all dirt and twigs…look how they stare! Gods, did they have to travel this way? She didn’t know his name; it made her feel even more embarrassed that she could not so much as address him properly. He smiled at her and bowed slightly as though he’d read her thoughts. Éowyn stiffened—that was Faramir’s privilege, none other’s.

“I am Elrohir.” He laughed; it was a silvery sound. Behind him the elves were still eerily silent. It was making her nervous. “I know it is difficult to tell. I’m sorry we frightened you,” He nodded to the horse and the hounds still quivering tensely. “And caused your mount to shy.”

“Who is this, brother? Do you know her?” A female elf spoke, gazing down at Éowyn in interest. She was beautiful, dark and lovely; her horse stood next to Elrohir’s twin, who also gazed at her. Éowyn’s hands clenched into fists; she was horribly reminded of her own filthy state in comparison to the composed, radiant elven woman. Why? Why?

“Aye, it is the brave Lady of Rohan.” Elrohir turned, his voice going affectionate. He smiled again, clearly pleased to introduce them. “Éowyn, meet my sister, the Lady Arwen.”

Syõõan hi afarene wæron, Ic schulan læran ge.—After they had gone, I was obligated to teach you.

Faramir of Gondor, fah, ná mǽgðhád mid our firas. Ná mæg in Riddermark.—Faramir of Gondor, outcast, no relationship with our people. No family in Riddermark

Ic nat, Hordere—min Ides is eower cwen, ná min.—I don’t know, Stewared—my Lady is your woman, not mine.

At the news, Éomer moved quickly to the opened doors at the end of the hall, too impatient to wait. The door-wards stiffened to attention, but he barely noticed. He was eager to see Aragorn’s perfect elven woman and to find out if she held up to inspection. Stepping outside, he watched the group of elves ride slowly up the hill. They were still too far for him to make out facial features, so he gazed at their mounts. The horses were finely bred, long-limbed and graceful, if too light-boned and delicate for his taste. They tossed small heads topped with smaller, inward curved ears, the tips almost touching; tiny bells jingled on the tack of some and others had jewels fastened to their browbands. Inwardly he scoffed at the fanciful decorations. Rohirrim adornments were more likely to be a feather tied to the bridle or a few beads or thin ribbons, woven in manes, tails or forelocks, and whose colors were carefully chosen for their significance.

Another type of horse altogether, stout, strong and broad-backed, broke away from the group, trailed by hounds. He recognized Byrga and Éowyn instantly. Ah, so my sister has met her already, I wonder what she thinks, he thought. He watched her, slightly perturbed at the way she rode with her head down and shoulders caved-in, until, hastily guiding Byrga away from the elves and whistling for the dogs, Éowyn was gone from his sight. Théodred’s hounds were subdued, not barking nor leaping about excitedly in the presence of strangers as he’d expected—their tails were low, some even between their legs as they followed and Éomer frowned. What has happened to her? Soon, though his attention was diverted.

Éowyn steered Byrga in between buildings, listening to the soft panting of the dogs as they trotted at the gelding’s heels. The entire ride home she’d been quiet and the elves had not questioned her, though she’d felt like unsaid words had been passed through the air just around her. Yet none had spoke aloud, undoubtedly they were waiting for the evening meal, which she dreaded. Finally feeling free of their bright eyes, she straightened in the saddle, feeling Byrga’s slow gait and rump behind her sway gently. Tired, she stretched her legs out and her arms over her head. Then, coming to the dogs’ chains, she halted the grey and leaned down to speak into one black-tipped ear, her hand on his dappled shoulder. “You did well for me, Byrga. I thank you for bearing me so fast and so far, it was a great pleasure.” He snuffled softly, turning his head so that one brown eye looked at her. Éowyn smiled and rubbed his neck.

Sliding down, she patted the heads of Théodred’s hounds. Their long, feathered tails wagged slowly as she chained them one by one, giving each a word of praise and a scratch. They’d done well and chased up many more rabbits and fowl than she could have ever brought back. “Good lads.” Éowyn gave them one last approval and walked with Byrga back to the barn to unsaddle him.

“Éomer King!” One of Elrond’s sons called cheerfully up to him, dismounting from his dainty grey. It tossed its fine-boned head and shifted on small hooves. Is that a mare? He wondered, appalled and spotting no obvious conformation flaws. What kind of people have so many perfect mares as to waste them on riding, not to mention take them out of their lands? Éomer began walking down the broad stairs, so as not to appear rude or disdainful from his high standing. Around the elves a small crowd had gathered, gazing at them in awe. In the afternoon sun the elves seemed to glitter, to burn brighter than the mortals around them did. “How goes it in the noble land of Rohan?”

Stepping off the last stair, he noticed the crowd had grown in seconds. Irritated that he didn’t know the twin’s name, he answered as courteously as he could, saying, “Good, my friend, it goes good. Welcome back to Meduseld, the Golden Hall of my people.” He hesitated, not knowing how they would wish their horses treated and knowing it might be dangerous for them to be allowed to roam; he wasn’t thinking of horse thieves, but of a stud breaking loose to get to one of the elven mares. Or even vice versa, Eomer thought, eyeing a thick-necked stallion as it pranced under an elf. He looks very fine, but I would not have our mares casually bred, no matter how straight his legs or well muscled his haunches. “Tell me, would you rather stable your horses tonight or keep them in a pen …I would not leave them out to run.” He did not call for the boys; Rohirric horses preferred their own masters to handle them and Éomer assumed the elven horses would be the same.

“The stable would be quite sufficient.” This voice was deep, deep and inscrutable as the darkness between the stars and abruptly Éomer found himself almost face to face with an elven lord as he lightly dismounted. There was power, held soft like a silk glove over an iron fist; it glinted in his dark eyes.

He came close to stammering his reply, “C-choose any stalls you like…they are well bedded.”

“Yes.” The voice froze him and her eyes, focused on his, rather than the elven lord, were bright like stars and yet remote; they made it worse. Éomer couldn’t move, couldn’t speak under her gaze. From what did Aragorn spin a net to capture her? He wondered, staring at the elven woman. Gods above, earth below me, she is not real! Dark-haired, pale-skinned and utterly, utterly beautiful, captivating...yet, he had the overwhelming feeling that if he put out his hand to touch, it would go right through her. Arwen Undómiel...the Evenstar...she was a bright light flashing in the far sky and nothing of his world. Éomer was enchanted until she looked away.

It was as though he’d been thrown from a horse—he wavered, briefly unsteady, and only then noticing that most of the elves had gone into the stables and except for the murmuring crowd, he stood alone outside Meduseld. What…what was that?

Éowyn hesitated at the barn—it was full of the elves. Byrga nosed her side, urging her forward. I know, you want that heavy leather saddle off of you; for his sake she entered. Grateful for the wide aisleways, she led the grey to his stall. Around her were soft, light voices. She listened to their language as she freed the hares from the saddle, untied the stirrups and then pulled the saddle and blanket from Byrga’s sweaty back. Walking the tack to its place, she dodged elves. They smiled or nodded at her, a courteous people to not stare at her still bedraggled state, Éowyn thought. Strange to her ears, their language was lilting and merry, always though, with a faint and odd undercurrent of sadness. Back in the stall, Byrga nosed his hay and she took care of her mount, taking her time in picking the burrs and twigs from his mane and tail.

“The horse was right.” The voice startled her and she nearly dropped the comb. Éowyn turned, to see Elrohir, or at least she assumed it was he, leaning over the stall door. He smiled at her in a friendly way. She looked at Byrga, who was dozing now, one hind-leg cocked. The elf’s words had made no sense.

His eyes were shining even in the dimly lit stall. “He said you would care for him before you cared for yourself.”

“Not at first. He was shy.” Elrohir watched her begin currying the grey’s rumpled coat. The dried sweat crumbled away; white salt crusted to his chest, hindquarters and flanks went into the air and she wrinkled her nose. After a few minutes of his watching, she spoke, feeling far more relaxed with just one elf,

“I had heard elves had strange ways with beasts.” She gave him a quick, sideways glance. Elrohir was leaning on the door, his head on his arms, dark hair falling over his shoulders.

“Not strange. Just unlike.” He chuckled; it was a golden sound, different from the laugh she’d heard in the woods. “Your ears could not hear the words your hounds cried about the wildness of their mistress and her adamant will—they warned any and all to flee you or be slain, you were so fierce! My sister was quite jealous to see you run them.”

This halted her scrubbings and Byrga flicked an ear in question. “What?” Éowyn could not imagine the elegant and stately Arwen as being envious of her in any way. I was sprawled in the mud, surrounded by dogs, scratched up and filthy and he says she was jealous!

“It was she that begged us alter our course to see you. When we heard the dogs’ voices crying and the sound of your horse’s feet thundering at speed, she had to watch the chase.” He must have seen her disbelief, so he added, “Don’t let the finery fool you, my Lady. I imagine in a short while you yourself will be in a respectable dress and,” He smiled and his teeth were white, “were you not an hour ago flying behind baying hounds, urging your mount to his swiftest?”

“Yes, I suppose.” She gave Byrga one last pat, having finished his grooming and moved to the door. Elrohir stepped back, opening it for her, seeing as she had her arms full of rabbits and her bow. In the aisle she saw his twin murmuring to one of the stalled horses. Its ears were forward and its nostrils quivered in silent reply. Éowyn watched, jealous. If only I could speak with Líeg like that, it would be so easy to teach him. Elrohir smiled down at her; he was taller than she’d thought with his slender build.

“We enjoyed watching you run them very much.” It was truthful and she felt herself smile. It had been grand and she’d been expecting more quiet reproaches than praise for her mannish behavior. Especially after his sister, Arwen…she was so elegant and ladylike…surely they are just being considerate when they speak to me. She did not wish to waste the nice words though, beaming,

“Thank you.” The elves followed her out of the stable, Éowyn carrying her hares and bow with her quiver slung over her shoulder.

“Will we be dining on your catch tonight, Lady?” This time it was the other twin, his voice low, soft; there was a friendly smile playing on his lips.

She looked at the three limp rabbits, mortified at the idea of the fine elven folk eating them. “No. Oh, no.”

“Why not?” Elrohir asked, “They were skillfully gotten. We watched, remember?”

“Nonsense!” He chuckled again, as if it all were a merry affair, meant for laughter and her embarrassment nothing but foolishness. “But then, what will you do with them?”

She stopped, frowning and then spotted a soldier nearby; he was gazing at the elves at her heels in open astonishment. “You…tell me, do you know a man named Gaer?”

It took him a moment to pry his eyes from her companions. “No, my Lady, but I can find him for you…”

Éowyn nodded, “When you do, give him these.” She handed him the hares; the man bowed his acknowledgement, still never truly looking away from Elrohir and his twin. His expression was a combination of wonderment and wary intimidation.

“Thank you.” Elrohir and his brother following, Éowyn walked back to the hall. She was already imagining every gown she owned and finding them shabby comparisons to Arwen’s traveling clothes. I shall look like the daughter of a poor farmer; she winced, dreading the upcoming meal.

Éomer gazed at her as she touched the great, vertical slash in the otherwise smoothly finished and polished wood of the throne’s base. It was something he’d seen so many times that he hadn’t noticed it in years. The mar was deep and had been intentionally left as a reminder, he knew, that their hall had been captured once and could be so again. Arwen’s delicate fingers traced down the deep, jagged cut and she frowned in obvious puzzlement, looking around at the elaborate and flawless carvings and reliefs throughout the rest of the hall. He wanted to speak, but wasn’t sure his voice would hold steady. She is so beautiful and yet…

“Are you going to say something, Lord Éomer?” She turned with a faint and somehow weary smile. “Or will you simply admire me from a far while I wonder and remain ignorant?”

He preferred the latter; Éomer spoke reluctantly, “It is left that way as a symbol, my Lady.”

“Of how simply our homes and lives can be taken.” He saw she wanted more, so he elaborated, “Wulf, a traitor of Dunlendish and Northern descent, brought war to our people and drove them from Meduseld and Edoras.” He looked at the deep gash. “This mark was from where he sat on the high seat and rested his axe after murdering the son of the King. He was in the throne for an entire, cursed winter—a terrible and long winter while my people were under siege in the Hornburg and Dunharrow.”

“I see why the damage is left, then.” Arwen took a step toward him, closing the wide gap between himself and her. Éomer’s instincts bade him to retreat from this intimidatingly lovely woman and for politeness’ sake he ignored them. “What did your people do?”

Remembering the story, he continued it, “In secret, the King’s sister’s son, Fréaláf, descended from the Hold and killed Wulf. Our enemies were easily overthrown without their lord.”

She gazed around at the other carvings, the wall hangings, and the intricate and interwoven designs. Éomer was looking at her. “Meduseld is beautiful.”

Arwen didn’t appear surprised, turning and almost immediately asking, “Do you love me, then?” It was though she was challenging him to something, but Éomer wasn’t sure he understood the dare.

With a low laugh, he answered again truthful and unaffected. “I couldn’t imagine loving you.”

If his earlier words had surprised her, this sent her back a step, hand rising to her breast as though in shock…but in her eyes was only a deepening interest and… Is that hope? He wondered in confusion. If anything he would have expected her to be offended at his blatant rudeness—he should have said something nice and polite, referring to her beauty that forced him to speak and drove his rational mind away. That would have been lies. He’d recovered from the first shock of seeing her. “Tell me why not, my King.”

“You’re not real.” This was the core of his silent objections and growing obsessions with her. Too fair, too shining, too, too much everything…this was no mortal woman before him and he was painfully aware of it.

“No? Here, try me.” She held out her hand, as if for him to kiss or take in one of his. Éomer ignored it. He didn’t particularly want to touch her; he still imagined his hand might just go right through her pale skin. It is foolish, yes, but I can’t help the thought.

Arwen wore a slowly growing smile; she was clearly delighted and he didn’t understand. I realize that she wouldn’t want me to love her…but why does my rudeness not offend? This woman, surely with her beauty none has dared insult her like I have just done… There was a burst in his head, a glimpse of something he could not quite see that explained her behavior, but her words distracted him. “You’re sure don’t love me?”

“Yes.” It was as simple a thing as he could imagine. I cannot lie, she would sense it.

“Good.” She laughed; even the sound was fair to his ears and he felt stuck, floating in a strange daze with her, high above the mortal realm. It was not a pleasant feeling; he didn’t like heights. “I have far too many that love me already…Éomer, noble King of Rohan, I bid you, I beg you…” She shook her radiant head, dark hair gleaming, as it swung, “Never take back your words.”

I could not if I tried…you are the most beautiful of women in face and form and yet…he looked hard at her. You are not of my kind at all and I could not love a woman such as you—you are a star, swinging in the heavens and I naught but a small and mortal man looking upwards. “I will not, you have my oath.”

“Of course, if you wish.” He watched her smile and wondered if Aragorn somehow brought her close in to him, close enough to see without being blinded by her great loveliness and alienness. But how? It would be like roping the moon, spearing a star...impossible.

She’d thought she’d gotten all the leaves and twigs out of her hair, but clever elven fingers plucked out a bit of tree moss not two seconds after she’d arrived at the King’s table. Elrohir smiled at her side, flicking it away and Éowyn flushed slightly; she’d not had time for a proper bath, only to change and scrub with a cloth. She sat at her brother’s left with Elrond in the place of honor on his right; straight across from her was the impeccable Arwen and Éowyn felt the strong urge to keep her head down and stay silent. But Elrohir made it impossible. As they began to eat, he asked, “Lady Éowyn, tell me, where did you get such fine hounds?”

Her voice seemed very loud; he and she were the only ones speaking and she felt all eyes were upon them. She cut her meat, feeling dreadfully observed. “They…they were Théodred’s, my cousin’s.”

“None that I know. He bred them himself.” She didn’t know what he was getting at and Arwen was looking at her. Éowyn was nervous and irritated at herself for feeling in such a fashion—was this not her home, her hall? “They are cross-bred from two types of dogs—the hounds my people usually use and another found only in the hills in the Westemnet, near Fangorn.”

“Pity. I’d hoped to beg or buy a few from you.” This was a surprise and he saw it. “I have hunted before, Lady…” Elrohir smiled, “I enjoyed it.”

“I regret that I cannot say the same, brother.” Arwen spoke for the first time, without looking up, and Éowyn writhed inwardly—even the woman’s voice was velvety and soft; her own sounded harsh in comparison. I thought I could be a rival to this woman? Although she no longer had any desire to be Aragorn’s wife, the thought was enough to make her cringe. Gods, I was a fool! Oddly, Arwen’s simple words had a darkening effect on her elven kin—Elrohir immediately went quiet and Elrond almost wore a scowl. Éomer, apparently struck silent until this very moment, spoke,

“Three hares. I gave them away.” It sounds quite pitiful, she thought to herself.

Now she smiled, remembering the grey’s swift, bounding strides. But the meaning of his question was clear and she sobered, saddening. Kings of the Mark were traditionally mounted upon stallions, not geldings—Éomer would no longer be riding his friend Byrga. “Yes, he did, brother.”

“Good.” He smiled at her, hopeful, “You will take him out often for me?”

“Yes.” Líeg is in the field, whom else do I have to ride? I cannot stay out of the saddle for long it is too much fun. “Of course.” Her brother’s obvious relief was her reward for such a small courtesy that she was glad to do anyhow. I will ride Byrga until I leave…than I suppose he will be retired to roam with the spare geldings in the Wold. He is fourteen but only just past his prime…it is a shame.

Arwen’s words seemed to have upset her kin enough to keep them politely quiet the rest of the meal; as for Éowyn, she was lost in her own thoughts. Two more months…what shall I do? The late foals will be born in a month and a half…they will be here in Edoras for me to handle but until then…I suppose I could help Éomer pick out his stud. Or I could go hawking, have a sword made to replace mine, I could…what can I do? She speared a bit of vegetable. I miss Faramir, I miss his company…when he is here I will have plenty to occupy me. Feeling the dolphin, warm and solid, move on her breast with her breathing, Éowyn thought, when he is here I will have to leave. She looked down at her plate, no longer sure what she wanted—Faramir to come quickly or not come at all.

The next day Éowyn dug up yet another gown in an admittedly late attempt to show she was not a savage; it was an annoyance since she’d resolved to wear them as little as possible this summer, to enjoy her freedom. Plus, the things were dreadfully hot compared to the roomy men’s clothes. Long and a soft, creamy white it was the lightest and most comfortable of all she owned. Pulling her heavy hair off of the back of her neck, she fantasized about taking a pair of scissors to it, simply cutting the entire flaxen mane away as Éomer had done once as a prank. I could use his sword, it worked quite well before…hmm, I wonder what my dear Faramir would think. She smiled just imagining and twisted the mass of gold up into a bun. Wavy strands escaped her fingers as always, but they were not enough to annoy. Looking in the mirror, she thought she appeared presentable—clean and dressed like a lady should. Still, when she saw Arwen and one of her brothers standing in the hall, Éowyn felt like a handmaid in the presence of a fairy queen. Nervously tucking a stray lock of her hair behind her ear, she would have slunk away to find Éomer but the twin called out to her, “Lady Éowyn!” He turned, “Here she is now, sister.”

“Yes, yes.” She nodded absently; she was focused on Éowyn, who had come to stand near them.

“Yes?” Eyeing the elven woman, she observed, I am taller than she is…she is more curved than I am and far more attractive all around. These were things she hadn’t noticed before and wished she didn’t now. Finding that she’d been nervously rubbing the dolphin pendant, Éowyn lowered her hands, lightly clasping them and straightening. Théodred has not been here to remind me to act like a lady; he used to do that every day, If it weren’t for him I wouldn’t have any manners at all, she thought. Feeling foolish, she waited. What does she, could she want with me? I still don’t believe she was envious of me. She looked beyond lovely in a soft blue gown with a gleaming silver band across her brow. Éowyn felt terribly plain in her cream dress, the rawhide thongs of Faramir’s necklace descending into her bosom. Arwen smiled; it was very friendly and gracious.

“We were not properly introduced last night, Éowyn…” She paused then added almost hastily, “May I call you Éowyn? I meant no offence.”

“Yes.” She found herself smiling, though still painfully apprehensive, “None taken, my Lady.”

Repeating obediently, “Arwen”, she thought, how could any man look at another woman after her? She will soon be in Gondor with Faramir…perhaps he won’t think I am beautiful any longer—next to her I am spindly, no breasts or hips, boyish and, and ungainly! Look at her, she doesn’t wear anything to emphasize her beauty, not that she needs to… He asked if I had such things—rouge, powders…maybe he thinks I need them, and if he doesn’t he certainly will after seeing her…oh, gods, what am I thinking? I felt his love…it was strong and went deep…he wept inside when we parted. I’m being silly…but still, what if? What if he changes—Arwen speaking broke her downward spiraling thoughts; Éowyn was grateful to come back to attention.

“Of course.” Arwen had seemed almost hesitant about her question, as though she would have been refused. Éowyn was perplexed as they walked together—why would I say no? Why wouldn’t I wish to get out of the Hall? After a few steps, Arwen spoke again,

“I hope we can be friends, you and I. I won’t know anyone in Minas Tirith other than the members of the Fellowship and my kin—” Arwen glanced sideways at her, a small, hopeful smile on what Éowyn dejectedly observed were perfectly shaped, rose-colored lips. Mine are thin and pale. “And…it would be nice to have a woman friend.”

She had no idea how to respond. I’ve never had woman friends. What would that be like? She seems likable...what do I say? “Yes.” Arwen didn’t seem perturbed by her quietness. Soon they were descending the stairs and out in the soft morning sunshine. Éowyn asked, since it was her responsibility to entertain her guest, “What would you like to do?” Arwen’s answer never came.

“My Lady!” It was one of the soldiers; he was panting, out of breath and leaning over with his hands splayed on his knees. “Lady Éowyn, please, oh, thank the gods I saw you there…do you know where our Lord is? The Master of Horse was supposed to be with him.”

“No, but what is the problem?” It was obviously something serious and she forgot all about Arwen standing at her side.

Huffing, he explained, “We need to ask about putting down one of the broodmares—it was injured this morning, but if the Master wishes her saved for her foal…”

“Where is she?” Éowyn became blind to all her petty worries, feeling herself come to life at the crisis.

The man hesitated, then answered, “Almost an hour from here...she was still bleeding badly when I left, though we are trying to stop it…but we can not free her from her misery until we have permission. She—she carries a line the Master favors and the foal is only a week out.” The words “it may be too late, though” went unspoken but not unheard.

“Get yourself a fresh mount.” She had no time to change; Byrga would carry her sidesaddle. “You will take me and I will make the decision.” Let the Master howl at me, Éowyn thought grimly, if she is terribly injured, I will not allow the mare to suffer. Utterly forgetting Arwen, she walked at the soldier’s side until the elven woman spoke,

Éowyn stopped. There was no room for assumptions or humiliation any longer. “Can you ride fast?”

“Yes.” She did not seem offended by the blunt question or the equally blunt assent.

“Then you can come.” If she wishes to befriend me, then let her see who I am.

When they came to the encampment over an hour later, the man halted. She dismounted off of a lean chestnut, impatient with her skirt and Arwen slid off of the safe Byrga, walking after her. Striding fast, Éowyn barely glanced at the camp—it was the usual herders’: light tents, the dogs tied for foaling season, horses grazing nearby under watchful eyes. To the side, under the shade of a stunted tree, stood the mare, her head hanging and ears limp; the ground around her was stained with blood. Numerous, deep bites covered her dulled coat; the worst was her throat, it was almost ripped out and Éowyn winced in pained sympathy. Arwen touched the mare’s forehead gently, murmuring.

The man spoke, “Wild dogs, my Lady. They came two nights ago and we drove them off; this morning they came again and the herd ran…this one was heavy with foal and fell. We had to beat the cursed things off of her. Already men are hunting them.”

“I see.” Éowyn walked slowly around the mare, taking in her wounds. They were many and though the herders had cleaned, stitched and smeared salve on them, she seemed disturbingly unresponsive. She checked her gums, finding them pale and took her pulse—it was weak and erratic. The mare’s bulging side moved.

Arwen said softly, her fingers twined in the mare’s mane, “The foal still lives, but she is weak.”

“I know.” She knew, too, what she had to do. In this herd there would be many mares with colts at their sides that could provide enough milk for two. Turning to the herders who had come, she ordered, “Bring me a cleaned water skin, some hot water and a sharp knife.” The Master shall have his foal, she thought. The mare I cannot and will not let suffer—the threat of infections aside, the flies alone would be sheer torture and she is not young. I know what to do, thankfully.

It was almost nightfall by the time the door-wards reported his sister and Arwen returned to Edoras and he leapt from the high seat. At the door Éomer frowned, his heart nearly stopping with worry at the dark blood and filth stained over the front of Éowyn’s gown. Taking the stairs two at a time, he was soon at her side. “What happened?”

“One of the mares. No one could find the Master; I had to cut her throat and pull the foal.” It was exhausted and sorrowful. Éowyn’s bright blue eyes were dulled.

“Sister.” He hugged her in sympathy, resting his chin on her head. “I’m sorry.”

Arwen, no longer quite as radiant with her gown just as bloody as Éowyn’s, came behind. Her voice was weary, too, but he thought, almost admiring. “We…she saved the little one.” She sat on Byrga, he saw, with a tiny, wide-eyed colt balanced over the grey’s withers. Behind his sister’s horse stood a strange mare with a foal at her side. The nanny mare, he realized.

“Good.” He kept his arm around Éowyn’s slumped shoulders, proud of her. “We can put it—”

“Sister!” If he had been worried, Arwen’s brothers were horrified. They vaulted down the stairs and converged on Byrga. “Where have you been? Are you injured—the blood—”

“No! I’m fine, I’m not hurt.” She looked annoyed and Byrga shifted, nervous with the crowding. “You will not send for Ada.” Arwen’s voice hardened, “Get the foal down if you wish to help, Elladan!”

“I’m not that bad, am I?” Éomer whispered into his sister’s ear as the twins carefully lowered the spraddle-legged colt. It wobbled and Byrga nosed it curiously. The foal stumbled to his flanks, pushing its fuzzy nose under his belly, searching for a nipple. The gelding’s ears went flat and he moved away. Éomer gestured for the waiting man to bring the surrogate mare closer—the little colt was thin and like all new foals, undoubtedly starving.

“No.” She hugged him with a tired smile. “You’re worse.” She watched the colt, “We let him nurse as much as he could before we came. I got his mother’s milk and he drank that as well—that’s why it took all day.”

“Good.” Without her first milk he may have gotten ill. He jested, “I doubt that I’m worse.” She smiled still, but it was weak; she was tired. While Elrond’s sons fussed over an increasingly irritated Arwen, trying to help her from the saddle as she slapped at their hands in fury, he fretfully asked, “Have you eaten, dear sister?”

He took his arm away, shooing gently, “Go, then. I will take care of the horses—you go bathe and rest and get something to eat.”

It was a measure of her exhaustion that Éowyn did not argue with his nurse-maiding. “All right.” Éomer watched his sister walk slowly up the stairs and then turned back to the elves. Arwen was on the ground now, leaning against Byrga’s grey neck. Her brothers were still hovering, as though the sight of her smeared with dirt and blood was entirely foreign and frightening to them. Walking up to his horse, he took the reins, “I will take them, my Lady, you go on.”

“Thank you, Éomer.” She smiled. Elrohir and Elladan quickly ushered her away as he led the geldings, placing them in stalls. Then, his voice at turns commanding and cajoling, Éomer managed to get the two foals and the nanny mare to follow him into the barn. Tonight the little fellow will have her all to himself; the other colt is bigger and strong. He walked backwards gripping the halter and watching. He is wobbly, but still, the little one follows well, he might be all right.

Later that night, missing her at the evening meal, he went to check on Éowyn and found her asleep. Poor sister, he thought—picking up the blankets, he covered her and slipped quietly from the room. Arwen was standing in the hall, looking apprehensive as he silently shut the door. “I’d hoped to speak with her.”

Éowyn was in the barn early the next morning, leading the mare and her foals to the small, nearby corral. The sun and fresh air were the best things for the colt; they would help him grow strong. Tiny, he pranced on soft hooves, his fuzzy tail and short neck held high. The nanny mare was calm and quiet as both the foals nursed at once, a good mother, Éowyn thought. She leaned on the fence and watched. Behind her, the elves were already preparing to leave, saddling their horses and speaking in their strange, flowing language.

“I’m sorry our time was not more pleasant…but,” She smiled, “I…thank you for allowing me to help.”

Puzzled, Éowyn replied, “You’re welcome.” Why wouldn’t I have let her help? She calmed the mare and that aided me greatly.

The elven woman seemed hesitant, “I suppose I won’t see you for a while, so…goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Arwen. Have a safe journey.” Éowyn smiled at her, truly wishing her well. She cannot help that she is so lovely and I so plain, I should not be so petty.

Elrohir called and Arwen nodded, “Thank you—I must go.” To the side Éomer bowed to Elrond and the elves were mounting. Éowyn watched them ride away, sparkling in the morning sun and as they slowly disappeared, Edoras was once more a city of men. I cannot say I will miss her, I do not know her, but she was a great help...more than I expected. Ah, well, with this foal I have something to occupy me for a few weeks until he is big enough to go out. She turned back to the corral and watched the colt walk unsteadily on his long, thin legs. And after that? Maybe I’ll have another sword made for my use when my brother leaves.

Deolir was a markedly less good-natured man in comparison to Halorl. He’d met him outside the first level stable; men herded goats and sheep inside it, loudly calling back and forth in Rohirric. Faramir was happy to note that he could recognize some of the words. A man roughly his own age dismounted and looked around. He was not one of the herders, nor the soldiers sent to guard the men and animals. Faramir straightened, stepping forward to catch his attention; in his black and silver he knew he must be startlingly detectable in the Rohirric sea of green, white and leather brown. The Rohirrim immediately saw him and walked to stand before Faramir, his horse following docilely. Gazing steadily at him, his voice was cool as he spoke, “I am Deolir. My Lord has sent me to instruct you in our language and history.”

“Wilcume, Deolir. Ic þancie þe for eower lar.” Faramir smiled politely, wincing inside at his clumsy pronunciation. There was no hint of the friendliness that had overflowed from Halorl in the man before him’s eyes. I think I shall miss Halorl, he was always pleasant at least, but perhaps it was because he already knew me.

Deolir actually looked pained at his greeting and thanks. “He was right to send another.” Faramir had no reply to the slightly rude statement, so he simply kept the amicable expression on his face. “Did Halorl speak to you about our people’s history?”

His voice was sudden, cutting through Faramir’s. “In Rohirric, Hordere. Ge neot se geþiode.”

Well, at least he’s serious about it…though rather annoyingly so. Hesitantly, well aware of his limited vocabulary, he began, “Na, hé dyde ná, Deolir. Efne geþiode.”

“God.” A young man trotted by and Deolir called out to him, “Here, take my horse.” He handed the gelding over and looked impatiently at Faramir. “Where do you want to do this?”

His directness was a bit unexpected and Faramir asked, “How long do you have?”

“Rohirric.” It was sharp and before he could even begin to frame his question in the other language, Deolir answered, “A monað, Hordere.”

A…a…a month. All right and he wants to get started. That’s good, right? Of course it is. “I have…” He stopped himself, remembering. What’s the word for study? I don’t know…how about room? Oh, right. “Ic hæbbe a lecgan.”

Éomer climbed up onto the fence to sit at his sister’s side. Below them, inside the small paddock was Master Thohl. Éowyn pointed at one blood bay stallion; he bucked high and kicked out with both heels as she asked, “If you pick that one, can I borrow him?”

Thohl glanced up, chewing on a grass stem. The older man shook his head, “If he picks him, you will be Queen. He is not right for you, my Lord…” He waved at the men by the gate. “See that one? The red bay? Take him out!”

“That only leaves five.” Éomer surveyed his options from the Eastemnet. They were all three years old, leaving him a year to train them, as usual, before he first rode his choice. Three greys, a light chestnut and a rare black stud were snorting and trotting around the pen.

“I like that one.” Éowyn pointed at the black. “He is clever.” The young stallion had halted before the others and was standing in the center of the paddock. His brown eyes were focused upon them, rather than his racing, bucking kin.

“If you like him so much—” Éomer stopped, not wanting her mounted upon a stallion. “Not him, take him out.” Thohl waved and pointed at the black. The men rode in, swinging ropes and soon lead the stud out. The remaining four galloped in circles.

“Good.” Éowyn smiled playfully, “Let’s go there and see them, brother.”

“We will have them brought here.” He didn’t like the idea of her wandering around those big fields right under the noses of men who went weeks or months without seeing a woman. Trustworthy, honorable or no, I don’t want you around there. Éomer turned and jumped down from the fence. “Let’s go back home.”

Faramir stared at the white tree. Its leaves rustled softly in the wind and as he listened to the sound it seemed like the whole feel of the city was changing, warming. There was another sound—he looked up. The King’s banner flapped, gleaming sable where he’d been long accustomed to seeing the silvery Steward’s flag. It did not bother him. Perhaps it should, but it doesn’t. He turned back to the tree. He’d watched many men uproot and drag away the old one; their backs had been bent and the ropes straining under the weight.

It was the gaping hole in the ground that bothered me, he thought. Faramir had the sense that things were coming to an end…no, no, just beginning, he corrected himself. My life, my life free from dread and battle is just beginning…isn’t it? Rangers had marked the rough location of the tree in his dream on maps and he planned on pinpointing it soon, but Deolir was not Halorl, cheerful and happy for a break—Deolir was a harsh, determined instructor. At least, his unrelenting focus had taught Faramir more Rohirric, language and history, in the last three days than he’d thought possible. Watching the water splash and leap, he marveled at how it looked delighted to flow around the sapling.

Everything has changed and will change further. Æghwa awentt ond wile awendan furþur. However, this only made him feel tired because the one thing he fervently wished to change—the yawningly empty place by his side—had not yet. Faramir looked beyond the white tree, beyond the walls of the city that had never been his and over the fields in the direction of Rohan. I miss you.

He’d escaped Deolir’s clutches for the wedding and now he sat at the table and was silent—it was not that Faramir wasn’t glad for Aragorn, he could well feel the man’s joy. No, it was more that he was weary and could not help but a little bitterness at the sight of the King’s journey ending. They danced, the King and Queen and it was as though they floated to the lilting music. Faramir watched, envious. Though, I am not envious as others are…now he looked at Arwen alone. She was beauty incarnate, but he found he did not respond to it. She is the night, cool and composed, with flickering stars on her brow and in her eyes. And, look at the Lady Galadriel, is she not the calm day? Gold there is, yet not the strain I desire. Fair in form and face are these elven women and yet…they do not change and I can feel it.

My beloved is a tempestuous storm. A foaming river, rising at the banks to flood and then lying peaceful in the sunshine, a sweet flower, a warm wind…Éowyn has not everlasting perfection and I am grateful—these two, Arwen and Galadriel are the sun, the stars…my love is the earth herself. Blossoming, changing, warm or cold…she is mine and will grow old with me. I am surrounded by delicate, immortal beauty, and the woman I desire most is undoubtedly in man’s clothes at this very moment, with an adorable smudge of dirt on her cheek. Faramir smiled at the image, sipping his chill wine.

As the hobbit spoke again his voice was awed. “Even more so than when we were in Rivendell. Don’t you think so, Merry?”

Merry had scaled another man-sized chair to settle on Faramir’s other side. They’d hardly let him alone since Éowyn had left—he guessed he was a surrogate companion. The Brandybuck was not as enthusiastic. “I suppose.”

Pippin hardly noticed his reply, saying, “I bet I could write her a song—it would be the best song ever.”

“How would you start?” The elder hobbit asked, nibbling on a bit of cake. Faramir doubted Pippin heard him.

“Her hair is so straight and long, look. My sisters would murder to have straight hair, especially Pervinca. The color…onyx, pitch, ebony, sable, jet, coal…”

Flaxen, straw, gold… It came from Merry’s mind, not his own. Faramir smiled faintly; he was not the only one who wasn’t desperately in love with the Queen. The song ended and Aragorn walked his wife back to the table, not taking his eyes off of her for an instant. They were smiling and happy and Faramir drained his glass. I think I shall get drunk—I am a self-centered fool, after all, like Father always said. He smiled back at Aragorn’s glance, making it as natural and unforced as possible. Pippin murmured to himself and Merry sighed when the King spoke,

“Remember today, my friends.” I shall. Aragorn deserves happiness, he fought long and hard for it—still, it is like watching a runner end a race knowing my own is just beginning…though I beg the Valar my own struggle to my wife’s side will be neither as hard nor as long.

“Just…don’t do anything.” She rolled her eyes and twirled a strand of her hair around her fingers as Éomer nervously paced. “I mean it, I don’t want to come back and have you lying in bed, sister, all broken up or ill or something.” Gods, she thought, just go! Uncle has waited long enough to be returned to our people’s land…brother, go! But she said nothing, wisely keeping silent as he lectured. “No riding alone,” Éomer glared sternly, “not even on Byrga; no hunting, no leaving Edoras—you are not going to the Wold or anywhere else…” He continued and Éowyn tuned him out. What am I going to do for a month without him? She smiled suddenly. Please. What won’t I do? “Are you listening, sister?”

He halted his pacing and gazed at her in exasperation. “No. What did I say?”

She slumped in the royal seat, resisting the temptation to sit sideways and throw her legs over the armrest. It needs a cushion, this thing is hard as stone. “You said you were leaving.”

“Oops.” She smiled. The horns blew, announcing the readiness of the men outside and Éowyn stood, laying her hands on his shoulders and saying seriously, “Brother. Go, get our Uncle, fetch Théoden—he has been too long away and surely his spirit cannot rest easy in those strange halls of the Southern men.”

“Yes, yes, yes.” She sighed. You are worse than an old hen, brother of mine. “Give me a hug, brother and go. They’re waiting.”

He did as she’d ordered, hugging her tightly, fiercely. “I love you, sister.”

“I love you, too. I’ll miss you.” In the back of her mind, though, Éowyn rejoiced. A month! A month of true freedom! She smiled as soon as his back was turned. What won’t I do, indeed. There is a bare spot on the wall; I think I shall hang a great buck there or maybe a wolf’s head! But first, I will smile sweetly and wave goodbye to my dear, overprotective brother. Following him outside, she stood at the doors and raised her arm in acknowledgement to his salute as he mounted his horse; it was not his permanent stallion, but a calm, substitute stud.

Éomer’s voice rang, “Come, we go to fetch our Lord, to return our King unto his rightful place!” The men cried aloud to their mounts and the éored full of the finest knights in all the Mark rode away. Éowyn bit her lip, watching the dust and looked down at her gown. I can be out of this, in men’s clothes and on a horse in ten minutes. I will start, I think, with a great hunt and then I later will meet the Marshals, like he would have to hear how things are going. I think I will enjoy being Lady of Rohan, Queen while my brother is gone—there is no one here any longer who would dare tell me what to do.

Faramir stood in the marketplace and looked around, at a loss. What would she like? In front of him, arms linked and cuddling in a way he was swiftly finding nauseating, were Aragorn and Arwen. Pippin darted by, clutching a large cookie while Merry trailed him. “What do you think she would like?” He asked the hobbit.

“Nothing here.” Merry gazed dismally at a bolt of silk. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

Aragorn spoke up, looking at Pippin, “Something sharp, I’d guess. Peregrin, where’d you get that cookie?”

“Who are you buying things for?” Arwen fingered a piece of lace, gazing at him curiously.

Pippin took a large bite, mumbling, “O’r thr...” He chewed and swallowed, “Why?”

“The Lady Éowyn.” The most beautiful, brave woman alive and one I couldn’t shop for if I tried.

“She didn’t mention you.” The Queen must have seen his face for she quickly added, “We didn’t speak much, really, we were...busy, I’d guess you’d say.”

“Get me one.” The King dug in his pocket and tossed the hobbit a coin and then turned to his wife. Pippin vanished cheerfully. “No?” Aragorn asked. “Weren’t you there a day?” He frowned, “I thought you did something with her.”

“Yes, I did...” Arwen repeated, “But we didn’t speak much, like I said. She was occupied…I helped her as best I could.”

“What did you do?” Faramir was instantly jealous. Pippin wandered back, three soft cookies in his hands. He gave one to Aragorn, who sniffed and eyed it suspiciously.

“No.” Pippin stuck one of the cookies in his mouth, grinning cheekily. “Here.” Aragorn scowled but ate his anyhow.

She looked hesitant as Faramir waited. “We had to, well, she had to—it was not pleasant…”

“Hey, here’s something!” Merry trotted away into the crowd. A moment later his high voice cut through the noise. “Faramir, come look at this! Faramir…Faramir, now!”

“Coming!” He still wanted to hear what Arwen had done with Éowyn, but he obediently followed the hobbit’s call. Aragorn, Arwen and Pippin trailed him. Faramir listened as he dodged patrons, trying to find Merry. Impatient, he reached out with his mind and instantly located him.

“Hobbit lasses are rather plump and they tend to think all women should be.” Aragorn explained, apparently taking the cookie for himself, if one judged by Pippin’s cry of outrage.

Merry waved at him and Faramir stepped to his side, ignoring his followers again. “See? She would like something like these better than anything else we’ve seen.”

“It’s ivory…” Surprised, he looked down at the display—it was indeed ivory and the creamy material was made into little carvings and adornments. Some were teeny mûmakil, excellently done; but there were other animals and all types of jewelry—brooches, necklaces, rings, earrings—as well as various other stones. There was an onyx and ruby hair clip that he immediately liked—gleaming pitch black and sparkling crimson set in gold in the shape of a butterfly. He just knew it would look nice in her hair. But would Éowyn wear it? That was the problem and Faramir was frustrated. He didn’t want to get her something she would feel obligated to wear; he wanted something she would enjoy. Which would be… “You’re sure, Merry?”

“This is the best so far.” The hobbit had a point and he surveyed the items. Aragorn wandered close by, smirking,

“I don’t see anything that could be deadly, I’m not sure she would like anything here.”

Faramir frowned and ignored him with an effort. “What would you pick, Merry?”

Merry, virtually at eye level with the objects, frowned, and then poked with his finger. “That, that and that.”

“Yes.” The hobbit gave him a reproachful look as Faramir eyed his selections. In them was the hair clip, pleasing him and two other things—an intricately carved ivory handled dagger with tiny horses, mûmakil and warriors and a wide, pale, almost translucent jade bracelet.

The King asked, smirking insolently, “What, the knife? That’s sharp—she can cut things with that or even stab them, or I know! She can…”

“Aragorn, where’s Arwen?” He took pleasure in the look of panic as the man spun in a circle. Faramir knew exactly where she was, thanks to his gift—her bright elven mind put her two stalls to the side and one to the right, looking at shawls and scarves. Aragorn hurried off to find his wife, leaving him alone with Merry. Pippin was nowhere in sight.

“The bracelet is pretty.” Merry argued, standing on his furry toes to see everything.

He picked it up, holding it up to the sun. The rays almost shone right through the nebulous stone. “I think so.”

“What about the dagger?” The hobbit put down the bracelet and pointed to the knife just out of his reach.

“That, I think we are fairly safe in getting.” Though I shall not admit Aragorn was right. He gestured to the man running the stall. He’d been silent throughout so as not to bother his Lord; common folk he might haggle, but he respectfully waited upon the Steward. “The ivory dagger—that one.”

“What about the hair pin?” This was hopeful, obviously Merry, too, liked it.

“That’s a no.” Faramir resisted the temptation to groan. This is so difficult. Aragorn appeared nearby, his arms heavily laden with packages and Faramir’s frustration melted away to amusement. The King glared, obediently following Arwen as she moved through the crowd.

“This will be you,” He hissed under his breath. Pippin was still nowhere to be seen.

Faramir chuckled, “She doesn’t shop much, I’d guess.” Aragorn’s face fell and he laughed.

“No, no…” Faramir pointed to the bracelet and the hair clasp, “That and that, too.” Whether she liked them or not, these were the best he could offer and he was weary of looking. Still, I wonder if there are any lion pelts…he’d said he would get her one to show her. “Come Merry, let’s look for one more thing.”

Byrga reared high and Éowyn clung with her knees, throwing her spear as hard as she could. Dogs and men were all around; the world had reduced to the din of their voices and the gigantic, twisting black bear with it’s gaping pink maw. She whooped as the bear slapped at the shaft of her spear penetrating from its side; the wood splintered and the creature’s small, red eyes burned in fury. Hounds snarled, rushing to snap with foaming jaws and then leaping back. The bear rose up on its hind legs, roaring wide and an arrow from Éowyn’s left went into its mouth. Blood colored its yellow teeth and it champed its jaw at the protruding shaft. Unfortunately, the arrow hadn’t gone in far enough to kill the beast. Others followed, raining down, but still the bear stood.

She yelled in joy, adrenaline rushing through her veins as she pulled back her own bow. Byrga’s ears were flat on his head as he wheeled under her; other horses bumped them, and he bared his teeth to give her room. The bear fell back, her arrow in its side along with many. None of the wounds were immediately fatal; the creature was moving too much to hit it accurately enough to fell it.

Suddenly it roared again, hurting her ears and charged. Wide paws swept hounds out of the way as the bear tried to escape. Éowyn grabbed up one of the spears set in the ground and took Byrga almost alongside the animal—it turned and she looked straight into its enraged eye as she rammed the iron-tipped spear into its swinging gut. The men were promptly with her, drawing their swords as they crowded in and the bear fought ferociously, biting at the air and slapping its giant, clawed paws, but the horses leapt back, balancing low on their haunches to better to twist and wheel.

I shall have his skin for a rug, Éowyn thought and aimed carefully. The bow was almost too strong for her and her shoulder ached, but she held the string. Wait, wait…Byrga’s hooves planted themselves at her command “Whoa!” and as the bear rose again she released. The point flew straight and disappeared into the beast’s eye. It’s head rolled and it swayed and then crumpled. Éowyn cried her triumph then laughed, sweating and scratched all over from the chase, but she’d helped her people—the great bear had been threatening sheep in the Westemnet for weeks. And to think, if my brother were here I’d be sitting at home. Tell me not to leave Edoras, ha, I am miles away.

She slid from Byrga’s side while the men carefully made sure the bear was fully dead. Others called the hounds away. Once it was determined safe, Éowyn put her hand under the creature’s foaming, bloody chin and peered at its teeth and claws. He’s old, these are rotted and worn away…the slow, soft-skinned sheep were easier for him than deer or digging for grubs. Wiping her palms, she turned to one of the grinning, panting men. “Skin it and keep the head with it…I would have it for a rug in my rooms.”

“Aye, my Lady.” Now this is living, she thought, content. I almost wish Éomer wouldn’t return.

“Good, we will stay there the night and I can meet with the Marshal in the morning.” Éowyn dismounted to hug Byrga’s sweaty neck in appreciation. I love this and still three weeks until I must be in Edoras to make ready for Uncle’s funeral. She sobered, three weeks to do as much as I can. This total freedom will not come again and I must make the most of it.

He left Gimli and wandered about, gazing at the women, and soon spotting the Royal Table. “Hello.” Aragorn nodded as Éomer seated himself. Arwen smiled and he was blinded anew by her beauty—luckily it did not last as long and soon he could look away, though he gave her a courteous nod. Where is Faramir, he wondered. I’d have expected him to be questioning me by now. He was weary from the long ride and anxious to get back to Edoras. Gods alone know what Éowyn is doing at this moment. Around the room couples danced. It was apparently some sort of fanciful night in the city. Éomer watched, his gaze moving randomly from one lovely woman to the next until it halted on a familiar figure—there he is…what is he doing?

Faramir was dancing, too, expertly twirling a young woman around the wide floor. Éomer might have been infuriated for his sister’s sake, but for the utterly bored set of the Steward’s face. His movements were mechanical and although he never missed a step, he was clearly not enjoying himself. The woman was another matter—her hand rested upon the Prince’s chest and she laughed lightly, jewels shimmering and her gown swirling as she matched his movements a little too closely. Faramir just gave her an awkward look, smiling politely. When the song finished, he smoothly disengaged himself, bowing low and Éomer watched him get all of three feet before another young lady captured him again. Poor bastard, he thought, why doesn’t he just refuse? Eating his meal, completely undisturbed at the Royal Table, he continued to watch Faramir get caught over and over by the women of Gondor. It was as though they were working as a team, keeping him on the floor by the sheer power of their feminine charms and what he apparently considered unbreakable social etiquette. Finally, incredulous, Éomer looked sideways at Aragorn.

“It’s impolite.” The King replied, then grimaced as Arwen smirked and grabbed up his arm. The look on his face was clear—he’d obviously walked straight into it.

Éomer snorted laughter, almost choking on his wine at both the name and the reply. “Yes, darling, if you wish.” I’d forgotten about that name. And darling? Ha! Aragorn glared a warning of violence as he took her hand and followed his wife away. Éomer turned back to the dancers. He’d pretended to understand, but his first thought was, rude? So what? He shook his head, disgusted at Faramir. The man has no spirit, no fire—he is a tame pony. My sister will tramp all over him.

It was nearly an hour later when the Steward walked slowly to the table and slumped into a chair. He was sweating lightly and immediately grabbed a glass of pale wine, drinking deep. Éomer waited patiently to say the words he’d prepared. “Enjoying yourself?”

The reply was terse, “I could not refuse them—it would be discourteous.” Faramir glanced at him, his grey eyes cooling further as he added, “Besides, I do not have an irrefutable excuse…” He raised the glass to his lips, “Such as my wife by my side.” Faramir drank again as Éomer smiled inwardly—that he could respect. Now he acts like a man; perhaps there is a tiny bit of fire in him yet.

Leaning back in his chair and watching the colorful swirl of ladies’ skirts, he spoke, “Let us hope you still have a wife and I a sister waiting.”

“She is alone and undoubtedly doing everything I have ever told her not to.” He sighed and swirled his sweet wine, wishing it were ale. “I’d hoped to report to my sister that you were pining away…” He shook his head regretfully, amusing himself, “But I suppose I cannot after seeing that demonstration.”

Then, Faramir did something then that surprised him; the Steward hesitated and then in perfectly passable Rohirric, answered curtly. “Ælc dæg synt a awa. Ge hæfst ná gripe of min iermðu.”

After a second, Éomer recovered himself enough to arch an eyebrow and ask, “Iermðu, Hordere? Ge onsend her ná ærendgewrit...”

“Ond…?” Faramir gave him the same expression back; the Prince arched an eyebrow in cool, disdainful skepticism, setting his glass down. He was still speaking in remarkably competent Rohirric, though very carefully, “Hwa deþ seo hæfþ don mid lufu?” With a sigh he slowly added, “Shé is min sefa, dest ge ná forstandan?”

I’m actually impressed at this… after only two months he talks back to me in my own language…Oh, enough of this foolishness, if he would act this way all the time and keep his hands away from Éowyn I would be quite fond of him! Éomer was about to reply good-naturedly when two women halted in front of them and he quickly shut his mouth, not wanting to attract any attention—these were no girls, they were women fully confident in their beauty and desirableness. As females, they knew refusal of their will was all but unheard of and they moved without hesitation. He glanced sideways at the equally frozen Faramir and tried not to laugh. I will teach him rudeness and all its delightful uses; they would take him away and he would permit it—Éowyn will be running his princedom at this rate, while he smiles and nods as she goes about hunting and endangering herself. Éomer swallowed his distaste and permitted a slow smile to form on his lips, meeting the nearest woman’s eyes. She was a painted and perfumed brunette; he thought she would be prettier in the plain dress of a maid than the embroidered thing she wore. The other woman fixed her eyes upon Faramir, who shifted uncomfortably. Éomer leaned back in his chair, relaxing as his coquettishly flitted her eyelashes and moved her shoulders under her shawl, purring,

Permitting his eyes to lazily lower to the shape of her bosom, he toyed with his wine glass, looking back up just as slowly. “Aye.”

“With all those great, handsome horses?” He swore he heard a noise come from Faramir, an amused chuckle, though naught but a breath before it was smothered.

“Aye.” He waited, patient and keeping the smile firmly in place. I will enjoy this.

Less than a minute later the retreating women nearly slammed into the returning Aragorn and Arwen. Faramir was silent, staring at him in open astonishment. The King frowned, “What did you do to them?”

Aragorn still looked appalled, “Those weren’t harlots! They were noblewomen of the city! I—you can’t do that!”

Arwen actually laughed out loud, causing the three men to look at her in confusion. “Éomer, you are a brute.” She sat by him, shaking her fair head. “Really, an beast.”

What do you know, I think she found that amusing… He leaned toward the Queen, grinning while whispering confidentially, “I’m a boor as well.”

She laughed again and Aragorn’s eyes narrowed. Éomer smirked at the man’s scowl while Arwen smiled and patted his arm. Doesn’t like that does he? Huh.

Faramir rode quietly, listening to the soft sound of the hooves as the horses moved. The Rohirrim were cheerful, calling back and forth, speaking in their tongue; only Éomer was silent, his eyes firmly fixed on the horizon. He understood better now, thanks to Deolir, that the soldiers considered Théoden to have died a great death—one all men of Rohan hoped for and they did not so much lament him as envy him and feel happy for him. No doubt Éomer mourns him as an Uncle and feels the loss more keenly. Faramir glanced sympathetically at the man’s broad back; he’d felt his deep sorrow when Éomer had walked alongside Théoden’s bower, guiding it through the city.

Beneath him his horse walked quietly, keeping the pace of the funeral march. All around were the greatest peoples in Arda and he listened to various soft murmurs, most drowned out by the cheerful Rohirrim. The mood of the great company was sorrow tempered with gladness at returning home for some and—what is that? Faramir came out of his trance, glancing up. He was surrounded; six Rohirrim rode silent around him and he frowned in puzzlement. What are they doing? Deolir had vehemently denied everything Halorl had told him about the men of Éomer’s éored testing him, but... Who do I believe? Halorl considered himself my friend; I seriously doubt Deolir even liked me…is this some sort of test? And if so, what is the correct response? None of the six so much as looked at him. Faramir tapped his fingers against his leg restlessly. I shall wait and see what they do, he decided. That hurts no one.

The six men shadowed him the entire day, even unmounted, they were never far; Faramir ignored them the best he could. The only time the six truly vanished was when Éomer came around—it was if they didn’t want him to know what they were doing. I think I recognize one of them…I’m not sure though. Faramir eyed the six Rohirrim; they were nearby while he unsaddled his horse. None made eye contact. This is strange.

The next day, almost as soon as he’d mounted there they were again, flanking him perfectly. Faramir tolerated it until noon. Damn it all, he thought; then abruptly turned his head to his left and asked, “What are you doing?” The Rohirrim man glanced over.

“My Lord?” It was politely confused; from behind him Faramir sensed amusement ballooning.

“Why are you following me?” There was definite mirth coming from them now—low, muffled snickers from behind and the man to his right turned his head in an attempt to hide his smile.

“Following?” It was equally as innocent and mystified. A burst of laughter from his back left; a hiss to be quiet from his right.

“We are not following…” I’m sure I know him…from where? The tavern…that night with Halorl…who is he? Dammit, I can’t remember any of their names! “My Lord, we are guarding.”

More muffled laughter now and Faramir had the unpleasant feeling they were ridiculing him behind his back. “Guarding?”

“Aye…we wouldn’t want our Lady’s spoils of war to come to her damaged, would we? It would upset her.” He sensed the incredible effort the man was making at remaining straight-faced.

Spoil of war? What do I say to that? They are making fun of me, aren’t they…what do I do? Too bad Halorl never covered that part. Before he had a chance to speak, the man riding on his right added, “Aye, she wouldn’t want her trophy ruined.” This broke them and the Rohirrim howled with laughter as he rode silent and furious.

Through their hilarity, one managed to gasp, “My Lord, it is a…a compliment to by our Lady’s pet…”

Pet? Pet? They call me a pet as though I were a little yapping dog to sit in her lap? “Her pet?” He growled it, irate, twisting in the saddle. “Tell me—”

He heard the rising voices and turned to see who disturbed the deferential quiet; cursing, he steered the stallion back, trotting swiftly through the line. Have they no patience or respect?

“Enough!” Éomer materialized, kneeing his tall stud into their midst and the soldiers scattered smoothly. He glanced at the enraged Faramir. His grey eyes had darkened to almost black. “My apologies, they are…overeager.”

Overeager? He could see it in the Steward’s face as he swallowed his anger, composing himself.

“It is fine.” Éomer rode near him the rest of the journey and made sure Faramir was unbothered, though he often saw the same men grinning at over at the Steward in amusement. They will have to wait to have him. He allowed himself a small smile. Although…spoil of war…she did acquire him through battle, if you look at it that way… Éomer chuckled, then saddened. Théodred would have loved that jest, though he would never have admitted it. He gazed at the bower; Merry rode silent, keeping Théoden’s arms and his uncle’s face was peaceful in death. I hope you are reunited, Uncle, cousin…and have watched over my sister while I was away. Gods grant that I earn such honors before I die as you have.

The gold glinted in his eyes for miles. Recognizing their destination, Faramir wanted to plant his heels in his mount’s flanks and fly. But he held his place and feigned patience, not even reaching out with his mind. Still, as the horses walked, walk! I wish to gallop! he couldn’t help but fidget. Nearby, he felt the same nervous anxiety twitter in Éomer’s mind. At least we have this in common. After what seemed to him an eternity, the party leisurely entered the wide courtyard, halting near a large stable. Faramir slid from his saddle, gazing up at the golden hall—the doors were open, but he could see no one. Rohirric stable boys were everywhere, leading the noble folk’s horses away and a crowd gazed respectfully at Théoden and wide-eyed at the elves. Faramir’s nerves were jumping with impatience; the mass of people, their emotions pressing against his pitiful shields, did not help to steady him. Where is she? Where?

“Faramir.” It was a delighted voice; Éomer turned. Halorl grinned at him. “Wilcume to Edoras.”

Pleased at seeing his friend, Faramir was about to reply when a flash of gold caught his eye. Standing at the top of the stairs to Meduseld, she appeared. Oh, Valar…Arien, Vána…she looks like a queen… The urge to fall to his knees was great. Arien, the sun… Vána, the earth…my world, my heart…

Éowyn’s head was high, a slender circlet of gold resting upon her brow. Her gown clung to her; and even from her height he could see that she was no longer as terribly lean as she’d been—her healthy curves and the golden tan of her skin held him briefly. Gazing back at her face, he saw there rested a slight frown and her blue eyes searched. Éowyn! His mind outraced his voice, which would have been hardly heard over the crowd and she turned to look down.

A quick smile curved her lips and Faramir was overjoyed. I am hundreds of miles from my city…and yet, now… I am home. Éowyn began to walk down the stairs and he stood, watching; the anticipation was sweet and his heart raced. My love. I am home.

Wilcume, Deolir. Ic þancie þe for eower lar.—Welcome, Deolir. I thank you for your teaching.

In Rohirric, Hordere. Ge neot se geþiode.—In Rohirric, Steward. You must use the language.

Na, hé dyde ná, Deolir. Efne geþiode—No, he didn’t, Deolir. Only language.

Ælc dæg synt a awa. Ge hæfst ná gripe of min iermðu.—Every day has been an eternity. You have no grasp of my misery.

Iermðu, Hordere? Ge onsend her ná ærendgewrit...—Misery, Steward? You have sent her no letter…

Ond…? Hwa deþ seo hæfþ don mid lufu? Shé is min sefa, dest ge ná forstandan?—And…? What does that have to do with love? She is my heart, do you not understand?

Éomer dismounted, watching his sister descend, his eyes searching. She looks fine, he thought and felt the relief wash through him; his shoulders lightened, and allowing a boy to take away the stud he’d ridden, he approached her. Éowyn spotted him coming and halted. With a sigh, she raised her arms and spun in a slow circle, her voice droll, “I’m in one piece…it’s a marvel, brother, a true wonder of our age.”

“Don’t make fun.” He scolded, eyeing her up and down just to make sure. His sister sighed again. She looks good, better than in a long time…not so thin or pale…Éomer glanced at Faramir, who was coming through the crowd; his eyes were fixed on Éowyn. Of course, this means I may end up gelding him. Feeling himself smile, he asked, “What did you do while I was away?”

“Nothing.” Her expression was just a little too innocent for his taste. Suspicious, he echoed,

“Well, not nothing.” Éowyn took a deep breath, gave him an exasperated look, and then listed. “I had three new gowns made and I had that foal brought back for Arwen to see. I met with the Marshals and we decided to move two small villages to different locations for better grazing land. Oh, and the Master had six new stallions brought by for you to see—they’re behind the stable, in the smaller corral. There were two plain-fires in the Wold…I heard…but none burned anything but pasture. And a bear was killing sheep, but it’s been hunted down. All the crops have been doing very well…hmm.” Éowyn bit her lip, thinking, “That’s about it.”

“Good.” He’d never doubted her ability to rule in his stead and this proved his confidence had been well founded. Éomer felt proud of his little sister, but still, he needled her, “You stayed at Edoras, though?”

“Yes!” It was irritated and he relaxed, deciding he’d questioned her enough. Éomer put his arm around her shoulders, squeezing in a hug. She was definitely not so thin; he couldn’t feel her bones sticking out as sharply and it made him happy.

“Poor brother.” Éowyn patted his chest, hugging him back and saying quietly, “I’ve begun getting everything ready for Uncle’s funeral ceremony.”

“That’s good.” He sobered, too, leaning his chin against her head before releasing her.

“Yes. There are a lot of Riders camped nearby, they want to see him before he’s put in the mound.” Éowyn added, “I think two or three days would give them all a chance; most of them are volunteering their aid in the preparations.”

“Oh, and…” Then her voice changed and she straightened at his side, “Hello, Faramir.”

            He’d fought his way through the crowd of people, eager, but now that he was finally standing before her, he had nothing to say. Éomer gazed at him; expectant while Éowyn wore a faint smile. Faramir hesitated, cursing his sudden blankness. She was so glimmering, radiant in the daylight; the rays sparked in her eyes, the gold circlet in her hair, off her lightly tanned skin…her hair’s lightened from the sun—its not so much gold or tawny anymore as a soft yellowy, cream-color… she’s still wearing my necklace. Valar, her eyes are so very blue, I’d forgotten that they were sky-blue like that—just like in deep summer… Focus you idiot and say something. “Hello, Éowyn.”
            Her smile became more visible, but he sensed reluctance and he wondered, nervous until Éowyn glanced up, saying pointedly, “Brother?”
            “Right.” Éomer’s eyes met his briefly, in a flash of part amusement, part stern warning and then he moved away through the crowd. Faramir was still blank and he felt like a fool. Staring down at her, her mouth curving and her lips looking as soft and sweet as peaches, all he really wanted to do was kiss her. Come on, she’s waiting… His words came out jumbled and rushed, “I missed you, you’re so beautiful, I missed you so much.”

Éowyn laughed, looking almost embarrassed. Eyeing him through her pale lashes, she smiled as he took her hand; he pressed his lips to it, twining his fingers in hers and wishing they were alone so he could come closer and hold her while he kissed her. I bet she feels different; Faramir had seen her twirl for Éomer’s inspection and her more rounded body had captured his attention and made his fingers twitch with the urge to grab. Her sapphire eyes not quite on his, Éowyn replied, “I missed you, too.”

Pleased, he squeezed her hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “Look.” Faramir raised his left hand and wiggled it for her. “I’m all better.”

“Let me see.” Éowyn caught it between hers, rubbing the pads of her fingers over his skin. It felt good; her touch was light. “It doesn’t hurt at all?”
“ Twinges a bit.” He watched her as she bent his fingers gently, stroking the joints.

“Good.” To his delighted surprise she smiled, her eyes meeting his, and teased, “I won’t have to watch out for it now, will I?”

Faramir laughed, feeling whatever unwillingness or hesitance that had been in her fade or at least drop below his sense of awareness. He stepped closer, playing her game, “Maybe.”

Then, as he bent to kiss her, Éowyn pulled back. “Here?” She had a small point, they were surrounded by people still—various elves, Gondorians and Rohirrim with the hobbits off to the side somewhere, lost in the throng of taller folk. Soldiers gazed respectfully at Théoden, preparing to move him to a small shelter. Faramir glanced around; no one was paying them much attention, too busy with duties or talking or moving towards Meduseld.

“Shy?” Murmuring, he raised her hand, placing it flat on his chest, over his heart, keeping his on top of it. The other he held down at her side.

Glancing from side to side, his eyes narrowed for effect, Faramir moved even closer. Whispering, he lowered his head to her ear, resisting the impulse to nibble at it. “Courage, then. Never fear, I will get you out of this predicament, my lady.”

She laughed, astonished and pulling back to stare at him. “What are you…?”

“Shh! Just hold close—” Faramir leaned down and she quieted; she was laughing at him inwardly, though. He lightly met her familiar mind. I learned something.

Éowyn seemed to soften at his mental contact. He felt her want to be close to him, want to touch. Faramir encouraged her silently, letting her hand slide out from under his. It was slow, running up his chest and finally resting on his shoulder with her fingers curled around the nape of his neck as she replied. What did you learn?

He concentrated, remembering the words and looking into her light blue eyes. …Ge eart se mæst ænlic cwen Ic hæbbe æfre sewen.

Éowyn blinked in astonishment. That was good, Faramir, very good…she hesitated, a small frown wrinkling her forehead. …You…you think so?

It was doubtful and he squeezed her hand, frowning a little himself. Yes, I do. Éowyn smiled; her disbelief waned, but didn’t disappear. Faramir put it aside, though, there would be time later for questions.

He looked at her lips, they seemed just as soft as he remembered and he knew she was waiting, but after having waited so long himself, he was almost reluctant to actually do it. Savoring the last of his impatience, Faramir murmured again, “…courage.” His lips hovered, brushing, aligning with hers and then were just touching. It was barely a kiss, more of a tease while he touched her mind, opening his further, allowing her to feel his longing and tenderness. After so long a separation he’d been afraid she would have grown cool again, but Éowyn’s arms went around his neck almost instantly, and she pressed herself to him in reply. Confident she wouldn’t shrink away; he’d just begun to kiss her with more intensity when Éomer walked back with Aragorn, Arwen and several others in tow, deadpanning,

“Well, here my sister is now—unfortunately she’s being mauled, or I’m sure she’d be happy to greet you.”

Mortified, caught between a giggle and a groan, she leaned her forehead against his collar. Faramir’s irritation was clear in her mind, flickering brightly as he stood, outwardly quite composed. I’d forgotten how I could feel him, Éowyn thought; she smiled, he really wanted to kiss me, he’s angry. She liked it just as much as she had months ago, this curious ability—it gave her security in knowing his thoughts and emotions.

I did want to. He answered her thought as Éomer spoke loudly, “Sister, aren’t you going to say hello?” Faramir’s displeasure flared higher and he tensed a little, making a considerable effort not to snap at her brother. Éowyn hugged him a moment more, enjoying the feel.

Be still, he’s just being an ass…more to bother me than you. With a sigh, she turned, pressing herself back to Faramir’s front and keeping her left hand in his. He felt solid and she leaned for a moment. Faramir squeezed her fingers as she gave her brother a look. Go away, Éomer. He read it effortlessly and gave her an arched eyebrow and shrugging shoulders in a silent, mock innocent reply. What did I do? Éowyn glared at him, but the moment was broken anyhow and he knew it. Summoning a smile, she greeted the King and Queen. “Hello.”

She made it quick, Faramir shifted behind her and she could feel his impatience gnawing. Go away; it came from one of them, but who she wasn’t sure. “Yes, thank you.” Arwen smiled, as though she sympathized and turned to say, her voice subtly hinting,

“It was terribly odd, the journey seemed so much longer this way…I’m quite tired, perhaps before…” She left it hanging in the air and Éomer, as host, had no choice but to pick it up.

“Of course, I’ll…show you you’re rooms and get someone to...” His eyes flicked over Éowyn’s head before he left, sending a silent message to Faramir; it was something she couldn’t interpret, but it made him stiffen for a second. The royal party left and as others around the yard began to disperse, she felt Faramir’s arms steal around her waist. His lips were moving on her neck with small kisses as his arms tightened; Éowyn smiled, feeling warm from his attentions. His mind touched hers again as he nibbled her earlobe.

Faramir nuzzled her, murmuring into the cup of her ear, “Ic lufie ge.” This he spoke aloud, and very precisely; she could tell it was something he’d practiced to get the accent and pronunciation exactly right and his care made her swallow in some sudden emotion. Hearing the words in her native tongue made it more real; Éowyn turned in the circle of his arms, wrapping hers around his waist, whispering back,

Éowyn hugged him tightly and all of the infuriating hours spent with Deolir were immediately worth it. Faramir kissed her mouth again, eagerly; she wasn’t afraid of him at all, returning the kiss and moving her hands up to his back to hold him close. Suddenly he heard little, familiar, padding footsteps and he sighed in resignation, resting his forehead against hers. Curious at his pause, Éowyn turned her head to look. It was Pippin, coming up to them. The hobbit looked as tired as Arwen had feigned being—smeared with road dust, still in his mail and uniform of the Citadel and clutching his helm, he came to a stop. “Hello, Éowyn.” Pippin gave her a small, weary grin.

“Pippin.” She pulled away from him, kneeling at once to hug the hobbit. “You look so handsome in this.” Éowyn smiled affectionately, still at Pippin’s level, and Faramir tried not to be jealous, wondering if and when he would ever get her alone.

“I feel silly in it, but…you think so? Really?” The hobbit brushed some of the dirt off, looking pleased.

Pippin sobered, nodding to the tent where Théoden had been carefully placed. “In there. With the King still.” Faramir felt her deflate at once; he gazed down at the circlet of bright gold in her flaxen hair, concerned and wishing he could comfort away the sudden sadness that took her. My love.

“I see.” Éowyn hugged Pippin again before she stood. She was making an obvious effort to be cheerful, saying, “You look weary, go on and I’ll fetch your Merry. Make sure my brother has them put you someplace befitting—if not, come and tell me.”

“I will.” Faramir didn’t remember Pippin being acting this mature in Minas Tirith. The hobbit that had bothered him at every turn now bowed courteously to Éowyn and left.

“Should I…?” He was uncertain, not knowing if she wanted his company in this or not, but he didn’t get much of a chance to ask before a man came up, carrying his two small bags. Éomer had told him not to bring much; half the contents of one bag contained Éowyn’s presents. Most of the rest was drawing materials. He’d dreamed of drawing her and now, looking at her, fair in the sun, the desire pulled at him.

Éowyn nodded, forcing a smile, wrapping her arms around her waist. “Go. I’ll find you.”

“All right.” He sighed, turning to the patiently waiting man, who, luckily, showed no signs of mocking or harassing him. “Yes, take me to my rooms.”

She watched him follow the servant through the small courtyard and then climb the stairs, entering the wide, open doors of Meduseld. Faramir moved quick and light, with none of the occasionally lumbering strides of her people. Most are heavier men than he, she thought, watching his retreating back; she noticed, too, that his sable and silver tunic contrasted oddly with the golds, greens and browns of the hall and surrounding lands. It is obvious he doesn’t belong. Éowyn turned away when Faramir had disappeared, walking slowly across the yard. Her feet dragged; I don’t want to see him lying there, all cold and lifeless…I wonder, if in the halls of our fathers, does he miss me, miss Éomer? If the gods are kind, he and Théodred are laughing, singing and telling their great tales together and they do not grieve, only wait like one waits for a loved one to come—eager, yet with no sadness of the time lost before they meet again. Théoden’s guard stood at solemn attention before the tent as she stopped, preparing herself for the effort of entering. They bowed to her, respectfully silent as they parted the flaps. Éowyn took a deep breath and slipped inside.

It was dim and the fabric made soft swishing noises around her. Merry’s head was bent; she hesitated, not wishing to disturb him, but his keen hobbit ears heard her and he turned. “Oh…hello, Éowyn.”

“Hello, Merry.” She smiled. Éowyn was glad to see him, though she wished it were in a more cheering setting. Merry turned back and she slowly came to stand beside him; Théoden lay on the bier, his armor glinting dully in the faint light. He’d been treated well; he looked not young, but mature—a warrior in the prime of life, still strong and fearless. Éowyn’s eyes burned and her throat tightened. The gods were merciful that this did not end as I once planned…here he has our pride and his honor full won. Our people shall remember Théoden Ednew, the eighth and now last of the second line of Kings of the Mark, as a hero. Her thoughts changed briefly. My brother shall begin the third line, which at least, went as I’d once thought to arrange when things were so dark. Thank the gods nothing else did...

“Yes.” Merry looked sad and though it was fine to be so, Théoden would not have wanted mourning. Éowyn mused, her head bent for a long while before she spoke. Merry’s normally light-hearted face, now drawn in sorrow, pained her and she wished to comfort him if she could. Taking a deep breath, she began, “He went to a good death in battle, in victory over darkness. We should not grieve, though it might be long before we meet him again.” The hobbit looked up, his eyes wondering at her words.

“Our people will honor him long after even we are dead,” She smiled, “they will sing of the great charge to the White City and how Théoden, King of the Mark, led it and fell, unfailing and unbroken in his vows to the South men.

“You should not grieve so much, Merry…all the years before we meet again with the ones that went before us are ours to live as well we may. The dead do not ask for grief, only respect and a place remembered in our hearts—our loved ones are not selfish ghosts—they understand.”

Merry hesitated, and then asked, “Where do your people go?”
“To the halls of our fathers—it is much like this, like our world, only invisible to us.” She frowned, remembering, “There is rejoicing there in the reuniting of loved ones and joy in the new tales of battles and honor. There is no pain, no illness. Death is nothing to dread to us—misery and fear do not last forever and we only go back to our people.”

He nodded and there was a longer, companionable silence between them before he spoke, “I remember when the wraith…I thought I was dead and I was alone in the cold darkness until I heard Strid—Aragorn’s voice. It was terrible.”

The memory alone made her numb with the remembered echoes of her screams in the chill shadows she’d been banished to before Aragorn had bade her return as well. “I know.” Gods, the horror that was, to drift helpless in black, icy fog…doomed to die in bed, an invalid…

“No, no…He died with great honor—even the best warriors of our people would respect his deeds and give him a place among them. No, it is not the cold darkness…he is with his son, Théodred and his wife and his sister, my mother, and my father, who was his friend.” Her eyes filled with hot tears. Now they wait for my brother and me and then we would be a family again at last. “They feast and sing and jest with the people in their great halls of gold…there—” Éowyn swallowed, her breath catching, “There is no more darkness for them, so...so our hearts should not greatly ache…do you understand?”

“Yes.” Merry smiled for the first time, though it was very small, taking her hand in his little one. “Thank you.”

She nodded, her chest drawn too tightly to speak, and kneeled to hug him. The hobbit felt hard and distant with his Rohirrim armor, not warm and kind, as she knew he should. His curls tickled her cheek, his arms were tight and she tried not to weep. Gods grant it be just as I told him, I could not bear it otherwise. “You’re welcome.”

Faramir was putting his few clothes away, folding them and placing them in the dresser, well conscious of the fact that they’d probably all be on the floor within days; the knowledge made him smile. His rooms were befitting his station—a spacious outer chamber and large bedroom with fireplaces in each and a window overlooking a small, pretty field filled with high grass. Sparse, though rich, furnishings made it look even bigger. There was little furniture, but the two tables, one in each room, bed, and three chairs were strikingly well made and finished. There were many designs of horses and other animals carved into the wood, including the headboard of his bed, which featured a gigantically antlered deer, standing alert. Scattered all over the stone floor were numerous woven rugs of different patterns and colors. It is a nice room, he thought. More than I expected Éomer to grant me…though he did not say when I would begin my quest as a Rohirrim soldier. This worried him briefly, I hope it will be soon, I do not want to squander away my time here and I do not wish to wait forever to wed.

Done with the clothing, he walked back into the outer chamber to the small, but adequately long, table and carefully laid down his bow. It was not the great one he handled while on foot, but a smaller bow that was made for mounted use. His full quiver, the leather worn to a smooth, glossy shine in places from lying against his shoulder, and his long sword, too, he lay beside it. Thinking about simply leaving his drawing materials—pads, pencils and bits of supplies with which to make paints—in his pack, he moved to the window, drawn by the arrival of a bright bird. It balanced on the sill, a gleaming black with crimson and yellow bars on the tops of its wings. Faramir wondered if it would fly inside as it cocked its head and peered at him with bright eyes. Abruptly, there was a sound and he turned back into the room, startled; there were the quick flap of wings as the bird, too, jumped then flew away.

Éowyn stood in the open doorway, her arms hugging herself. He sensed her misery and wondered how he could have missed it coming. She gazed at him; her blue eyes were reddened with unshed tears and Faramir walked quickly to her, unable to bear the sight. “Come here.” Éowyn moved into his opened arms and he actually staggered back a step from the force of her embrace; her chin dug into his collarbone as she hugged him tight. Faramir stroked her hair and rubbed her back as she shook, her shoulders trembling with the effort not to weep. “Shh, shh. It’s all right.” Éowyn’s sorrow made him close his eyes, holding her hard. She was trying too much not to cry, resisting herself; he frowned, feeling her push her emotions down into a tightly bound little ball in her chest—it hurt, hot and twisting her insides. This worried him. Why does she not allow herself to weep? Pressing his lips to her ear, he murmured, “It’s all right, Éowyn, you can cry if you want.”

“Yes, it’s all right.” He touched her mind, hoping to lend gentle support. Don’t hold it in, love…please, I can feel how it hurts you.

“I miss him, I miss them both, I couldn’t find Éomer...” A choked sob interrupted her words and he kissed her wet cheek then pressed his chin to her temple.

Let it out, please, it makes it better. The link between them strengthened and Faramir swallowed hard, feeling his heart pound with the force of her emotions.

Éowyn took a slow, calming breath, still clinging to him, “I remember he played with me when I was just a little girl—Théodred would drag Éomer away to go out fishing or something and Théoden played with me…” She laughed, it was miserable and hurt his heart. “He sat at the foot of the throne with me and we played with little wooden horses and men and we won great battles all day.” Tears ran down her face then gleamed wetly on the dark leather of his tunic. “And when I was tired he carried me to my bed and told me a story.” She paused and he felt her struggle, fingers twisting against his back.

“He called me his daughter.” This fractured her restraint at last and Éowyn wept brokenly. Faramir felt her weaken and looked around the room, spotting the chairs.

“Come, sit down over here.” He led her to them and sat across from her, pulling close and wishing he could do more to ease her pain than pat her hand. I did not weep for my father…but then he only grudgingly admitted to my existence as his son…I have no memories of his playing with me, no stories told…it was Boromir or no one who put me to my bed when I was a boy. Saddened further at the memory of his brother, Faramir held her hand, thinking, at least she knew a good father… His heart hardened in a silent vow. I will be a good father; I will love my children both equally and without condition… or may the Valar strike me from this earth because I would not be fit to walk it. Looking at Éowyn, he wished he could make it better with a simple word or deed. Her head was bent and her shoulders quaked. Faramir rubbed her hand helplessly. After a while, she lifted her face, wiping at her wet, reddened cheeks. Éowyn looked embarrassed.

“Don’t be—there’s no shame in tears.” She gave him a weak smile and Faramir kissed her hand comfortingly, searching for something less sad to speak of. “How did you know where to find me?” He’d walked down many long corridors before he’d been shown into his rooms.

“I asked, but I would have guessed this one—this is,” She paused, “in all of Meduseld, the quarters farthest from mine.” For a moment he was silent, then Faramir’s astonished laughter burst from him.

“Yes.” Éowyn’s smile firmed and her fingers rubbed his. Their knees touched as she added, “If it were any farther he would have had to put you in the barn.”

“He might still.” Faramir teased and kissed her hand again, lingeringly, hoping for a small jest to soothe away the last of the heartache he sensed. However, he was surprised when Éowyn moved to touch his lips, running her thumb over them and the entire feel of her mind changed.

“He may.” Despite the matching, teasing tone, she was solemn, deliberate in her exploration. Trying to hold still, he swiftly lost his battle. Éowyn was too desirable and he’d gone too long without seeing her, and as she licked her sensuous, soft lips, staring at his mouth, it was too much. Faramir leaned forward, putting his hand beneath her chin and kissed her, feeling his strict control almost immediately slip; he ran his left hand from her waist down her hip and thigh, then back up, firmly caressing through the light dress.

He felt her surprise, but no fear. Éowyn hesitantly took his hand from her side, guiding it to her breast and Faramir slid to the edge of his chair, eager to please. Cupping it, he felt the difference a summer of no anxiety made—since she was no longer rail-thin, her bosom was larger and the soft curve fit his hand perfectly. Moving his other hand to her side, he ran it up and down her slightly parted thighs, massaging the muscles toned from riding, though he was careful not to go too far inward; he’d sensed no fear from her yet and did not want to. Is that her excitement? He wondered, feeling his own heart beat faster in response. Éowyn was astonishingly controlling this time, pulling back from his kiss and using her hands to guide him to her neck. Tell me where.

She spoke aloud and her voice was low and throaty, challenging his restraint. “There…no, there…oh, yes. Good.” Her breathing changed and he could feel her warmth grow. Faramir was almost alarmed at his own eagerness and while she didn’t seem to be, he slowed, taking himself back under control. Pulling his hands back, he restricted them to gently touching her face as he lightly kissed her chin, her cheeks and mouth. Éowyn felt perplexed at the ending of his caresses, frowning and pulling away to ask, “Why…?”

“You’re too tempting.” He broke his resolve, kissing her neck, using his tongue and then teeth to give it a rough feel, hoping for a moan. She didn’t disappoint, but the sound threatened to drive him beyond his control. The tops of her breasts were against his arms as he held her face, going back to her lips. Valar, but he wanted that dress off. I can imagine, but it’s not the same…

“Probably…a good…idea.” It was difficult to speak when all he wanted to do was pick her up and throw her down on the great, wide bed in the other room.

“I meant the, oh…” He couldn’t resist any longer, lowering his head to lick the valley between her breasts, just visible over the top of her dress. Éowyn finished her sentence shakily, “the other, what you said.”

“Hmm?” Faramir was far too busy speculatively eyeing and then yanking hopefully at the ends of the silk fastenings he’d just discovered at the top of her gown, to even bother remember what he’d said. Realizing what he was doing just in time, Éowyn squeaked in alarm and slapped his hands away, abruptly standing.

“Faramir, no!” Mournful, he watched her redo them. So close, I was so close. She felt like a mix of shock at his action and curiosity at what he might have done. The curiosity gave him encouragement; remembering the first time he’d even tried to touch her breast and looking at her, Faramir smiled, suddenly quite patient. All his supportive restraint had been rewarded with Éowyn steadily growing more trusting and relaxing—it was only a matter of time. Yet, if I’d just…The thought made him grin, vowing to be swifter with next opportunity. “Fine.” Faramir nodded, sliding back and down in the chair, stretching his legs. She’s rather near, too near perhaps…he chuckled and straightened, pulling her waist and as he’d hoped, she didn’t resist and half fell, sideways into his lap. Wrapping his arms around her stomach, he endured her wriggling into a comfortable position, trying not to think about how it felt. Éowyn looked at him mock-suspiciously.

Neatening her skirt for her, pleased as she put her arm around his shoulders and rested her other hand on his chest, he insisted, trying for innocence. “Nothing.”

“I hope not. Really, I might vomit.” The familiar voice made them both jump and Faramir wondered how in the world he’d missed this coming. I was concentrating on her, I guess. Éomer had entered the open doorway; now he folded his arms, plainly displeased. Faramir sighed, disappointed. Why didn’t I shut that?

He was indeed quite irked, but he was not surprised. This is what I’ve been thinking all along…he’s not going to leave her be…the sooner I get him in the barracks, the better and yet, the sooner I get him there, the faster he is done with our bargain. He frowned, disturbed and not knowing which was worse. His sister slid up and off of Faramir, her cheeks burning and yet she gave him a swift look, clear in it’s meaning—do nothing to him, brother, you promised. Éomer relaxed his rigid stance, unfolding his arms; his body language was assenting and she favored him with a small, private smile. Has she been weeping? He hoped not, but her eyes were reddened. Faramir stretched back out, quiet and patiently waiting. Tame pony, Eomer thought and this time, although he did not acknowledge it, his inner voice contained more gratitude than disgust. A tame pony he could handle pestering her. Giving him a glance showing she was trusting him not to attack, his sister took a deep breath, her hands quickly straightening her dress, hair and slim circlet of gold. For a second she stood, shifting awkwardly.

“I…I have things to see to…before the feast tomorrow night.” Éomer frowned; now tasks she despises are preferable to standing in a room occupied by the two of us? He didn’t want it to be like that and yet, what else could he do with Faramir pawing at her like a common barmaid? Even mild Théodred would have been enraged, I think, sister. Can’t you see I’m trying my best to remain as well mannered as you wish me to? I did not so much as raise my voice!

“Yes.” Éowyn replied, glancing once at Faramir, then looking back to him as he kept himself quiet. The Steward smiled and as she passed, Éomer could see fresh marks on her neck as she quickly left them alone. He has not been here an hour and already he brands her for all to see, like a cow turned loose in the Wold. Irritated anew, he spoke, but didn’t allow his anger to rise in his voice; she’d trusted him to be civil and he hated disappointing her. I still have not forgotten the look on her face when she held Güthwine to me. Taking a breath, he began.

“I came to talk to you about our arrangement.” Faramir stood; it was, he assumed, a respectful gesture to mollify him. It didn’t work as far as Éomer was concerned.

Scowling inwardly, he changed what he’d been about to say. He’d thought about it often on the leisurely ride back home and decided that there was no hurry and that Faramir should take time to familiarize himself with the lay out of Edoras. And also, look over a few maps and get to know some of the soldiers he would be working closely with. No, I think not, though they shall make it difficult. Let’s see how he handles it. This would be punishment for Faramir for indulging himself with his sister in that fashion, although he was aware the man might think otherwise at the promptitude in beginning. “You begin the day after we…no, you will start in five days. Report to me in the morning, and I’ll give you your duties…” Éomer added, his voice curt, “We’ll find something for you to wear as well; none of your White City uniforms.”

“Aye.” It was properly deferential. Faramir looked relaxed, but he noticed the man’s fingers were twitching slightly, as though he were angered.

Disregarding the signal, for a moment he stood thinking about what would be needed. “You’ll be given a horse, too, soon—”

Scoffing at the idea, Eomer shook his head. “That nag? He cannot carry you at our pace. Besides, he’s already turned out to the fields—he was lame in the shoulder, he needs rest and light exercise.”

“Oh. That’s…fine.” Now the Steward sounded uncertain. He grinned, pleased at the slow realization that was dawning on the other man’s face—Faramir was truly somewhere where he was not in the chain of command and entirely subject to another’s will. This will be a test indeed, to a prince long used to his status. I would have difficulties and I’m eager to see what he does, what kind of man he is.

“That is all I can think of now…enjoy your stay, Lord Faramir…because I warn you, when you are in the éored, you will be naught but Faramir of Gondor. Treated no different than the soldiers—they would not respect you otherwise, noble blood from what they consider an unknown, unproven house is of little worth to them.” Éomer did not mention he considered Faramir quite worthy of the trial, at least; he thought it rather obvious, because otherwise the man would not be here. Nor would he be breathing after pawing at my sister like that… though, he had better thank his gods she says she loves him or I might have forgotten my promise.

“I understand.” It was carefully neutral again and he cursed inwardly; he’d been sure to get a reaction. Finished, he turned to leave, but stopped.

“Oh, and…how is the hand?” Éomer could not resist a chance to needle him and in the process, help drive his thus unspoken point home. His own broken nose had healed well and reasonably straight. From what he could see so had Faramir’s broken fingers. Our four-legged brothers would be ready to fight. Indeed, were we stallions battling we’d be already challenging each other once more, having licked our wounds and regrouped.

The Steward gave him a surprised glance, looking at the appendage in question and flexing it. “Fine. It’s mended well.”

“Keep it to yourself and let Éowyn be and it will stay that way.” On that note, Éomer left; hoping his advice would be heeded.

Later, after he’d fully finished unpacking, Faramir wandered the halls of Meduseld, half-looking for Éowyn and half simply exploring. After many winding corridors, he ended up in the empty throne room and stood, taking it in. The feel is much simpler and yet …he compared it to the cool shades and slick, flat stones of Minas Tirith...here its warmer, there is more heart, I suppose you could call it, he thought, looking at the golds, browns and deep greens, all the colors of the earth. It is difficult to pinpoint. Standing in the center and turning in a slow circle he gazed at the carvings covering the walls—most were so deeply interlinked he knew he would never find their endings. There were many horse heads, with arched necks, flared nostrils and wide eyes. Faramir wondered at the repeated, intertwined symbols. From the curiously patterned floor to the high, arced ceiling, it had a vastly different feel than the throne room of his city, which was starkly bare and cold in comparison. It is almost…a home, decorated and meant to be lived in more than a place of standing, though there is dignity and command here, too. He couldn’t quite explain it to himself, but he liked it. I can well see a little Éowyn playing on the floor in front of this throne. It was large and heavy looking, made of deeply polished wood with a single, odd mar at the base, almost a slash. Overhead were more horses, whole ones in stylized engravings with gleaming with red, jeweled eyes as they galloped or leapt endlessly over the King’s seat. The flag of Rohan and multiple banners were hung up and down the great hall, waving gently, showing scenes from various battles and tales. He was pleased to recognize two —the grand charge down Wilderland to aid his people and from which the Calenardhon was gratefully yielded, and the invasion of Wulf that Deolir had briefly spoken to him about.

This time he felt her approaching and turned to watch. Seeing her come toward him gave him pleasure. One day I will never see her walk any further away than I can be in a few minutes. “Here you are.” Éowyn strode to him, looking exasperated. “I’ve been searching for you.”

Her gown glowed soft ivory, contrasting to the earth tones of the hall, making her stand out, almost luminous as he admitted. “I was exploring.”

She smiled playfully, one hand tugging on her necklace; it looked like a nervous habit. “Without waiting for me?”
“I couldn’t find you.” But I’m glad you found me, I’m not sure how to get back. Meduseld is larger than it appears, almost as big as the Citadel. He looked at her—knowing Éowyn would be somewhere around was comforting, but he wanted to know she would always be close by. I want to take you home, love, for good. Faramir fingered the pale green jade bracelet. He’d slipped it into his pocket before he’d left his room, thinking it would be a pretty accessory to her cream gown and although he was uncertain about whether or no she would like it, the rawhide thongs of his mother’s necklace were still firmly in place, encouraging him. “I got you something; actually many things, but this is the only one I’ve got on me.”

Shrugging, he said, “I wanted to bring you gifts—I like giving you things.”

“Oh.” She looked slightly puzzled, as though the thought were foreign to her. A moment later he could sense her curiosity as her eyes went to his hand, deeply stuffed into his pocket. “What is it?”

Éowyn smiled quickly, “I promise.” He heard her thought, directed to him. You are silly.

Perhaps. Faramir pulled the jade bracelet out, holding it for her inspection. Taking it, she turned it repeatedly, running her fingers over the circle of smooth, lustrous stone. A very soft, almost translucent green, the bracelet was solid jade and when she slid it on over her hand he was relieved to see it fit neatly around her wrist. Well? She glanced up from moving her arm, tilting it to see the stone gleam in the light and move back and forth on her forearm.

Éowyn laughed at him, turning the bracelet on her wrist; he’d given her something else to play with. “I love it, then.” The soft color of the jade went well against her lightly tanned skin, the creamy-white gown, her summertime eyes and the pale straw of her hair swinging. It reminded him of early spring, when the trees and plants were budding and everything felt fresh and new. I should have gotten more. To his delighted surprise, she smiled and hugged him, standing on her toes to give him a peck on the cheek, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Smiling, he teased, “...do you want the rest of it now?” He could still feel the sorrow in her, under her simple gladness, but it had faded to a dull bruise, a melancholy stain on her heart. Faramir wrapped his arms around her waist to hold her close for a moment, not to kiss but to offer whatever poor comfort he could. He wanted her to know if she ever wanted to cry she could come to him, not to let it twist and burn in her, painfully suppressed.

“No.” Éowyn shook her fair head, perfectly at ease in his loose embrace. Faramir wondered what the difference was that she was so relaxed here; was it the familiar surroundings or the fact that if she screamed, guards would undoubtedly come at a run with swords drawn? I don’t know, but I don’t think it’s the last, that itself would involve a touch of fear…there’s no fear in her right now. Maybe she’s just more used to me. Biting her lips, she shook her head again. “No. Surprise me.”

So I can know where it is…a temptation, yes, but I am quite strong enough to resist. His arms still around her waist, he tugged gently on the ends of her hair; the gold strands were as fine as corn silk. “So I can hide the things.”

“Hide them? How will I ever find them?”
Faramir smiled, “Well, I’d hide them in plain sight…as a surprise.”

“Fine.” Éowyn pulled out of his embrace, taking his arm. “Come on,” she smirked, “I’d better or you might try and come by yourself and end up in Éomer’s room—it’s just across from mine.”

“No.” She laughed lightly and he relished the sound. I wish I could take your grief and your pain and make you happy forever.

Éowynfelt it, cool and gliding easily down to her wrist; it was an unfamiliar feeling. The bracelet was a soft shade of green; almost like the first tender shoots of spring grass she’d watched foals nibble every year. Every year but this one and all that will come after… Hastily, she pushed the thought from her mind, not wanting Faramir to notice it’s despondent tone. Her other arm was through his, so she couldn’t play with it. I wonder what else he’s gotten me. I really like this; it’s such a beautiful color. She led him through the crossing, turning halls, unhesitating and came quickly to her quarters. “Remember, it’s this one.” Éowyn tapped lightly on an old scratch across the middle of the wood as she swung open the door. The two, wide windows were open and the afternoon light shown in as Faramir entered and halted almost immediately.

“What?” She frowned, glancing around. Everything was neatly in its place and clean as usual. “What’s wrong with it?”
He turned slowly on his heel, eyeing the walls and her things; only to return to looking at what lay in front of her hearth. The door to her bedroom was still shut, so he could only see her outer room. “You have a bear.”

Éowyn folded her arms, leaning on the wall just inside the door; as an afterthought, she closed it. “It’s dead, it’s called a rug now.” She frowned. “I helped in the killing of it, why shouldn’t I have it?”

“Uh…yes.” Faramir seemed to reconsider what he’d been about to say and repeated, staring around, “It’s just not what I expected.”

She smiled, remembering the thrilling hunt. Although aged, the animal had given them a hard chase and then a good battle. It deserved to be preserved and looked upon with respect. “It was.” The skin stretched out wide and long, fur gleaming black as pitch, streaked with grey at the flanks. The bear’s head was up with its tattered ears pricked as its mouth gaped, old, ragged teeth bared.

Éowyn couldn’t keep the pride from her voice as she answered, “We fought it for a while and then I got a good shot, lucky shot really. Arrow went right through the eye and felled it.”

Instantly his keen grey eyes were upon her. “No it wasn’t.”
“Fine!” Éowyn sighed, thinking this was the only annoying part about his ability, she couldn’t even tell harmless lies without him knowing. Confessing, she said, “It was this summer, while Éomer was gone.”

“No and you’re not going to mention it, either.” Éowyn glared meaningfully. Gods, the last thing I need is my brother throwing a fit. She looked at the bear and grimaced. It would be worse than the time he caught me sneaking out to taverns when I was sixteen, I swear, he shouted himself hoarse within an hour.

He wasn’t listening to her thoughts, instead, appeared to measuring the hide with his steps. “I think he’ll find out sometime.”

Exasperated, she snapped, “I’ll say it was a gift from the men—he knows there was one bothering sheep, and he can’t tell if I’m lying or not.”

“It’s enormous, we don’t even really have bears in Gondor…” Faramir walked in a circle, steering around the first of what were her mother’s stuffed chairs; the other was on the other side of the bear, perpendicular to the stone hearth. He used his boot to touch the open jaw and then the huge paws with their long but almost worn away claws extended. “You could have gotten hurt, how many were with you?” When he heard her thought, he looked horrified, “Only five?”

Éowyn came away from the wall. “Don’t you dare start!” She wanted to scream, Look at it! Look how old it is! Are you blind or just dumb? Of course he picked it up anyway.

“I don’t care how old it is! Only five…no wait, five all together?” Faramir appeared to have trouble breathing, staring at her in furious dismay. “Were you mad? Only…you only took four men and six dogs to hunt this? What if you’d been hurt?”

Éowyn’s temper erupted; she could take it from her brother, he was almost adorable in his anxious care, but Faramir had no right to question her actions. At least not yet, her mind tried to say and she ferociously silenced it, hissing at him, “You will not lecture me as though I was a helpless, witless child! I can take care of myself! Look at it! There is your proof! Not one scratch and none of my men were hurt! I know what I am doing!” The last she snarled through gritted teeth. Faramir looked taken aback by her fury, bewildered as she demanded, “What do I have to do next? Slay a damn dragon to get through to you? To prove I’m not defenseless? Not a fool girl?” Clenching her fists, she waited, expecting him to argue his side. Instead, Faramir fell silent. After a second he sighed and relaxed, perfectly calm again as he answered slowly,

“What?” Wary, she waited, expecting his words to be the prelude of a tirade. Confusingly, they weren’t. He came toward her, avoiding the bearskin and the chair and she watched him, still waiting for an answer.

“I’m right…?” Éowyn knew it was a trick, keeping herself braced for an explosion. Théodred would have been infuriated that she’d gone without one of them with her, as though their mere presence would shield her. Éomer would have been pushed to the point of a full out, seething rage with its origins in his life-long fears for her safety and more than likely screamed at her the rest of the day and night. Beneath the anger, both would have been proud, though. With Faramir she had no idea where she stood. He had been shouting, but now he was quiet…does he have no fight at all in him?

I don’t like to fight. I like peace. I don’t want you to yell at me and I don’t want to yell at you. He gazed down at her, having come to within a few feet.

No… “You don’t think I’m right, you’re just saying it.” Éowyn could not comprehend this sort of conflict. She was used to shouting matches where all the anger was released and in the end each knew well where the other stood and the fight was won by whoever could keep shouting the longest. It is like he fights in the dark, maneuvering around me…sneaking… She didn’t like that at all, it was too reminiscent of things she’d spent all summer trying to forget. “You’re lying to…to keep me quiet.” It was almost a question.

“I wouldn’t say that.” He looked as though he was picking his words carefully as he felt out her mood. “I just—”

Frowning, she interrupted him. There was no reason he could lie and she couldn’t. “But that’s what you are doing. Why?”

Angered at his insistence of innocence, she overrode him. “Yes, you are. That’s exactly what you’re doing. Why?” Grimacing, Éowyn accused, “It’s cowardly. Why don’t you just fight; say what you mean Faramir…”

“I don’t want to fight!” He snapped, irritated by her persistence. “Do what you like—just, Valar, be more careful, will you? I couldn’t stand it if…!” Faramir ran a hand through his hair, pacing suddenly and wheeled to face her. “I know, I know, you’re not helpless, dammit, though…just would you at least take more men or something? I mean, four, four to slay a bear? It’s huge! It’s over twice my size! Why do you have to do such risky things, you could—” He halted abruptly, as though his outburst disturbed him.

“You…liked that?” Faramir looked desperately confused, like he’d expected her to be upset rather than satisfied at his eruption.

Shrugging, she smiled and moved to wrap her arms around his waist, looking up. “You answered me. It was what you felt, honestly. Of course I’d rather you not lie to mollify me—like you would a child. It’s…” Éowyn emphasized the words, “very insulting.”

“Yes.” She wanted him to kiss her but he didn’t, apparently not paying attention. Grey eyes resting upon hers, he asked,

“Can I see the rest of the place?” Releasing him and slightly disappointed, she walked to her bedroom door.

Faramir followed, glancing to the left as he did. There was a long table and two chairs there. The wood was gleaming and elaborately carved with a wild rose pattern, complete with vines and tiny curling leaves, on the legs and backs of the chairs. It looked odd in her rooms, especially when he looked back to the right at the bearskin lying before her hearth. The two stuffed chairs on either side of it were upholstered in dark green velvet and looked cushy, though unused. Behind the wooden table and chairs were two large windows with floor-length curtains that showed views of the west side of the White mountains’ foothills. Her quarters are twice the size of mine and far better. He’d expected as much, really. They are actually larger, I think, than my rooms at home. Entering her bedroom, he found it was half the size of the outer room. There was no window, but there was a partially open door to the left. Sunlight shone through the crack, provoking his curiosity, but first he turned to the rest of the room.

Her bed, a little table beside it and a large dresser with a mirror matched the other wooden furniture with the attractive wild rose carvings. The bed was wide and covered in quilts, neatly made and the dresser and table’s top were clear of clutter; her entire quarters were very orderly. Éowyn noticed his gaze to the left and opened the door fully, saying, “These were my mother’s rooms and all of her things. She loved flowers and especially roses. Théoden had servants care for these until I moved in here.”

The area was just as large as the bedroom and full of flowers, with a gigantic window that let in the fading afternoon sunlight. Roses of many bright colors climbed lattices on the walls and the scent was delightful as Faramir entered. There were other flowers, though, as many as he could name and some he couldn’t, all plants that would come back year after year and flourish without much aid. The floor was flagstone in a swirling pattern of dark and light stones, dappled with fallen, faded crimson, pink, yellow and white rose petals. In the center was a small table and chair, a place to sit and enjoy the room. “It’s very beautiful.”

“Yes. I don’t use it much, but I take care of it…it would be a shame if her flowers died.” Again Éowyn was sorrowing and he tried to think of something that would take her mind from her sadness. Maybe… Faramir walked slowly back into her bedroom, moving to her bed.

“This looks comfortable.” There were two large pillows and several patchwork quilts on it. She shut the door to the flower room, a small smile coming back to her lips.

“It is.” Giving her a mischievous glance, he sat on the edge, bouncing lightly. To his surprise it was incredibly soft, like sitting on a cloud.

“Mines much harder.” Faramir slid back, propping himself with his elbows, amazed at the feel. His bed at home could not compare to this.

Éowyn didn’t look surprised at his comment, though she was eyeing him. “Yours is probably straw; this is feathers.”

Her sorrow had lessened with his distraction, but he planned to drive it well away, at least for a while. Teasing, he smoothed the quilt. “Well, I can’t possibly sleep on mine now, it’s like a stone. Really, hard as rock.”

Coming closer to look down at him, she narrowed her eyes, “I suppose you want to stay here?”

“I don’t think so.” Standing at the edge of the bed, still just out of his reach, she nudged his leg with her knee, “Get off of there, you’re wrinkling the blankets.”

Faramir bounced again, sitting up and getting ready. “Make me.” Éowyn rolled her eyes, leaning forward to grab at his hands but he pulled her down on top of him instead. She froze in surprise and wariness, lying on his front, her face near his with her hands propping herself up.

“Nothing.” Faramir was sure to keep still, sensing she could go either way with little provocation, either retreating in alarm or staying and relaxing. It’s all right, don’t worry about me. Éowyn shifted, lowering herself. Her legs were tangled with his, skirt flaring and he slowly put his arms around her waist, enjoying her warm weight. Her blue eyes were on his and to his relief, he felt her choose calmness.

If you wish. He raised himself slightly, using his elbows, but it was awkward without any support. Faramir gave her a small kiss, murmuring, “Don’t be afraid.” Wrapping his arms back around her, he rolled on top. She wasn’t afraid, accepting this as well, even seeming to like it better, as he did. Éowyn touched his face as he kissed her, careful to keep it slow, not really trusting himself in this position to do anything more ardent. Her fingers stroked his cheek, ran through his hair and rested on the back of his neck, caressing. It was pleasant and encouraging. She was soft beneath him, not completely relaxed yet, but not anxious. He paused, his lips gently pressing hers before moving away long enough to ask, “You like this? You’re all right?”

“Yes.” She tugged him back down for a second, and then answered again, with a quick smile. “I think so.”

“Good.” Éowyn’s hands were caressing again with her fingertips dragging over his shoulders, his back as he kissed her, long and deliberate. She was receptive and willing and Faramir could really do this all night, but after a few more minutes he had to get up. Valar, I don’t want to frighten her away…I’ve come so far already, it would be a shame. Stalling, he made the kisses smaller, hoping to ignore her warmth beneath him, her hands moving slowly on his upper body. His own he’d not moved from around her frankly a bit worried to.

You’re not scaring me. She’d heard him; Éowyn touched his cheek, rubbing with her knuckles. If she was disappointed he’d stopped, he couldn’t tell. “It’s smooth.”

“Hmm.” This time she shrieked with surprised laughter, bucking beneath him as Faramir tickled her. Éowyn wriggled, her hands slapping at his shoulders as she giggled helplessly. He ran his fingers up her sides, over her stomach, feeling her muscles contract through the dress.

“Call me a boy, will you?” Tickling her relentlessly, he pinned her the best he could, not allowing Éowyn to do more than flop and twist with uncontrolled laughter.

“No.” Gasping, she was flushed and limp under him, her hands flat on his back, shaking her head. “…No, you’re not.”

“Good.” Faramir moved to kiss her subdued lips and froze, his mind warning him. Valar, does he just follow you around all day?

What? Oh, her eyes widened and she shoved at his chest, trying not to giggle. Hide, hide in the flower room…quick!

Éomer’s voice sounded, calling as he knocked again, then stepped through the door to her quarters. “Éowyn?”

“Here.” Faramir rolled off of her, slipping into the other room with impressive silence; she stood quickly, smoothing her dress. Luckily he hadn’t really wrinkled it. Anxious to keep her brother away, she walked out of the bedroom. “What do you want?”

“I was looking for you—you said the stallions were…” He trailed off, looking at her bracelet. “What’s that?”

Self-consciously fingering the cool stone, she answered, “It’s a present.” Éomer didn’t have to ask from whom and he continued, almost hesitant,

“Oh…all right.” Pleased, she smiled. Either he hasn’t noticed the bearskin or he’s just waiting, trying to catch me off guard…

“Good.” As though he’d heard her thought, her brother jerked his head to the right. Voice suddenly far harder and more demanding, he asked, “What’s that?”

Éomer’s eyes showed he didn’t quite believe her, but that he had to, for the moment. “Oh. Well, you want to go and look at them before it gets too late?”

Still pleased he’d sought her viewpoint she smiled. “Yes.” Faramir, wait a little while before you leave.

All right. He sounded a cross between amused and exasperated. For a disorienting moment she could see through his eyes as he sat in the chair. I’ll see you at dinner?

Recovering, she sent back, Yes. Éowyn led her brother out the door. “Come on...I like the blood bay, wait until you see him, he’s very regal looking and handsome.”

It was dark outside with the last of the sun’s rays dull on the bright gold of the hall and still she was nowhere in sight. Faramir ended up listening to Aragorn and Arwen try not to argue as servants delayed the evening meal, waiting for their lord’s appearance. A few bustled about slowly serving wines as the near-silent quarrel progressed. He wanted her to come with him to Isengard and for some reason Arwen did not wish to. Although her elven mind was too strong for him to read her thoughts, Faramir felt her distress grow as Aragorn gently pushed. “I’ll be gone for weeks, you know, at least two and…”

“But…” The King searched for an argument he hadn’t already used, finally settling on a pity plea combined with a bargain. “I’ll miss you…and don’t you want to see an ent?” Faramir wanted to, but apparently Arwen cared little. They kept their voices as low as possible; all up and down the long King’s table were the rest of the traveling parties—the elves returning to Rivendell and Lórien and the remains of the Fellowship. The only empty seats were Éomer’s, at the head of the table and Éowyn’s, to the right of him. Behind the empty chairs, guards stood at ready their faces unperturbed. Faramir sat on the right, four places down from her vacant space. It’s not as though I would get to speak to her anyway…He sighed, trying not to slump.

Arwen’s voice was tight; her agitation made Faramir’s temples throb and he wanted to get away but there was nowhere for him to go. The King sat on Éomer’s immediate left, with his wife at his side. On one side of Faramir were the Lady Galadriel and her husband, the Lord Celeborn and the other, between him and Éowyn, was the lord Elrond, and his sons, who were also politely ignoring the quiet argument. Across the table from him was Gandalf, followed by the four hobbits, two on each side and then Legolas and Gimli and multiple other elves. Most were involved in conversations, trying to drown out the royal couple. Staring dolefully at the door, he listened to the hissing whisper cut through the chatter, “I said no, Estel.”

Faramir gritted his teeth as Aragorn finally broke and asked in quiet exasperation, “Why? Why not?”

“I don’t want to—do I have to explain my reasons?”
“Yes. You do.” Valar, I will slay them both if they do not quit and soon. Faramir tapped his foot impatiently, still considerately ignoring the slowly heating conversation, though, of course, as their emotions clashed against his mind, he could not really ignore them at all.

Aragorn frowned and opened his mouth to speak and Faramir interrupted him, snapping in irritation, the feelings of disturbance finally growing too great for him to withstand, “Will you both be silent? You’re giving me a headache.” From all around he felt relief. The couple looked surprised, then apologetic, as though they’d forgotten all about the surrounding people. The Queen smiled gently,

“It is all right.” The emotions were subsiding and he felt the throbbing in his temples slowly ease. Éowyn? Where are you?

They finally entered, the King and White Lady of Rohan, laughing, talking. She’s so lovely in that. She’d changed into a blue green gown that went well with his bracelet. Éomer apologized swiftly and graciously for the delay, seating himself and gesturing for the food. Faramir gazed at her and Éowyn gave him a smile. The meal was not long, as everyone was wearied from their journey and aware of the feast the next night. Soon, Faramir was able to rise and make his way to her side, admiring the way her hair and skin shone in golden contrast to the turquoise gown while her blue eyes looked even bluer. Lightly embroidered along the sides with spiraling, tiny lighter green beads with the sleeves long and loose, it was well-made and low cut, showing off her bosom and tanned shoulders and fitting to her new curves tightly. He wanted to run his hands along her sides, to feel the silky looking material cling to her skin.

Finally standing before her, he murmured, using the opportunity to kiss the back of her hand, “You look gorgeous.”

“Thank you.” Éowyn smiled as her blue eyes looked down briefly, like the compliment embarrassed her. He pressed his lips to her palm, reluctant to release her.

“Good night, Éowyn, Faramir.” Here were Merry and Pippin, the younger hobbit yawning wide as they padded by on their bare, furry feet.

“Good night.” Coming closer to take her arm, he whispered, “I don’t know how I’ll get to sleep on that bed…”

To his delight, she laughed immediately, eyes sparkling, “Forget it, Faramir.”

“It’s so hard, though…” Éowyn laughed again. Wanting to see the stars, he tugged her through the corridor and out the double doors. The sky was brilliant with them, shining and flickering.

Looking at her in the starlight, he smiled and said, reaching out to touch her soft cheek with his fingertips, “Vanimle sila tiri.”

“Your beauty shines bright.” Faramir teased her, “I may not be proficient with Rohirric, yet, but I do know elvish.”

Her eyes challenging, she said, “Ge eart min dóm, Faramir, se dóm æt min mægdenhád. Ælc dæg Ic eom læs egeslic.” Her hand touched his chest, lightly stroking the white tree. “Ic áswereð,” Éowyn smiled in a wicked fashion, “Ge eart a gecynde bysen æt a mann…brad in eaxle, liþe in giedd, cynelic…” Putting her arms around his neck, she added, her voice softer. “Min bealdor, ge eart min efne frendscipe.”

Éowyn laughed while hugging him. “I said you were…” She played with the bracelet behind his neck, fingers rubbing the jade, pushing it around and around her wrist. “That you were…handsome.”

Eyeing her, he frowned playfully, “I think it was more than that. I thought I heard I was a proper example of a man…what was it exactly? Something about my speech being gentle? Oh, and…I am your doom, the doom of your maidenhood?” He gave her a fiendish grin. “I will speak more elvish in the future, my lady, if you like it that much.”

This provoked an embarrassed giggle and Éowyn put her head against his shoulder, saying in a muffled voice, “I didn’t think you were that good in Rohirric yet.”

“Just because I can’t speak it, doesn’t mean I can’t understand.” Faramir looked down at her golden hair, turned silvery in the starlight as she hid her blush. You are so dear to me. I would die if something happened to you. Carefully, he spoke, trying his best to keep the accent correct, “Ge eart min efne frendscipe, toss.”

Éowyn raised her head, quiet for a moment, her arms hugging him in an affectionate way. “Will you walk with me to my rooms?”

It was not an invitation for much, but it was for something that she felt comfortable with and Faramir didn’t mind; every day she feared less—she’d said so herself. “Yes.” She stepped back, taking her arms away and he followed, taking her hand in his. Moving through the hallways, letting her lead, he wondered how long it would be before Éomer judged him competent enough to wed her. Every day she fears less…maybe because of this I will not have a shrinking bride…I would like that very much, for her to want me without dread or panic. He vowed not to hasten the process. I have all the time I need…I have waited this long and surely it will not be more than a few weeks, a month at most. Valar, I would see her in my bed at home, warm against the furs and willing. But I must wait and be patient. Éomer does not want to let go—I can understand that, I suppose…he will be alone here, bereft of the one person he loves most.

They reached her door and Éowyn turned, placing her hand on his shoulder. She smiled as he cupped her chin, kissing her lightly, sneaking one in even before he said, “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight Faramir. Sleep well.” He kissed her again, reluctant to part, but as he let go of her, he sent,

She laughed, shaking her head, hand on the doorknob. The ego on you, so arrogant, I cannot believe it.

All right. Turning, Faramir began to make his way to his bedroom, hoping he could find it. I will see you tomorrow.

Éowyn walked into her rooms, automatically checking herself as she reached for the dagger she no longer wore. There is no need, she thought fiercely, trying to ignore the brief crawling sensation down the back of her neck. There is no one in here. For years she’d been in the habit of moving quickly through her quarters, slim blade drawn, investigating every possible hiding place. Gríma is gone and there is no point, Faramir would have sensed anyone lurking and spoken. Undoubtedly he would have rousted them himself, protecting me. The thought was comforting and she made it to her bedroom without breaking her will and checking the place. Closing the windows, she began to undress, placing the jade bracelet on her small bedside table. The quilts were still rumpled and she touched her lips, remembering how good he’d felt on her. I liked it…his weight, his shoulders and chest over me and the way he kissed me—he was being careful; it wasn’t bad at all. Tomorrow I will show him the little foals and take Arwen to see the one we rescued. And maybe after that… Éowyn sobered. That is, after I make sure Éomer does not need my help in preparing anything for uncle…I wish he and Théodred were here. I miss them…my brother will be all alone when I leave. Melancholy again, she turned back the blankets and blew out her candle, trying to ignore the fact she’d not bolted any of the doors. Who shall take care of mother’s flowers?

Éomer moved quiet; the room was dark, furniture mainly gone, but what was still there was dusty with disuse. Here in Théoden’s chest were all his weapons, his riches. Gold and silver gleamed, jewels sparking in the light of Éomer’s candle. He’d wanted no one to handle this but himself—Éowyn had left the dining hall with Faramir before he had time to ask her. Little sister, will you leave me alone, too? The memory of her lying cold and still, dirt streaking her face, limp on the blackened ground near to the crumbled, hideous body of the wraith’s steed made him shudder. He would rather her leave with Faramir than leave the way his uncle and cousin had.

Pulling the chest close to the door, he set it there. He’d already searched the rest of the rooms and there was naught but clothes, spare armor and furnishings left. Tiny trinkets he saved as he came across them, gently wrapping them in cloth to place in the mound. They were broken toys and little presents a child might give. Éomer thought he recognized some of them as his; his throat tightening, he carefully laid the bundle beside the chest. His uncle had kept them for a reason and they would go with him.

Altogether it made a pitiful pile and he bowed his head, wondering if any ghosts watched him. Father, Mother, I have done what you asked so far…I have kept my sister safe and I have never shirked my responsibilities…I have tried to be a good son. Théoden, I do my duty as your heir. Uncle, please help me to be as great and wise a lord as you were. He remembered helping Théoden carry out other things in another room not so long ago, his sister standing silent and cold; she’d been trying not to weep. Théodred, cousin, brother, I wish you were here to help me…I need you more than ever, you always knew what to do.

There was no reply from the empty room and Éomer turned away, closing the door. Gods, but I will need help in this.

Ge eart se mæst ænlic cwen Ic hæbbe æfre sewen.—You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.

Ge eart min dóm, Faramir, se dóm æt min mægdenhád. Ælc dæg Ic eom læs egeslic.--You are my doom, Faramir, the doom of my maidenhood. Every day I am less fearful.

Ic áswereð, Ge eart a gecynde bysen æt a mann…brad in eaxle, liþe in giedd, cynelic… --I swear, you are a proper example of a man…broad in shoulder, gentle in speech, noble…

Faramir heard Éowyn’s laughter and felt her happy amusement long before he saw her. An unfamiliar elf’s voice rose, deep and sure in the hazy, humid morning air, thick with the threat of rain, “We could be kin, my Lady.”

She laughed again; sounding both delighted and embarrassed. She hadn’t been in her room, but he’d dropped off another gift, as he’d said he would, in hopes she would find it later. Faramir saw Éowyn standing in the main hall with a tall, broad-shouldered elf who’s hair shone just as gold as hers. The stranger’s will was unusually strong and resonant; he glanced at him with keen eyes and Faramir instinctively withdrew his mind to keep his abilities secret. Making his way to her side, he watched, slightly jealous and wary of the tall elf. Éowyn covered her mouth to silence her laughter and shook her head lowering her eyes as she replied, “No, I think not…”

“Nay? But look!” The stranger held up one of the two slender braids in his hair and bade her to do the same. “See? Gold purer than that which the dwarves mine...and far rarer.” The elf winked and Faramir wondered, coming closer. Is he flirting with her…? Surely not.

“Faramir.” Éowyn had seen him and she smiled in warm welcome. The elf turned and he felt his brief scrutiny staggered him mentally, though outwardly Faramir was sure to appear unaffected. Withdrawing his mind still further, he smiled in return. She was wearing a softly peach-colored gown with a slightly darker colored design on her bodice, filigree in the shape of tiny spirals and longer, twisting lines. A thin, creamy lace on the sleeves and across the top only highlighted the healthy tone of her skin. It was surprisingly feminine. She is so beautiful in any color; I think even mud would enhance the loveliness of her… Éowyn’s flaxen hair fell over on her shoulder, braided at the front and plaited together into a longer, thick braid hanging down the back. Extending a hand for him, as was a completely proper gesture of affection in public, she said, “Good morning…” Then, as though to test him, she added with a more mischievous glint to her eyes, “Ic grete þe, min deore.”

Pleased, he smiled back wishing he dared touch her mind in front of the elf to let her feel how her calling him dear gave him joy. Searching for the words, Faramir paused, then said, delicately framing the more difficult sounds, “Ond Ic, ge, min deore…se dæg is eall se ma freolic mid ge in hit.”

Éowyn’s smile widened in surprise and pleasure, answering, “Ful god, Faramir…ge eart betera ælc dæg.”

The elf looked back and forth between them; Faramir was uncertain if he understood, but the gist was unmistakable. As they fell silent, he held up his braid again, eyes twinkling. “What is your opinion, Lord Faramir?”

So this is he…he was in Minas Tirith, I saw him a few times with Elrond’s sons, but I did not meet him there. Faramir understood the strength of the elf’s mind now. I stand before an elven lord like a housecat before a lion. “About what?”

“I simply remarked upon the color of the Lady Éowyn’s hair and its noticeable resemblance to my own.”

Éowyn said quickly, biting her lip to contain her smile. “He lies.” To his delight she stepped closer, almost leaning against him. Faramir wished he could put his arm around her but he wasn’t sure it would be proper. Several Rohirrim soldiers walked by; he felt their cool scrutiny and held himself back. Glorfindel shook his head, expression dismayed, though his eyes still sparked in light-hearted amusement.

“No, my Lady, I do not…” She laughed and her arm went around him, hugging closely and Faramir was content. Looking down at her pretty head, he smiled as she cried in vexation,

“You do and you know it!” Glorfindel turned to him and Faramir straightened under the clear gaze.

“Well, Lord Faramir has not given us his opinion yet.” Glorfindel lightly touched Éowyn’s hair and then his own. “Look, they are indistinguishable in color, are they not? Like strands spun on a spindle and turned into the finest gold thread. Our heads are both gilded, my fair Lady Éowyn, and perhaps it is a mark to show our tendency to perform, however reluctantly,” Now the elf’s voice turned playful with a sober undercurrent that belied any jest, “both great and valiant deeds.”

“You lie at that, too.” Her arm sagged and although he was deliberately curtailing his senses, Faramir could feel her lessen mentally, almost shrink inside. Protective, he wrapped his arm around her waist, glad when she leaned against his body.

“Are my words, so long ago spoken on a field of battle, not remembered still…and did they not prove truthful in the end?” Glorfindel smiled, “I had not a fair maiden and an obstinate hobbit in mind to avenge us, though, more a stalwart warrior.”

“No? Then perhaps you have no mirrors in your land, nor still waters in which to look.” It was a gently chiding jest; the elf’s eyes met his then, expectant. “The Lord Faramir is yet silent; have you not made up your mind or does your lady’s illusory charms hold you spellbound?”

Faramir looked down at Éowyn’s head, resting back against his chest, his heart and then glanced at Glorfindel. Both of their manes were singularly rich shades of flaxen as though sun-touched, it’s natural brilliance transferred as he compared. In the hall the strands glowed like palest fire caught; he touched her hair. It was smooth and soft. “I can’t see a difference.”

Glorfindel began to object when his name was called. One of Elrond’s sons stood at the corner. “I apologize, but I must go.” He inclined his head, “Good day my Lord…my Lady.”

“To you as well.” Faramir watched him walk away and then looked back down at Éowyn, slowly unbinding his mind and gently touching hers. I like your gown. She turned her head up to peer at him with crystalline blue eyes as he asked, “What are you doing today, my dear? I am yours if you wish.”

Feeling her emotions: a mix of sadness, happiness and disturbance, he hugged her side, glad when she smiled. “I wish. I’m taking you with me.”

“My room…” When he brightened, intent on making her smile again, she did, adding, “I need to change, this won’t be good for what we’re going to do.”

Faramir’s hand rested heavy on the small of her back, although his touch was, she knew, in reality quite light. As she walked, only his fingertips truly made contact with her dress, but her awareness made it feel differently. Éowyn was acutely conscious of him behind her, his quiet footfalls, the just-discernable warmth of his body. A secret smile rode on her lips; it was strange, these new feelings. I like it when he touches me…just light and barely skimming to tease…I love it…

“What will we be doing?” His voice was lower than usual and she could feel his keen awareness as easily as she felt his hand. Éowyn wondered if he’d heard her and collected herself, saying,

“I’m showing you one of my favorite things.” Faramir’s fingers moved, tracing a little lower on her back, with his hand lightly resting just above where her toleration ended; any lower and she would have to turn and slap him away. In the name of decency, of course…not because I didn’t like it…

“I wish I could do the same.” His response, spoken in a tone charged with soft heat, made her thrill and grow nervous at the same time. Éowyn glanced to the side, not quite turning her head as Faramir leisurely finished, “But we are far from the Anduin.”

His fingers and palm were warm; the feel of them was tattooed on her skin, imprinted through her dress. I would feel nude if he took it away now. Her voice just a little too fast, she asked, “What do you like to do?”

“Hunt ducks. Have you ever done that?” Faramir sounded innocently curious; too innocent. “Since you like hunting, I think you might enjoy it. It’s a challenge with only a small bow and a dog to fetch.” She could hear his smile in his next words. “Boromir had a dog that almost overturned the boat every time it leaped to retrieve—it loved the water so much it just threw itself out and splattered us with river muck.”

They were only a turn away from her door now. “Never? With the Snowbourn so near?”

Éowyn shook her head, aware of his fingers sliding sideways to rest on her hip. The motion was possessive, familiar. “No.”

“Then I’ll have to take you with me.” It was easily said and easily offered. It made her halt abruptly and Faramir nearly ran into her. His right hand creeped to her front, low enough to make her wary, palm flat on her abdomen. “What?”

“Would you?” Éowyn put her hand on top of his, holding it safely in place, turning her head to look up at him. He wiggled his fingers, gazing at her expectantly. Faramir was handsome with his dark hair hanging disheveled around his face and over his shoulders, a small smile tracing his mouth; his eyes were warm, regarding her with everything she could think to desire—gentleness, patience and love. Answering, his lips curved and Éowyn remembered what they felt like moving over her skin.

“Of course.” She smiled slowly, loving his acceptance. Faramir hadn’t once attempted to impose any ladylike restrictions upon her and so far he showed no signs of doing so in the future.

He moved closer. Éowyn watched his mouth, anticipating. “No, no.” Faramir shook his head; the same slight smile turning his lips as he lowered them to hers. It was only a brief kiss; Faramir raised his head again, saying, “You need to change.”

“Yes.” In my rooms, away from any inquisitive eyes, he means… His hand slipped off her fluttering stomach, allowing her to walk the last stretch to her door; Faramir was just inches away, hovering. Éowyn opened her door, holding it for him as she entered. He didn’t reach for her as she half-expected, instead his eyes moved over her, as though in place of his hands. They lingered boldly where his fingers would have been struck aside. Swallowing, well aware of their weight, she asked, “Wait out here—”

Does he? Decorum and the last lingering misgivings argued with the sudden thrill down her back and Éowyn was stymied. Opening her mouth, she hesitated, “…uh…”

Faramir’s grey eyes weren’t soft anymore; they were aflame, intense. “I’ll just sit on the bed…I promise I won’t move.”

“I…” She couldn’t think just imagining. Gods… As she hesitated again, he added in a slightly hurt voice,

Éowyn frowned, her fingers twining around the dolphin pendant that still hung around her neck. Rubbing the fish’s curved body, she said, “That’s not fair.”

“Perhaps not…but it’s a question, anyhow.” Faramir was waiting for an answer, gazing down. Unlike many times there was no faint, accompanying mental encouragement; she thought for a long moment, shifting her weight nervously from one foot to another. Maybe…the mere notion made her shy away and her skin prickle all over—but it felt good, unlike the tense way she felt when she was afraid. I’m not frightened…its just…gods…maybe…he stayed all night in my bed and didn’t once try anything…isn’t that plenty proof? Éowyn stared up at him. Still waiting, Faramir said nothing, did nothing, his entire being intent upon her next words. Turning away for a second, she bit her lip, giddy with a sudden wild excitement and blurted,

He looked thoroughly surprised and delighted, breaking into a foolish grin. “Yes?”

Éowyn laughed, feeling exhilarated, and nodded. “Yes.” Not bothering to wait, she turned and walked to the bedroom, wriggling deliciously on the inside. Faramir followed closely, and, true to his word, immediately sat on the bed, scooting to the edge. A frown crossed his face and he asked,

“No…yes.” She giggled and sobered. “Be quiet.” He nodded quickly, eager, clasping his hands in front of him. One of Faramir’s feet tapped impatiently as Éowyn covered her face for a moment, searching for composure. Taking a deep, slow breath she released it with a short burst of nervous laughter and looked at him. Faramir still wore the exact same eager expression, sitting on the end of the bed and staring at her hard—the silliness of it made her dissolve into hysterical giggles.

“What are you laughing for?” He shook his head, bewildered and then flapped his hand, “Go on, go on, you’re killing me.”

“I can’t do…it…while, while you’re looking at me…like that.” Gasping, she explained and tried to compose herself once more. This time it took.

“Shh. And stay there.” The last she emphasized. Éowyn turned, facing her mirror and inhaled, closing her eyes briefly. I can do this… A thrill went down her spine, making her shiver. First things first… she kicked off her shoes, and, ignoring the gawking man on her bed the best she could, she took a step back from her dresser, bending to paw through it. There was a hissing whisper behind her,

Éowyn didn’t reply, instead picking out a man’s shirt, socks and pair of breeches. Still ignoring him, she closed the drawers and sat the clothes on the dresser top. Now…she leaned down, pulling off her stockings. For a second her fingers froze on the laces of her gown, and then she undid them, moving quickly down, surprised she wasn’t fumbling. Sliding her arms out of the sleeves, goosebumps rose all over her skin as she lifted it over her head. Crumbling to the floor in a peach pile, she nudged it aside. Then feeling her heart race, Éowyn raised her eyes to the mirror. After her thin linen shift there was nothing but her bare skin. Gods, he’s so intent…

Faramir could hear her quick breaths and they matched his own. I don’t think I’ve ever been this aroused in my life. Her back to him, he stared, not wanting to miss one second of bared flesh. Valar, hurry… Éowyn’s fingers smoothed the front of her shift. Her eyes met his in the mirror and Faramir laughed once, unsteadily. She teases me with no thought…so trusting I will not leap off of this bed and…he sat on his hands, preventing himself from making the stretch to grab at what would soon be her naked backside. Éowyn swallowed, her cheeks pink in anticipation and he said suddenly, voice far rougher than usual, “Turn around.”

She gave a tiny shake of her head. Her blue eyes were wide and he could feel her excitement; it drove him mad, like tiny, hot prickles all over his skin. “No.”

“Please.” Faramir took a breath, staring at the soft curves and smooth planes of her body through the diaphanous shift. It allowed him to see more than her nightgown, near transparent and ending at her upper thighs. She’s perfect… Her fingers slid slowly down her sides, hips, gathering the flimsy material up. He thought he would die from impatience. Voice hardly recognizable even to himself, he asked again, “Please?”

Her voice had dwindled to a breathy whisper, barely audible. “Not yet.” This time Éowyn’s eyes met his, holding them, as she pulled off her shift in one swift movement, tossing it to the floor. Her arms were tight against her sides, fingers flat on her thighs, not hiding herself as a deep blush spread over her pale, bared skin.

“Valar…” It was a groan, a sound born of pure desire that seemed to touch fire in all her sensitive places. She shivered; Faramir’s light grey eyes, reflected in her mirror, were soon dark as storm clouds with it. His lips were parted, now he licked them and Éowyn swallowed hard, feeling her skin twitch and tremble. “Beautiful…please, now…” Faramir breathed deep and she gathered her courage to turn and face him. Slowly, placing her hands behind her on the dresser top, her fingers clenching the wood, Éowyn turned. His response was a small sound, “Oh.” She looked into his eyes—they were eager, roaming her body. Éowyn had never felt this exposed in her life, utterly bared and utterly his. She was breathing fast, feeling his gaze like a physical caress as he spoke slowly. “You’re lovely…perfect…” Faramir sighed, “…wonderfully so.” After a moment, she glanced down at herself, seeing the familiar swells of her small, insignificant breasts, hollow stomach and narrow, boyish hips. What is he going on about?

His hands spread on the quilt as he leaned back, his eyes still moving. “I could look at you all day.” She said nothing, waiting until he was done with her hands tight on the dresser top, braced to keep them from covering herself. Faramir licked his lips again, staring at her breasts across the few feet. At his murmured words, “I wish I could touch you” heat filled her, spreading up from her stomach, flowing through her body, just under her skin. Éowyn hadn’t even known these feelings existed. It’s almost too much... She shook her head quickly; his eyes met hers, they were still dark and intense. He looks so…hungry…she thought and felt a delicious chill slide up her bare back, skin crawling. Throat tight, all she could get out was a whisper, “No.”

“Come here.” It was near to a growl, the sound rumbling in his throat, hoarse and famished. It both scared and delighted her, sending wild tremors through her legs. Éowyn closed her eyes for a fleeting second, feeling her entire body quiver, terribly, excruciatingly mindful of his possessive stare.

Faramir gazed at her, words quick, “I can’t go to you, I gave you my word…come here…you can step back if you don’t like it…please, just once, for a moment…let me...”

Gods… Éowyn bit her lip hard and shook her head. She didn’t know what he had in mind. “No.”

“What?” She could barely believe she’d asked it and the seconds before his answer were like flames flickering over her bared skin, burning her.

What? She asks what? Faramir groaned again. What didn’t he want to do? “I want to…kiss from your mouth to your feet…and then I want to lick.” And bite and taste and touch you all over…please…let me do that much…

Éowyn’s blue eyes widened, hearing his thoughts, as she whispered, “No.” One of her hands reached for the folded, grey shirt and he said quickly,

She replaced her hand on the dresser. “All right.” Faramir gazed at her bosom; it moved up and down as she breathed. Her excitement still raced in him, making it impossible to calm himself. Hands twitching from desire, he stared at her hardened, pink nipples, skin of her breasts pale and silky looking. The dolphin pendant was moving, little leaps with her breathing, as though trying to scale her breasts. Valar… He desperately wanted to touch, to put his mouth on them. The curves of her hips made him want to slide his hands down; to reach behind and grasp her exquisitely shaped buttocks, to squeeze firmly. The desire to run his hands up the insides of her thighs, to stroke the soft, secret skin, to pull her to the bed and spend hours simply touching, was terribly strong. Oh, this is torture…I can imagine what she feels like and to have her within seizing distance and yet…

Closing his eyes for a moment, he nodded, “All right.” Éowyn began to dress and Faramir concentrated on stilling himself, but it was near to hopeless, watching her wiggling into the pants, slipping her arms into the sleeves of her shirt and buttoning it. Her movements were quick, her head bent, focused. He could barely contain a groan of disappointment as she raised her eyes, holding her socks. There was really only one place—the bed. Will you make me move or not...?

Éowyn didn’t feel covered at all. Her clothes seemed translucent under the force of Faramir’s attention. Gods… She shifted, holding her socks, nervous about approaching him. He slid over a bit, making room for her and she came, sitting quickly, awkward. Faramir was looking at her; Éowyn raised her eyes to his, uncertain as he smiled reassuringly and said, “Hin lín luin sui venel laer; nin luithial, melethen.” Faramir murmured the last, “Thîr vain lín darn thûl nín.” It was elvish again, rolling off of his tongue like silver honey and thrumming like harp strings, with none of the uncertain stumblings as when he spoke in her people’s language. She could hear the admiring tone but couldn’t understand the words.

“What did that mean?” Faramir answered her with a kiss, leaning in suddenly, his fingers touching her cheek, then his palm sliding to the nape of her neck. Éowyn was surprised, feeling his mouth press hers, urging her to open with his tongue quick and eager. He moved faster than usual, more insistent. When she hesitantly kissed back, his hand fell to her thigh and slid beneath her shirt. His hot hand moved up her bare side, feeling large; she pulled back, wary. “Faramir…”

“Shh…” He kissed her again, passionate, hungry—too much so for her to be completely comfortable. It’s not bad…but...

“Faramir, stop.” Éowyn put her palm flat on his chest, pushing lightly, trusting she did not need to shove or raise her voice. She felt his disappointment, and then his control reasserting itself as Faramir took his hand back, only to touch his fingers to her cheek again.

“Ic lufie ge…eower bodig …ge eart neah ma lustbære…Ic cann noht beran hit… ge eart freolic begeond ge-leafa nacod.” It was not as easily flowing as the elvish, but she understood this and it made her tingle with warmth even as she scoffed inwardly. Faramir smiled as though he was aware of something she wasn’t and Éowyn shook her head, feeling herself blush as he asked, “Ná?”

“Ge eart leasung, ge eart lustbære. Ic cann ætywan ge.” Then he took her hand, lifting it lightly to his lips before gently placing it in his lap. She gasped, astonished to the feel the bulge there. “Ge eart, seah?” Hot and hard, it throbbed beneath her fingers.

Éowyn’s eyes had gone wide and he braced himself for her swift retreat, sensing her dubiousness. It’s all right, love… She took a breath, looking down; he was surprised to feel her fingers move, tips gingerly tracing him through his trousers. Valar, please, this is cruel and delightful torment… He didn’t know whether to tell her to stop or beg her to press harder.

Faramir breathed a laugh, aware of the warm weight of her hand, its presence taunting him. She was still surprised and cautious, but far calmer than he would have guessed. I didn’t expect this…perhaps I’ve won her trust more than I thought… “Oh, yes.”

“I said,” Her fingers moved again in a tentative stroke and he swallowed, trying to concentrate, “I said, your eyes were as blue as a summer sky…you enchant me, my beloved…thy beauty took my breath away.” Éowyn was quiet and for a moment he worried, feeling her silence and riot of differing emotions that were far too intertwined for him to untangle. I meant every word, my love… To his mixed disappointment and relief, she took back her hand, running it up his chest and resting it over his heart as she came closer to give him a sweet but altogether far too brief kiss. Fighting every reoccurring urge to reach out and grab her to pull her down with him to the bed, he held still; almost in reward, she kissed him again, her lips warm and soft. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was both embarrassed and flattered.

“I still say you praise too much.” Rolling her socks to make the chore quick, she pulled away and put them on.

“Yes.” Done, Éowyn stood up; gazing down at him, she asked with surprising mischief, “When do I get to see you?”

The thought nearly ruined whatever progress he’d made in calming himself—imagining her pretty blue eyes watching him undress made him want to immediately. “Whenever you wish.”

“Hmm.” As she smiled, he stood. Faramir had to hold her for just a moment, to feel the body he’d been staring at, even if she was clothed.

She felt it press against her as he hugged her waist, though not as hard or as big as it was before; almost immediately his arms loosened enough to give her the option of freeing herself without any trouble and when Faramir kissed her, it was light. He wasn’t so urgent any longer, more the restrained lover she was used to. Perplexed at his continuing worry, she asked, where would I go? Deeper, the thought occurred, the last time I felt a man against me like that I came close to being raped… Éowyn shoved it back into the darkest parts of her memories. Faramir would never do such a thing; the very notion was ludicrous. Luckily he didn’t seem to pick it up, as she didn’t want to hurt him with the thought or concern him any; those terrible memories were her own and nothing he needed to know about.

His care only endeared him to her even more and Éowyn stepped into him. Faramir’s lean body felt good as his arms tightened, pressing against her, but he was still holding himself well back, once more fully restrained. I’ll tell you if you’re scaring me.

Éowyn looked up into his eyes. They were his normal light shade of grey and Faramir’s mind was calm touching hers. She was almost disappointed and wondered why. His embrace was warm, loving and Éowyn delayed, enjoying it, before saying, “Let’s go.” All she had left to do was put her boots on.

“Oh.” Embarrassed, she looked away and he leaned down to kiss her bent cheek. Éowyn raised her head, expectant, her own arms wrapping around him. His back felt broad and strong under her fingers. His mouth was gentle, lips slow and soft, almost caressing. This passion wasn’t driving or insistent, but leisurely and she liked it better. Faramir gave her small kisses, as though taking his time to do it completely. After a while, she pulled back long enough to ask, “Ready?” He shook his head quickly, moving to kiss her again and Éowyn laughed, using her hands to push at him. You’re just saying you’re not.

Faramir didn’t budge under her admittedly half-hearted efforts, nuzzling into her neck. We could have all day…

This. His hands spread on her back, rubbing gently. She was surprised to find herself tempted and more so when he slid his mouth over her neck and then halted, suckling at her skin. The feeling when he used his tongue, to swirl and lap, with nipping teeth made her want to curl up, to twist into him so that he would never stop.

Éowyn clutched his shoulders, weakening and trying not to. “I…I don’t think so.” Faramir moved to the other side of her neck, repeating his actions. She closed her mouth on a moan, not wanting to encourage him. “Faramir…” He’d already left marks on her and now he was making more. Though it feels so good…she’d seen people looking at her and it made her uncomfortable. Gathering her resistance, Éowyn said firmly, “Let’s go.”

“All right.” Sighing deeply, he released her and Éowyn sat on the end of bed, feeling for her boots. Frowning, she turned, reaching further up on the side of the bed and then twisted over on her belly, stretching, her fingers finally skidding off of the tops. Faramir made a noise, a breath, almost yearning.

Panting slightly, she raised herself, rocking onto her back with her prize. He was staring at her. “What?”

“Nothing.” Rolling her eyes at his foolishness, Éowyn stuffed her feet into her boots, lacing them swiftly. Standing, she ran a hand over her hair, flipping the heavy braid off of her shoulder.

He followed her, glancing at the flower room as they left the bedroom. She hasn’t gone in there yet today. That’s where I put it. Faramir was half moved to tell her but held himself back. She’ll find it later. Éowyn’s steps were quick and soon they were in the halls; he looked at her back, the braid swinging and moved forward, resting his hand on her like he’d done before. Immediately he felt her slow and become aware of him as her shirt became almost hot between his fingers and her skin. Faramir wanted to flip up the hem and put his hand on her bare back, but didn’t—although he saw no one in the halls, there could be people around and at the moment he wasn’t exactly aware of much beyond her. Éowyn kept moving, and as they neared the main hall he let his hand drop. Her disappointment made him smile, happy she’d enjoyed the contact.

Suddenly the sounds of angry shouting reached his ears, and at the same time a wave of emotions forceful enough to make him halt in his tracks, reluctant to proceed. It was Arwen, yelling, “Mana quentelyë? Mana quentelyë Estel!?”

As they entered the main hall Faramir was treated to an odd sight—Aragorn and Arwen were arguing in the middle of the hall, while Éomer stood by, eating an apple and looking entertained. Aragorn began again, “Arwen…vanimelda…”

“Ma hanyalyen?” She switched languages, spitting out in rapid-fire, “Do you not understand? Can your mortal brain not comprehend anymore? I said I’m not going!” Her eyes burned as she added in a furious hiss, “You can’t order me to!”

Éomer spotted them, “Sister, good, I thought you were already out somewhere.”

Éowyn frowned, giving the royal couple room as she moved to her brother’s side. Faramir followed, flinching at the heated emotions flying around the room. He focused on Éowyn and Éomer’s quieter, though mildly perturbed minds as she asked, “What is going on?”

“I have no idea what he said, but she just started yelling.” Éomer smiled down at her, adding, “Good morning. What are you doing today?” He barely acknowledged his presence with a glance and a brief, and obviously, he felt required, “Good morning, Faramir” before turning back to Éowyn. Faramir cared little, watching Arwen clench her hands into fists, her voice harsh and loud,

“I don’t want to go, I’m not going and you will cease asking me!” Faramir flinched at the strength of her elven emotions, stepping back in a futile attempt to distance himself.

Éowyn answered her brother, “Taking Faramir around…I was hoping Arwen would be…” She trailed off, distracted by Aragorn’s reply,

“Would you keep your voice down…?” He glared at her and the argument subsided for a moment before Aragorn grimaced, “Why don’t you give me a reason at least?” Arwen, who’d turned away, whirled, opening her mouth, but he interrupted, “Something that makes sense this time!” And only Faramir noticed the subtle flash of disappointment and the way Éomer’s face fell.

“Oh…” Almost immediately the King of Rohan smiled again, “all right. I’ll be able to see you later, then.” When she looked at him, asking,

“It’s nothing important, sister, to worry you about.” The man’s thought, strong and wearily pained, made Faramir cringe inwardly. I just wanted to spend time with you, but…

His distress pushed at her, unconsciously, she knew and Éowyn took Faramir’s hand in hers, rubbing her fingers over his knuckles to take his attention. He glanced down at her, relief clear in his eyes and gave her a wretched smile. His mental voice was strangely muffled at first, then stronger as he focused on her. Thank you, that’s better. I can’t really block them…

Could we? It held a note of desperate hope. Éowyn frowned at Arwen. She’d planned upon taking her with them to see the colt, but if Faramir was suffering then she was no longer sure. Giving her brother a quick smile, she led him away, granting the royal couple plenty of room.

Éomer watched his sister go, still holding onto Faramir’s hand. He stood, trying to ignore Aragorn and Arwen for a moment, thinking, I must make this last as long as possible. It is far to Ithilien… Horribly, his mind added, there might be years in which I don’t see her…oh, what will I do? He’d just been down to the mound; surveying workers carefully cut long, thick strips of sod and place them to the side. By this evening or early tomorrow the hole would be finished and tomorrow his uncle finally rested into his proper place. All the while he’d watched, the same thoughts kept running through his mind. Where shall they put my mound? There is nowhere. One line is on one side of the road, and the other, the other. Where shall I rest? Where shall Éowyn? Far, far from our kin. The absurd questions troubled him, coming back at odd times and aggravating his mind like a fly buzzed a horse’s flanks. Arwen nearly screamed in fury, her voice startling several young women, walking nearby and carrying baskets of laundry.

“Sense? Makes sense? What doesn’t make sense about I don’t want to, Estel!”

Aragorn spat back, “Stop it!” You’re being childish!” He looked at her, frustrated, “I didn’t think it was possible, but you are!”

I should probably stop them soon. Éomer sighed, taking another bite out of his apple, delaying his interference. Oh, why not let them go on a bit? Get it out of their systems before tomorrow. I won’t have them arguing then, it would be disrespectful.

As soon as they’d gotten beyond hearing range, Faramir halted, stopping her. Éowyn turned, curious as he stepped close. Just a moment…let me… he touched her cheek, raising both hands to gently cup her face. His mind met hers and she wondered.

Centering…you’re so much calmer than they…easier to… her own awareness dropping away, Éowyn heard the faint thumpings of his heart. The sound grew louder, slowed and steadied as he concentrated and it was a strange feeling to sense her heart doing the same. You don’t mind, do you? Faramir’s thumb stroked her cheekbone.

It’s nice… Éowyn felt relaxed, incredibly so as he held his concentration. The sensation was wonderful, floating and yet she wasn’t light-headed, just utterly at ease, like staring up at the clouds on a summer day, no thoughts to worry, just pleasant stillness.

Good…now you’re my center, my steadying point. It was relieved, as though he’d set down a burden. His mind retreated slowly and she inhaled, once more aware of her surroundings.

I like it when you do that… Odd, the sense of him was fading far slower than usual; Éowyn could still feel Faramir’s conscious and she knew the shape of his smile before it came. His hands fell away, permitting her to go on and as she did, Éowyn flushed slightly, realizing that he was watching her hips as she walked down the stairs, admiring her.

They were soon out of Meduseld. He glanced up at the gray sky and as they entered the barn Faramir wondered, my horse was put out, but where is my saddle and bridle?

Surprised, he glanced at the back of her head, slowing to look around. He hadn’t sent the thought to her and yet Éowyn had heard it, responding almost absently as she carefully steered around two oncoming men. They were soldiers from their clothing, and lugging two large, wooden buckets of water each. Faramir paid them little attention other than making sure he was out of their path. If he’d looked at them he might have noticed the man on the right stepping back while the one on the left moved forward. Both exchanged swift, furtive grins.

Faramir was just about to project his inquisitiveness to her when one of the men stumbled, almost excessively, the buckets not slipping out of his hands, but propelled upwards as though thrown. Their contents flew into the air in a giant, silver wave.

The water was cold when it hit him, gushing in a well-aimed torrent and soaking Faramir from the midsection down. He froze and dripped onto the barn corridor, astonished as Éowyn turned, one hand going to her mouth to smother a laugh. Blue eyes softening, she shook her head.

Oh, Faramir… Éowyn looked up and down at him and her hand clamped tighter over her mouth as nearly hysterical giggles built inside her and made her shake. Why didn’t you just get out of the way?

“I’m terribly sorry, m’Lord.” The man who stumbled raised himself, his clothes only lightly splattered. The other man who’d hung back and Éowyn were entirely unwetted. Faramir clenched his jaw, feeling the water cleave his clothing to his skin and tried not to give way to a red swell of rage.

“Aye, so sorry, my Lord.” They weren’t sorry at all, in fact, both were trying hard not to laugh; he felt their wild mirth and recognized the one that had tripped, or rather, thrown himself flamboyantly to the ground. Of course, he was one of the six who’d taunted him before. Faramir took a slow breath, attempting to calm himself. Éowyn frowned sensing his barely curbed fury.

I know. It took most of his control to send her the words and he looked at the men, memorizing their faces as they said again,

“Accepted.” The statement came out as harshly dismissive and he felt the men’s triumph as they picked up the buckets and carefully stepped around him, moving in a properly chastised fashion. They’d succeeded in infuriating him and he sensed their glee and pride that they’d done it without so much as wetting themselves or Éowyn. Bastards, what do they want from me? A beating?

What are you talking about? She frowned again. He fell Faramir, you… Éowyn smiled. You just happened to be in the way.

He did not. Staring down at his soaked clothing, he sighed in resignation. I’ll have to go back and change…I’ll have to walk all the way to my room, the farthest in Meduseld, squelching and dripping all over the place. He had to admit it was a clever prank, high in both humiliation and discomfort.

Éowyn bit her lip, shaking her head and making her braid swing. “Why would he—”

Faramir, feeling water trickle down his skin, couldn’t keep the snarl from his voice, though he tried. “They hate me.”

“Hate you?” Perplexed, she stared at him and then laughed. “What for? Why?”

Éowyn smiled, “Aww.” She walked to him, looking up and touching his wet front. Twisting a bit of his shirt between her fingers, she smiled again at the drops of water that were wrung from it. “My poor dear, did you get all wet?”

At this moment in time Faramir was no one’s poor dear—he was furious; over 2/3 of him was soaked and he was getting cold in the unseasonably sunless day. “Stop that. It’s not funny.”

“Go change into something dry and I’ll wait here.” She pointed towards the back of the barn, “Just around the corner, in the big corral to the left, all right?”

There was nothing else he could do. “All right. Fine.” Turning and flinching at the squishing noises his boots made, Faramir straightened his shoulders and began the long walk back to his rooms, hoping few would see him. I look ridiculous. Another thought occurred and he winced. Soaking me was worth the trip back to the well…or even the river—they truly loathe me, then. Stars above, this promises to be a horrendous test.

Éowyn stared at the wide puddle on the ground and laughed, remembering. Faramir’s face had been beyond price—utterly shocked and disgusted. Shaking her head, she continued on her way, pausing to pat an occasional horse that stuck its nose into the aisle. Most of the stalls were occupied with young stallions that’d been given a few mares to prove themselves with and then were put up for the breeding season to keep them from stealing or sneaking others. Nearly all were trained and she was sorely tempted to ask Faramir if he wanted to go for a ride when he returned. I love riding one of them—they run so fast and so hard, its thrilling, like you’re sitting on a wild horse, one made of flames.

Outside, looking up at the hazy overcast sky, she whistled softly, trilling like a bird. There was an immediate nicker and a good-sized colt came to the corral’s rails, sticking his head through to peer at her with wide, eager eyes. “Hello.” Éowyn was pleased to see how big and muscled he’d gotten in the few weeks he’d been released to the fields. “You’re losing your baby coat…you’re going to be a red roan, aren’t you? Such a pretty boy.” She rubbed his nose, pinching lightly when he wiggled his upper lip, trying to nip. “No, you don’t want to bite me, I might bite back. What a silly lad you are…” The foal pinned his ears and she scolded him, smiling at her own prattling, “You’re not going to make that face at the Queen, are you? So cross and disagreeable!” Grabbing the top rail, she climbed up the high fence, pausing with her legs straddling it before seating herself. The colt raised his head, eyeing her as she did so and Éowyn smiled down, about to speak.

The colors caught her eye—the dark brown of rich soil against the green and white mounds. Her smile froze, then faded away; sitting on the board and watching men bared to the waist fling shovelfuls of dirt up into the air, Éowyn was suddenly near tears. Carts stood nearby, waiting to carry the earth away and return it when Théoden was set into his place. Long strips of sod were taken off to the side and stacked, the men careful not to break them—the roots were preserved as much as possible to let the grass grow back. On the hill, perched on the corral, she was just high enough to have a perfect view. The cloudy sky seemed to frown over the working men and women bringing them water; Éowyn remembered the day Théodred’s mound had been dug—men had set fires over the earth and then used axes to break into the frozen and thawing ground. They didn’t want to wait…who knew if we would still be here come spring. She remembered those dark times and how shining Aragorn had looked, even as bedraggled as he’d been; bursting upon them in a flash of glory, as though a crown were already set upon his brow—she’d wished only to rise above her pitiful, useless station, to do something important. Things are different now…not just the lack of darkness…I am different, no longer useless, serving a feeble lord. I am useful, worthy in the eyes of my people…but will it be the same in Minas Tirith, Emyn Arnen? Here I am recognized as being as intelligent as any man is; I have a voice in the doings of our people…in Faramir’s city I am but another noblewoman, his wife and property. Broodmare, servant or his equal…will the house in Ithilien be a home or a gilded cage? I can but trust it will not be a cage and that I will not lie behind bars, but in his arms, free to go as I choose. She frowned, feeling hope war with fear of the unknown; fear was no longer the larger, but evenly matched with her hope and even, perhaps, losing ground. Still looking at the men, she thought even farther ahead. I shall lie in the unfamiliar Ithilien, far away from the warm earth and everlasting halls of my people. Will what I spoke to Merry come true; will I ever see my family again or be bound eternal to Faramir and spend my life after death with strangers?

The colt nudged her foot, taking her pants leg in his small teeth and tugging. He wanted attention. The other foals, twelve in all, were coming over. Their tiny, fuzzy ears pricked and their large eyes watched her sit on the fence. “Hello, my little ones.” Some were still shy, but most had become friendly. Two whiskered noses touched her outstretched hand and her colt glared jealously, making her smile again, putting her sad and bitter thoughts away.

“Éowyn?” The voice made her jump, surprised. It was not Faramir, there was none of the gentle mental contact she’d come to expect; odd, she’d just thought of him, too. It was Aragorn, weary-eyed, his mouth strained. “Can…can I speak with you?”

“Yes, of course.” The rails of the corral were high, making it difficult. “Come up.”

He climbed easily, long-limbed, settling beside her. Éowyn glanced his way when Aragorn did not start. The foals had retreated, but now they came back, sniffing. Their eyes were wide now, looking at the strange man beside her and she smiled. He’s not one of their herd… Aragorn reached out when her colt touched his knee; it was sudden and the roan leaped back, snorting and arching his neck. He looked saddened and she felt sympathetic. Lightly brushing her face and neck with her fingers, she rubbed the backs of her hands against her palms, gathering her scent. “Here, give me your hands.”

Faramir walked, painfully aware of the wet noises he was making. To make it worse, just inside the doors of Meduseld was Éomer, looking at him in surprised amusement. “What did she do, knock you into a bucket?” The man grinned, “I’ve been there, believe me.”

Explaining slowly, tiredly, he said, “No…a man tripped in the barn, his buckets splashed me.” Faramir saw no sense in tattling; he was not a child.

“That’s odd.” Éomer looked him up and down, an emotion akin to sympathy in his face until he grinned again. “I haven’t been there.” The King turned to walk off and Faramir called after him, not even knowing he was going to speak,

He didn’t have to clarify; Éomer halted, half-turning. “I don’t know.” For a moment they stood, silent, a few feet separating them. Faramir felt himself trying not to slump, to give into the overwhelming feeling of defeat—it seemed everything was against him. Éomer’s eyes were keen on his as he asked, “He didn’t trip, did he?”

“Then there is your answer—” He began to move away again, saying, “I will not be the final and only judge, that would not be fair…your éored or company you ride in will judge you, too, Faramir and it does not appear they favor you much.” Again he got a brief sense of sympathy, quickly fading. Is it possible that he wants me to win the challenge; he frowned, comparing their exchange to the one a short while ago. Earlier he barely acknowledged me…perhaps without Éowyn to worry about he doesn’t despise me much at all…How can I make him see I’m on his side? Faramir had no ideas.

The éored, the company will judge, too in the end…great, just wonderful…I will never leave this place.

Looking curious, he did so. Éowyn chafed them quickly, feeling the hard calluses. Aragorn asked, “What was that for?”

The very idea made her laugh, remembering Faramir’s embrace, his mind touching hers to let her feel his love, his kisses, his anxiety when he’d given her the first gift; Éowyn toyed with the dolphin, running her thumb over its nubby fins. “No, that is long over.”

“Faramir, then…” He let it trail off, turning slightly to look at her. “You’re sure you will be happy?”

“I don’t know—I think so, yes.” Still feeling the bitter undercurrent of her earlier thoughts, she asked, a trifle too harshly, “Why does it concern you?”

Aragorn shifted on the fence, silent for a long while. Some of the foals lost interest and trotted back and forth, playing, their short tails held high. Eventually, he said, “You didn’t want to come back and it was partially my fault.”

She didn’t have to ask what he meant. Éowyn stared at the ground; a shiver going through her shoulders at the memory of the black, hopeless place the wraith had sent her. “No, it wasn’t.”

“Maybe it was.” He was looking at her. “Acquiring new charges to look after…” Aragorn finished with a short laugh. “It’s become a habit.” As if he felt her stiffen, he added, quick, “Take no offence, Éowyn. Please, I’ve offended one woman already today.”

He wasn’t going to let her end it; he never let go of anything. “You should be happy…every one should and not all of us will, I’m afraid. Faramir’s a good man; he takes a lot of indignities without complaint—I tested him over the summer.” Aragorn chuckled, letting her know he was jesting. “Just the right type for you. You wouldn’t have liked me, anyway, I’m not as easily managed.”

“I think I’m very good looking—you liked me on sight, remember? Just because the hobbits thought different…”

She watched the foals nurse. Two were bucking, running against their mother’s flanks and bellies, trying to get rid of flies. “The sun must have been in my eyes.” He made a derisive noise and she added absently, thinking, “Faramir’s got lovely grey eyes, magnificent hands—long fingers, graceful. Oh, just the right amount of muscle—you know he’s strong, but not clumsy. Lovely dark hair, hanging on his shoulders, it’s adorable when it’s tangled; a perfect mouth with such soft lips and he knows just where to…” Aragorn snorted gleeful laughter, startling the foals.

“I had no idea he was so attractive, why, now that you’ve pointed it out,” He guffawed, “I might take him to my bed as well.”

Oh…” Éowyn made a retching noise and he laughed again. Suddenly embarrassed and feeling she had said far too much, she ended, “You saved me.”

Ignoring the last because it was true, she said, “Not from orcs or anything like that, no.”

“Myself.” This was her secret, the plan she’d once come terribly close to implementing. She bumped her foot against one of the rails, rhythmically thumping it. Her colt hadn’t gone anywhere; he sniffed at Aragorn’s hand and allowed the man to pet his muzzle.

Aragorn nudged her with his shoulder, making sure she saw the foal let him touch it. “How so?”

Éowyn supposed it made no difference to tell. It was Faramir whom she did not want to know—he was part of her new life, her life unencumbered by fear. “If you hadn’t had come to Edoras, I would have freed my brother, slain my uncle and then slain myself.” He was silent, so she added, “Éomer would have been king and Théoden would have been remembered as a kindly lord, wise and not as a feeble old man…” Éowyn swallowed, “hardly able to feed himself or remember my name. And I, I would have taken the brunt of our people’s blame—an ungrateful girl, kin-killer.” Her voice was a whisper, “But things would have been all right, then…you understand?” Gríma would be dead, too, undoubtedly by my brother’s hand and my people no longer subject to his vile, poisonous words or treacherous deeds.

To her surprise Aragorn’s arm went around her shoulders, squeezing in a brief, friendly hug. “Yes…I suppose so.”

They sat in silence for another few minutes before he said softly, “Hit is lenctentíma.”

“Gea.” He did not mean it as a season, but rather as her people did, categorizing war. Battle itself was winter—long, hard and deadly. Spring was the time after war, when new life came and people and crops and animals began to thrive again.

Aragorn’s voice was deadened as he said slowly, “Ic eom meðe…hu cann Ic lædan?”

She glanced over, hoping to rid him of the sudden depression. Annoying as he could be, she did like him. “Ge eart se léoma in se rodor, se blóstma in se feld ond se fana æt ǽrist. Hu cann ge twéo?”

Ah, so now we come to it. Finally. Éowyn asked, “What do you want me to do?”

“Talk to her…I’m afraid I’ve upset her…” Aragorn smiled faintly, “She’s hiding in Galadriel’s quarters—not even I’m bold enough to go in there.”

“Are you certain?” His smiling, flaunting glance “Well…” made her shake her head, “Then how, if she’s in with the Lady Galadriel—”

“She’ll talk to you. I’m not sure they know what to make of you. You’re a lowly mortal that helped strike down not just one of the wraiths, but their captain—it’s unheard of. Hobbits doing great deeds everyone’s used to by now.” He chuckled, “Arwen is a little intimidated by you, I think.”

Like when Elrohir had claimed the beautiful elven woman envious, Éowyn doubted, but she let it go, sighing, “I’ll talk to her tonight.”

Aragorn gave her another short hug, his voice relieved, “Thank you, it means a great deal to me.”

Exiting the barn, Faramir stopped short, watching Aragorn put his arm around Éowyn; he was surprised at the wave of possessive suspicion that swept through him. What are they doing? What is he doing? He walked slowly forward, listening closely but neither was speaking; Faramir was aware that Aragorn had once been his unwitting rival and he tensed, wary. One of the foals nickered, eyeing him and Éowyn turned, hands braced on the fence to keep her balance. She smiled as Aragorn turned, too. “You’re back.”

“Ooh, you were right…” To his confusion Aragorn grinned widely at Éowyn. “It is nice—I’m not going so far as perfect, but…”

“Be quiet!” Giggling in embarrassment, she hit his shoulder. Aragorn laughed, swinging down from off of the corral’s top rail to stand in front of him.

“I’ll leave you two alone—but don’t forget.” The last was aimed at Éowyn, who nodded from her perch.

“I expect a full account sometime tonight…” He added a lascivious wink that made even Faramir flush a little, “If you’re not busy, that is.”

She rolled her eyes to the heavens, making a face. “Aye, my Lord.” And Aragorn left. Faramir came to the fence, looking up at her. He didn’t want to pry, but he was very curious. His suspicion had faded, as he had felt her uplift in spirits at the sight of him.

“Oh.” He looked at her braid, shining with dim fire on the overcast day. Éowyn smiled down at him; he could feel her gladness that he was with her again and Faramir climbed up to sit close beside her. The top rail was conveniently wide, obviously made with sitting in mind. “This is what you like to do?”

“Well, not this…I love the foals—they’re all so sweet and darling.” She slid down the fence, “Come in with me.” Faramir jumped down into the corral, looking at the assembled foals. Most of their backs did not come up much above his midsection. They were various colors beneath their baby coats—shedding out greys, chestnuts, bays and roans. One of them, a little red roan approached Éowyn; it seemed hesitant, its brown eyes wide and little nostrils flaring as it came. She spoke softly, her voice more soothing than he’d ever heard, “They don’t know you…you’re a stranger and strangers are dangerous.” All the colts sniffed and snorted, inching forward and when he moved to touch the closest, it wheeled, bolting and carried the rest with it to the far end of the corral. The soft-eyed mares stood there, eating hay. Éowyn shook her head at him, “You’re too big, I think.”

She laughed in a startled burst, giving him a chastising look. “No—I meant you’re too tall. Sit with me.” Éowyn folded her legs, sinking gracefully to the dirt. She leaned against the rails as Faramir sat beside her. “Now,” Whispering, she moved close, “you have to be very quiet and very still…”

“What if they bite me?” The roan colt was already approaching again, his fuzzy ears pricked.

“So? They hardly have teeth. It might pinch a bit.” She laughed at him, keeping it low. “Don’t look directly at them, either…”

Faramir scooted closer to her, his face near hers, their shoulders touching. “Why not?” He’d had few dealings with foals, mainly used to working with mature, trained horses.

“They’re like children—they don’t want you looking at them when they’re trying to be brave.”

“Shh, here they come.” The colts were coming, sniffing and taking small, wary steps. Faramir watched them, noting the differences from the few foals he’d seen in Gondor—these were more finely molded, even the heavy boned colts and their eyes were larger, and their ears smaller with rounded rumps and muscled flanks. They were obviously healthy and well bred.

The roan was the most daring and came swiftest. He sniffed his boot, licking the end while his short, fuzzy tail wagged back and forth at flies. Faramir gazed at him, careful not to make too much eye contact and the foal moved to sniff at his pants legs. The others, emboldened, were coming forward as well. It’s going to bite me, you watch.

She smiled, answering. He wants to know if you taste like a horse… Faramir felt her impetuous, spiking amusement and before he could turn, Éowyn put one hand on his chin and cheek, holding him still and leaned close. Her tongue ran up his neck, warm and wet. Completely shocked, he froze as she gently bit him, sucking at the skin. Feverish with sudden desire, he would have turned but she held him and kissed his neck, slow and hot, finally nibbling his earlobe. Her tongue went into his ear and Faramir jumped.

You don’t. Her breath blew over his skin, igniting his nerves like fire to kindling as she laughed softly.

That’s good…Faramir was hardly conscious of what he was saying as Éowyn kissed again, using her tongue to swirl, to move a little faster as her hand slid down his chest, caressing. Ah, stop!

Why? Don’t you like it? Her inner voice became amused. I like it when you do it to me. Éowyn suckled his earlobe and it was far too easy to imagine her doing much the same to other parts of him—suddenly she jerked away, laughing in astonishment, I’m not doing that! Faramir was sure he was red-faced as Éowyn giggled, moving back into him. She kissed the corner of his mouth, his cheek, and only then his lips. When she spoke, her voice was low, promising, “Not anytime soon.”

“All right.” Éowyn sat back against the rails as though she was unaffected; Faramir could feel his heated blood racing. The foals peered at them with curious eyes as he leaned his head back against the wood, groaning,

“You’re going to kill me.” She just laughed. The roan stepped forward suddenly, sniffing at his face and she whispered,

“Breathe into his nostrils, introduce yourself.” Faramir did so and the colt breathed back, his wide eyes no longer so wary. Éowyn sighed, her head resting on his shoulder and one of her arms going around his chest as she murmured, “Now put out your hand, slowly, palm down…and curve it a little, like a horse’s nose.” Again, Faramir obeyed and the colt sniffed his hand, nuzzling it. The tiny muzzle was fuzzy and warm and he smiled.

She whispered, her voice close to his ear, “Now he knows you—you’re part of the herd.” Her next thought made him content, if dubious. You’re one of us.

Éowyn grabbed his hand as she stepped down from the boards, not because she needed it, but because he’d offered and she wanted to. They’d spent a long time with the colts, scratching and petting the ones that had approached. All in all it was promising, introducing the foals to a stranger. “You want to go for a ride with me?”

“Hmm…yes.” Faramir smiled quick and handsome and she felt how good he was, just standing beside her. His hand squeezed hers as he brought it to his lips. It was a small gesture of affection, one of many he seemed to practice daily. Éowyn loved it, loved him, and loved the strangeness of her pleasure in him. He is no jailer. I am destined for no cage… Silencing herself, she cursed inwardly. There was no reason she should bother him with her foolish, fanciful notions. Like before, Faramir did not seem to notice, his fingers interlacing with hers.

Composed, the distressing thoughts gone, she lead him back into the barn, “Come on, this will be fun, we’ll take two of the studs out.”

Something was wrong and damned if he knew what it was. Faramir gripped as tightly as he could, keeping his legs locked to the horse’s sides—if he loosened, the beast would throw him. Ahead, Éowyn rode sure and steady, her grey stallion galloping swift, but without so much as a bump. Faramir’s horse swerved violently, making him grab for the saddle, the mane, anything to hold onto. Its hooves dug into the earth, sending chunks of grass flying as it swerved back. Its ears were pinned flat and he could hear its teeth scraping on the bit, trying to grip it, to gain control.

“Easy…easy…” Faramir would have tried Rohirric but he couldn’t remember the word. The chestnut stud bucked, but luckily it was going too fast to buck high. “Easy, damn you.”

Éowyn glanced back, her horse still behaving perfectly. Faramir had no idea what he was doing wrong—he suspected the thing was just disagreeable, cantankerous. He’d had no trouble saddling, no trouble mounting and it was only when he was actually in the saddle that the stallion had begun acting strange. At first, as they’d ridden out of Edoras, the beast had only been a bit wild, jogging sideways and flipping its nose. He’d had no struggles with it, though, he’d been quite able to watch Éowyn move with her horse, gently bouncing as it jogged and admire her. But when they’d entered the open field he’d been hard pressed to keep it from bolting. Now it tossed its head, up and down roughly, trying to grab the bit again.

Faramir jerked on the reins, knowing he shouldn’t but frustrated and trying to get it pay attention. The stallion’s flat ears almost seemed to drop from underneath him as the horse planted its hooves and slid to a halt, immediately bucking. It snorted, throwing itself in hard lunges and he felt its resentment turn to agitated frenzy when he did not immediately fall off. The stallion’s head came up and to the side, teeth bared, reaching for his knee to drag him from the saddle; alarmed, Faramir used the ends of his reins to slap its face and it bucked again, enraged. This time the beast did not stop, spinning, its hind legs flying in audible bursts of effort. He held on for three and then it seemed to whirl beneath him, twisting as it went up and straightening as it came down; its legs impacted hard, the jolt was incredible and Faramir was dumped to the ground, rolling.

“Oomph…!” He came to a stop and groaned, listening to the hoof beats of his horse as it raced to join Éowyn. The beast’s delight made his head throb more. A moment later it must have caught up because he heard her faint voice, taut with concern,

He raised himself slowly, feeling the bruises as Éowyn came back. He watched her; she held his horse in one hand, controlling her own mount with the other. Neither animal gave her the slightest bit of trouble, trotting easily and when she murmured, “Whoa, lads,” they halted before him, quiet. Faramir stared at his stallion, a large, attractive chestnut beside her grey. It’s not so much as pulling back…what is the problem?

He bristled. Faramir may have been tolerant of much, but he was damned if his future wife was going to ride his horse for him because he couldn’t control it—his pride would not allow it. Besides, he ignored his real reason, she might get hurt. “No.”

“Because—no.” Whatever truth he might have said would have only led to an argument, he could tell that much from the stormy set of her eyes. I have already seen Aragorn and Arwen argue today… Keeping the peace, Faramir began brushing himself off; when he reached for his horse’s bridle, it jerked back, pinning its ears. Annoyed, he glared at the beast as it ducked its head behind her shoulder.

She muttered something he translated a moment later as, “Damn men and their vanities.” Éowyn lifted her chin, her determination touching him, “Faramir, you’re riding this one and don’t tell me no or that I could get hurt—I can’t lie, you can’t lie.” She shoved the grey’s reins into his hands and before he could protest, swung aboard the chestnut. He braced himself to watch her go flying, but the horse didn’t buck.

Éowyn glanced at the grey, “Beo god fore him, min fréond.” She looked at him, cool-eyed, “Wait a moment, I’ll try him and see what he does.”

Again, before he could protest, she wheeled the stallion, clucking. At any other time he would have admired the effortless way she rode the big chestnut into a canter—now it was just an irritant. Look at that…nothing. Faramir stared, feeling humiliated as Éowyn, almost half his size, handled the stud with no trouble at all. The chestnut circled him and the grey stallion in a slow, easy lope, neither giving bucks nor trying to grab the bit. He tucked his nose when she asked, giving her his head and slowed to a jog, then a walk, only to spring back into a willing canter when she clucked. Éowyn was riding without any visible aids by the end, doing giant figure eights with completely slack reins. He gritted his teeth, feeling like an idiot.

“All right, get on.” She halted beside him, gesturing to the grey. “We’re going on, he’s fine now.” Brushing her braid off of her shoulder and looking contrite, she added, “He must have just needed to get it out of his system—I’m sorry.”

“Do what?” Éowyn gave him a puzzled, cautious look as he mounted. “He was no trouble.” Her mood was cautious as well, as though she were waiting to see if he would blow up or not because she’d done what he obviously couldn’t.

“He was for me.” She gave him a quick, almost hurt glance and he cursed himself. This time she stayed near, the horses pacing each other. Faramir felt himself bristle again, unable to control it. Is she watching out for me? As if I could not ride? He ignored the fact that Éowyn was looking ahead, not watching him at all.

She patted the chestnut’s neck as it moved complacently beneath her. “I don’t know why, he’s a good boy, whoever trained him did it well.” Smiling hopefully, she asked, “You want to gallop again?”

You think I’ll stay on? He strangled it before she could sense the thought or the words could bolt out of his mouth—it was unfair and Faramir was a bit ashamed of himself. “Yes.” Éowyn clucked and her horse surged, well in control; beneath him, the grey did the same when he used his heels. But soon things changed—the grey tossed its head, flattening its ears and he felt its rising irritation. What is going on?

Éowyn’s heart thrilled to the quadruple beat of her horse’s hooves as it flew down the wide lane. They were riding west, taking much the same route Aragorn and his company would take in a number of days; the road was empty and she galloped without care. The chestnut was willing, stretching himself out at her low urging. Éowyn glanced behind her and frowned—the grey’s ears were pinned and he was striking out with his forelegs as he strode, head twisted, tail popping and wringing—all signs of anger. What is Faramir doing?

“Whoa, whoa.” She slowed the chestnut, lowering her weight to the saddle, no longer riding with him, but asking with her stillness for him to slow. Well-trained, he did, listening with one bent back ear. Éowyn looked at Faramir as he came to a halt beside her; the grey’s eyes rolled, burning in anger. Faramir looked frustrated and baffled. She didn’t speak and after a moment of his horse shifting beneath him, hooves stomping in irritation, he did.

Éowyn frowned, shaking her head. “I don’t know.” She stood in her stirrups, one hand on the withers for balance and looked around, searching for the path she’d wanted to take. It was thin and overgrown, but nearby. “Do you want to go on a bit—it’s not far.”

For a second she thought he would snap at her; she felt his anger, but like before, Faramir held it all inside himself, replying calmly, “Where are we going?”

“To the river.” Éowyn had in mind something that she knew for a fact he would enjoy, but now she was not so sure. He looks upset; though surely this will cheer him…I believe it would cheer any man. If not, she had no idea what to do.

Ond Ic, ge, min deore…se dæg is eall se ma freolic mid ge in hit.—And I, you, my dear…the day is all the more beautiful with you in it.

Ful god, Faramir…ge eart betera ælc dæg.—Very good, Faramir…you are better every day.

Hin lín luin sui venel laer…nin luithial…thîr vain lín darn thûl nín.—Thine eyes are as blue like the summer sky…you enchant me…thy beauty took my breath away..

Ic lufie ge…eower bodig …ge eart neah ma lustbære…Ic cann noht beran hit… ge eart freolic begeond ge-leafa nacod—I love you…your body…you are near more desirable…I cannot bear it…you are beautiful beyond belief naked.

Ge eart leasung, ge eart lustbære. Ic cann ætywan ge—You are lying. Yes, you are desirable. I can show you.

Mana quentelyë? Mana quentelyë Estel!?—What did you say? What did you say, Estel!?
Vanimelda—dearest beloved…

Ge eart se léoma in se rodor…se blóstma in se feld…se fana æt ǽrist. Hu cann ge twéo —You are the ray of light in the sky…the blossom in the field…the banner of ressurection. How can you doubt?

Éowyn watched Faramir canter the grey stallion in a large circle around her. The only way to find out what he was doing wrong was to watch, so that’s what she did. Her chestnut shifted at her signals, taking small steps with his forelegs while keeping his hindquarters under him and hooves planted, turning to face the horse in front of them at all times. In reward for this difficult maneuver, she rubbed his withers, scratching. The clouds had receded and now the sun burned bright, making the early afternoon hot and she wished she were a man, to take off her shirt and be more comfortable. Though I doubt he would mind. Faramir kept his horse moving and she stared. He’s a strong rider…very forward. Éowyn felt herself flush a little, just watching the way his body moved with the stallion and yet…something’s not right. He curved with the horse, relaxed in the saddle. Good balance, good seat, confident…but why is he so forceful? It was odd; she wouldn’t have thought Faramir to be such an aggressive rider and she hadn’t paid much attention before. Men were usually more assertive in the saddle than she, but she wouldn’t have thought Faramir to be quite this forward. Not even Éomer drives his horses like this and he rides with heavier aids than I…Éowyn had been feeling Faramir’s frustration for a while now and she wondered, maybe it is only his mood that makes him so.

He used his reins too much, relying on the bit for control. Faramir’s legs were loose and he wasn’t pushing off his seat, but using his heels. Not that he’s kicking, its just…the stallion was used to a lot of supportive leg and little rein contact. He hardly uses his legs at all for direction, really only to indicate that he wants speed…do they train their mounted armies so in Gondor? How do they control their mounts, then? She remembered riding Líeg; the gelding had been more indifferent to her aids than she’d expected, but she’d not thought much about it.

Faramir turned to look at her and Éowyn could have predicted what happened next—body and weight followed head and eyes and the stallion drifted inward, obedient to the unplanned signal. Immediately Faramir corrected, but instead of using his lower leg to push the horse back out, he only used his reins and the stallion balked, confused at the conflicting directions. Well that’s not so hard to fix; he just needs a few quick lessons in using his legs. If I do that and have him ride without a bridle, he’ll learn not to depend so much upon his hands. Éowyn saw no reason why it would take long, Faramir was intelligent and she knew for a fact he had light, sensitive hands. That I know well, indeed. She smiled slightly, thinking of how she would do this and shivering a little in anticipation.

The grey halted, his forelegs coming a few inches off the ground, shaking his head in frustrated anger. “Easy, easy…” Faramir’s voice was tense; he sounded just as rankled as his mount. Éowyn sighed inwardly; the first thing she needed to do was calm them both and best the way to calm the stud was to take away the irritant. Wresting his reluctant horse to a halt, he looked at her, “Well?”
“Come closer, we’re going to try something.” When he had the stud standing near, Éowyn stood in her stirrups, grasping the cheek piece of the grey’s bridle and then the crown and slipped it off over the horse’s head, taking the reins, too.

“What are you doing?” Faramir seemed suddenly far more insecure, frowning at her.

“You’re going to be his passenger—don’t worry, just sit there, he’ll follow us—it’s just like his training.” Éowyn leaned lower, rubbing the grey’s forehead in a circular motion as she murmured, “Comon mid me, min fréond.” His brown eyes focused on her and after a minute he chewed, licking his lips, indicating his thoughts and then submission to her will. Éowyn smiled reassuringly at Faramir. “It’s not far to the river—we’ll do this there.”

“All right.” He was still frowning, but he nodded. She clucked to the chestnut, not shifting her weight or rolling her hips forward as she would for a canter, but asking for only a jog. They moved off the road and down through the little grassy path that led to a long, shallow section of the Snowbourn.

Faramir felt as though he had no control. He rested his hands on his legs; they felt odd, like there was no place for them. It was unsettling, but he couldn’t deny that the stallion felt far calmer beneath him than since he’d mounted it. He’d calmed, too, no longer feeling she was judging him. Éowyn was not the like the Rohirrim soldiers, she was just trying to help. They jogged slowly, following the path through the grass and up and down little hills, curving steadily downward. Soon he could see the Snowbourn, shining in the newly appeared sun. She steered for a widespread clump of trees at the river’s edge and he had no choice but to follow.

Watching her ride, bouncing with the horse’s strides, he wished for a view at more of an angle, to admire her. She didn’t seem to note his gaze, her focus turned inward as she thought. Reaching the grassy banks, Éowyn picked up her reins, though he observed, she didn’t make actual contact with the horse’s mouth. It stopped, anyway, as though it could feel her taking out the slack. His own stud halted and he watched her dismount lightly, hanging his bridle off of her saddle.

She brushed a few stray hairs from her face and turned up to him, “Get down.”

Faramir obeyed, swinging to the ground and then he watched curiously as she unsaddled his horse. “What are we doing?”

She smiled, looking a little impish. He felt her sense of mischief as well as anticipation and he wondered as she said, “You’ll see.” Done and having set the saddle and blanket down, Éowyn gestured, “Get back on now.” As he did so, slightly clumsier without a stirrup to help, she continued. “You’re riding him strongly off of the bit and you’re not using your legs the way he’s used to...” Faramir noticed how she avoided saying what he was doing was incorrect, rather implying that it was simply a different style. He appreciated it; sitting up and sliding close to the withers, he looked down at her. Éowyn’s blue eyes were focused on his as she smiled, disturbingly wicked. “I’m going to show you how our horses are used to being ridden.”

She moved to his side and a second later Faramir jumped—Éowyn had swung effortlessly aboard the stallion, leaving hers to graze and now her warm front pressed to his entire backside. “What—” He swallowed; her hands wrapped loosely around his middle, almost too loosely, draping low enough to make his stomach jolt. Her inner thighs gripped him like she would the front of the saddle and he could feel her breasts against his back; his voice was slightly strained. “What are you doing?”

It was as though she was molded against him, intimate and he stared at the cool water, trying to ignore her inner legs moving to squeeze him soundly. Faramir half turned his head, asking, “You’re sure?”

Éowyn brushed some of his hair out of her way, “Yes.” Her words were going almost directly into his ear and he could feel her warm breath. Faramir seriously doubted his ability to learn anything at this point.

“I…I don’t think…this…” He squirmed when she unlaced her fingers and firmly placed one hand on each of his upper thighs. What are you doing?

Nothing. Éowyn laughed very quietly, mimicking his response when she asked the same question. She sounded like she was smiling. “Hush, pay attention to my voice.”

“I am.” Just to other things, too…you’re rather impossible to ignore. Thank the Valar you didn’t get on in front of me…I don’t think I could have stood it. Éowyn did not reply to that, though he felt her faint disconcertment.

“Now,” She flattened her palms, thumbs far enough inward to make him fidget, avoiding looking down to see them splayed out, light against his dark trousers. “You can feel my legs?”

“Pay attention to what I do with them and I tell you,” Her fingers squeezed his thighs and he inhaled. “Like this, how you’ll move yours to match.”

“All right.” It was worse than he’d thought—she scooted closer, virtually glued to him and everything above her ankles tightened as she used her legs to push the horse forward. Faramir could feel every toned inner muscle half-wrapped around him and it drove him mad. Her hands pressed gently on his legs, urging him to copy the motions of her own. Éowyn steered the stallion in a slow circle, using her fingers to prod him into moving his inside lower leg just a little forward and his outer one just a little back.

Her voice was a murmur, close to his ear. “You support him as he goes, understand?”

Faramir found it difficult to even remember what they were doing with her breath scorching his skin, her inner thighs tensing and easing as she moved. “I think so…”

“Good, keep paying attention.” As if he could forget for one instant her warmth pressed against his backside.

She steered the horse in a larger circle and then a figure eight, still getting him to move his legs with hers. Despite the constant distraction, Faramir actually found himself comprehending better as they went and he wondered where she’d learned this technique. “Is this…is this normal—something you do with…?”

Éowyn’s hands moved, but not to direct him, instead they smoothed downward, sliding back up and he gritted his teeth at the obvious caress. Her soft reply, hot on his neck, made him tense, “No.” For an instant her mouth seemed to hover over his skin, scalding right at the junction of his shoulder, as though she’d come close to pressing her lips there.

“Oh.” Faramir licked his lips, nervous and growing more disquieted with her every movement, almost painfully aware of her body against his. If she moved her hands inward at all she would discover it, too. This is sweet torture.

“Now, we’re going to stop—you take your legs away when you do that and sort of slump, quit riding, quit moving with him. Think whoa.” Éowyn’s fingers lightened on his thighs and he took his legs away from the horse’s sides, relaxing as she did. The grey stallion slowed, walking for a stride or two and then halted. His ears were back, listening as she spoke, “Good, now,” Her hands pressed his legs, “put them back.” The stallion began walking again. Éowyn was no longer even using her legs, he noticed. The praise was low, her voice making him wonder if she were as moved by the physical contact as he was. “Good, Faramir, very good. Now, we’re going to go sideways—put this leg further up and keep this one here when you press.”

The grey stallion moved sideways and forward, obedient to his signals. Éowyn had him repeat it going the other direction. “Good, good.” She leaned closer, moving her hands down to his knee. “Now bend…yes, and use your heels to touch his belly, very light—feel his back rise up?”

“Now he’s collecting himself and it’s easier to carry us and it’s easier for him to move.” She slid her hands back to their former position on his upper thigh; it was a slow movement and he inhaled sharply at its blatantly teasing quality. “See? You don’t need a bridle to make him do that or steer him. That’s all you were doing that he didn’t understand; stallions are quick-tempered and he got confused and angry—an angry horse doesn’t listen.”

Forcing himself to speak, he asked, “What about slowing him? Does it still work at a trot, a canter?” Éowyn hadn’t taken back her hands yet, though he sensed the lesson was over. Faramir didn’t know whether to be gladdened or disappointed.

“Yes. You stop riding again—he’s very sensitive. He can feel if you turn your head, if you inhale or hold your breath…all those things. Do you want to do a slow trot and see?”

Faramir imagined her bouncing behind him, breasts against his back, nipples rubbing, possibly growing hard and shook his head quickly. It would be rather uncomfortable now, regardless. “No.”

“All right, now you do it on your own.” She took her hands away, relacing them around his middle and Éowyn’s chin touched his shoulder as she relaxed behind him. He touched his lower legs to the horse, experimenting with pressure and position. The grey stallion was quiet and obedient, moving in a long serpentine curve, coming close to the water, then away and halting when he quit riding with it. Faramir was impressed, turning his head to speak,

“It takes a long time to get them this light…most of it is natural—they move away from pressure…” She was very close, her front tight to his back, her breath hot on his neck and her arms hugging him. As she continued Éowyn’s voice sounded…almost suggestive? Valar and all the stars, no, I cannot take it… and he tried to focus on the nearby running water, multiple wildflowers, anything to escape the insinuative meaning of her words. “You have to know their sensitive areas, where to touch to get what you want.”

She leaned against him, unmoving and he asked, “Are we finished?” If he got down she would know how discomfited and roused he was, but if he didn’t get away, he would never calm himself.

“Yes, I suppose.” She unlaced her arms, leaning back as he threw a leg over the horse’s neck and slid to the ground, taking a second to collect himself before turning to face her.

Éowyn’s front felt cool, even in the sunny afternoon, after being so tight against him. Faramir seemed to hesitate, looking up as she swung her leg over, sitting sideways on the grey’s back, looking at him. I think by the end he was more sensitive to me than the horse. Then he smiled faintly and put out his arms in a polite offer to help her down. With a smile, she accepted and he took her hands, pulling gently. Éowyn found herself almost sliding down on top of him, her feet setting down between his widespread ones; somehow Faramir had come much closer. Oh…to her surprise she could feel his arousal, half-hard and bumping against her.

His expression was somewhat apologetic and he muttered, “Sorry.” Faramir did not move away, though, his hands still in hers. Éowyn wasn’t sure what to do and he did nothing but stare down at her, his grey eyes as unwavering as the firmness against her front.

After a long moment of enduring his heated, hungry gaze, she stammered, looking away, “It’s…all, all-right.” He looks at me like a starved man does a feast…

Faramir’s hands released hers, sliding around her waist as she answered, swallowing. “N-no.”

“Good, I don’t want you to be…” He bent, kissing her only once, light and gentle. His voice was soft, earnest as he finished. “Even when I’m like this.” She nodded, not quite meeting his eyes. “I would never do anything you didn’t want me to.” The bulge in his trousers had not reduced and Faramir gave her another kiss, almost as though he couldn’t help himself. Éowyn smiled a little, relaxing, sensing how careful he was being with her; they were alone, far from anyone else and he was worried she would be anxious. Touched by his concern, she stroked his cheek, the pads of her fingers rubbing the light stubble as his lips pressed hers for a third, more lingering, time.

After a few seconds, he smiled, looking into her eyes and then glancing sideways at the river. “I think I might have to jump in.”

Éowyn shivered at the very thought. The Snowbourn was full of runoff from the White Mountains—snow and ice and the water was cold year-round. Even in late summer she wouldn’t have wanted to swim in it unless it was terribly hot and although the clouds were all but gone, the day had not heated enough. “I wouldn’t, it’s freezing.”

Faramir laughed, his words making her flush, “That’s the idea.” He rubbed his nose to hers, nuzzling; it was an adorable, loving gesture that made her smile. “Want to watch me?”

“Don’t—you’ll be frozen stiff.” Now it was her words that embarrassed her and he laughed again.

“All right. What shall I do then?” Éowyn had no clue. His thumbs rubbed her back, slipping beneath the shirt, his palms resting just above the tops of her breeches. She expected him to move them upwards or even downwards, but he simply let his hands stay there, warm and flat on her bare skin.

He almost pouted at her, sticking out his lower lip, a smile tracing his mouth. “But I don’t want to.” Then, Faramir’s eyes dropped like he was trying to look down her men’s shirt and she burst out laughing, reminded of Pippin. The little scamp had gotten a better view for his efforts; her shirt was buttoned this time and well. “What?”

She shook her head, feeling him tap his fingers on her lower back. “Nothing.” Since he obviously wasn’t about to release her anytime soon, Éowyn stepped back out of his embrace. Unable to resist a glance at his front, she wondered at the slowly diminishing bulge. How large is it? She hoped it was not too great; it would hurt anyway, when he took her maidenhead. Faramir’s eyes flashed quick at her, as well as a confusing hint of nervousness? If any deserved to be nervous, it was she.

“Come down to the edge and sit with me, at least.” He smiled, “You can push me in if I get too forward.”

He let her lead and Éowyn walked into the small grove of trees, their thick, leafy branches hanging over the river. She remembered climbing them and diving into the Snowbourn as a little girl, shrieking at the icy water and flailing in the current. Éomer had, on more than one occasion, swum in to rescue her, whether she really needed it or not. I remember…if I got tired I would yell and he always came, no matter how cold it was or how apparent it was I was just being lazy… At the memories, Éowyn smiled, feeling nostalgic for her childhood. I miss running after Éomer and Théodred, slowing them down until one would pick me up to let me ride on his shoulders just so they could actually get somewhere without my little voice constantly asking, “Brother, why—”or “Cousin, why—”…

Finding a patch of grass near the bank, she lowered herself into it, sitting cross-legged. Faramir did the same, only stretching out his whole body and laying on his side next to her with his elbow to support himself. He placed a little yellow flower in her lap, hand light and leisurely withdrawing, tracing her knee and upper thigh with his fingertips as he did so. This was a surprise and she froze for a moment, but his eyes were gentle again with none of the famished look in them and she felt his reassurance as he looked at her. Éowyn picked it up, carefully touching the satiny petals. As far as she knew he’d been right behind her the whole time and she didn’t remember seeing any flowers. “Where did you get this?”

It smelled good and she twirled it between her finger and her thumb. “Liar.”

“No, I said—I whispered it so you wouldn’t hear—Now look, there’s nothing in my hand…” Faramir grinned, showing her it and then murmuring low. “Listen. Le melin, le uivelin, le melithon anuir…guren min gaim lín...” The words made her feel warm, though she didn’t know why. She stared at him, expectant and he pulled out another flower from behind his back, making her laugh when he put it on her lap. He grinned again and in her amusement she forgot her agitation with his tentative beginnings at exploring a new area of her body. Faramir’s hand rested on her knee, warm and still. It felt heavy but it didn’t move and after a second or two he took it away, obviously intent upon gaining her trust. He’d touched her legs before, but never in such a lingering fashion and never so purposefully, though his eventual aim she wasn’t sure of.

She held up the two daisy-like flowers—he was good; one was yellow, the other was white. The white one didn’t smell as much, but it was pretty. “You had it all along.”

Éowyn scoffed, shaking her head and trying not to giggle at his despairing expression, “There’s no such thing as magic.”

“No?” Faramir whispered more elvish, “Meleth e-guilen, meleth thilia min hin lín, bannas lín síla celair…” The words were softly flowing, again touching her heart in an odd way, though she had no idea of their meaning. After a moment in which she waited, biting her lip to contain her smile, he produced another flower. She burst out laughing. This one was tiny and purple and he lay it in her lap, too, this time taking his hand away immediately.

Éowyn laughed, holding her flowers. He looks like he’s about to give me another...gods, if he does I’ll never stop laughing. Sure enough, Faramir cleared his throat and she blurted, smiling, “How many do you have over there?”

His response was quick, though not at all hungry, instead both teasing and playful. “Come and see.”

“No?” He cleared his throat again, melodramatically. “Meleth nín, law lîn síla sui Ithil…” His silvery words were cut off when she laid her flowers down and tackled him, reaching behind his back for the rest. Faramir laughed, his arms going around her as he yelped, “You’re ruining it…!”

She grabbed at his sides, fingers searching in the grass, but there was nothing anywhere. Éowyn ended up straddling him with Faramir flat on his back; he didn’t seem to mind at all. “What did you do with them?”

“I told you—it’s magic.” His tone was slightly different, but she paid no attention, resting her hands on his flat stomach. Éowyn pinched lightly, growling in her hardest voice,

He smiled, then quickly sobered and widened his eyes. “No, you’ll have to torture it out of me…” Faramir turned his head to the side in exaggerated torment, closing his eyes only to peek at her a second later, “I suggest wiggling.”

“Or maybe you could…um, bounce a little—that would really be dreadful.” His hands moved to grasp her hips, centering her over his body. Éowyn squealed in surprise, as she understood; flustered, she gasped, trying not to laugh,

“No!” When she tried to move off of him, he only rolled on top, grinning as he pinned her. One of his hands ran down her thigh, still half-curled around him and she squirmed, straightening out. He propped up on his palms, only to lower himself a moment later, his body on hers.

“I don’t see how.” Faramir’s breath tickled her neck as he bent his head, murmuring almost to himself. “I’ve caught myself a maiden…what shall I do?”

She bit her lip hard, insides trembling both in her efforts not to laugh and the feeling of his warm weight covering her, pressing her to the earth. “Let her go.”

“No—that’s not it.” His absent tone made her slip and snicker. Éowyn hushed herself. “What was it?” Faramir’s mouth touched her turned cheek, lips just barely brushing as he asked, “Do you have any ideas?”

Her voice was teeny with her endeavors to remain unwilling, all the while struggling against a mountain of giggles, “No.”

“Aiihh!” She bucked uncontrollably, shrieking in laughter as one of his hands ran up her thigh, moving slightly under her and squeezing her buttock. It was a firm clasp, then he pinched and she thrashed up against his clutching palm, giggling incessantly, far too riotous to be anxious or worried about his actions. “Stop! Stop! No, no…Aiihhh!”

“No! No!” She twisted and he held her to the ground, not really having much trouble. They were both panting by the time she sobered. Faramir was silent now, his grey eyes on hers. Éowyn felt his chest move as he breathed with his heart pounding in a strangely quick rhythm.

“No.” She shook her head, otherwise holding very still beneath him, wondering if she would notice it growing, swelling when he became aroused. Her hands rested on his shoulders and she could feel his muscles move beneath her fingers. He’s strong, solid…so powerful, as a man should be. It was a little frightening, but much in the same way she’d felt when she’d allowed him to see her nude—her heart racing, her legs trembling, but not true fear.

His eyes were direct, serious as his mind touched hers. Tell me if you want me to stop…you’re in control.

“All right.” She could barely breathe, holding onto him as Faramir began to kiss her, slow and deliberate. She opened her mouth willingly, their tongues rubbing, moving. After a few long minutes, he went to her neck, kissing all over. His breath moved hot over the front of her shirt, lingering over her bosom, making her rise involuntarily to meet his mouth. As he kissed her neck again, Faramir’s fingers were already touching her waist, very slowly undoing the buttons of her shirt. One by one his fingertips circled the buttons, taking plenty of time, giving her opportunities she didn’t take. His mind met hers, reassuring and deeply linking, as though he intended to meld them into one being and she stared up at the blue sky, her eyes half-lidded at the feel. Faramir was everywhere and his touch seemed magnified through both their senses; she broke out in goose bumps, gasping for air. She could feel his fingers on her shirt, and her shirt beneath the pads of his fingertips, cloth and warm, muffled skin. Éowyn swam, lost in the sensation.

New clouds went idly by before he parted her shirt, letting a warm breeze to her exposed skin. His hand slid up her side, his mouth not going immediately to her bared breasts, but kissing her shrinking, fluttering stomach, then just below her collarbone. He thought her skin felt like silk beneath his hands; his hands felt hot on her skin. Caught between both their minds, she bit her lip, trying to hold on. He was hovering, making her wait, making sure. His breath blew, now cool, over her bosom and she bit her lip harder to keep from generating noise.

Yes. Éowyn’s hands left his shoulders and dug deep into the soft grass, trying not to pass out as he finally put his mouth between her breasts, nudging the dolphin pendant aside. His tongue, hot and wet, flicked her nipple and then he closed his mouth over it. Faramir moved back and forth, sucking hard, kissing, and nipping gently. The sensations were more unimaginably wonderful than anything she’d ever felt; his desire intensified and seared like fire roaring through her veins, leaving her hot and gasping. She could feel her skin satiny beneath his licking tongue and then at the same time, his mouth kissing in fiery motion. Éowyn burned, feeling his teeth close on her nipple, tugging the nub between them. Oh, gods, gods, oh…

“All right?” Faramir’s voice was roughened, panting harsh against her as he lifted his head.

“Mm…? Y-yes.” She could hardly remember how to speak or do anything but clutch at his shoulders again as he moved back to her lips. Éowyn opened her mouth for his kiss. Passionate, it was long; she wrapped her arms around him, the leather of his tunic chill against her heated, bared skin; she could feel the raised pattern of the white tree and stars. It was new and thrilled her. Her heart raced as he kissed her, seeming to do it forever. She didn’t know if the worry she felt was her own or his; they were too close, too intertwined. Before Faramir moved back to her bosom, he asked, sounding slightly hoarse,

That was not the real question; she could feel it now, hard against her. I did that. He wanted to push against her, to grind himself into her, but didn’t. Imagining how that might feel, Éowyn closed her eyes, unsure of anything any more and her reaction startled her. “Do you have to?”

It was an eternity. She finally moaned, long and drawn-out with pleasure. He’d eventually wrung it from her tight lungs; his mouth secured around her nipple, sucking hard and kissing all over, his fingers tugging the other or moving to massage her breasts, or caress her outer thigh and hip. At the noise Faramir stopped abruptly, his breathing rapid and shallow and his inner voice was strained.

You…I can’t…let me go, now, please. She unclenched her fingers from his shirt and he gently kissed her before rising and moving away. Éowyn closed her eyes, her mind going with him, still connected. He was undressing, awkward and frowning with grim anticipation…Faramir took a deep, bracing breath before throwing himself into the river and she smiled, weakly laughing as he surfaced with a bellow and shook himself, gasping only to yell again. For a stunning second she felt chilled all over, felt the current; it made her prickle as he thought It’s so cold…!

I told you. The connection between them waned. She was glad for a moment alone, to attempt to process the unfamiliar way he’d made her feel, the things she’d wanted. Éowyn sat up slowly; feeling almost as though her legs would not support her for the moment and still seated, began to redo the buttons on her shirt. There were faint, fortunately fading, marks on her breasts from his mouth, his teeth, and his stubble. Standing cautiously, she picked up the flowers: yellow, white and purple. There were no more on the grass; no matter how meticulously she searched, waiting for him to dress again. “Where were they—the other flowers?” Faramir came to her, refastening his tunic and carrying his boots. His dark hair dripped onto the leather as he smiled warmly,

“Magic. I told you.” Éowyn frowned at him, feeling absurdly timid as he stepped close. He’d done so much in such a short time; it was hard to concentrate. Faramir’s gaze was loving, “You want another?”
“All right.”

“Close your eyes—this is the hardest one of all.” It made her smile, cutting into a bit of her shyness. She closed her eyes, waiting with her skin still tingling from his touch and feeling the strangeness of it all threaten to envelop her. I don’t know if I am ready for him.

Faramir gazed at her closed eyelids; Éowyn was so lovely, her cheeks still flushed. She’d allowed him more than he would have once thought, but he could sense her insecurity. New intimacies seemed to worry and almost confuse her. My love…perhaps I went too far… She’d never once given him a signal to stop, in fact, she’d almost been too encouraging, but he wanted her to feel nothing but disappointment when he ceased touching her. Taking a breath, searching for the words to say what he felt, he switched languages for his last trick. “Amin mela lle, amin naa talle, lle naa vanim—Oio naa elealla alassé.” Taking the tiny pink flower he’d picked by the riverbank out of his pocket, he picked up her hand and placed it in her palm. Amin mela lle.

“Secret magic words—I can’t tell you.” I’m not sure you would believe me. He sat on the ground, putting on his boots.

Éowyn laughed, still appearing slightly reticent and not quite looking at him. “Liar.”

He’d obviously done more than enough for the day; Faramir did not want to push her too far at once and he sensed he’d neared that point and maybe come awfully close to crossing it. She wasn’t afraid, but more intensely preoccupied with something he couldn’t grasp without delving deeply into her thoughts. Which would be wrong of me. Standing, he said, “We’d better go back, where are the horses?”

“Close.” They walked back to where his saddle was sitting, him following. She whistled loud but short and almost immediately there were the thumps of hoof beats as their mounts came. The stallions ducked beneath the lower branches near the river, trotting through the grass and halting in front of them. She mounted and petted her horse while Faramir resaddled. Éowyn still didn’t give him his bridle and she smiled with her blue eyes teasing a little through some emotion he couldn’t quite get a handle on, “Let’s see if you paid attention.”

“All right.” He swung aboard and the grey shifted beneath him, already obeying his signals.

Éomer was waiting at the steps, but he did not speak, allowing Faramir to care for his horse first, as was proper. There were bits of grass in his sister’s braided hair and he frowned, wary. The two fishermen he’d spoken to earlier walked by again, toting their now empty baskets and he called to them, “What did they do by the river, again? The Lord Faramir and your Lady?”

One looked at the other, then the first answered, “Let the horses loose and sat by the bank, my Lord.”

“That’s fine.” He dismissed them absently. I will let it go for now…this will be difficult as it is without any further complications…though I won’t forget it. Éomer walked slowly to the stable, too impatient to wait for Faramir to exit. Tonight I will take him with me…it is important, this night, his presence with me will show that I support his claim as her suitor… His lip curled in disgust, but he went on. Perhaps it will help some…no interloper would be admitted such. At first he’d thought to throw Faramir out to them completely unprepared, but it seemed more and more as though he would be throwing the man to wild wolves. The soldiers had taken to referring to him, amongst themselves of course, as “se lytle Bregu”. He thought it was a ridiculous title, especially since Faramir wasn’t small, exactly, only slighter in build. Surely they could have come up with something better; even princeling is better than that.

He’d spent part of the day so far walking among the men that were in Edoras, listening to their talk as they did various duties; the incident with the buckets had intrigued him into finding out the exact opinion of the Steward. They’d laughed, delighted, when the word spread from men on the road that Faramir had been thrown from his horse and he’d frowned at them to discourage such behavior, but it had hardly worked. Only when one man had been fool enough to guffaw and remark in his presence, “If he cannot ride a horse, how does he stay on—” had he spoken, ill temperedly questioning,

“Stay on what, specifically?” His wrath flared red-hot, but he restrained it. I am no longer a soldier, or even a Marshal, but a King—I cannot lose my temper to petty words. The soldiers had hissed a frantic warning; just noticing him walking among them and the man had wisely fallen silent. They talk about her…I told him I didn’t want that…they are no more blind than I am to the marks he puts on her. His teeth ground together. Or what it means.

Now Éomer sighed inwardly, coming to the open wooden doors. They despise him far worse than even I…he is an stranger and the gods know I know that all but a few have fixations upon my sister… He laughed, faint, little more than a breath as he stepped into the barn. Unless he has friends, he will undoubtedly have to prove himself very swiftly, probably in more than a few fistfights.

Éowyn’s voice came to his ears along with her light footsteps; her words were low, vague. “I suppose I should go and see Arwen now…” Faramir’s reply sounded slightly disappointed with a faint undertone of worry.

“Yes. Éowyn?” There was a pause in which his sister must have turned to look. “You seem… Are you all—I mean, did...?” They both stopped when they saw him, Faramir falling silent.

Why is he wet? Éomer wondered with a shudder if Faramir had gone into the Snowbourn. Assuredly not, no one swims in that river unless it is sweltering outside. Yet, the Steward’s dark hair hung in damp waves on his shoulders; beside him Éowyn was carefully holding a few bruised flowers in her hands. She wasn’t wet, he noticed, slightly relieved.

“Faramir, I need to speak to you…about tonight…” He hesitated, not sure how to begin or if the man would even recognize what he was offering. I already extend to him everything I have to give…my sister is my heart, the last of our house, does he understand?

“Yes?” It was perfectly polite; no hint that he’d interrupted them, which, he had. Éowyn was gazing at him in sudden surprise.

“You will come with me tonight, after the evening meal.” It ended up gruffer than he’d planned; yet he couldn’t help it. Tomorrow I announce his engagement to her, tonight I make sure the men see he is approved of, not as a prince with noble blood to match hers, but as a man…my, here he wasn’t sure to grimace with huge distaste or not, my friend.

“May I ask what for?” Now Faramir looked slightly perturbed, glancing at Éowyn, who didn’t speak. His sister smiled at him; it was sweet and loving, making his discomfiture worth it as Éomer answered,

“It is hard to explain—we will be amongst the men camped in the fields, speaking to them,” He felt his aversion to the task just thinking about it, “Just—just meet me outside Meduseld and you will see.”

Again the Steward glanced at her, as though he asked a silent question, before replying. “All right.” Éowyn did not so much as look at Faramir.

Then he would have nodded to them both and left to pace nervously in his rooms, thinking worriedly about all he must do now and, too, all that he must allow to take place in the future while not so much as breathing a word of protest. Even if my heart breaks with loneliness… but Éowyn spoke up. “Éomer, are you going in?”

“I’ll see you shortly…” She looked up at him, asking, “Walk with me for a moment?”

Éowyn was glad to leave Faramir’s gently, but repetitively inquiring mind behind her, safe with her brother. She needed time away to collect herself. Is this why Arwen won’t go with Aragorn? I know Aragorn has some ability, is it anything like Faramir’s? Does she feel like this, that he’s too close? So near her that it’s almost too much? Her mind argued immediately. Not that Faramir is smothering me, it’s just…he’s going so fast, doing so much and I can’t get used to it. Éowyn walked beside Éomer, enjoying his inability to probe her thoughts. I like it, I love it when Faramir touches and kisses me, but I wish he would go slower and let me adjust. I can feel him, what he does, from inside him. His feelings are so strong… She frowned. And even my own are too much. He’s not like that in public…maybe I should try to stay with others for a while. Of course, she knew she could simply tell him; Éowyn did not fear he would be angered, but she was reluctant to imply she didn’t like his caresses. I don’t want to hurt him…

“Are you…are you sure?” Éomer faced forward, not looking at her as he walked. They weren’t going directly to her rooms, but on a wandering course through the corridors.

How could she answer that question when Éowyn could hear the muffled pain in his voice? I will leave my brother alone. He will be here with naught but the mounds that cover our kin. How can I be so cruel? “Yes, I’m sure.” She lowered her head, looking at the floor as hot tears flooded her eyes, blurring her vision. I cannot imagine myself with another man. That is simply unthinkable. Can I imagine my life without Faramir—without his mind to touch mine and let me know how he feels or his eyes shining with love? This time the answer came quick. No.

Éomer nodded slowly. “I just wanted to be certain.” His voice grew almost grim as he added. “I want you to be happy. And…if you changed your—whatever you want, I will support you, no matter what it is.”

“Good.” They completed their wandering route in silence and she stopped in front of her door. Her brother gazed at her, sad.

Éowyn hoped her brief tears did not show. She lifted her chin, composing herself. “Thank you.”

Again she thought she would weep. For taking care of me, brother. For worrying and fussing and being there as much as you possibly could. All she answered was, “Taking him out tonight.”

“You’re welcome.” They both understood what the gesture meant—by accompanying Éomer around the little camps of men waiting to see Théoden entombed, personally thanking them for coming and making sure their needs were seen to, Faramir was performing a family-type duty. To the camped peoples it would be seen as he was already considered part of their family, one of their kin. Hopefully, the feeling would spread.

He smiled at her, bravely, she thought. Éowyn opened her door and went in, leaning back against the hard, reinforced wood as she closed it. Her chest quaked with a sob and she covered her mouth, not wanting him to hear. Oh, gods, is there no easy way?

It did not take her long to wash up and reclothe herself in the peach gown, especially without Faramir gawking at her. His presence seemed to still be in her room, making her skin twitch, but she felt far safer with his spirit watching than any other. Straightening her gown, she gazed at herself in the mirror. It was silly, she supposed, but Éowyn still thought she should wear a dress around the elves—to prove she was capable of being civilized. It is late already…perhaps I will talk to Arwen after the evening meal; she didn’t want to have to rush, especially since she was unsure in how to begin. As she was leaving her bedroom, she stopped, remembering. I haven’t watered the flowers today.

The room smelled strongly of roses, brightly lit in the afternoon. She picked a few dead flowers, smelling the vivid blossoms and checking to see who needed the most water. The little “magic” flowers Faramir had given her were on her nightstand. I need to hang them or they won’t dry properly. It was silly, too, she supposed, to keep them. But I want to, so I shall; whatever words he spoke, they made me feel good. Éowyn smiled to herself. Everything about him makes me feel good. Her little tin watering can stood in the corner, multi-colored petals piled in drifts around its base. She bent to get the can and as she stood her glance moved absently, just happening to fall on the little table. Éowyn froze. There was a dagger there and, for just a moment, she was cold all over. What? Oh…I suppose that is one of Faramir’s gifts… The ivory handle and steel blade gleamed dangerous in the sunlight, holding her eyes. She went to it slowly, feeling numb. Why this? She tried to ignore the knife, to move on, but it held her like a snake did a bird. Did he think I would like this? How? How could he think that—does he not know? Éowyn could not remember what all she’d told him. Surely he would not give me this if he knew…especially after what all he’s done… She shuddered, looking at the dagger. It was beautifully made and no doubt costly but she hated it, hated intensely for what it represented in her mind. I will have to ask…gods, how do I do that or tell him I dislike it without hurting him?

It had been over an hour now since he’d seen her last. Faramir was looking at the moldings in the main hall, or so he made it seem. In truth he was loitering, waiting for Éowyn to come around the corner. Come on, come on. He stared at the swirls, loops and intertwined branches of… something. He couldn’t grasp exactly what the moldings were supposed to be, if anything other than swirls and loops. I can only do this for so long…

Éomer had stolen her away before he’d been able to question her. What does he want with me tonight anyway? Some horrible ploy to amuse the soldiers again? He brightened, thinking he heard footsteps…Oh, its just…Faramir moved out of the way for a servant girl; she eyed him and giggled, batting her eyelashes. Frowning slightly, he shifted from foot to foot, glancing impatiently down the corridor. If he pressed himself to the wall, he could just see the edge of the long, curving hallway that led to her door, but then, of course, he looked mad, so he didn’t…more than once, at least. Maybe I should… he could have reached out to touch her mind but he didn’t, she’d seemed so … uncommunicative … on the ride back. I went too far, she didn’t want me to, and she just didn’t say anything. But why couldn’t I feel it, then? It doesn’t make sense…what did I do wrong? He sighed, Valar, she was just so beautiful…her skin was so soft and warm, more so even than fine silk in the sun, I couldn’t get enough … He fidgeted, nervous and worried. What if she doesn’t want me to do it again? What if I scared her somehow? Fear shut her down, made her distant, withdrawn, made her avoid him. Is that what she’s doing now? Maybe she’s not even in her rooms…maybe…

There was movement and this time he knew it was she. Éowyn, dressed again in her peach gown and looking lovely, came toward him; she shone in the fading afternoon light. Faramir waited, impatient, but when she looked up and their eyes met, she faltered. Oh, no. She’s upset with me. He felt her apprehension rise, her disquietude circling. No, no, no…what do I do?

He smiled at her, quick and nervous—undoubtedly he was picking up on her anxiety. How do I do this? There is so much: the dagger, him earlier…how do I even begin? They stared at each other, both waiting for the other to speak, to break the silence first. Faramir did it, “I’m sorry.”

“For…” He hesitated, “whatever it is you...well, for…” He looked away, then back at her, “earlier, when I…” Why is he apologizing? She bit her lip, disturbed at his readiness to admit fault even if she’d assigned none. The dagger wasn’t his fault, neither was earlier…it was just too much at once; I liked it…why is he doing this?

Troubled, she put out her hand to touch his sleeve. “Don’t. Stop, Faramir.”

He didn’t seem to be listening to her inner words, almost too wound up to concentrate. “Why?” If possible, it was even more nervous—as though he didn’t quite understand this.

He’d taken her hand and now he rubbed it gently as she asked, “Why would you?”

Faramir gazed at her, desperate. “I don’t know, but… Tell me and…I’ll fix it, I mean, I’ll do what you want, just...” He fell silent, looking away and then back. He spoke rapidly, “I shouldn’t have undone your shirt, should I? I knew it, I knew it…it was too much wasn’t it? I tried to pay attention…did I scare you? I’m sorry, just talk to me next time…” He added hurriedly, “If you want a next time.”

He gave this a lot of thought. She was greatly touched by his impassioned outburst, but before she could speak, Faramir frowned, saying slowly, “Of course I gave it thought—I think about you all the time, you’re the…only…thing I think about.” He emphasized his pauses, then hesitated, “Aren’t you the same with…me?”

Éowyn opened her mouth, but nothing came out. How could she answer that? Yes, she cared for him greatly, she trusted him, loved him and yes, she thought about him, but all the time? The only thing? It sounded as though she embodied his entire life…it sounded like a lot more than she had ever planned on. Faramir stared into her eyes, and as her silence grew, it was like he crumpled inside. Unable to bear it, she blurted, “I…” But that was as far as she got. There simply was no more, no answer she could find that could explain how she felt. He’d sprung it upon her, so to speak, and she was paralyzed.

He swallowed hard; she heard his throat click and when he spoke, it was a whisper. “Éowyn?” His hand had grown tight around hers, pressing it to his heart. “Don’t you?”

“I…” She was desperately trying to find words, any at all, but Éowyn could not. After another long moment Faramir nodded, closing his eyes briefly before releasing her hand. He looked at her and simply turned and walked away. Timidly, she called, “Faramir?” His shoulders jerked, but he did not turn. Her last plea was no more than a breath, “Faramir…please?”

Caught between pure suffering and frustration, he thought, I can’t do this; I just can’t do it… He heard her faint call and it pained him, but he kept moving. Faramir walked slowly, his head bent. I can’t do this; I can’t love her so much and not have it returned in the same depth… He headed the long distance to his quarters, feeling as though he were swimming in despair.

I didn’t expect this. Éomer sat at the head of the table, looking down its length as the evening meal was being served. Everyone was here except Faramir. The man’s spot was conspicuously empty; he’d noticed his sister glance at the vacant chair more than once. Her face looked slightly drawn, upset. What’s wrong with her? Did he do something or is it a simple quarrel? Will he even come tonight? Éomer hoped so; it was the best he could offer and if Faramir did not take advantage, it would only make things more difficult—defending him openly might make the man appear weak. If he did not, what then? Would I be glad? He didn’t know.

The only other person who looked so upset was Arwen. The Queen’s beautiful face was stone hard in her position beside Aragorn. He’d spoken to her once, only to be coldly rebuffed with silence. The meal went by slowly and Faramir never came. Éomer watched his sister, perturbed by her muteness; she hardly touched her plate, more or less pushing the food around. Should I ask or should I keep my silence? He was divided, concerned for her and her heart. Shall he break it I will break him.

Indecisive, Éomer rose, acknowledging his distinguished guests as they left the table. It was time, Faramir had agreed. Will he be there? Presuming yes, he walked slowly to the stairs. The doors to Meduseld were open and a cool breeze blew as the sun settled, almost completely gone. The door-wards nodded, all was quiet. There was a dark shape at the bottom of the stairs and Éomer felt a wave of relief that puzzled him. I thought I didn’t want him to…what do I want? He frowned, descending. Faramir’s back was to him and Éomer studied his stance—it was rigid.

It’s not about what I want…Éowyn is and has always been first…even if I lose her. But if I lose her, what do I do then? Confused, he reached the bottom. Faramir turned to face him, silent, expectant. His voice deliberately curt to mask his emotions, Éomer said, “Come with me.”

She walked slowly to Arwen’s side, still feeling chill from Faramir’s absence. It was because of her, she was sure, and the lack of his closeness stung. Éowyn clutched a bottle of strong wine; she needed something and didn’t mind sharing. Tomorrow I watch my uncle being put in his mound, today Faramir went farther than ever and now we struggle…I need to forget for a while.

“Could we talk?”
“What does he want?” The elven woman’s eyes flicked to the hobbits; Aragorn stood there, speaking to them. He glanced their way rather noticeably and she thought you idiot.

“No.” Arwen turned on her heel and left. Éowyn stared at her back, disgruntled. Everything goes wrong at once, doesn’t it…? She would have gone to her room then and kept herself company with the wine, but Aragorn was suddenly upon her.

Éowyn had had enough for one day. She glared at him, disgusted. “Do it your damn self.” Toting her bottle, she left. Damn them all. Stomping down the corridors, she ignored the tears in her eyes. I miss him; I do think about him…why can’t I just say what I feel…why wouldn’t the words come? She didn’t know, but she hoped the answer lay in wine. Lots of it.

Faramir followed him over what seemed to be the entire expanse of Rohan. Éomer was tireless, moving towards the first of many small campfires, bright in the growing dark. The men’s voices were low; snatches of songs floated across the air; Faramir was miserable, walking dog-like at the man’s heels. I shouldn’t have left…no…but… He didn’t know what he should have done or what he should do now.

She loves me, I know she does…I need to hear it though and she can’t, won’t say that she loves me as much as I do her. He was tormented, stumbling over thick clumps of grass, staring at Éomer’s back. The man was as silent as he was and Faramir could feel his unease. He is troubled because Éowyn is. Why do I do such things to disturb those around me? I am useless, selfish. The longer he walked, the less anger he felt and more simple misery. I want her with me; I don’t care if she can’t say she loves me as much as I love her. Faramir glanced up at the stars and nearly ran into Éomer. The man had stopped, but they were alone, nowhere near any camps yet. What are we doing? He smiled slightly, has he brought me out here to kill me?

The King of Rohan turned; his countenance was shadowy in the dusk, making it difficult for Faramir to read his expression. His mood fluctuated violently; confusion ruled. “Do you know why we’re out here?”

Éomer sighed deeply; “Just…” The emotion he caught off of him was of a man spurring himself forward to face an especially difficult or humiliating task. “You…she…I want…”He growled in frustration, spitting, “Whatever I do, I do it for her.”

Faramir surrendered quickly; he wanted no more quarrels. How am I supposed to make peace with this man? Does he even know what peace is? “All right, I don’t.”

“Tomorrow,” Éomer fell silent, and then began again, his voice tightly strained. “Tomorrow, at the feast, I will announce your engagement to my sister, to make it known to all the peoples, to make it indisputable…” He stared into the darkness, this time speaking more naturally, “I am just letting you know.”

There was no welcome. “Come on.” Faramir followed again, Éomer walking notably faster this time.

Éowyn stirred at the knock on her door. She was lying on the bearskin; the fur felt soft against her palms, her cheek. The room spun gently as she opened her eyes, the bottle of wine glinting in the candlelight. Who is that? For a hazy moment she wondered if she’d imagined it, but the knock came again along with Arwen’s voice. “Éowyn?”

“Éowyn, I just wanted to apologize...for my behavior.” There was a long moment, but, unable to answer, Éowyn simply lay there, staring blurrily at the ceiling.

That’s nice of her. She tried to get up and only succeeded in pushing herself backwards a little. She’d quickly drunk herself to the point of oblivion, yet just short of nausea. Perfect...her hands spread in the fur with her fingers clenching. Arwen had left by now, she supposed, sensing it had been a long while. Too bad…I hope I have time to talk tomorrow… Éowyn closed her eyes again, drifting away.

Faramir’s mouth hung open—he was literally agape, utterly astonished and unprepared. Éomer’s arm was around his shoulders, his voice hearty and good-natured as he grinned, pulling him into the firelight, “Greetings friends. I thank you for coming to see Théoden put to rest. It is an honor. Ah…here, I want you to meet Faramir, my sister’s suitor—” He was given a bizarrely friendly squeeze and smile as the King of Rohan beamed at him, “A great and valiant man of Gondor.” Faramir closed his mouth, trying not to look like a fool as Éomer moved off, cheerfully questioning a man, “Tell me, how’s the weather been in the South Undeep?”

“You’re south man we’ve heard of.” One man squinted at him, chewing on a bit of roast meat, eating it off of the bone. The soldiers that sat around the fire chuckled, some murmuring, some shaking their heads. A few even stood and left, laughing in the dark; it was not friendly laughter.

Faramir summoned a smile, wanting to wilt under the scrutiny. With an effort he held himself upright, proud, “Aye.”

There was a long silence, in which he felt the mood change from amused or flat-out dislike to something different, bordering on a thin shade of acceptance. One by one the men glanced in Éomer’s direction as he moved through the small camp and then back to him. They eyed him, wary. Faramir stood, not knowing what to do. The man who had spoken nodded once. His voice was curt but quite polite as he began to gnaw his meat again. “Welcome, Faramir of Gondor.”

He looked at Éomer’s back, then the man. “Thank you.” It quickly became a pattern and by the last Faramir was grinning on cue with Éomer’s arm over his shoulder feeling somewhat less forced. Inwardly, though, he could feel the King of Rohan’s intense strain to keep the illusion of easy friendship between them. Every step they took between camps was one of awkward, impenetrable silence. Yet he strives so hard when he does not have to. The word of his arrival had spread before him and many men came from their tents or bedrolls; the weight of their eyes and their minds made him sweat, but Faramir kept on. Gradually, so gradually, the intense scrutiny lessened, allowing him to be more comfortable.

This was the farthest camp and they’d finished introductions, reports of weather, stock, peoples or anything Éomer bothered to ask. He seemed to know many of the men personally, questioning them about family members. The leader of the small company waved,

They said it as one, “Goodnight.” Now there were no more camps and Éomer halted; he’d not led Faramir back the way they came, but more at an angle, cutting straight through to Meduseld. Now, well away from any listeners, he stopped, facing him in the deep darkness. Small fires flickered behind them, the golden hall lit in front of them.

Faramir was weary and he waited. Éomer seemed to be spurring himself for something again. “You see now why I brought you?”

“Yes.” He smiled, though he doubted it could be seen. “I thank you very much.”

“I did not do it for you.” The words were quick, hurried to rid him of the assumption.

“Good.” Éomer began to walk again and Faramir spoke, stopping him. At every camp he’d felt Éomer’s labors, as though he were bearing a terrible load. He does this, though it contradicts everything he wants and will help in the bringing of his sorrow. His voice was simple, tired and raw with as much honesty as he could bear.

He was surprised. Éomer turned slowly, the words echoing. He hadn’t realized he’d wished to hear them. Faramir was quiet now. “Thank…you.” Uncertain, he frowned. “Why…?” In a way, he knew exactly why and yet… it still puzzled. It was not the answer, but it came swift, clearly thought out.

“I will not hold her chained to my side…anytime she wishes she can return to see you,” Faramir added slowly, obviously meaning it. “You are welcome to come whenever you desire, Éomer…I know she means a great deal to you and you to her. I would not stand between you.”

“You know nothing.” He swallowed, his heart burning with pain, anger and a strange gratitude. It was a foreign sensation and when he spoke again, it was quieter. He felt almost ashamed by the earnest good will in Faramir’s voice. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” If Faramir had been perturbed by his earlier words, it did not show. After a moment, he began walking again, Faramir following.

It was late when they ascended the stairs to Meduseld. Éomer glanced at Faramir, who was looking at the floor with his face preoccupied and he remembered his sister’s unhappy one at dinner. He will go anyway. Gathering himself for one last effort, he said, “Do not keep her late…tomorrow will be hard.” With that he walked swiftly away, not bothering to see the man’s reaction or if he followed.

Faramir’s feet were tired when he finally stood in front of Éowyn’s door. Éomer’s parting words had affected him—making him deeply unhappy and his steps had dragged. He tries, just as she tries…and what do I do, except be a thorn in their side? He knocked at the door, resisting the impulse to lean wearily against it. Perhaps she was asleep already. He knocked again, but there was no answer, no rhythm of footsteps nor sense of her consciousness. Tomorrow, I will come tomorrow…

She smelled smoke and the first thought that came to her was gods! Meduseld is burning! The horror of it shocked Éowyn up, but she wasn’t in her bed or even in her rooms. She was…where am I? Unfamiliar, the floor was stone, polished smooth and there were many corridors, all dark and full of smoke. Somewhere there was a fire; she could hear it crackling, snapping. Thickening smoke billowed around her and in the distance, making her jump, she heard a cry in a strange man’s voice—it was furious, as though he were not used to his will being impeded. Who is that? Unable to understand what he’d said, she turned in a circle, trying to get her bearings. But there was something closer that drew her attention: a tiny sound, cutting through the others.

She coughed suddenly, retching. The acrid smell of burning flesh was strong and Éowyn covered her mouth, breathing shallowly. Where am I? The sound came again—a very small whimper and she pursued it. Stumbling down corridors, she halted suddenly, horrified. There were stone boxes in here, carved with faces and set with dates and numerous, curving runes; she was in some place of the dead. The whimper broke her paralysis and she hurried, choking on the smoke, the foul, reoccurring smell of burning flesh and boiling blood.

It was a little boy, crouched on the floor near one of the great stone sarcophaguses, naked and smeared with ash. He trembled and sweated, making the soot cling; his arms were wrapped around his knees and his head was bent. Éowyn approached cautiously, not wanting to alarm him. In the distance the man screamed, high and horrible. The boy’s whole body jerked at the noise and his head lifted. Grey eyes went huge at the sight of her, seeming to fill his entire face. It was Faramir.

Surprised, Éowyn blurted, “Faramir?” Her words were sudden and seemed to frighten him. He jerked back and she said quickly, soothingly, “It’s all right.”

His expression turned miserable and he hugged his knees again, muttering, “No it’s not.”

“Why not?” Éowyn used the opportunity to get closer, carefully moving towards him. Smoke wafted through the chamber he was in, making her cough and him moan.

“I can’t move.” That was ridiculous, he’d just done so, and she’d seen him. Inching forward, she asked,

“I don’t know.” He shuddered, speaking in a strange chant. “It’s so hot…I can’t move, it hurts, everyone hurts, I’m sorry, but it won’t stop, it won’t stop, it’s all my fault…”

She needed to get him out of here, never mind that she didn’t even know where here was. The smoke was getting thicker and thicker, rank with the smell of burning flesh. “No…”

“YES IT IS!” He screamed it at her, making Éowyn jump, her eyes widening. Faramir stared at her for a moment, then put his chin back on his scabbed knees. “It is.” He whispered, beginning to rock back and forth.

She took a step forward, now only about four paces from his side. “Will you come with me?”

He glanced up, speaking slowly as though she was foolish, “I told you, I can’t move.” He was moving; this was idiotic. Éowyn hesitated, and then walked confidently to him; as she thought, he shrank, but didn’t move away—he really thought he couldn’t. She sat beside him, hugging her own knees to her chest, feeling silly in her nightgown. The smoke was lesser down here on the floor and she could breathe better. Faramir stared at her for a moment, a mournful, wide-eyed, filthy, naked little boy, and then said in a matter of fact voice, “You’re very pretty.” In spite of his miserable appearance and the haze that filled the unfamiliar room, Éowyn tried not to laugh, instead replying softly,

He scooted just a tiny bit closer. “How do you know my name?” There was careful hesitation in his words, “Do you…know…things?” He looked desperately hoping.

How do I answer this? She understood what he meant—he was asking if she, too, could read thoughts. “Yes.”

“Oh.” He put his head back on his knees, and then peered back up at her. “Do you know where my father is? I can’t find him or Boromir. I looked everywhere.” She felt sick and shook her head slowly.

“It’s not?” Faramir’s eyes filled with hope, then he shook his head and they clouded with tears. “It has to be…I can’t do anything right, it’s what he says, it’s the only thing he says, so it has to be true.”

“No.” She put her arm around his thin shoulders and was startled at how hot he was; Faramir felt as though he were on fire. For a moment he stiffened, then he relaxed. Smoke poured in a new, black wave and she coughed. Faramir did the same, his skinny chest shuddering. We must get out of here. “Will you come with me?”

He didn’t move, only asking, “Why can’t I do anything right? Why am I always a failure?”

Did I help cause this? She felt nauseated with sudden guilt. “He’s wrong—you’re not a failure.”
Faramir looked up, wary. “How do you know? You don’t even know me.”

“I know you.” Éowyn hugged his bony shoulder, resting her chin on the top of his head. “I love you.”

After a long moment, he moved, uncurling and turning into her, his face pressed to her neck, but it wasn’t a little boy’s face—stubble pricked her skin and Éowyn opened her eyes to a darkened room, coming muzzily awake. As he trembled, she inhaled, her mind clearing somewhat. She was lying in a bed and Faramir, a grown man now, was wrapped around and on top of her. His bare chest, wide and muscled, shuddered with sobs; warm tears trickled down her collarbone and Éowyn put her arms around his neck, murmuring through her shock. “It’s all right.” How did I get here? How? He pressed his lips to her shoulder in a kiss, not amorous, but as though he took comfort from it. Éowyn moved to rub his back and froze for a moment—he was naked.She smoothed his tangled hair, feeling it damp from sweat or tears or both. The air smelled sweet and clean after the horrid burned flesh and smoke of his dream and she inhaled deeply. It was all a dream, but so vivid… Staring at the ceiling and pinned beneath him, she murmured, “Shh, Faramir, it’s all right.”

“No…” He shook, arms tightening almost painfully around her, chin digging into her collarbone.

“Shh, yes,” Éowyn pushed his head down, laying it on her bosom and his arms loosened just a little; he pressed his face to the tops of her breasts, his breath panting hot as he tried not to weep. “It’s all right.”

“No…”
“Yes.” She adopted a stern tone. “I know it is and I won’t argue with you.”

“I’m so sorry.” For an instant he sounded exactly like the little boy he’d been and her eyes filled with tears. Éowyn kissed the top of his head, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, holding him firmly in place.

Feeling a tear trickle down her cheek, she whispered, “I love you. Nothing is your fault and you’re not a failure. Go back to sleep.” Faramir gradually relaxed with his breathing slowing and his body growing heavier on her. Éowyn was wide-awake; she stroked his hair, rubbing his back gently and rhythmically. I love you, Faramir. Sleep. I love you; I will always do so. After a moment she swallowed, still feeling sick. He was asleep, breathing slow and deep. I’m sorry. She lay for a long time, feeling his chest rise and fall, terrified in the thought that there could exist a day in which it might stop.

When he wakes I must speak. I can’t…I won’t have him feel such things because of me. Her heart hardened. If that man, his father, were here now I would kill him and slow. Faramir is too good to be hurt that badly. I hurt him because I don’t speak, I know I do. In the morning I must cease being such a coward. Éowyn stroked his hair, feeling protective. It is I who is failing him.

Faramir shifted, moving into a more comfortable position. His bed felt…different, soft and there was the faint, steady beating of a heart beneath his ear. What…how… His eyes flew open in surprise and he lifted his head. Éowyn? The early morning light lit her face. Asleep, turned away on the pillow, her profile was relaxed with her hair loose around her shoulders. Her arms were around him; hands resting limply on his back and side. How did she get in here? He couldn’t remember anything beyond undressing and getting in bed, though he had lain there a long while, fretting silently about what to say to her. I wanted to speak to her…did I beckon her to me somehow…? The thought disturbed him.

She didn’t answer her door…why would she come and why don’t I remember it? He frowned, wanting answers, but not wanting to wake her. She looks so peaceful. Deciding to take advantage, Faramir laid back down, resting his head on her bosom. Éowyn’s fingers moved slightly on his side and she breathed deeply.

“Hmmph?” Her blue eyes peeked at him through pale lashes. “Faramir.” She didn’t seem surprised. Arms tightening around him, she looked like she would have gone back to sleep but he spoke.

“Ump-mmm.” Éowyn wiggled slightly, and a tiny frown appeared. “My leg’s asleep.”

“I’m sorry.” Shifting, he began to get off of her, planning to curl up beside her.

“All right.” Still confused, Faramir moved off of her. Éowyn kicked her legs, the blankets riding up to her shins. He looked at her little feet; they were pretty. “I want to draw those.”

“Draw what?” They were both acting as though nothing had happened the day before, no quarrel, and no time by the riverside, carefully skirting any deep conversation.

“Why?” She laid her head on his chest, one hand across his middle, apparently unperturbed at his nakedness. Faramir relaxed, pleased she was so calm. She finally trusts me…now why can’t she say it?

Éowyn shook her head against him; “They look like grumpy old men all in a row, frowning at me.”

“Yes they do.” She flexed her toes, wiggling them back and forth before pulling them back beneath the blankets.

Faramir put his arm around her shoulders, hugging, simply because he could. “I had grumpy old men frowning at me all the time in the Council during the summer—no, if your feet are old men, then they are very pleasant.”

“If you say so.” They fell silent; she nuzzled her cheek to his skin, breathing deep. Faramir stared straight ahead, wishing he knew what to say. To his surprise Éowyn broke the quiet. “I didn’t like the dagger. It was very nice, but I didn’t like it.”

“Oh?” He frowned, “Why not?” Of course, the one thing I thought was certain…even Merry agreed and I thought he knew her well. She’s liked the bracelet at least… He hadn’t found her the lion pelt, but he’d gotten two very different things to replace it; Faramir remembered Éomer’s words about the announcement and he was glad he’d gotten the last one. I almost passed it by, now I can only hope she likes it.

She felt relieved, as though she’d expected more of a disturbed response. “I didn’t think you knew.” Under the covers, her fingers moved, curling around the hair on his chest, tugging gently. “I used to have one. I wore it every day; I had a sheath on my girdle. I only stopped when Éomer asked me why and then I wore it beneath my gown. I lied to him to protect him.” Her voice was much smaller, “But you know why, don’t you?” Éowyn obviously did not want to say the worm’s cursed name.

Damn, damn it, how could I be such an idiot? “I’m—” He stopped himself.

“It’s all right.” He heard her thought. You didn’t think about it… She pressed her cheek to his front. I wish I didn’t. Éowyn curled her body tight against his and was silent for a long while. Finally she spoke again. “I have more to say.”

Thrilled she was talking to him in such an intimate fashion without even any prompting, he murmured, “Take your time, my love.”

Éowyn’s hand moved with her fingers tracing small circles, then back and forth just under his collarbone; any other time it might have driven him mad, but he was more concerned with her soft, hesitant tone. “All right.” She took him literally; it was a few minutes before she asked, “You don’t remember how I got here?”

“No—I wanted…” He spoke very carefully, “I wanted you with me, but I don’t remember letting you in or anything.”

“I don’t remember coming, but I had some wine.” He felt her smile against his chest, and then it disappeared. “You had a nightmare…I was in it somehow. I woke up here.” She hugged his side; “It was horrible.”

“I’m—” Again, he stopped himself. “I wish I hadn’t disturbed you. What was it about? I don’t remember.”

Éowyn shivered. “Don’t try, it was upsetting enough to me.” She was quiet, only her hand moving restlessly. He felt her apprehension; there was an odd sense of familiarity—after a second Faramir pinned it—her mood reminded him of Éomer’s, right before the man had introduced him the first time. She was screwing herself up for some great effort. He squeezed her shoulder.

I love you; you can tell me anything, remember? I love you and I will always love you, no matter what.

“I know.” Éowyn did not say she loved him back, inhaling deeply to blurt, “You said you thought about me all the time…”

Éowyn rose up, her hair hanging in golden waves, her nightgown slipping to bare one shoulder; again, any other time he might have been tempted, but not now. She gazed at him and her blue eyes were serious. “You… Don’t talk anymore—until I’m done, all right? This is hard.” Faramir nodded; her tenseness made him tense. “You’re…” Tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear, she licked her lips nervously, trying to keep eye contact with him and failing. “You’re too much for me. It’s—like every minute, every second, I can feel you, I can feel you love me. I like it, I do.” Her eyes darted at him, then away. Faramir was careful to keep silent and still. “You make me feel good, feel safe…” There was a “But…” coming and he dreaded it. “But you’re too much, too soon. When we,” Here she reached out to touch his temple and he nodded, understanding. “I can feel everything you feel and everything I feel and,” Éowyn looked pained now. “It’s too much at once.”

“I love you…I think about you, I do…when you walked away it hurt.” She pulled her knees up to hug them, “I liked what you did today, I…” Her voice faltered and he felt her disquiet, embarrassment and honesty, “I wanted more.”

It surprised and pleased him to know for sure that she’d enjoyed his actions. But… He waited for it again.

“But I didn’t know how that made me feel—it’s too much to understand at once. It’s so new. I don’t want you to do that again for a while—you have to give me time…I know you want to do things and it’s not bad at all, but please give me a little longer…for things like that. It’s so overwhelming when your mind is in mine and I can feel the things you feel.”

This was the second time she’d said it and he wasn’t sure what she was talking about, but Éowyn hadn’t allowed him his voice yet and the last thing he wanted was to silence her to ask a question.

“I don’t know why you apologized to me—you didn’t do anything.” She looked him in the eyes, her expression almost fierce. It puzzled him. “You’ve never done anything, Faramir, to make me feel anything but better and safer and…” Éowyn laughed, her words embarrassing her. “Beautiful.” He looked at her adoringly, watching her struggle to put everything into speech. “All you’ve done—you’re learning my people’s language, history, ways…and you’re trying to do all this just for me… It’s a lot for me to absorb, do you understand?”

“Today is going to be hard.” She took a moment. “I’m glad you’re here with me, you make me feel good, even though,” Bowing her head, she whispered, “I don’t do anything for you.” Éowyn hugged her knees tightly through the coverlet, bracing herself for his reply. “I’m done. You can talk now.”

Faramir wasn’t sure what to say, feeling her turmoil. She glanced at him, tears in her blue eyes, reddening them. “Come here.” He pulled her close, deciding to start at the obvious, “If I make you feel good, why are you crying?”

Sniffing, she pressed her nose to his neck, mumbling. “I’m not.” Then she murmured, “I don’t know.”

Éowyn laughed; it was small but it gladdened him and her next words, spoken in a little whisper, made him happier. “I love you.”

Faramir hugged her tight. “I love you.” She nuzzled him, her arms clasping. He sighed, not wishing her to go. “Don’t you need to go soon…before it gets too late?”

“In a minute…first, I want…” She shifted onto her back, propping herself with pillows on the headboard and tugging at him to follow. Faramir moved to cover her, feeling her legs around his sides, her body soft and warm with his under the blankets. His pulse jumped, but he controlled himself—now was not the time. Éowyn pulled his forehead down to touch hers. She wasn’t disturbed, locking her fingers around the back of his neck to keep him close. I want…

“What?” Faramir whispered, acutely aware that the only thing separating him from her bare skin was a thin linen shift. He wanted to kiss her; her lips were so near it was a distraction.

Oh. He touched his mind to hers; Éowyn sighed, relaxing beneath him. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, holding him.

Faramir. She said it as though she were marking him in her mind. Éowyn closed her eyes tightly for a moment, hugging him. Tell me. Her blue eyes opened and stared into his and, as he carefully deepened the link between them, she touched his cheek, his temples, with her fingertips gently brushing. In intimate little movements, they skirted his mouth, tickling his lips then onto his chin and brushing his hair back from his brow.

I am… He showed her his gladness she’d been confident enough to speak those things to him a moment ago and his pleasure she’d enjoyed his actions yesterday. Slightly daring, he pressed to her his delight at waking next to her and his hope he would do so again in the near future. Éowyn smiled faintly, her thumb touching his mouth, very gently depressing his lower lip before moving on. Faramir tried to ignore the impulse to lick it. And… There was his sadness that he stood between her and her brother, his gratitude for Éomer’s deed. I’m sorry, my love, I hurt you both.

Don’t. Éowyn’s brow creased now; she made a small noise of distress and he hastily went on to show her that he would gladly support her this day.

I know. She took a deep breath. He kissed her fingers as they came within range and then let her know the thing he felt most: his happiness in her ease.

I am so proud of you, my love. You’ve come so far…you’re so brave to trust me, to allow me to take the liberties I do. Smiling a little, she put her hands on each side of his face, holding him very close.

You’re so good to me—patient, kind…how could I not learn to be brave? He leaned forward, touching his forehead to hers again, focusing on her and how much he loved her. Éowyn swallowed hard, her eyes half-lidded and her fingers clutching for a moment before she relaxed beneath him. Feeling her tremble with the intensity, Faramir nuzzled into her neck, kissing it gently, pressing his lips to her cheek, her shoulder before moving to lie his head on her bosom, as he’d woken this morning. Her heart beat steady; the sound made him content. They stayed that way for a long time before Éowyn took her hands away from his shoulders. Now, I have to go now.

“All right.” Faramir moved over and onto his back, watching her sit up. Éowyn gave him a little smile and then she leaned forward, kissing him lightly. He put his hand on her head to hold her, to make the kiss longer and then jerked it back, furious with himself. What am I doing? She just said…

“It’s all right.” She frowned slightly. Stop that, you feel bad about yourself; I can feel it and I don’t like it. You shouldn’t feel that way, Faramir. Éowyn’s eyes and thoughts turned serious. I mean it. You’re a good man.

You think so? He thought, too, Neither should you feel that way, but he kept it to himself, not wanting her to hear it.

Éomer dressed slowly. He put on his very best, the gold and silver threads gleaming in the early morning light; rich leather, burnished to a high sheen, glowed along with the shined metal of his light mail. He tried to ignore the crown, as it flamed golden, until he had to pick it up. This should not have had to sit upon my head; I am not worthy of it. I pray the halls of my forefathers will receive me with half the praise Théoden has earned.

Already he’d been informed that the King’s men were all but prepared, their horses bathed and groomed until their white coats were luminous. Also, too, the knights’ armor and their tack polished brilliant to honor their lord. The diggers had finished the mound, carefully clearing away all the loose soil and stacking the sod and building the little stone structure. Cuttings of evermind had been painstakingly taken, along with some with their roots intact and kept in water in preparation to cover the mound. Théoden’s possessions were amassed and ready. Even the great feast, the product of the cooks’ intense slavery, would be finished in time.

Éowyn brushed her hair until it was smooth, placing the slim circlet of gold on her head. Her dress gleamed pure white; the women had washed it and washed it until it was virtually luminescent. She stared into the mirror, fingering the rawhide thong around her neck. It looked crude, disproportionate with her fine gown, her bright circlet. Yet, I do not want to take it off, she thought. Perhaps… Slipping it over her head, Éowyn twisted the rawhide around her lower arm under her ruffled sleeve. The mottled blue and green dolphin just barely hung out, gently dangling and cooling against the soft skin of her wrist. There.

Satisfied, Éowyn was just about to leave her rooms when there was a knock on the door; a simultaneous light touch to her mind left no doubt to the person waiting on the other side. Éowyn? Can I come in?
. Yes. She smoothed her hand down her dress, feeling the elaborate stitch-work that was the gown’s sole adornment. I wonder what Arwen is wearing… Faramir entered, answering her musing thought.

Whatever it is, she could never be as beautiful to me as you are. Smiling with embarrassed pleasure at the compliment, she turned. Faramir both shone bright and glimmered darkly in his full uniform of the White City—besides the white tree and stars, he wore light armor, lustrous and well polished. His clothes fit him well, emphasizing his form: tall and spare yet muscled, with his shoulders broad. Éowyn gazed at him, thinking he looked like a well-made sword, held up against some contrasting darkness. I thought I was the poet.

Snoop. Faramir smiled slightly, shaking his head at her chide. He came close to touch his fingertips to her neck, grey eyes gently inquiring. Oh, here. Éowyn held up her wrist, showing him the dangling pendant. It looked a bit odd somehow.

She smiled; turning back to the mirror to make sure her circlet was straight. Glancing down at the rest of her, she attempted a jest, “As long as its not another dagger…”

“It’s not.” His voice sounded very low, very tense. He’d come close to stand behind her; she could feel his body heat her back.

“Well?” Éowyn turned to face him again and closed her eyes; he was very near. “Here, now, I’m not looking.” She waited, feeling herself cheering a little in his presence.

Faramir laughed and took her hand. “That’s very good of you, you know.” She heard him rummage…in his pocket? I wonder what it is. Maybe more jewelry…and then something cool slipped over her finger. He touched the top of her hand to his mouth, kissing lightly. “Look now and tell me if you hate it. I can take it, I won’t weep, I swear…well, maybe just a bit.”

“Oh…oh!” It was a ring, of course, and by far the richest thing she’d ever been presented with.

“I don’t know, give me a moment.” She laughed at him as he hovered, “Let me look at it, will you?” Waving him away, Éowyn walked to the window to see it in the light. Mounted on a silver band were three light blue stones, almost crystal-clear; the center one was the largest, the other two slightly smaller, all oval cut; the stones were surrounded with diamonds. The ring flickered with white and blue fire, light catching in the many facets, trapped and dazzling there with each slight movement of her hand. “It’s so…pretty.”

“Éomer is announcing our joining today, to all the peoples.” Faramir seemed surprised she didn’t know.

“Is he?” She was too fascinated by the ring to give it much thought. That’s why he asked me if I was certain…it’s so shiny…

“I’m glad you like it—he asked you if you were certain about me?” Now Faramir sounded a cross between amused and affronted.

“Yes.” Éowyn stepped close to him, feeling the unaccustomed weight of the ring on her finger. She put her arms around his neck; with the armor his body was unyielding against hers. “I said yes.”

He looked down, “Well, I’d hoped so.” Faramir smiled faint, his hands sliding to her waist, flat on her back as he bent. She could tell he was trying to be restrained, very gentle—the result of her words this morning.

Éowyn stopped him, putting her fingers to his cheek. She didn’t want him leashed, like a dog, just not quite so rampant in his caresses. “This…” Kissing him, purely for example, she continued, “is fine…”

“And this…” She pulled him closer, so that he was firm against her. Faramir kissed her again, warmly. “And this…” Éowyn let him kiss her neck, her collarbone until his wandering lips touched the tops of her breasts and then she pulled him back up to her mouth before ordering, “But no more.”

He laughed against her neck, a burst of warm breath that made her shiver. “Better.”

“I love it, it’s so pretty.” She raised her hand so that she could look at the ring. This present held no bad associations; like the necklace and the bracelet, this was entirely new and pertaining only to Faramir. He glanced at it, then back at her, saying very softly,

The words made her feel special, made her hug him tight. “What does that mean?”

“Thine eyes are as beautiful as moonlight on the Sea, my love.” He lifted her hand, the blue stones and diamonds sparkling. “It reminded me of them…I missed you very much over the summer.”

Making sure to keep within his new boundaries, Faramir kissed her again and he wondered about what she’d said. “Explain how…you said you felt what I felt?”

Shaking his head, he shrugged. “I suppose I wasn’t. What did it feel like?”

Éowyn looked at him then backed against her dresser, pulling him tight against her. You’re going to find out…you can’t not know, I won’t have it.

Am I? Her forwardness made him smile; he liked it, it was a far cry from her behavior four months ago.

“Yes.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him close. Careful, he touched his mind to hers, linking. Éowyn’s eyelids fluttered and she breathed in. “You don’t--?”

“What?” He could feel her mind, of course, her emotions, her quickened thoughts…you need to, you just, let go, stop so tight control, no trust…but nowhere did he feel what she seemed to.

Her voice low, she muttered, “Let go, you have to let go, relax.” Faramir hesitated, unsure. He didn’t want to do anything to…

Faramir! Now! Éowyn jerked him tight, her mouth pressing to his. Astonished, he dropped his tight control, loosening his mind from its endless constraint.

Oh, this… He could feel her kiss, feel his own through her senses. It was…overwhelming, as she’d said; he gripped the top of her dresser, not for leverage to push his body into hers, but to ground himself in some way. He was lost, barely able to think as Éowyn kissed him again and again, her mouth hot, demanding his participation. Their hearts seemed to synchronize, the beats loud in his ears and suddenly racing as she pulled him closer. I can…

“Too much,” He gasped it, panting for breath, pulling back. Éowyn’s eyes were wide, her fingers fast on the nape of his neck, not allowing him to step away. She didn’t want him to move away, didn’t want to lose contact with him. Recovering a bit, Faramir leaned hard against her, kissing her lightly now, trying to keep the sensations from building so much. Éowyn shifted, uncomfortable against the wood; he grabbed her hips, lifting her onto the top of it, glad it was uncluttered. Better…better… Faramir rested his palms on her thighs, stepping between them and feeling her lock her ankles round him and squeeze…can? Is fine?

I was missing this the whole time? He couldn’t believe it; Faramir licked her skin, then nipped gently, to feel what it felt like to her. Liking it, he suckled, swirling his tongue, moving, using his teeth again…Valar, it feels like that?…he would have done it over and over but she pulled him back to her mouth. No wonder she’d always gone so soft against him whenever he did it—it feels so good, hot, wet, good, nice.

She laughed in her mind, fool, yes, very good. Her short fingernails scraped back and forth on the nape of his neck, her body pressing up to his, the little sensations making him shiver as much as his own hands did when they moved up to cup her breasts, eagerly anticipating his next action.

Éowyn pushed him immediately, slightly flushed, panting in his ear. No it will be too much, I don’t want…

Right…sorry, wait, I’ll wait until can. She frowned at the word, but said nothing. So connected, so deep within her he wasn’t sure where he began and she ended, Faramir would have never stopped the kisses and caresses she allowed him, but she pushed him again. He nibbled her ear, pressing himself to the dresser, trying to reach all of her at once.

Éowyn laughed inside and then, shockingly, he felt her tongue flick out and touch his neck, scorching and wet. Unthinking, Faramir thrust against her. Want, I can, feel…want you want? He didn’t know whom the words came from—he or her or both. He felt her wonder ripple through him; it was odd; before he could recollect himself, she bit him hard, clutching with her arms around his shoulders and he growled in response, thrusting himself against her a second time. The dresser rattled loudly and Éowyn laughed against the side of his face, her lips finding his.

Beast…ruffian! She peeped in surprised as he pushed hard against her, but there was no fear in her; the lack made him want her more, tempted him horribly.

Faramir pulled back to lick her neck, to feel how she liked it; she did. Yes, yes, since first saw—thought, must have, must mine. Try to cheer, you called me to task—how could I refuse summons? Faramir laughed in his mind at her astonishment.

Éowyn pulled his mouth back to hers, smiling, first thought—oh no, he’s looking to me, all eyes wanting to see me, saying pretty words—dangerous. I stayed in then, that’s why, until Merry shouted for me to come and it was a trap; he wasn’t on the walls, but you were below. Bad hobbit to play matchmaker. He laughed, calming, nuzzling her neck, making her arms tighten when he breathed deliberately hot onto her bosom; she hadn’t forbidden him that much. Stop, no, not mean can’t, mean stop all now. We’ll be late…can’t, disrespectful, won’t…

Right, sorry, just so nice, don’t want…yes. He sighed regretfully, feeling the connection between them fade as he ceased to support it. Faramir stepped back, allowing her to get down and move away.

Flushed, she eyed herself in the mirror. “You wrinkled my gown a bit and...” Éowyn straightened the circlet of gold.

Bemused and rather roused, he said, “I would have ravished you if gave me half the chance.”

“Ravished? Ravish me?” For some reason she laughed immediately and loudly, covering her mouth to muffle it, though without success.

Between sudden giggles, she managed to say; “I can’t imagine you…ravishing.” Éowyn shook her head, “I just can’t.” Smirking at him, she laughed again, delightedly thinking, oh, yes, ravish me, go on ahead Faramir, you’re so fierce—I’m terrified. Truly, I’m shaking right now, and laughing harder, she thought, I’m all aquiver… Éowyn leaned back against her dresser, her head thrown back in laughter.

Not wanting her to think he was soft and going to let her get away with that, Faramir growled threateningly, “You want a demonstration?”

She looked at him and then her ring, admiring it, completely unintimidated. He didn’t know whether to be thrilled or just a little bothered. “No, not at the moment, dear.” Éowyn smiled and sobered. “Come on, your job today is to keep me from crying—” She linked her arm in his, “It will be simple, just say you’ll ravish me again.”

One day I shall and you won’t be laughing…or at least I hope not. They walked out of her rooms together.

There was no breakfast. The crowd gathered gigantic, stretching on both sides of the road, all around the mounds and all the way to the very walls of Edoras: amassed elves, men, hobbits, and one dwarf. Faramir jerked to an instinctive halt at the doors of Meduseld, his mind suddenly threatening to buckle under the pressure of the multitude. Éowyn pulled him aside; his legs barely worked. “Faramir?”

“Hmm…wha-t?” He stared down at her, trying to focus. I can’t…escape…

“Me, look at me.” She touched his temple, frowning at the thin sheen of sweat that coated her fingertips. “Me, remember, focus on me, Faramir.”

“Yes…” It eased a little, the intense strain of hundreds of thoughts and feelings coming from the beings all concentrated in one small area. “Éowyn…” He took her hand, kissing the cool ring. “Keep doing that. Please.”
“Come here,” Dragging him into the shadow of the door, she held him close, whispering, “It’s all right, you can do it, just focus on me, my mind, I’m the only one there.”

Gradually, he was calming. He kissed her hand again, pressing it to his lips. Don’t let go, please, you’re grounding me. My center, stillness and quiet…

Éowyn looked concerned. I won’t. You’ll be all right out there?
I won’t keep you away…if not, I’ll come back…He added, keeping it to himself, If I can get back. There was the brief sound of horns outside and the corresponding emotional wave made him flinch. Don’t let go.

“I promise I won’t.” Forcing himself to move, Faramir followed her; her hand was tight on his, squeezing.

Whispering, unable to speak louder, he rasped, “That’s good.” Slowly they made their way down the stairs; he stumbled twice, distracted. She didn’t let go even then, the ring pressing his fingers with the force of her grip. He wondered if she could feel some of what he did and sought to shelter her as best he could. Faramir withdrew his mind, tucking it back as much as possible.

“All right?” Éowyn halted just inside the gates of Edoras. The largest portion of the crowd lay ahead and of course, their place would be in its very center, near to Théoden’s mound. Faramir felt unbearably guilty, a burden to add to her on this day; she looked at him, quite in control and ready to act however he needed. Oh, I love you. Éowyn waited for his answer, her blue eyes firm.

It was hard to speak; there was a constant hum of conversations in the back of his mind, distracting, wearying. “Don’t worry.” Dogging her heels, he kept very close, his gaze fixed on her head. The sun reflected bright off of the gold in it, both her hair and the circlet. The crowd parted; men and women alike bowed in respect; he knew it was not for him.

His feet moved endlessly. There was grass beneath them, then dirt, and then grass again. They passed too many people to count; voices pounded at him, but he couldn’t tell whether they were actually audible…surely it was quieter than the uproar that hammered his ears. Faramir never took his eyes away from her head, focusing his entire being on Éowyn, while at the same time trying not to project any of his distress upon her. The strains made him sweat far more than the morning sun should; it ran in his eyes, making her shimmer like an apparition. If she were to vanish…he was abruptly certain the walls of his mind would come crashing down; at the moment he was that dependent. Licking his dry lips, he managed to ask, “Are we near?”

“Almost.” To his relief she didn’t sound unsteady, but he knew Éowyn could hide emotion just as well as he could.

“I’m not—ahh…!” Gasping, Faramir nearly bent double, his free hand going to his temple, but it did little to block her wave of feeling. He was exaggeratedly sensitive to her and her grief and pain hurt him.

“I’m sorry.” Éowyn took a breath; he felt her forcibly clear her mind. Saddened, he wanted to tell her not to, to tell her to express herself, not to lock it inside, but he couldn’t for fear. They were there; in front of his eyes the stone house for Théoden was open, completed. The hole gaped dark, the earth and grass rich around it and the rocks still bright with fresh chips and scrapes from being mined, cut and set up. Evermind fluttered in the wind on the other mounds, petals scattering across the feet and clothing of the peoples, white petals floating like tears formed into snow. Some fell upon Théoden’s face and Éomer brushed them gently aside; Faramir recoiled at the strong feelings within the man. His mind, too, felt familiar and it pained. Men held cream-colored horses, flags flew and shining horns were held ready; Éomer stood closest Théoden, who lay on a bier awaiting his rest. Merry kept his arms, the hobbit’s small face mournful above his Rohirric uniform.

Éowyn pulled him to her when she stopped and her arm linked in his, their hands still tightly clasped. They were near to Aragorn, facing Éomer, who looked at them over Théoden’s bier. No, he looks at her… Faramir closed his eyes, gritting his teeth, trying to outlast the surges of emotion that raged in the King of Rohan’s mind—anger, fear, grief, and a pained, desperate sort of love.

After a long moment, as though he’d only been waiting for Éowyn’s arrival, Éomer spoke, using the Common Tongue as a courtesy, “Today we send Théoden Ednew to the halls of our forefathers. A valiant hero, a great warrior, oath-keeper and,” Here he paused, his eyes on Éowyn, “our beloved King.” Faramir picked up the words too effortlessly: our beloved father, the only one we truly knew. “May our ancestors receive him with as much honor and love as we had for him and he deserved.” Éomer nodded once, signaling and the horns cried fierce, echoing mightily. A great wind blew, as though the land too cried out and the flags of the Riddermark whipped green, ivory and gold in it, the white horse running frantically. Mounting up, the King’s men began to ride slow, their horses prancing in perfect tandem, each shod hoof lightly touching the ground, all together. He could feel Éowyn struggle, for just a moment, then she went cold inside as she pushed all of her emotion down into a small, hard ball—her features were stern, unfeeling. I’m sorry, Faramir thought, gazing at her brow. I hinder you, my love, at the precise time I shouldn’t be anything to you but support. Across Théoden’s body, Éomer stared at his sister, his own face briefly twisting with pain before he, too, went cold. She gazed straight ahead, not sparing herself a moment’s sight.

Several men strained, pushing Théoden into the stone house, laying his many rich and varied possessions around him and shutting the thick door. Carts full of soil were brought and shovels, then sweating men built the mound in an astonishingly short amount of time. Still green sod was carefully laid and evermind planted, trusted to grow. Éomer spoke a final time in Rohirric. It was near a whisper; Faramir was uncertain if it was spoken aloud or not. “Ræst, Théoden…min sweoster ond Ic wille lucan ge in sæl.” He gazed across at them; the distance seemed like leagues to Faramir’s wearied, burdened mind; Éomer’s head bent very suddenly, as though to hide tears and he felt Éowyn’s hand jerk just a tiny bit in his.

Voices solemn, low at first, then rising, the song began. Faramir heard little of it, his entire attention taken in fighting waves of emotion; he wondered if this was what a little ship felt, tossing, wheeling, being battered to pieces in a violent, storming sea. Gripping her hand so tightly he knew it must be painful for her, he bowed his head, trying not to fall into unconsciousness. Éowyn did not flinch from his hold, nor when he leaned against her, shuddering a little. The King’s men circled, the song went on and the evermind petals hovered in the warm winds, falling slow, scattering on the lush green grass like tears on the cheeks of the peoples that watched. Please…let it end…

It finally did; the King’s men dismounted and Éomer spoke, “Come, we put away our sorrows—rejoice that he is among our kin now, free from pain and darkness,” The King of Rohan’s voice faltered, his anguish coloring his last words. “Free from grief and the loss of loved ones.”

Oh, how I hurt everyone I touch. Faramir followed Éowyn back through the parting, respectful crowd; she was still cold, still so stern; he only wanted silence, a moment’s peace. But the great feast, I must endure that too, perhaps just a few seconds alone with her…she’s so cold inside…how can I help? He didn’t know.

He finally loosened his grip on her aching hand, his fingers no longer stiff and rigidly holding hers. Éowyn could almost feel him relaxing, still right behind her, but she didn’t release him. They mounted the stairs, walking into Meduseld; her strides were purposeful, those of a woman about to perform some unpleasant but necessary duty. The door-wards were back in their position and they gave her a solemn salute. Éowyn smiled in quick reply, but she did not feel it; keeping herself tight inside, she moved into the halls, away from the main parts of Meduseld, away from people, away, away. Faramir spoke softly, cautiously, “I—I think I’m all right now.”

Faramir stopped walking, their clasped hands forcing her to do the same. His grey eyes were strained still, but he asked, worry coloring his voice, “Are you?”

She stared at the floor, grinding her teeth; her insides were twisting, jumping with refusal to give in. Éomer’s eyes had been full of pain and then tears. “I’m fine.”

Éowyn exploded. Jerking her hand out of his, she shouted, “Stop it! Don’t say that!” He started, obviously surprised. What? She thought bitterly, you couldn’t feel that coming? Faramir recoiled at the animosity of her inner tone.

“I’m…” He fell silent, his expression hurt and…pitying? Does he pity me?

“No! NO!” The last was much louder, as he’d taken a small step in her direction.

Carefully, he began, “All right… If that’s what you want… I’ll be…”

“I don’t care! Go! Go!” She was rigid, frozen as Faramir turned slowly, walking back the way they’d come. Éowyn breathed fast, feeling her anger melt to leave her icy inside. Alone, she leaned against the wall, suddenly confused. Why was I angry with him? He was… It snuck upon her then, her grief—she shuddered with it. I’m sorry, Faramir… Éowyn began to weep, very soft at first, then harder. She sank to the floor, curling her knees to her chest and resting her head upon them. Her tears were hot, soaking her sleeves; the dolphin pendant swung, shining with them. Why did I drive him off? She wanted Faramir, wanted him to tell her it was all right, to hold her. Éowyn tried to stop, but she couldn’t. Crying harder and harder, shaking, she soon didn’t know for whom she wept—Théoden, her brother’s words and his pained gaze, Faramir’s apologies or herself.

There were the sounds of boots. They quickened, moving toward her; she didn’t lift her head, thinking it was Faramir, that he’d returned and when the man sat beside her, not speaking, she hugged him tight. The body was all wrong, there was no mental connection or warm sense of his welcome presence—it wasn’t Faramir. Startled, Éowyn jerked, looking up. It was Aragorn. She pulled away, folding herself back together. “What do you want?”

His arm went around her shoulder, comforting despite the fact he wasn’t the one she wanted to comfort her. “Why do you weep alone, Éowyn?”

Angry, she shrugged off his arm. “I don’t know!” She laughed then, harshly, her heart aching, remembering her brother’s silent, agonized eyes—her place had been at his side, to stand with him, to mourn…I couldn’t and he knew not why…he guessed I loved him less…Faramir had needed her more, hadn’t he? “Perhaps you should get used to it.”

Aragorn did not respond for a while; he took her sore hand, raising it. “What is this?”

“I saw him—he looked troubled…you are not quarrelling, are you?” Aragorn sounded very concerned. She supposed it was because of the discord between he and Arwen. It is kind of him but I wish he would leave.

“No. I don’t know.” Éowyn began to get up, rubbing at her wet cheeks. “Thank you, I’m fine.”

Aragorn stood as well; his crown dangled from one hand; his eyes rested on hers, searching. “You sure?”

“You’re coming?” To the feast, the damn feast. It was the last thing she wanted to do—sit and eat and pretend to be merry when everything was so wrong and the two she loved most were in such pain. Faramir apologizes…it is all my fault, not his. Go or stay, I will break the heart of one of the two men dearest to me…why, why must I? Everything about this is so hard. I love Faramir, I love my brother and every time I stand between them I hate myself because of the pain in their eyes.

Éowyn took a deep breath, smoothing her gown, her hair. Her hand still throbbed where Faramir had gripped it so hard and so long. “Yes, I will come.” She attempted a smile, “How do I look?”

Le melin, le uivelin, le melithon anuir…guren min gaim lín...—(S.) I love you, I will always love you, I will love you forever…my heart is in your hands…

Meleth e-guilen, meleth thilia min hin lín, bannas lín síla celair…--Love of my life, love sparkles in thine eyes, you are very beautiful…

Meleth nín, law lîn síla sui Ithil…--my love, your radiance shines like the Moon…

Amin mela lle, amin naa talle, lle naa vanim—Oio naa elealla alassé.—(Q.) I love you, I am your servant, you are beautiful—Ever is thy sight a joy.

Ræst, Théoden…min sweoster ond Ic wille lucan ge in sæl.—Rest, Théoden…my sister and I will join you in time.

Éowyn walked slowly down the hall, her arm still reluctantly linked with Aragorn’s and, although his presence was nowhere near as gladly received as Faramir’s, she did feel better. Flexing her hand, she flinched—it hurt and was somewhat swollen. The ring gleamed, the pale blue stones’ facets catching the slightest bit of light only to turn it to fire; she played with it, moving it back and forth just a little bit with her thumb. It felt strange still, the weight of it on her finger, her hand. Aragorn spoke suddenly, “What ailed Faramir earlier? He looked pale and sick—I thought he would faint twice.”

She lied swift, instinctively; the way she did so without even thinking surprised her. “I don’t know. I noticed nothing.”

“No?” He turned his head a little; his voice was mild, making her suspicious.

How far can he see into me? Éowyn wondered nervously and with a growing anger. Her mind was Faramir’s alone to see into, to touch and know. “Why don’t you ask him?”

He stared down, intent. Éowyn began to get very angry. How dare you…inside she felt something rise, some force; I could because he could…she thought, though she did not know what she meant. Aragorn stared and after a few seconds she said, greatly perturbed, “Come, we are already late—they cannot begin without us.” As the sole Lady of the Golden Hall she would bring Éomer the cup when it was time. At her words Aragorn resumed walking and she relaxed. I do not think he is the same as Faramir…or perhaps just not as strong? She remembered Aragorn’s voice when she’d been stuck in the dark dream. He’d called and called, but until she’d answered he’d been unable to find her within the cold blackness.

I did not know we came this far. Éowyn was surprised that they were still walking. Aragorn spoke again, breaking the silence with a sighed; “I didn’t do anything.”

“Oh.” I do not think it shall work. If he heard her he gave no sign. “Go on.”

“I confess…I was, maybe, a little persistent,” Despite herself, Éowyn smiled. “…But, really she stopped talking to me before that…Isengard was just a question to get her to speak—to get her to begin talking so that she might tell me what was wrong.”

“And, she’s moved into Galadriel’s rooms—” She could hear the confusion in his voice, “It was never like this before.”

“Like what?” Éowyn listened closely, finding herself feeling better with something tangible to focus on, a problem she could help find resolution to. I hope.

“Before…she talked to me, she told me how she felt…now I don’t know what’s wrong and she—elves can be very, very reserved…Arwen was always forthright with me before.” Aragorn sighed deeply, “I don’t know…she’s giving up a great deal and just for me…but I thought she already gave it up. I don’t understand.”

Maybe she is torn in two; maybe she has regrets…maybe she thinks it’s still not too late for her, that there is the possibility of change… “I’m sorry I couldn’t help.”

“You could, perhaps…” When she glanced his way, he quickly elaborated, “Whenever you felt like it…not today, no, but…try?”
Éowyn nodded, puzzled, “I already said I would.” He is very distraught, then, to ask twice. Aragorn smiled gratefully at her and then they were there.

They entered the main hall; it was filled with crowded tables. Servants bustled to and fro carrying wine for the nobles and the Knights. Éomer’s eyes were immediately on them; so were Faramir’s and Arwen’s. The Queen gazed at them as they entered together with their arms linked and although it was all very proper, her cool expression made Éowyn wonder yet again if she knew anything of her former infatuation. Uncomfortable, she slipped her arm out of Aragorn’s, keeping her hand down by her side and the ring out of sight. He nodded, moving away to sit at Arwen’s side; the Queen’s head was already bent, she was no longer looking at them.

“Sister.” It was hesitant. Éomer gave her a very small smile, obviously forced; for the first time Faramir had been seated beside her and Éowyn felt his grey eyes though his mind did not touch hers. I am between them…how fitting. He was being careful, restrained not only because of the elves, but also because of her. He fears that I am greatly upset…she licked her lips anxiously, feeling trapped between Éomer and Faramir’s gazes, chairs, hearts.

But before she could sit there was ceremony to do. A minstrel and loremaster came, bowing low before her and Éomer as he stood, and gave to her the gold cup of Kings. It was filled and the water from the Snowbourn sparkled. Water from the river, from our land, she thought. It holds our spirit.

He watched her, feeling far better in the Hall. Here were lesser people and their emotions did not run near as high. Still, his temples throbbed from the aftereffect and he wished for his room, to sit in the quiet. Éowyn held the golden cup in her hands and Faramir winced guiltily, seeing how hard he’d squeezed the one. Éomer’s eyes fixed upon her ring and her hand and then shifted to him; it glinted blue and white against the gold, standing out. Faramir ignored the questioning gaze, instead admiring Éowyn. Her gown shone brilliantly white, glowing in the hall, and her flaxen hair fell upon her shoulders in waves as she bowed her head. Her lips were slightly pursed, her brow creased; he felt her concentration. The minstrel began to recite the names of all the Lords of Rohan, beginning with the mounds on the west-side. “Eorl the Young; and Brego, builder of the Hall; and Aldor; and Fréa; and Fréawine; Goldwine; Déor and Gram; and Helm.” Faramir listened in respectful silence, as did all the folk. He recognized most of the names from his history lessons over the summer. “And then the line was broken.” The minstrel paused deferentially before going onto the east-side, “Fréalaf, Helm’s sister-son and Léofa and Walda and Folca and Folcwine and Fengel and Thengel and…” He paused again, “Théoden.”

When Théoden’s name was spoken Éomer took the cup from his sister’s hands. He did not drink immediately, but smiled at her—it was a gentle smile, full of love and sorrow. His lips moved, mouthing the words: “In lecgan mid Théodred, Ic astand.” Éowyn smiled back, her hand going to her face as though to hide sudden grief and her brother inclined his head to her. In one draught he drained the cup and she turned, crying in a strong voice that belied the deep sadness in her eyes. “Fill the cups! We drink now to our new Lord!”

Faramir gazed at her, silent. What am I doing? It crossed his aching, weary mind almost absently, but the thought scared him. What am I doing here? Sister and brother looked at each other again and he leaned low to whisper into her ear as servants moved quickly. Whatever he said made Éowyn close her eyes and Éomer moved closer, hugging his sister tight with one arm. His gaze lifted to Faramir’s—it was fiercely protective, almost angrily defiant. She murmured something and pulled back, wiping her face, composed again.

Faramir studied at her sadly, wishing he could help, but this was not his place. It was between them, the grief—that much was clear. They mourn…I do not. Looking at his goblet of wine, he thought, few lamented my father…he was passed over as the last of the old age; his name shall be forever reminiscent of fire, death and betrayal to the new, beloved King…can I say I grieved for the last of my blood? He could not tell whether or no. As the servants finished, Éowyn bade them all rise, “Arise, Riders of Rohan and the more than worthy friends of our people, our esteemed guests on this day.” The crowd stood, lifting their cups. She turned to face her brother and her blue eyes were clear as she smiled, “Hail, Éomer, King of the Mark!”

The Knights’ voices rang louder than any, echoing joyfully and as he, too, shouted in chorus, Faramir watched Éowyn bend her head, tears back on her cheeks. “Hail, Éomer, King of the Mark!” The folk drank. He swallowed, tasting the rich wine and feeling his head ache from all the commotion.

Sitting at last, she did not look at either, instead nervously reaching for the dolphin pendant, only to realize it was still at her wrist. She fiddled with it while the feast began—the food was hot, still steaming as it was served; Éowyn was not hungry yet. Merry, she noticed, was nearby too, seated at her brother’s side. The hobbit gazed at her sadly, poking at his meat, but not eating either. Few were and those mainly picked at their filled plates. Beside her, she felt Faramir’s eyes upon her again; their weight was peculiarly easy to sense and familiar. The hand the ring rode upon was on her leg, hidden. His hand fell from the table to touch hers, hesitant, but when she did not move he stroked her fingers; the calluses on his hands felt good. When he squeezed she winced because it hurt and he smoothed it gently, apologetically. Faramir’s hand was warm when he rested it on hers, apparently intent upon leaving it there.

Feeling a cross between gladness at the comfort of his touch and growing aggravation that he clearly thought she needed comfort, Éowyn picked up her cool, sharp wine and drank deeply, draining it. Her head swam for a few moments; she’d all but drunk her dinner the night before and had no food since. Éomer looked at her in concern and she looked back, defiant as a servant refilled her goblet. Éowyn shook Faramir’s hand off of hers, ignoring his brief, hurt glance and reached for her bread, using both her hands to tear the thick crust. Steam rose, the center was soft and chewy; it smelled delicious. She was hungry now; he can hold my hand and console me later, must everything I do upset him? Is he that sensitive? In case he was listening, she thought, What a woman you are, Faramir.

Éomer’s eyes focused on the gleaming ring again, as did others’. She clenched her jaw, ripping the bread into small hunks and soaking it in her soup before she ate it. It was good, hot and meaty; suddenly starving, she ate uncaring that she was one of the only ones doing so. It is a feast, I shall feast. At her sides, she was aware of Éomer looking from her ring to Faramir, who looked back, utterly tranquil on the outside at least. I can still feel how ragged he is inside, though, like shredded cloth…it hurt him much, but he tolerated it to stand beside me. Éowyn glanced lovingly at Faramir, feeling her irritation fade. He’s so good. Her brother frowned but his voice was easy, “Where did you get that pretty thing, Faramir?”

For just a moment she felt his amusement; it was unintentional, she thought; his nearness made his feelings extend over onto her. The link, it gets stronger every time he reinforces it…I can still feel him, no matter how he’s holding himself in. Éowyn listened as Faramir thought; I found it walking in the garden… “In the marketplace in Gondor.”

“Hmmph.” Éomer made a noise of comprehension and the conversation died yet again until Merry made a valiant but ultimately unfortunate effort to save it.

Éowyn found herself smiling at him, cheering slightly. “Is that so?” I will miss lighthearted hobbits…I must visit their land one day. She looked at her scantily laden plate, her still half-full bowl of soup. And I shall let them fatten me to their content. Faramir glanced sideways at her, the corners of his mouth turning up just a bit as he answered.

“Indeed, I would have been hopelessly lost but for, of course, Master Merry’s direction.” She would have laughed until she caught the sudden attentiveness in her brother’s eyes. He looked calm, but when he spoke it was cool, distrustful. Éowyn tensed—it was a tone he most often used when he decided whether to push an issue.

“Is that right?”
Faramir became wary, but he replied in his usual polite manner, “I suppose so.”

Éomer looked at her, asking, “Do you like it?” It was dreadfully rude. Éowyn did not like her brother’s tone this time either, regardless of the words. What is he doing? What does he mean do I like it? It’s pretty… He means something else then …I don’t know. Suddenly the thought of drinking herself into a stupor and passing out upon the table, like an overused harlot in a tavern, was terribly appealing—if I am unconscious I cannot see or hear what they do. Besides, the embarrassment I can deal with, this…them…I cannot. Aragorn frowned across the table; Arwen looked back and forth between Éomer and Faramir, as though seeing them for the first time.

“Of course I do…” She gave him a stern glance. Stop it, Éomer. “I’m wearing it.”

“Then we were lucky Master Merry was there.” The conversation would died once more but Faramir spoke again, as though he could not quite keep himself silent. His voice was borderline ridiculing, the caustic tone ghosting below his usual courtesy.

“Aye, I’m not sure what I shall do the next time.” Why is he continuing? Disgusted and perplexed, Éowyn stared at Faramir.

Éomer’s knife made a sharp sound on his plate. “Perhaps you should know by now what would please her.”

There was anger in Faramir’s eyes, and victory as he struck, creating a crossroad in their verbal war—surrender or violent escalation—yet she got the distinct impression his words were unwillful, he did not wish to say them and yet the urge to enrage her brother was too strong. “Perhaps I do already.”

Éowyn became as tense as Éomer did; his jaw clenched and he went stiff with fury. Aragorn spoke swiftly to stop whatever he might have said; there was clear anger in him at their behavior. Arwen gazed at her husband, scrutinizing as he coldly snapped, “I think we should speak of something else now.” All up and down the table folk were paying attention, eyeing the King of Rohan and the Steward.

“You’re right.” Her brother’s glower did not leave Faramir, but he relaxed. Merry was wide-eyed, worried looking. For the second time Éowyn drained her wine in a series of quick gulps. I simply cannot pass out quickly enough for this day to end.

She smiled, feeling strained, feeling her displeasure and anger…what would please me would be for the both of you to act reasonably!… her voice was contemptuous. “The wine is good.” Éowyn signaled for more, gazing at both her brother and Faramir. See? This is what you fools drive me to. Look close, my dears, I will show you truly disgraceful behavior soon enough.

I know you’re sorry…well, she gathered all her mental strength and hurled it at him in a burst of fury, curse you, keep your apologies! I hate them! He flinched and she closed her eyes, feeling cold and heartless though she’d triumphed. I do not wish to argue; I do not want them to fight…why? Why must they do so? Do they enjoy acting like children?

He answered again. No. I…I don’t know why. I tried to stop myself—he just…I don’t know why I couldn’t be silent. It was—I should not have said that, I know, I’m…

His inner voice was so pleading and bewildered that she felt terrible. Éowyn took his hand under the table, stroking it because to squeeze would hurt her. It’s all right. He laced his fingers with hers, his thumb gently rubbing. Éomer stared at his plate, silent.

Merry did not appear willing to try again, so Éowyn took a deep breath. Théoden would not have tolerated this and neither will I—this is not my brother’s hall alone yet, if they refuse to act decently I will have them both tossed into cells. The thought made her grim and disheartened and Faramir glanced her way, surprised. “Aragorn?”

He eyed her, “Yes?” Éowyn raised her eyebrows. Help me, you idiot. “Oh…ah…”

“Why don’t you describe for us the wonderfully astounding place of Isengard, dear?” Arwen’s tone was chill and Aragorn grimaced. “I hear so much about it.” After a moment in which the King searched for any response, Éowyn simply laughed, feeling a sudden, strange comradeship along with the buoyant warmth of all the wine she’d drunk on an almost empty stomach. She, too, is about to be driven mad, I think. Picking up her goblet, she drank it as well, though slower than the first two. If I do not wish to be drunk, I’d better eat. She plucked up a bit of goose, savoring the tender meat.

I think that is a good idea. Faramir looked at her in concern and luckily not reproach, at which she would have exploded, audience or no.

Aragorn was still silent, so she prodded him. “Go on…in case I never go there either.” He gave her an annoyed glance and Éowyn laughed again. They were looking at her now, Faramir and Éomer. Éowyn lifted her fourth goblet and smiled widely to the both of them as Aragorn began.

Éowyn laughed rather loudly and Faramir gazed at her, wondering if she were drunk. His eyes met Éomer’s and they both looked away. He, too, feels ashamed. Many of the folk had moved now, seating themselves in various places according to their conversational preferences. Pippin had joined their small group at the head of the table and now he spoke up in a surly voice, “You didn’t do anything! Isengard was a victory for us hobbits!”

“What?” Aragorn paused in his account, looking irritated. They’d all begun to eat now, as well as drink; the feast is actually going much better, Faramir thought.

“We won it! You should give it to us!” Éowyn burst out laughing. Apparently encouraged by this, Pippin continued, “Greedy! We brought the Ents there! It is our spoil of war!”

Faramir blinked, remembering with a sudden amusement that he’d not felt the first time—I, too, am a spoil of war. He looked at Éowyn as she smiled at Pippin. Yours, my darling and well won. “I am not…” Aragorn stared at the hobbit, interrupting himself to ask in exasperation, “Whatever would you do with Isengard, Pippin?”

Éomer chuckled, “You could fit a lot of hobbits in there. They could live in it.”

Éowyn covered her mouth, giggling breathlessly. Faramir frowned; noticing was Éomer frowning too now.

Merry waved one hand, “Be quiet, Pip, we don’t want Isengard.” The tall hobbit slumped way down in his chair. “Oh… All my corners are filled, I can’t eat another bite.” Éowyn put her face into his shoulder, giggling again. “Well, maybe another.” Merry reached across the table, straining. Arwen covered her mouth to hide a widening smile. Faramir sighed, shifting so that Éowyn could better lean against him. She is, I think, quite drunk.

No, no…only slightly, I feel very good and warm. Hobbits are funny little things. She slid her chair a little closer to put her arm around him and lay her cheek on his shoulder.

Enjoying her nearness, Faramir glanced down at her golden head, glad at least that he was no longer angering or saddening her. Why is it he always makes me lose my temper? He eyed Éomer; the man was deliberately not looking their way to, Faramir assumed, avoid seeing her cuddle closer. Amused, he realized something and asked her, am I being used as a giant pillow?

Yes, and you’re quite comfortable. Éowyn stroked his neck, her fingertips tracing around his collar. He felt her smile in her words, her mind. I might have to use you later.

Is that right? Will I finally get into that wonderfully soft bed? She laughed in her head; the surrounding conversations broke their internal one.

Aragorn only looked annoyed. “Merry, that is not…exactly…proper language in the Shire and I’m sure it is not proper here.” Frodo and Sam had gone away with Gandalf to sit beside Elrond; Faramir wondered if Aragorn felt like he should at least preserve some manners in the younger hobbits with the temporary absence of their elders.

Éomer laughed, toying with his own goblet of wine. Faramir thought he’d drunk the least. Perhaps he fears losing control. He looked at his own all but untouched spirits. Perhaps I do, too. The King of Rohan grinned, “And I thought hobbits were innocent folk.”

“You, my oversized friend, were deceived.” Pippin smiled and popped a bit of cheese into his mouth, immediately followed by another. He gave Aragorn a mischievous look. “Unlike my retiring cousin, I have many corners yet…and all shall be filled today.” The hobbit sounded thoughtful, “You know, it is not every afternoon that I’m so completely sated—”

“What? Fine!” Pippin sighed deeply and reached far across the table to snatch up some corn. He bit into the ear; the vegetable looked gigantic in his small hands and Faramir hid his smile, not wanting to offend. I don’t know how he can hold that…must be sheer will power alone keeping it in his fingers.

Arwen smiled back across the table, her own laughter bubbling up. “I do, too.” The two women laughed then, loud and wild, and, amazed, he wondered how much Arwen had had to drink. Éomer snorted, shaking his head,

“Forget the hobbit, Aragorn…that was not proper.” His eyes met Faramir’s and the message would have been clear without any abilities—my sister had better not know why she is laughing, Steward.

The women looked at the sober, puzzled men and laughed harder. I don’t even think I know why she’s laughing. Éowyn raised her head off of his shoulder and Faramir listened in further amazement as she snickered and teased, “Yes, brother and that song you made up involving the great river and a Gondor woman bathing after a night with her lover…that was perfectly proper, wasn’t it?”

Incredibly, Éomer flushed a dark red. “I know no song about…that, sister.”

Éomer said quickly, “I think not.” Faramir chuckled, amused and surprised to see the man so thrown off balance.

Éowyn sat up in her chair, clearing her throat. “You want the long version or the short, Arwen?”

Aragorn scowled. “Be quiet and behave, Peregrin.” Merry laughed as Pippin scowled back, mimicking the King’s expression. Faramir began to wonder if all were drunk or almost so except for him, Éomer and Aragorn. It is the middle of the afternoon…but, then, it is a feast…

“Shh! All of you!” Éowyn took a deep breath. “In geardagas…wait, Aragorn, you translate for me, make this easy.”

Arwen punched his shoulder, laughing lightly. “Do it, do it, Estel. I want to hear.” The King looked at her, stunned, and then nodded slowly. To Faramir’s curiosity he immediately grinned at Éowyn, as though communicating something. She smiled back encouragingly; Faramir sensed she was happy for him. Perhaps they are no longer fighting. Thrilled as well, Faramir looked to his love…did she help somehow? Éomer made one last effort,

“Éomer, yes, I am!” Cheeks flushed, her blue eyes sparkling, she shushed her brother again. “Now, quiet!” Faramir watched, incredulous that the man would allow this, allow himself to be humiliated in his own hall. I think only she could tease him so. This is the different side to her, the bold girl again. It was getting harder to identify the emergence of Éowyn’s impertinent half; she’d become so accustomed to him, so fearless. Faramir did not mind the difficulties; they only pleased him. I like it—so shameless, brass…singing a lewd song! He smiled as Éowyn began once more, “In geardagas…” She gave Aragorn an expectant look and he put his hand over his eyes, muttering,

Éowyn laughed, sitting straight. She smiled, singing clearly, “A cwen hwæt Gondor eode tó se easteð, ond sægþ…”

“A woman from Gondor went to the riverbank and said…” Aragorn sang well, but sounded as though he was under the threat of great and terrible torture. Faramir understood a few of the words in Rohirric and he thought Éowyn’s voice was beautiful, slightly roughened from the wine and even almost roughened with cheek at the song itself. He looked at her as she went on, singing slowly, suggestively and with a little giggle,

“Min lufiend aleoga…” There was silence and they all turned to Aragorn, who shook his head rapidly. Faramir could only translate the first two words. My lover…what? He judged by the King’s expression that it was rather bold.

“What is it? I’ll sing it!” Pippin cried recklessly. Merry laughed, still slumped with his little hands resting upon his rounded stomach.

“Listen.” Éowyn giggled her way through the words she whispered into the hobbit’s pointed ear and Pippin grinned wide as he sang, deliberately very high and womanish,

“My lover left me unfulfilled…” It broke them all up for a few moments; Faramir grinned, feeling merry for the first time during the feast.

“Éomer…!” Arwen was red-faced, breathless with laughter. The King of Rohan put his head in his hands, groaning in embarrassment.

Éowyn laughed at her brother, continuing in her clear, sweet voice, “Ond hwil she ongyrwen,”

Pippin yelped, “Me! Me!” Again Éowyn giggled wildly, but managed to impart the words. Pippin sang, gesturing bawdily enough to make them all laugh, “She said: River, take my body…”

“I was a boy! I didn’t know better!” The King of Rohan slumped in his great, carved chair; his hands hung over the wooden, flared nostrils of the horses that adorned the arms. “And I certainly didn’t think she’d ever hear it to sing it. It gets worse. Far worse.”

Arwen was laughing delightedly and she cut him off, “I think it’s wonderful!”

“Shh! Lagustream…gret min cneo, min hrif, ond min botm mid eower mid finger brim… Gret min bósm mid eower finger…mid min finger, eower hand is min hand…min nîwe lufiend…” Éowyn dissolved into more giggles, this time hysterically, even as Aragorn shook his head in outright refusal. Faramir understood just enough to burst out in astonished laughter himself. The song…is about a woman alone…touching… I can’t believe he made that up…! Never, never I would have thought to…

Aragorn was still shaking his head, “No one is saying that, the song is over!”

“All right; and I’ll translate it at the end, since Aragorn is such a old maid that he cannot.” She took a deep breath, singing airily, “Ge-logian eower hand betweox min…”

Both Kings yelped, “Éowyn!” Faramir was too astonished to speak; he understood that well enough. There was silence then, broken only the women’s wild laughter, Arwen’s apparently at the expressions occupying the men’s faces. Éowyn finally sobered and smiled,

Hugely amused and still shocked, Faramir asked her, his voice low, “How’d you learn these…things?” He glanced around the Hall. If any had heard, they were not offended by the lyrics—he sensed no disapproval. Such a song would not have been tolerated at the High Table in the City… he frowned, thinking. Surely she wouldn’t…

She twisted a lock of gold around her finger. “Éomer cut my hair half off—I looked like a stable-boy. He didn’t even recognize me.” Éowyn smirked, “I learned lots of things.”

“What kinds of things?” Arwen looked intrigued and then she laughed, “I think a better question, Faramir, is where did Éomer learn things like that?”

Éomer growled at his sister, “You’re not answering either of those.” Faramir laughed when she stuck her tongue out at him.

You’re a flatterer. She scooted her chair so that the arm touched his and she leaned against his shoulder again. The circlet of gold touched his cheek; it was warm. But that’s a perfectly tolerable quality, I suppose. He took her hand to play with her fingers, massaging them. Oh, that feels good...

After a moment the Queen smiled wickedly, glancing at Aragorn, “I know a poem about the King’s scepter…”

Éomer grinned, looking at Aragorn, still toying with his full goblet. Faramir had not touched his in a long time. “You wrote it didn’t you?”

“Well, then, it might be good.” He gestured to Arwen, “Let’s hear it.”

But the Queen had something else on her mind, “Might be good?” She eyed her husband, “Estel, did you share your poetry?”

Aragorn made a noncommittal noise. Éomer’s grin widened, “He did. It was awful.”

“I know…raven does not really rhyme with Lúthien, does it?” Faramir laughed out of sheer perplexity…why would he do that? “And that wasn’t nearly the worst.” Curious, she asked, “Where did you hear it?”

“Tavern?”
Faramir thought that if Éomer noticed the dangerous tone in Arwen’s voice, it seemed only to amuse him. “Yes.” Arwen fell silent then and Faramir felt her mood shift back into the state of stony hardness it had been at the beginning of the feast, though he was unsure why…didn’t he used to do go into inns and taverns all the time? The others, too, fell quiet and snatches of conversations from around them flowed back and forth. A servant moved to refill Éowyn’s goblet and Éomer gestured him away. Feeling her stiffen and grow angry, Faramir tensed. She sat up, lifting her head from his shoulder and taking back her hand as she said coolly,

“Undoubtedly a good idea, brother. I might embarrass myself.” Her eyes were as carefully detached as her tone; “I’ve already embarrassed you.”

“I did not mean…” Éomer looked uncomfortable. “Do not begin this now.”

Faramir watched the man fiddle with what remained upon his plate, trying to ignore her purposeful stare. He tensed further when Éowyn turned to him, sensing the challenge in her. Blue eyes demanded, “Faramir, tell me, will you do things like that?”
What? Nonplussed, he didn’t know what to say; he could find no diplomatic response that would please them both. Faramir was acutely aware of Éomer’s attention; both their gazes rested upon him and he felt pinned in place, bound between brother and sister. What do they want from me? Aragorn winced, giving him a look of deep sympathy. Merry, Pippin and Arwen frowned, the Queen’s eyes narrowing while her mind filled with an interest he could not define. They were all waiting upon an answer, so he gave them the truth—it was all he could think to do. “No, I won’t.”

She looked gratified, but Éomer shook his head bitterly. “Of course you won’t, you’ll not pay attention, let her run wild and then…” He bit off his words, looking away.

Éowyn snapped back, “Perhaps he sees that I am not a child to be overseen at all times.”

“I do not oversee you! I care about you and very soon I will not see—” Éomer fell silent and Faramir cursed his gift I wish, I wish I could be deafened to this as he mentally finished the sentence…you at all. The unspoken words were painfully apparent; judging by the way that all eyes fell.

A stiff silence reigned. Aragorn eventually broke it with a sigh, tapping his knife on his plate; the ringing noise reverberated through Faramir’s head, restarting his headache. “Come, let us not fight, my dear friends. Not today of all days.” It was well intentioned, but none spoke. Like birdsong in the background, barely heard, he could sense the King tripping through various topics before settling. “Tell us, Faramir,” Why me? He wondered tiredly. “How far along have you come with Emyn Arnen?”

Immediately both Éomer and Éowyn were paying attention and he could feel their anxiety pressing upon him, but it was Merry who spoke. “You know, the sooner you can finish, the sooner,” The hobbit grinned, trying to lighten the mood, “we can come back to visit you.”

She relaxed and Faramir found himself doing the same; Éowyn smiled, happy at the thought, “I would love that, Merry.” Teasing, she added, “The both of you, the four of you. You could bring your wives and all your children to stay for a while.” Glancing over, she added for him alone, Imagine, little hobbit children, they’d be like puppies, I bet—all roly-poly and rumble-tumble with pointed ears and curly hair and feet too big for them.

Pippin snorted, “None of us are getting married very soon…” The hobbit glanced down the table towards Frodo and Sam and a sly glint came into his eye. “At least I’m not. You have plenty of time, Faramir.”

Merry nodded, “You should come and visit us, Éowyn. We’ll show you how beautiful the Shire is.” Faramir felt her delight at the prospect.

“Because.” He grinned, “You’ll have to bow to me when I’m the Thain and Merry, too, when he’s the Master and I don’t think you can bow that low.”

Éomer’s voice was careful, too much so. Tensing again, Faramir replied, “I’ve picked a site and I’ve some plans drawn—”

“That’s it?” His anger, so recently cooled, flooded him again. Éomer kept his face expressionless, his voice neutral—only his hands betrayed him, fingers tapping irritably at the jewels on his golden crown. He’s set it before him on the table and it shone. It was, to his relief; nowhere near the lavish thing Aragorn dealt with, but still, the weight of it bothered him. His sister frowned, but this topic he could not drop. Picked the site? Some plans drawn? Does he have any idea? “No further?”

“Well,” Faramir was treading just as carefully as he was. They were both mindful of Éowyn, her gaze going back and forth. “I was kept too occupied over the summer to ride much into Ithilien.” There was the subtle flash in the man’s grey eyes; “Learning what I have of Rohirric took up a great deal of my time.”

Time? What duties does this man do? Stewards are counselors! Aragorn has an entire room of those useless creatures! What could Faramir possibly add? “I see.”

His sister, who’d been smiling a moment ago, was gradually fading. Slumping, she played with her ring; the flickers caught his eye as it moved. It was a pretty thing, but it would not take the place of meaningful deeds or useful activity for her. Does he think her happiness can be bought with trinkets? She likes it, yes, but what when my sister is expected to sit idle in the courts with the nattering women? She will waste away and she knows it, too…she will not be happy so. Does he not realize? Must I tell him this? Worried, he asked in a sharp voice, “How long before you will be able to house my sister fittingly?” She would be happy with duties, with actions to plan, people to care for…in the White City there is naught for her to focus upon. Too long it was that I did not see her unhappiness, how is he to know? He’s spent barely any time with her. Éowyn lies well when she wants. Terribly worried now, he asked, “Do you at least have men ready to begin building?”

Faramir’s diplomacy held strong under the questions, when he answered it was courteously removed. “I’m not sure how long. I have no one ready.”

She would be happier left here, where she is of use. The Steward’s gaze seemed to freeze for a second, puzzling Éomer—it was like the man had reacted to his thought; mystified, he said nothing as Faramir continued.

“It will be a year, maybe more, until it is completed enough. There are few settlements deep in Ithilien yet, the shadow of the Dark Land still lingers enough to make them wary of establishing permanent homes very far from the river.”

He will be Prince of an empty country. My sister shall wither away in the City if few are willing to enter deep enough into Ithilien yet. He will need stoneworkers, carpenters, men upon men. Camps to hold them, food…winter comes, will he even build in winter? Horrified, Éomer thought, will my sister sit at leisure until spring? She would, I think, rather die. Again Faramir’s eyes betrayed something odd, a quick gleam, but he kept on, “As soon as I return, I will begin.” Ah, so there he challenges me. As soon as he returns…he is eager and would no doubt like for his tour of duty to be quickly finished. Éomer looked at his beloved sister. The sooner he returns, the sooner I am alone.

All challenges, no matter how small, deserved to be met—anything less would be indications of softness. “Your return depends upon how quickly you learn.” Faramir did something then, almost a recoil. It bewildered Éomer; he’s not spoken that harshly. Immediately his sister glanced at the man, her eyes piercing with concern.

This time it was Aragorn, who spoke, “How long do you expect, Éomer? How long until I have my Steward back?”

“He starts in two days—we’ll give him a horse tomorrow and some simple duty the next day,” He took a drink of his wine, tempted to jest about Faramir mucking stalls, but did not, “and then he’ll ride with a small company.”

I, too, will go. Éowyn can look after Edoras perfectly well. He feared Faramir might be harassed if sent alone and as far as he knew the Steward had no friends among the Rohirrim. I might not like him much, but she does… He’d seen the man take her hand and he’d watched Éowyn lean against him; neither action had bothered him, Faramir, at least, was discreet and refrained from kissing or openly caressing her. Éomer had observed particularly closely during the song, waiting for any signs of reproach—there had been none. I have not seen my sister so lighthearted and laughing in a long time…if there is any chance he caused or contributed to it, he smiled grimly, I must make sure he stays alive and well to return to her. Éomer looked into his wine, watching it swirl. No matter what it does to me.

Now she’d been reminded of her future and Éowyn toyed with her ring, moving it around and around on her finger. I’d all but forgotten…Faramir glanced sideways at her, looking troubled. She’d been glad that the both of them, this time at least, had been able to converse without resorting to childishness, but now all was quiet. He jumped inside; I wonder what for…something bad, I felt it when my brother said those words. She abandoned playing with her ring and took Faramir’s hand. He gave her a small smile; it was weary.

Across the table Arwen was looking forbidding again. Éowyn had been gladdened when she’d spoke to Aragorn and when she’d laughed at the song. I wonder what plagues her so…it was an attempt to escape, thinking about the elven woman’s trials, to forget again her impending separation from her homeland, her brother. Pondering Arwen did not work and she looked at her brother—he stared down into his wine, his brow furrowed and his eyes dark. Beside her, Faramir shifted, stretching out his long legs. His uneasiness she could feel; Éomer’s she could guess. How long? How long will my brother put him through his paces like a horse that is tried before buying? I doubt even he knows. It could not be forever; certainly Éomer could not get away with it any longer than a month. Aragorn would send for Faramir, I think.

Lifting her eyes, she gazed over the crowded tables. All were finished now, only nibbling at pieces of food and sipping their drinks as they told stories or gossiped and she wondered when her brother would call an end to the feast. I wish soon. Éowyn looked outside, it was late afternoon, getting close to sunset. It is later than I thought; I am tired. She wanted a bath and then to rest. The ghost of Faramir’s headache had been flitting through her temples every once in a while, bothering her—at the moment it pulsed just out of focus, distracting.

As though he’d heard her, Éomer looked her way. He smiled with his eyes firm on hers; there was a glint of pure grief in them, but love shone through it as he stood. Faramir shifted at her side, coming suddenly aware. Conversations waned then halted all over the great Hall as people noticed her brother standing, waiting for their attention. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for just a moment, gathering himself. When he spoke it was in a tone that betrayed none of his sadness the second before, but was quite jovial. “Now this is the funeral feast of Théoden the King; but I will speak ere we go of tidings of joy, for he would not grudge that I should do so, since he was ever a father to Éowyn my sister.” His voice stuttered just slightly; she doubted anyone but her noticed. “Hear then all my guests, fair folk of many realms, such as never before been gathered in this hall!” Here he paused again, no more than an eye blink, but it was to glance at her and smile bravely before continuing.

Éomer hates speeches, she thought and felt herself weak with sorrow. “Faramir, Steward of Gondor, and Prince of Ithilien asks that Éowyn Lady of Rohan should be his wife, and she grants it full willing. Therefore they shall be trothplighted before you all.”

Éowyn stood as he extended his hand; it gripped hers firmly, a reminder of thousands of other times. Faramir stood as well, coming behind her. He was grand in the dim hall, light glinting off of his armor. Her brother was, too, but Éomer gleamed with the dark chestnut of well-tanned leather with gold, green and ivory—colors of the earth beneath her feet, her wild, wide homeland. Faramir was darker, black shining with brilliant white and cool silver —his colors told of a lifetime in shadows beneath a threatening gloom and only a far-off promise of light. The contrasts seemed to embody everything to her for a moment. Sun-beorht, niht-helm…no wonder they cannot get along… She stood before the amassed peoples, feeling overly conscious that all eyes were upon them. Aragorn smiled, looking happy and Arwen brightened too. Merry and Pippin did as well, the younger hobbit giving her a wide grin. Faramir came close and his mind was gentle, offering what support he could until he stiffened, feeling her brother’s scrutiny.

The men stared at each other over her head for a second too long, locked in some struggle she couldn’t understand before Éomer put her hand in Faramir’s and spoke cheerfully, “Drink, Riders and my fair guests! Drink to the union between Rohan and our staunchest ally!” Despite his words, there was a clear threat in his eyes; Faramir’s expression was neutral, but there was steel below it—she could sense him grow adamant, his stance rigid in response. Éowyn gritted her teeth, feeling trapped. They towered over her, one broad, the other spare, but both braced, tensed as though in contest. There is fight in them still; I shall have to imprison them before this is over, I think. She didn’t know whether to laugh or weep at the thought—both would have been bitter.

The two youngest hobbits upended their oversized goblets, and then whooped loudly, making her laugh and both men beside her relax. Frodo and Sam smiled, their eyes shining with amusement; Gandalf was gazing with particular interest at Faramir, his bushy eyebrows furrowed and the rest stood glad. Her brother’s voice came a little easier; he looked at her alone, “Thus, is the friendship of the Mark and of Gondor bound in a new bond, and the more do I rejoice.” It was a lie…and yet not, I think. She smiled for the crowd, feeling helpless.

Aragorn said teasingly, “No niggard are you, Éomer, to give thus to Gondor the fairest thing in your realm!” Arwen’s eyes went from her husband to Éowyn, who wanted to laugh again. Is that why she’s mad? Does she think…? It was absurd, so she put the thought from her head. Her brother had grown tense again at the King’s good-natured words and Faramir’s feet shifted apprehensively, his hand tight on hers.

Oh, help me, Éowyn thought and spoke, hoping he would hear the plea, “Wish me joy, my liege-lord and healer!” Can you hear me, Aragorn? Will you help, as I will try to help you? Friends together? His dark eyes narrowed just a tiny bit and Aragorn inclined his head, answering with his speech formal,

“I have wished thee joy ever since first I saw thee. It heals my heart to see thee now in bliss.” There was the smallest of nods and she smiled in return. Thank you.

Éowyn pulled away, giving them both a cautious smile and sitting once more as Merry chattered happily at her, but he was unaware of the hobbit’s words. Éomer stepped close, his hand falling hard upon his shoulder and his voice was low in Faramir’s ear. “Ic alecg ge hwa Ic lufie mæst, tó healden fægen ond hal. Do ná bræc ge-leafa mid me.” His eyes were impenetrable, “Do you understand?” He was smiling for the amassed peoples, as though they exchanged no more than a pleasant word, but his mood was harsh.

Not all …but the idea, oh yes. “Gea, Ic do.” With an effort he kept his tone deferential, completely composed, and the King of Rohan moved away to reseat himself. Some of the gathered, now released, were dispersing—mainly the elves, but some soldiers as well. Glorfindel, Elladan and Elrohir were moving together, approaching; the tall elf shook his head, interrupting the twins’ even before they could speak.

“Nice?” The elf scoffed teasingly, using his body to block her from Elrond’s sons. The twins frowned. “Nay, my Lady! You don’t have to talk to them—they are not worth your time.”

“No!” The tall elf straightened dramatically and Éowyn burst into giggles, finally nodding and sobering a bit,

“Ah, you’ll regret it—one question leads to thousands…” Glorfindel shook his golden mane. “Best to deny it ever happened, my Lady—” He leaned close, lowering his voice into a conspirator’s whisper, his eyes bright with mischief, “Or you’ll be labeled a hero and never let be.” Throwing his arms out, he cried, voice high with mock distress, “It was always, Glorfindel, there’s a beast, come and slay it…or Glorfindel, there’s a noise outside, go and see what it is—!” She laughed helplessly; Arwen shook her head, a smile on her lips. “It is always I who must take the brash and daring tasks of slaying bugs and rousting dust balls…it is quite unfair, let others share in my accolades!”

“Fine, fine…” The tall elf sighed deeply and leaned in to hiss, “Lie, my Lady, lie when they ask you was it big and terribly fierce? Tell them it was rather small and sickly! Trust me, I know from experience, these things will haunt you for the rest of your days!” He grew sly, “Though, I swear time and again it was another bearing my name who did the great deed.”

Her face smoothing with an effort, she said, “Ask me.” Beneath her smile and bright blue eyes Faramir felt her dread of the question and he wondered what it was about, protectively sliding a bit nearer.

“We wanted to…” Elrohir, he thought it was, paused, warily eyeing the tall elf and then continued. “We wanted to know if it was difficult for you to—”

After the elves had departed, Faramir struggled to hold himself calm. Éomer’s torment threatened his mind, flooding it with dark emotions, making him angry and muddled as well—the man was exceedingly strong. I’ve done this once, he thought…I became him…I don’t wish to do it again. He was afraid the strain, after the labors of Théoden’s funeral, would shatter him like glass. He thinks about her lying still and pale, he thought she was dead… Faramir gritted his teeth, trying to push the man’s thoughts away. Éowyn was quiet, subdued. She’d answered the twins’ question, but had fallen silent immediately. He sensed her unease.

The hall had grown louder even as it emptied and Pippin, then Merry pulled out their pipes using the candles on the table and bits of wood they’d apparently carried in to light them. Aragorn looked wistfully at them, but the hobbits made a great show of ignoring him and were soon puffing smoke his way.

Éomer and Arwen looked disgusted, Éowyn had a strange expression upon her face; she swallowed and glanced at him—it was almost worried. Faramir frowned. What?

The…dream, the smoke reminded…it was nothing, really. Éowyn didn’t feel like it had been nothing—she felt upset. Giving him a forced smile and standing, she excusing herself. “I’m afraid I’m leaving you here.” She was smiling at the hobbits. “Among these terribly dull and oversized folk.”

“We’ll do something tomorrow, Éowyn?” He grinned around the pipe stem, but his keen eyes were wary; Pippin perked up and his expression made Faramir wonder just what he was thinking of. Unfocused mischief was prominent in the Took’s mind as Merry went on. “We only have a few days before...”

“Of course.” She nodded quickly, “We’ll do something.” Éowyn bowed just a little to Aragorn and Arwen; the King inclined his head in return, his gaze steady. She then smiled back to him, “Faramir.” You still want to be my pillow later? I’m taking a bath, so it will be a while, but…

My love, oh, yes. He smiled in return; despondent she was leaving, and worried. What bothers you? Tell me then? Was it the question? His and Éomer’s behavior? He didn’t know for sure. Perhaps all together.

Éowyn did not answer him. Instead, she moved around to the head of the table to the back of her brother’s chair and put her arms around him. Her lips moved; she was speaking into his ear. Éomer’s hand clasped her arm; he turned, nodding very slightly and Éowyn smiled. It was a far happier smile than he’d been able to get from her all day and Faramir was jealous until he caught himself. She is right, we are children. Éomer’s eyes lifted to his—they looked grudging and his mood was one of reluctance. And yet…he gloats; Faramir knew why immediately. I, I got only a smile, while he gets a hug, a private word…unreasonably jealous, he glared back at the King of Rohan, who smiled slowly. Éowyn hugged her brother again, murmuring and his answer broke their eye contact. Whatever she says, he will do, though he does not wish to. She put a small kiss upon her brother’s temple, and then she left.

A moment later, Arwen stood. “I’m afraid, I too, shall be leaving.” She inclined her head to Éomer and, ignoring Aragorn altogether, followed Éowyn. The King gazed after her, mournful.

Faramir would not leave and Éomer toyed with his wine, looking at him in irritation. His sister had departed almost an hour ago and now the great Hall stood all but empty. Only a few conversing groups remained. At the head of the table, he was alone with Aragorn, the two hobbits and…him. The Steward had leaned back in his chair, apparently content to sit quiet while Merry and Pippin chattered. Go away, Éomer thought. He could not relax in Faramir’s presence.

The Steward’s grey eyes flicked in his direction then returned to Aragorn, who’d been looking at Pippin’s pipe for quite some time. Suddenly the King snatched it.

“Oh, be quiet.” He held it up, just out of the Took’s reach. Pippin’s face screwed into a fierce scowl and he drew back one fist to hit Aragorn in the midsection, but he said quickly,

“Don’t you dare Peregrin Took! You are still in my service!” Inhaling deeply, he looked satisfied as he blew out of long stream of smoke. Ugh, disgusting. I don’t know how he enjoys that.

“Give…it…back!” The smaller hobbit lunged upwards with each exclamation, but couldn’t reach, so he began to climb up, intending to stand upon his chair. Aragorn, seeing this, took another quick puff; Éomer tried not to laugh and failed completely. He guffawed, delighted, as the hobbit stood swaying and grabbing at the pipe Aragorn held just out of reach. Faramir, he noticed, wore only a light smile at the spectacle. He has, I believe, no sense of humor. Merry pulled Pippin back down and handed him his own pipe.

Aragorn scolded, “Pippin.” He shook his head, “Greedy, am I? It seems I remember some hobbits that had in their possession two bags of pipe-weed and could not share one for their good friend—nor could they tell him where they’d gotten it.”

Éomer chuckled, amused at the King’s clear exasperation. Pippin sighed, “I told you, we didn’t remember…Shadowfax found it.”

“The hobbit has a point.” Éomer grinned as Aragorn gave him a dark look. “Mearas are very intelligent.”

He laughed, feeling relaxed until Faramir spoke, reminding him of his presence. “How smart?”

It is a simple question…she asked me to be civil…he answered brusquely, barely looking at the Steward, “About as intelligent as a child.”

Aragorn stirred, but was silent as Faramir went on. The hobbits shared the pipe, blowing smoke everywhere; their bright eyes peered out of it. “How do you measure that?”

Why do you care? “You can tell when they are foals—they learn quicker, remember better.”

Apparently, the man had many questions. And all are annoying…do they teach nothing in the White City? “Are all mearas white?”

“They are dark when they are born, but,” He sighed, “they turn grey as they mature.” There is no such thing as a white horse you fool. Leave me be.

“Do you train them differently?” Did he do this with Halorl? Éomer felt his irritation rise; he was barely able to keep from snapping,

“You don’t train a mearas—you ask and they decide whether to learn or not.” He ground his teeth, anticipating the next query, “Shadowfax declined.”

His words had been somewhat sharper than he’d intended, but it had the desired effect—Faramir did not ask another question. After a moment, Aragorn handed Pippin’s pipe back to him. The hobbit looked pleased, but Merry frowned and when he eyed the King, he nodded and then hopped off of his chair. “Come on, cousin…let’s go and see what Frodo’s doing.”

“Frodo? Sam’s probably already gotten him—oh.” The Took nodded rapidly at Aragorn’s dark stare. “Right, Frodo, yes, we’ll go see what…he’s doing. Goodnight Éomer, Faramir.”

“Goodnight.” The hobbits bowed low and left, their bare feet padding. What was that about? Faramir glanced his way; he, too, looked slightly puzzled.

Aragorn sighed deeply; his expression was reluctant, but firm. What…why? Éomer had the strange feeling he’d gotten as a lad, the guilty anticipation that came moments before he’d received a scolding, but the King turned first to Faramir. His tone was weary, “Gandalf wanted to have a word with you…it will have to be tomorrow, I suppose.”

“I would have told you earlier, but I was comforting Éowyn,” Now his tone was unforgiving, harsh, “she was weeping alone in the halls while you two sat here glaring at each other.” Éomer stiffened, weeping alone in the halls? A chair down, Faramir shifted, his brow creasing; he looked guilty to Éomer. What did he do?

“And it wasn’t him, Éomer.” Obviously his suspicious glower had been too noticeable. “I don’t know what,” He gestured between them, his lip slightly curled with repugnance, “this is, but I’m tired of it and so is she.” Aragorn did, indeed, look tired as he went on. “There is no reason the two of you cannot get along.” He paused, gazing back and forth between them, as though waiting for a reply.

Faramir seemed about to speak, but he did not. Éomer tapped his fingers upon his crown again, angered. It rattled just slightly on the table, jewels and gold glinting. I am not a child and Aragorn is no parent of mine to lecture me about my behavior—that was what it felt like. For a briefest of seconds, as the King continued his eyes met Faramir’s grey ones and there was the same aggravated amusement there…but he quickly looked away. This is ridiculous.

“Now, as I see it, the two of you can use your arrangement to do one of two things,” Aragorn held up his hand, index finger raised, “One: kill each other and make Éowyn and all of your friends very upset.” He paused, “Or, two: become friends and make Éowyn and everyone very happy.”

Kill first. For the smallest of instants Éomer would have sworn Faramir glanced at him and came close to bursting out in laughter…but that was ridiculous, too. He cannot hear my thoughts, he’s not an elf…he wondered if his face had been too telling; Éomer leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath and blanking his expression.

“I think the second option would be best, don’t you?” Aragorn asked bluntly, looking back and forth. He was clearly waiting for an answer this time and Éomer muttered,

Faramir did the same. “Yes.” Again, their eyes met and again, he had the impression the Steward felt like laughing as he did, but could not quite do so—Aragorn’s adopted position of father figure was too strong.

Aragorn looked pleased, clasping his hands in front of him and leaning forward to ask in a more cheerful tone, “Good. Now what’s the problem?”

Oh, no…no, I won’t. He clamped his lips, refusing to speak. What did the elves do to him? This is not how a man solves things…

Faramir was gazing about absently, mute as well and after a few seconds of complete silence had elapsed and it became clear neither of them would talk, the King slapped the table hard as he could, making the plates, cups and utensils jump and the candles flames flicker wildly, “Speak!”

He’s gone mad… The Steward’s eyes narrowed, but he was silent and Éomer gritted his teeth. Fine, if he is too cowardly… “What do you want?”

“Fine!” Aragorn stared at the table top, then spat furiously, “Faramir, you’re going first. Now, I think we’re both fairly aware of his,” Éomer was treated to a glare, “objections to you, so, tell us yours to him.”

“He…” Éomer stiffened, waiting and finding himself bizarrely interested as Faramir began haltingly, “He…doesn’t…he doesn’t trust me with Éowyn...”

His anger exploded, “Trust you? Why would I? Every time I see you you’ve got your damn hands—”

“Quiet!” Aragorn’s eyes were like a sword shining sharp and threatening and he feel silent, “You didn’t want to talk!” The King turned back to Faramir, “Go on.”

He grimaced, “I don’t see why…if she trusts me and you trust her, then you can’t trust me.”

“Very good.” Aragorn looked pleased and Éomer felt like retching. “Go on.”

Faramir’s words came just a little easier, “I’ve done everything you’ve asked so far, without complaint, and I’d like a little respect. You are aware this is ridiculous, right? I do this because I respect you and what you want for a man for Éowyn.” He paused, thinking.

Oh, how you lie, Steward. Respect? You do not do this out of respect; no, you do this out of desire for my sister and your own foolishness that led you into it like a silly young stallion runs after a mare—you didn’t look where you were going, did you? And, now you’ve gotten yourself into something you’d rather not…and, assuredly, if I said you could marry her tomorrow, you’d forget ever agreeing to do.

The man’s grey eyes flashed with anger—it was an anger that puzzled Éomer because he’d not spoken, but he held onto his courtesy, “I’ve tried to make it so that you do not feel I’m stealing her…I think I made it plain you can visit us whenever you wish and that she can come back here…” His brow furrowed, “I don’t understand…surely you saw this coming? She’s a brave, beautiful, intelligent woman. She wouldn’t stay here forever, and if it had not been me then it would have been another, Éomer.” Faramir’s face was pitying? Éomer felt his innards freeze and his body stiffen, Does he pity me? The Steward said softly, cautiously, “She’s not a little girl anymore, you’re going to have to let her go.”

His voice fell in the quiet, like drops of ice, hitting the hard floor and shattering. Éomer thought he would explode trying to contain the cold fury that filled him. “Do you think I’m not aware of that?” Gúthwinë felt heavy at his side, burning him through his clothing.

“You keep saying that, but I don’t think it’s true.” Aragorn was looking back and forth, keeping silent, keeping watch.

“Tell me, then, what you know, Steward.” The words replied were strange, almost a chant from deep within Faramir as his grey eyes went as dark as storm clouds:

“You think I wouldn’t keep my word, that I’m too eager, that I could never protect her like you could. You don’t think I can keep her happy, and that I won’t notice if she is unhappy. You don’t think I know her and you don’t think I can ever know her like you do. You don’t trust me with her, you saw how afraid she was with men, you think I’ll frighten her…she’s been smiling, you don’t want that to stop.”

Faramir paused, then his voice came again, lower, “It makes it worse that I’m taking her so far away, and you’re worried she’ll forget you, that you’ll be alone here. You watched your mother die of loneliness, the sickness wasn’t that bad, she didn’t want to live anymore…everyone you’ve ever loved has died, they got out of your reach, out of your sight and they died.”

Aragorn looked startled. Éomer stared at him, growing frightened as Faramir drew to a close, “You don’t want to be King, you’re afraid you won’t be good at it, you want her here to help, to support you. She’s better at things like that, better at organizing men, horses, running a kingdom.” His grey eyes shifted color, lightening again as he added. “You’re afraid and you hate me because I’m going to take the last person who, when you look at her, you know who you are and what you’re place is.”

There was a dead silence. Faramir slumped back into his chair as though released from something; the hair at his temples was damp with sweat and the hand that rose to touch them quavered slightly. Aragorn recovered first, asking, “Éomer?”

He couldn’t speak. There was no way Faramir could have known those things, not even his sister knew them. He is a witch. Now the King’s voice was concerned. “Éomer?”

“What?” It came from far away; he stared at the Steward, feeling chills crawl up his spine. Witch.

After a few heartbeats, Faramir looked at him and Éomer heard it then, unmistakably clear and unmistakably in his head—the man’s lips did not move even the littlest bit. No, I’m not.

He jerked back instinctively, the heavy chair scraping on the floor and Éomer fled his own Hall, too unnerved to be ashamed. What had just occurred was beyond his comprehension.

She brushed her hair; it was only a little damp still from her bath. Éowyn stared at herself in the mirror as she worked the bristles through her thick mass of hair. I wonder when Faramir will come… It had been a long time. I suppose he’ll go to his quarters first, to change out of his clothes, mail and such…a little while longer then…

Suddenly her door slammed open and she jumped, whirling. The bedroom door was only cracked and she couldn’t see whoever had entered. Éowyn gripped her brush tighter, quite ready to use it as a weapon if she had to. Faramir…is that you? She doubted it; he didn’t seem the type to go around slamming doors, that was more like...

“Éowyn?” It was not Faramir it was her brother. He sounds…scared… That was ridiculous. Éomer was never scared, unless she was hurt or sick or something. Her robe was on the bed; she grabbed it up and wrapped it around herself as his quick, heavy steps came towards her.

Lagustream…gret min cneo, min hrif, ond min botm mid eower mid finger brim …

Gret min bósm mid eower finger…mid min finger, eower hand is min hand…min nîwe lufiend…

Touch my bosom with your finger…with my finger, your hand is my hand…my new lover…

Ic alecg ge hwa Ic lufie mæst, tó healden fægen ond hal. Do ná bræc ge-leafa mid me—I give you what I love most, to keep happy and safe. Do not break faith with me.

Aragorn heaved a sigh and drummed his fingers on the wooden tabletop, "Well, you've been a great help. I had something good going there. You two were close to an actual, civil conversation, close to really unearthing the foremost problems between you. Why'd you have to do that?"

"He asked me to tell him." It was an effort to speak; Faramir's temples throbbed, the pain stabbing spikes into his head in regular intervals. He kept his eyes closed, taking deep, slow breaths, waiting for his headache to recede. I did too much, he thought. Too much today...

The King sighed again; there was the sound of him picking up his goblet of wine, and then drinking. He put it back down with a clunk that resonated all throughout Faramir's head; he wanted to lie it down, but settled for propping his chin with his palm. There was slick, clammy sweat on his forehead. He wiped it off. Across the table Aragorn was tapping his fingers again, thinking. After what seemed a long time, he said,

"You're going to harm yourself, Faramir, if you don't stop." Aragorn paused before adding, "You don't look well..." His voice became more absentminded, "I can see..." He sounded relieved, "You just need to rest, I think."

"Yes." Imagining his bed, or even better, Éowyn's soft one, he smiled faintly. What I'd really like is to curl up in her bed with her, and maybe she would sing something nice and low...something soothing...let me just rest against her... quiet and warm and soft...like when I awoke this morning. So pleasant.

"What?" Opening his eyes, Faramir looked at him; the candlelight made the spikes in his temples drive just a little deeper and he squinted in vain.

"Where did he go?" The King's expression was darkly determined; "We're finishing this tonight, Faramir."

Oh, no...I can't. "I...I don't..." His voice was thin, weary. I sound like an old man. I feel like one, too.

Giving up, he put his head in his hands and groaned, "Éowyn. He went to see Éowyn."

Aragorn's hard eyes softened just a little. "Good. Come on. She can help us talk sense into him; he'll listen to her, if not me." The scrapes of their chairs were like a rasp being drawn across his nerves, flaying them, and leaving his head feeling lamed and painful and Faramir grimaced. Even his teeth hurt from repeatedly clenching his jaw. This day will never end, will it?

He'd plunged through the halls, his steps quick with agitation and now, in her rooms, he stood in a quandary. What can I say? I will sound cowardly. "What is it?" His sister's eyes had gone wide at the sight of him; Eomer wondered how disturbed he looked and rubbed at his face. She tied her robe tight, tossing her flaxen hair off of her shoulders and asking, "What's wrong?"

He still didn't know what to say. Does she know? Does he do that with her...speak in her head, read her thoughts? Éomer shuddered uneasily; the idea made him feel like spiders were creeping on him, their hairy legs tickling his skin. How horrible that must be to know that he knows everything; what else can Faramir do? "I...um..."

Éowyn sat on the arm of one of the deep, stuffed armchairs, folding her leg under her. Her brow was furrowed and she worried her lip between her teeth, looking at him in concern. "Come, sit by me and tell me." He hesitated. Patting the chair's seat, she ordered this time, "Come."

It was also a trap. Immediately, she put her arm around his shoulders, leaning on him with her chin close to his collar and murmured, "Émer...tell me what's wrong." Her childhood version of his name, from, so long ago it seemed now, when she could not say Éomer, never failed and she knew it. I am doomed. I cannot lie to that.

"What?" Éowyn's voice was slightly defensive and she sat back a little. "What did he do?" Her eyes searched him quickly, finding no physical damage on him and no obvious anger in him. She looked more worried this time, entreating gently, "Tell me, Éomer?"

Éomer repeated, "A witch." A smile tried to bend her lips, crease her cheeks; Éowyn put her hand to her mouth, folding the knuckles to hide it.

Frowning at her lack of reaction, Éomer clarified, "He is. I heard him talk in my head."

"Oh." She looked down at him with her eyes still mystified. "Is that what you came in here...looking like you saw a ghost...about?"

"You...know?" Surely not...surely she could not stand that...who could? It would be terrible to be so vulnerable...

His question had been so inaudible with his shock that she'd not heard. "Did you call him that?" She looked very close to laughter and he frowned, not understanding. At his silence Éowyn blurted, almost in delight, "You did?"

"I thought it." His voice was slow, deliberate; Éomer was only half there--the rest of him was stuck thinking, why isn't she more disturbed? Why? There was really only one answer.

"He said in my mind that he wasn't." He didn't bother to mention that that had been when he'd bolted from the table. Shame hadn't touched him then, but it curdled his stomach now. I ran like a coward. This is my hall, my home...

Éowyn laughed, apparently not perturbed at all. She knew...she's comfortable with it...how? He gazed at her, suddenly feeling very much as though he sat next to a stranger. This couldn't be his little sister. Éomer was afraid and he stared up at her as she smiled. I've lost her already, haven't I? Intuitively he added, to something, someone I will never be able to understand. She's slipped away to a man of whom I'll never be anything less than deeply distrustful.

"You can't go on like this...you'll hurt yourself. I can tell how strained you are, how little strength you have with almost no reserves even...it's not healthy to keep doing this, Faramir."

"Gandalf was very concerned when he saw you earlier today. He wanted to speak to you right away, but you'd already gone back..."

"Faramir, are you listening to me?" Aragorn halted in the hall, looking irritated.

"Yes." You can't hear me can you? He couldn't tell--he felt emotions clearly, but heard no thoughts--Aragorn's mind was strongly shielded in that. Faramir supposed it was from all the years he'd spent travelling the Wild and on dangerous tasks. Lucky him.

They began walking again. "Good." He added after a few steps, "Stop doing that, too."

It was hard to tell if Aragorn heard or not. "You need to ease up, relax; you're just wearing yourself down."

Faramir stared at the floor; the concussions of his footfalls sent small throbs of pain through his head. I thought it might help Éomer, might show him I understood and that I could not be fooled by any of Éowyn's pretenses of happiness... His voice came out strained and thick, "You know, I do so many things wrong...it's actually become hard to keep track."

Aragorn halted once more, both looking and feeling furious. "Do not say that to me."

"If you wish." He was so tired, aching. Faramir tried to gather his energy, he was certain he would need it when they met with Éomer again, but it seemed he had no energy to gather. I'm exhausted.

"All right." Anything for peace, anything for a moment's quiet. That will soon end...they were nearing her quarters. Each stride took him closer to the inevitable confrontation and Faramir just felt wearier and wearier. I will probably pass out before anything gets resolved. The thought gave him a tiny bit of amusement.

He did not look half as disturbed now, but that, Éowyn knew, was a lie. Éomer's bland expression meant he was only more upset, more bothered than before. He burst in here, he looked badly frightened...Faramir frightened him ... It was strange to think of her brother being afraid of anything, being assailable-he'd been the one who'd slain all her childhood monsters, the shaggy, slimy things that had hid in the corners and under the bed. Éomer had been her hero and she supposed he still was. Suddenly protective, she questioned,

To make you so upset my beloved brother. "In your head, to make you call him a witch."

"He didn't speak in my head first...he, he told me my thoughts. Things no one could know."

"Oh." Éowyn had leaned back against her brother; with her arm over his shoulders, she could feel how tense he was. His muscles were tightly bunched and Éomer's words had been clipped. He doesn't want to tell me. "Well, what did he say?"

"No, that's fine." She patted his arm, worried and trying to understand. He was strangely withdrawn. Her brother was never like this, so reluctant and holding back with her. What did Faramir do?

Éomer spoke slowly, carefully; there was a faltering confusion in his eyes. "Does he...does he talk to you...like that? Do you do that?"

"Easy." She smiled, straightening on the chair's arm. Éowyn brushed some of her damp hair off of her shoulder, curling a few light strands around her index finger. Her ring was on the little table next to her bed, along with the jade bracelet; the dolphin pendant hung securely around her neck, back in its perpetual position. "I like it."

"Well, not the very first time...it bothered me, too. I was scared, but then, Faramir showed me how he felt and..." She could tell by his eyes that Éomer did not understand. Éowyn frowned, unable to explain it better. Eventually, she added, "I could tell he loved me, that he wouldn't deliberately do anything to hurt or scare me."

Éomer's words came quick, "Yes, you are. He can see into you, but you can't do anything to stop him or control it...it's horrible, it's..." He grimaced, "an attack, a violation of your mind, your most private... He can do anything he wants..."

Appalled, she gasped, "No!" He made Faramir's gentle and loving mental communication sound akin to rape. Perhaps he was not so gentle with my brother...alarmed, Éowyn bit her lip; he didn't comprehend what she was trying to say, though he was trying to express his own perceptions. It was better, at least, then his strange withdrawal a moment before. "It's not like that at all, Éomer." Faramir is not like that…do you not see?

His brow furrowed in perplexity as he thought, sitting back further in the chair. Paying her close attention, he asked, "Then what is it like? What else could it be like? I don't understand."

“You read his?” If possible there was even more shock in his voice; something stirred in her brother’s familiar eyes. It was almost fear. But, before she could respond there was a sharp rap at the door. He tensed and Éowyn frowned at him.

What did you see Faramir, to make him so upset? Her heart grew harder. And why did you have to tell him? Why did you have to look into him and speak to make him feel like this? If it were for retaliation for any of her brother's remarks, she would have his head tonight. Éomer has no defense for such things. To him it is truly an attack. Éowyn looked at the door, feeling suddenly very angry and very protective.

He barely resisted leaning against the wall; it looked as comfortable as a bed. Faramir closed his eyes while Aragorn rapped on the door again, poised to open it. "You're sure he's in here?"

"Yes." He wondered if he was swaying and spread his feet to steady himself. It was no effort to feel Éomer's location; Éowyn's either, but that was natural, he was used to that-Éomer is something different. Somehow he'd become tied to her brother, as well as her. Perhaps because their minds are so linked, they think of each other often and are so close...he wasn't sure he wanted to be bound, even distantly, to Éomer. What I want is for him and Aragorn to leave so I can go to sleep, even if I have to beg her to let me stay. His head still ached, rhythmically thumping, his pulse resounding thickly and painfully in his temples. I feel sick.

"Come in." Éowyn's voice sounded displeased and Faramir's eyes snapped open; oh, what did he tell her? I must have been weary indeed not to think of what Éomer would have said. She's angry, I can feel it...oh, why, why did I speak? Why couldn't I leave him well enough alone? So what if he hates and distrusts me? Éowyn loves me and that's all that matters, isn't it? The King opened the door and he made up his mind. All right, whatever Aragorn wants me to say or do, I shall-anything to speed this, anything to rest. Faramir stepped into the room fully prepared to surrender his will. It was not a new sensation. I've done it often enough, it shall be easy.

His sister stood when Aragorn entered. Her back was straight and her chin was up; Éowyn stared at them and her very posture was a challenge, "What--" that faltered immediately as her eyes shifted to Faramir. The Steward had come in slow with his movements awkward, almost uncoordinated. His sister bit her lower lip, shifting back and forth on her feet; she looked back at him and straightened. But there was less confidence in her question now, "What do you want?" The King frowned, eyeing her.

"I want to end this tonight. I would like to come back to Edoras and find peace between these two." His voice was slightly confused, as though he'd not expected her opposition and did not know how to act. Éomer gazed at Faramir, feeling horribly unprotected. It was ridiculous and the emotion angered him--he had Gúthwinë as always, and one good shout would bring his guards. He was in no danger...no physical danger...he could do anything to my mind, though... Éowyn's stance had not warmed, even as Aragorn stepped hesitantly forward. Faramir followed with his movements sluggish, clumsy, it as though a string attached him to the King and was the only thing keeping him on his feet. Still livid, he thought, Witch. What have you done to her? The man looked up; his head had been down; his grey eyes were bloodshot and terribly weary. Éomer frowned, his unease and anger flipping briefly to concern. What is wrong with him?

Aragorn answered cautiously; he was still eyeing her posture, measuring its combativeness. "I would prefer not to."

His sister replied coolly, "I would prefer you did." Faramir's shoulders slumped; relief radiated off of him. Éomer gazed up at Éowyn, noting the way she'd moved to stand almost in front of him. She feels she must protect me...that was unacceptable; he was the one who protected her. Gathering himself, his will, Éomer spoke quietly,

"If he wants, I will do it." Faramir sighed and walked to one of the wooden chairs. He sank heavily into it, propping his forehead with his hand. Aragorn glanced at him, but kept his position in the center of the room, his arms crossed in determination.

She turned to look at him, but not before her eyes had strayed worriedly to Faramir. His sister looked divided, "You sure?"

"Yes." He had no desire to go anywhere or for sleep. I still do not understand how you can tolerate what he can do, sister. I want to know how you changed so.

"Fine." Aragorn rubbed his hands together, looking momentarily at a loss. "Let's see...where were we?"

Éomer leaned back in his chair; it was comfortable and familiar; Éowyn returned to her position on the arm, her back against the side as he muttered, "I just found out Éowyn was wedding a witch." To his surprise she jammed her elbow hard into his side, right between the ribs. Wincing, Éomer shifted and gave her a look he hoped showed his compliance. All right, I won't call him that if you don't wish me to, at least, anywhere that you could hear me.

Faramir groaned. "I'm not..." He stopped abruptly, mumbling, "fine, I am. Whatever you like."

"He's not...it's a gift that runs in his blood, in the Steward's line." He knew as well, and did not bother to speak. Aragorn attempted to explain further, but Éomer gazed at the Steward, noting the way his body slumped into the chair, the sweat at his temples, the listless way he stretched his legs and then closed his eyes--Faramir looked horrible. A gift...it looks like a curse from where I sit. He is in pain. I saw how he looked at the funeral, though then I did not grasp why...this gift, as Aragorn calls it, hurts him. Éomer’s eyes narrowed. Good. Then, glancing up at Éowyn, he watched her watch Faramir--her hand was up to her mouth, she chewed her knuckle, fidgeting. She worries...she would not worry so if she did not love him...yet, how could she stand what he can do? Éomer was unable to understand that, but he did understand one thing--it would please her for them to talk later. I, too, am tired...I need time to think. He trained his eyes upon the Steward. He looks like he's just going to keel over, anyway. No fight in him at all now. The prospect of sitting quietly and talking did not appeal to him. Tomorrow, I will get Éowyn alone tomorrow and ask her. I will behave civilly and speak with Aragorn to mollify him, and then...he gazed at Faramir, and then I will talk to you about what you've done to my sister.

Taking a deep breath, he adjusted his voice to its most imperialistic. "I've changed my mind." His tone left no room for arguments.

"No. Tomorrow." Éomer stood, not missing the way Faramir's eyes opened to look at him. Is he reading my thoughts? The idea made his skin crawl. Does he know I do this partially for his sake? It is dishonorable to fight an ailing man, even if you're only quibbling.

"All right." Aragorn did not appear very upset; perhaps he, too, was wearied. "Come on, Faramir." The Steward rose slowly. Éowyn did as well, moving a little closer to the three of them. She looked at Faramir and he gazed back, his expression melancholy and strained but neither spoke. Then, oddly, to Éomer, Faramir looked relieved. His step was even slightly quicker as the two men exited. What was that? He wondered if they'd spoken. Right in front of me? How long have they been doing that? How can she do that?

Turning, Éomer managed to smile at her through his disconcertment and confusion. Who are you, Éowyn? Who have you become? Did I sleep and awaken to a woman who looks and sounds like my sister and yet isn't? "Goodnight, sister, sleep well."

To his surprise she hugged him, her arms tight. Éowyn gave him a kiss on the cheek; her eyes were sad. "Goodnight." He held her a second longer than usual, remembering when he'd had to bend nearly double to embrace her, when he'd said goodnight while leaving her in her little cot, promising to keep his wooden child's sword at hand for protection against bedtime monsters. He was right; she's not a girl any more...he swallowed a sudden misery. She has no more use for me.

"I'll see you tomorrow." Éomer walked out of her rooms and into his own, shutting the door and leaning against it. What shall I do with myself? I worry because she might feel purposeless...but will I be any different?

Éowyn sank into the chair, waiting for Faramir to return. He'd asked her, his inner voice small and meek; she'd said yes, concerned about him. The immediate and gigantic relief she'd sensed had confirmed her decision. I am still very angry, but I will save it for tomorrow, he looked so awful... She folded her legs up, thinking, If those men think they can do this without my presence they are fools. It concerns me, too. Éomer will not speak to them, he is difficult. They do not argue, he does. She smiled faintly. Bickering is how he communicates and at times, the only way. That is in his blood.

Éowyn looked up as her door was pushed back open. Faramir stepped inside, closing it quietly. He stopped in the center of her room and simply looked at her. What do you want me to say?

What? Realizing what he meant, she said quickly, "No. Don't." Éowyn gazed up at him, his weary eyes and his slumped shoulders. I cannot be mad when he looks so unwell... Her heart stirred, wanting to ease the pain and the exhaustion she could sense. "Tomorrow I will shout at you, tonight," She stood, "Come here." Faramir came within reach and she took a breath, "Tonight I will let you alone."

First things first... Éowyn reached up to the clasp on his dark cloak. "Do not thank me, I will scream at you tomorrow," She paused again to stare at him, her fingers touching the warmed metal, "I mean it, I am very angry." It was some sort of strangely intertwined star and leaf, raised and gleaming silver. Very unlike the simple clasps of her people, she had to stand on her tiptoes to see it to know how to unfasten it. Faramir turned his head just a little, so that his lips came close to brushing her forehead, but he didn't close the gap. Conscious of his breath, his eyes and the heat that radiated off of his body, she took his cloak away, laying it neatly on the chair. Dyed an inky sable that gleamed duskily, it was trimmed with white stitching in the ever present, repeating pattern of tree and stars. Do they ever get tired of that? she wondered.

Éowyn glanced up at his face; it was sober, still weary; Faramir wore nothing upon his head to signify his rank. "Why don't you have a...?" She touched her hair.

"Boromir did." He looked down at her. "I have it, but I don't like thinking about wearing it."

"Oh." Next, she began to loose the leather knot across the lower part of his over-tunic, pausing to lightly brush her fingers across the decoration, which was, naturally, embellished symbols of the white tree and stars. The knot loosened, she took it off of him and threw the over-tunic into the chair. The cuirass' breastplate and backplate took her a moment with her fingers roaming to find out just how it was connected, as well as did the fawld hanging down over and across his hips. Éowyn unbuckled them, along with the rounded steel pauldrons over his shoulders. Under and beside the coal-black leather, the steel armor was radiantly lustrous, glimmering fitfully along its curves in the candlelight. Niht-helm ond gullisc, she thought and Faramir's mind gently questioned.

Shade of the night and...the other is hard...essence of silver is closest to the Common Tongue. He was watching her hands. Éowyn licked her lips, aware of his eyes upon her. After a long moment, he asked,

"He told me you spoke in his head, read his thoughts and then told him." She felt her anger engulf her anew. "You shouldn't have done that to him--he's not used to such things." Her fingers moved quickly up, taking off the cuirass that covered his chest and back and Faramir lifted his arms, moving for her. Along with his fawld, tasset and pauldrons, Éowyn lowered the surprisingly light thing to the chair's seat and began to undo his bracers. He turned his arms outward a little, giving her access to the laces to better free him. The arm bracers were sable, too, with the drawn-out, slender white tree on them; they were slightly worn where the bowstring might contact. She wondered if he had worn them while hunting or into a skirmish. It was hard to imagine how Faramir would fight; she thought he would be patient, allowing his opponents to come to him; the opposite of Éomer's style.

Dropping his bracers, she paused, gazing up into his grey eyes. They stood very near, only inches from each other. Any other day she might have taken her time and enjoyed this task, using her closeness to tease, but at the moment Éowyn was too embittered just remembering the expression on her brother's face. Looking back down, she muttered, "It won't help at all. You've just made things worse."

Faramir raised his hands to aid her with his haubergen, but she pushed them down, gentle as possible. His chest expanded under her stroking fingertips as he sighed, "Maybe, maybe not."

Sliding her fingers over the warm metal links, feeling its slight difference from the mail her own people wore, she looked up, growing irritated. "What do you mean, maybe?" Her voice grew tighter. "We'll see tomorrow." There was a tiny flicker of hope? What does he hope?

Faramir answered, He did not feel so upset when he left. His tone was placating, "But I suppose we will see." Sliding her hands to his sides, Éowyn began to unlace the haubergen. The mail was warm from his body; she finished as quick as possible, dropping it to the chair; having seen his rooms in Minas Tirith, she did not think it would bother him that nothing was folded or ordered. It jingled softly, the links shining in a bright pile next to his other armor.

"You are too tall. This would be far easier if you had more hobbit in you." The padded doublet was quickly removed and he gave her another wee smile, coming closer to make it simpler as she unbuttoned his dark, finely embroidered over shirt.

"You'll take too long at it. I don't want to watch you struggle and I've already started." He stood motionless as she lowered it over his shoulders and down his arms; Éowyn dropped the shirt, again conscious that they were very close. There were small clinks as it settled, shifting the mail; she undid his belt, trying not to think at all. Leaving it undone for the moment, she kicked away the pile of clothes at her feet, giving herself room.

Faramir's breath tickled her brow as he asked quietly, sounding almost amused, "How far are you going with this?"

I am still angry, she reminded herself. Her tone was brusque. "Not far as you'd like, I'm sure."

He laughed just as quietly. Don't overestimate me...I'm too tired to act like a stallion.

Despite her irritation, she smiled as she whipped his belt off and added it to the small mound. Who ever called you a stallion? Faramir hemmed and hawed with a weary sort of playfulness and she smiled again, gesturing, "Sit." He did so, sinking heavily into the other soft chair; the first was covered in his things. Falling to her knees, Éowyn attacked his boots, unlacing them. Faramir leaned his head back, when she glanced up his Adam's apple moved as he swallowed and he rubbed his forehead, covering his eyes. He looked strangely vulnerable sitting that way, with his throat exposed, arms lax; he looked naked and defenseless. Quickly bending back down, she concentrated on undoing enough of the laces to free him. She pulled his boots and socks off, wrinkling her nose and dropping them. Faramir made a small chuffing noise of amusement. "All right, get up." Éowyn surveyed her work as he laboriously stood-she'd stripped him down to only a thin linen shirt and his breeches. And in record time, too.

This made them both smile a little. He looked down at himself, then back to her. His expression was gentle, apologetically pleading. "Ic lufie ge."

"Ic eom giet hatheart." She cupped his face sadly, feeling stubble prickle her palms. "Ac, Ic geaf bæc eower lufu in ful." Éowyn smiled, "Æfre, min deore."

Faramir leaned into her hands, murmuring as he turned to kiss one, "Ic dyde ná hicgan hit," He paused, not knowing all the words to adequately express himself and finished hesitantly, "He sewe hit in swilc... ac yfel weg..."

Éowyn sighed and hugged him, arms pressing to his sides, her cheek to his shoulder. "Hit wille beon eall riht."

"Gea." Faramir still looked so weary; Éowyn kissed him lightly, holding his body. I will make it so. Come. Taking his hand, and lifting the candelabra in her other, she led him into her bedroom. Pointing at the bed, she ordered, "Get in."

Faramir yawned, turning back her blankets and sitting leadenly. Is there anything I can help you with?

Despite herself, Éowyn smiled as she untied her robe and then folded it and placed it neatly into one of her drawers. Clad only in her nightgown, she moved to the dresser, running her fingers through her hair. It wasn't brushed as well as she should have, there would be horrible snarls in the morning, but she wasn't bothering. I thought you were too tired.

No, get in and go to sleep. He obeyed, sighing with deep satisfaction as he lay down on the feather bed, only to look at her. Faramir blinked slowly, wiggling himself deep into the blankets and resting his head on a pillow.

She stared at herself in the mirror wondering what she would do the next morning. "In a moment." Éowyn rested her hands on the dresser, only to jump a little--there was a crack in the mirror, down by the base as it set into her dresser top. Lifting her fingers, she touched it. The crack was thin and short, just superficial, barely noticeable. But... It hadn't been there before, she was sure of it. It must have happened this morning...she remembered him, his mouth hot, and his body solid and hard with the armor as he'd pinned her willingly. She'd laughed at his impudence, reveling in it and his strength, his feverish hunger. Éowyn touched the slim fracture in the otherwise perfect mirror, recalling him eagerly driving himself against her and rattling her dresser hard into the wall. Glancing back at Faramir, she thought with a chill, bad luck...that means bad luck. His eyes were already shut; she sensed he was close to sleep, drifting down into unconsciousness even as she looked at him. I am silly, it is just a crack, it means nothing... Uneasy, Éowyn turned away, moving to her bed and blowing out the candles as she did so.

Sliding beneath the blankets, she was surprised when he moved, wrapping his arms around her. "I thought you were almost asleep."

"Not without you." Faramir nuzzled her neck, giving her a warm kiss there. Facing him, Éowyn felt his front expand as he took a deep breath; "You smell good."

"The soap, it's scented with some kind of flower. I don't know which." He was pressed to her, cuddling tight and needy. She touched his brow, smoothing his hair, letting her fingers run down the side of his face; he sighed again and she felt his whole body relax.

It was mesmerizing to trace his features over and over, from smooth skin to stubble with Faramir's lips parting as she moved across his chin, lightly capturing her fingers between his teeth. Éowyn asked, dreading his answer, "What for?"

He licked them for a second, his tongue hot and wet, making her tingle, and then released her, kissing her fingertips as she tapped his mouth in chastisement. His hands were warm on her lower back. Faramir sounded sleepily remorseful; "I should be comforting you this night."

"I don't know." Éowyn scooted closer, folding the blankets over them and pulling Faramir nearer. He snuggled readily into her arms, his face to her neck, his breath on her skin. "Shh. You're tired, go to sleep." Pressing a kiss to his hair, she closed her eyes.

Faramir shook his head. "Not tonight." There was a hint of a smile in his words now, "Sometime, though."

Éowyn thought. "All right." She licked her lips, making her voice very low and soothing,

"Ligeð orsorg, min frendscipe." Éowyn stroked his hair. "Se beadu is gedon," For a second her memory intruded--The last man I undressed was Théodred...he was dead and later I sang over his mound. That song began much like this one--she pushed it away. "Ond ná fracoð gemætan wille dræf ge," She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, trying to stop her sadness, "hwil Ic eom her."

"Ge eart min heorte," Drowsy, Faramir kissed her just above her breasts; his lips were soft and warm. "min frendscipe." She finished softly, "Ligeð orsorg, Ic eom her."

"...mm..." It was no more than a breath and he was asleep then, his chest rising and falling against hers, his arms still wrapped around her torso.

"God niht, min frendscipe." Resting her cheek on his hair, she breathed in and out, feeling herself relaxing. Sleep crept slowly, feet first, sliding upward; warm with Faramir, she closed her eyes. Ná fracoð gemætan wille dræf...

She'd climbed stairs, up and up, curving slowly, but now Éowyn stood still with Faramir's hands held over her eyes; his voice was low in her ear, excited. "Keep them shut. No peeking, I mean it."

The air smelled like salt, sharp in her nose. A cool dawn wind was blowing and it whipped her hair. She turned her head, blindly asking, "How much farther?"

"Four steps." His front bumped gently against her backside as he walked her forward. Éowyn lagged on purpose, feeling his body. There was a distant, rhythmic booming, almost roaring noise--it was unlike anything she'd ever heard. Faramir breathed into her ear,

"Wait until you see." His mouth hovered and she paused as he kissed her neck and shoulder hungrily. Her hands touched his arms, then went back to his sides, caressing as much as she could reach as she smiled.

"When?" There were bird cries, raucous and piercing and the swift flap of wings. Her feet moved slowly, hesitating over the unknown ground; he was right behind her, keeping close. One of his hands fell to her waist, his fingertips spiraling in little patterns. Her stomach fluttered under the touch, body responding immediately when he moved it in wider circles.

"Here...here, feel the wall?" Éowyn put out her hands; they touched hard, sun-warmed stone. She had the impression of being very high up in an open space and leaned backwards against his chest for support.

"All right." He breathed in, his chest pressed against her back. Faramir moved his hand, getting ready and then he took it away, adding it to her waist as well. He held her fast. "All right, open your eyes."

For a second she didn't, keeping them tightly closed, relishing her anticipation. Éowyn bit her lip, smiling and then opened her eyes to the wall in her bedroom.

She frowned, feeling oddly wistful; shifting, she felt Faramir's hands around her waist and his chin against her shoulder, much how he'd been in her dream. Was it only a dream, then? Éowyn frowned again; she would be deeply disappointed if it was. That was the sea...she didn't know how she was certain, but she was and completely. He was showing me the sea.

Sometime in the night she'd turned over to face away from him. Now she turned back, peering over his neck, looking out her window. Early, pre-dawn light shone through it. It is too early; I won't wake him yet.

Faramir appeared deeply asleep. Éowyn snuggled down into his arms, wrapping one of hers around him, curling the other to place her palm on his chest. Under it, his heart beat slow and steady. He looks so peaceful... She yawned, still sleepy and closed her eyes again. Not wanting to wake him yet, she lay quiet. When he wakes, we have to see Aragorn and Éomer and I have to be angry with him...I have to choose a side. Her brow creased. Just a little longer, just lie here a little bit longer, he's so warm and I'm so comfortable...

Something was wrong. Disturbance flickered just outside his consciousness; waking him. Faramir opened his eyes; Éowyn's hair tickled his chin--whatever the turmoil was, it wasn't from her; she was still asleep and peacefully. What is that? No...who? As quickly as it had come, the disturbance faded. I suppose it was someone passing by...

It's late... He could tell by the length of the shadows on her wall that they'd slept late into the morning. How am I going to get out of here? Faramir sighed, rolling over onto his back and stretching his arms over his head; he yawned wide, thinking. Éowyn's bed was soft and enticing, but it would have to be now if he hoped to remain undetected. Somehow, I think it would only hinder the relationship between Éomer and I ...he smiled in amusement. Not that there is much to hinder...though, maybe... Trying to be optimistic, Faramir closed his eyes, rubbing them and stretching his legs. He felt well again with no headache or no horrible weariness. Turning his head, he gazed at Éowyn's sleeping face. I must go.

She opened her eyes when he kissed her forehead; they peeped at him as he climbed out of her bed, blue half-moons following his movements around to her side. I'll have to leave my clothes here...all right? It would be more suspicious if he walked down the halls still clothed in his formal armor than if his shirt and breeches were wrinkled a bit. My love...? He was unsure of her mood; Éowyn lifted up, rubbing her eyes, her nightgown baring one shoulder. Her hand reached for him and Faramir came closer. What? .

Oh. Faramir sat on the side of the bed and leaned down. Éowyn pulled him yet closer, and moved up so that he was right next to her.

Laughing softly, he did what he'd wanted to last night while she'd been undressing him and feathered slow kisses on her cheek and then her mouth, tracing the side of her pretty face with his fingertips. It was the same thing she did with him and he could tell Éowyn liked it, liked the intimacy of the little touches. She even kissed him back some; hmm, she can't be too mad at me...

Faramir ducked to kiss her soft-skinned neck, feeling her shiver and her hand touch the back of his head to keep his mouth there for an extra second. She still smelled like flowers. Tempted by her bared shoulder, he dawdled there before turning to her lips again, feeling her forearm wrap around his neck as he touched his mind to hers, curious to see her temperament this morning. Éowyn blinked, surprised and then relaxed to allow it. Her fingers stroked his jaw, her short nails gently rubbing as his lips pressed hers, and he asked her, are you still...?

You're not tired anymore, good and bad, too, because now I can shout... She was angry still, but really she'd forgiven him already for upsetting Éomer. As long as you never do it again...I mean it...it bothered him...he can't fight that, can't maneuver around it...he felt trapped, helpless. If you want to fight, use words or, if you must, hit him. Not your mind. Suddenly she was much fiercer and her blue eyes flashed at him while her hand tangled firmly in his hair, holding him away from kissing her, holding his gaze. Never, Faramir, never. Promise me.

All right, I promise. Soothingly, he answered, What I saw in him...I almost knew it would, but he...it will bring him comfort once he gets used to the idea.

How? You unsettled him so much... She was doubtful with a steadily growing ire as she remembered.

Faramir hesitated, sitting back; he was reluctant to discuss Éomer's thoughts. Some had been deeply buried things, all but unspoken even in the man's own mind; he didn't think he'd shared them with Éowyn last night.

Carefully, he replied, He thinks you'll be unhappy in Gondor and that I won't know, but I will. See? Now he knows. Won't that comfort him?

Éowyn nodded, putting her feet on the floor and wriggling her toes. She glanced over at her dresser and her expression became strangely gloomy but he didn't have time to question. Yes.

Faramir walked out of her bedroom and sat in the chair, putting his boots back on. She did not emerge until he was done and standing; she sat in the soft chair with her bare feet and legs curled under her. It appeared his minute of grace was past, because Éowyn didn't say or do anything, she just watched him. Feeling queer under her silent scrutiny, he left his clothes on her chair. Running his hands through his hair, trying to smooth it, he halted in front of the door, mentally scanning the halls for any people. There was no one within range, so he paused before he slipped out, gazing back at her and attempting a weak jest. You won't shout too loud?

Éowyn did not reply; she wasn't looking at him anymore; her face was bent and he was speaking to the top of her golden head. Frowning, he left. Moving quickly through the deserted halls, he was soon back in his own quarters. Splashing water on his face, Faramir began to change into his usual uniform. It felt light and comfortable after all the metal of yesterday. The tunic was paled from the Ithilien sun, more of a deep brown than a sable; he felt suddenly homesick picturing the cool, wooded slopes.

Rohan was too wide and far too flat; Faramir was used to being confined by the Anduin and the mountains. He remembered the ride, watching the land spread out, and the northern and western horizon becoming limitless, unbroken grass. The only boundary had been to the south, the long line of the White Mountains. The entire experience had been unsettling. I can see miles around from Edoras, it is favorable from a battle perspective and yet, I feel more exposed; there is no cover in Rohan, they must stand and fight or out flee their pursuers. For a second Faramir thought about that, and it seemed to give him a new outlook, but then his mind shifted.

Perhaps it will unsettle Éowyn to be so enclosed...but there was naught he could do. I cannot move rivers or mountains.

Faramir had just finished dressing when there was a pounding at his door. The mind on the other side was vaguely familiar. He opened it; a young, red-haired man stood there, his face a mix of puzzlement and glee. I've seen him before...who is...?

The Rohirrim pushed rudely past him. "Where were you, what's wrong with you? Don't you know you're supposed to leave a lady's bed before dawn?"

"This morning. I came by twice looking for you." He looked at Faramir's bow and sword interestedly, both still lying on the table, but he did not touch them. "It's almost noon now. I swear, you must be new at this." Grinning good-naturedly, he added, "You're late, Faramir and for your very first day. Half-day, but still, that's not going to make a good impression."

The man grinned wider. "Of course you were and that's why, ever since you got here, King Éomer has walking around looking like he had a storm cloud brewing over his head." He eyed him and chuckled, "You don't have to lie, we all know. Though, I'll say you definitely have courage in carrying on as you have with our Lord's sister." He shuddered, "I wouldn't. Not in a land where every man knows how to wield the gelding knife... You'll be lucky to leave intact if you keep this up, Faramir. They look up to her and you're messing with their image of our pure, chaste Lady."

Faramir frowned, asserting again as he tried to make sense of all the words being thrown at him. "I was asleep. Here." Who is this man?

"Right." Shaking his head, the Rohirrim sighed, "Asleep, you say? You do look rested. Well, I wouldn't have slept." He snorted, "Not in Lady Éowyn's bed." Faramir was treated to a wink that immediately irritated him. "She was almost mine, you know. Too bad you came, she liked me, I would have had her for sure."

"Oh, come on." The man sighed deeply, "We're not idiots." He laughed again and looked down at the bow in curiosity. "This is nice workmanship. What is its name?"

The identification earned him an incredulously grimaced, "What kind of name is that? For just a second Faramir smiled. Boromir had given him much the same reaction. The man went on, "Seriously, that's a horrid name for such a well-made bow; I'm surprised it hasn't forsaken you."

He did, after a moment. "Yes. I do now." Faramir smiled remembering the night in the tavern, "It's a bit of a blur."

"Aye." Gaer chuckled cheerfully and then sighed. "Well, we need to go." He frowned for the first time, "Are you wearing that?"

"You know--" Gaer tapped his own tunic and then shrugged, "Oh, well, you'll get one later. Come on."

Faramir followed him out the door, Gaer turning to ask with an easy interest; there seemed to be none of the scorn or distaste that some of the other Rohirrim nursed in his presence. I wonder why, since he proclaims his liking for Éowyn so much... "Are you better with the bow or the blade, Faramir?"

"The bow." Pleasure filled him at the faint possibility that he might get to shoot.

"Good!" The Rohirrim lit up and at his questioning gaze, added with a self-depreciating smile. "I can't shoot for anything, really, it's disgraceful. In...that little field of yours outside Mundburg?"

The Pelennor? Faramir was amused as he nodded to show he understood. "That little field..."? I've never heard it called that before.

"I swear-" Gaer shook his head, "dropping arrows left and right, couldn't even hit the mûmakil if I tried."

"What are we doing?" I thought I was meeting Éomer and Aragorn...but I guess not. He was not too upset since arguing with Éomer was not something he looked forward to.

"First, getting you something to eat. I'm sure you're hungry...unless you've already eaten this morning and that's why you were late," Gaer grinned and Faramir was confused; though he got the impression of suggestive mischief. "And making sure your horse is up, and we're showing some of the new lads how to handle their weapons." They moved through the halls. "Not a hard day. Tomorrow we get salt and that's horrible when it's hot."

Aragorn looked very displeased. Éomer sighed, "I forgot." And I'm glad. Glad, damn you. Glad, glad, glad. "I haven't seen Éowyn yet, anyway."

The King folded his arms. "Well, you're not getting out of this, we'll just have to do it tonight. With or without her."

"Fine." The very thought of being in the same room with Faramir was disconcerting; he shrugged it off. Act like a man, dammit.

They were standing outside the larger corral behind the barns; Aragorn was looking at the two young stallions Éomer had finally narrowed his decision down to. "So, what is he doing today?"

"Archery. He's supposed to be a skilled archer...it's not difficult, he doesn't need to know too much of our tongue--he can point or something." The King made a face and Éomer glanced at him, thinking I could have put him right out with men who might or might not attempt to knock the innards out of him. No, teaching the new lads something about using a bow is better for now. Witch or not, Éowyn would be highly upset if he came back broken into pieces. "He's only doing that for today, to give him a feel for things."

Aragorn snorted, sounding more amused now than skeptical. "I suppose so." In a swift movement, he climbed the rails to sit on top. "Which one?"

Éomer stayed on the ground. "I don't know. Which do you like? Éowyn loves the bay." The two stallions eyed the King; they snorted, raising and lowering their fine heads, tossing their forelocks to better see. The regal blood bay approached slowly while the other stud, a tall black roan, stood where he was.

"He's nice...friendly, too." Aragorn extended a hand for the red stallion to sniff.

"The other's got better blood in him." Éomer gazed through the rails. I can't choose. The black roan is rarer in color, but the blood bay is the better horse. He sighed.

"The roan will go with Master Thohl if I pick the bay; he'll be one of our new herd stallions."

"I know." Éomer whistled; the black roan pricked his ears; he was posing in the mid-morning light, standing squarely with his coal black tail still and his thick neck arched. He was beautiful, a true roan with all his points: head, ears, lower legs, mane and tail a deep, gleaming sable. The jet-black color lightened towards his hindquarters, turning a slate grey along his withers to ivory flanks that shone against his black, slapping tail. Between his eyes was a small star. It stood out, white against his dark head. He is magnificent...it would be a shame to keep him here... He thought of a field full of roan colts, black roans or even full blacks if the blood were right. Fine, I'll take the bay, he is not as comely, but he will be easier to train. The roan still stood aloof, his hazel eyes watchful, his ears never stopping, constantly flicking back and forth. Éomer glanced up, "You're right."

"Good choice." The blood bay stallion had come close; his head was bent at an angle while Aragorn's fingers scratched behind his ears. He was beautiful, too, glowing with a rich, crimson sheen as well as having black points. "What's his name?"

"The roan is Wlite." Beauty in our tongue...and well earned. "The bay is Blâcfÿren.” The name meant shining and fire. Éomer watched the sun glow off of the blood bay's coat; it was a brilliant coppery color. He, too, is aptly named.

"Greetings, Blâcfÿren." It was in such a flowery tone, so similar to the one his sister used when pacifying a skittish mount or simply babying one that Éomer burst out in laughter. Aragorn frowned at him, "What?"

"Éomer!" It was Éowyn, herself; coming towards them and looking delighted. She wore men's clothes; he frowned and thought the shirt could be buttoned up a bit more. It is hot, but still... In her hands was a sheathed sword, the leather scabbard still new. Everything about her appeared normal, just his sister, happy as always with a new blade. But that is an illusion. Uneasy, Éomer frowned.

Aragorn swung his legs back over the fence, leaping to the ground. "She got a new sword?"

"Aye." It was about time, but the smiths had been busy all summer replacing all the blades and armor, both for horse and man, that had been broken or lost in battle to worry about Éowyn. Who won't be using hers for anything other than sparring ever again, he added fiercely to himself.

Aragorn muttered quietly as she neared them, "Looks like it cheered her right up."

The King glanced sideways at him and grinned; "Faramir's going to have a lot of weapons lying about.” And just like that Éomer's good mood, already tremulous, evaporated. Why'd you have to bring him up? Aragorn frowned morosely, adding under his breath, "I wish Arwen were so easy to please."

The blade flashed bright in the sun as she unsheathed it. He touched Gúthwinë's hilt as she approached, leaning back against the corral in a façade of good-natured impertinence. The bay's nose touched his shoulder blade, sniffing and he shrugged gently to discourage it from biting. Éowyn held up her sword in a merry challenge; it gleamed blindingly as he asked, "You want to try it out, then, sister? See if it can hold its own to my Gúthwinë?"

"Yes.” She nodded eagerly and glanced back at the bright, new blade, "I can't name it until I know something about it."

Nudging the King, he began walking with her down to the training area. "Come on, you can take the winner." Isn't this better than talking with Faramir?

"Really?" Aragorn grinned, shaking his head slowly, "I don't know whom to back-she's prettier, but you're still so handsome."

Faramir became aware of their scrutiny almost immediately. Gaer led him through the streets to their destination; he didn't seem to notice anything. In the kitchens, where he'd grabbed a few quick things to eat, apple, bread, and cheese, no one had given them a second look. But, now, outside and walking through the streets of Edoras, soldiers were everywhere. They stared at him and then bent to their neighbors, laughing or speaking. Faramir kept to Gaer's heels, feeling uncomfortable. Sensing a growing boldness in the crowd, he glanced around. Some of the soldiers had closed in, gradually flanking them. As he slowed to watch they came closer. Wary, Faramir scanned the general emotion--it was cool amusement coupled with dislike and anticipation. What are they doing?

He was getting hemmed in, slowly but surely. Incredulous, he wondered again, what are they doing? What do they want? A dog darted across his path, so fast he barely saw it, but it broke Faramir's stride and suddenly there was a wall of stern-faced men between him and Gaer's back. Oh, damn them, what now? None spoke or moved they simply stared at him. He didn't want to shout for help, that would be seen a weakness, most definitely... Gaer didn't pause, simply making his way, as though Faramir were still following. Is he abandoning me to this or does he not notice?

The man that had stepped directly into his path, glanced around mockingly, "Leofe broðra, hit is se lytle Bregu," He smiled, tall and broad with heavily muscled forearms and a thick flaxen beard, "Ond hit behêold gelic he losige ûre Ides…” He chuckled, “ond her hrægl tó head beæftan..."

Faramir understood just enough of the words, coupled with the scornful tone, to stiffen in a sudden rage. Relax, stop it, that will only make things worse...

The man grinned at him, noting his darkened expression, "Ge eart a lang foldweg hwæt eower eard."

Most of the foreign words blurred together in the thick accent and quick speech. For the first time Faramir realized just how slowly and clearly Éowyn and even Éomer spoke when they used Rohirric to talk to him. What do I say? I barely understood any of that and what I did was terribly insulting. Behind the men in front of him, he noticed Gaer had halted and turned, but did not approach. His expression was slightly concerned and slightly puzzled. Self-conscious of his own imperfect accent, he began, "Hwa do ge...?" Faramir did not get to finish before he was cut off by a wave of laughter.

"Hlyston tó him!" The laughter dried up as the big man added, a glint in his eyes, "He hæg he cann â-cweðan bæc tó me!" Gaer had come closer now, slipping through the crowd to stand relatively near. He was still puzzled looking, but now even more so and, Faramir sensed, growing anxious. Whatever I am doing or not doing, it is the wrong reaction...so, what is right? He had no idea.

"Âcwið eft!" They were making fun of him that was obvious. Faramir gritted his teeth, refusing to react.

The Rohirrim man grinned, cracking gnarled knuckles as he asked, "Hwa? Dyde cossian ûre Ides wêrig eower tunge?” The tone had changed from mocking to distinctly threatening. Anticipation grew heavy in the air; they expected something from him. I am afraid they want me to fight... Mentally scrabbling through his limited vocabulary, he tried to find something to say. Dammit, dammit, what do I do? This was a situation that had never occurred before and Faramir was beginning to realize why soldiers had never bothered him--I was a noble, besides, Boromir would not have tolerated it and then I was their Captain...

A man shouted from the back, "Âcwið níðing!" It was repeated throughout the crowd; they were taunting him now, trying to force a reaction.

I am not a coward. Before Faramir could open his mouth, Gaer pushed through the men. He sounded annoyed and not at all friendly,

"Faramir! What are you doing?" He grabbed his arm; confused, Faramir allowed himself to be pulled through the crowd. Irritably, Gaer snapped, "Are all you men of Gondor this slow?"

"No wonder we have to ride all the way to Mundburg and rescue you all the time, come on, there are things to do. We don't get to loll about in the southern sun here." Gaer marched him swiftly away. Faramir glanced back; the soldiers had vanished. What was that about?

Gúthwinë rang one last time, sounding resigned as Éomer stumbled back and his feet crossed into the grass. "Damn!" He swore to mask his pride; I don’t know who taught her that, Théodred or I, but it was well worth it. Éowyn stopped, grinning as she smoothed back wild strands of her hair. Aragorn, who had been sprawled on the ground and chewing on a grass stem, smirked as he climbed to his feet.

"And I was looking forward to sparring with you, crossing Andúril with Gúthwinë."

His sister rolled her eyes, "That pretty thing? Phft!” She swung her new sword, listening to it sing. The blade shone; its sound was sweet and lighthearted with triumph.

Éomer glowered, still feeling proud, and muttered, “I let her win." Everything is fine, he reassured himself. She is her, just like always. Still, in his very heart there was unease.

"Course you did," Aragorn stretched his arms out, “don’t want to discourage a new blade, got to build its confidence.”

“Are you listening to that, Éomer? This woman thinks she can beat me.” Aragorn was trying to keep an irritated expression and failing. “What am I using?”

“Pretty?” He snorted; the King’s fingers grasped Andúril’s hilt, almost caressing. “I can’t use this.”

She rolled her eyes, still swinging her sword. For the first time Éomer noticed the slender, light green jade bracelet on her wrist. He remembered it after a second; the dolphin hung round her neck, too. Both were pleasing enough adornments; he had to admit, simple and going well even with her coarse, brown men’s shirt and baggy, colorless trousers. They reminded him she was a woman; at times like this Éomer often forgot the fact unless admiringly staring soldiers… or Faramir… reminded him. The bracelet moved up and down a little with each motion of her arm, “Why not?”

“Because.” Aragorn sounded disdainful, arching an eyebrow. “It will be no contest.” Bemused and eased by their bickering, Éomer left the circle of dirt, sitting on the cool grass. The midday sun was high, partially obscured by clouds. He rubbed Gúthwinë with the end of his shirt, cleaning off some of the dust that had blown onto it as he and his sister had sparred. She was good, quick and lithe; her smaller stature made her an ideal opponent. Much like battling a particularly fierce little orc…not that I would ever, ever say so. He valued his skin.

“Are you listening to that, brother?” Éowyn smirked, tossing her braided hair off her shoulder, “This man thinks he can beat me.”

“Cut his fool head off, then.” The voice surprised them all. Arwen had come down for some reason. Her dress was blue with white; the skirts swished in the grass; she looked lovely, Éomer thought, but strange to be so finely attired out here in the dusty, dirty practice area. Aragorn looked at her hopefully, as though she might have been searching for him. You don’t have a chance; Éomer smiled in amusement. I don’t know why you don’t just grovel at her feet already and beg for forgiveness and get it over with. The woman’s face was cool, detached; her tone had been as well. For a second his sister appeared self-conscious, her hand touching the grubby, stained men’s shirt she wore, but then Éowyn smiled cheerfully and swung her sword again, the sun glinting off of it.

“What’s wrong with you?” Gaer finally spoke to him as they exited Edoras, walking down the road. There were buildings nearby with small fields ending with targets, tiny fenced enclosures for men on horses to practice and numerous sheds containing reserves of weapons suitable for mock-battles. Faramir vaguely remembered Éomer’s memory. He turned, looking over his shoulder—the view of the walls of Edoras was much the same. Interesting.

His question was ignored. “Why didn’t you take a swing at him or something? You could have at least said something to defend yourself.” The Rohirrim sounded exasperated and bewildered. “Don’t you know anything? Didn’t Halorl teach you anything?”

“It’s only going to get harder for you…you should have knocked him down, that—”

“How?” He didn’t understand. How could hitting him end anything? Gandalf had always taught him the opposite and every book he’d read on battle had reinforced the lesson. Violence only initiates more violence; it does not stop unless one is completely, utterly defeated. Battle is the last resort.

“It…it just would have.” Sighing, Gaer pointed ahead. “Come on, they are waiting. I’ll try to explain later.”

Reaching one of the farther sheds, Faramir stared at the line of young men; they were gawky teens, new to the life of a soldier and looked uncomfortable in their Rohirric uniforms. They stared back, obviously curious about him as Gaer grinned, friendly again, “His nama is Faramir ond he is æf Mundburg. He wille ge-læran ge se boga.”

The lads chorused, “Wes ðu hal, Faramir Hlaford.” He couldn’t help a wide smile. They, at least, do not despise me.

“Enjoy yourself.” Gaer clasped his shoulder and made to leave. “I’ll be down that way, showing some more lads how to wield a sword. I’ll come get you when we’re done for the day.” He grinned and nodded to a flame-haired boy on the end. “That’s my cousin, Caraed.” Lowering his voice, he added, “If he can’t shoot either, go easy on him. It runs in the blood.”

Faramir smiled again. It faded quickly, though, as Gaer turned away. He hissed, “Wait, what do I do?”

“There are the bows and the arrows,” He pointed to the nearest shed, then a long row of battered, stuffed pads mounted upon poles. “And there are the targets. You show them how to bring them all together.” Gaer grinned, “Easy.” He gave Faramir a nod and then moved off.

Feeling strangely nervous, he turned to the expectant lads. Their eyes were curious; they stood straight, at attention, waiting for his command. There was no malice in them. Easy. Why, oh, why could Boromir not be here to help…? He’d always been the student, never the teacher. Do they even understand the Common Tongue? Faramir shifted his weight from foot to foot, hesitating. Dammit, Gaer; he glared murderously at the man’s back. All right… Taking a deep breath he began haltingly, “Do you understand me?” Some nodded obediently while others only looked puzzled. He sighed, running his hand through his hair, trying to think. What is it? “Coren eower boga.” Out of words, Faramir pointed to the shed. The boys shuffled to it, murmuring to each other and glancing his way. He tried to look on the bright side. At least there is still no ill will in them. Faramir rubbed his hands together, thinking he, too, needed a bow to demonstrate with. I can do this. I can.

“It’ll take me a moment…” Éowyn smiled, feinting to the right. Aragorn snorted derisively at her. “I’m not sure how sharp this sword is…” She looked at him closely and teased, “Eww, you’ve got an awfully thick neck. I’m sure I’d need an axe for that thing.”

Arwen began to laugh. She’d seated herself near to Éomer, her skirts neatly folded. Éowyn wrinkled her nose, teasing more. Hmm, let your guard down...listen to me, that’s it… “It’s…disgusting. Gigantic, even.”

His eyes flashed at her, realizing what she was doing. “I’m sorry I cannot be as perfect…” He blocked her thrust, “as Faramir. I’m sure he has a ideally proportioned neck.”

She laughed despite herself. Éomer made a noise of disgust loud enough for her to hear over the width of the dirt circle, her own quick breaths and the slow stepping of their feet. Smiling, Éowyn shot back, “I just pity Arwen having to get next to that thing at night. I’d be frightened.”

The Queen answered airily, “Oh, don’t bother, I haven’t been near it very much at all.” Her brother laughed delightedly as Aragorn winced.

“I like her, I do.” He sounded just a little off to her; Éowyn couldn’t look at him, though.

They didn’t speak for several minutes; the only noises were the light thumps of their feet, their breathing and the clinks or long scrapes of steel on steel. “You know…this is…” Aragorn circled her, his expression turning gleeful, “This is amazing.”

Éowyn watched him, never taking her eyes away. Her voice was absent; her blood raced, making her feel alive as she waited. “What?” He held Andúril close, not striking and she grew impatient, slicing at him with a wide arc.

“You.” He blocked her, their blades clinking, and then resumed his circle. “You’re just like fighting a little orc. Better, of course, and far lovelier, but other than that…”

“What?” Insulted, she swung harder and faster; he had a more difficult time blocking her and Éomer laughed from the sidelines.

“Careful! Gondor just got her king back!” He jested and smiled, but something rang false.

She knew what he was doing and she didn’t care. Éowyn struck at him again and again until she’d forced him well back against the grass, into a crouch. “I really am going to cut your head off now.”

The Queen called, “Best hurry, Master Peregrin has invited me along with you.”

Arwen answered, sounding amused, “He wouldn’t say, but he did assure me of a good time.”

Those little scamps. She remembered promising Merry she would do something today. “When…” Éowyn circled, “are we going?”

Aragorn glanced over at his wife and then he winked at Éowyn, who frowned. What is he…? Suddenly he lunged at her, Andúril flashing. Surprised, she raised her own blade and, although she only struck with enough force to block him, the great sword went flying to the dirt. Andúril reverberated loudly as it fell; it sounded shocked. Aragorn froze, holding his hands out, smiling at her. He…he just let me win…astonished, she just stood there.

He gave her a puzzled look and then jerked his head toward Arwen, raising his eyebrows in signification. After a second, he muttered, “Well? What are you waiting for? Go!”

Éowyn sighed deeply and said, crestfallen and pointing her unnamed sword at his throat, “I win.”

He hissed as her brother stood and offered a polite hand to Arwen, “Be back before dark—they still have to talk and I think Éomer wants you there.”

Éomer had come up to them now. He was frowning a little, but then he nodded toward Andúril as it lay on the ground. “Can I hold him?”

Her brother paused, then grinned, unsheathing and handing over Gúthwinë. “Deal.” He bent and picked up the King’s sword, hefting it and respectfully brushing the dirt from it’s long, shining span. While he swung it, gazing at it in interest, with Aragorn looking down the length of Gúthwinë, as though measuring it’s straightness, Arwen asked,

Éowyn sighed, still disappointed. I wanted to win or lose on my own. “Yes. Just let me change clothes.”

The worst, Faramir found, was outlasting the lads’ amusement with his terrible accent. The boys were patient as he searched for right words, waiting for his commands while standing at silent attention. They were also respectful and even seemed pleased when he praised them, however clumsily. “God, god.” Their eyes wandered over his uniform, gazing at it with intense curiosity. He wondered if they knew nothing of the white tree and the stars here. If I had the words I could explain. I haven’t been studying lately… It showed; he struggled harder than he should with even simple sentences.

It was into the afternoon now and the sun, still shrouded in clouds, was pleasantly warm. He walked down the line; they were facing the targets, their backs to him, arrows notched. “Bogen.” They bent their bows; the fletches of the arrows were dyed a different color and the lads arranged so that none in their group had the same color. “Scoten.” Arrows went everywhere; Faramir winced. A few managed to hit the target. They’re getting better…I think. He sighed, “Eft, bogen.” He carried one of the bows himself; it was a decent thing, shooting straight enough to be serviceable, but not of any special quality. Faramir ached for his longbow; it was in Minas Tirith, though, and of no use to him here. His smaller bow was all the way in his rooms, again of little use to him where he was.

Again they bent their bows, a long row of young Rohirrim. Their heads were a range of flaxens and reds that blended well with the brown and green uniforms. “Scoten.” I wish I had more words…if Éowyn were here I would not feel discomfited asking her. Perhaps tonight, I can ask. Maybe not just words useful here…he smiled to himself…maybe a few lessons of a more pleasurable nature. He frowned, that is, if she’s no longer angry with me. Sighing, Faramir said, “Bogen.” Perhaps I should give her another present…

Coming to stand so that he could look down the line, he frowned deeper. “Ná… dun.” They lowered their bows, looking expectantly at him and he raised his, emphasizing the way he stood. Faramir felt the familiar sensation of joy as he sighted, the string growing taut, pulling on his shoulder. The discomfort would become pain if he held it long; pain that he knew meant a better shot. He gazed down the point of his arrow, feeling the world drop away. Nothing existed but the shining point and where he wanted it to go. Breathing in, he commanded, “Bogen.” They attempted to imitate him. Breathing out, he commanded, “Scoten.” Faramir loosed the arrow, knowing already that it would go just where he wanted it—straight into the center of the target. Smiling, he watched as the lads’ arrows flew just a tiny bit more accurately. They are learning; I just don’t have enough words.

“But he wants to go! And we got him here all by ourselves!” Pippin hugged Shadowfax’s leg. The big horse glanced at him, curious, and then bent his nose to the ground, sniffing for the remains of the carrots and apples he’d been offered. Éowyn put her hands on her hips, trying to be stern. Merry was looking up at her with a downcast expression, his eyes wide.

“Pony?” Pippin sounded horrified. “I’ve ridden a mearas, I can’t go back!”

She tried not to laugh, keeping her voice forbidding. “Didn’t you ride one here?”

“Fine!” Arwen gave her a curious look as Éowyn sighed. “If he’s going, you’re riding him by yourselves.”

“Taking a cart. Someone is already hitching up the pony.” I am not riding sidesaddle. Arwen looked relieved, smiling slightly at the two hobbits.

“Like this.” Éowyn signaled and Shadowfax lowered himself carefully to his knees, and then flopped over with a grunt. The great horse waited patiently, his long tail swishing in the dirt. The hobbits scrambled up, Merry seating himself in front and once they were still, Shadowfax thrust himself back to his feet and stood. His ears tipped back as he walked in a circle. This is not particularly dignified of him, to haul about two hobbits and obey their fancies merely for some treats. She smiled. Lord of Horses, indeed, I know war-horses that would not stoop to do such things. Firefoot was one; a more conceited horse I never saw.

The pony and cart came, a groom leading the little grey by its bridle. Pippin called impatiently over Merry’s shoulder, “Come on!”

“Where are we going?” The Queen accepted the groom’s hand, stepping into the cart. Éowyn sprang into it, her skirts hindering her only slightly; Arwen’s seemed to be heavier, more elaborate. Thankfully, her green and gold dress was simply cut and comfortable. Éowyn still wore her jade bracelet with it; the two greens, one soft, the other deep, went nicely.

“Never been?” The hobbits sputtered. Éowyn smiled, watching Shadowfax circle. The pony nickered to him in a friendly fashion; the stallion answered with his voice deep.

“That’s up to you.” Merry grinned, “Aragorn wouldn’t tell us about any, so we don’t know where any are.”

“Of course he wouldn’t, he knew you’d go somehow.” She gathered the reins and gave the groom an appreciative smile. Clucking to the pony, Éowyn asked, “Why are we going to a tavern, anyway?”

“Aragorn wouldn’t let us stop at any on the way…it’s our last chance until we reach Bree, I think.”

“That’s a long ways…I want some beer.” Pippin’s mournful voice made her laugh. Arwen smiled.

“All right, there’s one an hour away, you think you can wait that long, Master Hobbit?”

“I suppose.” He was grudging. The pony jogged out of Edoras, Shadowfax trotting easily alongside. Éowyn admired his gleaming, silvery coat, remembering how he’d felt beneath her. She glanced over at Arwen. Too bad…No, stop it. You have to try and talk to her for Aragorn; he’s tried for you…though with upsetting consequences… fine, fine. She took a deep breath; the hobbits had managed to get Shadowfax into a gallop and were drawing away. Now’s the time.

Before she could speak Arwen did. “I know he wants you to talk to me.” The lovely elven woman smiled, “I will tell you my troubles if you tell me yours…but only if you promise to tell Estel no more than I wish, ” Her fair face grew aggrieved, “the whole of it, I fear, would hurt him.”

“We might as well start at the beginning.” Arwen smiled suddenly; it was a true smile, wide and amused, “Did he ever tell you how I met him?”

“Oh, good!” The Queen leaned back and laughed delightedly, “Finally, one person shall hear the true version!”

“True version?” Éowyn let the reins flop loosely; the pony jogged down the road, its ears pricked. It was well behaved and she wasn’t worried about any mischief.

“Of course. He wouldn’t want everyone to know what he was really doing; he leaves out that part every time.” Arwen laughed again, shaking her head. “Singing, ha! You know, he wasn’t just singing. If he’d been just singing I would have walked down another lane altogether and left him alone.”

“All right.” The Queen began gaily, “I thought he was addled, I swear, when I first heard him…”

Ond hit behêold gelic he losige ûre Ides…ond her hrægl tó head beæftan...And it looks like he has lost our Lady…and her skirts to hide behind…

Ge eart a lang foldweg hwæt eower eard.—You are a long way from your homeland.

Hwa? Dyde cossian ûre Ides wêrig eower tunge?—What? Has kissing our Lady wearied your tongue?

His nama is Faramir ond he is æf Mundburg. He wille ge-læran ge se boga.—His name is Faramir and he is from Minas Tirith. He will teach you the bow.

“Your sword is queer.” He gripped the hilt tighter, feeling the strange balance. The strangeness in weight and feel did not surprise him since it was unfamiliar, but... It feels unhappy to be in another’s hands… the shine has diminished and it does not sing for me.

“Why?” A little defensive, Aragorn looked up at him; Éomer swung Andúril again just to make sure. There was the usual faint swish, but no other noise, no telltale ring of steel that told of its presence and the destruction of whatever might be unfortunate enough to lie in the path of the swing.

“It has no song.” The long blade glinted with curved, twisting runes dark against the polished metal. It moved through the air, just the same as any sword, but there was no noise.

“Yes it does. Of course it does.” The King took it back, cradling the big weapon protectively. “Listen.” Aragorn stepped back, moving Andúril in a great arc. His own familiar Gúthwinë shone calmly in Éomer’s hands as he sheathed it. At his expectant look, he lied,

“Yes. I hear it now.” My ears cannot, elven blade. Éomer looked back towards Edoras, wondering where his sister had gone and when she would return. Things have become odd here...men who read thoughts, swords that sing only for their masters ears… What is the Ridder-mark host to?

Arwen smiled, looking aside to her. “He was talking to himself,” She chuckled, “and loudly.” She giggled, “In a very, very deep voice.”

Amused, Éowyn asked, “What was he saying?” In the distance Shadowfax had turned, dust rose as he ran smoothly, carrying the hobbits in a wide circle. The stallion slid to a halt, and then dirt flew under his hooves as he plunged forward. What are they doing?

“He was…” She sobered. “Hold on, let me do it…I can still do it, I think.” The Queen cleared her throat, making her voice deep and slow, “Gon-dor…I am the King of Gon-dor…Gon-dor…and Arn-or.” Éowyn laughed immediately; Arwen had sounded eerily like her husband. “I am Ara-gorn, son of Ara-thorn.” Her voice became normal, “Took him minutes to get that out.”

“Really?” She stared at the road, astonished. What a silly man he must have been.

“Yes, he just found out. I think he was practicing.” Arwen laughed, “You’d think by the way he was saying it he was already at the gates.” She giggled suddenly, “That wasn’t all he was saying, you know. It was a great deal of stuff. Very involved, actually.”

Their road stretched into the distance; Éowyn gazed between the pony’s grey ears and then lifted her eyes. Shadowfax was just a silvery speck, surging this way and that, bounding playfully, half in the air. Merry and Pippin are not screaming…I suppose they are all right. She smiled, looking sideways at Arwen. “Go on, then.”

Faramir was stuck. He couldn’t remember the words for anything; the lads gazed at him in expectation, but he just frowned, squinting fruitlessly up at the blue sky. The clouds had drifted away and the afternoon had warmed, leaving him hot. A thin line of dark thunderheads hovered at horizon; they foretold storms and plagued him with suggestions of Éomer’s memory. Gríma…his hand tightened on his bow until Faramir forcibly unclenched it and tried to think. What is it? How do I tell them I want them to move into different groups without just pointing again and looking like a fool? He had the idea of separating the ones who could shoot from the ones that couldn’t. The latter would focus upon hitting the target, the former would learn more about their bows. There is far more than aiming and shooting…they must learn to care for their weapons or they will have none and it is best to begin now. He sighed. What is it?

“Gea?” He knew all the words except for the most important; the frustration was overwhelming.

The lad looked uncertain, but seemed to gather nerve as Faramir smiled encouragingly. After a second he said, very slowly and carefully, “I can speak for you, Master Faramir…” At his surprised silence, the boy added nervously, “If you want.”

Gratitude overwhelmed him. “Yes. Thank you.” The boy nodded and Faramir felt liberated. The chains that had held his tongue were taken away and, suddenly galvanized he began. “I want them in two groups—the ones that can shoot, there and the ones that cannot, there.” Faramir pointed back to the targets. “They know who they are.”

The boy listened closely, then uttered Rohirric far swifter than any he’d heard before. How did they stand my slowness? The lads began moving and Faramir watched them, feeling he was finally getting somewhere. It is too bad I only have them for today…he was surprised to realize how much he would enjoy teaching them the hundreds of little things he’d learned in the woods of Ithilien. The training field seemed very small all of the sudden and lacking of any real use to an archer. They could learn so much in a forest, stalking, practicing on differently placed targets…it is a shame. Faramir glanced up at the stables. Though, I suppose most archers of Rohan are mounted…but, still, they must be able to shoot on foot first. He sighed, watching the lads. They were in groups already, waiting on his next command. All right, I’ll make do…

“Gon-dor…” Arwen giggled and then exclaimed in her impression of Aragorn, “Why yes…I am the King of Gondor.” Éowyn laughed helplessly as she added, her hand to her breast, her eyes wide, “How’d you know?”

The innocence in the question made her clap her hand over her mouth. Oh… my… Éowyn howled as the Queen changed her voice to one much higher pitched, “No, I don’t believe you!” Then in her deep voice, Arwen asked, furrowing her eyebrows, “You don’t believe me?” She held up her fist, growling, “Look at this! This is the ring of Barahir! How can you doubt me?”

“He just went on and on!” Arwen gasped out, “I couldn’t see him, but I could hear him…he sounded mad! I thought, oh, some poor man has lost himself in the woods and bumped his head or something.”

“Well, I began walking towards him—I was concerned…all I’d ever heard of Estel had been so long ago before that I’d just forgotten about him completely —and that’s when he started singing the lay of Lúthien, not before.” She laughed, “I think he got tired of playing fantasy king.” The Queen smiled and her voice became wistful, “He was magnificent, you know—still is, but…then…” Her lovely face became soft. “Truly splendid...very handsome, just glorious in the sunset, with the rays all fire around him…” She broke out in a grin, “Until he started shouting at me.”

Splendid? Glorious? Is she talking about Aragorn I know or is she remembering someone else? He’s hardly glorious. Éowyn smiled and tried not to giggle at the thought, “Why was he shouting?”

Arwen leaned back, resting on her elbows, “Oh, the fool thought I wasn’t real—I was in plain sight, in a well-lit wood on a wide path no more than a few hundred yards away and he was positively bellowing, “Tinúviel! Tinúviel!” The Queen shook her head, “I swear, frightened the poor birds out of the trees.” She laughed, “He nearly lost me then, comparing me to Lúthien. My beauty is not something I find very meaningful or a particularly great quality—I was born with it, I earned nothing, it gives me no skill except one of sitting, posing to show my best side.” Arwen sighed deeply, “We talked for a moment and he told me his heritage…bragged, more like it. He stuttered over his name; he leaves that out, too...” She shook her head again, “A-ar-ar-ar-Aragorn. I told him who I was and he had the good grace to look embarrassed. And then the fool complimented me again, comparing me to a lord’s treasure.” The Queen rolled her eyes, “As if I had not been called such and many, many other things.

“But, he didn’t have me until he nearly tripped over his own feet…it was one step, he took one step and couldn’t even keep to his feet, he was looking at me so hard.” She sighed again, “No suitor ever did that and I’ve had many.”

The Queen frowned, “They were all so…passionless, so unmoved when compared to the one brief meeting with Estel.” She smiled at Éowyn, “Imagine, an eternity with one person, a real eternity, not to the end of your mortal life, but to the end of the world around you—you’d take your time. It was so colorless, so bland…most of them did no more than kiss me and then rarely more than once.”

Most? Éowyn bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself silent. It was none of her business, but now she was incredibly curious. She’d never had another woman to discuss such things with; the idea both embarrassed her and quickened her interest.

Arwen laughed, “There was fire in him, my Estel; a mortal fire that felt the presence of time and knew it had none to waste. He was so eager. It was too adorable…he was just too darling to resist fate. And that’s why I’m here—make-believe, clumsiness and stuttering.” There was a pause.

“It snuck up on me, really. Rascal that he was, he pretended to be so sweet and awkward… he stole my heart and then I had no choice…you can’t live without a heart.” Arwen glanced sideways at her, “Now, you tell me…how did Faramir capture you?”

Éowyn hesitated, her enthusiasm dying. He hadn’t captured her in the same manner Aragorn had Arwen; he’d more or less coaxed her close with gentle speech and then grabbed hold of her and refused to let go. Faramir had stalked her like a shy animal and does still with his each step slow and careful, a net in his hand composed of earnest love and affection. Though I tried my best to beat him away, to hurt him enough to loosen his grip. I was cruel. It was a painful realization, now that she knew him so, how awful she’d been to lie. To say that she did not love him and had lost interest in an attempt to wound him so deeply that he would want nothing to do with her and she could escape. But…I didn’t want him to have to worry or suffer…as he does now. Arwen’s story had been sweet and amusing. Her own was not. Though both have pain. She does not speak of that, the pain I know must be there, to leave her people, her kin…to die in exchange for, what must seem to her, a handful of precious years. But that is none of my business. Oh, what do I say? “Well…” She smiled, stalling. “Give me a moment.” In the distance there was a returning streak of silver and Shadowfax’s hoof beats rang loudly as he neared. “I’ve never told it before.”

“Ic þancie þe, Faramir Hlaford!” He waved to the lads as they trotted off; Gaer stood next to him, watching as Faramir picked up the dozens of stray arrows around the first of the targets. There were still more stuck fast in the other targets; many more than when he’d first begun to teach and he was proud. They learned quickly.

“Good, good.” Gaer leaned against the pole; idly flipping the differently colored fletches with his fingertips. Faramir stooped to pick up another bolt; his arms were full of the simple training arrows. “My cousin?”

“That’s what I thought.” The Rohirrim grinned, “No, I think you’ve got it.”

Faramir sighed, more amused than anything; he was in a wonderful mood. “It’s nice to see that courtesy runs so deep in your people; truly considerate, you Rohirrim are. Civil, gentle-tongued…”

“That! Why didn’t you do that before?” He frowned, “Well, that, only much, much more.”

“Do what?” Faramir began to pick up more arrows, moving down the line, saving the ones actually embedded in the targets for last. “What’s that?”

There was a silence; they moved to another pole. Gaer paced him, playfully teasing, “Why do they dislike you so much anyway?”

“You’re asking me?” Astonished, he halted and stared at him, “Why are you asking me?”

The Rohirrim shrugged, “I assumed you did something—no one would be that upset about you carting off our lady if she is full willing as King Éomer said.” He paused, a smile breaking out; “Did you insult their fathers, then?”

Through a burst of laughter, he replied, “I suppose they just don’t like you.”

“And you do?” His arms were full; Faramir walked back to the shed with Gaer at his heels.

“Well…you’re slow and you’re dull as dirt, but, yes.” The Rohirrim glanced at him thoughtfully, “You should, you know.”

Discarding the damaged ones, he dumped the arrows where he’d originally found them, in the wide leather sacks that stood upright against the walls. “What?”

There was a pause in which he could hear the Rohirrim kicking at the ground; he was thinking; though Faramir found Gaer’s thoughts to be too swift for him to make sense of. Of course, they are in Rohirric. “You aren’t in Mundburg.”

They paced back to the targets. Faramir began yanking out the arrows that had found their marks, dropping them to gather once he was finished. Some were deeper and he had to strain. Who shot these? Two are mine, whose is the other? “I’m aware of that.”

“I don’t think you are.” Gaer watched him, still doing nothing to help. “Maybe they think you think you are too good to exchange insults with a common man, Prince Faramir.”

“That’s absurd.” Jerking his head at the scattered bolts, he ordered, “Pick those up.”

It was tempting to escape for a while. I can’t. He doubted Aragorn would simply drop the subject of his and Éomer’s behavior. Plus there is Éowyn; I don’t know how long I will be gone... “I can’t—”

Gaer rode right over him, “Yes you can.” He picked up an arrow and then another, “To a tavern. We’re getting you into a fight—we’ll pick a nice fellow, not too big or too fierce—you want to keep that noble face for our lady—but enough to prove you’re no weakling.”

“Our” lady, is it? The pronoun was distinctly possessive. Amused, he shook his head, “I can’t. I have a meeting with King Elessar and King Éomer.”

Jerking arrows out of the last target, he sighed, “I won’t be here.” And, I assume, neither will you.

“Those clouds say you will—look. We can’t ride out in a storm like that.”

Faramir turned; the thunderheads had built up, towering high like iron-grey towers and citadels in the heavens. They were dark and the wind that gusted against his brow was chill, but the storm was still far off, moving slowly towards them. “You’re right.”

Gaer made a face, “Your funeral mound, then, because when you do have to fight, it’s going to be with the biggest man about.” He picked up another arrow, making a total of three to Faramir’s armload. “Just you wait. Let’s go and see your horse.”

“You’ve never heard of Bandobras Took? Bullroarer?” Pippin gaped down from Shadowfax’s side. Éowyn and Arwen shook their heads; her story had been interrupted before it was even begun by the hobbits’ return.

“He’s the most famous Took—well, was the most famous.” The tall hobbit grinned; Merry chuckled, turning a little to tease.

“That’s an interesting name.” She wasn’t poking fun; the name was interesting. I can’t imagine a hobbit named that, it sounds…ferocious. It is more like a man’s name. A warrior’s.

The Queen glanced at her, “Mm-hmm. He sounds quite fierce.” Éowyn could tell by Arwen’s voice that she, too, had a difficult time imagining a savage hobbit.

“He was, he was. Killed an orc all by himself—knocked its head right off!”

“Oh, my.” Arwen smiled and put her hand to her breast, shooting Éowyn an amused look, “Did he? With what?”

Hobbit clubs…hmm, probably no more than a thick stick. Completely admirable and undoubtedly just adorable. Éowyn looked up at the two hobbits sitting easily astride Shadowfax and she sighed. I will miss them. “Killed it in a single blow, did he?”

“Yes, yes…” Pippin glanced away, modestly, Éowyn thought in amusement. “I’m related to him, you know.” Merry grinned down at them in the cart and rolled his eyes.

Arwen looked astounded. “Really?” She smiled, “Tell us more about this...”

Arwen smiled over and Éowyn did not need Faramir to read the mirth and teasing in her. “Bullroarer. Yes. Go on.”

“I think he’s in…” There was a sudden wave of dust over the side of the corral along with thundering hoof beats and Gaer halted. The red-haired man grinned at him, “Here.”

Faramir couldn’t see through the thick wooden planks; they were higher than his head and set flush together, reinforced with iron strips. The strength of the pen made him nervous. “Why is he in here?” He followed Gaer around to the only opening, a door cut out of the solid boards. What kind of horse is this? There were more sounds of running, then a shrill neigh. The thick planks rattled as the horse inside hurled himself against them, hooves and hide scraping the wood. What am I going to be riding?

“I’m sure it’s just to keep him from thinking about jumping out—sometimes they get upset about leaving the herd, plus there is the storm to rattle him… Here, look.” Next to the door was a sort of line of steps, hunks of wood nailed to one of the posts, allowing a person to climb up and peer inside the corral. “Get up there and see.”

Faramir clambered up, not sure what he was expecting. His hands rested upon well-worn wood, clearly many had stood where he did. From inside the corral came the restless thuds of hooves, low snorting breaths and long swishing flicks of a tail being lashed. He could sense anger and unrest. What kind of horse have they brought me? Reaching the top, he gazed down.

It was a grey gone almost entirely white, his flanks just barely dappled with a dark mane and tail; he had small, piggy eyes and a burly, powerful body. The horse spotted him immediately and halted in the center of the pen. Dust blew up around him in the cold wind. Faramir was quiet, watching the animal. Its heavy ears flattened as it raised its head to look back. Its nostrils were reddened, blown-out with exertion and its sides shone with sweat; dirt stuck to his wet coat as he pawed wide hooves, the dry earth turning to mud that caked his light-colored flanks and belly. He’s not very comely. Faramir thought the horse in front of him was probably the least attractive he’d seen in Rohan so far.

The gelding tossed his head, the whites of his small eyes showing as he began to trot in a slow circle. There were old scars crisscrossing over the horse’s body; Faramir spotted a fresher one over the shoulder, the edges still pink, but despite the marks, there was no sign of lameness in the gait. The horse moved slow and heavy, turning to look up at him often. Its ears never pricked, instead staying flat against its head in anger.

“What does he look like?”
“See for yourself.”
Faramir hopped down; Gaer climbed up. “Oh, it’s Brémel—I recognize him by that big scar on his shoulder—he got cut by an orc blade and had to stay up for a while. Lucky it wasn’t poisoned.”

“Who’s he belong to?” Brémel. He was surprised and pleased to know the word. Thorn, the name translates to Thorn. What kind of name is that? Somehow it fit the prickly demeanor and feel of the horse caged in the corral.

“Nobody. He’s a drudge horse; he works for anyone who catches him. I never rode him, but I heard of a few men who did. The last one never came back from the Dark Land.”

That’s reassuring… He couldn’t blame the animal, though. “Drudge horse?”

At Faramir’s obviously questioning look, Gaer elaborated, “Lots of them like Brémel in the Wold; they don’t have men to claim them so we round them up when we need them. He knows how to do everything from charging into battle to plowing a field. Really, not a bad choice for you.”

The Rohirrim jumped down and Faramir climbed back up for one last look at his horse. “Will he calm by tomorrow?” The grey thundered around and around the corral, digging into the earth only to slide to a halt, neighing plaintively. Obeying an impulse, he called, “Thorn!” At the name, the horse’s ears pricked for the first time and he stood still for a second before tossing his heavy head and resuming his pacing. Faramir smiled, oddly cheered as he jumped to the ground.

“’Course. Probably just the storm.” Gaer snorted at him, “You changing his name?”

He smiled again, “No, just giving it back to him in a proper language.” This got him a puzzled look and Faramir grinned. I miss my Éowyn…I hope she’s not mad at me any longer… He wanted those lessons in Rohirric and he’d come up with a few ideas already on how to make them more interesting.

“Well, in case we do ride tomorrow we’ll get your clothes now.” Gaer led him up the road to Edoras, “I’m sure we can find something your size,” The red-haired man grinned sideways, teasing, “lytle Bregu.”

“Watch it…you’re no bigger than I am, I might pick that fight with you.”

“Hmm…” The Rohirrim pretended to think, “Here’s a deal: I’ll let you knock me down in front of everyone if I get to kiss Lady Éowyn.”

“Just once?” He opened his mouth to say no and the red-haired Rohirrim hastily added, “No tongue? What if I promise no tongue?” His voice grew thoughtful, on the verge of laughter. “I cannot speak for her of course…”

“Selfish. I saw her first.” He grinned. Faramir shook his head, somewhere between completely amused and completely disgusted.

Shortly after Gaer had left him at the stairs of Meduseld, he stood in front of his mirror and stared at himself. Faramir’s good mood was gone and now despair threatened as his brother’s beloved voice replayed itself in his head. You’ll grow into it.

Course you will. It had felt too big, heavy with responsibility and he’d been a little afraid. It must have shown, because Boromir had laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, then pulled him into a hearty hug. His brother had looked natural in his sable and silver as he grinned, Come on, let’s go and show Father.

Faramir stared at himself. I didn’t want to. But he had, to please Boromir. And what did my father say? The words still stung; it was foolish, after so long, but they did. Denethor had glanced up from his seat; he’d been reading reports when Boromir came proudly in, Faramir trailing him nervously. His brother’s voice had been strong, happy.

Denethor had taken a long moment to scrutinize his younger son before pronouncing his judgment and turning back to his papers. He looks ridiculous.

In his room, he spoke softly, looking at himself in the mirror; “I’m afraid I still do, Father.” There’d been a flicker in Denethor’s eyes as he’d spoken, but it had been too swift and too well guarded to read; his father’s mind had been as strong and impenetrable as the walls of Minas Tirith. The crowd at Théoden’s funeral wouldn’t have bothered him. Why am I so weak?

Faramir stood before his mirror and stared at the white horse centered on his chest as it raced eternally; the over-tunic was new, he could easily make out the rich detail in the design. The dark green and brown Rohirric gambeson and hauberk felt peculiar, the leather stiff and the metal weighing him down instead of supporting him. Less advanced than his own smooth chain mail, the scales of iron seemed to flex opposite to his movements and the leather laces to catch and bind. The helmet felt odd, though it fit; it seemed far too light.

Someone must have known he was an archer—they’d given him bracers, but instead of adding a familiar touch, the darkly tanned hide clung heavily to his forearms, disturbing him. The clasp on the green cloak felt too tight, then too loose. All of it was cut just differently enough to vex, to feel completely foreign. Gazing at himself, he turned sideways; he seemed bigger, his shoulders broader and padded with more muscle. It is the way it is cut, I think.

He stepped back to see himself in full. Faramir thought he looked unfamiliar… even to himself. What, I wonder would my father say? My brother? I look like no son of the White City in this… Faramir’s eyes turned up to his dark hair. And yet no son of the Riddermark am I.

This uniform, too, felt heavy, but he wasn’t sure it was with responsibility. Before he began to change back out of it, Faramir wondered, what will Éowyn think of me in this? Will she think I look ridiculous clothed in the livery of a Rider?

Finally. Éowyn lunged out of the cart, tying the pony to its rail with no more than a quick pat of thanks. She loved Merry and Pippin, but an entire half-hour of intense description and discussion of Bandobras Took and the best taverns in the Shire and Bree was too much, she needed something to drink and now. Arwen was surprisingly swift in her heavy skirts, coming right at her heels.

“Éowyn! Get us down!” She glanced back; the two were still stranded upon the veritable small mountain of horseflesh that was Shadowfax. Gesturing, she commanded,

“Sceadufax dun!” It was silly, surely the intelligent Mearas knew by now to lower himself. Fool thing, we’ve stopped. The great horse folded to his knees and the women pushed through the door of the tavern, not bothering to wait.

Éomer sighed, “Just follow.” He walked down the aisle until he came to the last stall; he opened it and a moderate flood of wiggling, tan and brown spotted puppies immediately sprawled out. “Here.”

Must I explain? “Just pick one, it doesn’t matter which. She’ll love it.”

“Why not? Women love puppies—” at Aragorn’s amused glance he explained, “All women love baby animals, even my sister.” Éomer smiled, “Really, you should get her a kitten, but I don’t think you would ever get it back to Minas Tirith.”

“Oh, you’re going to make a fine husband—” Aragorn mocked him, “Here dear, here’s your puppy, don’t be mad at me anymore.”

Husband? Who’s getting married? A little disconcerted, Éomer sighed and then growled forcefully, “She will adore it.” The puppies were walking all around their feet, sniffing, fuzzy little things with floppy ears and floppy tails and pink tongues. One pounced on his boot as he ordered, “Pick.”

Aragorn mocked him again, “Why not? All women love jewelry, even your sister.”

Don’t go there, friend. He attempted to explain, “You’re getting Arwen jewelry?” He folded his arms, “Tell me, how much jewelry does this woman have?” She’s immortal and beautiful beyond compare, I’d imagine she’d have a great deal piled about…

Éomer bent and plucked up the nearest dog; it tried to lick his nose as he held it. Whining, wiggling with joy, the warm little thing sniffed his neck and then tried to crawl up his shoulder. “That’s what I thought. Now, does she have any puppies?” Expertly, he rolled the dog onto its belly and scratched, cradling it in his arms. Théodred… The dogs reminded him of his cousin’s hounds. We bred them, trained them…I remember the first day we ran them… He swallowed, suddenly struck with grief and fought to hide it.

“See? Which gift is more meaningful? Another shiny ornament or a nice, cuddly puppy that will adore her?” Éomer held the dog up to the man’s chin; it tried to lick Aragorn, too. The King leaned back and the dog stretched, stubby tail wagging as he asked, “She can’t cuddle jewelry while you’re away to Isengard, can she?” Forcing a grin, he added, “And every time she does she’ll think of who gave it to her.” If you’re lucky.

There was a long moment of resigned silence before the Aragorn spoke. “You’re impossible but you might have something. Help me pick one.”

Éomer frowned down at the fuzzy bundle that now lay content in his arms. “What’s wrong with this one? It’s well-behaved.”

“It likes you.” After a second Aragorn pointed down at one of the pups; it was gnawing determinedly and futilely at Éomer’s boot. The milk teeth didn’t even make dents in the leather, but it turned this way and that, stubbornly chewing with little growls in its chest. “That one looks better.”

“Good choice.” Idiot, see if you have any shoes left. He picked up the dog, handing it to the King as it squirmed wildly. The other had been passive; this pup was unruly, licking and flailing. “She’ll love it, I assure you.” Then, as Aragorn held onto the dog and they walked back through the barn, Éomer’s thoughts turned, as they so often did, to his sister. He tried his best to ignore the tendril of unease that wormed its way through him.

Éowyn leaned back against the chair, arching an eyebrow, “You think I should?” Arwen made a face, sipping from her mug,

The Took groaned, “Come on! Come on! We made you an honorary hobbit—you have to try it!”

“When we sle—” he fell quiet at Merry’s sharp glare. “In Minas Tirith.”

Not paying attention, Éowyn sniffed the sweet, familiar smoke; she put the pipe stem to her mouth, hesitating. Arwen blurted, “Do it and tell me what it’s like.”

All right, but… She gripped the slim wood in her teeth, trying for nonchalant; “You’re next, you’ll see for yourself.”

Arwen choked on her ale, looking horrified. Éowyn inhaled slowly and gently, just as Merry and Pippin had instructed, trying to ignore her audience. This isn’t so bad…then the sweet smoke abruptly turned acrid, betraying her and the half dozen men surrounding the four of them laughed as she coughed the lungful straight out. As soon as they’d entered the men in the tavern had turned, incredulous to see two well-dressed ladies, much less ladies of nobility and had immediately enveloped them in a good-natured and respectful crowd. Now they chuckled, as she gagged, none brave enough to join the conversation.

“Blah!” Éowyn grabbed at her mug, drinking swiftly. “Horrible! It’s horrible!” She passed the pipe back to Merry, who shook his head at her as she coughed.

Pippin smiled, holding his own pipe up, the stem between his forefinger and thumb, “Arwen? My lady? I believe it is your turn.”

“Oh, no. No.” The Queen scooted back in her chair, her expression sly. “You wouldn’t force a lady, would you? A admirable hobbit like you, Master Peregrin…of such great and valiant blood?” Merry snorted, grinning.

The Took wavered and Éowyn gasped, “No,” She took another deep draught, “But I would. Do it.”

“OH, fine.” Arwen grimaced horribly as she gingerly plucked the pipe from the hobbit’s small hand. “I hate you all.” She inhaled slowly, obviously trying to obey the lengthy directions, but the result was the same—wild hacking and coughing and an immediate grab at her ale. “There is a reason elves don’t smoke!”

Éowyn giggled, struck with a sudden thought. “Did it taste like Aragorn? Is this what Aragorn tastes like?” Wait…why did I ask that? She burst out in laughter. Why?

Éowyn giggled her answer, “Horseballs.” The men in the audience groaned, grimacing. Arwen glanced at them before asking,

Surely they know… “What do you mean what? Gelding time, you know…” She waved her hand to the crowd. “They’ve all done it. You have to eat them to prove you’re a man. Éomer barely made it; I thought he would throw up.” Snickering, she added, “He can be surprisingly finicky.” Like a cat. The thought made her chortle.

Two hobbits and an elf shook their heads, equal expressions of revulsion on their faces, “No.”

“No?” Éowyn giggled, “Well, there’s not much to it. After you’ve cut the horse’s balls out…really reached in and dragged all there is out and then cut it off,” There was a sudden uncomfortable shift in the all male audience; it made her giggle some more before she could finish her sentence. “The big ones you save to fry…and eat.”

“Eww!” Arwen shuddered all over; Merry and Pippin’s mouths were open. They got even more agape as the Queen asked, “What do you do with the little ones?”

She must be drunk or close to it to ask that. “You…” She forced herself sober long enough to answer, “You throw them in the fire and they pop everywhere.” The hobbits wailed, turning away; the crowd of men did much the same and Éowyn laughed delightedly.

Arwen had another question, an incredulously revolted expression on her face. “What did they taste like?”

Oh, it’s been years… She tried to remember the exact flavor. It was more texture, really… “Well…”

“I don’t want to know. I mean it. Please.” Pippin said this in a very small voice.

“They’re not like…” Éowyn burst out in hysterics, speaking through her fingers, “men’s…hobbit’s…at least, I don’t think…” Hobbit’s would be hardly a mouthful, wouldn’t they? She covered her mouth, tears leaking from the corner of her eyes. But, then, I’ve never seen a hobbit’s…stop it! Stop thinking about that! She slapped the table, rocking back and forth in her laughter.

Pushing away his ale, his little face still screwed up into a grimace, Merry moaned, “Nasty, this is nasty!”

A memory rose in her mind and Éowyn laughed wildly before she could gasp, “Éomer still doesn’t know he liked it.”

“And…he kept saying how g-good it w-as…” That was all she could take; Éowyn collapsed onto the tabletop, giggling so hard her chest hurt. I miss him, I miss Théodred; he was so proper until he got an idea in his head and then we had so much fun.

Pippin stared at them. “You’re disgusting, Éowyn. I take it back. You’re not an honorary hobbit anymore.”

“I’ve been disowned!” Gradually sobering, she wiped her wet cheeks. “Oh, this is wonderful.” Éowyn leaned against the hard wooden back of her chair wiggling her shoulder blades to get comfortable. The only thing that would make it perfect right now would be Faramir’s arm, just there, around my back, cushioning me. She smiled secretly against the rim of her cup. Maybe I’ll take him out before we go... For the first time the thought of leaving didn’t depress her and Éowyn was surprised until Arwen’s voice interrupted her inner monologue.

“Mmm-hmm.” The Queen nodded, slumped down in her chair. “I love this, why have I never been to one before?” She rolled her eyes, her voice turning slightly bitter, “Oh, that’s right, my father and my brothers would have died out of pure dismay...” Arwen trailed off as Pippin lifted his mug, comparatively giant in his small hand.

Éowyn groaned, “Oh, enough, I can’t listen to anymore about taverns in the Shire.”

“You’ll be lucky we told you when you come to see us—you’ll know where to stop.”

There was a flicker in the Brandybuck’s eyes. “Nothing changes in the Shire.” For a few minutes none of them spoke, then Arwen asked,

Some of the men had left them and were moving tables and chairs, clearing a large open space. The door to the tavern opened, many more men came in. There are a lot of them in here…she was slightly nervous now and cursed herself for being foolish. “Oh, that?” Éowyn peered across the gloomy room; “They’re going to wrestle or fight for money or something.” She had no plans on staying since she was sure it was close to time to leave anyway. Aragorn wanted…

“You know…they strip to their breeches, roll around…” She stopped at the smile that spread across the Queen’s face. “Surely you don’t want to…”

“They get all sweaty…with their muscles,” Éowyn grimaced, gesturing slowly, “bulging and grunting like pigs…it’s not very attractive.”

“And why would I not want to see that? I did marry a man.” Arwen huffed playfully; “We are staying for this. I’m getting the full tavern experience in Rohan.” She smirked, grinning sideways to tease, “Squeamish. And you ate horseballs.”

“I told her.” Aragorn stared into the close of the day; the sun was sinking into the thick storm clouds. His face was stern, irritated.

If I had a gold piece for every time I said that…he finished it in the traditional way—I’d be King and smiled. Éomer sighed, walking away from the walls but being careful to keep from the edge; they stood just outside the doors of Meduseld, looking out over the empty road. Faramir had appeared for the evening meal, quiet and calm. They’d ignored each other, but now the Steward stood behind him and the muscles in Éomer’s back twitched. I would feel better if I could see him.

Faramir didn’t speak; he just moved to stand nearer to the drop, apparently unconcerned about the fall. Éomer shuddered. Witch, he could probably just catch himself. The Steward didn’t glance over. He must not be reading my mind now…he hoped not, the very idea gave him chills, then left him hot with defensive anger. He’d better not.

But he was. Catch myself? Faramir snorted inwardly. Suspicious, aren’t we? Of all the idiotic things to think… He sighed, “Where do you think they went?”
Aragorn was silent and it was moments before Éomer screwed himself up to speak; his tone was reluctantly directed his way. “A tavern.”

“What if what?” Éomer asked in disgust. “My sister’s there, too. She used to run off and go to inns all the time—nothing ever happened to her except a headache in the morning.” Faramir listened to the conversation. A tavern? He smiled slightly; in this marriage will I be the one nervously waiting up all night and scolding when she stumbles in? He chuckled, amused. I hope not.

“Not as what?” The words were growled; the sound of an older brother who took pride in his little sister.

“Delicate.” Éomer stared at him, his eyes narrowed. “Nothing, nothing. Never mind.” The King took a breath, “They’re not coming, so we’ll go ahead and do this.”

Oh, no… Faramir grimaced; the wave of unease and discomfort off of Éomer mirrored his own.

“I need them to bet.” Pippin held out his little hand. Merry shook his head, indicating that she should refuse.

Swigging her ale, she asked a trifle petulantly, “Why can’t you take hers?”

“They don’t want hers.” The Took smiled, “They want yours, the Lady of the Shield Arm. They were very specific.”

“Half of them, you can have half of them.” Éowyn began unlacing the front of her gown. “I can’t believe I’m doing this, I’m going to be hanging out everywhere.” The image made her snicker and flush a little. “All so you can wager!”

“Sure she does—I have three sisters, there’s plenty of lace left there.” Pippin smiled sweetly, “You could even give me three fourths…”

“All right.” He nodded, curls flopping. “Thank you.” She was treated to a wide, mischievous grin.

“You know…” The Queen chuckled, “He’s going to lose those and come back in a few minutes for something else.”

Her hands froze again, “What else is there?” My skirts, my… Éowyn giggled and began rapidly relacing her gown. Oh, I shouldn’t…but I shall.

Arwen peered into her mug, then back to her as she asked, “Either of you have a knife?” The elven woman’s face grew astonished.

“I’m giving him something worth far more than bits of string.” She couldn’t stop breaking into a grin; Éowyn snickered out, “I’m cutting off a piece of my shift…” Gazing expectantly at the watching hobbits, she added, “that is, if I ever get a knife.”

Their eyes grew large and Pippin blurted, “I’ll get one.” He trotted away and the women stared at each other. Merry hopped back into his chair, an amazed expression upon his face.

Arwen smiled and lifted her mug, “I cannot wait until you come to Minas Tirith—we’re going to stand those fool ladies of the Court up on their righteous heads.” She drank and Éowyn smiled. “Snippety little things, not a drop of fun in them.”

“Aye.” She watched Pippin and Merry’s curly locks bob away; I suppose I will. Anxious to restore her happy mood, she picked up her mug, forcing a wide smile. “I can’t wait, either.” Arwen’s eyes narrowed slightly. Éowyn drank quickly, swallowing the sharp ale.

Aragorn cleared his throat, his voice both friendly and patient. “Now, Faramir said some things last night…” The look of pure revulsion that came upon Éomer’s face was phenomenal. He leaned back in his chair, eyes widening, face twisting in a grimace. The King of Rohan looked nauseated. Remarkable… Faramir was impressed as Aragorn continued, “And I think we need to discuss them.”

Éomer’ s face was still stuck in that same expression of dismayed aversion. “I just remembered I need to get Arwen a very, very nice gift.”

Despite his own discomfort, Faramir actually laughed as he muttered, “Very nice.” He stared into space; “I could have been related to you.”

“Amusing, yes.” Obviously annoyed, Aragorn shifted in his seat, “I’m trying to get something accomplished here, so if you don’t mind?”

Dammit. “Yes?” He took pains not to sound aggravated. Why am I always first?

They were in Aragorn’s rooms; Faramir lounged back on the thickly cushioned chair as he replied calmly. “No. I think I said enough.” Now leave me alone. He’s the one with the problems.

The King nodded; he sat leaning far forward, his eyes moving back and forth between them, “All right, it’s your turn.”

Aragorn’s hands tightened on each other as he asked patiently, “Was it all true? Were the things he said true?”

There was an oppressive silence as the King of Rohan stared at the carpeted floor. His jaw moved and his fingers twitched on the arms of his chair before he finally muttered, “Yes.”

Éomer took a moment to think, and then he spoke quick and firm, jerking his chin in Faramir’s direction. “I want him to leave and never come within my sight again.”

The King blinked, apparently unprepared for the swift, harsh answer. “Well…”

“But I know he won’t.” He sighed deeply, “So…I want him to stay out of my head.” He paused, “And I want to know what he did to Éowyn…” His mouth curled in repugnance, “How she can stand his witchcraft…she says she likes it.” There was distrust and disbelief in Éomer’s eyes as he turned. “You changed her.”

“Maybe you don’t know her as well as you thought.” He could sense that same cold fury from last night rising, so Faramir added, more quietly as he cursed himself for speaking without thinking, “People change.”

The attempt to defuse Éomer hadn’t worked; his voice was brimming with anger. “Not my sister.”

The sheer possessiveness made Faramir bristle. Éowyn was not his betrothed, soon to be wife, but Éomer’s sister. To him she is not mine at all, she is his little sister…who he loves wholeheartedly and who I am stealing. Faramir felt weary with guilt. Aragorn spoke up quickly, cheerfully, “Why don’t we work on the first thing?” They both turned and he said, “Éomer doesn’t want you to…again.” The King gestured and Faramir nodded. “And I think that’s a very reasonable request.”

He made himself relax, even almost smiling at the strain in Aragorn’s voice; reason indeed, I think that’s low on Éomer’s priorities at the moment. Faramir nodded, agreeing willingly. I have little desire to see into his mind.

Oh, so he wants me to swear aloud or something, then. How silly…but he could feel the depth of the wariness coming from his right and he gave in. “I promise I shall…refrain from prying into your thoughts.” Careful to keep his tone level, he added, “If you promise something to me.”
The King of Rohan gazed at him doubtfully. “What?”

“To keep your eyes open…you say I changed Éowyn—what does it matter? She’s content, can’t you see? I would not hold her to me if she wasn’t.” Faramir took more care in choosing his words, anxious to keep Éomer listening and even-tempered. “I’ve shown you I can read your thoughts and obviously you’ve spoken to her…she can’t hide unhappiness from me. You should not worry.” A chuckle breaking from his lips, he added, “If I ever doubted I’d send for you.” Please, let us bury this…I have enough to deal with already.

The reply was strange, forcibly uttered. “What is she going to do in that city?”

“She has no one but you.” Éomer spoke slowly now, “You—I saw you, Faramir—you sit in your worthless Council all day, deciding nothing, doing nothing but wasting time.” His voice became disgusted, “And what else? You must build your new city…you’ll be gone doing that and there must be other duties,” He gestured to Aragorn, “to your Lord. What will my sister do? Sit? She needs action, something to occupy her. Éowyn is not a broodmare to stand in the pasture or a lady to gossip in the Court. She’s a warrior at heart.” Éomer looked as though he’d decided something, “Offer to let her plan your house in Ithilien if she wants…it will give her a important action to occupy her time and an excuse to ride out often. She’ll be happier.” He added after a second, the words hesitant in their sadness, “You must think of these things now so that you will not have to send for me.” The King of Rohan bowed his head, falling quiet.

He’s right. Faramir leaned further back in his comfortable chair, his knuckles to his mouth, already thinking. “That’s a very good idea.” He’s right…that would be perfect for Éowyn, if she wants—Faramir smiled thinly, he does know her best. I would not have thought to ask her.

Aragorn was still silent, but he appeared pleased with their communication as Éomer looked up and continued, “Let her plan your house and let her order the men who build it. With the horses that will give her plenty. She won’t feel useless…” His eyes dropped again and his voice lowered, “and that is what torments her.”

He was quiet for a moment, then his curiosity bade him break the silence. “Horses?”

A rare glint of amusement appeared in the King of Rohan’s eyes. Rare in my presence, anyway... Faramir watched him; sensing Éomer was gradually relaxing with the threat of his “witchcraft” removed. “What did you think I was giving you?”

Faramir hadn’t given it any real thought. “How many?” Where would I keep them? Minas Tirith has few lodgings for large herds of horses.

“I haven’t decided yet; it depends upon how many mares we have bred for next spring as to how many I can afford to spare.”

He nodded to show he understood. Aragorn stirred with a smile on his lips, waiting for them to go on, but neither spoke. They’d come to a standstill and neither wanted to try to break it yet. Finally the King urged, “Éomer?”

He shifted, uncomfortable, but finally blurted, “What did you do to her so that she tolerates your…gift?” The last word was indecisively uttered but there was a clear attempt at respect.

I opened my mind to hers, allowed her to see me as I was and am so she could understand that I loved her completely, that I was no threat. Rubbing his forehead, Faramir tried to convert that into something the man to his right would fully accept and understand. “I let Éowyn read my mind. And she realized I loved her and she could trust me. And…”

“Just like that?” Skepticism dripped from Éomer’s voice. “You changed her just like that?”

“I suppose so, yes.” Patience, patience will win this, naught else. He will counter the slightest force with force. Faramir added carefully, “I wouldn’t call it…change…more like the lessening of fear—there was nothing to fear from my gift or from me.” He smiled, trying to lighten the mood, “Believe me, she did not even take to it as well as you did since I told her before I touched her mind.”He didn’t mention he’d lost control and had no alternative but to reveal himself. I am grateful I did, though.

He’d said something wrong somewhere. Éomer’s face was again unreadable, devoid of the tiny trust they’d managed to cultivate; his emotions were flickering, dim and hard to sense, but still predominantly doubt and unease. “If you are wise you would never do what you did with me to the men in my service. They would not tolerate it as you have taught Éowyn to.”

There was a marked warning in the words, “And if you use it again on me, witch may be the last word you hear. Understand?”

“I didn’t teach her to tolerate it—she chose to, it’s between us…” Faramir faltered, unable to explain. He didn’t think Éomer was listening anyway.

He clenched his teeth to avoid baring them in frustration. I understand, it is you who doesn’t. “Yes.” Aragorn no longer looked quite as pleased as they fell silent again. Faramir sighed, slumping in his seat and covering his face with his hand. Can I not win with him? Even once?

“Let me tell you something about Estel.” Éowyn giggled, unable to stop and not sure why. Arwen spoke slower than normal; “He’s a Ranger.” She smiled wickedly.

“I know that.” It was obviously a jest and she didn’t get it. “So is Faramir.”

“Rangers…haven’t you heard? They…” The Queen snickered, then said rapidly, “can’t find anything in the dark.”

She wiped ale off of her chin, frowning; in the background men were placing wagers on the first wrestling match. From their spot in the corner the women had an excellent view of the cleared area. “What?”

“Rangers have good memories, but they have to go over and over it.” The Queen snickered, “That’s how they are trained.” She gasped, “Repetition.”

“Ooh.” Arwen was distracted; two men separated from the group and began stripping to their breeches. “Look. Men.”

Éowyn propped her feet on Merry’s empty chair. “What about them?” She giggled, “They’ve been here the whole time.”

“Nicer?” Her brow furrowing, she tried to figure out what was so appealing; the half-nude men stretched, rolling their necks, getting ready. All around others were setting their wagers; Éowyn fancied she could hear Pippin’s high voice. “They’re all bulgy. Blah.”

Éowyn eyed the men as they circled, beginning the contest. They were thick chested and hairy with heavy muscles that stood out as they grasped each other. Straining, they moved back and forth, hard muscle twisting under sweat-slick skin. She made a face. Faramir is far more attractive…very handsome, just right... At length she spoke, “They are built for the sprint, the short exertion—all big muscle.”

She sighed, wrapping her fingers around her mug; “Faramir is built for the chase.” He’s long-limbed with lean, rangy muscles, not bulgy ones that pop out. He’s of far finer blood—a noble stud to these…she made a face at the wrestling men…plow horses. Éowyn became aware of her thoughts and laughed out loud in embarrassment. I am drunk and sound close to swooning like a maiden—noble stud! Ha!

“Tell me more about Faramir.” The Queen laughed, “He was so quiet in Minas Tirith, hiding himself away all the time…he didn’t seem the thrilling type.” Snickering, she said, “Long exertion indeed…he must have a few thrills in him. Tell me about that.”

“All right, I’ll go first. We’ll take turns, this will be fun.” Arwen took a drink; “Estel has a birthmark shaped like a squash on its side, just sitting right above his…”

“Manhood.” The Queen finished triumphantly and Éowyn realized she should have covered her ears. I am drunk. Why did I cover my eyes?

Giggling at her fool self, she managed to get out, “I said I didn’t want to know!”

“I can’t tell, I haven’t seen anything.” Well, that’s not true…she’s seen Faramir shirtless, but that was it.

“Spoilsport and a liar.” Arwen sighed, a mischievous light coming into her eyes, “All right. Which hobbit, then?”

“What do you mean what? They told us about Bree—you think the women there don’t sometimes take a hobbit on a whim?”

“You mortal children are so prudish.” The Queen rolled her eyes. “I think they do. Which one?”

“Oh…Merry.” Immediately Éowyn began to laugh. What are we talking about?

“Really? I like Frodo—he’s so sad, it just makes me want to show him my bosom, see if it makes him smile again for a moment, you know?”

For a second Éowyn thought about that and then she burst into wild laughter. “No…no!” Sobering just slightly, she gasped, “Pippin looked down my shirt…I don’t remember if he smiled or not, but,” Giggling hard, she didn’t think, “Aragorn sure did.”

“Oh, damn.” Éowyn lost it, lying her head on the table. The Queen’s face stayed immobile while she laughed until her sides ached. “Dammit! Horseballs!” But he did…!

Neither of them had spoken in a while. Aragorn looked supremely irritated. “It’s getting late. I don’t want to be at this all night.”
“You’re not going to be doing anything else.” Faramir didn’t quite understand the amused tone of Éomer’s voice. He’d changed, flipping emotions neatly and unpredictably. “And we certainly won’t disturbed Arwen. She’s gone out.”

Faramir didn’t particularly want any—he needed to be as clear headed as possible. It seemed he’d come close to learning precisely how to tread about Éomer’s temper without triggering it and he was loath to cloud his thoughts or meddle with his judgement. He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

The King of Rohan stirred in his chair. “You’re attempting to bribe me into speaking with my own liquor, stocked by my own servants?”

“All right.” Éomer grinned in reply. He was abruptly much easier in tone and manner, leaning back in his chair, body relaxed. Faramir observed him discretely, trying to determine why. Aragorn rose and left the room; they were alone and it was completely silent. Oh, I know why. We’ll be alone. It was with wary doubt that he watched Éomer glance at the door; even Aragorn’s footsteps had become quieter as he’d moved to some farther room. There were little muffled sounds to indicate his actions, but nothing else.

The King of Rohan turned cool eyes his way—gone was the easiness, gone was the warm manner. In their place was diamond hard suspicion. It appears Lord Éomer is better at deceiving others than I. Faramir tried not to react, even as Éomer stood. He watched, bracing himself for anything, but the man only smiled, a thin thing that recognized his ready posture in the comfortable seat and laughed at it. Harmlessly, Éomer moved across the room, peering out the window into the cool evening; Aragorn had been awarded the honor of the best quarters—rooms with a small, partial view of the mounds of the Lords of the Mark. “When do you think they will return?”

It had the air of a question spoken by one of his teachers long ago, a test, perhaps. “I don’t know.” Faramir answered it honestly; he’d not turned to watch Éomer before, but now he did and in the gloom of the room’s corner, the man’s eyes gleamed. Then, impossibly, the King of Rohan began to make small talk.

“Yes.” That, too, was true. He’d enjoyed teaching the boys, far more than he would have thought.

“Good. I’m glad.” There was satisfaction now, but Faramir was too weary to try and weasel it out to its origins. Éomer’s mood indicated he knew more than he was telling, far more. It is hopeless to try and understand him.

“It will storm tomorrow, we will not ride out.” He sighed deeply, “We need rain.” Faramir was uncertain of a response, the comment seemed not to need one, so he just nodded and made an agreeing noise. Éomer’s back was to him. He noted the man’s hand tracing the embellished hilt of his sword—it looked more of a nervous habit than a threat. “You don’t understand, do you, that we need rain?” The King of Rohan turned slightly, “It was green in the South, still. Here it is beginning to dry up and if there is no rain…” His voice grew grim. “The fields will burn easily in the lightning. This summer has been dry; my sister spoke of two fires already.”

Burn? Fires? Faramir’s face must have betrayed his slight alarm, something inside him twisting a little at the thought, for Éomer smiled again, still that hard, chill thing.

“Oh, we cannot be reached here, the river and the winds off the mountains keep us safe, but…” He trailed off and when he spoke again it was bitter. “Some of the horses and my people will die, and the homes and fields will be reduced to ashes.” After a moment he added, “It is good for the grass to burn. If it does the next year it will be plentiful.”

Éomer was quiet for a long moment; in the other room they could hear Aragorn making more noise, preparing to return. “I hope she does not stay out late. What do you think?” Reading the man standing at the window easily, he knew the question really meant, “What do you think about that?”
This was the test. Faramir answered as easily as he could, “I don’t know.” He tried to convey his composure, his acceptance that Éowyn had run off to a tavern, presumably for the entire night…but that wasn’t exactly true, was it? Am I as undisturbed by that as I’m striving to appear? Suddenly he wasn’t sure. Éomer’s eyes were flinty in the dimness by the window, impassive and searching, as though he was the mind reader.

In all things, her well being is in his thoughts, remember that, dammit…this is a trap, don’t fall into it… Despite his mind’s warning, he couldn’t stop from speaking, nor halt the deepening tinge of worry and irritation in his voice, “You don’t think she’ll be out all night?”

“Probably.” Quiet victory glowed in Éomer’s stance though he’d still not moved from the window. There was a distance between them and the danger was just becoming clear —the King of Rohan’s hand had ceased moving on his sword hilt and just rested there. Wait, wait, wait, Faramir’s more sensible part was trying to get his attention, but he ignored it. Restless, he thrummed his fingers on his leg, staring at the floor. Éomer had turned to watch him now, no longer making any pretense of looking out the window. “Does that bother you?”

Faramir looked up quickly, forcing an amicable expression on his face. “No.”

His reply held a hint of a protest that ashamed and troubled him. “She can do what she likes.”

Éomer wore a small smile, almost obliging, as though he was placating a fool. “Of course.”

The King of Rohan glanced back out the window, apparently unperturbed. His words, uttered in a nonchalant fashion, stung. “It is good to know she’s got your permission.”

What are we talking about? Stop this. Again Faramir’s mind tried to make itself heard, tried to stave off the slowly growing tones of animosity in the room, but again he ignored it. They weren’t fighting over Éowyn, really; they were fighting over each other’s way of thought, their very natures. Or are we? This is absurd, I won’t continue this… “She doesn’t need my permission.” Who was he trying to convince?

“No? That’s…” Aragorn returned and Éomer finished, “good.” His voice and his stance had become much more relaxed with his hand dropping from his sword hilt, almost guiltily.

Faramir felt himself relax in response, only then aware of how tense he’d gotten. It seemed Éomer was not just good with a swift, brutal attack, but a subtle one, too, to unnerve and confuse. He is more than he appears. A disturbing thought occurred—he’s changed his approach, he’s adapting to me. Too well. Faramir gazed warily at the man standing at the window. It was as though Éomer were waging a small scale battle…like in Ithilien, weaving in and out of the trees, using them as cover, as shields, constantly changing positions and methods of attack… He smiled, because this, at least, at last, he understood.

Every time Éowyn’s giggles dried up, she would look at Arwen’s fixed face and they would start again. Her cheeks hurt and so did her sides; taking deep breaths, she tried to stop. Don’t look at her, don’t look… Pippin saved her then, the hobbit walked to their table, his arms heavily laden with his winnings. Merry followed more slowly, weaving a bit as he did.

“I won, you said I wouldn’t but I did. I know wrestling and I know how to bet.” Arwen turned to look up at him and if the hobbit saw anything forbidding in her expression it didn’t faze him in the slightest. “Look!” He pushed his burden onto the table: bits of gold in coins, cloak clasps and buttons; two daggers, their hilts bejeweled; a beautifully cured red fox pelt; and a few other small items.

“T-t-that’s v-very n-nice…Pippin.” Éowyn could feel her giggles coming again and she dug her nails into her palm, trying to fight it. Arwen hadn’t budged an inch. I don’t think she’s blinking… Turning away, she clenched her teeth, refusing to give in. I can’t, I’ll throw up…

Arwen did not speak. Finally, Éowyn said, “Yes.” Pippin began to scoop his winnings back up. She snickered, thinking all that from a corner of my slip…somewhere tonight there’s going to be a man sleeping all curled around it. Hysterical giggles rose and Éowyn barely kept them to wild, little bubbly gasps. The Queen stood and they walked slowly to the door with Merry weaving erratically and Pippin trying not to drop anything. Oh, oh, is she angry? Éowyn had no idea, as the elven woman’s face was completely blank. Maybe I should explain it was all accidental…but leave out the grabbing me part…he… She giggled again; he probably got quite the feel of me. Stumbling, they were outside. The grey pony blinked sleepy eyes at her as Éowyn shuffled to its side and unknotted its reins. Shadowfax was nowhere in sight.

“Shadowfax!” Pippin bellowed. His short arms were full to overflowing with his hoard. Smaug, Éowyn thought in both amusement and an emotion close to longing; she’d been told the story only once, in a much darker time, on the road to Minas Tirith. Dernhelm, she’d been, then. I would like to hear it once more.

“H’re he comes.” Merry clung to the pony’s harness for support; it appeared that while his cousin had been cheering and bidding on the men wrestling, he’d been drinking. The silvery stallion galloped swiftly from the night, neighing his arrival—his mane and tail were studded with burrs and his legs were splashed with muck. “He’s dir’ty.”

“You can’t ride him, Merry.” Éowyn frowned. The hobbit was far too drunk to stay astride even the smooth-gaited mearas.

Shadowfax came to a halt and stood, his ears flicking back and forth. Suddenly the horse reached out and gave Merry a gentle push with his nose. The hobbit went over immediately, just like a felled tree with his arms at his sides and his expression mildly astonished. If horses could laugh, the stallion would have been guffawing, Éowyn thought. She herself was snickering. Arwen was completely silent, her fair brow furrowed.

There was no response. He’d passed out. Pippin realized this and quickly stripped his cousin’s cloak from him, using it to carry his winnings. The Took slung his burden over his shoulder; Éowyn was still frowning as the hobbit ordered Shadowfax, “Down, dun!”

“Wait, wait, oh, dammit.” She’d just somehow get Merry into the cart herself. But she wasn’t by herself, was she? “Arwen…could you…help me?” It was so dark…how had it gotten this late? I can’t see a thing.

“Gaffer’s potatoes.” Pippin sighed deeply from his perch; the fact he’d gotten the mearas to lie down for him, then mounted and retained all his treasure had gone uncommented upon. Shadowfax and his passenger moved off, the stallion not waiting.

Gaffer? What’s a gaffer? Éowyn burst out laughing, utterly confused. Maybe it’s a who. That makes more sense. Merry was still lying on the ground and the pony gazed at the women and hobbit in puzzlement, no doubt wishing for his warm, comfortably bedded stall. Arwen clarified in a chilly tone, “How did he see you?”

“What?” She grabbed his hairy feet, aiming for the ankles, and dropped them in surprise when her fingers closed on furry, grimy toes. Eww… oh. “He didn’t mean to.”

Éowyn giggled, helpless. Everything was suddenly funny. “He broke in my rooms for pipe-weed, how was he to know I was naked?”

The Queen growled savagely, “Naked?” At her astonished expression Éowyn could only howl with laughter. I tried to make things better but she’ll probably go back to Edoras and kill him…

Éomer watched Faramir closely. His scrutiny seemed to unnerve the Steward just a little, not much, but it was enough to make him feel more secure. Heart still troubled, he didn’t speak, even as the frown on Aragorn’s face grew deeper. Soon, the King would urge one of them to begin and he knew they would have to start again. Until it is finished, he says…but I do not think this will be finished for a long time. He felt much wearier than the hour should account for. Where is my sister? It is late. Faramir knew nothing about what he’d done, though the man’s eyes had become more suspicious. Éomer could not read minds, but he felt that the Steward was far tenser than when he’d come in. Good, let him be confused, let him be uncertain. I am, so why should he be at ease? Let him realize all I’ve done to lessen the difficulty of this ride later. Let him be grateful.

Aragorn cleared his throat expectantly. “Well?” Faramir alone had refused the offer of brandy; Éomer swirled his, enjoying the glints of light through the liquid. He sipped it; the stuff was good enough.

“Well what?” The Steward’s tone startled him into spilling a drop of the liquor onto his shirt; it gleamed there, proof that he’d heard correct. Faramir had sounded distinctly surly, even…scornful. Besides, I was going to say that. What is he doing? Even Aragorn appeared disconcerted.

“What more is there to say? If you think there’s more, you say it.” Faramir shifted back in his seat, his posture rebellious, and his grey eyes inscrutable. What is this? Éomer was confused. And yet, was that a smile hiding at the corners of the Steward’s mouth? Perplexed, he stared down into his glass. What is with him?

“Do you have anything else? Is everything worked out?” His eyes were stern, as he asked, “No more fights?”

No, I don’t think so. I did promise. But worked out? Not at all, my friend, and soon we will be beyond your aid. Whatever happens, whatever words spoken, will. Out loud, he said, “Yes, I suppose.”

“Well, good.” Aragorn paused, “So.” Faramir said nothing and Éomer brooded. A witch and far more unpredictable than I guessed. The Steward glanced sideways at him even as he thought and Éomer’s heart jumped in his chest, a rush of alarm and fear-induced rage flooding his body. Get out of my head!

There was no response, either physical or mental, so he relaxed a little. A coincidence, no more. Nervously, he traced Gúthwinë’s grip, finding small comfort in the hilt’s familiar design. No more. He promised not to. But can I trust him? He can do it without my knowledge… Pushing away the anxiously spiraling thoughts was harder than he’d anticipated. I do not trust him.

They soon retired, going to their separate rooms. In the hall Éomer thought to stop and speak to the door-wards and inform them the Ladies Éowyn and Arwen were expected. I hope she doesn’t sleep too late. His time was short, and therefore precious. He hoped to spend the extra day with her. Glancing at Faramir’s back, his heart turned bitter. If I can get to her first. He walked down the halls, intent upon visiting the doors then his quarters. There was no point in staying up, though, if she’d gone alone he would have remained awake to make sure she returned. She’s fine. Éowyn was accompanied by two hobbits, Knights in their respective services, and the Queen. She will be home soon.

At least that’s what Éomer told himself, because without it he wouldn’t have been able to sleep.

Faramir undressed, weary and confused, but he was still satisfied with rattling Éomer so. He thinks I am forbearing and that I will suffer his games. I am not, I prefer peace, but I will fight. Blowing out all the candles and climbing into his bed, he was soon asleep.

There were footsteps, small and slow. Faramir was conscious of furs against his skin, of a bed softer than the one he’d gone to sleep in, of the sunlight shining at an odd angle. This is not Rohan… The thought made him open his eyes a little and there was a fierce war cry in response. He jerked, coming fully awake as the boy yelled. A flash of brown—the wooden sword slammed into the bed, perilously close to Faramir’s head. He felt the impact and heard the thwack! against the bed sheets. Snapping up and scooting back, palms braced, he saw he was in a room he’d never been before. Panting, his blood racing with alarm, he stared about, confused. Besides his bed furs, there was Éowyn’s bearskin on the floor; these were the only objects Faramir’s shocked mind could recognize as familiar.

His heart pounded, and rudely awakened, he did nothing but stare. It was a boy, about six years, with pale, corn silk hair and vivid blue eyes. He smiled mischievously, skinny arms raising the wooden sword to point. The blunt tip came to rest about an inch from Faramir’s nose as the lad solemnly intoned, “Mum says you have to get up now and help her.”

“Mum?” Unsurprisingly Faramir stuttered over it, it wasn’t like he used the name much as a child. The word lay on his tongue, unfamiliar and heavy with dawning awareness. This is…

The boy nodded and his hair hung in his eyes as he lowered the little sword. In a child’s normal lilt, he added, “She wants you.”

“Oh.” Bizarrely, he found himself adding, “Tell her I’ll be there.” Unable to think of anything else, he watched the boy grin one last time and turn away. He lifted his wooden sword, his face alighting with impishness and went barreling out of the bedroom, outer rooms and into the hallway, yelling as he did so.

That was my son. The knowledge made his heart swell with both pride and terror. My son.

The dream changed. He was in the same room, but it was much earlier in the morning, dawn’s light barely illuminating. Faramir lay still and drowsy, listening as someone undressed. Who? He wondered sleepily, who would be just undressing at this hour? The answer was on the tip of his tongue, just eluding him.

But…Éowyn…he sensed she was close and suddenly far closer. She slipped beneath the furs, and her naked body pressed to his back, instantly arousing him. Her hand slid along his side, stroking, moving up his chest and then down his belly.

“Wake up, Faramir.” It was a faint whisper as her breath caressed his ear. Her fingers played, sending tingles over his flesh and a growing heat in his stomach. “Wake up, I want you.”

“What’re you…?” He turned and she kissed him. Arms wrapping around his neck, he could feel her entire body. Éowyn’s skin was cool; she smelled like rain and wind, earth and grass. She smells of Rohan, he thought and wondered.

“You should have come…” Her breath against his mouth, surprisingly hot. “He went so fast…not even the birds could keep up.”

This is a dream; he thought and felt his excitement roaring through him. It was a dream and he could do as he liked without fear. Faramir bent to her breasts, kissing and nipping her flesh. His hands found her hips, and slid up her hot thighs. Éowyn squirmed, laughing womanishly at his eagerness, but Faramir was suddenly so aroused that he could barely stand it. Must…must have… He kissed everywhere he could reach, caressing her inner thighs, feeling them heat at his touch and feeling her wetness.

Suddenly there was a pounding on the door and he jerked into wakefulness, his blood still racing. An uncharacteristic bolt of rage flashed through his mind that he should be disturbed, but it quickly faded.

It was dark in his rooms and the window showed nothing but starlight. Faramir took a deep breath, trying to calm himself and wake up as he swung his legs over the bed. There were breeches nearby on the floor; he shoved them on, bewildered and still half-aflame. Who is that?

Éomer stalked into his sister’s room the next morning, bent upon revenge. He moved slowly, his steps carefully quiet. Finally, he thought in triumph, finally I will repay her. He could well remember the last time he’d come home drunk—she’d flung the windows open, letting the sun hit him straight in the eyes while sweetly telling him good morning. Now, it is your turn, sister. He slipped into her bedroom, moving silently. Éowyn was sprawled out on the bed, still in her dress from last night. Her hair hid her face; he would have to move it and carefully, so as not to wake her. His boots made no noise, so softly did Éomer walk across her room. He reached her windows; the shutters were closed, as he’d known they would be.

Leaning over Éowyn, he carefully pushed away strands of her flaxen hair, his fingers delicate. Grinning in anticipation, he stepped back, raising his voice, “Éowyn!” as he flung open the window. Morning light poured, poor through the thick clouds, but bright in her dark room, at the exact moment she opened her eyes and his sister screeched in fury and pain. She rolled away, curling inward to protect herself.

His desire for revenge appeased, Éomer smiled and said the same thing she’d done every time. Manner perfectly innocent, he greeted, “Good morning.” Unexpectedly she grabbed up her pillow, and eyes still closed, swung it. The soft weapon came within inches of slamming into his stomach. Astonished, Éomer yelped, “Hey!” Hangover or no, his sister still had deadly aim. Not feeling the pillow connect, she kicked out and again, came close. Too close. “Watch it!”

Voice muffled, she screamed, “Get out!” He ducked back, surprised, retreating along the edge of the bed and stopped rather abruptly as his foot hit something.

Clunk! Éomer frowned, looking down. He moved his boot again, unable to see the object. Clunk! “What’s that?” Grinning, he teased, “Hiding armor under the bed again? I thought you were over that.”

To his surprise Éowyn’s eyes flew open and she looked startled as she raised herself. “No. No.”

“Then what is…?” He never finished his question because, having sat up, she was closer and Éowyn’s pillow hit him square in the face.

Éomer withdrew again, this time to her outer rooms. “Hurry up, I’m hungry! I waited for you!”

Her heart, which had been pounding with alarm, warmed at his words, but she snapped back, “No one told you to do that.”

There was a creak as her brother sprawled into one of the chairs. His voice floated back. “I wanted to.”

“All right, wait a moment.” Of all the coincidences…it was absurd, she’d moved all of Faramir’s clothes under her bed so that Éomer would not find them and, incredibly, he’d come within seconds of doing so. Unbelievable. Éowyn scooted up and leaned over, her head throbbing as she shoved the pauldron Éomer had hit his foot on further beneath the bed.

Sitting up, her dress crumpled and pooled around her, she rubbed her sore eyes and pounding forehead. What an ass he is… True, she’d done it, but still, she thought childishly, that hurt.

“Give me a minute, damn you!” Climbing slowly out of her bed, Éowyn began to take off her dress when she stopped. She touched her neck; there were marks there, like the ones Faramir made with his mouth, but… He hasn’t done that so recently…has he? Something tickled the back of her mind, but she couldn’t concentrate over her low headache. Mildly confused, she pushed the thought aside.

Dressing didn’t take long; Éowyn splashed water on her face, not bothering to brush her hair, but simply tying it back. Lastly, she picked out some of her men’s clothes and pushed her feet into a pair of boots. Obviously she was going to be spending at least part of the day with her brother and a gown would be useless. Her jade bracelet was still around her wrist; Éowyn took it off and set it on her dresser. The crack in the mirror caught her eye.

Distracted she replied, “I’m coming.” Éowyn touched her neck again, then put it aside.

As she walked out the door, Éomer immediately bounced up out of his chair; “I’m starving.”

Pretending to be annoyed with him, she commanded, “Well, come on, then.” But, as they left her room, Éowyn took his arm, squeezing it. Her brother squeezed back. I love you, I will miss you so… She put her hand to her temple, feigning pain and brushed away a tear. I’m sorry, more than you will ever know.

Arwen sat quietly eating at the high table, almost as though she was waiting for them. Eomer glanced at her, thinking something was odd, then he noticed the tiny black nose peeking out from beneath the Queen’s skirts. The puppy. He smiled widely as she picked a piece of bacon off of her plate and lowered her hand. A little brown muzzle poked out and accepted the treat. I knew it. Delighted, he settled himself across from her. Éowyn plopped down beside him as servants scrambled to serve them. He was starving; he’d not lied. It was midmorning and already Éomer had been about, feeding Blâcfÿren a few handfuls of grain, holding the bucket close so that the stallion had been forced to stand near him and tolerate his presence. It was just one small step in the training.

“Good morning.” There were circles beneath Arwen’s eyes, just like the ones beneath Éowyn’s.

“Good morning to you, too.” It is now—Éomer took a giant bite of his eggs. They were delicious. Chewing, he asked, “When did you two get in?”

His sister didn’t answer she just frowned. The Queen gave the puppy another bit of her breakfast, “I don’t know, do you, Éowyn?”

“I can’t remember anything past…” Her brow furrowed, “Did we get Merry in the cart?”

“We did and then we hauled him up those thrice-damned stairs—” She turned to him, “What fool built those?”

The answer was automatic, as fully ingrained as his lineage. “Brego built this hall.”

Éomer smiled, “I don’t think he was picturing drunkards like you two ladies having to haul an unconscious halfling up them in the middle of the night.”

Éowyn was still frowning. Voice cautious, she asked, “Are you…still angry with Aragorn?”

What are they talking about? Éomer glanced back and forth, but he had the impression neither would tell if he asked. He’d learned from experience that the fewer questions he asked the more likely Éowyn would be to just tell him. Arwen frowned herself, then chuckled,

“I can’t remember if I slept with my husband last night—” She picked up the puppy to cuddle it in her lap, “I woke up with this darling creature, so I’m sure I went to see him,” She rolled her eyes, “for some reason, but…I don’t know.”

Éomer grimaced, biting into a piece of sausage. It was unbelievably good. “I don’t want to know, I’m trying to eat.”

Éomer stopped chewing long enough to growl, “Eating. Stop it.” The women ignored him.

Arwen made her puppy’s ears flop. “Because, he’ll think he’s forgiven.” She laughed suddenly; “We’ll know when we see him.”

“I’d imagine he’d be in a good mood.” Against his will, Éomer smiled at this.

Éowyn sighed, “I can’t remember anything.” Suddenly she made an odd noise, almost a squeak and her eyes went wide. He frowned, then looked up, following her gaze.

Faramir had come around the corner. He was in simple clothes: dark breeches, a loose cream-colored shirt with the first few buttons undone. No uniform, neither Gondorian nor Rohirric; it was appropriate, Éomer thought, as the man was literally between worlds today. Outside the dark clouds covered the sky from horizon to horizon, threatening to rain or assail them with lightning, keeping the Riders home. The Steward had surrendered his title and yet, hadn’t picked up his new one.

Not seeing any reason for her reaction, he looked back down at his food and then his gaze jerked to his sister. She’d gone red, her cheeks flushed a deep crimson and she stared at her plate. Éowyn didn’t lift her head, even as the Steward greeted them in a cheerful voice, “Good morning.” Faramir sat opposite of her and he was grinning easily and almost gleefully. Éomer’s eyes narrowed as he looked back and forth between them. Arwen’s met his across the table; she arched an eyebrow, echoing his own silent question. What is going on?

The puppy barked, standing up in Arwen’s lap. They heard a cheerful whistling that the Queen apparently recognized, because she whispered, “Oh, damn.” Éomer couldn’t help laughing; but as he did so he noticed Éowyn did not look up and Faramir was still grinning at her. What, oh what is going on here? He stirred his food, wary as Aragorn entered.

She’s embarrassed. Faramir smiled, looking at Éowyn’s bent head. As for himself, he was close to laughter. My darling, don’t be embarrassed, you could hardly help yourself… Her head lowered just a little and her blush deepened; she’d heard him. I’m flattered. I’ve never had a woman approach me like that before… He clamped his jaw together to keep from howling with mirth. Éomer’s eyes were upon them, moving back in forth; there was a growing sense of suspicion in them. Ah, but if he only knew. Faramir didn’t think the man would believe it. I hardly believed it.

Suddenly Arwen’s puppy leaped from her lap, landing gracelessly and yipping high and excited as it waddled towards the hall and Aragorn. A cute little dog, it was mostly brown with generous splotches of white and black. The long, floppy tail wagged furiously, big ears flapping like wings as it jumped and ran towards the whistling. The Queen sighed affectionately, “Traitorous little darling.” She smiled, “I’ve named him Rusco.”

Éomer chuckled, his suspicion fading to amusement. Faramir watched curiously as the man scooted his small bowl of what looked like oatmeal close to Éowyn’s plate. She had her own, still untouched, so he observed further. What’s he doing? The motion had the air of expectancy. Her blue eyes flickered to the bowl, but she didn’t do anything. Éomer picked up his last piece of toast and began spreading some sort of jam over it. He placed it on her plate, almost hopefully, Faramir thought. The entire thing had a feel of routine, of ritual. What is he doing? Or, he felt, a more exact question, what does he expect her to do?

“Good morning…isn’t it, my dearest?” It was Aragorn himself now, scooping the little dog up as it leaped awkwardly around his ankles and favoring them all with a sunny smile as he sat on her other side. Servants bustled anxiously, serving him and Aragorn their late breakfasts. Faramir frowned, poking at his plate; Arwen had scooted closer to him when Aragorn kissed her cheek. He slid down a few inches, giving her room again. The puppy clambered clumsily back into the lap of its mistress and sat panting, its pink tongue lolling. Faramir made a face at it and the dog cocked its head, ears pricked. Cute. Feeling his hunger, he dug into his breakfast.

Across the table, Éowyn’s head was still bent, but her deep, scarlet blush had faded. Too bad, it was pretty. He looked at her, waiting for her to raise her eyes, but she didn’t. Éomer was smiling a little at the royal couple, but his gaze kept coming back to Faramir. He wonders why she blushes.

The Queen answered after a moment. “Yes, that is if you ignore the storm hanging overhead.” She kept it curt, her face down-turned, too. For the first time Aragorn’s good cheer wavered. Faramir sensed the instant unease in the room and shared it.

The King replied hesitantly, “Yes…” Over the broad table Éomer looked at his sister, still awaiting something, and slid one of his sausages onto her plate. Éowyn moved at last, spooning out some of the sugar and stirring it into her brother’s steaming bowl of oatmeal, porridge, what is that? Faramir watched curiously. She put in a little butter, too, and then reached across to a small bowl of berries, mixing in several spoonfuls. Éomer looked pleased as, obviously through some known agreement, she pushed the finished concoction towards him and he immediately began wolfing it.

Éowyn picked up the toast he’d made for her, holding it daintily between the forefingers and thumbs her of her hands. Drops of the thickly applied jam slid down her fingers and Faramir watched as she licked it off. One by one, she put her fingertips into her mouth, sucking at the sweet jelly. He knew he was staring, but was helpless not to. Her lips were very soft looking and pink. But it was her tongue that held his eyes. It slid along her skin, leaving moisture behind, a deep rosy color, it looked pliant and…it looks wet and hot. Faramir felt the room grow warmer and tried to look away. He could barely keep her offer of last night from his mind.

Then, to his surprise her eyes met his and Éowyn’s blush was gone. She looked…like she did last night…almost. She looked partly amused, but mostly a frank sort of wantonness filled her blue eyes as they locked with his own. Deliberately, Éowyn raised her thumb to her lips and sucked on it. He tensed, willing himself not to think. Yet, her hot gaze quickly faded to reveal a deep anger. Again, like last night. Discomfited, he dropped his own gaze. Faramir felt guilty, though he knew he shouldn’t. I did what was right, the right thing. Why is she angry with me? It exasperated him.

The King hesitated, then said, his words soft and spoken into the Queen’s ear, “I hoped we could move your things back today—”

His puzzlement made him look up again, hoping to catch her eye, but Éowyn had turned to look at Arwen as she spoke, cutting her husband off.

“What are you doing today?” The question was deliberately aimed at Éowyn, and disregarded Aragorn entirely. He looked hurt and Faramir wondered why, it wasn’t as though she’d not been acting this way for a while. Or has she? He had the sudden feeling he was missing something.

“Umm, I don’t know.” She glanced at Éomer, who gazed darkly at Faramir. He wants her to himself this day. He didn’t know whether to dispute that or not. I, too, would like to spend a little time with Éowyn before you lead me off to Valar knows where.

“Vanimelda…” Aragorn sounded pleading, speaking low into her ear, though his voice was just audible to the rest of them. “Mani naa ta...? Mani marte?”

The table was suddenly awkward as Arwen ignored her husband again, her fair face strained with the effort. “I thought we could do something fun.”

Éomer teased, though obviously laboring to sound natural, “Another tavern? Didn’t you get enough?”

“Like what?” Éowyn appeared curious. She’d finished her toast, to Faramir’s relief, but now was slowly licking her spoon as she ate her porridge mixed with strawberries. This breakfast has been specifically designed to torture me. Her tongue held his gaze again until he wrenched it free only to notice Éomer’s glower. Oh, what? I’m not a gelding, you know. The man’s hard stare answered, but you could be.

“We can finish some of what we started last night…” Arwen smiled, “You know, I’ve got some dresses you would look fantastic in and you can tell me what you started to before Merry and Pippin interrupted us.” Éowyn looked as if she didn’t know if she should be intrigued or not. There was a pause as she turned to her brother, her face questioning.

It was filled with Aragorn’s murmur, “Vanimelda? Arwen?” She did not respond. Now the King’s voice had turned irritated and louder, “Mani naa lle umien?” He paused, then spat, “Lie lakwnien?”

Her eyes flashing, Arwen finally snapped back, “No!” The puppy whined low in its throat and squirmed over into Faramir’s lap. The table had gone silent with everyone staring at their plate. She blew out an angry breath, “No, I’m not joking, Estel.”

Hush. He winced at the sour emotions and patted Rusco gently, feeling his distress in the way he cowered, nose buried in his shirt. The animal didn’t even know him and it preferred his company to its angry master and mistress. I don’t blame you. Éowyn was watching him, her eyes sympathetic as he stroked the puppy’s back. Faramir dared to send to her, He’s all right.

She nodded, just the slightest motion of her head. However, there was a thin tracing of anger in her reply, good.

The tracing had spread, sending lines of vexation throughout her entire mental voice. Don’t you know?

Faramir reviewed his actions carefully. She’d come to his door late last night, pushing into his rooms and staring at him, eyes half-lidded and full of a passion he’d never seen in them. As he’d blearily closed the door, Éowyn had looked at him in a way no woman had before, turning his blood to fire, coming close to stripping his inhibitions away and destroying his control in that first moment. Her blue eyes had lingered over his bare chest, moving downward to where the makeup of his dream was still outlined in his breeches. His arousal hadn’t gone away, only become deeper when he’d opened the door to find her there.

Éowyn had stepped close, then; so close he could feel her body heat. Her fingers had traced the lines of the muscles in his arms, his chest. She’d threaded them through the hair on his upper body and leaned upwards, her tongue flicking out to taste his skin. Faramir had been frozen in surprise as Éowyn had kissed his neck, her body pushing against him, unafraid of his erection. In fact, she’d been all but rubbing against it as he’d stood there stunned. Whenever she’d paused, those eyes had raked up and down him almost greedily, shocking and exciting him.

Faramir felt goose bumps prickle his arms briefly just in the remembering. Her hand had slipped down his belly, much like his dream, but it had gone further. Éowyn’s cool fingers had snuck between the waist of his breeches and his skin and slid around to grip him in a loose fist. She’d whispered then, “You’ll have to tell me how…I’ve never done it.” Even now he shivered, remembering Éowyn’s voice, husky and low, “Tell me how you like it, Faramir.” As she’d spoken her thumb had spiraled over the tip of him, circling before her hand had slipped down, stroking his length gently.

Abruptly he’d understood she was offering him her hands, maybe even her mouth, and that had been all he could withstand. Éowyn had tasted of ale when Faramir had taken her into his arms and kissed her hard; half-thinking her arrival was some strange turning of his dream. And as she’d stroked him while kissing back, he’d struggled with his own…lust, it was lust…momentarily…it was longer than a moment…before sending her away. Of course, once his head had cleared and he’d realized that this was not a continuation of his dream and that she was drunk and not in her right mind, the decision had been far easier.

But Éowyn had protested, rather irrationally, reinforcing his conclusion and she’d left, furious at him. And I don’t know why. He’d spent half the night awake with his body afire and slept late. Still unable to see the reason for her anger, he admitted, No, I don’t.

But…I did the right thing. You were drunk; I couldn’t let you do that. It would be wrong; I’d be taking advantage of you. He didn’t mention the thought of her pleasuring him with that soft, warm and undoubtedly innocent mouth made him shudder with desire and oddly, unease. Inwardly, he thought, I’m not sure I want her to yet.

There was surprise and then a deeper contempt in Éowyn’s inner voice. She stabbed the sausage Éomer had given her. You really don’t understand, do you? It’s not about that at all. Faramir’s brow creased. He really didn’t understand—he’d done the right thing, the chivalrous, fair act. What was wrong with that? What else was there for her to be angry about? Well, upsetting Éomer, I suppose… Faramir stared down at his plate, feeling overwhelmed. I just want us to be happy.

Arwen replied just as tensely and the puppy wiggled in agitation, barking once. “I don’t think we do.” Faramir patted it, sighing. He wished they would talk and preferably somewhere where he could neither hear them, nor feel the violently fluctuating emotions of anger and guilt—it was making his head ache a little. Eyes raising to Éowyn across from him and Éomer at her side, he thought, I have enough to deal with right here.

“What did you say to her?” It was directed at Éowyn, who blinked and swallowed her mouthful. The King looked half-desperate.

“No, we didn’t, did we?” The Queen smiled, too, hers a trifle more bitter. “Just a story about a lad named Estel. Long, long ago.”

“Oh, you didn’t tell that again, did you?” Aragorn grimaced; the mood becoming less troubled.

The King protested, “She made it up and I am not adorable.” Éomer chuckled, sounding forced. Faramir glanced at the man—he’d been quiet for a while now, long finished with his morning meal, but his gaze met only distrust colored over with brief tolerance and amusement. I’m watching you, witch, said those eyes, so like to Éowyn’s. Odd, he’d never noticed that before. Faramir deliberately glared back and Éomer’s face grew wary and he looked away.

“And Arnor…don’t forget.” Arwen was laughing now and the tension was draining out of the room, making Faramir grateful. The women shared a look; obviously they’d become friends or close to it. He wondered what all they’d done.

“So…?” Arwen raised an eyebrow hopefully at Éowyn. She glanced at Éomer, who nodded, telling her silently to go on. Only Faramir could feel and share the man’s deep disappointment.

“All right.” The women left quickly, Arwen collecting her puppy as she went, ignoring Aragorn and Éowyn pausing to hug Éomer from behind, her arm wrapping around his neck. His hand covered hers for a moment, then released her. Faramir felt saddened; her eyes met his and Éowyn gave him a quick smile before leaving. As usual the partings she offered him were brief and terribly restrained, almost indifferent. Will I ever get a hug goodbye? His mind became slightly resentful, or a kiss? Éomer gave him a look of satisfaction, as though their standings in his sister’s heart had been confirmed once more. You are second that look said, forever. Faramir ground his teeth and began to eat again. His breakfast was cold.

Éowyn wondered if she should try now, for Aragorn’s sake, or wait until later. I don’t know.

The Queen glanced sideways, putting the dog on the floor. It trailed at their heels, pouncing at its mistress’ skirts with little growls no matter how forcefully she shooed it. “What was that?”

“Don’t lie. Who am I going to tell?” She shooed the puppy again, but Rusco only stretched out his forepaws, bowing low to yap in a playful invitation. His tail wagged as he bounced energetically.

“Fine. I blushed because I remembered.” Éowyn sighed deeply, her fingers finding the dolphin pendant around her neck, “Last night…I went…to see Faramir and…”

“Really? Harlot.” The Queen rolled her eyes when she fell silent. “I’m jesting with you, go on.”

“Oh, fine! I went, with the idea of…” Éowyn laughed, suddenly embarrassed again, “Of…” She glanced around. Where are we? They were going to Galadriel and Celeborn’s quarters, of course, that was why she didn’t really recognize this hall. The rooms were out of the way, but still very richly furnished.

“Giving him…of doing…” There was no way she could say this out loud. It was far too embarrassing.

Arwen looked at her and then laughed delightedly, “Oh, you mean…?” She formed her hand into a tube and moved it rapidly up and down.

Éowyn could feel her face heating. “Yes.” The Queen slapped her arm, her eyes still sparkling with mirth,

She sighed, suddenly angry again. “He didn’t let me.” He won’t let me do anything and I’ve just really begun to notice it. Of course, her mind was no longer muddled with ale, but the night before Éowyn had realized that Faramir almost seemed to dislike it when she touched him—he didn’t seem to want her to explore his body in same way he was doing so eagerly to hers. It’s unfair…damn him, I want to touch him. Is that so wrong? For the first time she wondered if it was. He’d refused her at first when she’d wanted to touch and see his bare chest in Minas Tirith and here, in the corral, he’d all but pushed her away when she’d kissed his neck. All the while she’d been only doing the same things he did or eventually did to her. What is his problem?

The Queen snorted in an unladylike fashion and the puppy dashed on ahead, nose to the floor. “No? What an idiot.”

“That’s what I thought.” She smiled, biting her lip, aware that her tone was slightly boastful and helpless to stop it. “I did touch it.”

Arwen glanced sideways at her, her voice filled with curious mischief as her nose wrinkled. “What did it look like?”

“Well, what did it feel like?” They were at the doors, so she answered quickly, blurting the words with a snicker,

“Hard. Big.” The Queen’s loud laughter bore them into Galadriel’s quarters, the dog snatching at the laces on Éowyn’s boots.

The first elf she saw was Lord Celeborn, himself. He was standing by the open window, and when they entered, he glanced over. His voice was quiet, gently amused. It was a kind voice, a mulling one that reminded her of someone she couldn’t quite place. “Good morning Lady Éowyn.”

Surprised, she stammered, “G-good morning, my Lord.” Deeply aware that she was clad in old, stained men’s clothes, Éowyn fidgeted, feeling nervous. The puppy didn’t help as it growled and clamped its small jaws onto the end of her boot. She tried to shake it off without being conspicuous. Little monster, shoo!

Fortunately, Celeborn’s gaze turned to Arwen. “My dear, still? What are you going to do when we’re gone? You know we leave the day after tomorrow? Galadriel and her maidens are packing now.” Two days, Éowyn thought. She’d not known it was so soon. No wonder Aragorn was so desperate. I’ll just have to try a little harder for him.

Arwen’s impatient reply made it sound as though she’d heard this question before. “Forgive him.”

“Yes.” She punctuated this by half-dragging Éowyn through several rooms into a large bedroom. Rusco hung onto her boot as though determined to trip her, his back legs braced and teeth jerking repetitively. You are quite the little scoundrel, she thought, towing him good-naturedly.

Arwen’s face was taut as she answered, “I know” and Éowyn began to suspect Aragorn had set quite a task in front of her. What did he do?

“Yes, the puppy solved everything, didn’t it?” Éomer tried not to roll his eyes in irritation and failed. Aragorn was slumped onto the table, looking despondent. Faramir had scooted back and seemed content to watch quietly as he picked at the last of his breakfast.

“Oh, what else, wise King of Rohan…tell me, have you ever even been with a woman for longer than a night?”

“Yes.” It was four nights, when he’d been snowed in at a small town in the foothills with an exceptionally sympathetic farmer’s daughter, but Éomer left that out. His particulars weren’t going to help Aragorn any. I, at least, left on friendly terms…and with some very nice roast meat. For a moment his mind wandered, then he continued, “Now, what you did was to automatically expect that she forgave you.”

The King opened his mouth and Éomer cut him off, “Of course you thought that, but who knows why women do what they do?” Throughout this Faramir looked a bit lost, but Éomer wasn’t about to fill him in. Witch, read his mind if you’re curious...but you’d better not mine…

“Now, what you have to do is get her some flowers.” If this did not work he was at the end of his experience. He smiled slightly. I’ve never had a woman angry with me for more than a day. Éowyn didn’t count. Of course, I am better looking…and more charming. His smile widened. “And…well, we know poetry is out and songs are the same thing…so…you’re going to have to grovel.” He paused, fighting another smile. “Can you grovel? It’s not difficult, but I’d say at this point that you may have to cry to make certain she knows you’re serious.” Across the table the Steward chuckled softly. For the man’s sake Éomer hoped he was paying attention—he was not about to give advise on how to deal with his sister. He shuddered, repulsed.

Aragorn had put his head in his hands and now his voice was muffled. “Where are the flowers?”

“My sister has a rose garden in her rooms—it was our mother’s. She won’t miss a few blooms.” Faramir glanced at him curiously. Éomer tried his best to ignore it.

“All right. It sounds good enough to try to me.” Aragorn sighed deeply and raised himself. “Show me where.” Éomer stood, too, and they left Faramir behind.

He watched them go and stood himself, unperturbed. He had business of his own and Faramir doubted he could be any use to Aragorn, anyway. I cannot even figure out why Éowyn is angry. Tomorrow he was riding out and he planned upon finding his saddle today. Éowyn had mentioned a tack room right before he’d been rudely soaked with water. Odd, the incident was only a few days ago but it felt like an eternity. The barn, that’s where to look, of course.

Moving quickly to the stairs, he stared out at a black, forbidding sky. The door-wards stirred nervously at their posts as clouds swirled. The sky was low and threatening with a chill wind that pushed the cover slowly onwards. There was no sign or smell of rain, though there was an occasional, disturbing rumble of thunder and Éomer’s words came back to him—the fields will burn easily in the lightning. Thankfully there was no lightning in sight, only a sullen threat hanging overhead. His steps quick and mindful that the dark clouds could break, he was soon at the barns and entered them; Faramir’s eyes gradually adjusted to the deep gloom. Several horses poked out their heads, nickers fluttering their nostrils. He patted a few, walking down the broad, well-swept aisle. If nothing else he could see that the barns were meticulously neat with no dirt or straw lying about. Faramir looked up; just as he’d thought there was the loft, brimming with fresh hay. Two wooden ladders led up to it; each placed at opposite ends of the barn, providing access to either side of the loft. He walked further inside, absently stroking the nose of a nearby horse. Where, oh where…ah. It turned its head, hoping he would scratch behind its ears, but Faramir spotted something. A wide door stood half-ajar in the center of the barn.

He pushed it further open, peered into the shadows and groaned. There must have been a hundred saddles, all neatly stacked to the ceiling, each sitting on short horizontal posts to hold them level. Another, smaller, room held blankets, bridles and a multitude of other tack items. The air smelled strongly of leather and oil, dirt and horse sweat. Faramir sighed and began looking. His had to be here somewhere.

It was not long before he sensed a presence at his back. Turning, he jumped. Gandalf leaned upon his staff, watching him. In the dim room the wizard’s eyes appeared to glow. Faramir felt himself flush like a boy, suddenly guilty as he remembered Gandalf had wished to speak with him. And that was a day ago. “Mithrandir.” He nodded respectfully, but the wizard did not speak at first. The relief that had bloomed in his heart began to wilt a little.

After a moment in which Gandalf’s eyes roamed the tack room, he said, “Hello, lad.”

Is he angered? Faramir moved away from the saddles, self-conscious. “I’m very sorry…I forgot you wished to speak with me.”

Gandalf stood, almost hunched over the staff, before he smiled suddenly, a cheerful old man’s smile and Faramir’s anxiety melted a little. “No trouble, lad, no trouble.” His eyes were bright, though the brightness appeared odd, “Though, I expect you won’t be finding what you want here. They wouldn’t want you to leave now.”

What? Long used to trusting the wizard’s words, he asked, “Where else could it be?”

“No, no…” Gandalf began moving outside, his staff thumping softly on the ground, “Not here. We’d best look elsewhere. You’ll find nothing of use to you that’s under four walls, Faramir, not in Rohan.”

“What…?” Confused, Faramir followed the wizard until they stood outside once more. He hesitated, “Mithrandir?” A lesson, is that what this is? A riddle?

Gandalf’s tone was gentle. “Nothing you want is in there, my dear boy.” His arm swept out, a gesture indicating the wide, now dark, sky and the endless horizon of waving and yellowing grass before resting palm over hand on the top of his staff. “Look. That’s what you want to—nay, need to turn your gaze to now. Forget your saddle. You won’t need it yet—” His voice was kind, “That’s for when you return. They know that. It’s begun.”

Faramir cast his eyes obediently over what he could see of Rohan. Grass and storm. What answer is that? What’s begun? “What do you mean?”

Sighing, Gandalf asked now, “How long have you asked me questions, Faramir?”

Perplexed, he answered, “Since the day you came to…my…the city and found me in the libraries.” A frown passed over his face and Faramir wondered what was I doing there? He couldn’t remember—neither what he’d been reading, nor why exactly he’d gone to the libraries that day. Was I waiting?

Gandalf laughed heartily at his answer, but didn’t explain anything. “Come along, Faramir.”

“…and he wouldn’t let her! Can you believe that foolishness?” Éowyn closed her eyes, wishing she could just melt into the earth. There, at least, she believed she could live without being humiliated all the time. Galadriel held up another dress and Arwen lit up, “That would be perfect for Éowyn. Toss it over.”

The Queen made an exasperated face, “I didn’t tell Celeborn.” Neither had spoken a word about Aragorn. I don’t know if I should in front of others…but still, it has been near an hour.

Skeptically studying the delicate, cream-colored dress in the mirror as Arwen held it to her front, Éowyn laughed in desperation, “And I’m just beginning to be grateful for that.” Galadriel’s maidens were packing, carefully folding all the gowns and such; their lyrical voices soothed her, though they spoke entirely in elvish. They were a cheerful group of elven women, their eyes bright with mirth, only darkening when they gazed at their mistresses. Galadriel herself was supervising. The puppy pounced on anything that moved, and often barked, making the handmaids laugh in a sweet, musical fashion. The dog went around the room, getting patted; Rusco looked well full of himself as he jumped upon the women’s knees, tongue lapping at their hands.

“I don’t know…really…” Éowyn felt crude, a thing raw and unfinished, just standing in the room with them. They are so graceful, so delicate…she shrank inside her worn men’s boots.

“How about this one? Really make Faramir feel like a fool for refusing you. Look how low it comes down—ooh, it clings so well to the hips, too.” Arwen smiled wickedly and held up another gown, this one a very soft, elegant sapphire. Both dresses were elaborate looking in comparison to her simple ones. Arwen turned it, frowning, “Just not my color, but it brings out your eyes.”

Éowyn shifted, uncomfortable and feeling this was all going a bit fast—she’d hardly ever spent any time with women and suddenly she found herself stuffed into a very feminine situation. It made her more nervous than when she’d stood before the Witchking. “Umm…”

“Here, take that off and put this on so we can see what you look like in it.” The Queen rolled her eyes when she opened her mouth, “What? I have more gowns than I could ever wear.” Her tone turned exasperated, “The first that happened in Minas Tirith was those women leaped upon me and…I have handmaidens! Six! …They insisted upon helping me with the wedding dress…it was a nightmare, I couldn’t get away and that clothier kept pricking me with pins.”

That…that sounds like torture, Éowyn thought apprehensively. What shall happen when I come to wed the Steward? She had no idea what she would do with handmaidens. She didn’t even know what she would do with herself.

“What happened to the dress? I thought it was lovely.” Galadriel glanced over.

Arwen smiled then, a very satisfied and contented smile. “He ripped it getting it off.”

There was a flicker of amusement in Galadriel’s serene face. “How unfortunate.”

“Yes.” The Queen frowned and waved a hand, “Quick, take that off…” Her smile became eager, “I’ve got an idea, too, to talk about.”

Éowyn clutched the blue gown, dying with mortification as she prepared to strip. What have I gotten myself into? Why didn’t I just go with Éomer? Her fingers moved slowly on the shirt’s buttons. “What idea?”

“Oh, it’s nothing drastic…you have such lovely hair and,” Arwen smiled, “I’ve had a thought…you know all the men will be gone. We could change it back before they’ve returned.”

“Change what?” They would be gone, she’d not really realized that—Éomer and Faramir would leave at the same time and Aragorn would be riding to Isengard…tomorrow and the day after tomorrow. Éowyn unlaced her boots, still feeling horribly self-conscious. “What’s your idea?”

Some of the elves had left the room, including Galadriel. “I’ll tell you later. Here.” The Queen gestured for one of the remaining handmaidens to help. “This dress is complicated, but worth it, I promise.”

Éowyn prepared to allow herself to be bundled into the blue gown, feeling like a giant, none too attractive doll. At least their voices are kind. Galadriel’s maidens’ voices were indeed kind; they laughed softly and talked with one another in between petting the puppy. The material of the dress was soft, sliding like water over her skin as she held it. Arwen raised some sort of under garment with the usual linen shift. “This first.”

“What is that?” It looked uncomfortable. All she’d ever worn beneath her dresses was a simple shift. This thing was stiffer and became tight as the handmaidens laced it. Ow…it didn’t hurt, really, but it was annoying.

Arwen jerked the strings. “A bodice. You’ll hate it and you’ll love it.”

“Not now, lad.” Gandalf began to laugh loudly and he felt like a fool. The wizard chuckled, “A good boy, is what you were. And now a good man.” He smiled as they stood on the walls of Edoras. Soldiers had moved aside, none daring to question Gandalf. “But you’ve become a man of the city, of stone and the great river. You cannot help that.” The wizard spoke again, slowly, “It is the undoing that will be difficult.”

“What do you mean?” The wall was pitiful to him, thin and low, scarcely a defense at all. Faramir peered over the edge and decided he would easily survive the drop.

“Eorð folde ond lyft. Ægðer se eoh geaff for me. Se Rídend in se lyft weop.” The words were chanted softly and while Faramir understood them, he didn’t understand them. Gandalf smiled at his near frantic stare, “So said men of the Ridder-mark in days of old, but that is of little help to you yet, Faramir. There will be little help but that you make yourself.” His eyes fixed upon him, “You’ll be the student but for only a while longer, lad.”

“What…do you see?” He was uncomfortable asking. What will help? The question he kept bottled, disturbed by its wild quality.

“See?” The wizard shook his head quickly, “My old eyes don’t see much anymore.” Gandalf leaned heavily on his staff as they moved back to the stairs, descending the walls of Edoras. “You had best go nowhere tonight, or Master Samwise’s feet will ache indeed.” Faramir nodded, feeling it was expected of him, not because he knew what they were talking about. “Frodo wants to check his notes before he leaves. Tonight will be the best time, he thinks, and young Samwise will gather us since his master wills.” Gandalf sighed then, sounding weary and sad. “He will speak of…some things that have been left alone. It would be cruel to let you go into it untold. Too cruel for me to stand, though this account is not one I wish to tell.”

“What is it of?” He wondered at the melancholy darkness that passed over the wizard’s brow. The staff clattered on the steps and then stumped softly over the dirt as they walked, but they did not go into Edoras, but out. It was only when they stood alone in the open air that Gandalf answered, his voice slow and old.

“What?” Faramir was suddenly afraid. Thunder rolled gently overhead and he became aware that all light had faded, leaving the midday wrapped in a deep, gloomy haze. Horses neighed nervously and there were shouts and snatches of cheerful songs despite the vile weather. I want to go home, he thought irrationally. “What are you talking about?”

“No, I don’t.” Faramir answered stiffly, feeling his heart pound. I don’t remember anything. I don’t! I don’t remember anything between the pain of the arrow and falling into darkness…I don’t remember anything until when Aragorn woke me! His mental voice sounded too harsh, too determined. Another part of him shied at the word pyre and whispered doubtfully, do you?

“Not all things he said were true. He loved you, Faramir and that’s what you must remember.” Gandalf sighed, “I will tell you the tale for your sake, so that it should not catch you unaware someday and hurt you, but keep in your heart that Denethor did love you in his own fashion.”

“His own fashion…” The words struck cruelly, freeing a dam of pent up rage. Why not like he did my brother? With words of praise and attention and gifts and remembering his birthdays, and making sure he was clothed in the best and not sitting in some dark room full of books thinking he was going mad because the voices wouldn’t stop? Why not love me like that? Why was I ridiculous, slow and stupid? Why were my suggestions laughed at and then when I asked my brother to say them later acclaimed as genius? Why? Why, why, why? Why did he not love me and now why am I all alone? Faramir became aware that his fists were tightly balled and that his frame shook with the depths of his anger. Voice a croak, he demanded while hearing his own fury with a sort of amazement, “Tell me.”

It didn’t take long and when Gandalf ceased speaking, Faramir began to walk away, his head bent. His heart was cold, neither grieving nor raging, just cold.

“Worth it, hmm?” Éowyn was still deciding on that, though the dress was truly fantastic. It clung soft to her curves, dipping low to show the valley between her breasts. The blue fabric glowed gently as she turned, flaring slightly to make her waist look slimmer. But the real reason she was staring was that the uncomfortable bodice, a thing that left her feeling squeezed…like a damn girth…lifted her bosom while smoothing her flat stomach flatter and actually made it appear that she had hips. Amazed, she stared in the mirror. I don’t look like a boy. “I think so.” But… In this gown she could do nothing but sit and stand—the tightly drawn bodice forbade any real movement. I hate it…and I love it.

“You have to have the dress. I insist, I look horrible in it.” Éowyn doubted this, but she smiled.

Arwen smiled triumphantly. “And when I get done with your hair Faramir won’t recognize you.”

Éowyn smoothed her sides, liking the silky fabric. She spoke without even knowing what she was going to say, “Why are you still angry with Aragorn?”

There was a long silence and she was afraid she’d gone too far, but eventually the Queen spoke, “Your story first, then mine.”

“All right.” An attempt at a deep breath left her feeling momentarily claustrophobic. It was an apt enough feeling for her story. “I met Faramir because I wanted to follow my brother and Aragorn to the Black Gates. I wanted to die in battle.”

“Umm…I don’t know about that color.” Éowyn sighed as she answered, “I wanted to die because…there was nothing left for me.” Her eyes stung. I had no hopes. She remembered Gríma’s words and shuddered, feeling cold. I did not believe we would win and the fate I’d been promised was more than enough to make me seek death. He’d leered at her towards the end, vowing that when the Ridder-mark fell to Saruman he would make her his wife. And I would have been dead, if not in battle, then by my own hand long before.

Wisely, Arwen did not press her, though her expression became quiet and careful.

“He was supposed to be in charge of the City and the healers would not release me. So I went to him in hopes of going off to die with honor as I’d been denied earlier on the Pelennor.” Galadriel’s maidens faces were cheerful as they helped her out of the gown and into the pink one. Arwen was flipping through a mass of clothing, presumably looking for something else, but her gaze lifted often. “He said he couldn’t help, as he was in the keeping of the warden, too, and I…” I cried and he took pity—no, no that’s not right. She licked her lips. I don’t know why he looked at me so, with his face softening as though if we’d stood alone he would have stepped close and wiped the tear from my cheek. “I mentioned my room didn’t face east…he arranged that it did. He called me beautiful, fairer than any flower or maiden he’d seen in Gondor.” And I panicked. “He wanted me to accompany him in the gardens, saying that to look upon me was healing, that it would ease his heart.”

The Queen glanced up and her eyes were keen as she remarked, “That was romantic. Very sweet.” She laughed, “Very, very sweet. I’m jealous.”

“Yes.” Éowyn continued, “I walked in the gardens often, looking out while I waited…” Waited for news of my brother’s death, waited for the armies of the Dark Lord to overwhelm us. “He sometimes walked with me. Merry told me he asked about me and...”

“I don’t know what he told him. I walked with him and sat with him under the trees. Faramir was very pleasant, very kind and not too questioning or forward.” She smiled, thinking, then. “I was standing at the walls looking east with Faramir when everything changed—when the darkness fell. He’d wrapped a mantle around me,” Another slight smile appeared on her lips, “He didn’t want me to catch a chill standing in that wind for so long like I did.”

She wasn’t listening—she still remembered moving closer to him, seeking shelter in his taller frame and his male strength as the darkness in the east had grown. Faramir’s eyes had been almost afraid, but then he’d straightened, standing tall and firm. As though he were being brave for my sake, showing no fear of doom. “He spoke of Númenor and of hope.” Éowyn laughed suddenly and loudly, “He talked a great deal, actually. All the time, but nice things, so it was tolerable.”

“Really? I’ve hardly heard him string ten words together. I thought he was very quiet, almost dull.”

“I think it was nerves. He said he would not have the world end because he’d found me and kissed my forehead.” She sighed, not mentioning all her uneasy protests. Arwen had left gaps in her story, so could she. “Later, when my brother called for me to come to Cormallen, I wouldn’t. Faramir gave a lengthy speech about loving me no matter what and guessing why I wouldn’t go…I think he was nervous again…and then he asked me if I loved him.” Éowyn examined the pink gown in the mirror, still skeptical. Rusco had stretched flat out on the bed, exhausted with his head pillowed on a bag. Galadriel’s handmaidens sat around the dog, speaking softly in their flowing language.

Arwen waited for her to continue, but after a few seconds she asked impatiently, “Well?”

“I said a lot about not riding to war and the Shadow departing and no longer desiring to be a…” She caught herself, “Rider, but...”

“No, I didn’t say I loved him. He assumed that much and began talking about wedding me.”

“Yes. He was a good man, a kind one. The best I could hope for.” Éowyn turned, her torso still held tight by the bodice as she looked at the rose-colored dress. She was beginning to ache where the garment put the most pressure. “Anyhow, Éomer came upon us in the garden and he saw Faramir kiss me—he’d found out about him shortly before and assumed why I’d not come.” The dress fit well, but color was odd and Éowyn disliked it. “He made a horrible scene just to scare me—shouting, threatening, being an ass—and then decided he hated Faramir and that’s why we’re here.” She did not say how, as the reality of the Dark Lord’s demise had grown in her heart, that the world was safe and that she could live to marry, how she’d become terrified of the commitment and what it might mean. I’ve improved, now only the thought of leaving makes my chest tighten and my stomach sour…that’s better, isn’t it?

After a moment the Queen laughed, “Well, that’s a story. Do you love him now? Say yes or I shall weep and stand overwhelmed—I’ve seen you with him and such acting would be beyond belief.”

Éowyn felt her face smile, though her heart didn’t. “Yes, oh yes. I grew to love him very quickly.” Adding to change the subject, she said, “I still don’t like this color. It’s…too pink.” I love Faramir, very much. I love his smile; his laugh; his kiss; his touch; the way his eyes brighten when he looks at me sometimes; and I love his heart. I love the way he can let me inside. I love his tolerance, the way he touches my mind or speaks, checking to make sure I’m not afraid. I love that he waits for me, that he doesn’t care when I’m nervous. I love that he wanted to kill Gríma, purely for my sake.

I love the way he forgave me my lies, my wounding words. I love him, oh, yes. He’s too good for me, too wonderful. I love that he’s settled for a wild shieldmaiden of the North who must be tamed and taught civility. She closed her eyes tightly, feeling tears gather behind her lids. When Éowyn opened them Arwen was gazing at her, but her fair face was expressionless.

“Here.” There were three more dresses to try on, the cream-colored from the beginning, a dark green and a deep red. “It will look better later, the pink.”

Arwen smiled, her face alight with mischief though her eyes were almost sad. “You’ll see.”

The Queen did not speak again, so she prompted as the handmaidens got ready to help her out of the gown, “Your story.”

Suddenly there was a word at the door. One of the elven women opened it. Elrond stood there, making Éowyn glad she was still dressed, though I expect an elven lord would have about as much interest as the dog. She smiled a little, but it faded as she glanced at the Queen. Arwen had tensed.

“I apologize Lady Éowyn, but I must speak with my daughter.” His voice was dignified, if terribly strained and sad. “Arwen?”

“Yes, just give us a moment.” Elrond inclined his head in acceptance and stepped back outside their room.

“It’s all right.” Éowyn stood still, looking in the mirror. Over her shoulder, Arwen’s face was pale. What is wrong? She sighed, frustrated. I was so close.

At length, Faramir opened his eyes. His heart beat steady now and he felt nothing but the slow sway of the tree he sat in and his own peace. It was odd this calmness, this all but apathy. Faramir sensed that just below it his mind roiled with anger and grief, a wild and chaotic emotional stew that he shrank from. I’m not ready for that. Maybe ever. The dark clouds moved overhead, but did not send down bolts of lightning to fry him where he sat. I wouldn’t mind so much, he thought. It might even be fitting. This thought made him chuckle, a short sound that abruptly faded.

Faramir had walked away from Edoras and into the foothills. Rohan’s vastness looked bleak and for the first time inviting. He could get lost easily in the winding paths that led through the irregular and sparsely forested slopes. Hanging just over his head, the mountains loomed, snow icing their peaks—the benumbed pinnacles mirrored his heart.

Numb, that’s what I am. The bark was rough and gnarled, digging into his hands as he’d climbed and now his legs and back as he sat but Faramir welcomed it. The tree was alive and responsive to him, softly creaking as it moved in the chill wind. Four words, the same four that had driven him here, came back.

Gandalf had implied it, though not come out and directly said so. The wizard’s face had been deeply saddened, his eyes regretful and his tone soft as he’d spoken. It was a tale of delusion and pain. They told me he’d gone mad, they told me the Dark Lord had captured him through the palantír…they did not tell me he tried to murder me. Tried to burn me and take me with him, hostage to his madness. Two sacrifices burned on a pyre…like an offering of the heathen kings. He’d read about them, strange, wild cultures.

The frowning sky didn’t change with this mean revelation, or the wind cease, or the ground shake. It was nothing, really. He shifted position in the tree, adding scrapes to his already scraped hands. He wanted to climb higher, but was unsure about the branches. They were much more slender up there and rattled in the wind, leaves scuffing together.

I don’t remember calling for my father. Faramir shuddered, feeling his throat close tight. He wouldn’t, couldn’t cry while his father was on his mind—it made him feel that weeping was disgracefully weak, even if he were alone. I don’t remember the feel of oil or the confined, dry smell of the tombs, nor the cries and clashings of swords as Beregond fought to preserve my life. I owe him greatly, I suppose. His mind refused to be sidetracked, coming back to the thought that had nearly made him scream with fury and anguish.

Another part of him said nervously, he was old, he couldn’t change…couldn’t accept Aragorn, couldn’t relinquish his place as sovereign of the City. But he didn’t know if that were true or not and the first thing that had occurred to him still rang harshly through his head and twisted his heart. Faramir stared at the mountains, thinking,

No… His hands hurt and a thin mist moistened his hair and clothes, the only moisture the heavy clouds saw fit to let fall. The ground darkened and swiftly dried as the mist departed but the tree became slippery. He had a choice and he chose Boromir. He chose death. Swallowing, he closed his eyes again, seeking his heartbeat. He’d lost his peace.

When he next opened them Faramir was momentarily confused. The light had darkened; it was late in the afternoon. I…I must have slept. It was a miracle he’d not tumbled out of the tree. His joints creaked when he stood, careful on the branches. Faramir began to descend, deliberately concentrating on the task, trying to avoid thinking about his father. Another hazy drizzle must have come by; the tree’s skin was just slickened. He took care, moving slowly, eyes down. Suddenly a branch that had appeared solid snapped under his boot. Luckily, he was near the ground when he fell, the other foot slipping and then his hands, his palms and the pads of his fingers burning as they were rubbed raw from the craggy bark and dried moss.

Crying out with more surprise than pain, he hit the dirt and rolled onto his side. Faramir stared up at the leafy branches in weary irritation and then slowly climbed to his feet. His hands were hurting as he began walking back to Edoras.

Éowyn was close to real worry. There had been a funny tickle in the back of her mind, a twisty little sensation that put her on edge all afternoon. She’d carried the gowns Arwen had gifted her with back to her rooms and surprised her brother and Aragorn there. They’d been leaving with a small basket full of flowers, a basket they’d obviously fussed over because it was beautifully arranged. Almost too beautifully. She’d been amused by their quick exit and muttered excuses. After hanging up the gowns, Éowyn had wandered around Meduseld, looking for Faramir.

She’d been unable to find him, and there was a vague sense of unrest in her mind, a dark feeling that worried her. Now she stood outside the barns, scratching her colt’s withers and wondering where he was. The storm was growing worse, the sky blackening and the wind blowing harder. The door-wards had spoken in hushed tones of a funnel of black wind that destroyed everything in its path; they thought the weather might bring it. She shivered and rubbed the colt’s coat. Most of the horses stood rumps to the wind, their heads down, patiently waiting for the bad weather to cease. The colt leaned into her fingers, pleased at the attention. You’re getting your winter hair. Éowyn licked her lips, feeling sad. She would not get to have snowball fights with Éomer this winter, or ride in the deep drifts with the wind so cold the tears felt like they froze on her cheeks. She liked her winter clothes, the fur-trimmed coats, and the thick boots. She liked fishing on the partially iced over Snowbourn and riding in sleighs from place to place when the snow fell especially heavily. Does it snow much in Gondor? They are so far south…

The tickle in her head intensified. Faramir? Hopefully, Éowyn listened. There had been no reply before, so she was relieved when he answered.

Right…here. He was close, he’d been passing the barns and now he’d turned into them, coming to her. Éowyn remembered her anger and it seemed stupid to her. Why should I be mad that he is uncomfortable with me touching him when I am the same? She felt ashamed. He waits and is patient, I shouldn’t be angry about that. Faramir’s shape came toward her through the gloomy stable aisle. She stepped away from the corral, walking slowly towards him. But still…she wanted to run her hands over his body, to touch and appreciate. It was a strong, new urge that Éowyn wasn’t sure how to deal or what to do with. I’ll forget it, she thought nervously.

Faramir stepped into sight and she did forget—forgot her new resolve. He was so handsome, everything about him. His shirt buttons undone at the top so that warm, glowing skin and a few strands of dark hair showed. The way he walked, the way he moved, so easy and light. His hair loose on his shoulders, his grey eyes…so sad. Why is he sad?

He came closer and she looked closer and Éowyn frowned, moving quick to his side to gently grasp his wrists and turn his palms upward. “What did you do to your hands?”

“My hands? Oh, I fell out of a tree.” Faramir’s voice sounded odd—too slow, too beaten. He sounded almost bruised.

What’s wrong, she wondered uneasily. His hands were scraped raw in places; slightly swollen and battered with what looked like grit ground into the skin. Dried blood crusted to his palms. Two of his fingernails were ripped away to the quick. “Are you all right?” Now that she was next to him she could see dirt on his sides, bits of moss on his sleeves.

Éowyn doubted that. “Stay here, let me get something to wash this.” In the stable there would be clean rags and fresh water. Faramir followed her instructions with complete obedience—it didn’t look like he’d moved an inch when she returned. There were several bales of hay near the back of the barn, gotten down for the corralled horses and not yet thrown. Éowyn sat on one and Faramir sat beside her, quietly offering his abraded hands. Folding the wet cloth, she asked, “You didn’t fall far, did you?”

“No.” His voice was usually rich and mild, sonorous with his odd, but pleasant, to her ears at least, Southern accent—now it was dull and flat.

“Remind me to get some salve for you. It will help heal and keep away infection.” Éowyn examined his hands, careful not to touch the superficial wounds. Most were jagged, not deep at all, but ugly. His left felt curious, the places were he had…Éomer had… broken the bones slightly larger. “Faramir?”

She was hesitant, uncertain. He made no noise as she swabbed at the dried blood, relieved that most of it was just caked over unbroken skin. The darkened streaks and specks made her feel tense. He could have fallen and seriously hurt himself. “Can I ask what’s wrong? You…you look like something’s wrong.”

“My father tried to kill me and then when he couldn’t he killed himself. He burned himself to death in the Hallows. He would have burned me, too.”

Éowyn stared at him, but Faramir’s eyes were far away, his face smooth and blank. Awkward, she said, “…oh.”

“Gandalf saw fit to tell me today.” He paused, still speaking in the same monotone, “I wish he hadn’t.”

“I’m…sorry.” She folded the rag again and began dabbing very gently at the crumbly bits of bark that had been imbedded in his skin. Most came out as she patted it, wiping away dirt and grit. Faramir’s hands looked like they stung, the flesh red and inflamed. Watching as the cleaned scratches began to bleed again, welling up with bright crimson blood, Éowyn saved two rags back to wrap around his palms as temporary bandages.

“I’m all right.” Éowyn didn’t speak again for some time, taking care not to be rough as she wiped the last of the grit and blood away. After a while Faramir said softly, watching her. “I thought you said your hand was ungentle. You haven’t hurt me yet.”

He laughed strangely, “You know, it’s funny, if my father had succeeded in burning us both alive…it would have been the first thing he’d ever willingly done with me.”

Éowyn didn’t think it was funny. She thought it was awful. The nightmare Faramir had had came back to her, the smoke, and the place of the dead…had he said the Hallows? She felt a chill. He’d been a weeping, naked boy crying for help and insisting it was all his due, all his fault. It’s not, oh, it’s not. Carefully, she asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Faramir took his time answering. His voice became more normal, almost relieved. “Maybe.”

Éowyn wound the last, clean rags around his raw palms, carefully knotting them at the sides. He would be fine until she could put some ointment on his scrapes and bandaged him properly. On the ride tomorrow he might be awkward, but his hands would heal completely in a few days. “Can you climb a ladder?”

His breath stirred her hair as she checked the knots and smoothed the cloth one last time. “If you want me to.”

“Then come.” She knew of a place nearby that would be private and peaceful. Éowyn led him back into the barn.

Faramir climbed slowly. His hands throbbed a little, but the pain was trifling. Éowyn was a shadow in the barn’s gloomy loft as he walked, boots rustling through sweet-smelling hay. She led him around a corner and into a deep recess before she settled into the hay, her back against a bale and sitting cross-legged. Éowyn’s eyes were worried and he could feel her anxiety. It’s all right, I’m fine, he wanted to reassure her, but he didn’t think she would accept it. They couldn’t lie to each other. He wasn’t fine at all.

“Sit. Tell me…anything.” He did as he was told, which was what he was good at. Faramir lowered himself, stretching out on his back and lying his head in her lap. Éowyn’s gentle fingers touched his brow, fluttering there, surprised, before stroking his hair back. They felt nice; he touched her wrist with his own abraded fingers and she took one of his hands. Her thumb caressed his knuckles. Faramir sighed deeply, feeling more peaceful with her than the summation of his efforts all afternoon. His heartbeat was within reach and his mind was uncluttered, no longer chaotic. He turned his head, resting against her thigh. Éowyn stroked his cheek, her fingertips light on the thickening stubble. He hadn’t shaved since he’d come to Rohan.

Her voice was soft, “Whatever you want, say whatever you want. I’ll listen.”

Taking a deep breath, Faramir began. “He didn’t love me, no matter what Gandalf says, he never loved me. My father…I don’t think he ever even wanted me.”

Éowyn did not speak, just kept touching him, her hands very pleasant on his brow. Faramir closed his eyes, relaxing. It was not so hard. His words were just under his skin, bottled and acid, begging to be freed.

“I don’t know why. I never had the courage to ask him—what would he have said? I was afraid he had a list…a great list of things that were wrong with me and if I asked he’d answer just like that—right away, like it was so obvious, how could I not see? Maybe he loved my brother more because Boromir looked like our mother. Maybe my father didn’t have enough love for two sons. If so, then he’d choose the older, of course.” Faramir was conscious of the bitterness in his voice; “I was like a dog that appeared on his doorstep, unwanted and only barely tolerated because I had some use. Catching rats, slaying orcs; getting kicked, insulted for his amusement…not much of a difference, really, in the end.”

He could sense her distress, but Éowyn kept quiet. Her only movement was to keep stroking his hair.

“I loved my mother. I remember her singing, her holding me tight and showing me shells of different colors and shapes. There was one that was very big and if you put your ear to it you could hear the sea roaring, like it was angry to be trapped inside. She had tiny fish that swam in a great bowl. They were very bright and fast.” Faramir felt his chest tighten. “I loved her. I was her favorite. Boromir told me so. I suppose that if she’d lived things would have been all right.

“It’s odd…when I was very little I don’t remember my father at all. Just my mother and Boromir. When she died he hugged my brother...” Faramir choked, his throat and chest aching, “He hugged him and told him it would be fine, that she was at peace…he didn’t even look at me.”

“Everything I said, everything I did was wrong. I tried to be like Boromir and that was wrong. Stars help me, I even tried to be like him and that was wrong. I just wanted some sign of affection, some clue he might lament if I fell in battle—Gandalf said he wept when I called for him.” His jaw clenched as a sudden wave of fury swept through him, burning away his grief; “Too bad I was unconscious. I don’t even remember doing it. Gandalf said he spoke rationally then, fought his madness, but lost…said that the Dark Lord’s hold was too great. I don’t think so. I don’t believe that.”

“My father stood there and thought. He wasn’t a fool. He could live; he could be Steward and serve Aragorn with honor. He could have his son—curse me, but I would go to him now…and I would gladly receive his praise or scorn.” Faramir raised himself a little, turning to look up at her, to make sure she understood, “I’m thirty-five. Thirty years I’ve been all but spat upon and I would give my life to hear one real word of approval.” She gazed back, eyes sorrowful, but said nothing.

Resting back on her leg, he continued, “He chose my brother, just as he’s always done. My father chose death—do you understand? He would rather die, would rather soak himself with oil and set flames to his flesh—rather boil his blood, char his skin and blacken his bones than live with me. I was not even second choice. I was no choice at all.”

“You’re wrong, then. He was a fool.” Éowyn’s voice trembled, though he was unsure whether with rage or anguish.

It was kind of her. He kissed her palm. “He didn’t like that Gandalf taught me…my father taunted me often, even openly before the Court; said I was a wizard’s pupil—like I was being taught magic! All Mithrandir ever taught me was to think. To pity first and to try and see both sides. To choose mercy over cruelty! He taught me history, more than any tutor did. What was wrong with that? Oh, my father also didn’t like that I spent time in the libraries, that I wanted to learn instead of battling endlessly, fighting the skirmishes, never improving my mind but only my arm. Like I said, everything I did was wrong.”

Faramir’s voice fell to a whisper and his heart grew uneasy, cold with despairing humiliation. “But none of that was the worst. I could live with my father’s dislike.”

Éowyn’s face, seen upside down, was still fair and miserable. He reached up to touch it, feeling her wet cheek. “It was when…sometimes, I heard his voice in Boromir’s. I loved my brother, but the thought that my father would live in him after he was dead, that his echoes would strike with the voice, the face and the eyes of my brother, who I loved and admired—I wanted to die.

“I loved my brother and he loved me, but he couldn’t help it…I might be late because I got caught up reading some old account of…something and there would be this look, this feel in his face…a shadow of my father. He couldn’t help it, he didn’t even know he was doing it—he would have been appalled to know he hurt me just with a flippant remark about having my nose in a book.” He sighed, muttering, “Flippant to him.”

She bit her lip, teeth worrying it as she stared down. Faramir felt strangely lightened, strangely contented. He was near the last. He swallowed, “I just wish Boromir was alive now…I would gladly step down, surrender my Stewardship. I would do anything.”

He hesitated, warring. Part of him was horrified he would even think his next sentence, never mind it was true, much less say it aloud. You don’t…you don’t mean it? You can’t! You can’t! He could hear that part and he despised its fawning quality. That part of him trotted at his father’s heels forever, begging for a scrap of affection. Faramir stared at the timbers that made up the barn’s roof and confessed his darkest secret: the first emotion that had filled him when he’d been told in his room in the Houses of Healing had been not grief, but a fierce kind of joy. A joy he’d immediately been ashamed of. “But I’m glad my father’s dead.”

Éowyn was silent, so he said slowly, telling what he’d never revealed, “I thought about killing him when I was a boy…harmless thoughts born of a child’s anger, but I did.”

His voice quaked with rage now. “He killed my mother. He kept her there, kept her imprisoned. She hated his precious City. I hated him and I’m glad he’s dead, I’m glad he died in pain.”

The anger seemed to leave him all at once and when he spoke again it was laced with tears that felt hot in his eyes, choking his throat. “I just wish I knew if he…he ever loved me and just didn’t show it…ever thought I was anything worth…worth anything…why would he weep if he didn’t…?”

She shushed him gently as his words wavered off into incoherence and he sobbed brokenly, tears wet against her trousers.

At last Faramir fell still and Éowyn stroked his hair again. His brow was damp with sweat and he’d shook at times while he’d spoken as though dragging words from some deep place inside himself. Yet his shoulders and his face had relaxed. He looked at peace. She licked her lips, still horrified at his words and pushed up gently on his head. Faramir raised obediently and Éowyn slid down a little, wrapping her arms around him to hold him close. Faramir’s tear-damp cheek rested on her breasts and he kissed one through her shirt, not a gesture of ardor.

Or so she thought. He kissed her breasts again, one and then the other, deliberate. Her neck was next, moving up, propping himself on his elbow as he lay on his side, body pressed to hers. The hay was warm and soft beneath her, Faramir warm and firm with muscle, flesh, and bone, alive next to her. Their mouths met, moving so slowly, making the kiss into a dozen. He gazed down at her, his grey eyes dark in the gloom as he asked hesitantly, “Do you still think I’m a good man?”

“Yes.” Faramir smiled faintly at her immediate, strong answer. Éowyn touched his chin, feeling the dense stubble and moved her hand down his neck to the first, undone buttons of his shirt. There were three loose from their holes and she fingered them. The buttons were smooth and round, the thread tight.

He was still gazing down at her, the gloom illuminating the wet tracks his tears had made down his face. Faramir had not seemed ashamed of his weeping, so unlike the men she knew. “You’re sure?”

“I’m glad. You can’t even guess.” Suddenly Faramir leaned forward; his lips pressing hers at the same time his mind touched her. She inhaled sharply, breaking the kiss, lost for an instant in him, in all the emotions, memories and pain.

You’ll love me always…there was hesitation again and a struggling plea…no matter what?

“I love you, for being you, for being Faramir. I will love you, forever, beyond my life and into the houses of my forefathers.” Éowyn’s eyes filled with salty tears, “I love you, I trust you, I would die if you died. Without you…” I would have been a shell, scared and empty of this love.

He touched his mind to hers again and this time she was lost in the depths of him, swimming in his love for her and his sorrow for his brother, his grudging and yet deep grief for his father and his joy that he was free. The joy was tempered with a fury born of numberless insults, moments when he’d done well that went unnoticed, the feeling that he was nothing. Oh, Faramir, you can’t think that… There were dark places, but she sensed there were fewer today. Faramir kissed her once more, because he felt if she would accept his kisses, then she would accept him.

Éowyn hugged him tight, wishing she could make everything better. Under his shirt and her fingers she could feel the scar from the arrow that had felled him and she shuddered with the depth of her gratitude that it had not been poisoned as she’d heard the healers had thought.

He kissed her neck, feeling warm skin beneath his lips. He wanted to make love to her, if only to do something that affirmed he was alive, he was all right, that he would be all right and she would embrace him as he was. As though she was mindful of his thoughts, Éowyn held him, her arms somehow feeling stronger than any shield. They lay side by side, pressed close. Her warmth was comforting and Faramir could have stayed there a long time, but there was a rattle of wood on wood—the ladder shaking. “Someone’s coming. We’d better go.”

“All right.” She rose first, brushing loose hay from her clothes. Some of it was stuck in her hair and he picked it out. Éowyn smiled and did the same for him, the tip of her tongue sticking out as she did so, standing on tiptoe. Faramir gazed at it, feeling his desire stir a little. They waited in the gloom as a boy climbed up and threw down more hay before going back down. The lad’s mind was preoccupied, so Faramir led her to the ladder and they descended. Standing in the aisle, he looked at her and was suddenly aware that he was starving. Éowyn’s lips curved, “Come, then.” She led him under the black sky and into Meduseld and then shooed him down the hall. “Go, go on. I’ll bring you something.”

“All right.” This was new and he liked it. Faramir walked to his quarters, lifting his hands to gaze at the cloths wrapped so carefully around them. Éowyn was taking care of him. He smiled.

In his rooms he kicked the worst of the piled clothes into a corner and dragged his drawing supplies out from under his bed. If she was coming here he wanted to do that. Faramir flexed a hand—it hurt just a little but the discomfort was perfectly tolerable. Standing in the silence, he reflected only on how oddly buoyant he felt, oddly content. Undoubtedly he should be still upset, still disturbed by Gandalf’s words, but he didn’t feel that way. I’m…happy.

There was impatience at the door and he moved to open it; Éowyn brought him a tray full of food and set it on the table. Her hand hovered over his bow, her eyes curious. “You may touch it.”

“Tarwatirno. It means “keeper of garden”.” Éowyn lifted the bow, her hands smoothing down its length, tracing the decorations: delicately carved spiraling leaves, vines and stars that descended from each point. At and around the grip the design was worn to shining wood. Her fingers touched it, fondling and Faramir watched them with interest, envying the bow her caresses. “He’s beautiful.” She laid the weapon down again, respectfully gentle. “And the sword?”

“Cólo. It means burden,” At her glance, he added, “I prefer the bow…and I’m not a good liar.”

Éowyn smiled at him, lifting the sword still in its sheath. Her hands traced the stitching, the faded leather with her fingers curling. He stared, wondering when her every action had becoming sensual. “Let’s see him.” She unsheathed it slowly and held the long blade up. Éowyn passed a hand up it, careful to keep away from the edge. “He’s gorgeous, you should be ashamed.” She stepped back to swing the sword, her head cocked to hear the song. Her bosom moved and her body when she swung the weapon.

With a laugh, he replied, “Thank you.” You’re gorgeous. Faramir watched her hands, her eyes. When she licked her lips, he sighed.

Resheathing the sword, she motioned to the food. “Go on, I had tea.” Her word choice puzzled him a little until she clarified. “With Merry and Pippin. Post-tea, actually, since they slept so late.”

Faramir stepped close to her, glancing at the tray. His stomach rumbled and he sat in the chair; Éowyn took the other. Remembering his manners, he said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She watched him eat, quiet. She was still concerned about him, but not terribly. He was acting normally, not angry or troubled.

Mostly. Faramir held up a plump berry. Have some? Éowyn smiled and leaned in, her warm mouth touching the tips of his finger and thumb as she took the little fruit. He felt his desire stir again, stronger this time. Watching her mouth, he fed her another.

So… this time she fed him, and let her fingers linger on his lips. Faramir kissed them, hungry but not for food this time.

I’d rather see you out of them. Éowyn’s lips parted in a silent laugh and he commanded. Come here.

She rose; meaning to sit sideways in his lap but Faramir pulled her so that she straddled him with her palms on his shoulders. Éowyn’s mouth was very close to his and she held still, only her bosom moving faster when her breathing deepened as he placed his hands on her thighs. Faramir felt her excitement, her arousal just from the light weight of his fingers and he moved them a little inward and then back, caressing. Her pupils widened as he slid his thumbs down, well between her parted legs but still short of where she might retreat. Faramir rubbed her inner thighs in slow circles, feeling her heat and, he imagined, smooth skin through the trousers. All right? Éowyn gave a tiny nod. And then her expression clouded. What?

Go ahead, then. Faramir lifted his chin in mock bravado, brand me, my lady. She leaned forward, her breath hot on his skin just before her lips touched. Lips parting, she kissed gently, making him wait. He felt teeth, then tongue, and shivered. Éowyn’s hands were on his shoulder, the other side of his neck. She began to suck, her mouth making him want to squirm. Éowyn took her time, and aroused, he stroked her inner legs, quickly learning that the farther inward he teased, the harder she suckled his skin.

At length she pulled away, panting. Éowyn smoothed her thumb over his neck, looking satisfied. “There. Now they’ll know you’re mine.” Blue eyes half-lidded with appetite, a look that made Faramir shiver; she kissed him before he could speak with her hands moving to his chest. Sliding his own hands around her, he cupped her buttocks, suddenly delighted that Éowyn wore men’s clothes rather than gowns all the time. Trousers and a shirt offered far easier access. She squeaked as he pulled her closer, almost making her grind into his growing erection. All right? Faramir squeezed her bottom again, liking its roundness.

Éowyn didn’t reply, only kissed his neck and then licked her tongue in a slender trail of fire all the way from the first button of his shirt to his ear. Suddenly, shockingly, her breath was panting hot against his earlobe, and he felt her giddy boldness. “I want to touch you here…” She rocked into him, her legs tightening and her belly pressing to his. Faramir couldn’t breathe. “I want to see you, I want to kiss you and I want to see how much of you I can take in my mouth.”

His only response was to make a groaning noise and pull her tighter by the hips, rising upward forcefully. Her blue eyes widened and she licked her lips, moistening them as though in an attempt to drive him mad. All at once feeling her heat through her clothes and the friction of fabric on fabric was not enough. Groaning again in frustration, he slid his hands beneath her loose shirt to find her breasts. Éowyn’s nipples were hard even before he touched them. She tightened her legs around him as he cupped them, squeezing and then circled the stiff nubs, pulling gently. Éowyn teased, a little shakily now, “But…you don’t want me to, do you? You sent me away.”

“I…I n-never said t-that. Never…never said that I didn’t want.” Faramir wasn’t surprised he couldn’t remember how to talk. She was rubbing herself into him, her hands roaming his chest while she kissed his collarbone, his neck.

“No?” Éowyn’s lips met his and as he kissed her deeply, she sucked on his tongue while rocking her hips into him. Wild heat shot through his belly and Faramir was half-afraid that if she kept on he would simply burst out of his breeches.

“Hmm.” She sounded mischievous, not quite as aroused as he was and Faramir was suddenly determined to change that. He wanted her to moan like she’d done by the river, but over and over this time. He wanted her to want him as badly as he wanted her.

Do you…? He glanced towards the bedroom. Éowyn’s gaze followed his and her brow creased. Faramir stared at her, serious and trying to calm himself; I’ll stop when you say to…I swear. He lowered his hands to her waist, smothering his desire to caress her.

Too wide. He mistrusted that; she was obviously worried. I’ll stop. I won’t.

Éowyn nodded then, rising slowly, trusting him completely. Faramir was even slower; she turned as she walked, her arms going around his neck and their steps were awkwardly joined as she kissed him. When she hit the bed’s edge, she dropped bonelessly onto her back. Scooting backwards, her hands rose to pull him down as he kneeled on the bed and propped himself on his wrapped hands. The feel of her warm body beneath his was almost too much as Faramir climbed on top of her. He kissed her neck in a line up her chin, finding her mouth and pulling himself upward, positioning. Éowyn’s legs squeezed his sides while her arms went around his shoulders; her hips moved up in a welcoming motion, pelvis against his and at that she made him so hard he hurt.

She put her hands under his shirt, caressing his chest and sides, her fingers briefly flirting with his trousers and slipping coolly around his waist, making him suppress a moan of desire. Eyes smoky, Éowyn laughed and made an appreciative noise as her hands slid firmly up, fingers spread, all the way up to his collarbone once more before withdrawing and undoing the buttons of his shirt. Good, good…Faramir did the same, his fingers stumbling in their eagerness. The sudden urge to press their skin together was almost undeniable but the thought of her naked under him was enough to make him nearly lose control then and there. Going to mess my breeches…the thought made him bark a short laugh. He didn’t care a bit.

Yes, oh, yes. Éowyn gasped when he rubbed his chest against her bared breasts, her nipples hard, her stomach shrinking and cool against his and she whimpered when he slid down and a little inward, settling himself exactly where he longed to be.

For a moment she felt him sliding back and forth against the mound between her legs—it felt good, exquisitely good. Éowyn’s eyes went wide and her fingers clenched against the back of his opened shirt, twisting the cloth. Don’t stop! Faramir had already, but he did it again, each thrust sending little sparks of red-hot pleasure through her legs. Wrapping them loosely around his waist, she pulled him close, seeking contact.

His bared chest was slightly more tanned than when she’d seen it in Minas Tirith—he must have gone without a shirt a few times during the summer. There was more flesh over his ribs, too, and the slim lines of muscle looked more defined. Éowyn stared at his body greedily; wishing she could move on top of him to explore it but he was pinning her with his weight and the feel was too good. Had she ever been scared of this?

So…handsome…so… She was filled with the desire to taste his skin, to lick and kiss and press her teeth to his belly to see if it would quiver. The dark curls of hair on his upper chest were soft when she moved her hand through them and tangled her fingers, giving a tug that made Faramir rub harder against her. His shoulders were broad, curved inward as he braced himself above her. Éowyn touched his stomach, feeling the way it jumped, the way his pelvis moved up and a little away from hers, practically begging her to move her hand further down. Not yet, going to make you wait...she thought, giddy with desire.

He almost growled as he kissed her neck, his rough cheek touching hers, then, propped on his elbows, Faramir moved rhythmically. He was hard and hot there, easy to feel even through his and her clothes, making it effortless for her to imagine what it would be like if he were inside her…to want it, even. The feeling was wonderfully incomparable and a little frightening.

All right…it’s… He was paying attention even though she would have never guessed he was and she relaxed again, trusting him. Of course it was all right, this was Faramir, not some other.

Don’t stop… Éowyn felt her breath grow shallow as her heart raced. The long muscles in his shoulders and his back flexed beneath her palms as she touched him. Her hands spread wide, holding on tight. Faramir kissed her everywhere he could reach, mouth moving hungrily.

Over and over he moved, pressing the tip of himself against her, teasing right where she was most sensitive, seeming to judge by her breathy gasps, but mostly rubbing his length. Faramir panted, his mouth hot on her ear, as he leaned his forehead against the pillow and thrust hard and fast enough to make Éowyn stop breathing before reluctantly slowing and kissing her again. Tongue gliding in uneven and wet trails around her nipples, he sucked them with his mouth tight, making her squirm with added pleasure. It was all Éowyn could do not to cry out as he hit an especially sensitive spot. Her head back against the bedspread, staring unseeing at the ceiling, she moaned while scorching ecstasy flew up and down her legs and filled her belly, making her toes curl. She felt hot all over, burning exquisitely and the heat of him as he rubbed himself against her just made her hotter. This, this was unimaginable, wonderful. And yet, something…she wanted something, needed it. Her body was moving faster and faster of its own volition, rising to meet each thrust; she felt him match her eagerly.

Don’t stop, don’t stop… She was unsure who thought it; eyes closed now, her chin was tight against the junction of his shoulder, holding on.

But in response, Faramir groaned against her neck and his mind touched hers and this time she would have made a noise near to a scream, if she’d had any breath that was. The feel of his pleasure combined with hers was so much she thought she would explode or die. Éowyn tightened her hold on his shirt and her legs around him, feeling Faramir speed up suddenly. Almost rough, now, as her whole body burned, heart pounding faster and faster, he kept moving, back and forth, perfectly against her most sensitive spot, making flashing pleasure move between them like lightning strikes. Then, just as her breath was catching and the heat built almost beyond her ability to handle it, some gigantic force just swelling to its peak, he froze and gasped, his muscles tensing and then he went lax, his long body flattening against hers.

After a moment she relaxed, too, but yearning and disappointed. The fire in her body abated slowly, the building wave of pleasure falling back uncrested and leaving her wanting as he breathed, chest rising and falling with the deep draughts of air he took. His voice was hesitant next to her ear, almost sheepish as he mumbled; “I couldn’t…”

Éowyn stared at the ceiling, feeling Faramir’s heart and her own thudding as he lay on her. She unclenched her hands from his shirt, smoothing the wrinkles. He was still, only finally kissing her bare shoulder in a lazy movement. After a minute or two he said slowly, almost nervously, like her silence unsettled him, “I suppose I’m heavy.”

She didn’t think so, but she closed her eyes, not replying as he finally moved off of her and sprawled onto his back, still panting. Stretching out her legs, she took a deep breath, then turned to lay her head on his chest. Faramir was warm with his exertions and she hugged him. Opening her mouth to say it had felt good, she stopped. Somehow she thought good did not cover it, did not begin to touch the fiery feeling that had enveloped her. “It was… Min freond hit wæs begeondan min ge-leafa.”

Well, I recognize most of those words and all of them are good. Good. His eyes were closed; she didn’t have to see him to know it. Squirming languidly, he wiggled around next to her so that he lay on his side, facing her with one of his arms draped possessively across her front. Chin against the top of her head, Faramir’s mental voice was a vague murmur. Good.

It was good, and though she felt dissatisfied, Éowyn sensed his contentment. She placed her hand over his arm, marveling at his maleness—the muscle, heat and contained power. Faramir had been so desirable somehow and when he’d said it was all right, she’d trusted him without even thinking about it. Éowyn was glad as he sighed and his arm tightened. This was partially what she’d wanted, coming to his door last night, to give him something in return for all he’d given her—something she knew he wanted and would like.

Suddenly she bit her lip, smothering a giggle. He certainly did…hardly took him more than two minutes… Éowyn scrunched up her face, trying not to laugh wildly. So far Faramir didn’t seem to be a man that was easily embarrassed of his actions in the bedroom, but still, she didn’t want to upset him with her silly, girlish amusement. Shh! Shh! Stop it! She tried to silence herself before she made noise, and just barely succeeded. Her fight intensified when she realized she finally had something to tell Arwen. Tell her everything…not much is there? A mad giggle bubbled in her throat. Hush! He’ll hear!

Fortunately unaware, Faramir shifted a little, getting his leg closer to hers. His long body was still again as he drowsed next to her and she fell asleep trying not to laugh.

After he’d changed, he tried it and like he’d thought, he could do it still, even with the bindings. Faramir’s eyes raised to her face, just barely lit from the window as the sun set, and then lowered to the paper. Soft scratches of charcoal were the only sounds. Éowyn lay on her back; her face was turned slightly, one cheek on a pillow. The opened shirt showed one bare breast and part of the other with the dolphin pendant lying between them. Wrinkles in her trousers and the shirt gave him depth, while her skin gave him contrast—pale against the dark of her clothing.

Lovely, so lovely. Faramir worked quick, anxious she might awake and move. He sketched everything in a swift hand, regardless of the scrapes and bound cloth. He could fill in later. Her hair was mainly suggestions of strands against the pillow, both so light he couldn’t do much; her face was quick, he knew her features well enough to draw her from memory and her bosom and the dolphin pendant was easy; he knew them as well. The clothing he would take the most time on. Sketching the shapes of the shadows, he colored them just a little, lost in the comfortingly familiar world of paper and pencil. Black, grey and white, it was predictable and simple.

Don’t wake yet, my love. He was filling the small canvas, making sure he got details—details made the drawing. The tiny parting of her lips; the way her fingers were positioned; some curled gently, some flat on her stomach where his arm had rested. Her hands looked small and delicate; he wouldn’t have guessed they could wield a sword. Éowyn’s features, smoothed by sleep, were perfectly serene, equally unhelpful in predicting her often headstrong moods. Staring at her flat belly and the loosely fitting belt of her breeches, he wondered what she would look like with her stomach rounded with his child. I’ll have to draw her now…and then… He smiled; he’d willingly draw her until his fingers couldn’t move.

Shh, go back to sleep. It was too late; Éowyn opened her eyes and blinked at him. She sat up and he sighed.

“What are you doing?” Rubbing her eyes, she didn’t seem aware of her half-nakedness, though looking at her bosom, the soft skin and rosy nipples, made him stir again with desire. Though it had been amazing, she’d really only given him a taste and he wanted far more.

She scooted to the edge of the bed, slowly buttoning her shirt. Regrettably, Faramir thought. “So?”

“All right.” He handed it to her and Éowyn studied her sketch, one eyebrow raising.

“You do?” Feeling himself break out in a silly grin, he leaned down to kiss her as he took the paper back. “Good.” There was a sudden knock on his door and Éowyn hastily finished buttoning her shirt. Laying aside his drawing, Faramir moved to answer it, his mind already searching the identity of the person on the other side—it was Aragorn. He opened it, curious. “Yes?”

The King’s eyes moved past his shoulder and he saw Éowyn had followed him into the room. After a beat, he said, voice slow with deep amusement, “You know there was a time when I worried about heirs to the Stewardship…but not anymore.” Aragorn was nearly grinning with delight as he stared at her. “Now I’m only worried about how much land I’m going to have to give all of them.”

Staring back, her shoulders straight and eyes narrowed, Éowyn asked, “What are you talking about?”

The King all but cackled with his mirth as he jerked his chin at her shirt. “It’s buttoned wrong, you may want to fix that before we all get together.”

“Oh!” She turned her back to them, but not before Faramir saw her flush a little high on her cheekbones.

He smiled, amused himself, but wishing they’d been uninterrupted. “Can I help you?”

“Frodo wants us, it’s about his account of the quest…do you need help over there?” Éowyn was cursing at her shirt.

She turned her head to fix him with an icy glare and chill tone that was only marred by her still present flush. “None from you.”

Aragorn smiled. “Anyway, he wants us to meet in my rooms, they’re the largest, really…so…”

I thought Gandalf mentioned Sam was running about collecting everyone. He shrugged mentally. The hobbit couldn’t be everywhere at once. “When?”

“Soon, I’d say in less than an hour everyone will be there.” He added, “You might want to move fast if you want the couch—” Aragorn looked sly, “Of course I could save it for the two of you…”

“All right. Thank you.” Embarrassed and bemused, Faramir smiled politely and began closing the door; he was immediately blocked by the King’s boot.

Aragorn poked his head back in, “Éowyn…you didn’t happen to speak to Arwen about me today?” He looked hopeful, “Did she say anything…?”

“Lord Elrond interrupted us. I’m sorry.” She was facing them now, her shirt fixed. Éowyn’s expression was apologetic. “If I see her I’ll try again.”

The King’s face fell. “Oh. All right, thank you, very much.” This time Faramir succeeded in closing the door, leaving them alone.

He was looking at her closely. “What? Did I drool on myself while I slept?” Self-consciously, Éowyn rubbed her chin; relieved when he shook his head and smiled.

Faramir gazed at her, face intense. “He mentioned heirs. I was just wondering what you would look like…you know,” His arms moved out in front of his abdomen, gesturing. “Big with child.”

Her stomach fluttered nervously. Éowyn didn’t want to talk about that; she wasn’t ready for the idea of children, much less the reality of motherhood. He didn’t say anything, so she stammered, “Oh…well, go out and look at one of those broodmares and you’ll get an idea.” Trying not to wring her hands, she added, “Fat, I’d imagine.”

A darkness passed over his brow and his voice was almost a whisper now, “Do you think I’ll be a good father?” Faramir’s soft grey eyes were unfocused, “Or do you think I’ll…I’ll be…” He sounded haunted.

“No, oh no.” Éowyn moved quickly across the room to cup his face in her hands, pulling it down so that he was looking only at her. “No.” She stroked his stubbled cheek with her thumbs. “You’re kind and loving…you’ll be wonderful.”

Suddenly she was angry. “Faramir!” His eyes widened at her sharp tone, “Do you think I would let you sire my children if I thought you wouldn’t be good to us? Do you?” There was deep chagrin in his gaze as she thought of Gríma and he sensed it, but before he could speak she snapped, “I would never wed you, never mind allow you to touch me if I did not think you were a good man. And you could not make me—a word and you’d be escorted out of the Ridder-mark at spear-point.” Éowyn softened her voice, soothing, “But I do think you’d be wonderful. You’re good-hearted and caring. Of course you’ll be a good father. I love you and any child of mine will love you.”

She rose on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his forehead before releasing him. He smiled. Then Faramir’s face once more became darkly morose. “When I dream about them they look happy…but those are just dreams.”

Éowyn’s eyes narrowed, ire and a kind of alarm filling her heart. “I don’t think you did.” He didn’t, he didn’t at all…there was a wondrous fear within her. How in the world could she comfort him and ease his worries if he didn’t hear it?

“Because I can’t help it!” Faramir shouted it at her, shocking Éowyn into silence. He’d never yelled like that. Moving away, he sank heavily into a chair and muttered, “I’m sorry.” Abruptly, he rubbed his face and rose, “Let’s just go…”

She thought for a moment and then deliberately folded her arms and stood tall. Let the Ringbearer wait, we’re hardly the most important people anyhow. Éowyn cut him off; he wasn’t getting out of this. You will listen to me. “No, no. I want to know why you think you won’t be a good father. I want an explanation.”

She sensed these things had been left to fester within Faramir’s peaceful heart for too long, unfought because of their painful nature. Arguments she understood and if he wanted to bellow, he could all he wanted. But you’re not going to win, my darling. In fact, you have no chance at all. I can throw a fit, I am a master at it. You’re only a poor amateur.

He looked frustrated. “Why? Why not?” Faramir’s every move, every syllable of his words, screamed at her to let it go. She refused.

“Because. Why? Don’t you think I should know? I’m the mother, these will be my children who’s hearts you think you’ll be breaking. I want to know why you think that.” Éowyn lowered her voice, hardening it, “Before I’m considering killing you in your sleep because you’ve destroyed their joy in life.”

She moved in for the kill, triumphant in his silence, “Tell me, tell me, my husband to be…” Taking a breath of mock relief, she smiled, “Why, you could save me the trouble of even marrying you.” Éowyn continued harshly, “There must be dozens of men that would make better fathers for my children. So go ahead, tell me why I should leave you in the dust for another, why you’re so wrong and bad and worthless.”

Keeping her tone, her very stance combative, Éowyn arched her eyebrows, “Well? You seemed so sure, what’s stopping you?” She waved her hand, “Come on, I’m waiting…I’m not getting any younger or any prettier and prospects might be slim now for me to get a good husband.”

“I…” Faramir looked confused and slightly panicked at all her talk of new husbands.

“I don’t know!” Frustration crackled in his voice, the only emotion he seemed able to express.

She stepped forward with hands clenched into fists and he retreated at her cold, caustic, “But you seemed so sure!” Demanding loudly, she snapped, “Tell me! Tell me why you wouldn’t make a good father!”

Éowyn crossed her arms and waited. Faramir didn’t speak; he looked afraid to. Her hold on her temper broke suddenly and raising her voice to its utmost, she screamed at him, “TELL ME WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU!”

Faramir was against the wall now, his eyes anguished, but he didn’t speak this time either. His face worked, trying to answer, but he remained silent.

The fear back in her heart, Éowyn took a deep breath and said very softly, her hands coming up to rest gently on his upper arms. “You can’t and do you know why?” She licked her lips, feeling tears rise at the way he stared, so like a lost child, “Because there’s nothing wrong with you, Faramir. Nothing at all.” Squeezing his shoulders, she whispered, “Nothing.”

“And, if I have to keep saying it every hour on the hour to get it through your thick,” She smiled through blurring eyes, “and stupid head…I will.”

Cupping his face and looking into his eyes, Éowyn said, “Was a cruel man who, if his forefathers had any hearts, wanders the other world cold and lonely and suffering for how you say he made you feel.” She gave him a smile that was both brave and hopeful. “For-geat him, min lêof, Ic âcsige ge… hê is a-gǽn ond Ic eom fægen for ðÿ.”

A tiny, despairing chuckle rumbled in his chest, but then Faramir swallowed, “Just like that?”

“Yes.” Éowyn hugged him, her arms tight around his torso. “He’s dead. Let him go.” Teasing through her tightening throat, she added, “You’d better listen to me.”

There was still darkness in him, stubbornly hanging on, but he asked, a frail ghost of his usual jesting, “Or what?”

“Or I’ll…” Leaning against him and standing on her tiptoes, she kissed his mouth and smiled widely, hoping with all her heart. “Take some handsome man as a lover.” Éowyn looked back and forth, then directly up into his eyes, “Hmm, here’s one now.”

This time when Faramir chuckled it was natural and she relaxed, almost limp with relief. I expected more resistance…but then he’s not much of a fighter. There was a tiny bit of unease swirling in her gut, but she squashed it. He sounded normal as he teased, “That so?”

“Mm-hmm. Unfortunately I have to go with my betrothed to see a hobbit or I’d,” She kissed him again, lingeringly, “show you how handsome I think you are, sir.”

“Are you going to come to my rooms again, trying to have your way with me like I was a common soldier?”

“A gentlemen goes to a lady’s bed—” Éowyn said primly. “It wouldn’t be seemly for me to be stalking around at night.”

Faramir leaned close, his nose rubbing hers, lips brushing in a not quite kiss. “Is that an invitation?”

“Only if my betrothed doesn’t catch you…he’s quite fierce.” She snickered, almost uncontrollably, as she said, “Growls like a bear when he ravishes me.”

Faramir burst out laughing, obviously delighted with her fancy. He made a ferocious face, fingers spreading on her sides and pressing in just a little like claws. “Gr.”

Gasping in mock terror, Éowyn tried not to giggle at his pitifully tame impression. “Oh! No! A bear!”

Faramir laughed again and then sobered with his expression so warm and tender that her heart ached. “I love you.”

“I love you.” She turned her head and pressed her cheek to his chest. “Always.”

“Nope, I just go back to her and beg forgiveness with the prettiest, most expensive present I can find.”

Éowyn felt herself smile. “How intelligent of you.” Speaking slyly, she glanced up, “You know, I still want that fancy tart you promised me. Cherry, if I remember rightly.”

“I don’t know about that, but I’ve got you something pretty if you can wait for it.” She laughed and hugged his arm tight, hoping with an almost savage desperation that he was truly going to be all right and she would hear no more talk of his worthlessness.

As they walked down the hall she thought, I can’t hold you up, Faramir and you cannot be expected to hold me…I have old, stupid doubts and fears, too…but unless we help each other we’ll both be useless to anyone.

Eorð folde ond lyft. Ægðer se eoh geaff for me. Se Rídend in se lyft weop—Earth and sky. These the horse sacrifices for me. The Rider in the sky weeps.

For-geat him, min lêof, Ic âcsige ge… hê is a-gǽn ond Ic eom fægenfor ðÿ —Forget about him, my beloved, I ask you…he is gone and I am glad for this.

Éomer watched them enter with his eyes narrowed. She is late. And, undoubtedly, the blame for that strolled through the door right behind her. Their hands were clasped; Faramir’s palms wrapped in cloth, which made him curious, but his sister released the hold immediately. She glanced around and faltered for a second when their gazes met, a moment so quick he almost thought he imagined it, before Éowyn moved to where he was sitting. Faramir followed and as he walked closer, the Steward gave him a broad, irrelevantly cheerful smile. Disturbed, Éomer just stared back, losing his edged glare in his startled uneasiness. The man’s smile didn’t fade as Faramir neared and he fought the urge to leap off the couch and retreat in a manner that was certainly undignified, namely, running away like a devil was after him. Strange…why is he so strange? His sister gave him another type of smile altogether—natural, familiar and sane. Struggling to give one in return, Éomer highly doubted the sanity of the expression floating merrily on Faramir’s face. How can she love him? He’s clearly mad.

Arwen’s puppy squirmed in her lap with tail wagging. Arwen herself was pale and worn in the corner, oddly mortal looking, he’d thought. The Queen murmured something to the animal, her fair face drawn as she hugged the frantically wiggling dog. Earlier, Éomer had been rather concerned about her, but right now he was more concerned about the crazily jovial Steward bearing down on him. He is almost fearsome looking…what’s wrong with him? The couch was wide, fortunately, and also fortunately, Éowyn stepped forward to sit between them. Faramir’s expression of wild cheer did not diminish and Éomer got chills even as his sister greeted him, “Hello.”

“Hello.” Summoning his anger to use as a shield to that wide, beaming smile, he glowered back, but Faramir’s grin only broadened and Éomer was spooked enough to quickly turn to Éowyn. He wanted nothing to do with the man and a goal arose in his mind—to distance himself as swiftly as possible. Of course I will be riding with him for a good week or two starting tomorrow… Cursing inwardly, he drummed his fingers on the end of the couch as his sister asked furtively, leaning close to whisper, “How did she like the flowers?”

Suddenly another thought occurred and he smiled slowly back at Faramir, cheering. There was slight puzzlement and surprise in the Steward’s gaze, but they quickly faded, leaving the merriment firmly in place. Keep grinning…we’ll see who’s grinning in the morning, fool. You do not wish to aggravate me…or this will be the longest, worst week of your life, Steward…I planned to make it fairly easy, but if you wish to play a game, then we will do so. Faramir must have been true to his word of not reading his mind because there was no further reaction, only that bizarrely alarming grin. Éomer looked at Éowyn, answering equally quietly, “I don’t know.”

She looked past him, her brow furrowed. Aragorn sprawled nearby in one of the chairs Éomer had occupied earlier; the King spoke inaudibly with Sam as the hobbit set up several inkpots and pens for his master. Frodo got the lavishly cushioned chair in the center of the room; the tabletop before him was all but completely covered with papers that were jumbled and messed, some wrinkled, and some torn and stained with blotches. The eldest hobbit’s disfigured hand moved slowly, gently touching the piles, almost caressing. Glancing to the left and over Éowyn’s head, Éomer bared his teeth in an unnaturally cheerful grin. For the second time Faramir’s expression flickered, only to settle once more. Like deep water when a stone is tossed into it, the emotions beneath swirled briefly, and then subsided under the mask of good spirits. Encouraged, he thought, don’t know what I’m doing, do you? Thought you could confuse me…let’s see who’s confused. Éomer’s grin widened and he said softly, “Hello Faramir…what did you do today?” He made sure to perk up his voice, to make himself sound interested. Silently triumphant, he leaned back to hear the answer; barely noticing Éowyn’s expression of surprised hope and wariness. Make sense of that, witch.

The Steward blinked, thinking, and his sister turned her head to give him a dubious and somehow nervous look. They had arrived late, indeed—already the room was full of members of the Fellowship. Besides Arwen and Legolas there were no elves. Éomer had wondered at this but decided it was none of his business how the Ringbearer chose to conduct his own affairs, if he wanted to speak with the elves separately, he could. Faramir finally answered. “I spent most of it looking for my saddle… Oddly, I couldn’t find it.” His face was still artificially cheery, despite his obvious care in selecting his words.

Waving his hand casually, he replied with false ease. “Don’t worry about that.” Éomer felt his grin widen so far he thought the corners would meet and the top half of his head would simply topple off and roll about the floor, spinning like a bowl. “We’ll give you anything you need and I’ll make sure it gets found for you before we return,” He gritted his teeth, still, with an act of iron will managing to smile through the false convivial tone and added, “friend.”

Éowyn was looking back and forth, her hands twisting in her lap. Her eyes were both worried and puzzled now. “That’s very kind of you, Éomer.” Faramir’s voice was filled with cordiality, so much so that he sounded strained.

“Oh, it’s no problem!” Aragorn had turned and was staring. Sensing the King’s growing suspicions and anger and not caring, Éomer added, “Are you eager about tomorrow?”

Their smiles were more wolfish now, with steely edges to the geniality as they played this new game. Éowyn’s hands had been getting tighter and tighter, now white-knuckled and knotted together; she hissed in a whisper, “…stop it! What are you doing? Why can’t you just…?”

Neither really heard, each too focused on the other. Éomer nodded to the Steward, asking, “What happened to your hands?”

“Clumsiness, I’m afraid.” A forced chuckled upped their contest. Éomer met the challenge and chuckled with him. They sounded like an odd mix of gentility and dementia, their labored laughter mingling poorly. “I fell out of a tree.” Faramir held up his hands; they were wrapped around with white cloth, the naked fingers roughened with just-skinned places and a few shallow scratches. Two nails were ripped to the quick.

What was he doing in a tree? “I’m sorry to hear that—you weren’t hurt otherwise, were you?” Éomer painted a concerned expression on his face and a grievously alarmed note in his words. Match that.

Faramir easily met him, shaking his head with a buoyantly reassuring, “Not at all, not at all, my friend.” There was a hard glint to his eyes, “So kind of you to worry for my safety...”

Éomer cut him off, “Well, I certainly wouldn’t want anything to happen to you...”

“Stop it!” This time she came close to shouting, slapping her hands on her knees, the sound breaking through to them. Éomer tore his gaze away from Faramir’s and became aware of Aragorn’s furious stare. His sister’s posture was tense and her eyes begged him; suddenly ashamed, he swallowed and looked at the floor.

“Merry, Pippin, why don’t you sit with Éowyn?” The hobbits looked briefly confused and with good reason—there was no room for them. “I’m sure Faramir and Éomer won’t mind…I need to speak with them in the hall.” Now it was the King’s voice that contained the false geniality; beneath it was icy rage. Gandalf was gazing at them, silent and impatient; under the wizard’s eyes Éomer watched Faramir flush scarlet like a scolded boy and was astonished. Arwen stoked her puppy’s coat, her head bent; Legolas and Gimli were staring into space. Sam and Frodo were looking at the papers. All were making a concentrated effort to act as if all were normal while deliberately ignoring them.

Éomer nodded, but was silent. Though he was looking downwards, he could tell by long experience that his sister was gazing at him; she was very upset. My fault again. Guiltily, he wondered how they’d so quickly progressed to snapping at each other when all he’d really had in mind was grinning back to confuse Faramir a little. Now the Steward was gazing beseechingly at Éowyn, who ignored him. Éomer would rather have been ignored than receiving the betrayed and horribly disappointed look she was giving him. I’m sorry…really…I didn’t mean to do that…not this time… He raised his eyes in supplication and winced as she folded her arms tightly across herself and turned away, showing only her profile.

Rising, the King waved a hand at Frodo, “Start if you want…I’m sure this won’t take long.”

The eldest hobbit nodded quietly and Éomer followed Faramir and Aragorn into the hallway. I’m going to get a scolding… Glancing at his sister’s strained face, he thought further I probably need one…in fact, perhaps I’m long overdue.

Merry scrambled up next to her with Pippin right behind him and Éowyn found herself in a comforting hobbit pile on one end of the couch. She hugged the Brandybuck, barely resisting the urge to bury her face in his soft curls and weep with frustration. He allowed this cuddling while Pippin wrapped an arm around her elbow. Buoyed by their silent support, she listened as Frodo began, “I have most everything written already that was witnessed by myself and Sam. I do need,” the eldest hobbit’s eyes turned to her for a moment, “Éowyn and Merry’s account of the Witchking and King Éomer’s of the battle of Pelennor and,” He pawed the papers, “various accounts of Faramir and Pippin about the Steward and Osgiliath and…”

On her right, she felt the Took give a tiny shiver and Éowyn took his small hand to hold. As far as she was concerned, they were better support than either her brother or Faramir at the moment and the two men could just stay in the hall. Curse them. Children, fool children. She wanted to reach out and give Faramir and Éomer both a hard shaking. Éowyn smiled tautly, too bad they are not the size of hobbits, or I would give them both such a whipping that they would never forget!

“I think I have all of Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli’s journey to Rohan,” Frodo pawed more papers with Sam helpfully scooting them around to unearth others.

“I believe we spoke of it in the City.” Legolas spoke at the same time Sam held up a thin sheaf of papers, looking victorious as Frodo smiled.

“Yes. Good, Sam, thank you.” The eldest hobbit sighed, “Simply put, I have the events themselves, but very few,” And here she first glimpsed a light in those deep eyes of his, a particularly driven and forceful shine that she didn’t associate with lighthearted hobbits. “Personal thoughts and feelings of you folk that I can’t ask again…for a long time.” He added the last four words with an odd combination of absentmindedness and cautious quickness.

Frodo glanced at the door and then her. Éowyn realized that, with the three men gone, she and Merry were first. Oh, no… “Lady Éowyn, Merry, would you mind telling us about the ride to Minas Tirith and your parts in the battle?” She opened her mouth to speak and he said with surprising kindness, “It is a request only, speak of whatever you wish.”

Merry was looking at her, his brown eyes calm, though, as her arm was still around him, she could feel his heart beating fast. The room was well lit and Éowyn was grateful for that as she thought about the end of her and Merry’s ride. Pippin scooted forward on the wide couch, his sharp little face intent upon them and before she could find words, he whispered in her ear, “There’s only room for one of them, now.”

“When they come back in.” The Took was solemn; beside her Merry made a tight, regretful face. “You will have to choose.” He smiled feebly, “They fight just like my sisters except they don’t pull hair.”

The other hobbits chuckled at this and Gandalf smiled around his pipe, but Éowyn gnawed her lip, muttering, “I can’t. You.”

Both hobbits glanced at the other, yet the answer came surprisingly quick, making her wonder. “Faramir.” Pippin stared straight back at her, almost like he’s daring me to say no, Éowyn thought in surprise.

She nodded her approval and took a deep breath, conscious that all their gazes were upon her, elf, wizard, dwarf and hobbit, “I couldn’t use my own armor because I might be recognized…”

Frodo began to scribble, then stopped. “Wait…I want something else first…” The hobbit frowned, “or maybe it would be inappropriate…”

“I think it should be in the story.” Merry obviously knew what his elder was speaking of, even if Éowyn didn’t. He sounded querulous and determined.

“What is it?” She looked down at the Brandybuck’s curly head. He smiled up at her in a distinctly mischievous way and she gave her arm a little shake over his shoulders, cheering a little. “What, Master Merry? What should be in the story?”

“Would either of you like to tell me what that was?” Aragorn’s voice was tight. Not listening, Faramir cocked his head as a spike of unease ran through Éowyn in the next room. His own skin prickled with sympathetic anxiety and he half-reached out to touch her mind in reassurance before remembering she was undoubtedly less than happy with him at the moment.

Éomer answered with only a small tinge of his usual impertinence in his voice. “Ask him. He started it.” He trailed off, also peculiarly. “Came in grinning at me like a madman…”

“I am asking the both of you!” Close to a roar, the words made them both jump, and Faramir began paying attention again. “I expected this from you, “Aragorn directed a hard glare to the King of Rohan, “But not you, Faramir. You’re the civilized, reasonable one.” The King said it almost desperately.

He smiled suddenly; thinking Aragorn sounded eerily parental. “No, that would have been Boromir. I was the wayward son—uncouth and insolent to my elders and kin.”

Éomer’s brooding face broke into a smile he’d never seen before. After a second he decided it was empathizing, close to identifying with him, actually, and was amazed until the man spoke. “So was I.”

Faramir gazed at him, contemptuous anger growing in his heart. From Éowyn’s brief accounts of Théoden and her own true sire, he doubted the men had been any trials as fathers. Feeling his bitterness rise to choke him, he barely kept from snarling, “You should have been grateful…”

The King of Rohan went rigid, eyes narrowing, but underneath there was sincere bafflement. “Do not speak of…”

Aragorn interrupted in a hopeless voice. “Could not one minute go by without you two doing this?” He moaned, “I thought we were done.”

Faramir strangled his hand’s impulse to fly out and strike Éomer in the man’s fool mouth. It was none of his fault his own father had been so callous and others so kind. Ah, but Denethor wasn’t callous to… He strangled that thought, too.

They stood in awkward silence before Éomer asked, “How did the flowers work for you?”

Aragorn leaned against the wall, his hand over his eyes. “She took them…but it felt like she would have rather thrown them on the ground and screamed until I left the room.”

“The dog…Rusco tried to bite me.” This time the King of Rohan’s lips twisted in a suppressed smile and Faramir felt his own trying to do the same. “Any more ideas?”

“Well, are we calmed now? Can you act your age or do you two need another time out? Will you behave in there?”

“Yes.” Faramir answered dutifully. He was older, he should know better. But still, I am not so old for my people…

The door opened and Pippin perked up immediately, “Faramir, come sit!” Merry clambered over her and, amused, Éowyn found herself in the middle of the couch. Now Merry was on her right, then Pippin against the arm with a vacant, man-sized spot to her left.

She wanted to lean back in his arms while she spoke, to take comfort. And why can’t I? OH, yes…that’s why. My brother is an idiot. Éowyn watched them approach with mixed relief and irritation; Éomer gave up his position gracefully, at least, moving aside without any sign. Her love was slower; there was a cautious light in his eyes and she felt a feathery, ghosting touch to her mind as he tried to ascertain her mood without being bold enough to provoke her.

I don’t know, can you? He hesitated and she softened her tone, get over here. I need you. I can’t remember everything.

Éowyn spoke awkwardly. She was well aware of her brother sitting nearby, taking what had been Merry’s chair. He was looking at her, his face set in an expression she couldn’t read. Her voice was low, nervous under two sets of scrutiny. “Umm…Frodo wants to hear about when we met first…he wants to know what we said.”

Merry said quickly, “You can’t leave it out, it’s a good story and happy.”

“There aren’t many happy stories preserved.” This time Gandalf spoke with his voice slow and deep and somehow amused, though she couldn’t tell if by her or the hobbit.

“Oh, that.” He smiled back at her; it was a loving and, to her delight, a slightly foolish smile that made him look far more idiotic than she knew he was. Éowyn put her hand to her mouth to keep in the sudden, half-nervous giggles. He looks like a simpleton when he smiles like that…

He turned to sit sideways on the couch, giving her a curious look. Shaking her head slightly, she turned a little, too, as he smiled again. One arm thrown casually over the back, his eyes roaming the room, voice plenty loud enough for everyone to hear, Éowyn still felt herself warm—Faramir’s words were really directed only to her. “I remember that very well…since it was only the most meaningful day of my life so far.” Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw Éomer cross his arms, listening with interest.

“Go ahead.” Frodo was poised over a blank paper, pen gripped tightly. Sam was nearby, ready with more paper for his master. “Talk slowly and tell me everything you can remember that was important.”

Faramir’s grey eyes focused on her and they were gentle as he proceeded to do just that—tell everything. Éowyn listened with growing amazement. He really did remember and not just the first and last conversations, but in between, all the silly little things they’d spoken about under the trees—mainly the weather, as she’d been nervous, but lots of nothing that she’d long forgotten. With a slow smile, he gazed at her, sprawled out only a few inches away. His fingers wiggled along the couch’s top, as though he were sending a message.

Éowyn hesitated, “I don’t know…I thought he was…handsome and tall and…” She closed her eyes, to better think, to better picture him as he’d looked then—the quietly affectionate, perfectly virtuous and mannered Steward. “He looked a warrior, strong as any I’d ever seen of my own people and a man of blood noble and true.” I like this better, he looks real and touchable…her eyes rose to the disheveled, almost scruffy male, with his thick stubble, messy hair (still with a bit of hay she’d missed in it) and cloth-wrapped palms; this strange, indifferently attired man at her side. Faramir was sitting loosely on the couch, one knee up on the cushions, his other leg stretched. He faced her, his arm along the back, fingers just beside her shoulder. He is scruffy. She smiled, remembering the smoothly shaven, immaculately groomed man of the White City who had spoken so properly to her. He’d changed already, though Éowyn wondered if he’d seen it yet. To spend her life with this version of Faramir was less intimidating in some odd way and she frowned, trying to isolate the feeling.

Frodo snatched another sheet of paper from Sam as Faramir smiled at her, expression curiously intrigued. “Go on, please.”

He cocked his head, fingers inching to just touch her shoulder, to capture a few strands of her tied-back hair between them. “I said she was beautiful…do you want all of it?”

“I said,” Faramir smiled again as he spoke, “that there were flowers fair and bright and maidens fairer still; but neither flower nor lady have I seen till now in Gondor so lovely and so sorrowful.”

By her side, Pippin sounded surprised. “That’s good. Can I borrow that?” Merry laughed.

The Took sighed deeply, “Rosie Cotton.” He sighed again, as though love-struck. Sam’s head jerked up from looking over Frodo’s shoulder but he didn’t speak. The eldest hobbit chuckled while he wrote. Éowyn didn’t get the obvious jest but Legolas and Aragorn smiled.

“Too good. I’m suspicious.” Aragorn grinned from his spot near Frodo; “Did you just think that up, Faramir, or was it something you’ve used before?” They all laughed, then, even her brother.

Faramir shook his head, a long-suffering smile on his lips. “It came to me—I was inspired.” His eyes found hers as he added warmly, “Every word was true.” Aragorn snorted.

Arwen spoke for the first time. “Sweet words are pleasing to a woman’s ears.”

She just raised a cool eyebrow in response and Aragorn exhaled loudly in exasperation.

After a moment, Faramir went on, barely seeming to have to think about it. Éowyn grew more and more amazed. “…and she asked, “Darkness Unescapable? And I said…”

He was near to the finish and he hesitated. Faramir looked to her, then Aragorn, who shrugged his shoulders. Éowyn winced and braced herself. It had happened, she could only hide her former devotion for so long. His voice slow, Faramir finished their conversations. “…I said, “But now, were you sorrowless, without fear or any lack, were you the blissful Queen of Gondor, still I would love you. Éowyn, do you not love me?” Pausing for breath, he was interrupted.

Arwen threw back her head and laughed, startling them all, including the puppy, which jerked awake. “Here is a story I’ve been waiting upon.” Her eyes raked them three, bright and sharp. “Mortals—you are all so foolish and fearful.” She laughed again, “And ignorant.”

Faramir turned to her, and then back. Éowyn sighed; feeling as uncomfortable as Aragorn looked. “If you want, I will tell you it later.”

He did; there was not much more and then, in the quiet, as Frodo wrote, Faramir gazed at her.

She glanced sideways to where Éomer sat. Yes… Looking back at him, she thought, and no.

Pick—his smile, a more intelligent one,flashed hopefully at her—and make it the last.

Éowyn smiled and slid imperceptibly closer; Faramir gazed down at her, making no moves. He was letting her come to him this time, apparently. I can’t believe you…

I’d lie in bed or sit in my study or…he smiled, or walk down the halls, or eat my meals and replay those conversations over and over in my mind, searching for some sign you felt the same way I did…he shrugged. You were too good for me to figure out, so I eventually had to ask.

She felt honestly surprised. Along the back of the wide couch, Faramir let his fingers walk forward to touch her shoulder; Éowyn turned her head a little, blue eyes pleased as she looked at him completely. Talking about her had been more difficult than he’d let on, actually, as he was aware of Éomer’s hard gaze on him the entire time. He looks at me still… The King of Rohan’s face was detached and yet attentive. It made him curious. Did she not speak of our meeting at all? Again he felt the shadow of resentment from earlier in the morning. Why must we hold back? Why would she pull away if I tried to kiss her as I wish to now? The answer was not far. Éomer was silent, staring at him relentlessly, though no longer playing games. He curbs her actions, though I’m not sure he knows just how much. Suddenly angry, he stared over her head; Éomer gazed back levelly. Leave us be, damn you.

Frodo scribbled, crossed out, muttered to himself and scribbled some more while Sam aided him—moving papers and softly whispering bits of phrases. The two hobbits murmured together. Arwen was gazing at Aragorn, who looked back. Neither spoke; the puppy was asleep again with his legs hanging over the edge of the Queen’s lap. The white-tipped paws jerked and moved; the tail wagged once when Arwen petted him. Gandalf appeared thoughtful, still puffing a little on his pipe. It looked like Gimli had gone to sleep as well; Legolas was smiling, just the corners of his mouth turned up as he nudged the dwarf.

Faramir tugged her shirt between his fingertips, watching it slide a few inches to expose her lovely neck and the rawhide thong of the necklace he’d given her. I want to kiss you right there. He lifted his eyes to hers, promising, for starters.

Éowyn smiled, but ducked her head, her hands twisting in her lap. Frowning, he asked, why can’t I?

…just wait.
He could feel her discomfort. But deeper was her wonderment that he’d been able to recite all their words together. Even my teachers would have been amazed…certainly I did not pay half the attentions to my studies as I did to our conversations, my love…you were hard to guess.

She smiled, relaxing. On purpose, sometimes, when I felt you were getting too close…too curious and asking too much.

Ah…you shouldn’t have bothered. I was too close the first day I saw you. She was more beautiful still, than any flower or maid he’d seen; flaxen hair shining and soft, warm, peach-colored skin glowing in the candlelight of Aragorn’s room, her sapphire eyes on his…andFaramir decided to do it anyway. He felt he’d earned it after all he’d remembered. He leaned forward and Éowyn leaned back the same distance, wary. The motion hurt him with its cautious rejection, but he concealed it. Her face was mildly troubled. …wait.

As he asked, her brow creased immediately, but her response was slow in coming. …um…

That’s not an answer, my beloved. Quick, Faramir captured her chin in his fingertips and kissed her lips once, lightly. She didn’t resist, but neither did she respond; her warm mouth was still under his, pliant, but not passionate in the least. Sliding back to his former spot with his arm stretched out, he made the effort to smile at her. Not so bad, was it?

No. He felt a little hurt and a little annoyed and she bit her lips, wishing they could be alone or that she could just talk, for once. Both, really, would be best. Angry with herself, she tightened her hands; short nails digging into her palms. It was her turn, now, to finish her tale. Merry stirred at her side and Éowyn glanced at him in empathy. She really didn’t want to relive it, either. Suddenly her hand was in Faramir’s, making her look back up. Lowering his arm, he had reached to squeeze her clenched fist. Ragged, warmed cloth rubbed her skin, along with roughened calluses.

It’s all right. Éowyn relaxed her hand and he laced their fingers together, thumb sliding over her knuckles in a constant, soothing motion. Look at me and tell me like I did you.

Faramir just gave her another squeeze. You can do it; you’re brave and strong. I’m right here, feel? His fingers moved and he touched her mind, sending a rush of supportive love and strength across the few inches that separated them.

Éowyn felt suddenly powerful, alive and vibrantly quickened with light flowing through her veins. She took a deep breath, head briefly swimmy, and gave him an impish gaze. Her inner words were more than half-serious. I might need someone to keep the bad dreams away…

He smiled; if it means staying in your bed, I’m volunteering. Faramir leaned forward to plant a fleeting kiss on her forehead, his lips pressing to her skin in a motion too quick for her to escape. I’ll stay with you, if you wish. I, too, might need protection from bad dreams after this evening.

She swallowed, turning to look at the hobbit sitting at the table. “Are you ready?”

“A moment.” Frodo rubbed his hand, grimacing, but the light she’d seen hadn’t diminished; it shone harsh and brilliant through his eyes. Sam frowned at his master’s hand—it was reddened from use—but did not speak. “All right.”

Dernhelm…broken down to its simplest form, the name meant secret and protection in her people’s language. Not that Merry would have known that... She glanced at his wholesome, open face. He’d accepted her swiftly and it had warmed her cold and bitter heart some, to be so easily titled as a warrior. The name had suited her purpose, or at least her outward one—to go with Théoden, to guard her uncle and not be left behind to wander the empty house in shame and fear. “I saw Merry and I thought it was unfair that we two should stay behind when we were willing.” Éomer made a pained noise of protest and she paused before continuing, “So, I took armor, gave myself a man’s name and stole a horse…”

Faramir listened closely. He’d heard tiny bits of this story from her, weaseled out in the gardens, but never so much. Merry spoke a great deal, too, and between them they were soon at Pelennor. Éowyn’s grip grew painful, but he endured it, trying not to wince. Her voice was strained, “It had no mouth, but it breathed, it spoke…it was a thing that should not have been.”

A littler voice spoke hushed with shame. “I was a coward…my very heart shouted at me to stand, but I could not.”

“No.” Éowyn contested the hobbit’s anguished words immediately and furiously. Merry flushed at her praise, “You were loyal and brave, Merry, to come forward and aid me…others might have run in terror, but you did not. You did as you could to help…and you were victorious.” She smiled at him, “Without you I would have fallen.”

“And for that, to reward you your courage to stand by my sister, I, my friend, would strip the very gold from my forefathers’ esteemed hall.” Éomer’s voice was deep, startling them. He’d not spoken in a long time.

“As you wish—but you have my friendship and that of my people for as long as our two houses exist.” The King of Rohan bowed his head, “That, I swear.”

“Thank you.” The hobbit sighed, “I…I couldn’t stand with that…foul thing so near…I was so afraid he’d see me.” Pippin had moved close to his cousin, jamming the four of them into a tight pile on the couch. Faramir didn’t mind so much, as Éowyn was far closer, her golden head just under his chin with her legs folded under her and her arms folded across her waist. She was curled into a tense ball, half-pressed to his side. He draped his arm around her shoulders, squeezing gently, hoping he gave her some small comfort.

“It wasn’t alive and yet it was. I drew my sword as it warned me not to come between it and its prey...prey. Théoden, King of the Mark, my kin, beloved uncle…was prey, carrion.” Éowyn spat the last word and her voice became harder and colder than Faramir had ever heard. “He threatened to not kill me, to take me to the Lidless eye…to devour my flesh and shrivel my mind…” She laughed suddenly and he jumped because it sounded savage. Oddly, Éomer’s eyes met his. They, too, looked disturbed. “Fool thing—he knew not that his words gave me comfort and that he offered the very things I’d ridden to seek: death and valor in battle.

“I told him to do what he will, but I would hinder it if I could…vengeance was all I thought about…he said no living man could hinder him.” This time Éowyn smiled, her eyes glittering like chips of ice, but Merry interrupted.

“When I knew it was her, I couldn’t let her fight it alone.” The hobbit’s tone was admiring, adoring as he turned. “I had to help.”

Éomer’s face was tense. He looked terribly pained to simply hear the account of his sister’s battle. “I thank you, again, Master Meriadoc.”

Faramir hugged her tighter as she went on, “I said, “But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund’s daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you if you touch him.

“The winged creature screamed, then, and rushed me and I killed it. I wasn’t afraid—it was too quick. I cut its head off; it stank of death, long rotted meat that got worse every time it beat its wings…”
Merry added, his face slightly grey. “It made me sick, the smell.”

“The…other swung his mace and caught my shield, my arm and broke them both.” Her voice wavered and he kissed her hair, willing his support through the gentle, brief touch of his lips. She didn’t seem to feel it. Her hand held his tightly; smoothing his other one over hers didn’t work; she was actually hurting him. Her knuckles were white; her hand stiffened around his. The room was quiet, the listeners intent; the only noises were Merry and Éowyn’s voices, the scritch-scratch of Frodo’s pen, the shuffle of paper and the clinks when he hastily got more ink. Éomer was gazing at his sister; disquiet and horror awake in his eyes. Faramir could easily sympathize—the mere thought of her in such danger made him shudder. I remember those things…those wraiths screaming and the icy waves of fear…he remembered too well the way his men, brave and staunch souls, had scattered to the four winds like birds. It had taken all his strength of will, thrown like a net, to hold the few to his side.

“And Merry,” Éowyn smiled gratefully at the hobbit, “rose up behind…it….”

“I stabbed as high as I could reach…only the knee, I think, beneath all those robes and mail and darkness.”

“He shouted my name—by then he knew—and I thrust my sword into the space between the crown and the mantle…it was a guess, only…there was no face, no head. It was a horrible creature.”

She finally loosened her hand and Faramir flexed his, grimacing, before relacing their fingers. “That is all I remember…the thing vanished, leaving its clothing and I fell senseless.”

“Théoden awoke, then, and we spoke.” Merry hesitated, “He asked for Éomer, and wished for Éowyn. I tried to tell him she was there, but...he did not hear.” The hobbit bowed his head, tears in his eyes. Faramir slipped his arm off of her shoulder as Éowyn leaned to hug Merry close. Pippin’s gaze met his—the Took’s face was sad.

“That was when I came.” Éomer stared straight ahead. “He called me King and wished me victory.” There was a weary aching in his voice, which deepened to grief, “I thought you were dead.” He’d turned, face softening as he looked upon his sister, “And I understood that whether I rode to victory or defeat, all would be for naught…I would be alone, all my loved ones gone.

Éomer paused before speaking more quietly, “So I cried for death to take me, to reunite me with those I cared for most. Victory even over the Dark Lord himself would have been hollow and all my valor meaningless if there was no one dear to me to share it with. Not all the corpses of the orcs and men could bring back to me my sister, my uncle.”

He closed his eyes and Faramir felt his skin prickle—Death! Death! The remembered cries rang loud enough in Éomer’s mind to reach him. “I wished for my death, I rode singing to it in desire that my end would hear me crying and come all the more swiftly in pity for my grief.” He sang softly, a good voice full of anguish that made Faramir’s heart twist. Éowyn trembled against his side. “Death! Death, ride, ride to ruin and the world’s ending!” Rubbing his face, he admitted, “I lost hope, all hope, as I have never done before.”

“Brother…” This time she left him entirely, but he didn’t begrudge it. Alone, watching her standing to wrap her arms around Éomer and embracing him tightly, Faramir was silent. Feeling the depth of the man’s emotions pain him, make him grind his teeth, he lowered his eyes to the floor. He could not have imagined coming upon her, loving Éowyn as he did now, spying her still and crumpled cold on the field of battle, all the while thinking she was safe at home. How horrible…there are no words…no wonder he rode calling for his own destruction. When Éowyn returned to the couch, he scooted close, kissing her temple, her warm and alive cheek, glad to his very bones that there was no more war.

Merry shook his head. “For my part that is all I remember. You can ask Pippin for the rest—I wandered in a dark dream, somehow up to the City and around the streets until he found me.”

“There is little else that I can say.” Éomer added quietly, his voice roughened.

“Thank you.” Frodo said simply, shaking his reddened hand, wincing as though it cramped him. Sam looked concerned as he spread the papers so the ink could dry, but the eldest hobbit ignored him as he asked softly,

“Mr. Frodo…shouldn’t we stop a minute? Your poor hand…doesn’t it need a rest?”

It was Gandalf who got Frodo’s attention, the wizard’s voice indisputable. “A fine idea, Samwise, I think we should take a moment.”

Faramir was uneasy at the sharpness of Frodo’s gaze; there was almost rage in his eyes. “I want to finish. I’m fine.” Aragorn, too, appeared disturbed.

“You may be fine, but I think I could use a breath of fresh air…and a bite to eat.” Gandalf stood.

“That sounds good.” Pippin was already off the couch. He looked at Merry, “Want me to fetch you something, cousin?” There was an endearingly affectionate expression on his face.

“Come.” Faramir turned to her as Éowyn whispered it. She brushed stray strands of hair from her face; her blue eyes were reddened and yet she was very pale. Her hand did not release his as she stood, instead gripping tightly as though she was afraid to let go. He stood slowly, worried by her pinched appearance. “We’ll help you, Pippin.” Éomer gazed at her, but said nothing.

In the hall, Éowyn halted, unable to go on for the moment. Faramir stopped; he had no choice as her hand gripped his still, the cloth pressed softly to her palm. His voice was tender, concerned. “What is it?”

“Please give…me a...” She wrapped her arms tightly around Faramir’s torso and buried her face against his shirt, the top buttons pressing cool to her forehead. Éowyn took deep, ragged breaths, trying not to cry. Dernhelm would not have wept, but Dernhelm was dead. He served his purpose. She laughed and it turned into a jagged sob. Gandalf’s footsteps never slowed, even as she choked with warm, bitter tears on her face, but of Pippin’s there was no sound. Faramir’s hands rubbed her back gently, smoothing the wrinkled men’s shirt.

“Shh…” She felt him kiss her cheek, her damp face. Stubble rubbed her skin; his words were low in her ear, for her alone. “It’s all right.” He was a good man to provide comfort over and over and again without seeming to tire of it.

He is seldom rewarded and then it is but a pleasant word or kiss of mine…he is too good, she thought and hugged his firm, strong body. “Did you hear…? How can…?” She hugged him tighter still, misery threading through her soul, unable to say what she wished.

He held her, sounding puzzled and worried. “What? What is it? You can tell me.”

She couldn’t say it. He would try and comfort her, of course, but it would surely injure Faramir’s kind heart to say why she cried even these few, burning tears. Oh, I mustn’t even think it…

Because… Éowyn closed her eyes, who could she tell? Aragorn, perhaps. Abruptly she laughed. No doubt Arwen would think that odd, my seeking her husband to weep in his arms. But he would understand enough, at least, and it would not bother him. He heard some before. The idea Arwen herself might understand didn’t yet cross her mind; she’d been too long in the presence of men.

You don’t have to go to another. Faramir sounded slightly hurt already, bending his knees to look into her face. His was upset, focused, forehead furrowed with concern, lips pressed together. I could understand…if you’d tell me.

She couldn’t risk it; he’d been too wretched already today for her to lay another wound or burden upon him. No.

He pulled back, holding her arms, and then sliding his hands down to intertwine his fingers with hers. The cloth bindings felt strange against her flesh, irregular with muted warmth. “Why not, Éowyn?” Faramir attempted a smile, “I am not so delicate that I will shatter under mere words. I told you that you could tell me anything and I meant it.” His inner voice was deeply bruised. I shared myself with you…please, darling. I don’t wish you grief.

Flinching with guilt, she protested, “No…I don’t…” She stared up as he took a deep breath, chest expanding. His hands loosened and the fingers grew lax. Faramir was no longer really looking at her. Seeing his eyes turn inward with the grey irises deepening, the pupils contracting and his face smoothing, Éowyn jerked out of his arms—he was trying to discover her troubles by touching her mind, his own gently searching for the source of her anxieties. “Stop!”

Faramir’s head cocked, eyes narrowing even as they returned to normal. He’d seen something, then. What…? Éomer, what? His expression hardened. Why is he always in the way? His next thought was sour. I cannot wait until we are gone from here, from him.

For just a moment, on the wake of her brother’s tearful words, Éowyn almost slapped him. Faramir jerked instinctively, his arm half coming up to block her, but she didn’t raise her hand any higher than his chest. Fighting her temper, she unseized her fingers from the claws they so desperately wanted to be and ground them into a painful fist. Striking him would make her feel better, but she did not want to do it. I don’t want to hit him…well, she did. No matter Éomer’s fool and obnoxious behavior towards him, from literally the first moment they’d met, the comment made her boil with rage.

Instead, raising her voice to protect herself from his somehow wounded, bewildered and accusing gaze, Éowyn shouted, “Do I not get a single thought to myself? Can you keep from prying for a moment?” Inwardly she shook with churning anger. How dare he say such a thing…?

Hissing her reply, enraged, she slapped at his hands when he reached for her. They were swift, stinging blows that turned her flesh red and made him wrench back. “No, Faramir!”

Éowyn wheeled and rushed down the hall, long, tawny hair flying behind her. Faramir watched her go, abashed and irritated. He shouldn’t have done that or said that, perhaps…no, you know damn well you shouldn’t have…but she should have told him. She comes to me for comfort, cries on my shoulder…but when I try to give it she rejects me. Why must everything be so difficult with her? Unable to understand, he closed his eyes in frustration, resisting the desire to slam his fist into the wall. There was a little movement to his right. Pippin twisted his arms around his back, looking doleful enough to irritate him anew; he’d been there the whole time.

For the moment, the remarkable rudeness of certain hobbits did not cross his mind. Instead, Faramir dropped to one knee and snatched a handful of the Took’s shirt. Pippin squeaked, eyes going wide as he growled, “If you have any notions of what she was talking about, Master Peregrin, please share them.”

Repressed sarcasm boiled under his voice. “Was it the weeping that gave it away?”

“Ask Merry!” Only repeating himself, Pippin twisted easily away from his loosened grip and bolted after the wizard and Éowyn. Faramir sighed deeply, rose and began walking down the hall. So hard…why is she so damn hard to deal with?

She caught up with Gandalf, rubbing her eyes and cheeks. The wizard glanced sideways at her, but did not speak. His steps were surprisingly quick for all that he appeared to be a man old and slow; the staff thumped gently, rhythmically. Suddenly he did speak and it startled her, “I met another great Lady of the Mark once, though she was far less decorated in battle.”

Éowyn was uncertain as to where this was going, but she was curious now. “Oh? What was she like?”

“A beautiful, strong-willed woman, able and decisive…you have a long path to walk, girl.”

Is that an insult? It had the feel of one, but intrigued her, either way. She looked up and sideways, past the bushy eyebrows and thick beard into the wizard’s face. “You used to teach Faramir?”

“Aye.” Now Gandalf looked at her. Their gazes met and Éowyn jerked her eyes away—there was something impossibly venerable and wise and so terribly stern beneath the mask of a kindly, elderly man. He was still turned in her direction, even though her head was bent. “Worrying never helped anyone, girl.”

“What do you mean?” Something in him reminded her of Théoden. But Uncle never spoke in riddles, nor sounded so quick-tempered.

“Those lads will work it out between them soon enough. You would do best to look after yourself,” He halted, forcing her to halt, too, or be inexcusably rude. Gandalf leaned on his staff, his eyes on hers. “My Lady of Ithilien.”

The name made her blood run wintry cold, which was ridiculous because wasn’t that what she was…minus a short ceremony and Faramir claiming her body, of course? No doubt he thought of her in that respect already…or does he? Faramir didn’t seem to think much about his princedom or his own titles. But then he has other worries, doesn’t he? Not much time for other things, so busy is he in taming me. That’s one…dealing with my brother is another… Éowyn wavered, her heart beating fast in a panic; she was unable to find any answer. The three words of her future title seemed to ring over and over, proclaiming an eternity in some place that would not resound with the beat of horses’ hooves, the bawling of hounds, the boldly lifted songs or the deep-voiced horns of her people—Lady of Ithilien. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?”

Éowyn was aware she sounded much like the girl he’d twice called her. Maybe too much. “I don’t like it.”

“What we don’t like often happens…you should find peace with your decisions or your fate might be akin to another Lady of the City.” She sensed anger behind his tolerant, old man’s face; a great, yet restrained anger, “Such a thing would break him entirely—you’d do best to avoid it and start considering a lengthy discussion. This one will listen, unlike some Lords. Faramir learned that without my help.” The wizard’s face softened, “His heart is kindly, not harsh. Do not fear for him, Faramir is stronger than he knows yet.”

Éowyn stared at him, frightened and more so as she asked in a breathless voice, “What other Lady?”

Gandalf didn’t answer, only gazed back at her as though the answer was painfully evident and she was a great fool. Or a little girl asking absurd questions to one who has no time for them. That felt closer to the truth. Before she could open her mouth again, Pippin’s fluttering footsteps rounded the small corner and the hobbit ran puffing to her side, his curls wildly disheveled. A moment later she heard and felt Faramir coming; his frustration grated upon her skin like the rough, spiny surface of a burr. The wizard began walking again and Éowyn fell into step, her mind a jumble of emotions and his words. She stared at Gandalf’s back, slightly bent over the staff she greatly doubted he needed. I hate riddles.

Éomer sat silently in his misery. His heart was heavy, a burden he longed to put down again. I used to laugh and jest… His reason tried to reassert itself and failed. Oh, come, fool, this is not the end of the world…he sighed. His world had ended and then begun again. My heart withered when I thought she was dead…will it survive this? He stared at the door, feeling ill. I am useless; a remnant of her childhood, just as worthless to her now as the little toy soldiers father carved for me… Éomer smiled faintly. Éowyn had stolen them the moment she’d laid eyes on them—a chubby little girl crawling across the floor, her hair the palest of gold, her blue eyes giant. She’d reached and grabbed up the wooden men in plump hands, mouth trembling and falling open to scream when he’d greedily snatched back his playthings.

His father hadn’t smiled—only cuffed him, gently, a blow barely felt, but cuffed him still and said shortly, “Give her what she wants.”

I did, didn’t I? That had been near the last, when his father had come in weary from battle with his eyes bleak instead of smiling and merry. He’d been quick to shout at Éomer, but just as quick to apologize. As a lad he’d been frightened by his father’s growing and erratic temper, as a man he knew the reason for it. Father was fighting what he couldn’t win and knew it too well.

For a second he couldn’t remember if he’d given up the soldiers. Of course he had. He remembered Éowyn hugging the simple toys and smiling a gummy smile up at their father, who picked her up and held her in his lap. He remembered both his parents voices, “Éomer, watch your sister…”

“Éomer, how many times do I have to tell you? Mind your sister instead of playing with those lads! You’re bigger and stronger and you know better, son…it’s your job to look after her!”

His mother turning around, her face only mildly alarmed, “Éomer, where’s Éowyn?”

She didn’t remember that day, she’d been far too young, but he did…the memory was enough to make his skin twitch with guilt and fear and the pain when his father had strapped him. It was the only time he’d been whipped and it had been bad. “This way, lad, you’ll never forget…I’m sorry, but you’ve brought it upon yourself.”

He had, he’d not done what he’d been told—he’d almost let her… Éomer jerked in his chair, thrusting away the memory. I never did forget, Father.

He felt like looking at Faramir, grabbing him by the front of his shirt, he felt like screaming at the man—“Why her? Why not the hundreds of beautiful women? Why my sister?”

Éomer’s hands tightened on the arms of the chair. I used to laugh and jest…and I used to run with Éowyn through the fields before we came to Meduseld, letting her win every time. I used to follow any lad who so much as smiled at her and threaten him with a beating because none would ever be good enough. I rode with her, pretending to be raiders, or warriors or…he clamped his jaw, King. We’d stay out long after Father/Mother/Théoden had said we should and I always took the blame. I used to put spiders in her bed to make her scream, I rubbed gravy in her hair once and she stabbed me with a fork, then cried when I bled…he raised his hand—there was the stippled scar even now, barely noticeable.

Théodred had only added one more to their games, giving them new, inventive pastimes along with another playmate…cousin, where are you now that I need you to clout me upside the head and make me see that everything will be all right? Where are you when I need you? There was a smile on his face; it must have looked more like a sob than a smile, though, because Merry was gazing at him in concern. Éomer dropped his eyes, seeking isolation again in his pain.

The Brandybuck’s little voice found him, “My lord?”
Rubbing his forehead, he corrected tiredly, “Éomer, always, friend. Please.”

The hobbit nodded as though his words were irrelevant and paused before saying softly, so quietly that none of the others even looked their way, “I lied. I knew.”

“Knew what?” Éomer couldn’t imagine what vexation marred Merry’s usually cheerful face.

“Did you?” The urge to strangle the hobbit rose so fiercely that his hands actually tightened on the arms of the chair. Forcing it down, he asked, “Why did you not speak before the battle?” Why did you let her go into such danger? Perhaps he’d read wrongly, that Merry did not look upon Éowyn with the adoring eyes of so many lads before him.

“You couldn’t have stopped her.” He’d not read wrongly—the endearment was there, mixed with deep admiration. However, if the hobbit thought that, then he was gravely mistaken. Within seconds of her discovery Éowyn would have been as far away as possible, bound hand and foot if need be…and it would be needed…before he’d have allowed her to fight. “She was supposed to.”

His wrath towered high and then slumped down to nothing again, billowing flame to cold ashes when confronted by the hobbit’s kindhearted, earnest face. Defeated, he asked, “Supposed to?”

Merry scooted forward, legs and hairy, grubby feet swinging. “If you think about it.”

Is this the madness that goes on behind his eyes when I think he is not thinking at all? For a moment Éomer was more bemused than anguished. “Tell me your belief, Master Holbytla.” Merry opened his mouth and he interrupted, “But first, tell me how you knew it was my sister you rode with.”

The hobbit blushed and looked down, “She may not be a hobbit lass, but Éowyn…I was under her cloak…very close…and,” He smiled sheepishly, “warriors don’t smell that nice or…” The hobbit got more red-faced, “have bosoms.”

To his surprise Éomer roared with laughter, the delight he felt unburdening his heart and easing his guilt-ridden innards. “Was that the way of it?”

Brandybuck accent thickened with embarrassment, he answered, “Yes.” Merry swung his feet, staring down, “I was quite comfortable.”

“All right…” Merry hopped off the couch and laboriously scaled the chair beside him, the same seat Pippin had been occupying before his and Faramir’s little game. A game I should not have escalated…he remembered Éowyn’s strained face and felt a twinge of guilt stab him, making his stomach tense again. I will not let him provoke me… but he wondered, in the middle of his new resolution, is that what he wants? Is he trying to turn her against me? It sounded unlikely, but the mere thought enraged him almost beyond his ability to control it, so he concentrated upon the innocent hobbit instead.

Watching him climb up the comparatively lofty chair, Éomer was half inclined to give him a hand, but thought better of it—Merry was only small, not helpless. Situated with his legs swinging, the hobbit began in a low voice, “I think it’s like this…”

“Do not do that, I hate that, my brother does the same…damn…thing.” Éowyn shoved cups in the bag with each of her words. Behind her, Faramir frowned,

“You’re hovering!” She turned and brushed strands of hair away from her face, glaring up at him. “Stop it.”

“You are.” Pippin chimed in from nearby; the hobbit was too short to reach the counters, but he’d proved an adequate pack pony so far, already laden with a large basket of food items. Gandalf had disappeared.

He had been, so Faramir was entirely willing to let it go and, since she was talking, move on to his real purpose. “Why are you angry?”

“I’m sorry for what I said about Éomer. I did not mean it.” He was lying a little and Faramir was afraid she’d find out, so he added reluctantly, “Well, only partially.”

He’d calmed again, finding his patience. If he endured her silence, she would speak. But still…it infuriated him and not just her refusal to tell him her troubles, but the fact that she thought Aragorn was more suitable. I am your betrothed, I am the man you love…what’s wrong with me? He took a deep breath, cleansing any traces of irritation or impatience from his voice, “I’m sorry I did not wait for you to tell me what was wrong.”

For a moment her coldly furious face thawed and Éowyn licked her lips, her eyes falling. She looked like a lost girl, much the way she’d looked when he’d first met her and she’d whispered that her window did not look eastward. Faramir stepped forward, still just as drawn by her fragile quality, her disheartenment. “It’s all right…you can tell me, I can handle it.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pippin hoist his load and slip away, giving them privacy.

Éowyn sighed deeply, looking up at him as she murmured, “He said you were stronger than you knew. I think he meant I should.” Her next words puzzled him; “I hate riddles, though.”

“Oh.” Faramir came just a little closer. He was well within range if he misspoke and she changed moods now. There were plenty of knives in this part of the kitchens. Might not be able to have children after all... The thought made him smile a little. “Will you tell me, then, what troubles you?”

She dropped so suddenly that he blinked in astonishment, thinking she’d vanished. Éowyn hugged her knees to her chest, chin braced on them. “All right.” Faramir crouched down to listen but she didn’t speak for what felt like a long time.

It came out slowly, halting and accompanied with tears. “I don’t want to go. I can’t go.” Éowyn looked up at him and then put her head down, shoulders shaking. “I don’t want to go, I don’t, I can’t, I’m sorry. I can’t leave him-m a-a-alone…” She began to weep.

Faramir didn’t know what to say and he bowed his head, horribly weary. I can’t do it, I can’t do everything…juggle her, Éomer, myself... He was not one of his pureblooded forefathers of Númenor, but only a mongrel, half-witted and inadequate to the challenge. I cannot deal with everything. He was right, she will be unhappy…I would be heartless to hold her there…

You don’t have to. He lifted his head, actually startled. A new part of him spoke up in a clear and decisive voice he welcomed, why don’t you just do what you know would solve everything?

Faramir gazed sorrowfully down as Éowyn took deep breaths, her tears subsiding. She was afraid to look at him; afraid he was angry with her. He might have been, but he wasn’t. The fact that Éowyn thought he should be, or was, hurt. I am not so cruel, my darling. Sighing inwardly, he asked the voice. What’s that? What could I do to solve everything?

Echoing in his mind, the words made him uncomfortable. I can’t do that. No, I could never leave her. Faramir waited, but from the other part of him there was no answer, only a cool sense of cynicism that frightened him. It felt like his father.

A new thought occurred from the comparison and he grew cold. Éowyn sniffled, breathing easier now. Suddenly, he, too, felt like weeping. The chance alone…

Éomer listened tolerantly. He had little faith in the words of seers even if he’d met them and found them to be respectable elves. The prophecy…it was vaguely familiar. “Which was?”

They spoke in whispers, his own rough and bass despite his best efforts, the hobbit’s light and easy. “No living man could kill it.”

“Don’t you? Éowyn isn’t a man, of course,” Merry looked down at himself with a curious brand of irritation and pride, “and I’m not a man…it makes sense.”

“I suppose,” Éomer allowed. He felt uneasy in this line of discussion—it was out of his grasp.

A thought struck, “Did you know this before you allowed my little sister into battle?”

Éomer’s eyes narrowed. Merry hadn’t hesitated, but he was uncertain. I shall believe him, he decided. It’s far better than the alternative, the alternative that might involve a dead hobbit. “So, you think it was fated?”

“Yes.” Curls flopped as Merry nodded. He frowned, “You Men are strange…you don’t seem to want to put things behind you and be merry again…why not?”

Confused, Éomer asked, “Why do you say that?” What does that mean, little one?

“Look how sad you are.” A small hand waved at him, “Why don’t you just do what you know will make everything easy?” Merry’s face was confused, “Why do you keep arguing with Faramir? Pippin and I don’t understand. He has sisters, he wouldn’t be so sad to see them go…” Here the hobbit grinned, “Of course, Éowyn is far more pleasant.”

How can I explain? Before he could do more than open his mouth, Merry went on, grimy feet swinging in rhythm. “We like Faramir…but, is it because he’s so…” He wrinkled his nose, “boring sometimes? He’s not much fun if you want to go and lift something or play a prank… Pippin doesn’t even know why Éowyn’s marrying him—she’s far more fun. We’d like her to come and visit the Shire.” After a moment, Merry added cheerfully, “You, too.”

Strangely, Éomer found himself smiling. “No, Master Holdwine. I’m afraid I’d be too big for your little country.”

“Rubbish.” The hobbit scooted forward, intrigued. “What does that name mean, exactly?”

“Oh.” Merry looked pleased. “I like your language…it’s got a good sound and the words seem familiar.” He sighed, “So, why do you argue with Faramir so much?”

Éomer stared at the hobbit, trying to best phrase his answer. Why don’t I like Faramir? Oh, let me count the ways... “Faramir, he…he’s just…he’s taking…” Frustrated, he eventually spat, “I don’t know.” There was no reason, like Aragorn had said the night of the funeral feast, no reason he couldn’t get along with the man. Perhaps it was the fact that, while his sister was happy, there really was no concrete reason, that he was angered so. Maybe it is because I can do nothing at all.

He rubbed his forehead; he was starting to get a headache. Half jesting, he threw out an answer, unable to stand a moment more of the hobbit’s bewildered, sincere stare. “I don’t know. Habit.”

“It makes her sad and that makes me angry.” This time Merry was stern, so stern he surprised Éomer. The hobbit was unyielding; his eyes steady as he spoke. His voice was strong and forceful. “Pippin and I think you should stop before she can’t run crying to our rooms.”

Did Aragorn put him up to this? Staring at the hobbit, he couldn’t think of a satisfactory protest. Run crying to their rooms? He stirred uneasily on his chair. Maybe it’s time I grew up…and let Éowyn grow up, too.

His heart stuttered in fear. No…no… Éomer just looked at Merry beside him. He didn’t know what to do.

She wiped her nose on her sleeve and dried her tears on the end of her shirt. Faramir didn’t speak, just waited. He was crouched down on one knee, the bag of cups and things dangling in his hand, watching her. Finally, she looked up and broke the silence with a muttered, “I’m sorry.” Really, Éowyn was beginning to be astonished by the amount of weeping she’d done since she’d met him. After all my objections I suppose I am a woman after all…it made her smile a tiny bit.

He smiled gently in reply, yet his eyes were distant, peculiarly so, like he were contemplating something far beyond her. Éowyn found it unsettling, especially when he spoke. “You listened to me, it’s my turn.” Abruptly, Faramir stretched his legs out, sitting at her side as though he were prepared to stay there for quite a while.

It was preposterous, them both on the kitchen floor. He didn’t say anything, his shoulder warm against hers; Faramir was half-turned to face her. His grey eyes were still remote and she tugged nervously at the dolphin pendant. Éowyn sighed, “Don’t worry, I didn’t mean it.”

Is he angry? He didn’t feel angered. “I won’t…keep to it.” She struggled, “It was just…what he said…” Suddenly trying to make him understand, she said rapidly, “He didn’t mean it to do…this…I’m sorry, I’ll go with you, it’s just when I heard him say those things…he’s my brother.”

“I know.” Faramir’s arm went around her shoulders, heavy and squeezing. “I had a brother, too.”

Éowyn felt ashamed. She still had Éomer, after all. “I’m sorry, I’m…selfish to speak of this to you...” She’d wanted Aragorn for a reason; her words would not have opened any wounds with him.

“It was no fault of yours that Boromir was lost.” Faramir glanced at her, an unfamiliar smile on his lips, like he was trying to be comforting, but he was falling far short. He was making her feel shy, strangely unsteady, an emotion she found vaguely frightening to experience in his trusted presence. Very suddenly she wanted some distance between them. “It will be all right.”

What’s wrong? Does he think…that I’m lying? Éowyn looked into his eyes, searching, refusing to scoot away. She was being foolish; this was Faramir, after all. He was safest of all she knew—his arms meant comfort, a refuge. But still, her insides felt queasy with apprehension. “I’m not trying to get rid of you again, I’ll go to Gondor. It was just the moment; I’m not trying to back out again on you…on us...” She trailed off, nervous and conscious she was repeating herself.

“I know.” That queer smile widened and then disappeared. “I’m not worried about that.”

“Oh.” Awkward, she leaned her head against his shoulder, wondering what was wrong with her that she felt so anxious. He didn’t feel unmoved, Faramir even kissed the top of her head, but he felt off somehow in every gesture and every word he uttered. Screwing up her courage, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” He gave her a squeeze, sounding completely sure. “Everything will be fine.”

Faramir’s normally comforting voice, though she could find nothing false in it, just made Éowyn tenser. Her hands tightened over the dolphin and against her will she slid an inch or two away from his light embrace. Faramir didn’t seem to notice, which discomfited her more than anything did—he always noticed when she pulled away. Éowyn tucked her legs tighter, trying to decide whether to confront him now, where they might be interrupted or elsewhere. Later, oh later where we can take our time…she didn’t admit to herself that the real reason was that she was actively afraid to confront him. I’m not sure I know this man… Éowyn turned to look at him; Faramir looked back and it was like gazing into a mirror dulled with time so as to be virtually opaque — dispassionately unaffected eyes straight on hers. There was no warmth in his stare and she jerked away, alarmed.

At length, she stood with mind whirling, and he did, too. She avoided his gaze, his touch. They walked into the hall where Gandalf and Pippin were waiting. The wizard’s eyes were on her; she looked down, taking some of the hobbit’s burden. I don’t know what’s wrong… Faramir followed with his steps slow. He didn’t feel angry. He didn’t feel anything.

Éomer stood when his sister entered. Her waxen face showed she was upset; he took the small basket from her arms, giving her a warm smile. I love you, sister of mine. To his surprise she hugged him mightily, arms very, very tight, before slipping away to the couch. Faramir was right behind her and when their eyes met Éomer felt a chill—there was something deeply off in them. The Steward’s voice was unpleasantly frosty. “We need to speak later. It won’t take long.”

“All right.” He answered courteously, trying desperately to stick to his new resolution. I will behave…I will accept him… He had to, to some degree—none of the men in the company would put up with Faramir if he did not. I must treat him with respect and…even affection. His lips twisted in a disparaging smile. Perhaps that is going too far. Polite, simple respect… that is plenty. “If you desire to.”

“I do.” Faramir nodded slightly and sat beside Éowyn. Éomer stood a second longer, perturbed. Was it his imagination or did his sister move away from the Steward, opening several inches of light between them on the couch? Before she’d been all but in his lap, the difference, along with the aloofness of Faramir’s gaze, made him curious.

It is none of your business, either way, is it? No, I didn’t think so. Curbing his instinct to at least question Éowyn with a glance, he turned to Aragorn and Legolas began helping them pass about the various foods and drink. Merry, too, was helping Pippin. It wasn’t much; just bits of meat, bread, cheese and other easily cartable things, but it would hold them. Neither he, Merry or Éowyn had taken long; surely the rest would be just as quickly done.

Despite himself, Éomer kept looking at her, noticing the way she kept a certain space between herself and Faramir. The Steward paid no attention. He glanced at Merry, who smiled through a mouthful of something smooshed together; he smiled back, unable to help himself. The hobbit had wrung a promise out of him—Éomer would visit the Shire one day. I would be afraid to step on them…he imagined hobbit children, looked down at his boots, and shuddered. Even children of his own kind seemed impossibly small and delicate. I could never be a father; I would be too frightened to hold my child.

Frodo wolfed his food, his face intensely impatient, but Sam ate very slowly. So slowly in fact, the Ringbearer was tapping his fingers in a discordant rhythm by the time the gardener finished. Sam gathered more sheets of blank paper and the eldest hobbit was once more poised, pen gripped awkwardly but forcibly, “Faramir, would you mind…?”

“I’m afraid I’m not a very important person.” He paused; Éomer watched his sister, noting the way she sat scrunched up, far closer to Pippin than Faramir. What is wrong? The Took noticed, too, for his face grew worried and then oddly determined.

Éowyn listened; Faramir spoke in an unemotional, terse voice. Beside her, Pippin chimed in often, his words surprisingly light in comparison to the man by her side. She twisted her hands, chafing them in anxiety. Did I do this? What is wrong? Having only herself to blame, she cursed inwardly for speaking to him. But he wanted me to… You should have done as you thought and let him alone.

Glancing over to her left, she licked dry lips. Even if he’d not been in such a strange mood, Faramir’s description of the flight from Osgiliath would have disturbed her. “It was luck alone that I managed to keep to my horse and my courage.” Her brother looked bemused and very slightly commending at the modest words. His eyes had been on her ever since she’d come back into the room; Éowyn avoided looking up—if he sensed trouble he’d take her side and there might be another argument.

“I shouted with the soldiers.” Pippin sounded admiring. “Beregond and I were watching you from the wall…I couldn’t have ridden back, I’d have been too frightened that those things would have scooped me up and carried me off to the Dark Lord, but he said you could master man and beast.”

For a second Faramir’s icy demeanor cracked and he smiled. “I don’t know about that.” Éowyn gazed up hopefully, but the break had been only a tantalizing suggestion of his normalcy. When he continued, his voice was just as stiff, “I returned to my men and together,” Faramir nodded to the wizard, “with Mithrandir’s help, we were able to enter the City.”

Frodo looked about to ask something, but Pippin cut him off, “Gandalf made light somehow, it frightened them away.”

Finally the Ringbearer questioned, slowly and very kindly, “Do you mind speaking about Denethor or Boromir, Faramir?”

Éowyn felt the two males on the couch with her stiffen. Faramir’s voice did not betray him, “Ask anything you feel you must.” He added oddly, “I owe too much to not yield you the right.” Gandalf was watching closely, as well as Aragorn. Pippin shifted and she gave him a supporting smile. She was afraid to do the same to Faramir though she badly wished to. Éowyn wanted to link her arm with his, to hug him and murmur that it would be all right, that she was there and loving him —in short, she wished to provide the comfort he so often and willingly did for her. But she was afraid his arm would feel as unyielding as wood and his grey eyes, usually so warm, would be chill and distant, asking her why she bothered. What right do I have to ask or give comfort? My family is broken, but still stands…his is gone, so much ash scattered to the winds. So instead, she curled her knees tight to her chest, wrapped one hand around the dappled blue-green dolphin pendant and scooted closer to Pippin, who eagerly accepted her presence. He folded his own legs under him, sitting up on his knees to be almost level with her face. At the table Frodo tapped his fingers, carefully choosing his first query.

Unexpectedly reflective and thoughtful eyes looked into hers. “We have a plan.”

“All right.” Pippin stared over at Merry and shook his head. The Brandybuck frowned, wagging his eyebrows in askance.

Éowyn mouthed ‘no’ and pretended not to see her brother staring at her in curiosity. She’d missed Frodo’s question, so gently was it asked, but Faramir answered,

“He ruled well, but did not accept any questioning of his will. My brother had the most luck in swaying him; it was widely known my father favored Boromir above all others and for good reason—he was the best at whatever he tried...”

Pippin interrupted, dropping back to his seat with a thump, “He said that about you.”

Faramir appeared shocked, his head snapping to the side to fix a wide-eyed stare upon the Took. “What?”

“Boromir said you were the best son, that his father just could not see it.” The hobbit only looked slightly uncomfortable. “He talked about you mostly,” Pippin smiled, “When I could get him to talk.” Merry smiled, too. “He said you were smarter, that Denethor had been wrong, that you should have been sent because you knew more about times gone by.” He smiled a little, “Of course, he took it back every time we got chased by something and said he was thankful you were far away and, he hoped, safe.”

Éowyn desperately wished to put her arm around his shoulder, to lean her head against his neck and hug Faramir, he looked so pale and wretched as Pippin added finally, “Everywhere we were—Rivendell, Hollin, the gates of Moria with the way they shone in the moonlight and how big and great the halls were, fair Lórien—especially there because of the elves,” Sam sighed as Pippin continued, “and the Ar-argon…” He frowned.

“Right,” The Took smiled briefly and thankfully. “He said he wished you were there to see it.” Faramir swallowed beside her; she heard his throat click. His eyes were damp, reddened and his jaw worked; he looked down, dark hair falling forward. Pippin poked her side impatiently and, feeling a weak inner smile at his impertinence mingle with the sense of Faramir’s grief, she couldn’t resist any longer, no matter his reaction. Éowyn moved close and hugged his side.

What had felt so wrong about him before was now right—Faramir turned into her immediately, his chest shuddering with quavering breaths as he tried not to weep in front of an audience. His sorrow made her ache; his tears, trembling unfallen on his eyelashes, burned her eyes. “Shh.” Éowyn slid forward, folding her legs to lean against him; he rested his head on her shoulder and took a deep breath to steady himself. Around them everyone had looked away, giving Faramir his privacy.

Except Éomer, though, he, too, dropped his eyes after a moment. He’d looked on purpose, watching how his sister’s face had stilled and then crumpled in slightly. Her heart was plain—the Steward’s grief was her own, his pain hers, too. And, his joy, should one day I cease my hardheadedness. Gazing at the floor, he waited as patiently as the others for Faramir to regain his composure.

All the talk of Boromir had jogged his memory—he’d met the man, once and but momentarily in the hall outside the throne room. Inside, Éowyn had been standing near to Théoden, her pale gown and hair alight from the sun that slanted inward into the room. She’d been speaking to their Uncle; just visible from where they’d stood but inaudible. Boromir had halted, his attention obviously caught by the brightness of her hair and gown in the otherwise dim room where Théoden crouched in his great chair.

“Who is s that?” Théodred’s glance had met his; Éomer had been on his way back to his rooms, Théodred had been courteously showing the Steward’s eldest son about. “Who is that woman…?” His sister had looked up, undoubtedly from hearing an unfamiliar voice in the strangely measured and thick accent of the South men. A voice that grew more interested with every word, “with the blue eyes that stands by the King?”

His cousin’s reply had been quick. “No one important, a maid only.” Boromir’s face had been rather doubtful, but he’d followed Théodred away without further questions and Éomer, too, had continued to his rooms.

Coming out of his small memory, he looked over at where Éowyn still comforted Faramir—he’d pulled away just slightly and she used the pads of her thumbs to tenderly wipe his damp cheeks. Their eyes were locked; they were clearly oblivious to the others in the room.

The coincidental irony was not lost upon him. He smiled a thin smile to himself and resumed staring at the floor.

She touched his face gently, feeling the wetness of the few tears he’d allowed spill. His eyes were on hers and they were warm again, though painfully anguished. Are you all right?

For a second she felt him draw away mentally and Éowyn dreaded the revival of the puzzling lack of feeling that had been there, but he answered, yes, as well as I can be. Faramir straightened back on the couch, but he pulled her close now, one arm over her shoulder, the other around her side with his hand lying in her lap, their fingers entangled.

He struggled silently and she squeezed his hand. Faramir took a deep breath, looking away before admitting. “I would appreciate that.”

“All right.” The hobbit did not so much as pause before turning to the elf in the corner. “Legolas…”

He felt ashamed because he’d been unable to speak further. He gazed at the floor; his heart sunk low with grief and remorse. My brother would have praised me all night had our positions been exchanged… Faramir’s eyes turned to the golden head at his shoulder and a tiny smile broke through his iron-grey mood. They would not have made a good match; Boromir had been as strong-willed as their father had and doubly as prideful. He would not have suffered Éomer’s demands for a moment. His smile widened just a fraction. My brother would not have suffered me suffering through his demands. Rohan and Gondor would be at war, or close to it—my brother would have bid me to steal her within the walls and close the gate. He shuddered a little to imagine Éomer’s reaction. He could not have touched her mind, my brother was deaf that way…Faramir blessed his gift. Without it he would have probably been still begging for a mutually responsive kiss.

Frodo was speaking, asking Legolas about Fangorn and although he was interested in the Ents, Faramir wished to leave. It wasn’t late, he wasn’t tired, but he was almost desperate with the need for stillness…and I need to talk to her. Again he turned his eyes to Éowyn’s head resting just on his shoulder. Her confusion and distress had only made it harder for him to think, to puzzle out the fears that had arisen from her tearful confession in the kitchens.

I know now what I need to say. The words, he felt, would be terrible and would probably upset her. But I must say them or risk suffering for my selfishness. Faramir licked his lips and took his hand from hers. He touched her mind gently, do you wish to go?

Before either of them could move or speak, Arwen did. “I apologize, Frodo.” The Queen stood, cradling the sleepy-eyed and limp puppy. “Write what you wish about me, for my part I did little worthy of your remembrance save create a banner for my lord and love.” Aragorn gazed up at her, his expression melancholy. Rusco yawned wide, paws and tail dangling as she smiled, “I trust you will do right by me.” She bowed her head in respect, “I’m afraid I must take my leave, Master Baggins.”

“Good night.” The Queen slipped out; Faramir watched, curious as to where she was going—these were Aragorn’s quarters, after all. Arwen walked out the door without hesitating and the King sighed and slumped low in his chair.

“I, too, will be going.” A second later Faramir spoke up; none looked particularly surprised. Pippin and Merry frowned at each other. Éomer alone gazed askance at him and he remembered he’d asked to speak with the King of Rohan. Odd, it had seemed far more important earlier. Tomorrow, I suppose.

Now there was suspicion in Éomer’s eyes, but a muted sort. “Can I walk you to your rooms, sister?” He glanced at Frodo. “I’m afraid I have no more to add.” The hobbit nodded; he only looked impatient to begin again. Éowyn hesitated, and then nodded her acquiescence. Faramir cursed inwardly.

They left the room and he paused, awkward. Éomer’s voice was perfectly neutral. “You wished a word with me?”

“Yes.” It would be better alone. Nearby, she crossed her arms and bowed her head, waiting.

Obviously Éomer felt whatever he said; he could speak it in front of his sister. “Well?”

Faramir tried to recapture his sense of urgency and failed. Pippin’s words about his brother had rattled him too much, wildly distracting his thoughts. “I wanted only to ask…tell me truthfully if what I begin tomorrow is a fair trial and not a pretense of one—that you do not already know the outcome.” He felt his voice firming and his resolve coming back, “Éomer, am I just wasting time running about your lands…tell me, is this but a ruse to keep her here as long as possible? If so, denying that I’ve proven myself at the end would extend this further and be nothing but beneficial to you. Tell me, will my stint as a man in your service be genuine or no more than a diversion to prolong her time with you? I cannot stay forever,” He met the man’s eyes, “I will not wait forever, I will take her if I must.” Faramir added the last, coolly and calmly, “If you won’t let go.” Éowyn had looked up, her face shocked. Her brother, too, was astonished. The two exchanged swift glances that, for all Faramir’s ability, he could not read.

There was more bewilderment than offense in the reply. “Of course it will be fair.”

That is not the answer I wanted and you know it. Not by half. The King of Rohan’s eyes were firm on his and yet they hid something, flickers of…panic…? Faramir was moved to pity. Perhaps it was the answer he’d wanted, just not the one he’d wished to hear. He inclined his head, “That’s all I desired to know. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Gratitude shone out for the briefest moments that he’d not pursued his question.

Soon…I think. She smiled at him and, then, to his surprise moved very close. Éowyn stood on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, her fingertips touching his face. It was altogether too swift, but Faramir smiled, unutterably pleased. Stepping back to her brother’s side, she linked her arm with his; Éomer was staring at the wall, eyes averted. “Good night.”

He left her at the door with a forced smile and a fierce hug. Faramir had come perilously close with his questioning, making him nervous. He guesses, is all. He does not read my thoughts and get such ideas. His chest tight with anxiety, Éomer repeated this to himself as he began to pack his few, small bags for the ride. Gradually, the simple rhythms of this task soothed him and he found his mind wandering.

Glancing at the door, he wondered would they do what should be done? Will Faramir be treated as what he is—one who comes to be a soldier of the Mark, unknowing in our ways— a battle-tried man in the guise of a untrained boy? Or will they reject him from the very beginning and leave him alone tonight when the other lads will be finding their way home by starlight? He would find out in the morning. Éomer smiled a little. I wonder, will he beat me?

Éowyn was brushing her hair and cursing the snarls when he walked back into her rooms. Faramir gazed at her; she was already clad in nothing but a long nightgown. It clung enough to stir his interest, the thin material easily showing her curves, but he wasn’t half composed enough to begin any seduction yet. She was aware he was there, but she wasn’t turning. He looked at her bare feet, small and dear, and sat on her bed, beginning to unlace his boots.

She pulled her brush through her thick, flaxen mane, still murmuring curses whenever the bristles caught. Éowyn half turned her face, presenting her cheek and the smooth line of her brow, “Your armor and cloak are under the bed.”

Éowyn’s shy mood had lifted for a moment; there’d been amusement in her voice. Faramir stared at her slim back, asking, “No?”

She was done now, just brushing slowly and running her fingers through the neatened waves of golden hair. Delaying, he perceived and was saddened. “No. It’s a secret. A tradition.”

Gandalf’s words came back…he said I can’t use my eyes? He frowned but Faramir was too aggrieved and weary to mull over any riddles. There were a few candles in the room, but no other illumination. The sun had long since disappeared and there were stars outside her window—the storm had disbanded and scattered clouds were all that marred the bright star field. The soft light flickered, making her eyes shine and then grow dim like stars themselves. He couldn’t decide which was illusion and which was true—the light or the dark.

On the bed, Faramir moved further back, propping himself on his elbow with a pillow. She’d laid down her brush. Patting the turned up blankets, he invited, “Come here, lie beside me.” Éowyn looked strangely hesitant, yet she came to him and climbed onto the bed, making the nightgown ride up her thigh as she lifted herself upwards. His gaze was naturally drawn to the bared length of her leg and when he met her eyes again, she looked nervous. She came close, though, sliding near and under the piled covers with him. He looked at her, lying on her side, fingers playing with a loose thread in the blankets. “What’s wrong?”

There had been a flare of annoyance in her tone. This wasn’t right, he wasn’t comfortable. Faramir sighed, “You’re not close enough.” He went to her, slipping his arm over her waist; the nightgown was slightly cool, but underneath he could feel her warmth. Éowyn looked vulnerable, small, so close was he. Her eyes were turned away but one of her hands crept forward to rest on his chest, then slid up and across his ribs, fingers dragging his shirt, and dangled over his side. A moment later, she hugged him, palm flat to his back, moving closer still. Their legs touched and tangled as she relaxed and Faramir sighed again, this time in contentment.

She murmured in the shadowy room, finally meeting his gaze, “I’m sorry I upset you.”

“I was sad.” Their mouths were close; her breath warmed him. The candles flickered softly and he searched her eyes in the dimming and improving light. “And a little scared.”

Éowyn appeared slightly disbelieving but her voice was low, encouraging. “Tell me.”

“You said you didn’t want to leave…” Faramir took a deep breath, “that hurt…”

“I know.” He leaned forward, brushing his lips against hers in a twinkling kiss, no more than a second’s warm contact. “I know, I understand.” Her fingers moved on the small of his back as he continued, “But I’d rather be hurt than hurt you.” I’m used to it, you see…

“I told you about my mother.” This was harder than he’d anticipated. “I’m afraid you won’t be happy in the City, either. I’m afraid you won’t be happy away from your brother.” Faramir touched her face, trying to express how serious he was, “Come back anytime you want…don’t ask, just go. But try not to stay too long. I’ll miss you.” He tried to make the last sound like a jest and failed miserably. “I want us to be happy…if it makes you happier to come back here then do so every year if you wish.”

“I want you to tell me what you want to say…I don’t want to have to guess when you’re already upset. Just tell me…please.” Waiting for her reply was an eternity.

It came in a sudden, bruising kiss. “Ic lufie ge, ge eart min leofestan.” Éowyn laughed softly, sadly, “But for all you think about me, you are the most dimwitted man alive.”

“I can’t come back anytime I wish…” She hesitated, speaking nervously, “What about when we have children?” Éowyn answered her own question, worrying her lip between her teeth, “I’ll have to stay for a while, until they are grown enough, but then I will come back and they will come with me to visit and to learn about my people.” The words were coolly determined, if still uncomfortable. Faramir sensed she would fight him on this, and viciously, if he did not yield.

He nodded, silently approving. “That’s fine, I don’t mind. You should, though I will be terribly lonely.” Faramir smiled and chuckled. “They will meet their uncle and he will teach them to hate me—you know in my last dream my son swung a wooden sword at my head?” He teased her, “I think your brother is going to turn them against me.”

“No.” She laughed tensely, “He wouldn’t do that, he’d know it would upset me.” Then her voice grew saddened and Éowyn shifted closer, her eyes on his in the faint light, “I will miss Edoras and Éomer very much,” He watched her close her eyes tightly and then reopen them; they shone bright with tears until she blinked them away. Éowyn placed her hand on the side of his face, her palm cradling his cheek as she finished very softly and very seriously, “but I won’t die, Faramir.”

“I will be all right…I love you, I would be just as unhappy without you. You’re a part of me.” She smiled a small smile, fingertips brushing his forehead, then his resting over his heart, “In here, and here.”

“You’re sure?” Faramir could barely breathe asking it; he’d not realized the depth of this fear. It froze his guts and paralyzed him where he lay, still half-propped on his elbow. It was a stupid fear, an old one and irrational, but it held him in a tight grip.

He moved close, holding her fast to his body. Within the circle of his arms she felt good, no longer nervous. Relishing her nearness and sliding down so that they lay nearer still, facing each other, he wanted to kiss her and far more, to express his deep love and, he felt, the reaffirmation of their bond. Under the blankets they were warm together, the simple heat of their bodies combining. In the dimly flickering light, Faramir clasped her hand in his, and brought it to his lips.

He kissed her fingers and Éowyn smiled. She was still waiting for him to try; she’d seen his eyes when she’d climbed into the bed. He didn’t disappoint. Faramir’s voice was low and husky; “Will you miss me?”
Shaking her head, she answered lightly, “No, you’re awfully bothersome.”

“Yes.” Éowyn stroked her fingertips along his jaw, tracing the scratchy line of his whiskers upwards and along his face. His lips were soft in comparison and right away he licked her fingers with a wet tongue, seeking to capture them. She laughed a little, admonishing, “Stop that!”

Faramir rose up, leaning over her, making her roll onto her back. His arms had been around her in a lover’s embrace, but he now placed them against the bed, palms propping him up as he shifted position. His eyes were a clear, brilliant grey in the candlelight as he kissed her, his dark hair falling to touch her face with feathery movements of the dusky, night-colored strands. Unsurprised, Éowyn kissed him back. They were slow, miniature kisses with mouth closed; he was taking his time. He traveled over her lips; tracing the corners, planting tiny touches to her chin, jaw before wandering to press the fullness of her mouth. Gradually, he sought entrance, his tongue gently probing. She allowed it, relishing his milder passion.

Éowyn slid her hands downward to get under his shirt; Faramir’s back was warm as she folded her arms up and spread her fingers, embracing his long body. He kissed a little faster, but still gently, still wandering in the kisses. It was far more agreeable and easing on her part to have him so slowly exploring—it was as though he was mapping and thoroughly memorizing her mouth.

Then he stopped. Faramir slid over to cover her fully, lowering himself down to his elbows. His body pressed hers to the bed, heavy with male muscle and mass, one of his legs settling between hers as he moved. It felt deliberate, his knee, as it was nudging her calves and then thighs apart. All at once she was just a little uncertain, pulling her face back from his. Expression solemn, intent, he kissed her jawline down to her earlobe, his cheek rasping against hers. Lovely Southern accent thickened, Faramir whispered in her ear, “I want to make love to you, Éowyn. Will you not let me?”

She wasn’t surprised at this, either. He was leaving tomorrow, so his asking made sense. In fact, the only thing that surprised her was the way his words and voice had sent tingles down her spine and through her limbs. The timbre of it had been altered, every syllable charged with a craving desire. Unnerved, Éowyn took a breath, shaking her head, “No.”

He didn’t sound disappointed, just patient, and almost like her refusal was a challenge. “Not even when I do this will you consider it?” Faramir kissed her neck, his mouth suddenly very wet and hot. On purpose, she wondered and closed her eyes as he kissed, tongue dragging, teeth touching. Her skin was on fire from the slick kisses that extended from nibbling and licking her earlobes to her collarbone. Of course it is on purpose. His hand ran up and down her side, caressing through the thin nightgown, squeezing her thigh and encouraging her to lift her legs, to spread them, to wrap them around him. She refused, growing slightly nervous when his fingers flirted with the hem of her nightgown, tips stroking her bare skin. He suckled both sides of her neck, no doubt leaving marks, and she resisted the urge to hold his head there, to prolong the pleasure. Éowyn didn’t want to encourage him, to make him think he had a chance that she would allow him to take her.

Faramir’s eyes were on hers, the grey in them just a little stormy with passion. “This?”

He slid downward to nuzzle her breasts through the nightgown. The thin material barely muffled the heat of his mouth and she licked her lips, feeling him kiss her, roaming generously, using his hands to cup and caress. But still, the act was hardly enough to make her sway. Éowyn smiled slightly. If this was all he had, she could easily refuse. “No.” With a soft chuckle she added, running her hands over his back under his shirt, “Not even close, my love.”

“Hmm...” He sounded playful, easing her mind. “What about this?” Faramir took one of her nipples between his teeth at the same time he propped himself up again and surprisingly, shockingly, his knee began to rub between her legs.

Éowyn gasped, digging her fingers into his shoulders. The feeling was delightful, very slow but firm friction teasing her. Gently back and forth he stroked, each movement arousing her more. His mouth was hot and eager, the thin fabric doing nothing whatsoever now to muffle the feeling as he plundered her bosom with trailing kisses and nipping teeth, only to bury his face into her neck. Faramir’s teeth fastened on her earlobe, nibbling, sucking. But it was his knee that made her breath catch—rubbing in a slow, controlled rhythm, deliberately pleasuring her. Just resisting the urge to tilt upwards and part her thighs to give him better access, she thought he would go slow…he would be gentle…he would try his best to give me enjoyment… Alarmed at herself, Éowyn said tightly, “Stop it, no.” Jerking her hands out from beneath his shirt, she pressed them to his chest. “No. Stop, please.”

Faramir stopped at once, drawing back to look at her. He was breathing just a little faster. “Do you still fear me, then?” Before she could reply, he murmured, brow furrowed, “Tell me it is a maiden’s dread only that makes you refuse, not any lingering fear of me, Éowyn.”

He was asking her when now, when he could have what he desired. “Do you wish to wait until we are wed?”

The questions confused her; she wished he’d only kissed her and not started this purposeful approach, no matter how gentle he’d been or how quickly he’d ceased it when she’d asked. If he hadn’t said it, then maybe… “I don’t know.”

Faramir sighed as he slid to lie back beside her. She turned to face him as he murmured, “Do not think badly of me.” His chuckle was soft, somewhat disappointed; “I had to try.” She relaxed; he was finished, then. She relaxed too soon. His gaze unwavering, he asked, “But please, will you answer? It would ease my mind to know you no longer fear me.”

Éowyn frowned; this was making her more and more apprehensive. She didn’t know why the thought of his making love to her tugged her in such different directions—from excitement and desire to doubt and panic. The only thing that frightened her more was the thought of bearing his children and the endless future that would be bought with his taking her. The unknown of it terrified.

Faramir was murmuring softly now, he’d moved close to hold her in his arms. Presumably to comfort her. “I would never hurt you; I will go as slowly as you wish.” He added hastily, “Whenever you wish, that is.”

It was almost with irritation that she replied. “I know.” Éowyn closed her eyes so as not to see his questioning face. She should have pushed him away when he’d moved on top of her. She’d half known he would try. Turning over, she faced the other direction, lying with her back to him.

“Do you want me to leave?” Asking it was difficult; he obviously did not want to go.

“No.” She bit her lip, staring at the wall. Shadows swayed on it with endless varied patterns of shade and light. I don’t want him to go. “No.”

Faramir moved close again, pressing his front to her back and curling his arm around her waist. “Is this all right?”

Éowyn folded her hand over his as it lay on her waist, feeling the ragged cloth and his warm skin. She stroked his fingers. “Yes, it’s nice.”

Now Faramir’s voice came just beside her ear, his breath stirring her hair and tickling her neck. “Are you angry with me?”

His chest rose against her back as he sighed. They lay together for a long time; each lost in their own thoughts. For her part Éowyn tried not to think, she tried to lie still and watch the shadows dip and swoop on the wall. His body was warm, comfortingly close, just like the sense of his presence in the back of her mind. Both soothed her. The candles had burned low, and were guttering now, drowning in their own pale wax before Faramir spoke again. His words were deliberate. “It is not lust that makes me ask for your maidenhead…I want you, to make us one, to make what we only say in words alive in action…I would have it an act of love, not of beastly desire.” He licked his lips, continuing softly, “I am not an animal in rut, I am a man and I wish for you out of passion, appreciation for your body, yes, but also out of love and the need for closeness. I hunger for your heart just as much as your flesh.” Faramir sounded hesitant now, “Do you not share that need, that wish to feel me with you, inside you, closer than this covered skin? Do you not feel the need to join our fealty, our love, in deed?”
“I don’t know.” It was all she could say now. The absurdity of it was enough to make her laugh. He was too good a man by far, but what he desired scared her.

“I don’t know.” Éowyn laughed as she said it, despairing laughter, near tears. He wanted too much, far too much, always too much. She wasn’t sure she could give it. Ever.

“All right.” He sighed again and leaned against her, “Will you tell me when you know?”

“Good.” Faramir kissed the nape of her neck and was still. They spoke no more.

He juggled his armor, the cloak resting on top. Éowyn smiled at him, but she was distant still. He could feel her hesitance and fought his annoyance. My love, please…I will not leap upon you like a randy stallion…was all her words of trusting him a lie? Faramir couldn’t tell. She sat on the bed, her arms wrapped around herself, body language screaming discomfort at him. What is wrong? Frustrated, he shifted under his load, reluctant to leave. What was so wrong with him asking? It was not as if he’d pushed her for it or tried to take her by force. They’d done far more this afternoon and she’d been fine, even enjoyed his actions. What is wrong? Éowyn tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, murmuring, “You’d better leave.”

“All right.” I don’t want to leave like this. Faramir didn’t move. He touched her mind, disturbed at the confused swirl he found within. I don’t want to leave with you like this.

He sighed, shifting his heavy burden again. “I’m not arguing. I just don’t want to leave with you upset.”

Faramir closed his eyes, warring with his exasperation. I’m trying… “Why won’t you talk to me?”

She was not being difficult on purpose; the knowledge eased his mind only a little. Faramir gave up and walked to the door. He paused, “I love you.”

Éowyn had not moved from her bed. She sounded weary, forlorn. “I love you.” The only thing that allowed him to walk out was the truth in the words.

As soon as he was gone she wrapped her robe around herself and snuck into the hall. Leaning against her brother’s door, shivering a little from the drafty corridor, Éowyn knocked, “Éomer?”

There was no response, so she knocked louder. After a few minutes of leaning against the old wood and listening to her heartbeat, she heard slowly thudding footsteps. Oh, thank you…

Faramir strode down the murky halls, arms aching under the pounds of steel. By the time he made it to his darkened quarters he was sweating and only too eager to lay down his burden. Later, he would blame his blindness upon the pangs in his muscles and his muddled thoughts about Éowyn—Faramir had entered his rooms, dumped the armor and cloak upon a chair and stretched, groaning with relief, before he’d noticed he wasn’t alone.

There were four men. They stood in a rough circle, definitely between him and the door. A sword scraped as it was partially drawn from its sheath, the metal glinting. An unfamiliar voice spoke, “You’re coming with us.”

Straightening, he put all of the weight of his authority in his words. These were mere soldiers while he was a man of noble blood, their superior. “Where?”

Faramir gazed at them; four heavily built men armed with swords, and grimaced. He was outnumbered; therefore, he must yield the battle. For the moment. “All right.”

They led him outside Meduseld, down the stairs and in front of the stable. One of the men kept very close to him the entire time, intent in case he should fight for escape. In front of the barns were five saddled horses. The fifth was the light grey gelding he’d been given, Thorn. The burly war-horse was a vague cloudy shape in the night; it turned its head to look their way, ears pinned with a sour expression. Faramir smiled because, at least, no matter what the outcome, he might get to know the animal. “Where are we going?” None answered. Instead, one held up a long cloth. “What’s that?” He recognized it immediately for what it was and became slightly alarmed.

“Hold still, be silent.” They bound his eyes, tying the cloth tight, rendering him completely blind in the dark night. I cannot even see the stars to guess our direction…where were they going? One of the men put his hand on his shoulder and that way Faramir was led the last few feet to his horse. What they wanted of him was plain enough here. He touched the scarred shoulder, feeling the raised, rough flesh, coarse mane and warm hair of the animal and then reached for the saddle, mounting clumsily. Thorn stood still beneath him. The men around him were already aboard their mounts; his reins were taken and with clucks and low breathed urges, the five horses cantered away. Well, Mithrandir said I couldn’t use my eyes… Faramir laughed softly and felt their puzzlement. Thorn moved heavily into the dark, the big-boned, muscular gelding slow to smooth as he found his gait. He felt clumsy being so blind and wrapped one hand in the mane for security. The minds of the men around him were serene, efficient—there was no threat, only a sense of duty and Faramir could do nothing save wonder and sit his horse as they sped up, galloping into the night.

She pleaded bad dreams and Éomer waved her in, clad only in worn trousers he’d pulled on. Her eyes followed the map of scars on his body, familiar and disturbing, luckily none had been remotely fatal. He stumbled back to the bed and dropped into it, yanking the blankets, and then tossing them towards her. Éowyn followed and curled on her side, soothed by her brother’s presence. His quarters, even at night, were familiar. Neat like hers and similarly bare, there were few places for shadows to hide. Here she was safe, perfectly so. No one would dare trespass into her brother’s rooms—when Gríma had come she’d retreated here often, finding refuge. Now she hid from Faramir and all the things he made her think and feel, a girl again sleeping next to her older brother whose mere presence would keep danger away. Thinking about his messy rooms in the Citadel, she shivered. Horrific monsters could be drawn from the murky shapes of all those books and clothes piled about.

Éomer rolled over onto his back, his voice thick. “What was the dream about?”

“Hmh.” He made a noise and gathered her close. Her brother hugged her sleepily, reassuring, “If he comes I’ll kill him.” Moving back to his side of the bed, he yawned.

“I know.” Does he speak of Gríma…or Faramir? She didn’t know, but lying near him, she felt better, more secure under the thick quilts and yet deeply saddened. How can I ever leave? How?

They rode for what felt like hours. He was nodding in the saddle by the time the horses, their necks damp with sweat, were pulled to a halt. The men conferred in mutters while Faramir sat patiently. Quick hands whipped off his blindfold, revealing night in a large field. Surprised, he found that of the four that had accompanied him, there were only two left. Looking in all directions, he couldn’t tell if the horizon was dark with trees or not; nor could he tell where the mountains stood. Thorn was still, cocking one hind leg, sides moving beneath his legs as the gelding breathed deeply. Faramir patted the horse, surprised at the wet heat of its neck. How far have we gone? The route had been strenuous at times, with one or two of the Riders calling sharply to him to duck or brace for a jump. Though they’d been curt, they had been decent guides, riding close over the rough ground.

Now one man attached a small bag to his saddle and grinned, his words thick with the Rohirric accent, “In case you don’t make it back for breakfast, lytle Bregu. Our Lady would be displeased if we let you starve.”

The other chuckled and Faramir looked at him in shock, recognizing the voice—it was Halorl. The Rohirrim grinned wide, teeth gleaming in the starlight, “Ná gebregdnes, min freónd. Ge wille be eall right, Ic wæs.” Then, without looking at him again, they turned their horses in opposite directions and rode off, soon lost in the dark night. Faramir sat on his quiet mount, no more than a grey, nebulous blob beneath him. All right, now what am I supposed to do? He looked up—the stars told him nothing. He couldn’t use them if he didn’t know which direction to go, he might wander all night only to discover that he’d gone the wrong way.

This is ridiculous. Faramir sighed, stretching in the saddle. Thorn was a still as a fallen log beneath him, waiting for a command. “Come on.” Picking up the reins, he nudged the horse with his heel. There was no response, only the lifting of Thorn’s head. “Come on,” Faramir clucked and squeezed his legs. The gelding shook his head, ears flattening to his skull as he turned in an agitated circle, balking. “What?” He sighed. “What? Come on, we have to find a way back.” Reasoning that his guides had probably returned to Edoras, he pulled the reins in the direction Halorl had gone. Thorn tossed his head, hooves planted, refusing to move. Faramir kicked him impatiently and the gelding came off the ground, rearing a few inches in angry defiance. The sensation of the broad back rising beneath him was mildly alarming—alone as he was there was no way he would be found if he was thrown and injured.

“Fine!” Annoyed with the animal, the entire situation, Faramir dismounted, leaving the reins over the saddle. He didn’t notice the gelding’s ears pricking or the light that grew in his eyes. Boots growing wet from the dewy grass, he walked forward, eyeing the land around him. Hopeful, he stared at the horizon, squinting in vain as he turned around and around. Did the land behind him look just a little higher? Mountains? I don’t know.

Thorn neighed loudly. “What, do you have a suggestion?” Faramir turned in time to see that his horse had gotten a good distance away and was still going—the gelding was walking through the knee-high grass. Traveling in a straight line, the grey was rapidly blending with the darkness. Oh, unbelievable… “Hey!” He whistled but as far as he could tell there was no response.

Trotting through the grass and cursing with each stride, he soon caught up, but was not close enough to grab the reins. Thorn kept moving and Faramir was forced to follow, asking in increasingly placating tones, “Whoa…whoa, whoa…easy, come on, lad…”

The animal ignored him, never ceasing its pace. “Whoa, damn you!” He jumped into a run, intending to snatch the reins, but the animal matched his increase in speed. Faramir stopped at once, hoping the horse would not just keep trotting away, its heavy hooves thumping on the earth. To his surprise Thorn halted, half-turning to face him. The reins and stirrups swung, making gentle noises.

“Hey, whoa…” Holding his hands out, he took a slow step forward. The horse eyed him warily, shining a dull cream in the night. “Easy…just stand still…” Inch by inch, step by tiny step, Faramir crept closer to the animal. The gelding backed a stride, raising its head and he stopped. “Whoa…”

Faramir continued after a moment and was rewarded—he grabbed the reins and held them tight, the cool leather feeling good in his hand. “What was that?” Thorn kept one ear on him, but stood still; he felt wary, unsure and Faramir rubbed his shoulder. A thought occurred to him. Maybe… “Do you know the way home, hmm?” Faramir spoke gently, as he would to a child, scratching his fingers through the sweat-stiff hair of the gelding’s neck. “Was that where you were going?” Without me. “Let’s see.” He remounted and this time made no effort to guide the horse. Thorn began moving immediately, legs swishing through the wet grass. Faramir patted his neck and hoped the animal knew where it was going. “Good, good...”

They made slow time at first, the horse stopping often to neigh or just stand, nose lifted to sniff. Faramir made no moves to hinder the animal and soon the gelding was trotting over the open ground, picking its way through a few small woods, and then cantering when they hit a broad field. After what felt like an hour he broke open the sack and ate the dried fruit, dried meat and bread inside. At the bottom was a carrot, making him smile. “This, I think, is for you.” Leaning forward, he held it out; balancing at the slowly lurching walk while the horse carefully navigated a dry streambed. Thorn halted, bending his neck and accepted the treat, crunching loudly. When the horse began moving again, Faramir felt a subtle lightening of its strides.

They were traveling swiftly now, the gelding often galloping, but he was growing tired, unused to long rides. The most he’d ever ridden at speed was back and forth from Osgiliath. Mounted men were of little use in Ithilien, so Faramir had spent much of his adult life on foot and most of his time in a saddle for recreation. Swaying, he fought to keep his eyes open, mouth falling open in a yawn. Twinkling stars revealed that dawn was still hours away.

Just as his head had fallen and his chin drooped to touch his chest, Thorn jumped into a small brook and landed heavily in the chilly water, splashing Faramir’s legs and sides as he went. The coolness woke him and he stood in the saddle, peering around with bleary eyes. Mountains loomed in the night, no more than dim shapes of their daylight grandeur. Far, far in the distance, he thought he saw a tiny metallic glint. Meduseld? He thought so. Pleased, Faramir slapped the horse’s neck, scratching it. Thorn’s ears flicked back as he murmured, “Good, good…” He would be back before daybreak. Now, I wonder, is my time good or bad? Faramir smiled wearily. I don’t care.

Ná gebregdnes, min freónd. Ge wille be eall right, Ic wæs.—No dread, my friend. You will be all right, I was

Faramir rode slowly along the winding road that led to Edoras. Above him, perched upon the hill, Meduseld gleamed brilliantly among plain thatched roofs like a jewel tossed casually onto the ground. Fitful glints of gold sparked like fire; he was unable to look away, briefly dazzled. The sun was just rising, a burning ball poised upon the horizon, sky rosy and streaked with golden clouds that darkened into indigo dappled with diamond-like stars. The high mounds of the Lords of the Mark were on either side, white flowers still dewy; in the early morning light they gleamed like pale tears. Further still were the fields, grass wetted to a green-grey pocked with spider webs frosted by the night's moisture. His only boundaries, the mountains, were shining with shadows. Innumerable pinnacles and glittery snow-caps delved into the dimmer canyons and valleys, great hoary seams in the rocky face of the White Mountains, and then dropped into the gently green, woody foothills. Thorn’s hooves left soft prints in the dirt of the road; their rhythmical sound was the only other he was aware of in the serene dawn. Not even the birds spoke. All in all it was a beautiful and peaceful vision and one he was glad to see, no matter the cost of sleep. It is so lovely…

Thorn walked beneath him, strides swaying Faramir gently back and forth in the saddle as they moved along the incline. Their breath came in small puffing clouds, quick to vanish; it was chilly and surprisingly so. It is the north...undoubtedly it became colder earlier here. “Good lad.” Rubbing the horse’s withers, he watched the sun rise slowly, appreciating the glorious, sweeping view. The fact that there was no one to share it with was his only regret. Éowyn… Faramir sighed and just enjoyed it. It had been a long time since he’d been able to watch a dawning at his leisure.

Gradually the low walls approached. Wards guarded the gates; they seemed astonished to see him. Consternation, surprise and curiosity milled in their minds as they called down, “Hwa eart ge?”

They knew who he was; he’d felt their expectation but it was the same custom in Gondor to announce one’s self to the guards. Looking up, he answered, “Ic eom Faramir.” His horse tossed its nose impatiently and he smiled, rubbing the gelding’s neck.

There was a brief word between the men and then the wood barrier, made up of thick, tall timbers bound with metal and yet still ineffectual and poor to his mind, swung open and Faramir continued through the gates. He rode through Edoras, glancing at the simple houses and shops as he passed them. The grey gelding never hesitated, hooves thudding as he followed the hill higher and higher; the gorgeous vista around the city widened with each step of the horse beneath him. Reaching the courtyard below Meduseld, he saw it was empty except for a black cat that sat licking its paws. Yellow eyes considered him as he dismounted, then the animal slunk away, the tip of its tail flicking. Faramir lifted the horse’s reins over its head, leading the grey into the barn; his legs feeling drained from a night in the saddle.

Yet his weariness left him for the moment, his heart was so buoyed by the lovely dawn, and he walked faster. There was an empty stall just inside. In it he unsaddled Thorn and unbridled him, laying the tack in the aisle. The freed gelding yawned wide, shaking his body and nosed the full bucket of water. Lifting his wet muzzle, he yawned again, eyes closed and exhaled in a long snort, flapping his mane.

Bemused, Faramir murmured, “Tired? Me, too.” Feeling grateful to the animal for finding the way back for him, he wandered through the silent barn until he located the tack room again. Sleepy-eyed horses peered over stall doors or rustled in their straw beds, snoring as he hefted his tack down the aisle, bridle hanging off his shoulder and saddle perched upon his arm. Depositing the burdens, he began digging into the box of brushes he’d found earlier while looking for his own saddle. Soon, to his satisfaction, he discovered a nice stiff brush and a large curry. Returning to the stall, Faramir spent a long time grooming the horse, scrubbing the dirt and sweat from its coat. Thorn stood still, eyes half-closed and ears limp under his labors. Dust was flying, clouding the air. Faramir was unsure if the horse was enjoying the rub down, as the gelding didn’t move, but he kept at it until the entire, burly grey body was clean again. Now I’m the filthy one. Glancing downward, he was amused. With one last pat, he left the stall and was startled to hear a low, blowing sound.

Faramir turned, his clothes dirty, feeling his weariness catch up with him again. Thorn stood at the door, grey chest pressed to the wood, head outstretched. Small brown eyes fixed upon him while the horse’s heavy ears pricked. Then as he looked on, to his pleasure, the horse’s nostrils fluttered again in a nearly inaudible nicker. He shook his head, answering. “I’ll be back. Too soon for either of us, I’m sure.”

The gelding’s hoof struck the door and he bobbed his head, upper lip quivering. “No, I don’t have another carrot.” Faramir rubbed Thorn’s damp, velvety nose, pleased at the animal’s friendly behavior. “You’d better rest.” He yawned as he replaced the brush and curry, his limbs heavy with fatigue. All Faramir wished for now was his bed and a few hours sleep. Let them think me still out there. He smiled and began to climb the stairs of Meduseld.

Éomer stared blearily into space as he swung his legs over the bed. Behind him, Éowyn was curled into a small ball; she’d stolen his blankets and they were mounded over her. All he could really see was the top of her head and a few wild strands of hair. He rubbed his eyes and stood, stumbling over to his clothes. Two small leather bags, the size to sit easily tied to the back of a saddle, rested on the floor, ready to go. They held clothes, various spare items. He traveled light.

Stripping swiftly in the chill dawn air, he soon dressed in dark trousers, tall boots and a slight linen shirt. Buttoning his simple, brown padded doublet, fingers sleepily slow; he stared out the window, watching the sky lighten. Yawning while pulling on his hauberk, he didn’t begrudge the weight; he would have felt nude without the reassuring heft of the bright metal links. They jingled softly around his upper legs and he tried not to move very much, glancing at the still form of his sister. His long tunic was next and Éomer paused, running a hand down the rich fabric, his mouth twisting into a grimace. Not the stiffly molded leather and hard metal of his armor, it was light, flexible wool. Dark greenish and stitched with silver and gold threads in tiny spiraling designs along the seams, split at the waist, it came well past his thighs and felt like no defense at all. The only real use the garment could have was to shelter his mail. Of course, there is no longer need for real defense…we aren’t going to be fighting anything… He reminded himself of this, careful to keep silent so as not to wake his sister. Still, touching the fine cloth, he was disgusted. It was altogether too rich for his tastes, but he was a King now and safeguarded. His thin and luxurious clothing showed his wealth and trust in his men’s abilities to shield him; he couldn’t very well run about in roughly tanned hides and heavy armor like he was used to. A shame.

His defiance to this foolishness was his cuirass over his chest and back; only two light plates etched with the running horse, instead of the thick, heavy armor he’d worn to battle. It was accompianied with simple pauldrons upon his shoulders and leather vambraces over his lower arms. Swinging his dark greenish and similarily rich cloak onto his shoulders and clasping the gold brooch, Éomer smiled to himself, I look like a fool and I feel naked. He’d never ridden out so lightly armored, his legs were entirely vulnerable. Finally, yanking his troublesome mane back into something that would not infuriate him, he was ready. Moving confidently in the quiet, dim room, he strapped Gúthwinë to his side, caressing the night-cool hilt, and stuffed his leather gloves under his belt. Soon, friend, soon we ride and put this mess behind us with only the grass and the sky to watch…

Éowyn moved on the bed, startling him, but she was asleep still. She pushed at the blankets, revealing a creased brow and anxious face. “…am…no.”

“But…” She took a breath, stirring again, her voice thick and upset. “…no.”

“It’s all right.” Éomer moved to her side, sitting himself on the edge of the bed. He whispered softly, “It’s all right…shh, go back to sleep” and smoothed his fingers over her brow, knuckles gently brushing her skin. Fretful, he wondered what nightmares plagued her so. She frowned again, turning her face away. He touched her cheek, sliding locks of flaxen her hair back.

The wrinkles in her forehead disappeared immediately and he smiled, pleased until she spoke. Éowyn asked the room, “Faramir?” It was clear and glad. A soft smile curved her lips and he jerked his hand back as though she’d burned him.

Composing himself, Éomer swallowed and stood, vaguely surprised at the depth of his sorrow. It was foolish—naturally she would think her lover comforted her. Any woman would. But it was just another bit of proof that she no longer needed him, even in her dreams. Feeling his eyes burn, he moved away from the bed, bending to pick up his bags. When he returned he would wake her, they had things to discuss. Éomer walked out of his rooms, a sadness he would not admit to filling his heart.

Faramir strode slowly into the dimmed halls, his clothes dusty, legs and boots still damp. He was tired and didn’t notice the man in front of him until he almost ran into him. Éomer just stared at him, his expression astonished, his eyes widened. Ah…so he had made good time after all. Pleased, he didn’t stop, just brushed past the King of Rohan, suppressing a smile at the way he could feel the man’s perplexity and disbelief. There were questions on his face, but Éomer did not call after him.

Finally pushing open his door, his whole body weary, he halted at once. Where are…? The floor was bare; all his scattered clothes disappeared, including his armor. On the table sat his bow, quiver and sword undisturbed, but as Faramir moved to his bedroom, he could find no trace of his bag. On the small dresser was his Rohirric uniform, also untouched, but nothing else. Dropping to one knee, he felt beneath the bed and almost fainted with relief—his drawing supplies, Éowyn’s half-nude sketch and her last presents were still there. They’d been pushed too far back, apparently, to be noticed. Dragging them out, he looked around the rooms. Nothing. All his clothes were gone. Why would…? Mystified, he sat the bag on the table. Faramir gave the rooms one last glance. He could stay and sleep a bit, but he was too confused now, he would have difficulties quieting his thoughts enough to slumber.

Perhaps that’s how they want me to feel—tired and confused, an easy target. He squared his shoulders and pushed aside his weariness. He would not make it easy upon them. Unbuttoning his shirt, he moved back to the bedroom, staring at the piled garments in determination. They’d not expected him back so soon; they would not expect him to be dressed and ready. Or so Faramir hoped.

Someone was poking her shoulder. Éowyn frowned and burrowed a little deeper into the blankets. “Sister.” Her brother’s voice was lucid; he’d been awake a long while, then. She tried to judge the time by the brightness that shone on her eyelids when she turned her face to the window. Hmm…early. No. He poked her again, finger inordinately pointed and going straight into the muscle of her arm. “Get up.” It hurt and annoyed and she curled tighter, refusing to acknowledge him. “Get. Up.”

Exasperated, she kicked in the direction of his voice, mumbling, “No.” She’d missed and lost the cover over her ankle. Damn him, I’m tired, I don’t have to go anywhere... Withdrawing her foot to the warm air beneath the blankets, she shivered. It was chilly. She wondered if it was going to be a bad winter. Look on the horses, see if they’re getting a lot of hair yet…her thoughts wandered, going deeper, seeking sleep again.

“Yes. Get up.” Éomer’s heavy footsteps let her know he was at the end of the bed. Suddenly there was tension in the quilts. He’d grabbed the ends. “Do it.”

Éowyn took two determined fistfuls of blanket, herself. “No.” He jerked powerfully and she was pulled up, too, screaming into the cold dawn air, skin shrinking and prickling into goose bumps at the same time. “Stop it! I’m awake!” Scooting back, she took the blankets with her, sitting upright and curling into a ball, glaring at him.

Éomer looked pleased with himself. Frowning, rubbing her face and shaking her messy hair back, she thought she saw strange shadows in his eyes, but they were gone when she looked again. He was dressed rather oddly, but, she supposed, not so for a King. I’m not used to that. “Good.”

Licking her lips, she asked, “Why?” He usually did no more than murmur a goodbye and ruffle her hair. This rude awakening was more of something her brother had practiced when they were children.

“You know that they are having harvest time early in the Westemnet? One of the bigger settlements about two days ride away? Lots of villages and families are gathering…I heard about it when I greeted the men who’d come to pay their respects to Uncle.”

“No.” She didn’t; it sounded interesting, but Éowyn still didn’t know what he was getting at.

Éomer looked half-nervous now. “I want you to go. Take Arwen—it will be my present to her.” He paused to give her an incredibly sweet, boyish smile. “Have a good time, on me. Anything you want, just tell them I’m responsible.”

Delighted, she braved the morning chill to jump off the bed to give him a hug. “Thank you.” Éowyn beamed up at him; she loved the giant harvest festivals; it had been years and years since she’d gone to one. And then under close supervision…it was well-known that some women went into the harvested fields at night, though Éowyn highly suspected the fields were more likely to be full of drunk, searching men. Éomer and Théodred had stayed on her like hawks. “What about you? Don’t you want to go?”

Her brother smiled that same tiny, happy smile. It was one she hadn’t seen in a long time. “Maybe I’ll meet you there.”

“In the mountains first to get salt, then…we might stop back here for a day or two, then probably to the edge of the Wold to check on things there.”

They would be gone well over a week. She folded her legs, scrunching back up in the blankets. “Oh.”

He fiddled with the gold brooch on his dark green cloak, yanking it as though it felt tight, “You hungry? Want to have breakfast with me?”

He’d pretended not to notice the many, reddish marks on her neck, but they’d thrown him for a second when Éowyn had sat up. Now Éomer waited and tried not to pace. She’d been happy with his idea, as he’d assumed, and it took care of his debt to Arwen as well. Perhaps the women would become close friends…give her someone else she knows and likes in Minas Tirith, a woman to share with. It irritated him some, to be constantly doing Faramir’s thinking for him, but the man knew nothing.

His sister did not take long, emerging from her bedroom in a pretty dark blue gown that had high, embroidered collar. Éomer approved—it hid the marks her lover had put on her, if being slightly too form-fitting for him to truly like. She was still braiding her hair as she moved, pausing to cover her mouth as she yawned. He felt slightly guilty for waking her, but really, it wasn’t that early. “Ready?”

Staring ahead as they entered the hall together, he muttered, “Yes. He’s back already.”

“What?” There was surprise and then pride in his sister’s eyes. The surprise gratified him, the pride discomfited him.

“No.” But Faramir had come uncomfortably close and Éomer wondered how the man had done it, being so unfamiliar with the land.

“I’m sure it was a stroke of luck, no more.” He could hear the light laugh beneath her words and growled bad-naturedly, making her laugh aloud. I’m sure it was, too.

Faramir wandered into the dining hall, his stomach rumbling through the omnipresent fatigue in his body. He looked about with weary eyes, seeing none but Rohirric soldiers at first. Abruptly, a familiar voice piped up, “Faramir!” It was Pippin. The hobbit waved him over to where he and Frodo sat. Sam and Merry were absent, getting breakfast or asleep still, he assumed.

“Good morning.” The Ringbearer’s eyes contained a bit of concern; Faramir supposed he looked somewhat ragged.

“We’re having pre-breakfast.” The young hour apparently did not affect Tooks, Pippin was cheery.

“Are you? I confess I’ve never had pre-breakfast.” He sat gratefully, trying not to feel the pulling weariness. I haven’t stayed up all night…well; it’s been months now, hasn’t it? Ever since the end of the war he’d been loafing about the City. Faramir smiled, he was mildly surprised he hadn’t gotten fat over the summer. No wonder his legs were so tired.

“You look funnier than Merry did.” Pippin had finally deigned to comment upon his Rohirric garb.

“Didn’t we discuss this when you were beginning your tweens? Rudeness and why it is inappropriate, especially to those older than us?”

Pippin rolled his eyes to the ceiling, looking put upon, and Faramir laughed, soothing, “He means no offense, I feel like I look funny.” He was sure he did; there had been murmurs and bursts of laughter when he’d entered the hall. Resisting all urges to adjust the foreign clothing, he tried to relax. At the sight of Frodo Faramir had remembered something he’d wished to say. But should I ask for a private moment? He was unsure.

The Took scrutinized him. “It’s your hair…and your eyes…and, nothing matches up.”

He was correct; Faramir did look off, and he’d noticed it right away. “The green, it is made to go with a flaxen mane.” Touching his own raven-colored locks, he smiled and shook them. “I cannot help it, I’m afraid.”

They fell quiet. Finally, anxious, he began. “Frodo…I apologize in advance if my words offend, but there is a favor I must ask...”

The Ringbearer gazed at him with curious, kindly eyes. Pippin’s were slightly bolder in their inquisitive sheen. “Go ahead.”

“My brother…” It was painful, this. “I can only plead for his pardon and wish you’d met him under other circumstances…he was a good man, trained from birth to use whatever means to save our people as he would a beautiful woman from a noose.” Faramir tried to put it in a way that might be clearer, “Our City, this woman, her time was short, the rope closing tight and he grew desperate.”

“I do not presume to speak of…that thing…” He laced his hands, setting them on the table in front of him. “I ask only that you, when you write your story that shall certainly be heard and read by many who know little to nothing about the good deeds of Boromir, valiant Captain of my City…that you write with an impartial heart. I can do nothing to repay his debt, save offer my services to you and your kin whenever you might call…but,” Faramir strove not to beg and failed, “please, do not portray him in an unfriendly light as you might be just in doing. He was my brother and his heart and thoughts were kind, if prideful and overbold in this unfortunate matter that came between you. In other times, I’m certain he would have honored his cause before all judges of manhood, be they foul or fair…”

“Frodo won’t do that.” Pippin, apparently, could be silent no longer; he sounded bewildered, full of faith in his cousin’s objectivity.

But the Ringbearer was quiet and Faramir finished haltingly, “I’m sorry if I offend, but I do not know your mind in this…and it grieves me to think he might be called a villain for one grave mistake. I do not belittle the mistake in any way, but…” He faltered.

“Faramir…” Frodo sighed, but was interrupted again and whatever shadows of what he might have said—Faramir watched them evaporate as the Took beside him spoke.

“Boromir saved Merry and my life. He saved us all on Caradhras. We would have frozen to death without him.” Pippin sounded proud. “I loved him as a friend; you do not have to worry, Faramir. My own debt will not allow me to let Frodo write bad things. I will hang over his shoulder night and day if I must.”

A small smile appeared on Frodo’s face, and then disappeared as he said seriously, “I don’t blame your brother…” He raised his hand, looking at the smooth, shiny stump of his finger. “In the end, it would have taken even the strongest and the most pure of heart…and I myself did not withstand the test.”

“I hold no hard feelings. There is nothing you owe me in his stead.” Frodo smiled wanly, “I shall write what I saw—a great warrior, noble and stanch, who did his best and failed, like myself.” His voice softened, saddened, “Like myself, in vain, he struggled. But the power was too strong…no, there is no blame for Boromir in my heart.”

Faramir bowed his head, feeling a heavy burden rise off of his shoulders. There was truth in the eldest hobbit’s words. “Thank you, dearly.” He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

“You’re welcome.” The Ringbearer smiled at him, a more natural expression, “Will you stay, then, Faramir, now that you’ve spoken?”

But, at that moment, a voice shouted his name, “Faramir!” He turned, curious. It was Gaer, gesturing impatiently. Was it time to leave already? “I’m sorry, it appears I cannot.”

Through the crowd, Merry and Sam had appeared. Pippin leaped up at once to help them with the trays of food.

“Farewell, Frodo Baggins, and if I do not see you again, I wish you all the wellness in the world.” Rising and bowing low to the hobbit that sat before him, he strode away.

Gaer was reseated by the time Faramir had pushed his way to his side; none of the crowd gave way before him, forcing him to elbow himself a path. He was at the end of a long table; another man sat opposite of him, eating. “Good morning, we didn’t expect to see you for hours.” A wide grin greeted him.

“No?” It seemed that they were not leaving. Faramir seated himself next to Gaer.

“Nope, good thing I didn’t bet upon it.” Nodding across the table, he introduced the other Rohirrim, a typically burly, fair-haired man with the distinguishing feature of a very crooked nose. Broken and badly healed in some fight, Faramir guessed. “This is Nier.”

The Rohirrim eyed him speculatively, and then spoke around a mouthful of food, “This is him? This is the man? He’s not what I would have imagined.”

They were discussing him, right in front of him. Faramir wondered if this was a bad sign. At least their voices were not hostile. Nier continued, shaking his head, “Just when you think you know our Lady’s likes, she surprises you.”

“Aye.” There was a sappy grin on Gaer’s face. “She’s wonderful like that…which is why I can’t even look at you.” The last was finally directed to Faramir who had no idea how to reply.

Nier glanced at him, deadpanning, “I loathed you, Faramir; sight unseen, all summer I hoped you would die.”

“None…he’s left it at Mundburg…now we’re going to have to muster and get it.” The two Rohirrim laughed. Faramir tried to understand as Gaer smiled.

The other man grimaced, “We’re going to have to do something, because I can’t take this. He’s like a man made of ice.”

Gaer sounded certain, slapping Faramir on the shoulder and giving him a grin. “He’ll warm up, don’t worry, he was fairly normal the other day.”

“I think it’s more of a winter dress…” Gaer glanced at him as Faramir turned, too. Like he’d suspected, Éowyn had entered. Éomer moved at her side, looking strangely royal and dignified. Not words I would associate with him…more like irrational and tempermental… “Lady Éowyn has a most beautiful dress, perfect upon her in every way…” Gaer grinned lecherously, “Every way, though I’m sure you know more about that than we...”

They argued while Faramir watched her. She looked happier today, her eyes alight as she spoke to her brother. “That’s because it’s a winter dress.”

“Well, I can’t tell you why she hasn’t worn it; I don’t have access to her closet…” Gaer grinned, giving him a sideways glance, “But you do.”

Puzzled, not really listening, Faramir asked, “What?” Éowyn’s eyes roamed the crowd; he wondered if she was looking for him. Gaer’s voice broke through his hopeful musings.

“Listen, it will put his mind at ease.” He rolled his eyes, “The fool, you’d think it was his dress. Just look for it, it’s a really finely woven cloth in a deep cherry color with gold thread and …”

The red-headed Rohirrim’s grin widened, “And I’ll bet you won’t tell us anything, either, will you?”

After half a moment he comprehended—they wished to know about his and Éowyn’s more passionate doings. Not that there is much to tell… Nonetheless, Faramir was outraged, “No, I will certainly not.”

“At least he is loyal, unlike some.” He finished archly, “And at least, I assume, he has all his toes.”

The Rohirrim both fell silent and Faramir returned to taking in Éowyn from afar. The cobalt-colored dress she wore at the moment was rather appealing, clinging to her curves, yet covering her fully, leaving him guessing at the smooth skin below. Or rather remembering, since he’d been fortunate enough to see her in all her glorious nakedness. Just the memory made him hunger for her.

She’d seated herself opposite the hobbits; Éomer had too, of course. Pippin’s arm pointed, short finger just raised above the crowd—he must be standing on the bench, he thought in amusement. She was looking for him. But Éowyn did not rise.

“Of course he’s deaf. It’s from the delicate tones of our Lady’s voice, constantly whispered into his ear…to him we sound like the idiot grunting of pigs.”

“I hate pigs. Don’t talk about pigs.” Nier groaned, “Don’t make me hate him; I’m trying to like him. You said I would like him.”

Finally exasperated, Faramir turned, “What?” He’d thought he’d just seen her rise from the table.

Gaer put his hand to his chest, mouth agape, “You wound me.” And there she was, the crowd parting before her like grass did the wind. Éowyn wandered in his direction and Faramir listened to the two men’s bickering with half an ear. Ah, she is so beautiful… “Quiet, quiet!” As she came to a stop before them, Gaer gave him a wide, mischievous grin. “My Lady, please!” He threw one arm up to shield his eyes.

“I beg you, come no closer!” Éowyn smiled a little, mainly at Faramir’s expression of deep annoyance as the soldier beside him spoke.

“Your magnificence, it is a light too great …tell me, friend Faramir, does the sun shine today? Our Lady has outdone it both in brilliance and warmth; surely the flowers turn to her alone.” The red-haired man peeked over his arm, “If she has any mercy she would wear a veil, for she blinds us. Oh, it is a lucky thing Faramir takes you, my Lady, otherwise your land would be defenseless—we, your loyal, lowly servants, too dazzled by your radiance to see to protect it.”

Faramir was gazing at her, hopeful; they’d not parted on the best of terms the night before. “Sit with us?” He patted the bench beside him. She wanted to ask him when he’d made friends, and why he’d chosen such silly men.

“All right.” Éowyn gathered her skirts and sat. Turning sideways, she didn’t speak, just looked him up and down. Faramir looked unspeakably strange clothed in the dress of her people. The clothes fit, but they simply appeared to belong to someone else entirely. Green cloak clasped snugly at his throat, the darker green and brown leather surcoat with ivory horse galloping in the center over his torso, with the scale mail beneath it hanging to his upper thighs and split to accommodate his needs as a Rider, the dark trousers and worn boots…all looked strange. The two men he sat with were garbed similarly, slight differences, perhaps, but their clothes fit them in a way they did not her love. She could not express it.

“Did you sleep well?” There was a light smile on his face; his eyes were reddened from weariness and yet they shone at her, begging for her to smile back.

“What do you think?” He passed a hand down his chest, stroking the slightly raised horse. Was it her imagination or did Faramir sound vulnerable?

Éowyn licked her lips, nervous. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “I don’t know yet.”

The red-haired soldier spoke boldly, “He looks like a proper man, today, none of that tree nonsense.” The other man chuckled.

“No wonder your enemies are unafraid…who fears a tree?” Éowyn smiled, unable to help herself—she’d thought much the same thing at first. “What can it do? Fall upon you?”

“It is not nonsense.” Faramir spoke through gritted teeth and the red-haired man raised his hands, palms up.

“Aye, aye…” He shook his head, looking vaguely familiar, “Humorless, hmm, my Lady?”

“No.” She smiled again, her words soothing, directed at her beloved, “It is important to them in Mundburg.”

“Ah, her gentle speech will civilize us better than friend Faramir’s angered face.”

The two Rohirrim grinned at her. Éowyn laughed, unsure, not knowing their names. They seemed friendly enough, if a bit forward in their jests. Looking uncomfortable, Faramir stared at the tabletop and she wanted to lead him away. Fixing her eyes on the man across the table, she asked, “Tell me, when will you ride today?”

Faramir raised his head, expression curious. The red-haired man grinned at him, “We’ve lumped you in with the lads, Faramir…I hope you don’t mind.”

The fair-haired man sighed, “He’s hopeless; turn this one back out to the fields, my Lady.”

A cautious frown passed over Faramir’s face; he seemed unsure if he was being mocked or not and had no reply. She’d had enough. “I’m afraid I must take him for a moment.” Éowyn stood, straightening her skirts, and they inclined their heads as one.

The red-haired soldier spoke again, “I doubt he will miss us, when invited to enjoy your fine company, my Lady.”

Faramir smiled, rising, too. “I do not doubt, Gaer. Not even for an instant.”

So that is he…she remembered now and smiled, “Did you receive the rabbits?”

He smiled back, a jaunty thing, teeth gleaming. His tone was almost rakish in its brazen quality, making her fight a burst of laughter. He’d spoken the same way before. “Yes… they were most delicious, though undoubtedly if you’d presented them I’d have enjoyed them even more.”

“Then I’m not sure you’d still be alive to thank me.” Éowyn jested back and Gaer laughed at her, teasing lightly,

“A death at your hands, with your beautiful face my last sight, would have been a death worth dying my Lady.”

Faramir looked back and forth as they spoke, his gaze wary, jealous even. That was silly though, what reason did he have to be jealous that she trades smiles and words with another man? I love you; do not act like my brother. Éowyn paid him little attention, saying, “I’m glad you liked them anyhow.” She nodded in farewell to the two men and led him away.

Faramir followed closely, his eyes on her, searching. “What was that about?”

“Yes.” Éowyn glanced at him, noting his frown. “He was nice; what’s wrong with that?”

Faramir gave a small grunt of comprehension, and then asked, “Where are we going?”

All her light-heartedness vanished. Éowyn swallowed, shaking her head. “No.”

He looked at her, admiring the gown’s fit and yet noting the high, embroidered collar. There was a tiny reddish mark above it, just under her jaw, one of many he’d almost certainly left upon her fair skin. She hides my ownership… Faramir bore her brand proudly, even adjusting the clasp on his cloak to reveal it. His eyes on her neck, he wondered. Does she not wish all to know I am privledged enough to put my mouth there? That I am her lover…oh, but not much of one, really, truly. His thoughts turned embittered and the curious pride he’d felt at seeing the shameless stamp of his status as her paramour curdled into something closer to angry remorse—it was an unwanted brand. She does not wish to be completely mine.

Abruptly another part of him spoke, that is unfair. You know what she went through…

There is no reason for her to be so…he is the guilty one and if I ever hear of his presence within the range of my power …

Faramir stared at his boots as they moved in a slow rhythm, matching her shorter legs. What happened to patience?

Perhaps it was only a lie when you lobbied for her maidenhead…she is afraid, what’s wrong with that?

It’s been months, what has she to fear still? I gave her my reasons…they were not base or lustful…I do not care for the lovemaking so much, it is the way she acted when I asked…

Frustrated, he spoke aloud, ending his inner argument. “Where are we going?” They were outside now, standing along the wall of Meduseld, but not in front of the stairs, she’d led him around the side. Both were completely exposed against the bare wall, and yet their place was still private, sitting as it was so high off the earth. Are we hiding? Faramir did not know. The view was still pretty, though the sun had risen enough to illuminate the sky into its usual azure and the grassy fields the plain greens and ambers of late summer. Under the partial shade of the building, she turned back to face him.

“Here.” Éowyn halted, looking up; her eyes very blue, reflecting the sky. Their hair blew in the wind, or rather his did, as hers was done in a sensible, heavy braid; the gust caught his cloak and made it catch at his throat. Faramir grimaced and stuck his fingers between his neck and the tight clasp, yanking futilely. She frowned, “What?”

“It’s…uncomfortable.” Summoning a smile, he added, “I’m not used to it yet.”

She stepped close, running her light hand along his collar. He looked down at her as she laughed, “Of course it’s uncomfortable, you’ve twisted it here…see?”

Faramir tucked his chin inward, but naturally couldn’t see it. “Fix it for me?”

“Hold still.” Éowyn wore an amused smile as she unfastened the sturdy, simple pin. A crease appeared on her brow and then another, then she laughed up at him in exasperation. “Oh, did you do this in the dark?” Stepping back, she looked him up and down.

“No.” Refusing to fidget at the indignity of having his clothes checked over like he was a child, he stared at her. He could feel her warmth, skirts touching his front, breasts brushing his chest as she leaned up and against him again. Her teeth indented her lower lip as she concentrated; he inhaled and smelled her good warm smell. Wanting to bury his face in her neck, he held still instead.

It took her a moment before she was finished, and Éowyn smoothed her fingers over the clasp. “There. Better?”

Faramir cocked his jaw, tilting it, moving his head from side to side. It was far better. “Yes.” He gave her a smile, “Thank you.” Éowyn hadn’t stepped away. There was another line on her brow and he felt her fingertips touch his neck, exactly where she’d marked him. Yes, see? I’m yours…and I’m comfortable with that…why aren’t you? It puzzled him terribly—instead of continuing her steady improvement in trust and opening up to him, Éowyn was backsliding, growing more nervous and more edgy. What is wrong?

She smiled up as nervously as though she was sensing the annoyed and pleading tone of his thoughts. Faramir eyed her and since she was so close and he could tell she was about to move away, he leaned forward and down to kiss her mouth; one hand lifting to touch her chin. He’d watched it too long to resist.

Immediately battling with his disgruntlement and confusion, he asked, probably sharper than he should have, “What?”

Her eyes widened, then flicked away as she affected innocence, “Nothing…you surprised me is all.”

Down by his side again, his hands snapped together in fists of pure frustration. Faramir loosened them only with a powerful concentration of his will. “Don’t lie to me.”

He ground his teeth, “All right, you’re not but you’re also not telling me the entire truth. I can tell, remember? Why…?”

Éowyn’s eyes narrowed and then, to his astonishment, she stood on her tiptoes, placed one hand quick on each side of his face, tilting him further downward and gave him a rough kiss. Their lips mashed and he felt her fingers tightening on his jaw before she released him just as suddenly. Dropping back, she stared up in open defiance, “Are you happy?”

Her tone was just as rebellious and angered, “Then what do…?” Éowyn took a step away; her eyes glanced backward; she was planning her escape.

Losing his patience entirely, this time he cut her off, stepping forward and pressing her to the wall, one hand firmly grasping her wrist and folding it across her body, leaving her with little leverage to push against him. The other Faramir set securely under her chin, cupping it to turn her face up. Locking their gazes, he poured his frustration and irritation into her mind by his thought, you’re not getting away from me this time…I want to know, I have a right to know.

Éowyn’s eyes had gone wide, uncertainty swimming in their blue water depths. He froze there, asking, “Why do you fear me? Why?” It was in a whisper; he was well aware of the contrasts between his rough actions and his nearly inaudible words. Body tense, he was alert, waiting to release her at the slightest sign of panic.

Éowyn didn’t panic. She took a deep breath and relaxed, slumping against the wall and whispering back, “I don’t know.” Her next sentence held misery. “I don’t want to…it’s just...”

She shook her head. He softened his grips, fingers and thumbs caressing her cheek, the inside of her wrist. “This was all I wanted…” Bending, he touched his lips to hers, finding them yielding and trembly. Faramir kissed her very, very gently, asking her to part them. When she did, he touched his tongue to hers, a fleeting, warm, wet contact. The kiss lingered for another moment, not deepening, but hanging on and she allowed it. Desire accomplished, he withdrew entirely, releasing her wrist and chin and stepping back two steps. “No more.” Why did you make it hard? Why did you give me that cold mockery of a lover’s kiss?

He sent it to her, asking in as true a voice of imploration as he’d ever known. Éowyn just folded her arms across herself and looked away over the plain.

Faramir pleaded with weary frustration, “Let me listen…speak it in your tongue…even one understood word in ten would be better to my mind.” She didn’t answer and he nearly groaned, “What, then? What could I possibly do to show you I am harmless and fully worth your trust?” What that I haven’t done or shown already?

Her eyes searched the fields, restless; abruptly they turned to him. Éowyn smiled tinily, her mood lightening. “You haven’t shown me something.”

“You show, I talk.” She crossed her arms in determination. “We’ll both feel ridiculous.”

It was his turn to look over the wide fields and delay answering. “All right.” If this was how she would crack her silence, he was willing. “Let’s go, then.” Faramir glanced at her, amused and wondering if she would understand, “You know I won’t be at my best, don’t you?”

She did; an unruly smile fought for possession of her lips. “I’m sure there will be something to see nonetheless.” Éowyn laughed aloud and they walked back into Meduseld.

He sighed. She was laughing at him already and he hadn’t so much as shed a single stitch of his peculiar Rohirric garb. Oh, wonderful …

Éowyn took him all the way to her rooms; she knew they would be undisturbed. Faramir had followed her and now stood in the middle of her bedroom, looking rather uncomfortable. She closed the door and leaned back against it, feeling curious. He just shifted his feet. Raising an eyebrow, she asked, “What are you waiting for?”

“All right.” He lifted his hands to undo the clasp to his cloak and then stopped. Faramir’s voice was solemn. He was teasing her. “There are rules to this.”

“No laughing, no pointing…” Éowyn laughed and a petulant expression came over his face. “See, we can’t do this, you broke the first one already.”

“I’m sorry.” She moved to the bed, sitting on the side rather than the end and crossed her legs, propping one hand up to cover her mouth. Through her fingers she ordered, “Go on.”

Faramir unfastened his cloak and then stopped again. “Do I get a question with each thing?”

Éowyn felt a smile floating up and suppressed it. He was adorable; why did she fear so? “All right.”

He tossed the pine-green cloak onto the end of her bed. His voice was straightforward, “Why won’t you let me make love to you?”

She blinked, startled. That is a bottom layer question …you work up to that! Éowyn took a breath, trying to frame an answer that would be rational and not some mumbled mishmash of words. Faramir waited patiently, still clothed in many garments, and she began to think that perhaps he’d gotten the better end of this bargain. A grin spread across his face. “Me, too, my beloved, but it was your idea.”

Staring at the floor, she felt her guts twist with anxiety. “Ic…” The grin disappeared as he realized she was taking him up on his earlier offer and phrasing her answer in her language. Faramir looked alarmed. “Ic eom ondræde.”

“Ondræde…ondrædan…” His fumbling accent made her smile through her intense discomfort. Squinting up at the ceiling, he finally said, “Afraid?” He sounded hesitant. She nodded weakly and his tone became more exasperated than anything. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Too late. Faramir’s face was saddened, making her feel ashamed. He unfastened the sides of his leather surcoat and took it off, tossing it to the bed as well. Éowyn stared at the white horse, seen upside down from her point of view, and waited nervously. “Why do you withdraw every time I try to get closer to you…body and mind? Why do you listen when I talk, but don’t want to talk to me? Why are you afraid?”

Stalling, she whispered, “That’s three questions.” He dropped to one knee, unlaced his boots and kicked them off without comment. Éowyn cursed inwardly. “Ic nat.”

“Ic lufie ge…ge eart ungelic þe…Ic cann treow ge…ac ná þaet lungre. Ge scealt aætst me whil.”

Faramir stared at her, his brow furrowed, for several minutes. His mouth moved as he spoke phrases to himself. Suddenly he looked away, out the window, and a slight smile came over his face; unlacing the strings that held his mail on, he took it off and laid it on the bed, the metal scales scraping softly against each other. She watched, puzzled. Did he have no remarks on her words? Stepping back, he sighed, “What did you just say?”

Éowyn burst out laughing, her nervousness momentarily broken by his question. Taking pity she translated, “I said, I love you, you are unlike him…” The him was understood; Faramir nodded. “I can trust you…but not so soon.” She looked away, “You must give me time.”

That is all I have. Growing frustrated, she said, “I’m not a problem to be solved, a battle to be won…you can’t just do something and make it all better, I need time…years, years, he…” Falling silent, she looked back down.

Faramir sighed deeply and unbuttoned his dark wool doublet, fingers slow. When he spoke his voice was very soft, very gentle. “What did Gríma do?”

Not much at all, really. She had no ruthless tales of rape or brutality, no scars but ones in her mind. He’d stalked her and bragged in soft, slimy whispers on how she would be his; he’d spoken on how he would have Éomer killed if she told; how her pride in her land was foolish, because even the poorest sighted could see they were led by a dumb old man; he’d touched her whenever he could—a hand on her arm disguised as aid or a gesture to gain her attention. Gríma had been relentless, but had never truly hurt her, drawn he’d said, by her beauty.

Éowyn folded into herself, shivering a little; Faramir took a step closer, obviously wishing to hug her, to provide comfort. He’d done that enough. Perhaps too much…she could not rely upon the refuge within his gentle arms for the rest of her life. Deep inside, the remnants of her icy, steel core awoke and Éowyn lifted her head, sitting with her back straight. “He said he would kill Éomer if I told anyone he followed me.” There was clear relief on Faramir’s face that she chose to speak in the Common Tongue. “He said that I would be his and that his men would hold me down if I did not cooperate, that I could not escape my fate. He said that I would be Queen and him, my husband, King. He said it was my fault, that I was too beautiful…” She laughed harshly, “as if it were a compliment…surely I must be ugly indeed to attract such a worm.”

Faramir gave a tiny shake of his head. He was gazing at her; open anguish was in his eyes.

“He shadowed me and the men that served him did, too. Most followed him out of loyalty to the crown…they could not, did not think of rebellion until late; they saw little treachery because he did not let them see it. He was careful not to appear too forward; he touched me, my hands,” She held them up, looking. “My arms, anytime he could. He captured me in the hallway once, pressed me to the wall, put his hand on my breast, telling me how the orcs would torture Éomer...”

Éowyn lifted her eyes to his, “He never raped me, never hurt me. When Théodred died I realized it could happen—I could be his.” She sighed, folding her hands in her lap, “Éomer rode out and killed the orcs that had captured Merry and Pippin…he wasn’t supposed to be out there so Gríma had him imprisoned for disobedience even though what he did was right and good for our lands, our people. I was alone and the men loyal to my brother were outcasts, called rebels. Théodred…he challenged Gríma in the end, that was why he had him killed…not just to get him out of the way.” She remembered her rage, “That worm, filth, called him greedy for the throne. Said he wanted his father to die when he protested Gríma being Théoden’s sole healer and that he was bloodthirsty and uncaring of his people’s lives when he questioned his decisions.

“When Éomer was imprisoned and Théoden just allowed it, would not hear reason…I was so scared that my brother was next, that he wouldn’t leave that cell unless they drug him out, limp and dead—he could be poisoned or they could say he was trying to escape…” She swallowed hard, “If they put a sword in his hand, if they challenged him and made him fight to defend himself…he would kill one and they would kill him and there would be no blame. There would be nothing to stop it…I couldn’t stop it.” Éowyn fell silent and finally said, “Except that I began to think that maybe I could.”

“I was going to murder Théoden in the swiftest, most painless way possible and set my brother free.” She smiled, “And then slay myself so he would not have to sentence me—it would have killed him to sentence me to death. Éomer would have been King and slain or banished Gríma immediately.” With a laugh she finished, “It is a good thing Aragorn came, is it not? Do you see why I thought I loved him? He saved me from treachery, from having my kin and king’s blood on my hands.”

“My love…my poor darling…” It was a terribly saddened whisper and Faramir came to her. He sat close, strong, good arms embracing her, chin on the top of her head. Éowyn leaned against his shoulder, feeling tears burn her eyes. His body felt warm and solid, a stout foundation to hold and support her. She took slow breaths, trying to ease the twisting tension in her middle. Éowyn had never wanted him to hear that, he was supposed to be new, to be part of a life clean of such foul things. She felt dirty just speaking of Gríma and shuddered.

They stayed like that for several minutes, hugging tight, before Faramir leaned back, his eyes and voice very serious. “Do you want to go on?”

“Yes.” She might as well. Taking a deep breath, she embraced him again and held his face between her hands. Faramir met her kiss, very soft and brief, no more than a comforting touch of lips. Éowyn pulled him down, pressing her forehead to his. He touched her mind, reassuring, loving and fiercely devoted. She sighed, blinking away tears before releasing him.

He stood; looking so concerned it made her chest tighten. “You’re sure I won’t upset you?”
“No, but I want you to go on. I…” She looked down, ashamed, and then held his eyes. “You’ve been very patient…I’ve been awful to keep so silent.”

The smallest of smiles passed over his lips; it was an expression of admiration. “It’s all right, I’ll live.” Faramir took off his socks. He was running out of clothes—only his shirt and breeches remained. “Do you want to be close to me like I asked you last night, closer than this…?” Running his hand down the front of his shirt, he continued, “Covered skin? Is it the habit of fear alone that holds you back?”

“Yes.” Éowyn swallowed. I think so. “I want…I want to be close to you, to let you…I know you will be good to me…but it’s too much.” She hesitated, then blurted, “I’m scared, Faramir, scared of…” Falling silent, she looked away.

She didn’t make him take off something else. “Being your wife, having your children…what if I’m not good enough to be the Lady of Ithilien…the only man who wanted me was…that thing, that worm…”

“No, no.” Faramir laughed suddenly and loudly, making her raise her head. “The men I sat with today would gladly push me out of the way, my love…I think even Merry, were he a bit taller, would be my eager rival.”

“You’ll be fine…I don’t know how to be a husband or a father and I haven’t had much practice yet at being Steward, much less Lord of Ithilien.” There was a shadow in his eyes, but he finished, “I’m lost, just like you. We can help each other if you trust me to be good to you.”

Faramir seemed to debate with himself and then he gave her a warm smile and stripped off his shirt. His movements were slower, more deliberate as he lifted it over his head, tossing it aside. “Tell me, now, do you find me attractive as I find you? You’ve never truly said.”

Startled, Éowyn blinked, and then she relaxed for what felt like the first time since she’d seen him this morning. This was a surprisingly easy question. Leaning back on the bed, propped on her palms, she deliberately waited, gazing at his bared skin. It was a light gold that went well with the dark hair that covered his upper chest and lower arms. He really was quite hairy, very mannish. She let her gaze wander, conscious of his eyes and slow, almost suggestive smile.

He was broad through the shoulders, tapering down to a narrower waist. His chest was well defined, the muscles clean cut; not bulging like the men she and Arwen had seen wrestling in the tavern, but neat; powerful, but not overpowering. The outlines of his ribs were just barely visible; he was still thin. There was one scar, the twisted, indented thing where the arrow had struck him but otherwise Faramir’s body was surprisingly clean of any traces of wounds. He must be lucky in battle…

Éowyn let her eyes drop a little, trying not to flush. She’d never stared at a man for so long, nor examined one like this. He was just looking back at her, lips curled in a smile that was definitely growing more sensual as she took her time. His trousers hung loose and low, the leather belt undone, exposing the lines of his pelvis and the slight trail of dark hair…the end of which she would soon see. Biting her lip, she said softly and mischieviously.

Faramir’s smile widened, becoming somehow playful and somehow even hotter; a leisurely passion in his eyes. “You want to see, then, some of what you’re getting?”

Éowyn remembered a saying of her people and laughed, “Gea, hit is gleaw tó canst æror ge bycgan.” His brow furrowed and she smiled, refusing to translate. If he could not understand that, perhaps Gaer’s friend was right—Faramir was hopeless, at least as a Rohirric soldier.

He turned in a slow circle for her, raising his arms to show her the play of his muscles over his entire upper body. Chuckling, Faramir even flexed a few times, which made her laugh in pure delight as he growled roughly and bent his arms up and then down in front of himself. His muscles stood out, strong and distinct. She looked down, trying to compose herself and the second she looked back up he leaned low and flexed hard, erupting with a deep, muted roar that made her burst back into laughter, closing her eyes.

“Wh—” Faramir turned sideways, put his hands on his sides and made his stomach roll. It went up and down in perfect waves and Éowyn laughed until her own stomach hurt, both disgusted and delighted.

“Eww…that’s…stop that!” Finally her mirth trickled to a few isolated giggles and he grinned as she gasped for air.

Apparently satisfied, he turned around in a circle again. His back was a long expanse of smooth skin, the line of his spine bracketed on both sides with muscle, his long, dark hair hanging like a stallion’s thick mane. She felt the urge to tangle her hands in it and wondered if he would carry her on his back. The thought of gripping his bare skin with her legs was oddly exciting. He ran a hand up and down his chest, caressing himself while leering at her and Éowyn clamped her hand to her mouth to keep from giggling helplessly. This was fun, an unexpected fun and a strange, sad thought came why doesn’t he do this more before she laughed again. With one last flex, the muscles in his chest and arms standing out, Faramir faced her. He just stared with heated eyes, his lips in a wide smile, until she composed herself enough to say, “Yes, yes.”

“Good.” His fingers were on the front of his trousers. “Now, remember the rules…”

Totally thrown off guard, miles off guard, she could only ask, “What?” Foreign-knife-buckler…? Éowyn frowned, “What kind of name is that? It doesn’t make any sense.”

He snorted at her in amusement. “Not everyone is going to translate it to Rohirric my dear, dear beloved. It means something like ‘enduring star’ in elvish.”

Still bewildered and a little unnerved now, she said. “I suppose that’s fine.”

She forgot her tension and scooted back on the bed, clamping her jaw so she wouldn’t laugh. “Yes.”

However, he didn’t strip. Instead, he asked, “Have you ever seen a naked man before?”

Is he delaying? Éowyn found that deliciously amusing. She’d been quicker. Maybe it…looks funny. Maybe…it’s crooked. She’d seen one like that before and asked her brother about it—Éomer had all but died of embarrassment trying to explain to his fourteen-year old sister that there could be differences in manhoods. Éowyn bit the inside of her cheek hard to keep a straight face as she answered. “’Course I have. I’ve seen Éomer and Théodred and others.”

“Men in summer, at the river.” I bet it’s crooked…oh, I bet. She dug her fingers into her palms, struggling to remain sober. What would I do with it? How would it fit?

“Well…” Faramir lowered his trousers and stepped out of them and, immediately, even though her hands sprang up to cover her mouth, she began to giggle wildly.

He’d known it. Trying to be simultaneously nude and stern, he asked, “What did I say?”

Éowyn flopped back on the bed, shaking with her laughter. After a moment she sat up on her elbows, staring right at him, or rather, right at his groin. Her eyes were alight with mischief as they moved slowly up to meet his. He shifted on his feet, terribly uncomfortable at the confident womanishness of her gaze, so different from how she normally looked at him. “Oh, Faramir…”

“You took so long, I was worried.” She was red-faced, snickering. “It doesn’t look funny at all. It’s not all bent or at least as far as I can tell it’s not.”

Bent? What? He glanced down at himself and then back up. “Then why are you laughing?” Faramir frowned at her, scolding, “I didn’t laugh at you.”

Éowyn smiled and met his gaze before eyeing his groin again. “Can I touch it?”

She was smiling; there was a teasing note to her voice, a vast improvement over the tense way she’d spoken a few minutes ago. “What was it you said…oh, that if I didn’t like it I could step back?” Éowyn snickered. The improvement was almost worth her laughter. Almost, he thought.

Frank, he said, “If you got ahold of me there is no way I ever would step back.”

“So, come here for a moment…” Éowyn sat up further, “Or do you want me to come over there?”

“NO, you’re not going anywhere. I didn’t get to touch, you don’t get to touch.”

“But I want to touch it…” She lifted her hand, rubbing her fingers against each other. Faramir felt a jolt of excitement in his belly. “Please? I want to see what it feels like...I want to feel it grow and see how big it can get.”

He shook his head, trying to disregard her words and the memory that went with them of the other night when she’d actually done those things…her soft, cool hands warming against his skin and the way they’d seemed made to fit around him... Stop it…stop! It didn’t work. Oh, damn… “No.”

Éowyn’s sudden smile let him know she’d noticed. “I think you want me to touch it, you’re just shy…or at least most of you is shy. Come on, I want to see.”

“No.” He stared at her, “It’s not some…sort of plaything.” Unnerved, Faramir bent to pick up his trousers and suddenly she was off the bed and right beside him. He froze, straightening with his pants gripped in one tense hand.

She licked her lips in a way he hoped was merely unconscious. “Please? For just a moment? I let you touch my…playthings.”

“What?” Éowyn smiled and he felt a thrill go through his body as she cupped one breast, her fingers caressing it in a lazy motion. He suddenly found it difficult to look away, completely aroused. Unbelievably, she didn’t seem to detract anything from her own touch. His pulse was throbbing in his throat, choking him as he gasped, “No.” What Faramir wanted more than anything was to tell her to do it again, to watch her fingers slide across the dark blue fabric that covered her bosom, squeezing the tender, sensitive flesh. Suddenly the lyrics of Éomer’s song were making far more sense and he wondered just what exactly she knew about that song. Though I think the knowledge would kill me… He shifted, slightly embarrassed; it appeared she wouldn’t have to touch him after all, he was doing it on his own quite well.

“Please…?” Teasing, Éowyn put her hand on his chest, sliding her fingertips down to rest, to indent in light little points against his stomach. Faramir swallowed hard, flailing inside as he tried to keep control. She was eyeing him and was it his imagination or was she breathing faster? Slightly flushed? Her fingers moved, tracing up and then down just a little on his abdomen. He fought his arousal and lost; Éowyn was too near. I could let her…

No. If she started something he was fairly certain he would be unable to gather enough will power to make her stop and…I don’t want to…she scares too easily, still. What she wanted to do would be more likely to just torment him further, anyhow. With an effort he forced the negative out. “No. Don’t.”

“Why not?” She glanced downwards, “You want me to, I can tell. Look, you’re practically begging…”

“Because,” He groaned in frustration; her nearness and the way she was looking down at him, a frighteningly speculative gleam in her eyes, was not helping his attempts to calm himself. “I’m not a gelding to play with…I’m a man and you’re torturing me.”

“Why can’t we play?” Éowyn’s voice was smaller, her gaze almost pleading as it finally lifted to meet his. After a belated moment, he understood or thought he did. Playing at intimacy would be less frightening with no stakes involved and…does she want to be close to me just as much as I do to her except that she cannot express it? Dares not in case I might take it too far? Does she not trust me to stop whenever she commands? The sight of her naked body had filled him with the urgent desire to make love to her; the sight of his seemed to only inspire curiosity and amusement. Faramir was almost hurt. He’d seen no ardor in her eyes or heard it in her voice. She’d said she found him attractive and yet… Not in the same way? How, then? He stared down, nervous, and answered honestly.

She bit her lip, looking away but not before he saw perplexity and disappointment in her face. “When…remember? In the City, your room, with your questions…and then by the river, with the flowers?”

“That’s not what I meant…” Wasn’t it? Faramir was confused again. What was wrong if she just wanted to play with him for a while, why was he unsatisfied with anything less than the intimate territory he’d already covered with her? Why am I pushing her? Unease stirred in his heart and Faramir wondered suddenly if she would be half as nervous and tense if he would simply lie quiet and let her play with him. The garden…he remembered when he’d closed his eyes. It had been torment but she’d laughed and been confident. Perhaps…

He was silent and she spoke, filling the hush. “Oh. All right.” Taking a deep breath she added, “We’d better get back, anyway…or my brother will leave without you.”

They’d not been gone that long, but he sensed the wisdom in her words. Nodding, Faramir put his trousers back on, and then he looked at her, still desiring and wondering. “What would you like me to do?”

He stepped forward, almost against her body, teasing and hoping for a smile. “To compensate for not getting to touch me.”

She understood and smiled, to his relief. “Kiss me.” Complying, he bent, wrapping one arm around her waist. Éowyn’s hands slid up his chest, fingers firm and then linking together as she put her arms around his neck. One kiss turned to many; he was pleased to find he’d aroused her some, as her mouth was very eager and her hands roamed his skin. She wasn’t tense now; but he was only kissing her and not touching anywhere but her waist—he was letting her do the touching. Perhaps…maybe a brief time apart will be good…

Faramir dressed slowly with Éowyn handing him articles of clothing; they traded kisses, soft breaths, touching each others’ faces in small caresses. She buttoned the doublet and laced the mail, sparing his scabbed, rough hands. “Thank you.”

She smiled, kissing him in reply. He loved this, loved feeling close to her; she was entirely confident. She’d progressed to this level of intimacy and for now Faramir was fully content with that, or at least that’s what he told himself, very firmly. Stop pushing. That’s what’s wrong…it’s you.

He used his index finger to tug down the collar of her gown and planted a soft, closed-mouth kiss there. She shivered and clasped her hand to the back of his neck. Mumuring in her ear, he asked again, “Will you miss me?”

This time she gave him no little jest. Her eyes were very, very blue, pupils large. “Yes.”

Faramir thought of, or rather tried to imagine, the ordeal he was almost certain to endure and couldn’t. Would he be mocked and tormented? Would Éomer allow it? I think he would enjoy it… Looking down at the love in her eyes, he answered, “Terribly.”

He was clothed again and she clasped his cloak for him. “Will you try to stay out of trouble?”

Éowyn was serious now. “You know what I mean.” He did. She asked about her brother. Who is she concerned about? Him or me? Feeling bad, he thought, both of us, no doubt.

“Thank you.” One last press of lips and she took a step away. “Let’s go.”

Éomer was going to smash his fist into the wall—true, it would hurt, but it would make him feel much better. “What did you say?”

The messenger looked slightly ill at ease, shifting on his feet. They stood at the doors of Meduseld; the wards avoided looking at him, sensing his fury. “Elfhelm wishes to speak to you. He will be here by tomorrow.”

He ground his fingers together, staring into the air as the question burned his mind —if he stayed, should he send the men out? Oh, if he wasn’t here… Éomer would have sent his company out; it was not dangerous anymore, there were no orcs, no wargs, no bands of rogue men. The only danger was…Faramir. What will he do? Will I be able to control them…will they hound him like a dog after a rabbit if I am not there? He was unsure and that worried him. Éomer didn’t want the man injured; his goal was simply time. So, logically, he should be delighted and delay the entire company…which would be noted and they would assume I thought he was weak…or am I just thinking too much? He rubbed his forehead, sighing.

“All right. I will stay.” The messenger looked relieved. He bowed low and ran back down the stairs to his fresh horse. For the moment the puzzling action of Elfhelm outweighed the question of Faramir. The Marshal was independent-minded, a fully accredited warrior, possessing years of experience in command and not a man to come running to his King with any little problem.

So what do I do about…? Éomer looked down at the courtyard full of men and youths in various stages of saddling their horses. He didn’t see Faramir yet, but he was sure to arrive soon. Undoubtedly with his sister in tow…they might let him alone with her, but as soon as he is out of range…what then? Perturbed, Éomer scowled. Why, oh, why… His scowl darkened and he began descending the stairs. His own horse needed to be unsaddled. I wanted to get away…what could be so important?

“Come on.” He took her hand and led her to his quarters, completely refusing to answer any questions.

Inside, she frowned as she looked around. It was oddly neat; there was nothing for her to trip over on the floor or any clothes piled in the corners. Faramir yanked a bag from under his bed and held it up, “Can you keep this for me?”

“I’m going to give this to you now so you won’t think badly of me.” He glanced at the daylight pouring in from the window and moved closer to the bedroom door. “You’ll like it.” Faramir grinned at her, obviously teasing. “It’s elven magic.”

Why would I think badly of him? Mystified, she shook her head, “There’s no such thing as magic.”

“Wait until you see.” Opening the bag, he lifted out something well-wrapped in thick cloth. Éowyn took a step closer, curious as he unwrapped it. It was a bracelet. On slender, twisting little copper wires were set a multitude of small, pear shaped stones; glittering, the many facets sent out bright light ranging from sapphire blue into a deep wine. Faramir stood carefully, his back to the sunny window. “Here.”

She held it for a moment, and then clasped it on. “It’s lovely.” The indigo, bluish-purple jewels set on the copper wires put her in mind of plums ripe off the tree, or the intense, tiny purple wildflowers that hid in the grass in the fields. As a child she’d lain on her belly to appreciate them, getting herself filthy in the process.

“Yes, very much.” Smiling back at his infectious grin, Éowyn tilted her arm to watch it sparkle; it was cool against her wrist.

“Then close your eyes.” Curious, she did so and he led her to the window. Feeling the weak, early sunlight, she asked,

“Open them.” Éowyn gasped, completely astonished. In the morning light the blue violet stones were now a brilliant green; again the glints deepened and changed from bright apple to a darker mossy, forest color. Instead of plums or flowers they looked more like leaves hanging off branches, moving in the wind. Faramir wrapped an arm around her waist, murmuring, “Magic. I told you it exists.”

He shrugged. Faramir smiled at her again, “Look at it tonight in the candlelight.”

He shook his head, “You’ll have to tell me. I bought it in daylight and I forgot to try it and see.”

“Thank you.” Turning, she placed a hand on his cheek, kissing him. “It’s so beautiful…” The bracelet was gorgeous, the stones sparkling. While she looked at it, marveling at the color change, he strapped on his sword and quiver, carrying his bow. He handed her the bag, which she held absentmindedly. Every present he’d given her had been better than the last and as they left, Éowyn wondered what else he could possibly have. What do I do to deserve this? The stones turned purplish again as they walked down the hall. She was eager for nightfall, for the third color, and yet dreaded it. I will miss him…

Faramir was pleased to see the grey head poke out of the stall as soon as he whistled and called, “Thorn!” The heavy ears flicked forward, then back as the horse yawned.

“Oh, he’s handsome. Very rough, scruffy just like you with that beard.” Éowyn held her hand out for the gelding to sniff.

He rubbed his jaw, scraping his fingers through the coarse stubble, “It’s not a beard yet.”

“Close enough.” She gave him a smile as he strapped his bow on and went to fetch his tack. Down the aisle he could hear her voice sweetly saying, “Hello, my darling. Isn’t he a good horse to carry my Faramir about everywhere?” There was a pause and she murmured, glancing back at him with her braid swinging, “You’d better not drop him.” Faramir smiled.

When he came back, toting his saddle and blanket against his side with the bridle over his shoulder, she’d already haltered the horse for him and led Thorn from the barn. He found her in the sunlight in a corner of the crowded courtyard, admiring her bracelet while the grey stood blinking and yawning. Faramir, not as tired and having gotten his second wind, was full of sympathy—the poor beast would have to carry him again. Éowyn took the bridle from him helpfully and he saddled the gelding, tightening the girth and noticing a few things while he did so. The scuffed, leather saddlebags were oddly full looking and when Faramir peered into them he found a few sets of clothes. Not his missing garments, but others of a rougher make. For a second he was confused, but he’d gotten the correct saddle, left sitting just where he’d put it. These must be mine… Tied across the back of the saddle was a bedroll and full water skin. There were also a set of padded leather hobbles, four spare horseshoes and two small tied packages. Opening them, he discovered salt in one and oats in the other. Éomer was right; they did give me everything I need. Faramir was surprised, he’d expected more difficulties. Perhaps this would not be the ordeal he’d dreaded.

He lifted the reins over Thorn’s head, and slid the bit between his teeth, bridling him quickly. Done tacking up, he turned to Éowyn, who was fiddling with her bracelet. “Do you know when we’re going?”

She shook her head; she’d been holding the grey’s lead, now she tied it to the saddle. Thorn stood quietly, ears flopped, eyes half-closed. Faramir looked around. Most were saddled already; there were, to his surprise, many of his archery students in the group. Some noticed his glance and gave him shy smiles. Gaer had said he was lumped in with the lads; maybe this was some sort of simple expedition for the youths to begin their careers as Riders on. His jaw tightened… if this is only a practice run with younger soldiers then maybe Éomer will say it does not count…he could think up countless ways, I’m sure, to prolong my stay…

“Soon, I think. There’s my brother.” Éowyn interrupted the increasingly angry and bitter turn of his thoughts.

“Good.” He gave her a forcefully cheerful smile, determined not to seem less than enthusiastic. Éomer could not fault him for lack of zeal—he was eager to go, to quit this ludicrous stay as a Rohirrim and take Éowyn away. The King of Rohan moved to their side, a dark expression on his face.

His sister smiled at him. Éomer spared a curious glance at what was obviously her latest gift, and then met her eyes. His words were clipped; he was still trying to decide what to do and he felt that it would be best to give Faramir a choice in the matter. At least, then, the consequences could not be blamed upon me alone if he chose to go on… “Elfhelm wants to meet me tomorrow, so I’m not going. The company will ride, though, as planned.”

Éowyn’s face grew worried. Faramir frowned, leaning one arm over his saddle in a casual stance.

Éomer took a step closer so their words would not be overheard, reluctantly looking the man in the face. “Do you want to go still, Faramir, or…?” He didn’t even get to finish.

“I’m going.” It was in a caustic voice; there was suspicion in the Steward’s grey eyes as he gave a chilly smile. Éomer was baffled, stepping back. Did the man not understand? Surely his question was seen as what it was—mere concern and an attempt at giving him a choice to make things easier than as an insult to his capabilities.

He shrugged, capitulating. “If you wish.” An already mounted Rider had drawn his horse close, but none paid attention in the crowded courtyard.

As Éomer moved away, his sister came to his aid, “Are you certain? It will be easy to catch up; they won’t be riding hard…” He paused, half-turning.

“I’m certain.” It was coolly dismissive and he saw Éowyn stepping back, about to follow him and perhaps persuade him to go. She’d gotten a few steps away, several feet from the Steward when the Rider steered his horse closer, almost between them and Faramir.

Suddenly a new voice intruded, laughing, “I don’t know about that, my Lady…I rode hard last night…on this one’s mother, that is.” The man made an obscene noise, high-pitched and squeally like a horse. “Hey, Faramir? Did you know that your dam liked it like that?”

Éomer was appalled, turning back in time to see the emotion drain from Faramir’s face. Éowyn’s eyes had gone wide, just as taken aback as he was. The man leered down from the saddle. The courtyard grew quiet in seconds, men and youths processing that something important and possibly entertaining was happening. Heads turned, men swiveling in the saddle or stepping aside to look. Horses stirred, uneasy at the silence, their shod hooves stomping at flies the only real sounds. Faramir was still, his face looking hard, chiseled from cold rock; he did not reply. Nearby, Éomer saw several men frown and mutter to each other—it was a grave insult, but if the Steward took it, he would be known an open target. The man in the saddle still grinned down, waiting. His grin widened as heartbeats mounted and there was no reply.

Faramir was outwardly very still, very tense. Inwardly he was awash with fury. How dare…? No one, no one would have thought to speak ill of the Lady Finduilas in his City. My mother? He disgraces the reputation of my mother…my parent whom I know loved me unconditionally? The Rider’s almost certain ignorance was no excuse. An insult was an insult and this was one that must be met swiftly.

Still, he was immobile, not quite able to make the necessary move, a lifetime of unanimity keeping him still. His gift was suddenly heightened—he could feel Éowyn’s nervousness, Éomer’s surprise and then growing tension, the Rider who’d insulted him’s glee and the emotions of their audience. Oddly, the Riders around him were more uneasy than anything. Their faces were watchful, but not supportive of their own. There was a sense of going too far, that their comrade has overstepped some silent boundary. They were watching to see what would happen, taking no sides. Gaer was near; his usually cheerful face was angered. The rage made him feel surprisingly good; I have one friend, at least...

Faramir looked up, straight into the man’s eyes, taking a small, single step away from Thorn. He knew this man—this was the same big, flaxen bearded Rohirrim who’d laughed at him and led others into surrounding and mocking him right before Gaer had come to his rescue. He didn’t speak; glancing away for a moment, trying to find some response while fighting his rage.

The Rider smiled and turned away, chuckling confident and boastful as he lifted his reins and touched his horse’s flanks with his heel, ready to move off. Faramir’s head snapped back up, feeling the man’s triumph. “Hal wes þu, lytle Bregu…” The use of the insolent pet name the Rohirrim had seen fit to give him was the last tiny push that crumpled his resistance. His temper rose and overwhelmed him in a wave of black fury.

Do something! Éomer shouted it mentally, frustrated and alarmed at the lack of action. The gathered men’s murmurs had grown louder, more dissonant. Then, as though prodded from his thought, Faramir did. The Steward stepped forward and grasped the leg of the man who’d insulted him and in one powerful motion, jerked him from the saddle. The Rider crashed to the ground, too surprised to curse or even try to catch himself, landing hard on his side, breath bursting out in an explosive grunt as he rolled face-down. There was a collective breath of surprise from the crowd; Faramir and the Rider’s horses shied away, leaving a wide, open arena.

For a second he felt only the same surprise as the spectators, but then Éomer came close to grinning, an astonishing surge of intense approval rolling through his mind. When he’d finally acted, Faramir had acted well—swift and brutal, taking his opponent off guard and putting him at a disadvantage. Perhaps he has merit…perhaps all my worries are for naught… It was surprising—in their fight Faramir had been relatively ineffective. However, Éomer did admit he’d caught the man off guard, charging him so. He’d caught himself off guard, too.

As the stunned Rider lifted his head, one leg coming up under himself, the Steward walked the two strides that put him almost directly over the man, his face expressionless. The space around them was empty, horses and men retreated. Éomer found himself and Éowyn to be the only ones close and he stepped quickly forward, grasping her arm and pulling his frozen sister backwards with him. He knew from long experience that brawls, once started, rarely stayed in one spot and the last thing he wished was for her to get accidentally struck. Halting at the edge of the natural ring the men had formed, he made sure he could see; Éomer did not want to miss this. She didn’t resist, even when he thrust her behind his arm; Éowyn’s only movement was to push back just enough to see around him. Éomer allowed it since any sudden movements in their direction that resulted in stray punches would still land upon him, not her.

“Get up.” Faramir spoke in a voice unlike any he’d heard from the Steward’s throat—this was cold as ice, adamant and acidly scornful.

The Rider gathered himself, there was astonishement in his eyes, but he quickly hid it; his face became mocking again as he raised to one knee, hands balling into fists, ready to strike once he rose. “Gea, lytle…”

Faramir punched him in the forehead and the man went straight backwards, limbs outstretched, flopping belly up in the dust, breath knocked out again. It was very impressive; Éomer fought another wide, delighted grin. Yes…oh, good, good!

The Rider’s face was dazed; his legs moved and he grasped his head, sputtering. Again, Faramir spoke, again scornful and cold. “Get up.”

The crowd’s silence broke—there was a whoop from nearby, tone joyous and approving. Men stirred, their voices in low murmurs, but this time they sounded far more well-disposed; there were even a few smiles. Éomer jumped, surprised at the outburst, but he was more surprised by his instanteous and fortunately passing urge to yell, too. The Steward’s action had been perfect, delightfully so. And yet…he felt a thread of unease curl through his heart. Faramir’s face was entirely cold; there was not even the slightlest pride or enjoyment in it. Surely the man felt good in this, felt justified in ridiculing the Rider by defeating him so far without effort. Surely… unconsciously Éomer pulled Éowyn a little closer to his side. There was nothing but dark anger on Faramir’s face and that disturbed him.

The Rider thrust himself backwards with his heels and elbows, digging them into the dirt and grass, trying to gain a little distance. He looked enraged and mortified to be retreating so, like a dog, scraping himself along the ground, belly to the sky. Faramir followed coolly, steps slow and deliberate, not allowing it. He repeated himself, louder. “Get up.” There was scorn in his voice as he said loudly, in a Rohirric accent far, far better than any Éomer had heard him use, “Ástanda, ge áléwed, áscamelic gúðfreca.”

Éomer wanted to cheer and forcefully suppressed the urge. There was a laugh in the crowd and he felt his mouth curve up in a grin. What is wrong with me? Behind him, he felt Éowyn twist his sleeve, her face pale. He squeezed her arm reassuringly though it seemed to have no effect. Éomer sobered looking at her. This was not amusing to Éowyn.

His expression half-angry, half-uncertain, the Rider tried to rise again, but this time swifter. He was kneeling, one foot flat on the ground, eyes wary and almost fully upright when Faramir hit him in the nose. It was a single strike, hard enough to knock the man’s head back. There was a burst of blood and the Rider staggered to his knees, nearly falling again with one hand coming up to his face as he voiced a short cry of pain.

Éomer became aware of many men’s eyes on him—they were watching to see his reaction. This was not a typical fight, but quickly becoming more of an exercise in humiliation. They were wondering when he would put a stop to it. He was quiet, watching the Steward stand patiently over the Rider. One more strike for Faramir…I will give him one more if he pleases. It could not hurt and might serve a lesson for the watchers.

“…ge cifesboren…” The Rider cursed in a thick voice, blood on his hands, staining his flaxen beard.

“Hlyston tó him! He hæg he cann â-cweðan bæc tó me!" This time there was a thick coat of mockery on his words, and though Éomer did not truly understand the context, the Rider’s face reddened. Faramir allowed the Rider to get to his feet, staggering a little; there was trepidation in his eyes and open confusion. The Steward was resolute, a tiny smile now on his lips—the expression only made Éomer’s unease deepen. This was not how men he knew acted. This was strange, no swift contest of brute strength, but a beating and open mockery. Faramir’s smile widened into a peculiar grin. “I don’t think I need her skirts to hide behind anymore, do I?”

The Rider’s face flushed; he looked furious and humiliated, but not quite ready to move on the Steward.

A gloating note was in his words now, still coupled with scorn and that strange, twisted smile. “Do I?”

The Rider was silent, blood drying on his lips and chin, nose swelling. Faramir appeared waiting for an answer. When it didn’t come, the Steward raised his fists, looking pleased as he began to close the gap between them.

Face twisting with fury and a grudging anxiety, the Rider spat, “No.” He withdrew a step and suddenly the fight was over. Men’s voices rushed to fill the silent void as the fair-haired Rider retreated through the crowd. Faramir was expressionless watching him. There was no triumph, no nothing in his eyes and Éomer was reluctant to loosen his grip on Éowyn’s arm. She pulled, though, and he did. But he still felt that unease. This man is not like us... What Faramir was like he didn’t know, so he did the only thing he could and followed his sister.

She’d been horrified the entire time, her breath caught in her throat—he’d been so bestial and at the same time so matter-of-fact and altogether unlike the gentle man she knew or think I know that Éowyn could hardly watch. Now, she crossed the ground between herself and Faramir. He was flexing his hand, eyeing the bruised, reddened knuckles. Luckily he hadn’t scraped himself anymore. It was stupid, she thought, to be worrying about him. Faramir hadn’t taken a single blow, he’d only given them.

“Fine.” He gave her a sunny smile. Behind her she could sense Éomer; coming through the milling crowd was Gaer. He was the one who’d yelled when Faramir had hit the man the first time and laughed, too, later.

Éowyn’s stomach twisted at his cheery voice. She played with her bracelet. “Oh.”

“Are we ready to go?” Faramir asked Gaer; he seemed utterly tranquil. She felt queasy.

“In a moment.” The Rohirrim grinned, “You have to give me time to boast—I’m so proud.” Éomer stirred, a slight smile on his lips, but said nothing. He looked at her and his brow furrowed. “In fact, my Lady,” Gaer inclined his head, “I was going to promise to watch over friend Faramir and guarantee his safe return—it is good to know my labors will not be needed.” He grinned widely.

Faramir chuckled softly. “Whenever you’re ready.” He whistled, moving away to collect his horse. Éowyn just felt sick watching him. What will they do to him and what have they done to him already? The man she’d agreed to marry would not have fought like that, would not have taunted or struck the soldier down over and over. She hugged herself and her brother bent to whisper in her ear,

“He did the right thing,” He paused, “the right way.” Éowyn turned to look at him, frowning. “They will let him alone now, you shouldn’t be upset.”

Éomer did not hesitate, though she felt he wished to. “Yes.” She relaxed minutely; still, it was disturbing and she watched his dark hair for as long as she could see him in the crowd. Was that my Faramir? Somehow, Éowyn thought not.

Faramir found his horse beside the barn, grazing. Luckily he’d set his reins over the saddle; Thorn hadn’t stepped upon them. The gelding raised his head, chewing while he took a hold of the lead. “Come on.”

A voice made him stop short. “That was an interesting display.” Mithrandir stepped out of the shadow of the stable.

The wizard raised one eyebrow. “Indeed. Well, I’m sure you have made quite an impression.”

“I’m not condemning you, lad.” It was reassuring. “You’ve got them at bay for the moment…just long enough, I’m sure.”

“Long enough for what, Gandalf?” He leaned against the saddle, curious, his own voice and words made him feel much like the student again, frowning over dusty ledgers.

A gentle smile showed the wizard felt the same. “No more lessons, I’m afraid. This is the end, my dear boy. You’re finished. The only lessons you’ll learn are the ones at hand—it’s up to you to discover the answers.”

“Don’t worry. You’re grown up enough by far, Faramir. It is time to ride out, to be on your own.” Gandalf chuckled, “A man of the Mark at the moment. I confess, I did not see this coming—” He winked, “I told you these old eyes see very little these days.”

Faramir’s alarm was rapidly crystallizing into worry as he parroted. “On my own?”

“Aye.” When he opened his mouth, Gandalf said, “You’ve passed the first test and well…if done a bit overmuch.” He chuckled, “You did not really hurt the man, but you put a great deal of respect back into him. It was done well enough, in truth.”

Thorn shifted under his arm, head stretching back down to graze again as he asked, coming back to the one thing that had struck him, “What do you mean on my own?”

Gandalf sighed deeply, “Many things that have been for years untold are growing dim, fading away.” He rubbed his hands together, looking at them briefly, “The very gift you carry, Faramir, will fade in your line. Only one more that I see shall bear the burden of other’s hearts.”

“I’m leaving, lad. Leaving this free world to you. I have no purpose, no enemy to balance or justify my existence. I would not be a curious old man, a wizard to tell stories and do tricks at court for the laughter of those who know nothing.”

“Home.” Gandalf smiled and came close, putting his hand on his shoulder. “Fair willing, we shall meet again.”

“I have no parting words of wisdom prepared, no counsel.” Gandalf’s voice grew almost mischievous, amused, “But one—the headstrong Éomer…he shall be your best of friends if you can overcome this, a true ally to the end of your years.” The mischief died and he grew grave, “Save him and you save yourself.”

“The Mark is wide, fraught with danger. It shall certainly come to you though I cannot see the depth of it—perhaps very little but that which would bind one man’s friendship to another.”

Faramir was of the opinion that nothing short of near death would cause him and Éomer to be the “best of friends”. He swallowed, sad and remorseful. “I wish you’d spoken…I would have spent less time…”

“You don’t need a teacher anymore; you don’t need to waste time with an old man nor mourn the lack. Headstrong Éomer and fearful Éowyn…they are worth more attention than I. Those two shall keep you busy I’m afraid.” The wizard glanced up as there was a shout,

“Faramir! Let’s go! We ride!” It was Gaer. The men and youths in the courtyard were mounted now. They waited upon him.

“Go on, lad.” His face crinkled in a smile. “I have great confidence in you.”

Faramir nodded with his heart melancholy; he was near tears at the warm, fatherly tone of the wizard’s voice. “Goodbye, Mithrandir.”

He turned and put his foot in the stirrup, swinging aboard Thorn. The gelding lifted his head, still chewing a mouthful of grass as Faramir rode back. Éowyn was standing at the side; Merry and Pippin were near her. He smiled down at them, still saddened.

“Goodbye, Faramir, I’ll watch over Frodo.” Pippin promised this, his face solemn.

“Thank you.” Faramir nodded back and the two hobbits scrambled away, leaving him and Éowyn alone. He leaned down a little in the saddle, “Come closer.”

He smiled, sad, and said the first of the lines he’d repeated countless times over the summer. He’d actually rehearsed them enough times under Halorl’s supervision that his accent was passable. “Ic þe axige, æfneð bisgu ná, min frendscipe…” Éowyn’s eyes lit up, she looked delighted. “Ic þe axige, ná cearo. Efne a coss.” He leaned down, one hand tangled firmly in the gelding’s mane. Standing on her tiptoes, she met him for the kiss. It was short, his position was awkward. She rested her hand on his knee, looking up as he straightened a little and said the rest, “Min langoð ac eower geférscipe, genǽged sweoloð me hwænne Ic eftsið. Giet, a coss tó habban me.”

Éowyn’s hand clasped the back of his neck and she gave him a much deeper, much warmer kiss. When it was over she released him and said softly, “Be careful.”

Answering jauntily, he said, “All part of the job.” He softened, murmuring. “You’re welcome, I love you.”

“I love you.” Faramir smiled back at her and turned his horse away. A few men shouted and they left at a canter, exiting Edoras in a cloud of dust, flickers of shod hooves and tossed up earth.

To her surprise her brother put his arm around her shoulder, squeezing in a reassuring fashion. He didn’t speak, just left her alone with the swift hug. After a few minutes of looking at the fading dust as the men rode away, she turned and began mounting the stairs back into Meduseld. It will not be so long.

Gea, hit is gleaw tó canst æror ge bycgan.—Yes, it is wise to try before you buy

Hlyston tó him! He hæg he cann â-cweðan bæc tó me!—Listen to him! He thinks he can talk back to me!

Ástanda, ge áléwed, áscamelic gúðfreca.—Stand up, you pitiful, shameful warrior.

Ic þe axige, æfneð bisgu ná, min frendscipe—I ask you, don’t worry my love

Min langoð ac eower geférscipe, genǽged sweoloð me hwænne Ic eftsið. Giet, a coss tó habban me-- My desire for your companionship will warm me until I return. Still, a kiss to hold me.

Éomer walked away from his sister to give her some privacy, only to be almost immediately stopped. Despite her melancholy face, his heart was upbeat. Éowyn would be fine in another day; Faramir would not be gone long. Good, I will not have to think about him for two days…the promise was delightful because not even Faramir’s surprisingly satisfying fighting skills could evoke more than a quick burst of comradeship. He was actually humming when a familiar voice spoke up.

“I think it’s time we really talked about this.” Aragorn had fallen into step with him. “I want to know exactly what he’s going to be doing and where you’re going to take him.”

Too bad. “I don’t know exactly what he’s going to be doing.” Or where we’re going. He glanced sideways. Things do not work like that here, there are no councils, we do as we wish, go where we are needed…

The King halted, forcing Éomer to halt, too. “I like him; I don’t want a new Steward.”

“Then what are your plans?” Aragorn raised an eyebrow, “Do you have plans or are you just going to work him like a dog until he both breaks and revolts or you decide you’ve had enough entertainment? Because I won’t tolerate either of those approaches—if this is serious, it is serious. If it is not, then frankly I don’t see the point.” He smiled slightly, darkly, “I don’t see the point anyhow…or rather I do and I think it’s foolish.”

Staring into the air in front of him, he answered, “We’ll be gone two weeks.” At least. With Elfhelm’s request and its unknown room for delay, the two could easily extend to three before he was back in Edoras for good.

“Where?” The King’s tone brooked no arguments and no condescending attitude. He was wholly serious.

Éomer took a breath and puffed it out; all his earlier delight was gone as he finally turned to fully face the man. “The mountains first, for about four days and then we return and then go to the Wold for a day or two and then back here. And probably a day in the Westemnet.”

Aragorn was still serious, still focused; his face was intent. “You’ll be riding fast to get that done in just two weeks. It’s a good journey to the Wold.”

“What if he cannot handle that speed? Men in Gondor do not spend their lives on horseback.”

Then we leave him behind. Fool, do you think I really would? Come, he is the man my sister loves and despite the fact that other than for a brief, shining two minutes I can’t stand the sight of him, I would not abandon him. If only to avoid her grief. His annoyance grew but he fought it, trying to answer the question with the tone it deserved to be answered with—equanimity and calm regard. “I will deal with it.”

Éomer ground his teeth, a slight edge escaping his control and leaking into his voice. “I don’t know yet.”

I think you should leave me alone. This is between Faramir and myself, not you. “I assure you, I will.”

He’d turned away, rather pointedly he’d thought, but Aragorn spoke up again, “I don’t think you will.”

This time Éomer took a deep breath, pushing his irritation into the back of his mind. He is concerned, he has a right to be, Faramir is an important part of Minas Tirith’s rule and there is no reason for me to act boorishly. I am not a boor. “All right.” He spoke slowly, forcing tolerance and encouragement into his voice as he turned back to face the King. “Do you have a suggestion on how I should deal with that situation?”

Aragorn looked surprised, very surprised, and then he faltered. “No, not at hand.”

Then why do you expect me to? “Would it put your mind at ease to discuss it and…” Here Éomer literally had to push the words up his throat, “other potential situations later?”

“Yes, it would.” Aragorn’s expression had risen to outright astonishment and then a suspicious pleasure. Happily, he began moving again. His voice was almost hesitant, as though he wasn’t exactly sure on how to speak to him. “Do you expect more incidents like this morning?”

“The fight?” Éomer grinned at the memory, trying to ignore the tendril of unease that went with it. He hadn’t expected such a fine show from the stiff-laced and courteous Steward. It was occasionally good to be proven wrong about a man’s character…and yet, if you were wrong about that, then what else might you have judged wrongly about him...? Perturbed, he thrust the thought away, focusing again on Aragorn.

Éomer cut him off impatiently. “Let him defend himself—he did a fine job of it.” Why do you worry? Did you not watch? He couldn’t remember seeing Aragorn in the crowd. But then I wasn’t paying attention…

“What if he loses?” Aragorn added, halting once more at the foot of the stairs to Meduseld, “Not just loses, but what if it goes badly for him? Not all men fight honorably.”

What if he does? What if it does? Are you implying I would allow him to be beaten senseless and possibly badly injured and look on with delight? Éomer was outraged, not so much for himself, but for the lack of care for his sister’s heart that the question implied. His voice a snarl, he spat out, “If that occurs I will defend him myself.”

Furious, he began walking again, climbing the stairs to Meduseld with jerky, furious strides. The King was silent and did not follow.

Éowyn watered her mother’s flowers, watching the cool liquid roll in brilliant little drops over the petals, shining, and illuminating the already vibrant colors. She didn’t think about who would take care of them when she departed because she didn’t want to. Instead, she touched the soil, feeling it damp and gritty on her fingertips, making sure she wasn’t drowning the roots. The death of these flowers would be horrible. Sweet and strong, the smell of roses filled her nostrils; as she looked at them it was almost too strong, cloying. Éowyn opened the window quickly.

The morning breeze that blew through the open window felt good; it blew stray hairs out of her eyes. She looked out, gazing at the foothills. Yellowish green grass and brush rose into isolated trees and then thickets; looming overhead the mountains were still and remote, their peaks cold looking. Éowyn wondered what the Gap of Rohan looked like, what it would be like to cross those between boundaries, to gaze up and up and see the fences of ancient rock and a final break in their endless wall, a clear view to the West—she’d never done so, never done more than venture into the hills behind Edoras with her brother or Théodred. I, she thought with sudden clarity, I would like to go to Isengard… It made her smile and forget her sadness for a moment—I could, why couldn’t I? But she wouldn’t. She would stay right here, where she belonged. A strange bitter current ran through her mind, the thought falling like silt and settling to her very feet, where I’ve always been.

Éowyn glanced at the table—the damned dagger still lay there. She hadn’t yet found either a place to dispose of it or the desire to touch it. Likely, it would lie there for a long time. Faramir could have it back if he wanted to; it was an expensive, beautifully made thing, very fine…just not to her taste at all. Her muddy fingers hovered over the bracelet, but didn’t touch. Raising her hand, she looked at the stones—they were green again, shifting immediately darker, an instant change to violet blue, when she stepped into the shade of the wall. It was amusing and diverting to stick her wrist into the sunlight, then the shadow, cool, and then the warmth. Green, indigo, green, indigo…Éowyn laughed and stopped herself. She was being silly.

I miss him… cupping her wrist, she felt saddened. If Faramir were still here there would be a good chance he’d be right beside her, perhaps…asking me more questions… Shaking her head imperceptibly, she thought, no, he asked enough earlier to satisfy…or did he? He’d stopped, she’d felt it, and changed his mind, distracting her with his silly actions. Éowyn closed her eyes and thought fiercely, it doesn’t matter. She missed him regardless, missed the wordless and gentle touch in the back of her mind. He wasn’t so gentle when…again she thought, it doesn’t matter, be silent! Her disturbance had not faded, simply relocated itself, waiting patiently to burst upon her and Éowyn moved faster, watering again, determined not to think. Of course she immediately failed.

Faramir had fought, he’d had to and if he’d done so in an odd, perturbing manner, that was that, no more. He’d spoken of his mother enough and in such loving tones that she should have been far more worried if he’d not fought. It was nothing she had to fear anyhow, he had himself laughed at the very thought of raising a hand to her when she’d been attacking him over leaving her alone in the garden. There is no reason to feel like this…Éomer was right. But he was different then, he’s changed…into what? She didn’t want him to be just like a man of her people, nor did she want him to be just like a man of Gondor…I want him to be Faramir, naught and no one else. The fact that he’d changed from that man already was mildly troubling and yet…don’t you like him still? Isn’t he still good and virtuous and loving?

Yes. She thought about his arms around her the night before, his hand in hers, and other times. It was not so much his attitude towards her that was changing, but a darkening of the one towards everyone else that bothered her. He seemed quicker to anger, quicker to question and react with force. Stop, stop thinking about it. You’re doing no good. This time she managed to keep her mind quiet.

The sun had risen faintly, shedding new sunlight on more of the floor. She was just finishing watering and plucking the dead blooms and about to leave when there was a voice, “Éowyn?”

“Oh, this is a lovely place.” The Queen walked in fully, turning around to appreciate the small room. The tri-colored puppy trotted in, floppy tail wagging and immediately pounced upon a small drift of rose petals, burying its black nose in them. Rusco rolled and played under their amused eyes. “And here I thought your folk had no gardens for leisure.”

“This was my mother’s.” For the first time Éowyn looked at the walls, the built-in stone boxes that held the flowers, the small pegs that let the vines grow up and into intricate patterns and the carefully tiled floor and wondered just when and how the idea had come for this room to be. It reminded her more of Gondor. She wondered if her mother had traveled there or if the room had been before even her.

“No.” They walked back into her bedroom. A moment later Rusco bolted after them, panting. His coat was dusted with soil and his snout was crusted with it; Éowyn frowned at him, he’d been nosing in the flowerbeds. Arwen seemed to be searching for things to say, so different from her usual offhand manner. Éowyn wondered if everyone was going to act oddly today. Perhaps it is me…she was aware of her despondency, a listless tint to her mood, making her quieter. Faramir…what are you doing right now? Striking another man? Arwen stroked the bed’s headboard, tracing the roses and vine design up the posts. “This is lovely furniture.”

“Very nice, I love the carvings, so natural, almost elvish—what’s that?” She nodded to the great wooden trunk sitting in the corner.

“Go ahead, I don’t mind.” Éowyn found herself slightly curious. She hadn’t looked in the trunk but this morning, to snatch out the high-collared gown and before that? Years, oh, years... The Queen knelt on the floor; she, too, wore a dark blue gown; they looked like some strange twins, one tall and lithe, the other shorter and shapelier. Hers is better…Éowyn touched the simple, soft fabric of her dress, kneeling beside her as the Queen opened the trunk. Inside was a small wooden box set upon many folded clothes. The puppy waddled to them and she patted him absently, feeling his warm tongue lick her hands.

“These are beautiful. Why don’t you wear them?” Arwen held up a literal handful of necklaces drawn from the box; each was suspended from a finger, turning them this way and that.

She admired them, touching the gold, the silver, and the various glittering stones. “You’re bringing all this aren’t you?”

“I suppose I am.” She’d not thought about it before and Éowyn leaned forward, looking into the neatly folded clothes. “I don’t even know what all is in here.”

Arwen gave her a smile, “Well, let’s see then, since we have nothing better to do.”

“All right.” And something occurred to her as she watched the Queen carefully replace the necklaces, straightening them so they would not tangle. “You began to tell me about Aragorn…”

“Well?” Éowyn watched Rusco sniff about her room, hoping the Queen had taken him outside recently.

“All right.” Arwen looked at the ceiling, “You will tell him that…” She took a deep breath and said tiredly, “He kept asking and I didn’t want to travel any further and it irritated me. And I was upset about my father and it all accumulated and I’m heartily sorry and I forgive him.”

He really didn’t do anything. Smothering her amusement, she asked, “That’s it?” Éowyn could suppose she could understand that. It wasn’t so hard. Really, were her own problems less petty? No, I don’t think so and I’ve been harsher upon Faramir…tender to him one moment and the next fearful…she, at least, has been evenly distant.

She sat fully, curling her legs beneath her and wiping her dirty fingers on her gown with a flash of amusement—she’d hardly been able to keep one clean, ever—and picking up one of the necklaces to touch. The metal was icy from being shut up, making goose bumps rise on her arms. “Oh.”

The Queen selected a ring, turning it to make the stone gleam in the morning light. It looked to be an emerald, set in gold. Éowyn didn’t push her, she’d been pushed enough herself. Now, if Faramir would simply learn some patience… “My brothers will not speak and it troubles him…” She must have seen the confusion on her face, because she explained, “My brothers and I have a choice—we can choose to take the ship across the sea or forsake it and die as mortals. They have not spoken. They refuse to discuss it with my father. He could, I think, accept losing me to Estel—he knows well I love him, but since Elladan and Elrohir do not speak…” She replaced the ring and chose another, a simple band, turning it over and over, running her fingers along the smooth gold. “He fears to lose us all, until the end of time.”

Again, Éowyn could understand and she nodded slightly. She gazed at the different colors of gowns in the trunk, wondering what they looked like, when her mother had worn them. None were familiar. There was the soft warmth of velvet, the gleam of silk; gold threads, silver and beautiful, intricately intertwined patterns. Éomer might know…

“He does not speak to Estel of such things,” Arwen smiled a crumpled, sad smile, “He do not wish to hurt him; my father loves him like a son, he is very proud. And yet…” With a sigh, she continued, “yet he asks me to reconsider, tells me my people would not reproach me for turning away from love in the face of death. Tells me things…he’s seen a great deal of mortals die in his life and he reminds me of them…how weak and fragile. It makes me fear for Estel and myself.”

Éowyn thought of her brother, asking her if she was sure about wedding Faramir, saying he would support her no matter her decisions. How terrible for her…she has far more to lose. The smallness of her own heartbreak made her ill while facing Arwen’s calm composure.

“You don’t know what it is like…you know you’re going to die, you’ve always known. I have not. I must deal with it now. And Estel…” Her voice grew grim, underscored with a dark, burning anger, “He speaks to me about war, and about the battles he expects to fight to make his kingdom forever safe.” Her fingers drummed on the side of the trunk.

Éowyn jumped when Arwen hissed, her fair voice ablaze with fury, “He speaks to me about war! As if he was the immortal! He could die so easily, a stumble on the wrong patch of ground, an infected scratch, a fall from a horse…anything! How…it is impossible, great man that he is and still he is so fragile!” The Queen’s eyes were almost wild, “And if he did, if he did not live to his full years I, too, would die—a tree struck down by lightning, a sheer chance of fate. I couldn’t live without him.”

Éowyn didn’t speak; she had no words that she felt would help and the depth of the elven woman’s anger was alarming. The puppy cocked its ears at his mistress’s voice, wagged its tail nervously, and then went back to investigating.

“And he speaks to me of children...in the same sentence almost. He does not think of death, only victory and heirs. Only happiness since the shadow has fallen away from the land.” She fell silent and they did not talk for some time, simply pushing around the jewelry, uncovering bracelets and armbands and a finely made circlet of gold.

Finally, Éowyn said, hoping to add some levity, “Faramir has named at least one of ours already.”

“You poor dear, and you’re not even wed.” She smiled, “Estel has a list, but then he’s had longer to think on it.”

“I meant it, I was angry he would not drop the subject of Isengard…as if I wished to sleep upon the hard ground for another two weeks when I did not have to. The entire place is naught but a giant, phallic shaped stone, surrounded by water and rubbish to hear the hobbits tell it—and who would care to see that? Why should I care to look upon the foul, traitor Saruman and hear his lies?” Arwen shook her head, “He will assume I’m simply upset about leaving my father and I am, I am.” With a watery sigh, she whispered, “Oh, how I am. I will lose my father, my grandmother and any chance to see my mother again.” She looked down and Éowyn fancied she could see tears glimmering in the elven woman’s beautiful eyes, drops of dew on her eyelashes. “He will understand that. But do not speak of anything else. It is a woman’s foolishness that I worry about Estel, he can care for himself, he’s done it long enough. It would only anger him, he’d think I saw him as a child—” Arwen laughed softly, “As the child he is.” She dropped the ring back into the box; it clinked amongst the other jewelry. “He is a child, a silly lad not even to his hundredth year. I’m wiser, older, more experienced…” Her eyebrows raised, a smile quirking her lips, “Wiser.” Arwen laughed again. Éowyn smiled. “But I got over that more quickly than you might believe.” She sighed, “You won’t tell him any more than I wish?”

As though answer, the Queen said quietly, “Tell him what I wanted, the rest is between us or myself alone.”

They sat for a silent moment. “Well, let’s see what some of these gowns look like—we’ve been pawing this gold for too long.” Arwen stood with her voice full of false cheer.

Éowyn smiled, not feeling like smiling at all, “All right.” She placed the box of jewelry onto the bed and lifted out the first of the dresses, holding it up.

What for? It is too fine for everyday. She wondered, but smiled anyway. The little dog lay on its belly, perfectly in the center of the doorway to the flower room, chewing on a small twig. He rolled over onto his back, shaking his big ears and snapping at his bit of wood when he dropped it. Glancing at Rusco, they laughed together, making him cock his head to the side adorably.

“Best present I ever received,” The Queen’s eyes shined, “Thank your brother, will you?” She chuckled and called the puppy, leaving Éowyn wondering.

There was no obvious leader to the small company—Faramir noticed this immediately. Riding in a loose formation around him was ten men and five boys. Several long-legged and gangling dogs followed in their wake with pink tongues flapping and feathered tails aloft. They panted, surging this way and that and bawling in excitement. Thorn did not pull on his bit as some of the geldings did, their necks arched and hooves striking out with desire to run, but seemed content to follow the slow canter. Again Faramir felt a little sorry for the animal.

He and the younger Rohirrim were nearer to the back of the company; in the front two men he did not know rode side by side and gestured, talking to each other over the sounds of the horses’ hooves. The man he’d fought sat his mount several places up; he never looked back. Faramir watched the two men leading and assumed they were arguing. What about? The route, the pace or even something I can’t fathom? How do they make decisions if there is no foremost ranking man? Do they discuss it? Is that what they’re doing? He wondered this while moving to the rhythm of Thorn’s choppy strides, one hand holding his slack reins, the other at ease on his thigh. His ride was occasionally uncomfortable; the burly gelding was not the smoothest and getting used to the rough, lurching gait took time. Gripping the dark mane, he concentrated for a while on finding a rhythm, matching their movements. As he rode, feeling his soreness and weariness from the night before, Faramir half-hoped the men in front would simply stop to argue. But they didn’t and now three men cantered abreast, gesturing and shouting over the beats of shod hooves as they traveled further and further from Edoras.

In fact, they did not stop at all. The Riders let the horses choose the pace and the animals slowed often as they entered the foothills, picking their way around depressions and rock-strewn parts of the path. It was a good enough road, wide, fairly clear and obviously used by carts or wagons. Faramir allowed Thorn to decide on his own course, reasoning that the horse knew better than he did where to put its feet. Small, rushing streams were splashed through as they rode steadily deeper into the foothills of the White Mountains, rewetting Faramir’s boots even though he pulled his feet from the stirrups. The terrain became arduous with the horses leaping up short, steep hills in methodical bursts of effort, heads bobbing, tails streaming out behind and then going down them carefully, hindquarters gathered under themselves, blowing snorts of exertion. Horseshoes clinked and scraped off rocks, saddles creaked rhythmically and Faramir, despite the roughening landscape, was falling asleep.

He looked about, trying to keep his eyes open. By mid-morning light Rohan was still beautiful and even more rugged appearing—the farther away they got, the more the land seemed to grow. What had been a striking view earlier now filled his entire vision. Turning his head to peer back, Faramir was astonished to see that Edoras, a good sized city, was really no more than a fitfully glimmering pebble tossed onto a gigantic green-gold tabletop of swaying grasses. Green and gold…the colors of the Mark made perfect sense with the sight. He looked at the mountains, seeing the same burnished russet of the leather he wore reflected in the seams of dark rock and thickets of rough-trunked trees. Some leaves were turning already, adding more gold to the landscape. White, too, capped the peaks in ethereal, blinding snow. Sunlight reached out in long streaks, making the snow spark like ghostly fire. The Rohirrim bear their land upon their backs and proudly upon their chests. Faramir touched the still strange outline of the horse upon his surcoat and wondered if that the familiarly etched White Tree with its delicate limbs, broad trunk and angular stars might feel much the same way by the time he wore it again. No, no. He was vaguely disturbed by that and resumed looking about himself.

They had ridden higher than he’d thought and he could see the Snowbourn and its wooded banks gleaming like a long, curved mithril wire, sides set with dull green beads, against the buff plains. Leading off into the distance and out of sight, the river gave off dazzling glints as the sunlight touched it. He remembered the icy water and shivered. Beyond the Snowbourn, the horizon had no end, no boundaries of any kind to steady him and he felt briefly dizzy and very small looking out over so much space. Gondor was well bracketed, safely enclosed in mountains and the shores of the Anduin. It is so small…Faramir had never thought of his homeland as being tiny, but it was in comparison. Ithilien, his princedom itself, was a mere fingernail of land between the Great River and Mordor, full of bumpy, gnat-bite like hills compared to this pan-flat skyline that led straight up into the snowy pinnacles where he was currently headed. It was a rustic beauty, definitely, but still beauty.

Returning his eyes to their path, he saw that the lightly forested slopes were full of game. Surprised deer sprang out of thickets, white tails aloft and wagging; birds exploded from clumps of brush or flew from tree to tree squawking and rabbits scurried, zigzagging back and forth, daring death by shod hooves before disappearing. Gazing into the trees he spotted various animals that stayed hidden while the Riders jogged or cantered by—a flash of red fur, a fox; grey and black lines, a raccoon and yellow eyes, a crouching, big-eared coyote. Many, many birds hopped or set to wing, feathers bright in the sun; unfortunately they rode too fast and too loudly for him to hear any song other than a hawk’s sharp cry. Under him Thorn paid no attention to these distractions, continuing on his plodding way, keeping Faramir’s position in the midst of the Riders. The hounds dashed into the brush, yelping, only to come back with only burrs and barb-scratched muzzles for their pains.

He rubbed the horse’s neck, patting it, feeling the warm life of the animal that served him. Thorn’s ears flicked back in reply and Faramir smiled a little. Time passed with the sun climbing in the cloudless sky, but a strong wind kept it from becoming hot. The Riders’ voices began lifting in song now, sometimes more than one tune at the same time, making the men around him laugh and compete by sheer volume and enthusiasm as to which song would be sung at the moment. Faramir, not entirely able to understand the quick lyrics, or sing in a manner remotely considered pleasant by anyone he’d ever performed in front of, confined himself to humming along whenever he could.

Gaer noticed and rode close on a chestnut gelding, half-turned to ask, “Why don’t you sing with us? The words aren’t hard, come, you’ve learned them by now. Don’t be shy, Faramir.” He grinned over, eyes glinting, “Come, brother, join us.”

The use of the word brother touched him; it was freely given, there was an easy smile on the man’s face, acknowledging the friendship offered. Looking at him, then back ahead at the green cloaks of the Riders in front of him, Faramir answered with embarrassment and longing, “I can’t sing.” He wished to fit in as the young, red-haired Rider seemed to be asking but this route was closed to him.

Gaer stared at him for a moment and then burst out laughing. “Ná, ná, ge eart ná Rídend, Faramir…” He shook his head, smiling, “Ge ná canst cantic,” Gaer looked at him again and snickered good-naturedly, “ge ná canst árídan…” He held up a hand, raising his eyebrows, then wagging them, “Ac, ge canst níðplega ond gearwe!” The Rohirrim laughed again and leaned over to give Faramir a friendly slap on the shoulder. “Good thing, too, eh?” He chuckled and urged his horse forward. By the time his words were translated he was already too far away to answer and Faramir rode alone, humming in a melancholy fashion. The songs were fairly simple, tunes fitting with the strides and speed of the animals surging beneath them; the Rohirrim’s voices were good, all untrained and sometimes a bit rough, but far, far exceeding his own.

Eventually, Faramir decided, guessing that if one judged by the pace and time spent, he would have been riding into Osgiliath before now. That’s roughly thirty miles? It’s been over three hours, but I can’t be sure with the speed. Squinting at the sun, he estimated it was just barely noon. The boys looked just as tired as he felt, grainy-eyed and sagging in their saddles, but there was no end in sight. The wheel ruts just kept going with dust rising around the horses’ flanks as they traveled; the grass between the ruts was browned and parched from the lack of rain. In front of them the White Mountains rose, indomitable, unassailable. How did my brother fare in the Gap under the wizard’s eye? Looking at the peaks, he wondered and was pained by the knowledge that unless he questioned one of the Fellowship and they chanced to remember if Boromir had spoken, he would never know. Thorn stumbled and he steadied him with a murmur and a hand on the reins. What happened to his horse that my brother walked into Imladris? What…?

Under him the grey was sweating, lather stinging the creases in his scabbed hands when he patted his neck. Faramir rubbed them on his trousers, smelling salt and horse and tried not to feel his weariness and increasing soreness. With a wry smile, he thought, thirsty, tired, aching and surrounded by lustily singing Rohirrim, why, oh why didn’t I just laugh in Éomer’s face when I had the chance? He gave me plenty of chances.

They rode for another hour along the woody hills, climbing steadily higher before the trail curved sharply right and downwards, entering a small, narrow valley. Faramir could have cheered. Itself fairly flat and filled with tall, dry grass, there were on both sides of this little dale an upgrade that rose steeply, slick-looking surface of short, yellowed brush marred with rocky outcroppings, while above the vast sky above was cut into a tiny, very vivid slice of blue. Inside the valley was a very basic and obvious camp—a small thatched roof lean-to, a large blackened fire-pit ringed with stones and many hunks of logs to sit upon. To his surprise there were men there already. Horses grazed in the valley; there were three large wagons sheltered under the lean-to. Thorn and every other gelding’s strides lengthening with anticipation, the company galloped hard and rough, fanning out as they did so. Several of the Riders whooped a greeting while the hounds bawled eagerly.

Smoke rose in a grey thread and as he rode up to the camp Faramir was suddenly starving. But the animal beneath him came first—he did not need anyone to tell him that in this land of the horse-lords. He stood in the saddle, gauging the weakness of his legs as Thorn galloped and hoped he would be able to walk without looking drunk. I should have spent more time on a horse this summer…

They slowed in a flurry of dust and dismounted. Men shouted back and forth; he heard his pet name and another man’s coupled and then laughter and exclamations. Faramir didn’t waste the energy on translating. He stamped his feet, striving to rid himself of the odd limp feeling of his taxed muscles. Thorn tried to rub his heavy, sweat-damp head on him, but he gently pressed the horse away, saying softly, “You’d push me over.” The last thing he wanted was to appear weak or foolish in front of so many potential adversaries. Faramir scratched around and under the bridle to placate the horse, his fingers stinging again, then began to unknot the girth. Around him men did the same, though considerably faster.

“You need a new name.” Near the lean-to, which seemed to be used exclusively to shelter tack, Faramir lifted the saddle from Thorn’s sweaty back; it felt much heavier than it had in Edoras. Setting it upright, as was proper, and laying the blankets over it to air, he turned. Behind him the gelding chewed his bit and nosed his side, impatient to be untacked.

Gaer was looking at him very seriously, though if he tried, Faramir could still see the twinkle in the man’s eyes. “I’ve been thinking about it. It has to be a good one, meaning two things—those are nobler.”

“Well, what do you want me to do? I don’t know any names.” I can barely speak the language. He took off the bridle and halter, unbuckling one of the saddlebags to retrieve the padded hobbles. Dropping to one knee with a grimace—his joints were all aching, his muscles protesting the prolonged ride, he began to carefully fasten them on. Thorn yawned, dark tail slapping his dappled flanks and then stood with his head lowered, hind leg cocked, eyes half-closed and lower lip drooping comically. Faramir felt much the same way, only his day was but half over.

“A proper name for a man of the Mark.” Gaer squinted, apparently not having heard him, “Faramir isn’t good. The closest is Forthere and that doesn’t make sense.”

“What does it mean?” Done with the hobbles, he patted Thorn’s side and watched the gelding walk slowly away. Gaer began striding towards the center of camp and he felt into stride with him, trying not to grimace.

“Peace-army. Roughly, of course.” He sighed, “We’re trying to make you a proper man—you need a name to terrify the men and loosen the thighs of the women.”

Faramir looked at him, briefly startled and then amused. To his own surprise he laughed a deep, unforced guffaw of delight. “What kind of name would that be?”

Gaer chuckled, “Naturally the last wouldn’t interest you out here…but it might interest our Lady.”

Again with the “our”. It amused him; too, this possessiveness that seemed to manifest only in flowery statements and silly looks and Faramir was glad the red-haired Rohirrim had latched onto him. However, it is none of his business what interests Éowyn in that way. No one but mine. “I don’t think you should be talking about…”

Gaer grinned, cutting him off, “So we’re aiming for terror.” His grin widened, “You’ve got a good start on a fearsome reputation already.” Sobering inwardly and feeling a cold trickle of his earlier fury go down his spine; Faramir smiled at this only because he felt it was expected of him. “We could keep Faramir, but…it’s going to be harder. Actually…” He fell quiet, looking thoughtful.

He sighed, feeling his cloak flap in the wind that blew fiercely through the narrow valley; “Do I get any say in…?”

He sensed himself tensing a little; there were many Rohirrim surrounding them, some seated on the stumps, some with their midday meals already. They were a loud people, much laughter, much shouting over distances; there was still no social structure in sight, men sat as they would and none treated each other with any respect. It was incredibly odd and chaotic looking to him. He felt encircled and watched and forced himself to relax and sound natural. Faramir reached out mentally and gently probed the company’s mood—good cheer, efficacy, but no hostility as he walked among them. He regained his presence of mind, “Well, all right, then. I’ll have a Rohirric name. What does yours mean?”

At his curious look, Gaer paused, “It’s actually Gaerwulf. It’s not the best, I’ll admit, but I can do much better with you than my sire did with me.”

“Do not jest about a man’s name, it’s very serious, it is who he is. It proclaims him, his nature long before you meet him.” Gaer gave him a stern look, and then began thoughtfully, “What about…” They were near the line for food now, many soldiers surrounded them, “Well, we have to think of two things first, two qualities you possess.”

He could smell and see the food—bread and some sort of meat stew and he was salivating. The sack of foodstuffs he’d eaten during the night had had to carry him for hours. Faramir swallowed and said, “You have to. I don’t even know what could be a name.”

He shook his head; “I can’t even pronounce that.” Not to mention spell it. Not that spelling would matter much in this land. Perhaps that is why their words are so odd, they do not have to write them… Faramir smiled.

“It means “powerful victory.” I think it’s good considering the show you gave us this morning.” There was a half-teasing, half-admiring note in his voice.

Faramir did not like the idea of basing his new name on the brief skirmish he’d had—it meant he had to remember it, would be reminded of it every day. I do not wish to be known in Rohan for humiliating and bloodying a man…no matter how well and fully he deserved it. My mother…why my beloved mother? He answered firmly. “No.”

They moved up in the line; he shifted impatiently and asked, “What does my name, my real name, mean to you that you don’t like it?”

“Nothing…unless you say it like this: Færamar or Fahamierr. Faramir would be a simpler rendering.”

“So, then what? Why do I need another if you can make sense of my own?” Faramir glanced at him. “Tell me what it means.” There was a moment of silence.

Gaer smiled a trifle uneasily, “A mix of small words, but “terrible sight-fear-destruction” is one.” He glanced away, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Well, isn’t that terrifying enough for you?” He smiled. I’m not sure about loosening Éowyn’s thighs… Faramir laughed to himself, bemused. “Tell me the others.”

“Outlaw, enemy-deceiver.” The Rohirrim’s normally cheerful voice was low, nervous.

Still amused, he smiled, “Well, I’d consider my name very terrifying indeed.”

“It is, but it’s also not a good name—it’s too strong.” He frowned, “It promises bad luck, not only to your enemies but you. It is an evil name, too powerful for a man to carry without something to counter it.” Gaer glanced sideways again, his brow furrowed, “A man’s name tells others who he is and yours tells nothing good.”

Ah, I should have known. All these years it was my name. Faramir smiled. And all I had to do was go to Rohan. “Well, then, tell me another you think is better.” They moved up in the line. Beside him, the Rohirrim was quiet, thinking and muttering under his breath.

Meanwhile Faramir reflected upon the real meaning of his name. He’d never thought of it as powerful or strong, “adequate jewel”. Jewels are not powerful. They are pretty trinkets, useful to trade or sell, at most passed from generation to generation as heirlooms but no more. They are naught but glittery pebbles, housed in fine metal, of little purpose but to catch the eye. Wondering why his father had chosen such relatively trivial names, he frowned. Boromir had been slightly better with “faithful jewel”, but neither of them had titles to inspire unease or the label of power.

It was a strange thing to think such thoughts and they led him further. They don’t know…Faramir glanced at Gaer’s furrowed brow. He doesn’t know my name is second best, that I’m not even faithful…that even as an inoffensive, innocent babe I was not as good, only adequate. Why did my mother allow it? This thought caused him unease, so he pushed it away, concentrating on the other.

Bitterness swelled in his throat, choking him with its helpless quality, helpless because he could not question his father as he longed to, to cry out and appeal for answers as he’d never done. Begging on my knees or the point of my sword to his throat, I swear he would answer me… Faramir felt a dark smile tug his lips. Pity, he’d found his courage and it was far too late.

But…they don’t know. The festering anger in his chest receded, replaced with a queer feeling that took Faramir a few moments to identify: hope, pure dizzying hope. He looked around himself at the many green-cloaked men, flaxen or red-haired men, their voices rumbling in a different language with a different sound and felt it grow. Thinking of the snow-feathered mountains, the narrow sky above him…and coupled with the remembrance of the endless horizon that lay just beyond the valley, he felt the hope threaten to overwhelm him. They don’t know. I can…I can start over…I can be powerful…on my own. There could be no judging of past deeds because here he had no past; here he was no feckless son, no merely adequate brother.

Faramir laughed out loud, his heart carefree. “That’s the worst name I’ve ever heard.” He grinned and stepped up in line, no longer paying any attention to the Riders around him, “Tell me another.”

He narrowed his eyes, “What? That’s a woman’s name and it’s even worse.”

“No. No.” Faramir stepped up, reaching to get his bowl of stew and bread. The man looked at him solemnly, handed him the food and immediately leaped backwards, an exaggerated expression of terror on his face.

“Warað min cáf gebróðru! Hé bít!” The Rohirrim roared with laughter around him, obviously having anticipated the jest, making Faramir extremely self-conscious. They were watching him. “Se Hordere is líðe ná má!”

He smiled slightly, unsure, and moved aside for Gaer. The red-haired young man was chuckling, too. With a jerk of his chin he directed him away. Finding himself a seat on one of the stumps, Faramir began eating hungrily, uncaring for the moment about anything else; the food was filling and hot and he ate it almost without tasting.

As he slowed, partially sated and chewing his bread, Faramir noticed that many of the men were gone already, vanished from the camp. Some task perhaps… It was only noon, there were many hours left in the day. He frowned to himself, wondering what he was expected to do. Did they think he knew?

Done and simply letting his emptied bowl dangle from his hand, he asked hesitantly, “What am I doing today?”

“Ask him.” Gaer, seated on a stump nearby, loudly slurped up some stew and nodded to an older man who stood in a group. He was fairly typical looking, broadly built, flaxen-maned and, oddly, not dressed as a soldier. Faramir doubted he could have picked the man from the crowd if not for the simple garb. “Ask Aldfrith, he will know.”

So there is a leader in Éomer’s stead…yet why is he not clad as a Rider? It was just another mystery in this strange culture. Faramir sighed, “All right.” He truly did not want to approach the Rohirrim. Stop being a coward, the sooner I’m done the sooner I can go back home with Éowyn. The thought washed away his hesitancy. Thumping his bowl on his leg nervously, he finally stood.

“I’ll take that, go on.” Gaer reached for the bowl, a grin lighting his face.

“Thank you.” He smiled back, surprised and grateful, and then crossed the distance between himself and the group of men. There were four and they all turned to face him; curiosity showed on their faces.

Faramir ignored their scrutiny the best he could, straightening his shoulders and standing tall. “I don’t know what to…”

“Fetch your horse back. He’s thrown a shoe.” The man’s voice was shockingly quiet, his words simple. The short sentences might have been taken for bad-temper or spitefulness but for his mild-mannered expression. “Do you know how to shoe a horse?”

“No.” He wondered how he’d failed to see Thorn missing a shoe. Damn it. Faramir was certain no Rohirrim would do so. This man he didn’t know and couldn’t remember seeing had noticed. Damn, dammit… Will I always fail?

“All right.” Aldfrith smiled, “I’ll show you.” He nodded down the valley, “Just go and fetch him.”

“Aye.” Faramir, uncertain of etiquette in this, gave the man a slight downward inclination of his head. His dark hair dipped forward, swinging off his shoulders and touching his cheeks as he lowered his eyes. In the City he would have expected a bow, no more than a short tilt of the upper body, but an acknowledgment of his Lordship, still. He really couldn’t remember seeing any of the Rohirrim bow, even to Éomer, so Faramir simply gave a passing nod just low enough to not be mistaken. One of the Riders smiled but none corrected him.

Walking back to his saddle, he collected his halter and lead and began down the dale. Thorn was a fair distance away; he didn’t bother to whistle. It felt good to be walking through the grass, though the stuff was really dry, standing hay. It had yellowed and was brittle to the touch, crunching softly under his boots. Faramir gazed up at the walls of the valley—the brush there was tawny, too, evidence of the lack of rainfall. He hummed to himself, unconsciously repeating the tune of one of the songs the Riders had sung as he walked. He’d not known a place to put down his weapons so his sword and bow weighed on him, making the entire exercise feel oddly reminiscent of home—walking alone with weapons. If I were in a wood…he sighed, missing the bright greens, browns and shadowy greys of Ithilien.

There were many horses in the valley and their coats shone in the morning sun, chestnuts, greys, bays, both a light tan and dark blood, and a solitary gold. They lifted their heads as he walked past them, warm, coffee-colored eyes curious and ears pricking. All were finely made, all less bulky and thick-boned than Thorn. Far enough down the valley to blot the Riders’ camp out with the pad of his thumb, Faramir stopped, eyeing the next horse. It was gigantic, far larger than any horse he’d ever seen, making substantial Thorn look like a pony. It appeared to be a draft, yet no draft in Gondor was near this large.

The withers were well over the crown of his head and he took a step towards the animal, fascinated. Its lower legs were feathered in long hair; it was a brown bay with a long shaggy mane. It raised its large, angular head, looking at him long enough to determine he was not going to demand anything of it and then the huge gelding resumed grazing. Giant teeth chopped the grass in regular bites. The animal could have put his head in its mouth with a fair amount of ease. Faramir remembered the wagons—they’d looked awfully sizeable and now he presumed it was this animal that drew them. Looking at the other horses he saw he was right. There were two more of the giants, another bay and a grey. In size they looked more like the carcasses of the mûmakil than horses and he wondered how they acted in the harness. Surely they could easily overthrow any man’s will. I, for one, would not like to test them.

Thorn did not raise his head as Faramir approached. He was shifting the rope halter in his hands, preparing to put it on when the grey lifted his nose and began walking away, not sparing him a glance. Frowning, he said softly, soothingly, “Whoa, whoa.”

The gelding walked many lengths and began grazing again. Faramir strode towards him and the same thing happened—Thorn ignored him and then, when pressed, retreated a safe distance.

“Whoa,” He used the grey’s Rohirric name in hopes, “Brémel, whoa.” It had no effect and he was forced to trail the horse further away from camp. Over and over they repeated the pattern—he would advance and the gelding would withdraw enough to graze some more. No amount of “Whoas” or soft whistling had any effect. Faramir, rope halter clutched in increasingly tightening hands, followed in determination.

Thorn finally halted, ears pinned, a sour expression on his long face. “Good lad.” Faramir spoke cheerfully, tramping down his annoyance. He stood still, gazing at the horse and then took a step forward. Immediately Thorn leaned back, his hooves not moving, but his body leaning as far back as he could without budging. Faramir stopped. “Whoa, lad, stand still…” He murmured encouragingly, taking another step, “Whoa…”

Thorn tossed his head, small eyes flashing anger. His heavy ears pinned and he pawed the ground. Faramir took one more cautious step. The horse lowered his head, shaking his neck and flipping his nose, obviously annoyed. He blew through it, loud and huffing. Easy…he could feel the animal’s irritation and waited before taking another stride. Unfortunately he didn’t wait long enough.

His tail popped loudly against his hindquarters and with a snort the grey gelding threw himself forward into a gallop, his hooves throwing chunks of earth into the air. Under his dappled hide muscles worked furiously, bulging with effort. Up and down the dale the other horses looked up and some trotted about, tails lifted, before settling again. Faramir watched Thorn run straight back down the valley, leaving a long swath of bent grass behind him. He groaned, frustrated, and slapped his leg hard with the halter. At least he is going where I want him to… He sighed deeply and began walking back to camp. A flashing thought of amusement rose, and I thought horses couldn’t run like that with hobbles… Thorn’s experience as a drudge horse had evidently taught the animal much.

He soon realized that experience had taught the horse not to run with hobbles, but to rid himself of them—the next time Faramir approached close enough he saw the thick rope that connected the loops of padded leather had been chewed through. Dismayed, he stared at the gelding’s handiwork, obviously accomplished in less than a half hour. Now with just messy tufts of twine hanging from his legs, the horse was free to run or go as he liked, once again possessing the advantage of speed. Thorn moved easily away, grazing nonchalantly while Faramir, feeling much like a pestering, yet insignificant fly, kept after him.

It took him another two trips back and forth from the camp to the end of the dale, walking with increasing irritation after the fleeing grey, before Thorn finally allowed Faramir close. He stood, only a few feet from the sweating gelding’s side and waited to see if the horse would bolt again. “Stand,” Faramir touched his withers, his hand light, not daring to raise the halter.

The grey lowered his head, sighing. Taking this as a signal of submission, he quickly wrapped the lead around Thorn’s neck and haltered the horse. When he began walking back to the camp, the gelding followed peaceably. The Riders had disappeared, even Gaer, by the time he returned. Only the boys remained, looking out of place as they sat murmuring amongst themselves. The wagons, too, were gone, presumably hitched to the giant drafts. Faramir didn’t remember seeing the horses gathered, but he shrugged, unconcerned.

“Finally got ‘em?” Aldfrith stood next to an array of tools. He wore thick, scuffed leather chaps to protect his legs and gloves on his hands.

“Yes.” Faramir answered shortly, weary. His horse stood still while they began, removing the hobbles and the Rider patiently showing him how to trim the hoof, careful to show Faramir the natural angle and how much to take.

“See? This ridge here?” They were bent over Thorn’s foreleg, which the Rider held between his knees. Faramir thought his back had never hurt this much in his life—he dreaded straightening and yet longed to do so. All his muscles would be tested today, apparently.

“Yes.” Nodding, he watched closely and then rasped the hoof a little himself, careful to keep away from the sensitive frog. Slipping, he came close to rasping away the skin on his fingers and Aldfrith’s gloves made sense. More cautious, he went little by little. The hard stuff grated off into shavings under the rough metal rasp, easily molding into the proper, cupped shape. He’d fetched one of the spare shoes and now they fitted it, Aldfrith holding the nails in his teeth.

“Hammer it in, like this…” The Rider did two for example, holding the shoe on. Faramir did so very slowly, not wanting to lame his mount. That itself would be cause for mocking in this land of the horse-lords and more mocking he did not need. “Good, good, not bad for the first time.” Aldfrith grinned at him and, after rasping it again to further shape the hoof, he let the leg down. Thorn didn’t move and Faramir looked at the shiny nails sticking out of the dark hoof as the Rider bent them downwards to help keep the shoe in place. I helped do that. It was a good feeling. He smiled, oddly cheered despite his aching back and throbbing finger where he’d missed with the hammer.

Aldfrith gathered his tools and moved away, leaving him alone with Thorn. The gelding raised his head and their eyes met. “What’s wrong with you, hmm?” Faramir scratched his side, “Why’d you make me chase you?” The horse did not respond, of course, and he sighed and rehobbled and unhaltered the animal, releasing it once more.

Wondering what else he was to do, he waited until Aldfrith came back, dusting his hands off. Faramir gazed at him pointedly.

Not really. “That’s what I’m here for.” Catching and shoeing Thorn had taken well over an hour, probably closer to two, but still leaving him a while until sunset and there was no point in lying about. Wouldn’t want it to get back to Éomer that I’m lazy… Faramir smiled inwardly.

The man smiled again, still not the slightest hint of any attitude but forbearance. Perhaps he’d found the sole mild-mannered Rohirrim in existence. “You were teaching the lads archery?”
“Yes.” His spirit lifted in hope.

“Teach them some more for today—they have bows.” Aldfrith chuckled, “It would be nice to have something besides stew for supper and I’m sure they could learn something about stealth.” He chuckled again, “Not that they’ll need it on a horse on the Wold, but it might come in handy.”

“Aye.” The prospect of hunting, even with five bumbling youngsters on his heels, was enough to fully cheer Faramir. He inclined his head respectfully, still unsure of the etiquette, and moved towards the quietly sitting lads. Unbuckling his sword, he laid it next to his saddle, hands already itching to wrap around the slender bow. I haven’t hunted in months. The lads were quickly gathered.

“Master Faramir?” One of the boys who could speak the Common Tongue had a question; in fact, they all looked puzzled.

“Yes?” He was leading them back out of the valley, intending to scout the woods around the path they’d traveled earlier for game.

Faramir glanced back and over at him; he strode slightly in front of the boys. They clutched their bows, walking behind him in a way he was desperately trying not to compare to ducklings. If he allowed himself Faramir was afraid he might begin to laugh and never stop. Feeling an involuntary smile stretch his mouth, he asked, “Why would we take the horses?” As if I could catch mine, he added to himself, still mystified and peeved over Thorn’s display of rebellion.

“So we wouldn’t have to walk.” At his gaze, the lad said further, “We would leave the horses and hunt, then ride back.”

That did make sense, but he frowned. Surely the Rohirrim didn’t ride everywhere. It was not far to the wooded glens he had in mind, less than a mile. Plus wandering in search of game and returning was still no more than a handful of miles. Faramir was used to walking far more in a day. “Don’t you walk places?”

There was a questioning murmur from the back and Faramir listened to muttered Rohirric. He frowned; he would learn nothing if they interpreted for him. “What’s your name, lad?”

“Thank you for translating,” He smiled to show he was not angered in the slightest, the lad looked rather flighty and owl-eyed, “but not unless I misspeak. I must learn your language.” Faramir sighed deeply, “Gǽð for hit isná feor.”

None corrected him. He smiled to himself and strode faster. Fresh meat was definitely more appealing than stew of a dubious age and content. The next question came soon, though. “Master Faramir?”

They had walked for half an hour after leaving the path, well away from the scent of man. Now he stood beneath a tree in a small, natural clearing. It was a good tree with low, thick limbs and was perfectly made for climbing. Faramir had gestured that two climb it but the boys had just stared at him in confusion. “Hwa?”
“Tó geseo se…” It took him a while to remember the word, “neat.”

The lads frowned at each other, but the two he’d chosen climbed up obediently, perching themselves like reluctant birds. Faramir turned to the other three and gestured in a wide arc, “Gæst ond néosian ond...” He ran out of words and brought his hand back to him. They nodded their comprehension.

He’d seen them shoot, he had no intention of being on the ground and getting shot, in fact, Faramir had only the intention of doing any practicing after they’d finished the hunt. Anything else would be far too dangerous with the amateur archers.

The three lads “Aye”’d respectfully him and trotted off. Not a one of them bowed. Faramir grasped one of the branches and easily swung himself into the tree. The Rohirrim made room for him, looking nervous—one was Scef, the other’s name he did not know.

“What is your name?” He spoke deliberately in the Common Tongue and was relieved when the lad answered.
“Leodthain.”

Faramir wondered what these names meant but he was afraid it would be impolite to ask; Gaer had seemed reluctant and often uneasy about the entire matter. “You will watch me, not shoot. Understand?”

Éowyn listened to the music and smiled, pretending to be interested, pretending she wasn’t saddened and missing some essential part of her—he was gone, the mild little sense in the back of her mind that said Faramir was there had vanished and she felt alone, which was so silly, she was in a room crammed with men, elves and hobbits and one dwarf that she couldn’t see but assumed attended. She listened to the harp, its sound so pretty, lilting and haunting with the strings humming soft in the air. I wonder…Faramir had admitted to being able to play the harp. I wonder if he’s forgotten it all…Éowyn smiled. She’d get him to do it for her eventually, if she could remember.

For the third time Éomer leaned over and said his voice low and so full of nervousness that it made her weary, “I didn’t know they were doing this.”

He still didn’t sound like he believed her. Her brother’s brawny frame shifted in the great chair; he rested on his elbow, leaning closer to insist, “Really, I—”

“I know,” Éowyn softened her tone. “I know you didn’t.” Before them Arwen’s brothers were singing something in elvish, their voices beautiful. Nearby there were Théoden’s… no, no Éomer’s now…musicians; the long tables had been pushed far back to clear a floor and the Golden Hall was alight with laughter and song and dance as it hadn’t been in a long time. Where is Faramir? Not here to teach me to dance like he said he would, but somewhere else, winning my hand in the preposterous way given to him. She felt sad.

This perhaps was why Aragorn swooped down upon her like a bird of prey, so suddenly that, while Éowyn glanced down to look at her bracelet, and then looked back up he was already standing on top of her. “You’re it.”

It had another color—a gorgeous, luscious red that shifted from a light rose or magenta to a deep, abiding garnet. The jewels had flickered in the light of the sunset and they did so now in the candle and firelight, returning to violet or plum in the shade. She had admired it several times as the sun had gone down. “What?”

“My wife won’t dance with me and it would be unseemly for the High King to dance with a kitchen maid.”

Éomer smiled, shifting his long legs, “Unfortunately. I, too, feel that pain.”

Éowyn didn’t smile, wondering if Aragorn had even asked Arwen or simply assumed. “I don’t know how to dance. Go ask someone else.”

Aragorn grinned. “Good, then you’ve no bad habits.” And he pulled her up by the wrists, refusing to listen to any protests.

He was patient, chuckling good-naturedly as she cursed under her breath and fumbled. As if in pity, Elladan and Elrohir sang a slower song and Éowyn concentrated on matching her movements to his, keeping her entire attention focused upon this unreasonable task. Eventually, with Aragorn’s hands feather-light on her lower back and gently clasped in hers and his steps exaggeratedly slow and careful, she got close to rhythm, to symmetry in their appearance. “Good, good.” He spoke into her ear, making it easy to hear him as they moved nearer to the elves’ and musicians’ voices. Éowyn did not think at all how it might look, Aragorn whispering intimately, dancing with her alone and not his wife; she was far too busy trying not to step on his feet.

“You do this for fun?” She frowned, looking at his boots as they paced steadily.

“Head up.” His fingers poked her chin. “Come on, it’s like riding a horse, just go with me…”

“Yes it is, find the rhythm.” It was easy for him, he knew what he was doing as he steered her around the cleared floor.

“There’s music…and I’m standing up…” Éowyn growled in frustration and tried to pay attention. He towered over her, she was staring just under his stubble-peppered jaw; Aragorn twirled her slowly, laughing as she faltered and then gathered her back. The song ended with a flourish and clapping and Arwen’s brothers bowed low, eyes bright. Another began, a slightly more challenging tune before he asked,

“What?” Suddenly more nervous, she stammered, “W-what are you talking about?”

He twirled her again and she did better; neither moved to the music, really. They were just dancing. “When you leave.”

“I don’t know. Éomer, the most, of course. We’ve never really been parted.” Éowyn thought for a moment, “Then my mother’s rooms…and waking up to the smell of roses…the horses, the foals every year…” Her chest was tight and she stared at the front of his simple shirt.

Aragorn leaned lower, saying softly into her ear, “Ge canst æfre sægst tó me mid þam þe cwiðan se ansund æf eower geþiode.”

She looked up, startled, and his eyes shone at her, full of sincerity. Éowyn smiled a little and answered with a small laugh. “Ic þancie þe. Ic…Ic þancie þe, Aragorn.”

He grinned, then twirled her and bent her over backwards with ease, nearly making her cry out with surprise, clutching at him with white-knuckles. “Now, let’s try something a little harder…”

“Oh, no.” She moaned as he grinned over at Elladan and Elrohir and the elves’ voices grew fast and merry and the musicians followed. “No, no, no…” Éowyn felt her eyes grow wide. She shook her head wildly.

“Come on,” He laughed light and boyish in her ear and Aragorn leaped forward, hand tight on hers, palm firm against her side. “Just follow me.”

Éowyn screeched as he began to whirl her, faster and faster, her feet stumbling, hair flying. “Stop!” She laughed, heart pounding, shocked right out of her melancholy mood—there was no room for it, shed in the swift, desperate movements of her feet. “Stop it!” Her plum-colored skirts swirled tight, her necklace bouncing off her collarbone.

Aragorn just laughed down at her and went faster. Dizzy and sure she was going to trip herself and fall; Éowyn began to shriek as he spun her, her laughter and cries of dread mingling. She gave herself up to his lead and they went in wild paths, cutting back and forth. By the time the song ended Éowyn was crying tears of gaiety and grasping at him to stay up. They were both laughing like children as he slowed and stopped. Giggling and very dizzy, her sense of balance reeling, she buried her face onto his shoulder, hugging him with no thought but that she didn’t want to go sliding to the floor in an undignified heap. Aragorn’s broad, warm side rose and fell with his fast breathing; she felt it on her ear as he asked, “Wasn’t that fun?” Over the people Éowyn could hear the smile in his words.

“Look.” He chuckled and wagged his shoulder under her face. When she lifted her head and noticed her brother being drug onto the floor by Arwen, his face reluctant and dreading, she laughed again. Éomer was terrible, couldn’t dance a step.

Éomer had sat alone, nursing a cup of wine and watching his sister being spun about, when Arwen had seated herself beside him. She was lovely, as always, bearing herself erect and cool in a dark blue gown. He smiled a welcome, “Good evening.”

“And to you.” She watched the King and Éowyn dance for a moment, her eyes narrowed. “It seems Estel has found a way to amuse himself.” He chuckled, amused as his sister squealed again, the high sound coupling with Aragorn’s deeper laughter. Arwen’s eyes grew less narrow as Éowyn screeched and clutched at the King as they whirled in fast, sloppy circles around the floor and she smiled. “Poor girl. He knows better than to try that with me.”

Éomer had no reply, so he just watched some more. Eventually Arwen turned to him, “I assume you’re shy.”

“About asking me to dance,” The lovely elven woman laughed at him, her eyes like stars with her inky hair as black as the night between them and part of him shied away as her slim, delicate hand extended expectantly. “Come, I haven’t danced in a long time and,” Arwen’s voice grew mischievous, “Never with another man but Estel.” She looked him up and down, “I think you’d be quite interesting as great big as you are—broader, really.”

“I do.” He didn’t mention he was rather dreadful at it. “I just don’t.”

Éomer leered at her, lowering his voice in a suggestive manner, “They come to me.”

Arwen laughed. “I suppose they do—I did; but then you gave me no choice.” Her determination hadn’t faded, though. “Come, we’ll do something.” She smiled suddenly and put her arm up on the table. “Wrestle me? If I win we dance, if you win we don’t.”

He snorted and shifted in his seat. “No, I’m just saying you’re not going to win. It is a waste of time.”

Éomer sighed, “All right.” He put his arm up, bracing himself. Arwen’s hand was very petite and delicate feeling in his own. Éomer’s hand, paw, really, if compared, swallowed hers; it was much darker with sun, almost swarthy, and far larger—fascinated, he stared for a moment. His knuckles looked knotty and thick; the top of his hand was furred with normally flaxen hair bleached lighter from the sun, his fingers looked blunt and solid, roughly callused. He’d never seen her hands up close; they were pale and soft and dainty, pearl-colored without the slightest hint of a callus. Nervous, he cautioned himself, gripping it and awkwardly trying to make his cumbersome fingers fit between her slender ones—not too hard, careful… Her smile hadn’t faded; she scooted closer, her luminous eyes boring into his with a gleeful sort of amusement. Looking down at their hands, dark and large and ungainly, small and pale and graceful, he asked, “Ready?” He could feel the warmth of her glowing, creamy skin and it unnerved him; she was very beautiful.

Cautioning himself again, he gauged what his resistance should be, eyeing her slender arms and curved, womanish frame, and took a deep breath. Éomer shifted, planting himself more firmly. This was ridiculous. “All rig—”

She slammed his fist to the table so hard his knuckles popped and his cup of wine came near to overturning. Éomer was stunned speechless. The cup rattled, contents sloshing in crimson waves. Arwen burst into laughter, leaning backward in her chair and withdrawing her hand. “You should see your face, Éomer, really, you’d think a trifling lass less than half your size beat you!” She shook her fair head, hair swinging, and stood. “Come, you owe me a dance.”

He was still dumb with surprise. Elven males supposedly had great strength but he never would have guessed the same for her looking at her unmistakably feminine body—generous curves, slim legs and arms; Arwen was small all over and thus, to him, ineffectual, frail. But despite her smallness the elf was not weak at all. He frowned, looking at his hand. The knuckles were slightly reddened from impact. I’d almost forgotten to think of her as an elf… When he lifted his head, her eyes glowed far brighter than any mortals did and she shone, eyes, hair and skin, somehow more there than other women. And yet… Éomer still had the feeling he could have put his hands right through her. Arwen was not real, only a vision, defying her petite stature to overthrow him effortlessly. “Wait…”

“No, you lost. Dance.” Reluctantly, fearfully, he allowed her to drag him onto the floor where he would most assuredly make an idiot out of himself.

She didn’t lead him to the center yet, but rather the edge. Éomer stepped near, hand hovering over her waist. Arwen smiled up and grabbed him close; she was completely comfortable, he was anxious. “Don’t worry,” Her smile widened as she gazed up; it was hard to believe she was so small—simply standing next to her, several feet of space between them, did not give him this perspective. “I will make you look splendid—look at Estel…he looks like a fool jumping about over there with poor Éowyn.” The Queen chuckled, “She’s good to put up with it.”

Éomer glanced at his sister who was laughing hard, her cheeks pink; Aragorn spun them in relentless, decidedly uneven circles. She was groaning, protesting dizziness even while giggling. Neither seemed to be paying attention to the lovely, buoyant voices of Elladan and Elrohir…he cocked his head, the music growing louder as he became really aware of it. In fact it filled his ears, the elvish flowing around and around, the words separating, sounds dissolving then gathering again into…

He could understand it. Éomer stood still, struck, the song filling his being. It was about a maiden, about dancing in the moonlight, singing to the stars…activities he found to be ludicrous. For a single second he could almost see her, fair and lithe, a shapely maid in a pale gown, hair and hands fluttering, her feet leaping on dull, dewed grass while her eyes flashed up to the heavens… Then Arwen laughed softly and the sound of her fitted the music entirely, became a new melody, the light bubbly cadence of her laughter. Looking down, he saw they were already dancing, moving lightly together in perfect rhythm, and his feet stumbled. A chill raced up and down his spine and Éomer halted, breathing fast, heart racing. He felt disoriented; they were halfway across the room from where he’d last known himself to be. “What…?”
She touched his face, soothing. “It’s all right, don’t fret. Isn’t it a pleasant song?”

Éomer frowned, “But…” She tugged and he allowed himself to be led back, moving to the melody and floating voices he was trying hard to ignore. Éomer had felt uncomfortable just dancing, not to mention with Arwen—now the elvish music, its tune stealthily trying to wrap itself around him again, was too much for him to tolerate. “No, stop.”

The Queen released him with a sigh. “All right.” She clucked her tongue, “And you were doing so well.”

Aragorn took the moment to wheel Éowyn next to them, stopping so suddenly that her skirts flew out in a purple wave. “Good, my turn.” He sounded cheerful and swept up his wife, leaving brother and sister standing there. After a moment they returned to the table, Éowyn slumping into her chair and taking his wine to drain it. She fanned herself with one hand and gave him a smile.

He struggled to find something to say, still a little nonplussed by the way the music had overtaken him and the vision of the maiden had filled his mind. Éomer looked at his empty wine; a moment later a servant came swiftly and refilled it. He smiled thanks and drank some, trying to reestablish his equilibrium. “I didn’t think you liked dancing.”

“I don’t think that was dancing, really. He was just spinning about to make me dizzy and to hear me scream.” Éowyn laughed, sounding far happier, which should have made him happy. But looking at her just made him feel uncertain, something that was becoming a common occurrence. She was wearing one of their mother’s gowns, a form-fitting thing in a warm plum color, well embroidered in flower patterns with tiny darker violet beads across the bodice. This dress had no high collar and he could see every single mark Faramir had left, every last sign of the man’s claim, every blaze that staked out his territory. The purplish-red brands extended almost down into her bosom, disturbing him. It was one thing to guess such intimacy probably occurred in private, quite another to see evidence of it. He touches my little sister in such a fashion…old, rabid protectiveness surfaced and he quelled it with effort. Undoubtedly she enjoyed it. Éomer wrinkled his nose, disgusted though he knew well that he himself had left the same marks upon women. But this is my sister…my pure sister...my little sister…

Struggling, he gazed at the gold necklace around her neck; it was studded with long, cylindrical amber beads that contrasted neatly with the reddish-violet dress, the metal and rare stones and dark, uncommon color proclaiming lavishness and wealth in a way he was deeply unaccustomed to seeing on her. Where are the men’s clothes? The muddy wool and the leathers? He felt sad and disjointed, as though nothing around him was quite real. I suppose when she is the Steward’s wife in the City…the day his sister no longer kept torn trousers, dirty, scuffed boots and button-up, ripped and patched shirts in her closet would be the day he no longer knew her at all. He shifted in his chair; feeling snakes of anxiety filling his chest and snuck another look at Éowyn.

Her golden hair hung over her shoulders, still kinked from the braids—seeing her now and seeing her this morning was comparable to looking at two different women, sisters perhaps, but still terribly different. Éomer’s sense of disorientation increased. He’d never seen her in any of their mother’s clothing, clothing he could recognize at least, and he wondered what had brought this about. Leaning forward in his seat, he said, voice low to conceal his nervousness, “You never seemed interested before.” It was a question, a begging question hidden in a quiet statement. Why this change? What is happening? He couldn’t stop it. Only delay her going. Tell me. Talk to me. For the first time he really wanted to know what was in her heart, wanted to speak to her about leaving, about what his sister wanted for herself. It made him bold and panicky all at once.

Rebellion sparked in her breast, a strange swift little fire. “I’m interested in a lot of things I wasn’t before.”

A small, irked smile twisted his lips, but his voice was slightly odd, far too quick and stumbling for as little as he said. “I…I can tell, sister.”

Éowyn shook her hair back, defiant and knowing just what she did to expose her marked flesh. Her brother frowned and fell silent, eyes looking down. His words and reactions rankled her. She was not a child, but a woman grown, close to marriage. No matter my fears, does he not see that? Tone haughty, she answered, “You should get used to it, brother.”

He did not respond and they sat in silence for a while. Finally, Éomer spoke again, more normal this time. “When will you and Arwen go to the Westemnet?”

Wrong. Éowyn stared at him, amazed, something dawning upon her. He didn’t want to know so that he could meet them, no, he wanted to know to know, to know everything she did…so you can approve, brother…isn’t that why? The spark of rebellion, resting so innocently and even cooling, found tinder in his words and a mutinous blaze arose in her chest. Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t know yet.”

“I need to know.” He looked at her, determined and slightly puzzled. Of course he was puzzled, any other time she would have answered unthinkingly.

“You can’t—I mean, but you don’t know when. I don’t want to waste time or miss you.” Éomer appeared slightly alarmed now that he perceived he was not going to get his answer.

Éowyn took pleasure in it. How many times had he left when she had no idea of when he would return? Or at all… “I can count, dear brother. I can figure up the days to meet you—you said you will be returning to Edoras and then to the Wold…the Westemnet is on the way, sensibly you’ll go there first.”

“Yes.” He brightened. “I could accompany you and Arwen as you go. We can ride together.”

A flash of light burst in her brain and as she looked at her brother, the thought was like a fire roaring up into a darkened room, illuminating many things she’d never seen before. Who says I will be in Edoras, brother of mine? He would never, ever, in all the immeasurable years of an elf, if they were awarded to him, think of her not being where he’d left her. And why not? I could go, I could go…where? It burst upon her in a second flash of brilliance. Nowhere, that’s where, that’s what he thinks. After the festival he would go on to the Wold and she, she the obedient sister, would trot on back to safe Edoras where she belonged. In my cage I’ve lived in so long as to not notice the bars.

Beside her, he was smiling, pleased at the thought of spending more time with her; under the table she was white-knuckled with fury. Gondor. I could go with Aragorn and Arwen. That would show you, wouldn’t it? Rip the bottom out of your fool scheme with Faramir… Éowyn blinked, shocked at herself and feeling chill.

What am I thinking? Going to Gondor? That was the last thing she wished to do, enter the City without Faramir’s steadying presence. So why was the idea so appealing, why did it cause not paralyzing fear in her heart, but a sense of…adventure, of boldness and even of desire? Uneasy, she swallowed hard and loosened her fists. She’d not answered and his smile had faded, so she said, “Yes that would be nice.”

“Good.” She echoed it. They sat and watched the King and Queen glide by. I am happy for them, she thought absently. They were not exactly untroubled looking, but they were not fighting. Éowyn glanced to her side, at her beloved brother, her last close relation and realized that a certain small part of her truly felt contempt. Gondor…that would show you indeed, wouldn’t it? That I was a grown woman and not your little sister to watch? A pity she would never do it. Yet that spark of rebellion burned under her skin, a silent goad, and Éowyn began to think as she’d never done before.

Gandalf had told her to look after herself. That Faramir and Éomer would work it out on their own, that she needed to make peace with her decisions. Can I do that here? How can I change if I do not change anything? For a moment she was afraid and angry. Damn that wizard, who is he to tell me what to do? But her fear faded in the overpowering sense of rightness, that he was right, that what had burst into her head in a wave of light was right; she needed to become decisive about her future and the first step was making a decision. Leaving with Faramir as planned was not a decision and sitting in Edoras while her brother and lover rode about and fought out things between themselves was undeniably not a decision. I have made desperately few decisions in my life…the last had led her to Faramir, what would this lead her to? A chance, perhaps, a chance to figure out her new role for herself, without Faramir hovering over her…to be on my own for once, just once to escape. She had no doubt he would help. She suspected he would help overmuch; Faramir would extend his aid in every way possible to help her adjust to the City. She’d thought before that she’d spent too much time in the comfort of his arms—now Éowyn knew without a doubt that she had, because the thought of walking into Gondor without him to back her was very frightening. It is just a strange City…I know Aragorn and Arwen…I won’t be alone.

Éowyn turned to her brother, looking at him, really looking at him, and her eyes pricked with tears. I can’t. Never mind her spiteful fury, it would crush him and that would crush her. I don’t want to leave him alone…not alone. Her fingers tightened on each other. But…he started this; he made it…not me. None of this is my decision. Faramir…my brother…all this foolishness is about me and what have I done? Naught but ask them to be civil. Éowyn swallowed hard, her throat dry at the plans that formed in her mind. I am between them. I don’t like it…so I shall remove myself and let them do what they might. It is about me and yet…it does not concern me in the slightest. Why should I stay for my attentions to be fought over?

But what will Faramir do? What will my brother? Éowyn thought Faramir would stay, simply out of his agreement, and that his honor would not allow him to leave until he’d served it in full. Her brother however…I don’t know. She glanced at him. It would truly crush him. But what they did after she left didn’t matter because that was between them and without her Éomer might have a chance. Without her to break them apart with her very presence they might learn friendship. Gandalf seemed to think it was possible. Of course with his riddles she had no real way of knowing. Again she cursed the wizard.

But if I don’t go, if I do nothing…then I will never, ever be able to kill the fear because I would have never had to face it without Faramir or Éomer to shore me up when I grew timid.

He smiled over, unknowing, completely oblivious to her anger, her unrest, everything about her. He doesn’t know. He won’t ever know unless I make him know. She felt horribly saddened and, for the first time, like the elder. Éomer did his best, but he only did what he’d done always—look out for her. He hadn’t changed, she had. And somehow her age, her developed, womanish body, all these things had escaped him or he chose to ignore them. He doesn’t mean to be this way…yet… Her brother watched the dancing, cheerfully unaware and secure in the knowledge he could escort her to the Westemnet and keep her under his eye…virtually up until the very moment he released her to Faramir. Oh, I can’t…

And a new part of herself spoke up. It sounded cold and brisk. Lady of Ithilien, you will, or you won’t ever be anything more than what you are now. A new dawning horror was upon her and she could hardly breathe with it resting heavily on her breast. I will go from brother to husband and I will learn nothing about myself but that which is reflected in their eyes. I will be every woman in that City with a nice husband and children and a house and I will have not been alone, not had to think for myself ever. She touched her bracelet. Jewelry, look at this… Oh…how long will it be before I break and either join the snippety, stony hearted women or avoid them out of fear? How long before I do things out of others’ desire and not my own free choice and cannot discern the difference? I must go.

Éowyn looked out onto the cleared floor, finding Aragorn as he danced with Arwen, displaying far more dignity in these few minutes than every second he’d danced with her. There is but one man I need now and with his help I will be set free. One last time she would ride out at his heels…but it would be different. Then she’d ridden to death, now she rode to a new life, for better or worse. Gandalf’s word choice reoccurred to her. Steward’s wife, he didn’t call me that…no, he gave me my title alone, my name as a woman not necessarily bound to anyone’s will. Her betrothal granted her the name in anticipation of the future. It did not guarantee Faramir’s presence. I will go and I will see what being a Lady of Ithilien is about before I must deal with marriage, before I return under the eyes and care of any man. She smiled, her heart, her mind steadying. I will hold this course because it is mine alone. Her fury flashed one more time as Éowyn glanced at her brother, a searing wave that crested with the thought, and they will never, ever expect it because I am a woman, meant to be tied to house and home. I am not meant for action. She felt the anger rise. I will show them not to limit what they think a woman can do.

Aragorn went by again and she looked at him, calming. Later tonight she would ask when he expected to return. Éowyn planned to be fully ready to ride when he was. She didn’t plan on telling either her brother or her lover. We shall have a fine time at the Westemnet, and then let them come home from the Wold to discover I am not a plaything to be set down or moved at will, an object with no will of my own. Let it be a harsh lesson.

The boys he’d sent to scrounge game took a long time. Rabbits and birds moved in the brush, but nothing worth the waste of an arrow. The sun was setting, sending crimson and ochre rays through the trees and deepening the shadows to indefinite patches of grey before Faramir sensed something was coming. Finally, soundless steps brought a round-rumped doe into the woods nearby, not exactly the perfect shot as he would have to lean over a tree limb and balance himself on another, but near enough. Faramir stood silently, the lads scooting out of his way, their eyes fixed on him. He shifted his feet, careful to keep his balance as the thick limb swayed gently. Further away he could hear crunching of leaves and branches as the three Rohirrim approached. The doe was wary, big ears flicking, her eyes wide, but she was confident she could hear and locate the danger and that the strange predators were slow and loud. She nibbled on a bit of forage, pausing to listen to the lads. Faramir could not believe the amount of noise they were making even though they were supposed to be noisy. Stealth indeed! They stomp about worse than their own horses! He made a mental note to add some instruction in that area, too, in addition to the archery. An archer needed to be quiet; a bow was a hunting weapon that worked best at close range, something accomplished only with stealth.

He gripped the arrow loosely, waiting. Another step forward would make give him a better chance of neatly felling the deer. She took it and dropped her head again, black-tipped ears swiveling back to listen to the footsteps of her pursuers, not knowing her real danger was far closer. Faramir leaned over the branch, trying not to hit it as he aimed. Interference would mess his shot. Leaves tickled his brow; the balls of his feet and his knees ached from holding himself at such an odd angle, stretched out and over partially open space. He didn’t look down, focused on the deer.

Familiar tension burnt in his arms and shoulders as he inhaled; exhaling, he released the dart. The string twanged softly and, as always, he felt a wonderful sense of rightness as the shaft flew straight through the air. To Faramir it felt as though he’d aimed and released not with his hands and eyes, but his mind alone, that he and the arrow—no more than a straight stick with a bit of metal at one end and feathers on another—were briefly united in a common goal. The bow thrummed an instant more in his hand, feeling alive, too. No sword could have given him this; it was pleasure to shoot, pleasure to feel connected to his weapons, no matter what he felled. The arrow buried itself exactly where he’d planned and the doe collapsed a moment later, smartly and quickly killed. Delighted, he began climbing down.

The three lads joined them soon, after some brief shouting back and forth to locate each other, all of which, he marveled, undoubtedly alerted every animal in all of Rohan to their presence. Wiping his hands and the blade of his knife on the dry, crinkly grass, Faramir bade them carry the dressed and quartered body of the doe. He, after all, was the elder and there were some privileges to being teacher, not student. Hefting only his bow, he supervised. They did not protest, simply obeying as though his words were expected. The stars were out now and as he led the boys slowly down the path, he looked up at them, mentally naming the constellations he knew.

Well, archery practice, I suppose, is a lost cause…he glanced back up at the night sky. The stars were bright and not all of the times a man must use a bow were in perfect light. And there were other things, too, to consider. He doubted they knew how to string their weapons or to check their arrows for any damage. If I’m going to teach, I’m going to teach. Luckily it was a subject he favored. When they’d returned and after the meal, he would set some target up in the valley and let them try to hit it by starlight. Facing away from camp…well away. He smiled. Stray bolts could be collected by light of day. Something shiny perhaps…bright like the glint of an eye or a sword or a buckle of some such bit of metal, something to stand out in the dark… It would be a reasonable target; there were many times he’d just detected something, orc or passing Southron, by the light of its eyes or a shine of metal in the night. Feeling a simple, pleasant sense of challenge in his new teaching position and full of eagerness to meet it, Faramir led his five pupils back into the valley.

Ge canst æfre sægst tó me mid þam þe cwiðan se ansund æf eower geþiode.—You can always speak to me when you miss the sound of your language.

Liliwin—little friend (joke off of Lytle Bregu that Faramir did not get of course)

Well, I would have been a cheap hobbit—this is my 20th birthday gift to you all. I hope you liked it because there’s no receipt ;)

Something was very wrong here, he thought. They sat like two strangers did, neither truly facing, nor facing away; bodies angled, heads turned; neither spoke nor did their eyes meet. Amiable strangers, maybe, yet strangers still. Bygone days of bickering, flung food, or in one memorable occasion, drink, stories, songs, laughing at witty jests and mocking of less witty moved through his mind in a strange procession. His sister sat not two feet away and Éomer was already mourning her absence. Ten years ago he would have leant over and tweaked her ear to gain her attention, never minding any irritated slaps thrown his way, acknowledging his deserving them with a laugh. Now he did not dare to. Éowyn’s expression was unsettled; her eyes were strained, lips firmly pressed together and she sat tensely, occasionally moving in sudden starts as though a powerful thought occurred. Her hands were not as dainty as Arwen’s, but her slim fingers tapped restlessly on the arm of her chair as he peeked at her. What has happened to us? Things had not been this way over the summer. They’d had fun, shared duties. What is different? What is wrong…what is it…?

“What is it?” Her voice startled him just as much as her face turning to his.

Éomer backpedaled mentally, wondering in a burst of paranoia if mind reading was infectious. “Nothing.” Other elves had taken the place of Arwen’s brothers and they sang airily. Some of his people had retired already; it was getting late but the elves showed no signs of slowing.

“You looked like you wanted to say something.” She wasn’t snapping at him; her tone wasn’t angry or acid to cut or burn. Éowyn just sounded quiet and curious, distantly poised and controlled. Mild, even, for all her tenseness a moment before and he frowned. It was bordering Faramir-ish behavior, and thus...

Frightening. Where is my sister? He tried to come up with a response, thoughts blankly scrambling before he said, “They want me to take a wife.” Éomer wondered where in all the wide, blessed Mark that had come from. It had certainly been a topic Elfhelm and many of the other higher-ranking men of the Mark had brought up, but nothing he’d given much thought. No doubt since Elfhelm was arriving tomorrow he would only be pestered again about his Kingly duties of providing an inheritor to the throne. I do not have the time, he thought in irritation.

His sister quirked an eyebrow, her only indication of surprise or any emotion, really, beyond serene blandness and he fidgeted in the chair as she asked, “So?”
Éomer wished he’d said something else, anything else. “I don’t know.”

He contemplated on if she was mocking him. It was impossible to tell, what with her voice so calm and matter of fact. “Where would I find one?”

“An heir?” Now she smirked and became slightly more normal with the glint of mischief in her eyes. Éowyn smiled, “I’m sure you know how to get one of those. I’ve heard enough maids squealing in this hall about your handsomeness or whatnot. The whatnot was rather disgusting in detail—that girl should have had her mouth washed out.”

Éomer clarified, his tone slightly embarrassed as he did so. He’d been careful not to bed any women in Edoras, not wishing attachments or hurt feelings if he did not remember them after a night of drink. Perhaps he’d slipped somewhere. “A wife.”

Éowyn picked at her fingernails, looking less at ease. They were short, ragged and bitten. He watched her. “If you want a noble woman I’m sure Arwen knows many in Gondor she could have march past for you to see.”

The idea was repulsive—those stiffly pretty women posing for him, letting him judge upon appearance alone. Like broodmares for sale. For such and such price I shall receive the highest bloodline to bear the finest foals for the Lord of the Mark. Colts to groom and train into an heir; I’d rather die childless. He grimaced; sickened by imagery and shocked she would suggest it. “I don’t want that.”

“Then what do you want?” She was still picking at her fingers. While he watched she tore off a strip of skin with her teeth and sucked at the blood that welled.

“I don’t—stop that!” Éomer wondered if she was nervous or something to be doing such things to herself. It was almost like punishment; whatever, it made him tense.

“Fine.” Éowyn laid her hands in her lap, the bracelet sparkling on her wrist. They were silent once more. It was awkward and just as he was about to resort to tweaking her ear, she spoke again, “Do you want children?” She looked up questioningly, “Or is it talk of heirs that makes you think about it?” This was an odd topic they’d never touched and both were aware of that. The future had never been discussed; they’d spoken of tomorrow and next week, but never years and years ahead, never their lives. Éomer shifted, uneasy. Everything was changing and at such a rapid pace it was dizzying.

“I don’t know.” He was old enough to have sired a mass of children. Éomer smiled faintly, for all I know I have. Yet no maid had ever approached him with any claim of bearing his child, though he’d taken no pains to hide his identity, even boasting of it at times. The rank of Third Marshal was not trivial or of no great concern, but highly warranted and esteemed. For all he knew he couldn’t sire any at all. It was a new worry to lay itself upon his shoulders. What kind of King would I be in this new Age? It would be considered a bad omen for our people that I could not father a child…a sign that our land would wither. He fretted, tapping his fingers nervously.

Éowyn smiled sideways; her eyes were almost sad, “How alike we are, brother. Neither of us knows what we want when it comes to that.”

He blurted, surprised, “I thought you did.” Éomer frowned, “I mean, I assumed…”

She faced away, speaking quietly. “It’s not the great, abiding goal of my life.”

Her words took him back years and years and all his awkwardness vanished with a sudden laugh and remembrance of his sister covered in mud, her eyes narrowed with determination. She’d been all of thirteen and skinny as a reed. “You’d still rather ride standing over a jump?”

Éowyn looked back at him in surprise, true, delighted surprise. “Yes, I would.”

Éomer smiled, leaning on the arm of his chair, “You never did, did you?”
“No, I always fell off—” She gestured with a smile, “One horse would go one way, the other would go to the opposite…or one would refuse and they’d tangle.” She didn’t look distant anymore. “They were always so confused that I wasn’t sitting.”

It was trick riding to stand with each bare foot on the back of a horse, precariously suspended over hard ground and eight churning hooves. Few could master the art and of those even fewer could fly over the jumps. Éomer remembered seeing a demonstration long ago by men who got paid well to perform such feats for a giant crowd—he’d thought it impossible and briefly he felt his open-mouthed wonder again. Some very talented had straddled two horses and driven four over jumps, the horses flying by with the single rider upright, shoulders squared tall above his mounts. His sister had been inspired, to Éomer’s remembered horror, and eventually Éowyn could walk and occasionally canter with her feet on the back of a separate horse, straddling open air, but her every attempt at the jumps had failed. He’d been glad she’d lost interest at last; it meant he did not have to worry any longer about her falling between the horses and getting hurt.

He shuddered. “Please don’t.” Éowyn didn’t reply for a moment, and then she turned rather suddenly, opening her mouth as though to speak. Éomer waited, but she closed it again, looking troubled. Leaning closer, he asked softly, “What?”

“Do you…do you have any of Mother and Father’s things…?” She met his eyes and then glanced away, “I thought you did.”

Thoroughly dumbfounded, he just frowned, and then replied; “I think so. Yes.”

Éowyn appeared nervous, stammering, “Can we…can we look through them tonight? Please?”

Perplexed and unable to fathom the reason behind this desire, he nodded obligingly. “All right. Of course, if you want.”

“Thank you.” His sister tapped her fingers fretfully a few moments more, and then stood abruptly. “I think I’ll go. Come whenever you tire, I won’t be asleep.” She gave him a swift smile and walked away, leaving Éomer alone to watch the dwindling dancers and brood.

As Éowyn moved through the halls she thought quickly, barely noting her rapid strides. She had to go about this carefully. Éomer must not suspect or guess a thing if she was to escape his watchful eye. As she’d sat by him thoughts had been occurring to her faster and faster, revealing the depth of what her plan needed. Everything, everything must be taken care of from retrieving Liég from the fields to packing her possessions in secret from even the household servants. The servants would speak to the soldiers, for many were married or related to them, and all would quickly get back to her brother. And, too, she had tasks to manage, to ready Edoras for the winter. A winter she wouldn’t see, of course.

I want Mother’s things…and yet, if her brother wished to keep any of it Éowyn would not begrudge him a single item. She could not simply ask tonight, as they went through whatever he had, what he wanted to keep for himself, no she had to be shrewd. And I will mention the trunk in my room…anything he fancies he can hold, no matter what it is. She would have to ask for stories, tales to unearth what mattered to him most. She was not so cruel as to demand all of it for those were his memories far more than hers and links to their parents whom he remembered and she really did not.

Éowyn was in her quarters, about to take off the rich dress and replace it with a nightgown and robe, when she looked back into her mother’s flower room. I wonder…the roses? She’d not thought about it before, but as she walked into the thick smell, sweet and familiar, she wondered if they could be moved. The plants were old, strong and healthy with deep, intricate root systems; surely they would survive a few cuttings for transplant. Every year they were pruned back, kept into manageability in the small room, but she was uncertain how to get a living plant all the way to Gondor. It is a long ride…

The night painted the colorful blooms in shades of still-damp silver, white and black, making her think of Faramir’s surcoat: a deep, flawless sable while the tree and the stars shone out boldly opaline. Éowyn looked up at the skies, wrapping her arms around herself as a cool wind blew and wishing he were with her, to nuzzle into her neck with his warm mouth. But then he would know what she was doing, would catch her thoughts…and it would upset him terribly.

She winced. Éowyn knew that, could imagine her brother’s face too well, could see the hurt and confusion when he rode back to Edoras and was informed she was no longer there. Perhaps I should not...this is desertion…again… She winced.

No, no, I will not back out on this, I will not allow my cowardice to rule me! Éowyn was no longer so angry as she was purely nervous. It was a great thing she was contemplating, to leave without Faramir to help her adjust. But he would help overmuch, he would do it all for me and I know it. He would exhaust himself trying to make it easy, to make me happy. Faramir should not have to do that. He should come home from this grand, preposterous test my brother concocted to find a woman strong and worthy of him. Worthy and appreciative of his sacrifice—how can I truly be that if I do no sacrifice in my stead? She sighed; dreading and trying not imagine twin expressions of unhappiness and bewilderment on the features of the two men she loved best. I want to tell. But I don’t think they would let me go if I approached them…not forbid me so much as by their very faces make me stay out of pity. They would be hurt when they discovered her absence but by then there was nothing they could do. Perhaps I’ll write something, explain. Though she doubted her skill with words, no word at all would be far too harsh.

Pushing these thoughts away for another time, she had plenty of time since Éomer had not so much as left yet, Éowyn turned back to the flowers. I wouldn’t know how…I’d be afraid to come to the City with a wilted mess. Who might…? For a moment she stood frowning, and then Éowyn could have slapped herself. She knew a gardener, didn’t she? Sam might give her an idea at least of what to do, or tell her flat out whether taking cuttings of her mother’s roses to Gondor was impossible or not.

Unable to remember if she’d seen the hobbits in the hall, Éowyn backtracked, returning and peeking into the great, cleared expanse, one hand on the cool wall. She cast her eyes low, searching for a curly head or furry foot—where she found one hobbit Éowyn was certain she could locate the others. Music and light made the Golden Hall very beautiful and very merry looking and made her nostalgic for her childhood when all nights had been like this, when Théoden had been younger and strong and Théodred and her brother had taught her songs. As she watched from the shadows, the peoples laughed and mingled, elves’ voices light and lilting while her own folk spoke rough and coarse. Dogs lay sprawled in corners; tails thumping at the occasional, absent pat or gnawing generously tossed bones. Ale flowed freely from great barrels, with wine, too, for the higher folk. The musicians were making much more tonight than their usual board and meat—the floor before them sparkled with thrown coins. The great fires in the hearths roared, competing with numberless candles and lanterns, casting orange-red light that reddened every cheek. She leaned against the cool wall, almost invisible in the shadows, clothed in her plum gown, still searching.

There were many elves and people but no hobbits that she could spy. Éomer was still seated in his great chair and now joined by Aragorn and Arwen. Glancing at them, Éowyn frowned to herself, trying to remember where the hobbits might have been roomed. Certainly somewhere nice and luxurious, as was properly befitting their great status. And where would that be? They had so many renowned guests in Meduseld at the moment that the minutiae of ranking them according to room size and depth of luxuriousness were beyond her. Wait. Éowyn perked up, watching Aragorn stand and bow to her brother and Arwen, his face cheerful as he spoke a farewell and then came her way. Undoubtedly he could tell her and she could ask him when he planned to return, too. In the shadows, she waited.

He must be part cat, she thought in amusement, to have spied her in the gloom. The King had not shown the slightest alarm when she’d stepped forward and called his name. Turning to face her, he looked pleased and curious. “Yes?”

Éowyn licked her lips, hesitating, and then asked, “When do you plan to return from Isengard?”

“Why?” He smiled at her and leaned against the wall, casually teasing, “Will you miss me? I’ve not even left, Éowyn.”
Not in the mood, she shook her head. “No.” She shifted her feet, and curled a lock of her hair around her finger, looking at it to put off answering. “So I can be ready. I’m going with you.” Pausing for breath, chest tight, she added, “To Gondor.”

“What?” Éowyn frowned hearing the sharp tone. Aragorn laughed shortly, straightening. He no longer looked quite so relaxed, but wary, concerned. His voice was Kingly and stern. “What do you mean? Explain this.”

She fiddled with her hair, not meeting his eyes. They were flashing darkly in the dim entranceway. With the light of the Hall in her face, Aragorn was a towering and mildly ominous man-shaped silhouette; his familiar features were partly-hidden, making him seem even more threatening. “When you come back…I’m going with you and Arwen to the City.”

“Because. I need to.” It wasn’t a very good answer and she winced, knowing she sounded like a child.

“But…” He squinted at her in the dimness, running a hand over and through his dark hair. “But…then what is Faramir doing out there?” Aragorn’s last sentence was charged with a deep exasperation bordering onto anger. When he shifted, his shadow loomed over her.

She bristled back, unable to help it. “I don’t know. I didn’t send him.” Éowyn added truthfully, “I didn’t want him to go.” I am not responsible for this foolishness and I refuse to play into it anymore!

“So…it’s off, then?” He looked back out into the Hall, at her brother. “I don’t understand...he hasn’t spoken…” Aragorn sounded half-searching, like he was reaching for a reasonable answer.

“No, I’m sure as far as my brother is concerned, it’s not.” Éowyn paused, cringing inwardly, child, child, child, as she added. “He doesn’t know I’m going with you.”

Eyeing her—though it was only just possible to read his rising disbelief and vexation in the gloom, he said slowly, “If you’re not going to be here…then why is Faramir? I don’t understand.”

There was a long pause. As it extended she recoiled silently, feeling herself shrinking. For some reason Aragorn’s anger was less tolerable than others Éowyn could imagine; she felt it contained disappointment, a deep and almost parental disappointment that was hard to bear. Finally his stillness broke with a hiss,

“Between them?” Aragorn looked furious and almost like he was growing angrier by the second. “Are you serious?” He turned away only to wheel back and explode, “Do you have any idea of all the things we’re behind on in Minas Tirith? Do you have any idea?”

Éowyn jumped a little as he threw his hand out in a wide gesture of enragement. His shadow leaped like an incensed giant threatening her.

“This…this little outing is wasting valuable time! And you…there’s no point if you go…what?” He stared out into the Hall again, “It’s pointless! It’s squandering weeks…Faramir could be returning, resuming his duties while I leave…duties which have been suspended until who knows when because of this…” Éowyn kept wisely silent, letting him work off his temper. She understood completely and felt guilty, but it wasn’t about her. And I’m sorry I just realized that. Amazed at his anger, something she’d not really seen before, she waited while he trailed off, finally asking, “Did you just think of this…this nonsense to add to an already insane excursion?” He added with a high, frustrated chuckle, “After Faramir left, no less!”

She tried not to smile; he looked so frazzled and his voice was so weighed down with dismay. “Yes.”

Now she fidgeted again, twisting her hair between her fingers and shifting her feet while looking away. “No…”

Aragorn’s eyes narrowed and this time he definitely sounded parental, “Is that a no you haven’t had the time or a no you’re not going to?” His voice lowered with annoyance on the last choice.

He interrupted her, aggressively pointing one finger at her chest. “No…no, no, no, absolutely not! You’re telling them, both of them, or I’m not taking you anywhere and I’m telling them about this. Do you understand me, Éowyn?”

Surprised and cowed by the fury in his voice, she nodded and murmured, “Yes.”

Aragorn stared at her and then raised his head to the ceiling, moaning, “This is ridiculous!” After a minute of her silence, he spat, “A few weeks. Is there anything else?”

Still intimidated, she said quickly, “Arwen forgives you. Do you know where Samwise is?”

The King jerked his hand down the hall dismissively, “That way.” He glared darkly and Éowyn moved away in the direction he’d pointed. A second later Aragorn fell into step. She kept her gaze straight ahead, knowing he was staring at her. Finally, he asked in a rough and clearly exasperated voice, “Why?”

The simple answer would be Gandalf, to link his words to her thoughts. But that would, she felt, discredit the bone-deep and bafflingly evasive way she felt. “I just have to.”

“You know it ruins everything…every point of this entire exercise.” He growled, “The only point it had.”

“I know.” Her words were guilty. In one fell stroke she would be ripping away all of her brother’s power to influence Faramir’s actions. What would become of it…well, Éowyn was completely uncertain as to that. “I just…I don’t want to be between them anymore and this is the only way.”

Encouraged, she spoke again. “I want to…match Faramir in this. I want to be…to do what he’s doing for me.” She winced and murmured, “I know it’s untimely…”

Aragorn made another derisive noise as he led her but his eyes were more or less even-tempered.

In an anxious rush she said, “And I’m sorry about that, really. But,” Éowyn took a deep breath, trying to fully express herself. It was easier with Aragorn; he wasn’t pushing her at all…like Faramir. She blinked, missing a stride in her thoughts. Like Faramir did and shouldn’t have to... “It shouldn’t be him alone that gives effort to this…to us.”

Aragorn was gazing at her now, as they walked, listening silently but without any forbiddance in his manner, so Éowyn went on.

I’m not a prize to be won or a bit of chattel to be bought with a month’s service…I’m; I will be his partner. Equal in all things.” She glanced sideways; unnerved at the depth she was revealing and growing angry again with her brother. Ruse to keep her close or not, how dare he? “It’s not right, how it is now. Do you understand?”

The King heaved a sigh and to her surprise, smiled at her. “I suppose.” His smile turned slightly crooked with amusement. “But you’re pitching in, my Lady.” He chuckled, “Oh, yes, I’m going to expect help for putting up with this.”

“Yes…” Somehow, she felt helping Théodred and Éomer manage the Mark as Théoden slowly fell into a stupor and Gríma gained alarming control was rather different than whatever Faramir did in Minas Tirith. The idea of being responsible for even a portion of the massive Southern city was overwhelming and yet, it challenged her, made her feel like she was facing some desperately difficult but still scalable peak. It was a challenge that raised her blood and made it strain for the undertaking.

“I’m guessing Éomer and Faramir haven’t mentioned Ithilien and their plans, have they?”

Aragorn smiled with a stern edge coming to his lips. “It’s not my place. When you tell them, ask them.”

“All right.” She nodded quickly. This would not be disputed. He’d meant it fully when he’d said he would tell.

The King came to a stop and rapped on the wide door for her, “Here.” Turning on his heel, he left her as just as thudding footsteps were heard and Pippin whipped it open.

“Éowyn!” The hobbit beamed upwards. “Come in!” His mouth was red, smeared with something before he wiped it with a sleeve. “I’ve got a pie.”

She smiled, unable to keep up her melancholy mood in the face of such eager good cheer. “Hello, Pippin.”

Inside, the rooms were just as nice as she’d thought they would be—fully furnished with the warm wood that was rare in her land, velvet, pillows, thick rugs on the floor. There was a man-sized desk and there Frodo perched on a chair and several cushions, writing. Pippin trotted past him, cheerful while she lingered.

In the candlelight, the eldest hobbit’s skin was palely glowing. Focused, he didn’t look up as she paused. He was going back and forth from the scribbled notes to other blank leaves of paper. Frodo’s hand was beautiful now, not at all scrawling, but flowing and neat as he wrote, though the pen was still clumsily gripped. Éowyn was deeply envious; her own was awkward and halting from lack of use. On the far end of the desk was a small dish and fork—Frodo, too, had had pie but had managed not to get it all over his face. Unlike some, she thought and smiled.

She followed the youngest hobbit into the next room, where he climbed onto the, naturally, man-sized bed. The pie plate tilted precariously with his weight, but didn’t slide. It looked to be a berry pie. Pippin had no plate, only a fork, which he used to shovel a bite into his mouth. On the other bed, Merry and Sam were companionably packing clothes, folding garments and placing them in their packs, sometimes exchanging items. Éowyn, at Pippin’s wave, seated herself on the bed, too. She politely refused an offer of a forkful of pie, bemused.

Merry grinned at her with his pipe held in his teeth, sweet smoke filling the air. “Hello.”

“Hello, Lady Éowyn.” Samwise, too, greeted her, though with far less familiarity.

Trying to remember if she’d ever spoken to him, really approached him alone, Éowyn frowned. She doubted it—Sam tended to be the shyest of the four, rarely addressing her unless it was clearly proper to do so. “Um…”

“Did you come to get us to dance?” Pippin grinned redly, tiny seeds sticking to the corners of his mouth, “We could teach you the Springle Ring.” She felt like taking a cloth to him and scrubbing his little face clean.

He glanced up, obviously startled, his rough hands pausing on the soft, folded cloth. “What is it, Lady Éowyn?”

She felt the urge to tell him to call her Éowyn alone, but felt it would be useless. “Well,” Éowyn shifted on the bed, “In my room there are roses and…I want to take cuttings of them with me when I leave for Minas Tirith. Do you think you might be able to advise…” She trailed off as a sudden brilliancy seemed to come into Sam’s quiet eyes and a joyful, keen quality sprang to his normally peaceable and wholesome face. His callused hands dropped the half-folded clothing without another glance as they flopped onto the bedspread. He looked elated, enraptured at her words and very abruptly alive in a way she’d never seen him.

“I’d have to see them.” Sam was stepping away from the packs even as he spoke, no longer quite so formally, she noted. His expression was intensely eager. Merry looked from the packs to her and stepped away, too.

“I’m not doing this alone,” He announced around his pipe stem. Pippin looked alarmed as his cousin eyed him, and then swallowed another mouthful and nodded quickly as he slid from the bed.

Éowyn stood and gestured to the door. It was blatantly obvious that Sam was agreeing to her request. “If you want, then…” The gardener was moving in an instant, his strides hurried, hairy feet almost springing with enthusiasm, the first of the hobbits to actually force her to walk quickly instead of shortening her steps to match theirs. Frodo barely glanced at them as they left; his attention was entirely focused upon the papers.

Gaer squinted in the firelight. “You look like…” He grinned over at Nier, “what’s the word?”
“Horse-thief.”

Faramir ignored them and ate his roast meat with relish. It was good with crispy fat, hot and dripping grease into the dust at his feet. The hounds that had accompanied them to the camp crouched on the edges of the ring of stumps, licking their chops and whining softly as they waited for their share. They wagged long tails at the slightest sign that their hunger was heeded, rising preemptively from their crouch. Thrown fat or gristle was swiftly fought over, breaking the Rider’s conversations with the snarling and snapping of dogs.

He licked his greasy fingers, glancing longingly at his bedroll, still attached to his saddle. Faramir was getting very weary, feeling his lack of sleep as he chewed—it was a warm grey blanket spreading across the back of his mind. Across and beside him his friend and acquaintance; he supposed Nier was still deciding; were companionably offering names to each other. Without translations he quickly tired of it. They hadn’t been up all night and were in good spirits. Swallowing his mouthful, he asked, “Why?”

Faramir repeated himself patiently, looking back and forth between the younger men. “Why?” He was thirsty. Wine, nice and cool, just the right flavor …he contented himself with a cracked mug full of tepid water gathered from a river or stream he had yet to come across.

Obediently, he glanced down. He was seated on a stump just like them, eating with his hands just like them and Faramir could see no especially thieving qualities in his manner, and…he looked again…he even was dressed like them. These people are all mad. Well…he glanced over to where his students huddled. They weren’t mad. Yet…Faramir smiled. Perhaps he could catch them before they became peculiar, give the lads a chance. Suspiciously swirling some more of the luke-warm water around in his mouth, he wondered if it might be in the rivers. “Would you just tell me?” He sighed, “Where did you go, anyway?”

Gaer was apparently so horrified he almost choked before answering strongly, “No.” Nier looked properly abashed, offering after a moment,

He spoke up again, feeling the effects of a venison-stuffed stomach on little sleep. “What does it mean?” To Faramir the name sounded no more than a bunch of mumbled syllables. Meaningless and something one said with one’s mouth full. He yawned deeply, wincing when he felt his jaw pop.

“Noble stranger.” Gaer was licking his palm with pleasure. Odd, none had thanked him for the fresh meat, the Rohirrim simply taking his effort as their due. Luckily he had enjoyed it and wasn’t insulted. Not that my taking insult would be noticed…bemused, he looked at them as he considered it and shrugged. At least it’s “noble” and not something offensive. But how was he to know if it was good or not if they didn’t translate all the names? It lacks…what? I don’t know, but it does.

This time he was promptly replied, though through a mouthful of venison. “Get salt for Edoras.”

“Up there where?” He felt like he was conversing with a child. An annoying child. Faramir almost snorted laughter, looking at Gaer. I bet he was. He eyed the redheaded man. I wonder how old he is. He appeared no older than Éomer, in fact, quite younger. Éowyn’s age? This led him to the surprising fact that he didn’t know exactly how old Éowyn was. Pondering this, he listened until he was answered.

Like “Up there” that told him exactly nothing. “Am I going to be doing this?” If so he wanted some information. In Gondor salt was traded from Dol Amroth or other places conveniently near the Sea. Rohan was a long way from the Sea and he wondered how they got it. Salt licks? That seemed ludicrous.

Gaer and Nier looked at each other, just as puzzled with him as he was with them. Nier held up the hunk of venison in his hand and then nodded to the five lads. “This and them.”

Astonished, Faramir said the first thing that came to his head, “That’s not work.”

“Yes, it is.” The two Rohirrim were staring at him. Redheaded Gaer answered him slowly, “You’re going to be getting us food and teaching them. That’s plenty.” He chuckled, “Leave us something to do, Faramir. You can’t impress our Lord if you collapse from exhaustion.”

Still not work. He frowned, “Wait, I’m getting food?” Faramir looked around himself. For everyone? Every day? That might be considered work, he thought. But barely and only if he considered the walk and carrying his weapons, which he did not at all; such an easy charge, he thought in amazement, if all he was expected to do was roam the woods teaching the basics of woodcraft and archery while leaving just enough time to stalk game to feed roughly two dozen men. He smiled; Faramir was delighted for the first time Éomer had proposed this madness. Such duties might tempt him to stay as a soldier of Rohan forever—they far exceeded the dubious pleasure of sitting in Council or the mammoth task of ordering Ithilien into a self-reliant, established and prosperous land free from shadow.
Nier answered him, “You volunteered.”

“I could have said…no?” Faramir was baffled by the command structure or complete lack thereof. The idea of refusing a higher-ranking man’s request that he go and hunt for fresh meat was preposterous. There was no reason to refuse, nothing to support the minor insubordination. Glancing around himself again, he noted anew the way soldiers mingled freely, though surely there was some sort of rank among them, some way of differentiating experienced men from green, and senior from unproven. And yet it was invisible to him if there was—no bowing, no “sirs” and no special bit of rainment such as an insignia or token; nothing that gave him any indication that any man ranked above another. Even Aldfrith hadn’t been served his meal first. The unruliness disturbed him after the strictly classed service Faramir had grown up in, where the disrespect he saw practiced daily in Rohan would have been punished.

Faramir took another drink of his water and, as he sat, felt a wide, irresistible grin spreading itself across his face. I thought this was supposed to be difficult…instead, it was turning out to be a holiday.

Éowyn wasn’t sure what she’d expected but it wasn’t this. Maybe she’d thought Sam would poke around a bit in the flowerbeds and then speak a little. Looking down at the papers in her hand, she smiled, still awed by the knowledge that had flowed like a fount from the simple hobbit. He’d written, on paper Pippin had raced back to beg from Frodo, lengthy instructions and even drawn diagrams in a surprisingly quick, keen hand. Essentially, there was now no way she could arrive in Gondor with dead plants unless she was an utter fool.

He smiled brilliantly up at her. “Thank you, Lady Éowyn.” The gardener’s voice was no longer shy but quick and happy, “These are beautiful flowers,” His hand caressed one of the blooms, so light the delicate petal scarcely dipped, “It was a pleasure.”

It had obviously been—he’d ordered, manner immediately far, far more authoritative, candles to see with and spent a long while muttering to himself over the plants. Éowyn had been forced to linger in the doorway, torn between watching Sam with the roses and watching Pippin and Merry poke into her things. They’d pounced upon the bearskin immediately, shouting questions over two rooms and seemed duly impressed at her answers—yes, she’d killed it, yes, she’d hunted it and yes, it was very big, indeed.

Merry had been interested in her new sword, “Aragorn had them make me another…” He frowned, “It’s not like this—” His small hand touched the horsehead design on the pommel. Her blade was too long for him to hold comfortably; Éowyn tactfully held it herself while sitting on her chair, so that it was just below eye level for him.

“That’s the design of our people and we alone use it.” Éowyn felt for him, he was carrying naught back but the surcoat and shield to identify him as a Knight of the Mark. She frowned down at the hobbit. There was little he could carry with his small stature. Perhaps she’d find or think of something to grant him as a gift. Merry deserved all the gifts she could think to present—his bravery had saved her and allowed her to meet Faramir and that alone, other multiple acts of courage notwithstanding, was a deed that left her deep within his debt. She resisted the impulse to hug him tightly and whisper her gratitude into one pointed ear.

Pippin had admired the carved furniture, exclaiming its realness and shouting to Sam about it so that the gardener eventually peeked back in long enough to nod. Then both younger hobbits had laboriously climbed upon her bed to leap up and down and whine at its softness because it spoiled the jumping. “Man-sized beds are the best because you can’t hardly fall off. I wish I could have one in Tuckborough.” Pippin had explained, each word punctuated by a furry-footed bounce. Éowyn watched indulgently as they took her smooth and neatly tucked bedspread into wrinkled, hanging oblivion, laughing light-heartedly all the while and calling for her to join them.

“I don’t think so.” Leaning against the doorway, she watched Sam smell the flowers, his eyes half-closed with pleasure. She was happy that he was enjoying himself.

The gardener caught her glance, “How old are these? The roots go very deep.”

“Come, we’re older than you are!” Merry grinned at her; teasing and letting himself fall onto his rump. “We won’t tell.”

She shook her head, smiling. “No.” Answering Sam, “I don’t know.” In the midst of this, her brother had wandered in and now stood with a bemused smile on his face as the three hobbits filed out while calling goodnights in varying degrees of boisterousness. Their eyes met and she laughed behind her hand. Éomer smiled again; his expression turned slightly inquisitive as he looked at the trunk. Éowyn called after the three, “Goodnight, thank you Sam” and turned back to her brother.

He gestured towards the door, now looking just as awkward as she felt. “Do you want to help me get the…” She nodded quietly, setting down Sam’s instructions on her dresser, her eye catching on the crack in the mirror, and followed him into his rooms. Éomer moved hesitantly, as though he would have rather not and Éowyn wondered nervously if this was cruel of her, making him relive memories of their parents. After all, he’d never suggested it before. Looking at his broad back and half of his face, expression impassive, it was impossible to tell. She hoped not, dearly, not wishing to hurt him any more than she would.

There, under his bed and in the far corner of his bedroom, were several large wooden chests—the wood was scuffed, greying with age, the metal locks were broken and tarnished. They were surprisingly heavy; Éowyn took one end and he took the other, Éomer doing most of the actual hoisting as they dragged the trunks back into her rooms. She mainly steadied the chests as they moved, her brother backing in slow strides; his eyes he kept turned away. She bit her lip hard, worrying.

Once inside with their prizes, five chests in all placed between the stuffed chairs in her room, they hesitated. Éomer put his hand out, touching the dust on the wood and almost drew it back before opening the trunk in one swift movement. Éowyn leaned forward, her gaze darting between his face and the contents. Her brother’s eyes narrowed a little then widened and he laughed, delighted. “Look!”

Inside were obviously possessions of their father’s—a sword in a dusty, cracked leather scabbard, multiple other small weapons, tools and clothes. “What?” She felt oddly left out and wanting, utterly bereft of the joy that lit his features as he recognized different things and set them out for her to see. Éowyn was suddenly dispirited and a tendril of loneliness moved through her heart. All at once she wished for Faramir, but knew his presence would have been inappropriate.

Éomer drew the sword gently from the fragile scabbard, his hands delicate, “This was Father’s…I remember watching him clean it, sharpen it.” His eyes softened and he smiled at her before handing the blade over and digging deeper into the chest. “Hold it.”

The wrapped leather grip was chill, the metal far more so and she shivered as goose bumps arose on her arms. Éowyn peered at the sword, wondering if some trace of blood remained upon it; she’d always heard it had been in their father’s hand still, when he fell. She touched some of the dust that had penetrated the cracked scabbard and then replaced the blade in its brittle sheath. Éomer already had more for her to look at. He didn’t appear sad at all; Éowyn silently reflected that she was the sad one and returned her brother’s wide smile.

They moved quickly through that chest, Éomer looking happier and happier at each newly rediscovered item. He gave her stories, telling bits of memories that Éowyn listened to hungrily, feeling her own memory stir, but never divulge anything more concrete than twinkling impressions of color, sound, scent. Mother singing; swinging her legs in her chair, waiting for breakfast; Éomer pulling her hair and making faces like a goblin; Father lifting her high onto the back of his horse, walking it slowly and keeping beside her with his hand on the small of her back, careful in case she fell…

Éowyn touched cold metal, dried leather, rough wool and dulled, pitted armor, remembering nothing more profound than her father’s smile, his deep voice loud and laughing as he held her close. Across from her she realized that Éomer looked much like him—big and broad, his voice rich and warm, hands quick and oddly clever as they replaced the sword. Her throat felt tight and her heart ached with isolation and Éowyn was glad when they closed that chest and moved onto another.

The next trunk held possessions of both their parents, mainly small items—a silver hand mirror and hairbrush; tools to straighten spears; a large packet of sewing needles with innumerable types of thread; spare leather and cloth for patching; a bridle with a rusted bit and another piece of their father’s armor. Éowyn felt herself tremble at the sight of it, felt her eyes burn; the breastplate was near broken, deeply dented. It was obviously old, not, of course, the one he’d worn when he’d fallen, but still, the sight shocked her. Éomer’s breath caught for a moment and she thought he would choke before he lifted the aged breastplate out of the wooden chest. The leather that would have held it on was dried and the buckles were badly tarnished. She reached out, unthinking, and touched it. The etched metal was cold, rough with corrosion and Éowyn jerked back her hand. She wondered why the thing had been kept—it might be repairable, but still, the reason escaped her.

Éomund and almost all of his small company had never returned from Emyn Muil. She’d not heard until she was almost twelve that their father’s body and those of his fallen men had been horribly mutilated by the victorious orcs, and then arrayed for all to see on the bald, bloody ground, a crumpled, mangled message of the Dark Lord’s power. Éomer had not wanted her to hear and been enraged to find her crying to herself, completely furious at the soldiers who’d spoken. They didn’t know I was there.

She remembered him trying to comfort her, hugging her tightly, breaking voice stumbling as he swore their father had been dead long before the orcs could do what they’d done. He said it didn’t hurt; it had been quick and the rest…afterwards, the orcs…that had happened when he was gone already. He’d said that Father was in the other world, safe, happy with Mother and waiting for us… Tears burned her eyes; they met Éomer’s across the wooden chest and his, too, were damp. He’d tried to tell her there was no fear in death, that it came swift…like a rabbit, it’s eyes shutting down before the dog even sprang...but that wasn’t true any longer. She feared it, feared separation…from Faramir. Would it always be a choice between him and her family?

A sudden new memory did arise and she immediately wished it hadn’t—fear, darkness, strange men’s speech and the sound of her mother’s weeping and cries of grief. She looked down so he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes.

Éomer did not speak, very gently setting the broken metal plate aside; his face was forcibly detached. At the bottom of the trunk was a dress carefully wrapped in cloth; her brother immediately stood and unwrapped it, his features intent with a surprised and relieved pleasure. Gazing up at him, she had the odd feeling he’d been searching for it. The gown was indescribably rich and despite its age, still well preserved. It was made of a soft and warm ivory with a light azure-colored velvet down the center, flowers, of course, outlined in the white lace that covered the blue. Its sides were held together with ivory strings; it seemed heavy with velvet and elegant lace as he held it up for her to see. The neckline came up in two soft curves, emphasizing the bosom beneath it. The sleeves were long, billowing gently past the elbow and the hem trailed; Éowyn couldn’t imagine walking in it. She’d trip and land on her face for sure. Her brother’s eyes met hers. “You have to take this.” It was her mother’s wedding dress. He glanced at it again, and then added quietly and gently, “Even if you don’t wear it, it has to go with you.”

Éowyn nodded, surprised and moved; she’d not guessed he would offer her these things so freely. As the elder he had first claim, and doubly because he alone could remember them. I haven’t even yet given thought to a wedding dress… She swallowed; thinking that showed how very unprepared she was. If she did not make herself prepare, she never would. And that is the point of this, my escape. Éomer carefully refolded the gown and moved to set it on her bed; just before he carried it away, she touched the folds, marveling at the sumptuousness of the material and wondering where it had been gotten.

The other two trunks they’d carried into her rooms held more clothing, mainly their mother’s and, unexpectedly, some clothing from their childhoods. Éomer pointed out different gowns he could remember seeing their mother wear and he laughingly held up several miniature, stained and ripped dresses that Éowyn couldn’t for the life of her remember. “Look at these.” He grinned, “Not fit for rags.”

She smiled, feeling her sadness fade, too. “I’m sure I didn’t mean to…”

“I’m sure you did. I watched you do it half the time…and with a perfectly trollish expression on your face.”

“No, you weren’t; he lied to you, sister. You were a little goblin.” Her brother smiled back and laughed, holding the little garment up. His smile widened, “I wanted a brother, you know.” She frowned a little, nonplussed, but he went on, amused, “Imagine my surprise when I found I’d gotten one.” He grinned, “You stole my things as soon as you could crawl, dulling my wood spears by stabbing them in dirt and breaking my bowstrings.”

She defended herself, “Because they were better. Who wants to play with a silly doll?”

Éomer looked back at the tiny dress, sobering. It was no more than a scrap of red cloth and lace; his hands dwarfed it. He remembered that argument and the hundreds of them that repeated over the years—she wasn’t going to sew, she was going to practice throwing a spear; then with increasing vehemence, she wasn’t going to cook, she was going to go hunt and he could cook, Éomer...just because she was the girl didn’t mean anything…

And I got kicked a few times for forgetting it. No wonder I haven’t sired any children. He smiled a little.

Abruptly his eyes met hers and his voice became very subdued, “Imagine my surprise again when I found I hadn’t gotten a brother after all…instead you grew up a beautiful woman.” Faramir had been right, all of it. Damn him, he thought irrationally and took small pleasure that the Steward was spending the night on the hard ground, hopefully with a great, sharp rock right in his back. I hate him.

It irritated him to no end to know he was lying to himself. When did that happen? Éomer looked at the scrap of red dress and gritted his teeth, fiercely certain his natural dislike would reassert itself soon. It had better. What would he do if he didn’t dislike Faramir? Make friends? Bah.

“Éomer…my poor brother.” His heart aching, he let her lean over to hug him tightly, feeling the tension in his muscles; she kissed his rough cheek before pulling away. As she sat back in the chair, Éomer replaced the little dresses with his fingers careful, folding them neatly and making himself want to weep because it was useless care. These things would just go back to the shadows, back to obscurity and forgetfulness. There was no need and would never be again, he could not go back. Who kept these? Théoden? Oh, why, why? There was naught but pain in these trunks.

He’d surprised himself and didn’t immediately have an answer. Smoothing the tiny clothes, he muttered, “This.”

“What?” Her voice was nervous. He lifted his face and gave a tiny movement of his hand, a gesture that managed to encompass everything. She looked away as though feeling guilt, and murmured, “It will be all right, don’t worry.” For a moment he was skeptical, gazing at her closely, but then he sighed,

Éowyn smiled, looking anxious to recapture the joyful mood. “Are you hungry?”

Éomer’s morose expression broke into a smile; he leaned back, hands on his thighs, trying to sound jovial. “What kind?”

“I don’t know.” She laughed and he did, too. They snuck into the kitchens, shushing each other and laughing a kind of desperate laughter that neither acknowledged, though both felt, for to do so would doom them to tears. Distantly the musicians and elves were still singing; Éowyn hummed along until he elbowed her. She swung her arm, contacting back and they slapped at one another until he hit the wall and yelped in pain. Éowyn laughed silently, more naturally, as she listened to him curse under his breath. It was silly, beyond silly—these were his kitchens, Éomer could do whatever he wanted but it was much more fun to bump into each other in the dark and try to locate pastries in the partial blackness.

She halted; she was sensibly keeping her hands in front of her. Under the door was a thin beam of light from the coals still alive in the great hearths. In it, Éowyn could just see the gleam of her brother’s flaxen mane. He was farther away than she’d thought. “You got it?”

“You’re not getting to me with that.” Éowyn found a cupboard, and was slinking her fingers slowly across the shelf when she felt something too small, light and quick to be a mouse scurry over her knuckles. She squealed and leapt back, swaying, unbalanced in the darkness. Her brother’s voice came from her left, slightly concerned, “What is it?”

Éowyn shook her hand violently, shivering. “A spider.” How Sam had ever faced the gigantic spider she’d heard about she would never know. I’d have fainted dead away…

Her brother’s voice broke her thoughts, now far slyer than concerned. “Hmm…I’ll bet there are lots of them in here at night…with the candles out they can move about just as they please…”

“Be quiet!” Éowyn froze, wondering if she really felt something climbing up her calf and she stomped her foot just to be sure. The sensation came again and she slapped at her leg, gaze darting in the darkness as her skin prickled.

Éomer sounded gleeful. “Wee little creepy-crawlies…tickling up your arms…”

She rubbed the tops of her forearms fiercely as they tingled. “Stop it!” He loved this, had always tormented her with spiders and bugs, relishing her girlishness when it came to insects. Mice and snakes Éowyn could handle, but not spiders.

“…On your face, the top of your head…” His voice got lower and deeper, whispering, “running up and down your neck, all those little legs…”

She felt it, then, felt something light and ticklish on her shoulder, like tiny feet running up her neck and Éowyn shrieked at the top of her lungs, jumping up and turning to slap wildly at her neck and the shadowy air. Her hand hit warm flesh that was most assuredly not a spider.

“Éomer!” He’d snuck up on her in the dark. She cursed him, shivering and rubbing at her prickly skin; the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up. Her brother burst out laughing and ducked away as she smacked him again. There was a crash of metal pans and he swore as they heard trotting footsteps and then the door to the kitchens swung open.

A serving woman peered at them in honest confusion. “Do you need something, m’Lord?”

“No, thank you. I can manage.” Éomer was trying not to laugh, red-faced with his lips pursed. Éowyn glared at him, rubbing her neck. The woman frowned, but left. In the light from the doorway, her brother snatched up a tin of something and sniffed it gingerly, pronouncing it a cake. “This will do. Get something to drink.”

With illumination, she easily found the door into the pantry and entered, smelling earth and feeling the cooler air. There was a small jug of leftover milk, chill and still good. Éowyn grabbed it, suddenly hungry. Éomer was waiting and she waved at him, ordering, “Go.”

They pushed the trunks aside and ate while sitting cross-legged on the bearskin; some kind servant had started a small fire in her hearth and Éowyn enjoyed the way the flames reflected off the dark fur and warmed it. Her brother eyed the giant pelt and sighed, “Did you have a good time doing it?”

He looked more envious than furious, surprising her, poking at the bear’s worn teeth and rubbing the chipped points with his thumb. “Was it a good hunt?”

They sat in silence for a moment before he shifted almost uncomfortably; his eyes met hers, and then flicked away. “What did he say when he saw it?” He took a quick bite.

Faramir? He wants to know about Faramir? This new interest stunned her into admitting, “He didn’t like it, either. It upset him.” She waited nervously to see what he would say.

Éomer harrumphed and then, to Éowyn’s incredulity, smiled. “He’s got some sense, then.”

He grinned, “I wouldn’t go that far. He’s out there, isn’t he?” Éowyn smiled despite herself. “Now, what’s in that one?” Éomer nodded at the last trunk.

“Clothes and jewelry.” She ran her hand over the amber bead necklace; Faramir’s dolphin pendant was wrapped around her wrist once more, unseen under the sleeve. She felt it bump her skin. “Like this.”

Speaking around a mouthful, he said, “It’s pretty on you. You’re taking these things?” He seemed quite interested, willing to talk in the way she’d thought she’d have to coerce him into doing.

Sooner than you think, sweet brother of mine. Éowyn looked down at the mostly empty cake tin and jug of milk. “Yes.”

“Good.” Her brother wore a white mustache; she covered her mouth to keep from giggling at him and asked carefully,

“No, I’m not sure I would get the use out of them you would.” He teased her, reaching out to pluck at the hem of her gown. “Not my color.”

She felt a mischievous smile threatening, pulling hard at the corners of her mouth. “I remember one time you let me dress you in…”

Éomer glowered immediately. “We said we’d never speak of it again. It never happened.”

Éowyn was snickering to herself as he pulled her up without effort. “At least I wouldn’t let Théodred do what he wanted to.”

“Drag you outside so everyone could see.” She laughed, “You thought it was a fine idea, too, you were so very drunk.” Éowyn burst into giggles, “You sang in such a high voice…dancing and swinging that skirt…”

Éomer shuddered, “Thank you for sparing me” and then smiled gently, sadly. “I miss him…them.” It was a tired whisper, a frail ghost of his hearty voice.

Soon you’ll miss me, as well, she thought and felt her heart twist with guilt. “Me, too.” Moving into his side, she hugged her brother very tightly, feeling his familiar mass. Tears arose in her eyes and she made sure to blink them away before she pulled back. He looked just as cheerless, as though he’d guessed her thought.

Then, surprising her just as much as when he’d asked about Faramir, he nodded to the trunks, “Let’s decide what you’re taking now while we’ve got these out.”

Éowyn smiled with an effort. “All right, but...” she thought about Merry. “Only if you come and see what we can find for Merry.”

Her brother shrugged and they made quick work of the trunks, separating her mother’s things. He pressed them upon her, urging her to take it all and Éowyn could not think of a reason to refuse him. So what if she didn’t sew? She might have time to take up such things in Gondor…who knew? I don’t wish to, but…but, she did wish to please her brother and her having these things seemed to please him. Finally, they were done and she helped him drag the lighter chests back. Éowyn kept two—the one she’d had all along and another.

She made him carry the cake tin and the jug, replacing them in the kitchens. Éowyn held the candles, shielding the little flames from breezes; the halls were unlit, unlike Minas Tirith’s, which blazed with torches. Meduseld contained more wood and would burn far easier than the stone City. Though, she reflected silently, it had burned well enough. Their footsteps echoed in the quiet halls; she led him to the armory, remembering the hobbit’s face when he’d admired her sword. Not that it will get any more use than his…

“What do you have in mind?” He whispered; it was lonely and dark, forbidding any louder speech. She shook her head and they prowled the various weapons and spare armor. The big room was far emptier than normal, slowly being refilled by the metal smiths as they replaced all the armor and weapons used in the war. The unoccupied hooks, pegs, and discolored spots kept catching her eye and Éowyn wondered how many of the men who’d held or been clad in those things hadn’t returned.

It was when she looked up on the wall that she found the horn. “Look. Get that for me.” Éomer was taller, so he reached up and took it down for her—it wasn’t very big but it was nicely made, silver with a long green baldric to strap the horn around oneself. The little instrument was engraved with protective runes and decorated with horsemen riding in a long line winding from the mouth to the tip. He held it up and put it to his lips, mischief in his eyes. She slapped it, her fingertips contacting with cool metal, “Don’t you dare! You’ll wake all of Edoras!”

Éowyn rolled her eyes and took it away. “You can’t blow a horn quietly.” The silver was a little tarnished, but she thought she could polish it back to a more proper shine. “What do you think?” The horn was small enough for the hobbit to bear with ease and it was a great gift—rich and honorable. Only certain men blew horns when they rode into battle, usually close servants of the King. It was fitting. She traced the runes, trying to read them. It was old, very old. Perhaps something from some battle or raid. Maybe after she’d cleaned it she could decipher the runes.

“I think I’d give him whatever he asked for…or pointed at, either one.” Éomer shrugged and smiled in the shadows.

His words came back to her and she smiled back, “Strip the gold from the Hall, would you?”

“I’m sure it would please Brego for you to lay the wood bare—he’d have a word or two for you brother, in the next world and I doubt they’d be soft.” She was teasing but he was serious,

It just made her sadder. “I know. Come, it’s late.” Éowyn looped the horn’s baldric around herself and led him out into the halls again. “I’m tired.”

The next morning Faramir arose sleepy and bleary-eyed to a surprise—one of the hounds was tucked into his side, black nose curled tightly into its spotted flank for warmth. He blinked at the sleeping dog and yawned as it turned more firmly into a ball and, other than one brown and disapproving eye peeking up as he stood, ignored him. His legs and muscles were stiff, both from the day’s exertion and the chill ground, but he managed to find and stagger to the stream to wash his face in. The cold little brook was cheery with clear water leaping and splashing over dark mossy rocks. It tasted far better drunk straight from his hand than the cracked mug and he watched drops of water spoil his reflection, noting with amusement that Éowyn and Gaer had been right—he looked rather rough with his growing beard and hair disordered and entirely unkept. Horse-thief, indeed. Smiling to himself, Faramir tried to do something about it, combing his dampened fingers through his sable locks while thinking, I wonder if she’s missing me yet. He’d certainly missed her warmth against him in her soft bed while lying in his thin bedroll on the unyielding and definitely unwelcoming ground. A week seemed like a long time to wait before he saw or held her again.

Fish darted in the stream, catching his attention, but none were large enough to bother hooking for supper. It was too bad since he’d not fished in a long time and the prospect of teaching the lads to make nets out of boughs and vines and twisted grasses was pleasing. Casting his eye over the banks, he found the perfect little pool, too, to keep the excess fish for later use. It only needed a small, makeshift dam to be perfectly serviceable. Hmm…he eyed the swimming fish, hoping for a sign of a large one or two but it was hopeless and he soon gave up. It was a shame there was naught in the stream but minnows.

Back in camp, Faramir retied his bedroll to his saddle and dug into the saddlebags for clothing. He changed his shirt and socks, bare chest, arms and ankles soon covered with goose bumps in the morning air. He slid the cool linen shirt over his head, since there was a stream nearby to wash in he could wear fresh clothing daily and was glad, and buttoned up his quilted gambeson. He left the mail in the saddlebags where he’d stowed it last night, not expecting any need for it. Faramir almost did the same with the surcoat, but it was cool in the dawn so he kept it as insulation, lacing it swiftly with one hand absently moving to touch the white horse. Next, he wrapped his green cloak around himself in the early chill, marveling. In Gondor it would still be warm in the mornings, not nippy with the first hints of autumn already. Looking around, he noted that a few leaves in the trees were already yellowing. Finally, he put his bracers on his lower arms to protect himself from accidental strikes from the bowstring.

Around the camp, his students were rising slowly from their bedrolls and he made eye contact with each, silently impressing the fact that he wanted to get going. Pleased, he watched them nod wordlessly in reply and move a little faster. Fetching his gloves, fastening his knife to his side, gathering the rope halter and lead and a generous handful of grain, Faramir set off on what he considered his most daunting task of the day—catching Thorn. He planned on riding well into the woods and, if possible, setting a target on a tree and giving the lads a feel of shooting from horseback after they practiced on foot.

The grey was sleeping on the damp earth as he quietly approached, careful to keep silent, hoping to get close before he woke the animal. Under him the grass still glittering with dew and Thorn’s entire right side was damp—his whiskered muzzle had dewdrops on it and his hooves were wet. The outstretched forelegs were free of any trace of the hobbles and Faramir laughed out loud, startling the grey into raising his coarse head and body halfway up and blinking at him. He chuckled, asking, “You’re clever, aren’t you?”

Apparently, if he gave Thorn an hour the gelding could chew through his hobbles and if he gave him a night the horse could unbuckle them with his teeth and sensitive lips, ridding Faramir of even the option he’d used earlier—retying the chewed strands of rope into a crude knot. Somehow, he was beginning to suspect he was grossly outmatched in this horse. Holding out the handful of grain as a peace offering, he said as winsomely as possible, “Get up, let’s go.” He’d approached close enough to hope the gelding would simply surrender.

Thorn lay still for a moment more, as though thinking. Finally, he struck his legs out and heaved his graceless body upright. Shaking, his ears flapped comically; he yawned wide, showing Faramir a set of giant teeth. Encouraged, he extended his hand, sounding silly to himself, “It’s good. You’ll like it.” Under his breath he added, “Please?”

To his surprise Thorn eyed his handful of grain and reluctantly approached for it, whiffing the oats before nibbling them daintily from the glove. His ears weren’t pinned yet, and the animal’s disposition seemed to improve a little as he ate. Faramir used his other hand to wrap the rope around Thorn’s neck, not wanting the horse to bolt as soon as he was done. His mount haltered in a surprisingly short time, Faramir looked at the broad white back and then at the distant camp. “Good lad, stand still…” He murmured gently, gripping the dark mane. Thorn lifted his heavy, angular head, turning it slightly to stare at him. “Stand still.”

Faramir bounced on his heels then threw himself up and over the wide back; Thorn didn’t help, moving forward immediately and knocking him off balance so that he scrambled for the mane, gripping with his knees. “Whoa!” Faramir pulled back on the lead and settled himself before ordering the gelding onward. Thorn complied with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, ears sinking to their normal flattened position. He didn’t bother to ask for a trot, the gelding was far too rough for bareback, so they ambled easily.

Returning to camp, he dismounted and brushed ineffectually at the white hair on his green cloak and dark trousers. His students were in various stages of saddling or catching their mounts, so Faramir moved leisurely. Lifting the blankets, he placed them upon Thorn’s back and then he hefted the saddle. Loosely cinching the girth, Faramir dug into the saddlebags a bit, making sure he’d relaced the grain pouch. With the spare shoe gone and some of his clothes moved, the saddle was not as balanced as before, so he opened both bags and shifted the mail. Holding his bow and laying his quiver over the saddle, he strapped his sword to it, careful to yank to make sure it would stay—Boromir’s frequent admonitions to keep his weapons with him and safely secured ringing in his head—and then Faramir checked the saddle again. When it finally appeared to be balanced enough to rest steadily on Thorn’s back, he glanced away, planning on grabbing something for breakfast rather than having to forage for it in the woods. Faramir, head turned, didn’t notice the gelding perking up.

Thorn had appeared to be dozing, head down, eyes half-closed and he’d taken it for admission of defeat and obedience and Faramir had relaxed his guard. Now the grey watched him and took a small, careful step back; the faint scrape of shod hoof across dirt went unnoticed. Faramir looked at the small fire and the men around it, wondering if there was anything besides venison or stew for the morning meal. He’d just started towards the blackened circle of rocks when a Rider facing him shouted, “Ai! Careful!”

He turned at the sudden sound of hooves and heaving indrawn breath, just in time to watch Thorn pretend to spook. The gelding snorted, shying violently, muscled legs carrying him powerfully to the right, making the loosely girthed saddle sway and then, as the stirrups slapped his sides hard enough to make loud thwacking noises, Thorn bucked, leaping back to the left. Faramir’s mouth dropped open in astonishment and then horror as the open saddlebags threatened to discharge their contents; his hand went loose on his bow as he stared. Thorn bucked forcefully, hind legs easily going higher than Faramir’s head. The gelding thrust himself forwards with his head low, broad back kinking over and over, flinging the saddle’s stirrups high to slap down on his muscled haunches.

Suddenly all of his possessions that were not either on his body or four hours northeast in Edoras were flopping loose, hanging over Thorn’s flanks and spurring him to higher and higher efforts before eventually flying to crumple in the dirt. Shirts, trousers and his mail shining as it landed in a jangling heap and then his quiver, whose strap had been looped casually over the front of the saddle, spewed arrows everywhere before falling, too. They plummeted to the ground like strange leaves, point down, thumping immediately to the dust while his lighter clothing flew a bit, billowing and surging like birds out of control. His sword flopped wildly, but the scabbard was well attached, and didn’t come off.

In a cleared circle of spectators, Thorn bucked formidably, coming down with grunts of effort; his ears, incredibly, were pricked as though he enjoying himself. The saddle was very canted now, sliding sideways and down his light-colored belly as the gelding whirled, dust flying. As though aware his fun would soon be over, Thorn abandoned the outskirts and ran forward through the camp with tail high and head up, an almost cheerful expression on his face, scattering men and horses alike, still bucking as he did so. Some of Faramir’s arrows fell into the fire and were barely saved by quick-fingered men. He could do nothing but stare in amazement as his horse all but exploded in a defiant display of glee in the chaos. As Thorn galloped by, sliding to a stop in a furrow of flying dirt before bucking and wheeling again, Faramir reflected with awe that he was most definitely outmatched.

His shod hooves sparking in the sun as he flung them this way and that, tail and mane lashing, sweat darkening his dappled flanks, Thorn was moving too fast for any of the Riders to snatch his lead, so they just fell back, waiting until the gelding snorted and pranced to a stop before the silent, shocked men and horses. Faramir made no move, still astonished. His saddle was completely upside down; scabbard dragging the ground, open, empty saddlebags gaping, and stirrups hanging awkwardly. As they all watched, the slackly fastened girth buckle finally gave way and the saddle dropped with a loud thudding noise. Thorn stepped away from it, disdainfully flicking his ears and showing no sign of a spook.

The old grey raised his cumbersome head high and blew through his nostrils as though taunting them all before allowing one of the lads, Scef, he thought, to pluck his lead from the ground and gingerly guide him back to Faramir.

The boy stared up at him and mumbled a reply before scuttling off to rejoin the other lads. Around the camp men were gathering his clothing, their faces amused but surprisingly sympathetic as they handed them back. Gaer gave him a quick and supportive grimace, his mouth twitching with concealed laughter. Thorn looked innocent and pleased with himself as Faramir picked up the dirt smeared saddle, wiped it off and began repacking his saddlebags. The gelding stood docile, his point apparently made, while he tacked him up again, this time moving fast and bridling the horse, too. Looking at him and the singed feathers on several of his returned arrows, most of which were bent and unable to be used, he thought, I hate this horse. But it did give him an opportunity—thanks to the ruination of a good portion of his arrows, today he would teach the lads to make simple darts with just the tips. It was a useful skill if cadging arrows from a field of battle and most were broken or bent. Faramir eyed his handful of useless arrows. The points were still good and feathers could be gathered or salvaged. Angered despite the teaching opportunity he’d just been given, Faramir jerked the girth tight, keeping a hold on Thorn’s lead the entire time and not planning to release it again. I truly dislike this horse.

“Where you going?” Gaer popped up beside him again, chewing something with gusto.

Gaer frowned; he could sense the Rohir’s anxiety and hear it in his voice. “You’re not going alone are you?”

Puzzled, Faramir answered, “No, I’m taking the lads.” Why is he so alarmed at that? Did none of them think him competent enough to fend for himself? No, that wasn’t right…it didn’t feel like that. Confused, he stood for a moment, trying to decipher the foreign mind of the man that stood companionably before him.

“Oh, all right. Good.” To his surprise, Gaer handed him an apple and grinned. “Here, we can’t have you fainting from hunger.” It was a little soft, but smelled delicious and his stomach growled.

“Thanks.” Again, Gaer grinned good-naturedly and then moved away. Heaving a sigh and tucking the apple into his saddlebag, he checked the girth one last time. Thorn stood quietly, appearing to be dozing again but he’d learned his lesson—Faramir kept hold of the lead even as he strapped his quiver and bow to his back. He nodded to the waiting lads, swinging into the saddle, “Ready?” Under him, Thorn raised his head, fully awake as he’d suspected; the gelding pulled at the bit, shifting his legs restlessly.

“Aye.” They traded glances and one spoke for the rest. He didn’t know the boy’s name and made sure to ask. Frowning, he thought, I should know their names. They nodded and mounted up.

“Let’s go, then.” Faramir turned the grey’s nose to the trail back out of the valley. He would ride it again but this time head in the opposite direction. His heart lifted at the prospect of a day under the shade of the trees and Faramir clucked to Thorn, urging the horse out. To his relief, the gelding was responsive, jogging easily and they left at a good pace.

Éowyn awoke to a room filled with sunshine. She frowned and flopped back down, about to go back to sleep. But she couldn’t. Her bed felt large and empty, which was silly since Faramir had only shared it for a time or two. She rolled to her side and placed her hand flat on her stomach where he usually rested it; it didn’t feel the same. Too small. I miss him.

Éowyn sighed, irritated with herself, and twisted onto her back. Her nightgown tangled around her legs and she kicked it free. Likely, in a year from now she’d be wishing for a bed alone like this, to stretch out so freely and laze. I miss him… She closed her eyes, feeling with all her inner strength…but nothing, not so much as a brush of mental warmth, no contact whatsoever. He was too far away. I wonder what he’s doing…

Again she sighed. It didn’t matter if she missed him or not. She had the remainder of her life with Faramir; she had significantly less time to spend here with her brother. Looking at her mother’s wedding dress, the ivory and light blue velvet gleaming mutedly in the sun, Éowyn vowed that until she left, she would do her best to make Éomer happy, to not argue with him and when they met Faramir again, she would not allow them to fight. These were her last days and she would make sure they were good ones.

Will they fight? She wondered this, staring at the ceiling. Éomer hadn’t seemed so bitter last night or yesterday morning. It will be better without me, though, I’m sure.

Rising and eyeing her messy bedroom, the wooden trunk half-open, contents scattered over her dresser, and noticing that in the outer room she could see the other trunk sitting right in her way, with yet another sigh, she decided to leave it. Surely, Aragorn wanted an early start and she wanted to say goodbye.

The horn. Merry. Éowyn stood, ignoring the impulse to lie in bed for a while longer. She had work to do if she wanted to leave Edoras behind.

Faramir dismounted in a grove some three miles from camp and waved the boys from their saddles. They tied their horses to the trees, following his example. He gripped Thorn’s lead tightly and stared into the grey’s eyes and spoke slowly, intensely. “Don’t. You. Move.”

The horse blinked at him vacuously, fuzzy ears pricking to listen as he chomped his bit, teeth clanking. He looked harmless, idiot, but inside Faramir sensed that a great and deep cunning waited for him to turn his back. There were many ways Thorn could get loose—chew the lead, untie the knot, he’d already proven himself adapt with buckles, surely a knot couldn’t be so hard, or slip the halter and bridle entirely, rubbing them on the tree. Faramir couldn’t think of another, but he didn’t doubt the animal in front of him could and be back in camp in no time at all.

This horse was intelligent, he knew that well. Yet, so far, he didn’t know how to turn that intelligence to aid him, not hinder him as it had been doing. How could he make friends? Having an inkling, he reached into the saddlebag and pulled out the apple, “Stay here.” Thorn reached for it, a sudden brightness in his eyes belying his former stupid expression. He took a big bite and gave the rest to the horse—it wouldn’t be the first time he’d gone without breakfast. The gelding chewed it messily, slobbering over Faramir’s sleeve and then nosing his arm in search of more. He growled in reply, giving the rope a little shake. “I mean it.” Then, wary, he turned to face the lads. They held their bows, quivers on their backs; their faces were intent, giving him their full attention. Faramir took a breath, thinking back to when he’d been a boy, learning the woodcraft of all good Rangers.

“Today we’re going to start with...” He caught himself, “Héodæg wille ástellan æt…” The word stealth halted him completely.

Faramir inclined his head, thankful as the words jogged his memory. “Ic þancie þe…” He let it trail, hoping they would offer their names. What is that word, Láréow? He’d never heard it before. It sounded like a title.

The boy nodded, “Wurth.” He was the tallest of the five, typically flaxen haired and would carry the characteristically stout Rohirric build.

The other answered after a moment, glancing at Wurth as though for verification, “Feohtan.” This lad was obviously his friend; Faramir suspected he could understand little of the Common Tongue.

A moment later, before he could speak again, Wurth added, “Ic sæcge eow þancas… æt eahtian min Láréow.” He grinned cockily and with a heavy accent said, “When there are two or more, not just one to thank, you say, Ic sæcge eow þancas…” He paused, “min Láréow.” Some of the other boys smiled discreetly and not so discretely at the correction.

“Thank you.” Amused himself, Faramir began to explain the plan he’d come up with, trying not to smile. Their willingness and good-naturedness pleased him; even Wurth’s spirit pleased him. How in the world Gaer and Nier thought what he was doing was work he would never know.

A half hour later, he was sitting with his back to a tree, all alone and waiting. He’d ordered them to remain in the clearing and then begin tracking him. Faramir took out his knife, whittling a bit of a fallen limb to pass the time, watching the curls of wood fall to the ground, trying not to imagine his horse trotting back to camp or worse, all over the Mark with his sword. It was a good blade, lesser in lineage than his brother’s, but still, too good to be drug over Rohan by a runaway horse.

A twig snapped and he looked up, expectant, but it was only a squirrel. He’d left an easy trail for this first attempt, the kind an orc might—heedlessly broken branches, crushed mushrooms or weeds, obvious prints in a wandering line. It was really no more than an exercise to see how good they were, to find out where he needed to start in their education. So far, he could hear nothing but then it hadn’t been very long. The woodland around him was thicker than it had been around Edoras, less underbrush and more tall trees. Sunlight slid down to touch his forearms in long beams, making the leather bracers glow a rich chestnut and gain his attention. Faramir lifted his knife and began tracing the White Tree on the left, slow and careful, keeping one ear and eye out for any of his students. The rich leather scratched fairly easily under the sharp blade, leaving a paler line. The design was so familiar to him he could have done it blind and soon Faramir had sketched both the Tree and the Seven Stars. After a moment he added a sea bird. He left the right bracer untouched, tapping his knife on his leg.

That done he was bored. Arrows. Looking around himself, he discovered an elm tree—a wood good for arrow making—nearby and after a few more minutes, he found a few suitably thick and long branches. Stripping them of little knobby growths, he cut them to the appropriate length, leaving the bark in place. They would need to dry and cure a few days—much longer would be ideal, but he wanted to go ahead and do it. I’m not in battle, he eyed the rough darts, they don’t have to save my life, just fly straight enough to get a deer or let the lads practice.

Faramir was able to make six of the crude arrow shafts and then, that done, he eyed the surrounding forest. Nothing. Sinking back against the tree, he closed his eyes to better hear. Still nothing, no sound of boots crunching branches or leaves, no voices; debatably the lads could be that quiet but he didn’t think so yet. Letting the dart shafts rest in his lap, he rested his head against the rough bark and allowed his mind to wander. They would find him soon enough, no one could miss the trail he’d left.

Éowyn…Faramir pictured her, concentrating. He put her in men’s clothing, simple wool shirt and trousers. She smiled at him, hair hanging loose over her shoulders and he smiled back. Hello, beautiful…oh, what’s wrong?

Her hands touched the rough buttons of her woolen shirt, playing with them, rolling them around and around like he’d like to do to her nipples until she moaned. I don’t know if I should…

Don’t be shy. Nobody’s watching. She giggled, fluttering her eyelashes, and undid them, baring her flawless flesh an inch at a time. Faramir sat up against the tree with his eyes still shut, and was amused at himself— he was pathetically captivated. In his mind Éowyn stopped, teasing him, her fingers holding the shirt closed.

She dropped the shirt but held her hands over her breasts, covering them and smiling naughtily. He stared at the slightly darker flesh of her fingers spread over the pale as milk skin of her bosom, noting that even in his fantasies she kept the dolphin pendant. It was dark, nestled in the warm valley of her delightful breasts, a place he’d enjoy putting his face, hands…and which he still hadn’t fully seen—his Éowyn could be a wonderful tease. Take those away.

No. She shook her head, golden hair flowing. Her bosom moved, pleasantly swinging with her body.

Yes. Faramir grinned at her, or do you want me to come over there and get you? But just as she giggled again, he heard a snap of a branch and soft voices. The fantasy vanished at once and he opened his eyes. Damn it. So close. The admittedly silly visualizations had given him some entertainment over the summer, easing his longing. With a soft sigh, Faramir stood and waited. It wasn’t long before they spotted him and gathered around in an expectant circle.

“God, god…” He smiled cheerfully and tried not to laugh at himself. The boys were looking at the rough arrow shafts in his hands and Faramir held them up, concentrating upon his speech, “Hwa wudu is cyst ac…” Stopped again, he ground his teeth together. Arrow, he thought in exasperation. I know this word.

Fortunately, a moment later three of the lads, Wurth, Leodthain and…not Scef, not Feohtan…dammit, what is his name…chimed in, offering, “Píl, min Láréow?”

Faramir smiled; let’s keep this simple. “Hwa word is…þu híe notast?”

To remember it, he doggedly repeated, “Hwa wudu is cyst ac arwe?” When they just looked at him, he held up one of the darts, “Elm ond æsc.” He sent them around the wood; pleased when they located the elm tree and the three ash trees he’d spotted as well. The most difficult of this was judging correct length for their arrows.

Taking the as still unnamed lad’s bow, Faramir drew back slowly and carefully; if he overdrew he could crack or break the weapon. Just as he’d guessed, it had a low draw weight, roughly, he estimated, 35 to 40 pounds; this was 15 less than his own short bow and less than half the draw weight of his long bow. However, glancing at the boys, it was about right for them—not too heavy but strong enough for practice or small game. Two feet, he guessed, tugging gently on the string. Passing it back, he held out his hands, positioning them several inches more than two feet. They would make mistakes in their first attempts; he had when he was a youth.

“Arwe langférnes.” He was provided with the words instantly; they seemed to enjoy it, taking his ignorance as a game, trying to out-speak each other in offering what he needed; Faramir was unbothered by their smiles.

Grinning back to show he was unmoved, he said, correctly this time, “Ic þancie þe, Wurth.” Turning a bit sterner, he ordered, “Nu, gá.” The lads moved off obediently, searching the trees and calling to one another. Faramir watched and felt oddly content. They were still terrifically loud. Suddenly there was a yelp of alarm and one of the lads jumped back. “Wh—Hwa?”

Unfamiliar with the term, he moved to where they’d stopped and gathered. There was a long, slender snake lying at the base of one of the ash trees. Faramir gazed at it, noting the small, round pupil in the yellow eye. It was non-poisonous, harmless. He looked up at the tree; it bore many promising branches that would likely make good rough darts; dropping to one knee, he looked at the snake again. Slightly coiled at the tree’s base, the beast lay quiet, well aware of the multiple creatures around it and wary. If provoked it might strike, giving a nontoxic but nasty wound. “Láréow…?” Scef gestured towards another tree.

“No. Ná, Ic wille gán hit.” Faramir cleared his mind, thinking greetings, friend. The small eye moved to look at him alone; the slender tongue flicked out. He felt no aggression or fearfulness from the snake, only caution. Unaware the young Rohirrim were staring, he asked it as simply as possible, unconsciously echoing his projected thoughts with softly audible words, “…may I move you? I need the tree.”

The snake, naturally, did not respond, but after a moment, it did uncoil and lie in a more relaxed posture. Taking the calm movement as a sign of agreement, he leaned forward, trying not to make any sudden, energetic actions that might make the creature think he was deceitful and about to attack it. Reaching out, he gently and respectfully lifted it and carried the creature a short distance away, very careful to keep it supported in his gloved hands. Setting it back down upon the leaves, he said, “Thank you, friend.” The snake slithered slowly away and he turned back to his students. They were watching him in awe and incomprehension. Faramir was puzzled.

Too impatient with his vocal stumbling, Wurth asked in an accented but perfectly clear and confused voice, “Why did you not kill it?” Scef translated softly and considerately for his friends.

Faramir was amazed. “It was harmless, I would not hurt a innocent creature.”

The boy blinked at him, frowned and challenged. His light eyes were narrowed. “How’d you know that?”

“The eye. It was round, like yours or mine. When they are harmful, it is like a cat’s.” Perhaps he had far more teaching to do than he thought. Do they have no woodcraft? Rohan was not thickly wooded so perhaps they did not.

Wurth was not finished. His fair-haired brow furrowed suspiciously, “How did you make it understand you?” The boys gazed at him, their faces wearing varying degrees of misgiving and bafflement.

That he could not answer with any truth and he hesitated. Éomer and Éowyn’s reactions were too vivid in his memory and he did not want to alienate his students. For a moment, Faramir felt a deep anger against his own blood and mind. His difference was a shield held between himself and all that lived in the Ridder-Mark. Gandalf’s capabilities had intrigued him as a child, not frightened or threatened…there are no witches in Gondor, though…remember the name Éomer gave you…others would be just as quick. You might frighten them.

He sighed, “I did not.” The boys glanced at each other; he sensed their suspicion and wary sort of puzzlement. Oh, don’t, he thought wearily and entirely reflexively, not even knowing he was doing it. Don’t reject me, I cannot help it. “It was passive; it would not have struck.”

They looked at each other again, warily comparing expressions. The snake had been coiled and ready, all had seen. But they chose to accept his explanation, given as an adult and one they should respect and trust, and nodded before disbanding once more. Faramir watched them, feeling strange. I don’t want to be Faramir any more. Not here, not where I am Faramir the Witch. He vowed to push Gaer on the naming.

He stood quietly, watching them cut down sticks, mainly getting the wood to the correct length and thickness—excess could be trimmed. Once the lads had as many each as would fit in their quivers, he found they did not know the proper way to get the darts back into the shoulder quivers without occasionally dropping them or looking. Faramir showed his students, demonstrating patiently. He held his arm straight and up, not bending his elbow and lightly dropped the crude arrow shaft back into the hole in the leather; then, he had them practice that a bit before he ordered them to stay in the glade.

Again, they would track him. Faramir moved quicker this time, slipping between branches and through undergrowth without harming it and generally leaving less sign. A great tree with low limbs caught his eye and he smiled. They looked at me as though I were mad the last time I sat in a tree…would his students think to search up one or would they keep to what they’d known—flat grasslands? It was as a good test as any.

_{After practicing four more times at tracking, teaching the basics of walking without sound, sharing a favorite game of his youthful training, “The Sleeping Ranger” and identifying multiple plants that made excellent emergency healing remedies, Faramir was too hungry to go on. They’d spent perhaps three hours in the woods, which was good enough; he remembered his own lessons had been brief stints more than long treks. A short survey of his students’ feelings confirmed his idea to return to camp, they too were hungry. Now, he stopped leading the boys and stood hugely amused, once more in the clearing where they had tied the horses. Thorn was staring back at them just like what he was—caught red-handed and knowing it. He asked the grey, “What’s this? What do you think you’re doing?”}

_{The burly gelding’s lead hung loosely on the ground; he’d untied himself and was standing close to one of the lads’ geldings, gnawing on its rope in an attempt to free it, too. The rope was still clutched in his mouth and Faramir tried not to laugh. All six mounts goggled guiltily at him, bobbing their heads and flicking their ears, turning to touch each other’s noses and nervously stomp their hooves. For a moment, Faramir was amazed—they knew; the six horses knew they were in trouble and acted just as naughty children did, fidgeting with wide-eyes as their elders frowned. He wondered if the horses of Rohan, with their Mearas bloodlines, were more intelligent than others were. These horses certainly looked like they understood. As he approached, Thorn stopped chewing the rope, letting the half-frayed thing fall; his ears flattened and his expression was almost petulant—a sullen child interrupted in his mischief. The boys ran forward to scold their mounts as Faramir adopted a stern tone, addressing one brown eye as he grasped the bridle, “You quit this and behave like I know you know how to.” Thorn didn’t move away when he caught the hanging rope, which was good and he considered a step in the right direction. Giving the lead a jiggle, he murmured, “I mean it.”}

_{Retightening his girth, Faramir swung into the saddle, thinking that he should probably be grateful that his scabbard hadn’t been chewed upon or worse. A glance behind him showed his students were mounted and he nudged Thorn with his heels, steering the horse through the quiet, cool wood. But, to his surprise, unlike the journey out, the lads did not stay silent. Instead, after a few minutes of naught but the thud of hooves, crackle of leaves and twigs and soft breathing of their mounts, Wurth spoke up, “How do you know so much, Láréow?” He was no longer wary; they’d seemed to accept his explanation with the snake.}

_{“Hwa, Láréow?” This was the other lad whose name he still didn’t know.}

_{Faramir turned in the saddle, letting Thorn pick his own way back to the trail, “What is that you keep calling me?” He tried to pronounce it as they did and came close, “Láre…Láréo-ow, Láréow?”}

_{“It means Teacher,” Wurth frowned, nudging his bay gelding closer. “That is what you are, isn’t it?” In the background, Scef was once more serving as translator and Faramir hesitated, but his vocabulary in the lads’ native tongue was too small and unreliable. Silently reminding himself to thank the boy later for all his kind and freely offered help, he answered,}

_{“No, not quite…only here.” Gaer had only introduced him as being from Gondor, not named his title. It was much to suppose these youths would know of his rank in this foreign land.}

_{For a moment, Wurth wavered; then looking to his peers, his questions came as a bold flood, “What do you do, then? Are you a great, noble warrior in Mundburg? What is the City like?” Wurth’s friend, Feohtan, murmured something too low for him to hear to possibly answer and Wurth looked back at him, for the first time shyly, and asked, “What is the Lady Éowyn like?” The six boys had moved their horses closer and were looking at him in open interest.}

_{Faramir smiled, feeling peculiarly overwhelmed by their curiosity. Few had ever questioned him so; he stared ahead through the space between Thorn’s ponderous ears, oddly moved. Most had paid attention to his brother’s exploits, not his own. Ah, but to them there is no Boromir to outshine me with his perfect glory… Slightly disturbed by the bitterness of his thought, he quickly cut it off and thought fiercely, a frown on his face, I would rather him be alive and acclaimed the best of all known men and myself the least than what it is now. He swallowed, saddened and looked down at Thorn’s tangled, hoary mane. As it was before. And yet, there was a prickle in the back of his mind as he thought the words, a small, deceiving chill that disturbed him anew because Faramir knew he didn’t want it as it was and…would almost fight to keep his new peace at any expense. I would not give up Éowyn for my brother’s resurrection…the truth of this pained him. Once, and not long ago, he would have done anything. Fleetingly, he remembered the cold water around his legs, soaking his clothes, and the elven boat floating so slowly with the soft lap of the Great River against its sides as it rocked with the current and guided Gondor’s favored son. Briefly, instead of the forest before him, he saw his brother’s face, still and at peace, felt again the way the Horn that had been so lustrous with loving care was now cold and brittle in his hands, broken into shards and useless…like he’d felt standing before his father. Faramir swallowed past the lump in his throat, coming back to the present.}

_{Glancing back at the waiting lads and pushing all his dark thoughts away, he guessed what they wanted answered first and deliberately didn’t do it. “I am the Steward in Gon—Mundburg,” It would be better, he presumed, if he used their terms. “Second to King Elessar and his vassal as all my fathers were before me. I was a warrior, I’m not sure how great,” He smiled, “A Ranger and a Captain of many men before the Shadow was overthrown. I mainly served in the country of Ithilien, which is next to Mundburg, only across the Great River and very close to the mountains that gird the Black Land. It stretches very far north and south and is my princedom now. The Lady Éowyn will live there with me when I build my home.”}

_{Scef spoke for a minute while they waited; he stumbled over the foreign words—Ranger and Ithilien. When he finally silenced, Wurth asked with almost amusing mixture of respect and confusion in his voice. “Why are you schooling us, then, if you are so wellborn, Láréow?”}

_{“The Lord Éomer requested it of me…as a favor,” Faramir lied through his teeth, facing ahead, “Between friends. I agreed out of fellowship, as a way of affixing our future tie and my own pleasure in the art of wielding a bow.” And it hasn’t turned out so badly after all… So far, there had been a noticeable dearth of insults and mockery…not exactly what he’d been braced to expect. The corners of his mouth turned up wryly, ah, it is still early yet…}

_{They thought about this and then Wurth asked again, “What is the Lady like?”}

_{This time he didn’t have to lie. He smiled while thinking rosily and feeling himself grin a silly, pathetically lovestruck grin. My love, my beloved Éowyn…oh, she is like all things wonderful, beautiful and good. Turning halfway in the saddle and bracing himself with one gloved hand against the pommel, Faramir asked his students, “What do you want to know?”}

_{The answer was immediate; he felt their curiosity battling and winning over self-consciousness. “Everything.”}

_{He felt his cheeks trying to stretch in a huge grin and managed to keep his face appropriately sober only with an immense effort. All the Rohirrim he had met seemed to have an obsession with Éowyn and Faramir found it exceedingly strange. To his knowledge there was nothing like it in Minas Tirith, despite the awe-inspiring beauty and graceful bearing of the new Queen. Perhaps the soldiers hadn’t yet had time to develop fixations. Allowing himself only a tiny upward curve of his lips, he answered slowly and thoughtfully, “That’s a lot.”}

_{The boy replied doggedly, backed by the eager and encouraging looks of his peers, “There’s time, till camp…for some, Láréow.”}

_{He gritted his teeth to keep from laughing when he looked from one to the other—they were intently watching and listening, obviously not going to miss one word. Thorn plodded cheerfully beneath him and Faramir patted the gelding’s neck, stalling so he wouldn’t break and guffaw at his students’ inquisitiveness. Curiosity should be encouraged, not reproached, ever, Faramir felt. He likes this…he glanced at the dangling reins and then the high-pricked ears as the horse weaved through the forest; rays of light burst through the trees, shining prettily and Faramir let his eyes wander for a moment. He could understand Éowyn’s love of her country—it was beautiful. Somehow, he had to show her the beauty of his own native land …Ithilien is like this in some places…a frown creased his brow; but would it only make her homesick?}

_{Thorn blew through his nostrils, shaking his mane, taking Faramir’s wits back to the present once more. He rubbed the gelding’s shoulder. Likes being in charge, I suppose. When he was sure he’d pressed all other thoughts away and that he wouldn’t chuckle and make them ill at ease, he turned again in the saddle, hand propped, and smiled amiably, “All right. Ask me something.”}

_{The questions weren’t very prying, instead boyishly shy and at the same time, deeply curious. They asked what she liked, how he’d met her, how he’d captured her and Faramir kept trying not to laugh, good-naturedly amused as they inquired about his beloved. Some questions he couldn’t answer and they made him want to ask her, such as inquiries about her youth. But his lack of knowledge didn’t bother him much; there would be plenty of time to learn all about Éowyn. Faramir couldn’t wait; he was almost bursting with happy anticipation simply thinking of his return to Minas Tirith. I want to walk with her into my City, to sweep her off her feet and listen to my people applaud when I kiss her. I want to see her in riches, to shower her with everything she could desire. He smiled, listening to the birdsong and feeling the easy sway of Thorn’s stride. I want them to see my love, the one I’ve finally chosen. I’ve been too long alone.}

_{They arrived at camp at
noon; Faramir squinted up at the sun, guessing the time. To his surprise, it wasn’t deserted, but half full of men. Standing, Gaer put his hands on his hips, eyeing him as Faramir dismounted, calling to his students, “Pile your rough darts over there,” He pointed towards the lean-to, intending to bundle the sticks and cure them under the shelter. “Then get something to eat and then I want you practicing for at least an hour.” He’d used the pieces of deer hide as targets, scraping them free of flesh and mounting them upon poles and marking the soft fur black with a stick from the fire. Faramir was rather impressed with his ingenuity in this primitive setting; he smiled, inwardly amused at his arrogance. Wonder who I got that from—a memory of Boromir boasting came into his head, this time filling him with more mirth than sadness. Gaer scowled and he grinned cheerfully, playfully, in a good mood, “What?”}

_{He untacked Thorn quickly, laying the sweaty blanket over the saddle to dry. Patting the gelding’s neck, he released him. Thorn ambled away and lowered himself to roll blissfully in the dust, coating his sweaty body as Faramir asked, still happy, “What food?” Rohan shone bright in the
noon sun, the valley green, the hills amber, the high peaks radiant ivory and the sky a very deep azure; such a beautiful day, he marveled with pleasure.}

_{“We’re hungry here.” Gaer was trying to aim for a scolding tone, but falling short; his amusement was giving him away as Faramir’s face slowly fell. “It’s your duty.”}

_{“It’s all gone?” He was hungry, too. Faramir sighed, “Well I guess I’ll just go back out and shoot something if you want to wait here…”}

_{The Rohir waved his arm sharply, an alarmed expression on his face. “Shh, shh!”}

_{Gaer raised his voice, glancing at the men seated in various places, talking. They were apparently waiting for food. He sang out in exasperation, “Fine! Fine, I’ll help, you!” He laughed and shook his head at their upward looks, adding in bothered tone, “Mann æt Mundburg ná déþ ǽghwæt ánum...” He grinned wide, “Ac ǽghwilc beþ cýððu æt se, ná?” The men laughed as though sharing some old jest and Faramir frowned, irritated and slightly confused by the fact that Gaer was putting on a show—that was what he was doing, inability to read his thoughts aside, his mood and words were undeniably forced. I’m not sure whether to be pleased knowing he’s faking this mockery or all the more annoyed because he’s doing it at all. Faramir chose annoyance.}

_{Immediately, though, the redheaded Rohir grinned in a more natural fashion and stepped close, putting his arm around Faramir’s shoulder and guiding him away. He said quietly and quickly, “Sorry ‘bout that…but they believe that.” The admission surprised him a great deal, but he didn’t relent, glaring and refusing to budge until Gaer let all his breath out in a sigh. “What? Oh, what? You need to stop being so delicate…really, my little sister makes a face like that, all scrunched like a prune.” He folded his arms, “We’ll have to work on that later,” then met his gaze, “There’s a village close by…we’ll go and get something there to bring back.”}

_{Faramir didn’t have any money. He narrowed his eyes, still aggravated, “Like what?” Delicate? I am not delicate and I don’t look like a prune. Glancing at the hills above the valley, he wondered dourly where this village was and then wondered even more so the Rohirric definition of “close by”.}

_{“I said I was sorry.” Gaer bounced on his toes, “Anyway, don’t worry about it.”}

_{He had to be concerned at the mischievous light in Gaer’s face. “It’s my duty, I have to worry about it, remember?”}

_{“I’ll take care of it,” The redheaded man rolled his eyes, “Stop being so responsible, will you?” He groaned, “You’re so unbelievably responsible, you kill me.” Suddenly Faramir had a finger in his face, “That’s not how to make friends, when you don’t go out and all you do is work, work, work.” He grew thoughtful, dropping his hand back to his side, “’Course, you’re not shirking, either…so…”}

_{“I’m here to work, not make friends.” Gaer’s face broke out in a scowl. “Well, not so much.” Faramir amended, adding, “You do understand the agreement, don’t you?” All I do? He’d been here, officially in the company, for a day and a half. Not even that, no, not even a day and a half, more like half, then night, then a morning. What is he talking about? Turning back and spotting Thorn making his way down the valley, he sighed, “I’ll just go out now on foot and…”}

_{Then, astonishingly, the Rohir turned serious. Faramir had been rather under the impression that Gaer didn’t possess a sense of solemnity. He stepped closer, lowering his voice again, eyes sober, “Listen, you don’t need to…”}

_{“Láréow?” Scef had come up to them; he appeared nervous at interrupting.}

_{Ignoring Gaer’s irritated huff and then blinking surprise and then the wave of sheer delight that poured off the Rohir, Faramir turned to ask the lad, “Yes, Scef?”}

_{“Eat.” Gaer interrupted and they turned to him, “They can come, too, and that way you’ll be working. Will that make you happy,” He broke out in a huge and overjoyed grin, “Láréow?”}

_{Trying not to glare, it was hard anyway, in the face of such obvious good cheer, Faramir admitted, “I suppose.”}

_{The Rohir rubbed his hands together happily, “Let’s go, then.” The horses were caught and saddled again, much to Thorn’s displeasure, if one judged by his flatly pinned ears. He made sure not to release the lead at any point and to keep his tacking up as swift as possible; the horse gave him no trouble. Gaer led them at a jog up the valley, instead of down it where the camp was. Faramir noted two trails; both very widely rutted, he guessed, to accommodate the wagons drug by the mammoth draft horses. They slowed and he could hear distant voices, the half-chanting song of working men. Get salt, Faramir thought, but he could see nothing except trees and brush.}

_{Gaer fielded the question freely, speaking before Faramir even had a chance—he’d been noting plants to mention on the return trip. “It’s a horrible place. That is all you have to know.”}

_{The younger man ignored him, turning in the saddle to speak to the boys, his voice low and deep as his gaze moved from one to another, dramatizing his words, “Soldiers there have to stand in one place all day long…in the sun, in the rain. They don’t get breaks and if they leave their post, they get punished with death. They don’t get to go anywhere…they can’t even go into parts of their own city if they don’t know the password.” He looked satisfied, turning sideways to gloat at Faramir, “It is a horrible place.”}

_{That was partially true, if all bit overblown. Faramir eyed his friend, “How do you know about the passwords?”}

_{“Me and Halorl were wanting to go up, you know, see the City…” He grinned and leaned over to mouth, “see the Lady,” Then he resumed in a louder voice the lads could all hear, “and they wouldn’t let us.” Gaer thumped his chest, “We saved that City and they wouldn’t even let us go about as we pleased! Told us to get out of that level…even…” He eyed the boys, “Even threw us out like ill-bred ruffians!”}

_{“Yes, they did and hurt my arm where they grabbed it, dragging me down the street! I was bruised for a week!” The Rohir looked aggrieved and pitiable.}

_{Undoubtedly because you wouldn’t go when they asked you politely and then warned you. The more he imagined it the more it seemed to Faramir that the guards probably thought Gaer might have been asking for it; in all probability he and Halorl had been jesting with the guards in the Rohirrim’s raucous, uncurbed fashion. Who, naturally, are unfamiliar with such flamboyant disrespect of the Gates and no doubt took it far, far too gravely. He sighed, asking, “What did you do to make them throw you out of that level?”}

_{Using his sternest voice, unconsciously imitated from his father, Faramir said severely, “Tell me, Gaer.”}

_{“Trying to…” The rest was a fast mumble as the Rohir stared up at the sky, “guess the passwords and then listen in when people went through the gate so we could get the words.”}

_{“Guess the passwords and listen in while people...” He sighed again, not really surprised. It was actually less rash than he’d suspected. “Where were you trying to go?”}

_{His voice rose to a high pitch, shocked by the brashness embodied by the man riding adjacent to him, “To the Citadel? The Citadel? You were going to the Citadel, to the King’s Court?”}

_{“’Course. When else am I going to be in Mundburg? I wanted to see that tree everyone was talking about.” At his aghast expression, he rolled his eyes, “What, do you think we would have ruined it, spoiled your perfect City?” Gaer frowned sullenly, “It was plenty spoiled when we got there and saved it if you’ll remember.” The Rohir perked up, “Oh, wait, you can’t remember, you were sleeping the whole time.”}

_{“I was not sleeping, I was ill with fever.” He tried to explain, attempting to ignore the blatant, constant disrespect. “No, it’s just that common folk are not usually allowed to wander…”}

_{“Oh, common folk. Common folk.” Flinging his arms out, Gaer turned to the lads, “Did you hear that? Mr. I Am So Royal riding beside me…”}

_{Faramir groaned in exasperation, “Oh, be quiet.” Really, the man was impossible.}

_{“…and next thing you know we won’t be able to sit with him because his ass is too noble to share the same bench—”}

_{He slumped in his saddle, irritated. “Gaer, would you just, I’m trying to explain…”}

_{“Oh, what am I doing, your Lordship?” Gaer picked up his reins, making his mount slow and walk behind Thorn. The Rohir did an exaggerated little bow from horseback, squeaking, “Pardon me!”}

_{Gaer turned to the boys, who were watching in amazement. Their faces showed they didn’t know what to make of this behavior. “…riding beside him, see, that’s disrespect, he’s of high birth and we’re common folk, why, I’m shocked I haven’t been flogged already just for talking to—”}

_{Faramir checked Thorn, half-halting the grey, and then reached over and punched Gaer in the shoulder as hard as he could. “Quit that! Stop it!”}

_{“Ow!” Gaer stopped his mockery, rubbed his shoulder and grinned, “We’ll make you a Rider yet.” He snickered, “Your Lordship.”}

_{Faramir rolled his eyes to the deep blue sky, pleaded inwardly for patience, and then announced to his students, “I’ll tell you the truth,” Allowing a pause for any remarks by Gaer, he continued, “about my City, but for the moment I’m going to be telling you about trail signs.” Anything to keep them occupied.}

_{“What kind of signs?” He was still rubbing his shoulder; it gave Faramir brief and fierce pleasure.}

_{Intuiting that Gaer would include himself, whether he forbade him or not, Faramir answered, “Signs we used when I was learning woodcraft as a Ranger…most peoples use some form of them.” He took a second to think and decided to begin with what would probably be most useful in Rohan--signs used in a grassy landscape. As they rode from the valley, the land rose higher and higher, opening as the mountains retreated again. The trail wandered onwards and for the first time he noticed one of the camp’s hounds had followed them; it led the way, furry tail curved over its back.}

_{Faramir’s temper overrode his courtesy; “Will you let me do my duty?” The Rohir was silent, giving him a puppyish look that he ignored and went on, “On trails in the open, ways are marked with rocks, grass and twigs if there is brush. One rock placed upon another larger one means you’re on the path and to keep going. If there is a small stone placed to the right, it means turn right and if it’s placed on the left, it means turn left. Three stones piled upon each other means an important warning.”}

_{Gaer looked bored, but his students looked intent. Faramir was satisfied and kept on with his instruction. “It’s the same idea with grass—you twist a lump into a knot. One large knot with the tuft still upward means you’re still on the trail. Twist it to the left, and to the right for direction and three knots in a row means danger. Twigs, too, broken on a bush or small tree, are the same.” He continued in this vein until they finally crested a small hill, entering another valley and there, in the center, was the little village Gaer had spoken of.}

_{Hardly a village. He eyed the thatched-roofed huts; the little pens filled with goats, a cow, multiple horses and the chickens that fluttered around the street. There was one inn; it was two storied, roughly built of logs and looked to be the only place really alive. There were few people, mainly out working to make a life in this high-country, he presumed, but there was a smell of food to the air and Faramir’s stomach clenched. He was ravenous and the prospect of ale and a hot meal made him swallow quickly, trying not to drool. He nudged Thorn with his legs, trying to get the gelding’s stride to lengthen a little. His mount stolidly refused.}

_{The Rohir at his side rode straight to the inn and dismounted, giving him a long-suffering look as he said, “Finally. You’ve quieted.”}

_{He didn’t dignify that with a response, just a cutting glance. As his students dismounted, too, Faramir tied Thorn’s lead securely to the post and grasped his bridle to get his attention while whispering softly and sternly to the horse, “Stay here.” The gelding just bumped his hand, obviously resenting the grip, then sighed and cocked one hind leg, chewing his bit. A boy materialized from around the building and threw fresh hay on the ground in front of the posts, fodder to busy the horses while another carried water for them; Faramir thought that was considerate. I probably shouldn’t be surprised…doubtlessly they think of the horses as well as they think of us. The hound that had come with them was only shooed away, supporting his theory as Faramir and his students followed Gaer into the roughly built inn.}

_{“You haven’t told him yet.” Aragorn’s voice startled her badly, making her jump and half-reach for the dagger she hadn’t carried in a long while. He frowned, eyeing her movement and she changed her motion to smooth the unembroidered and plain front her soft green gown. It was another of Théodwyn’s and the simplest, though Éowyn had left off the boned back of the darker green, lace-up vest; it was uncomfortably tight and restrictive. She rubbed the dyed wool flatter against her hip, still attempting to pass off her fear as an adjustment; Aragorn didn’t look fooled; his eyes darkened momentarily in apology. “I’m sorry to have startled you.”}

_{“No harm was done, I’m fine.” She kept her voice very, very mild, very soft and as well as she could figure, feminine. Nervously, her hands wanted to touch the dolphin pendant, now securely around her neck, or play with the jade bracelet she wore today but she clasped them. As a lady should, remember, a lady does not fidget… She silently finished the sentence by one of her doomed governesses, “Or else they will think she has fleas” and waited for Aragorn to tell her why he’d spooked her.}

_{Éowyn had been standing half in the great Hall, half in the corridor, watching Arwen rise from the breakfast table and follow the Lord Elrond away—the Queen’s face was tight, a waxen mask bespeaking great upset. Most folk were readying outside; the elves’ servants were saddling their mounts while Aragorn’s guards did the same for their lord and themselves. The courtyard was busy, full. It would soon be empty and she felt a pang of sadness. She turned to watch him watch Arwen’s retreating back with concerned, disturbed eyes and then look back to her. He was serious, expression morose, “You aren’t delaying, are you?”}

_{“No. I’m telling them both at once.” Crossing her arms, she leaned against the cool wall; she was waiting for her brother and had yet to see him. Perhaps Elfhelm has come…}

_{He matched her tone, composed in his riding clothes; she didn’t doubt they were more comfortable than her skirts…though, on second reflection, the fine, heavy cloak and gleaming crown clutched in one hand made her ponder her assumption a bit. Andúril moved on his side, its gleam sheathed, “Because why?” And then he took it further, “Why not now, to let Éomer prepare?”}

_{His eyes searched the hall and he frowned to himself before pursuing their mild argument. “I think you should discuss it.”}

_{“He’ll tell Faramir,” More like shout it at him or worse, she was afraid, “and I’d rather have him hear it from me…and it will make him, them…sad.” She sighed, unable to say how deeply upset her brother might or might not be. I don’t want to see his face. Time would give her courage. Éowyn was counting on it.}

_{Aragorn kept at her, intent as a dog with his prey treed; knowing only patience will reward. “It’s going to make him sad whenever, Éowyn, and you know that.” His voice had turned stern. “What is best for Edoras?”}

_{He thought he had her there, but he didn’t. She straightened, volleying straight back, “Edoras is not Minas Tirith. My brother is fully capable of running it himself.” Aragorn opened his mouth and she cut him off, “I plan to finish the pre-harvest labors and appoint aides to do my duties and report to Éomer every week. There is not so much yet, mainly cutting of the wood…” She closed her eyes, thinking. They were getting the last of the salt now. Faramir… “Putting up the hay, the wool must be made to thread, the mills are grinding grain, the rye, the wheat must be reaped…Éomer’s share must be calculated and then collected by the men.” Éowyn met his gaze, “I do not do those things, only make sure they are done and on time. Anyone can do what I do if kept aware of the seasons and how many are in Edoras, man and beast, which we must feed and house for the winter. My people may not be able to read lettering, but we can count and most can write some mark to show the numbers.” She felt sympathy to whatever wife Éomer took—her brother knew little detail of the duties that had been hers since she’d become a woman, named Lady of the Golden Hall. He would be no help to the poor girl.}

_{“The else?” She faced him, defiantly unladylike and direct, as though they were equals, “The storing of acorns and beechnuts and the canning of vegetables and fruits. The wine made and stored in casks or traded. Flax separated and spun to create linen later in the year, about the time for slaughtering the stock for salting and curing.” Éowyn frowned, “Oh, and overseeing the brewing of ale and managing the weaving and dyeing of winter clothing so that my brother doesn’t take chill and looks the part of our Lord.” That would be the hardest, making him stand for the tailors. He hated it. Taking a breath, she said firmly, “Aragorn, I will be gone for half of that, regardless. The harvest moon is almost two months hence...and my people can only do so much until the frost.” Éowyn’s eyes narrowed, “Would you let Faramir stay for another two months?”}

_{She felt triumph at his silence and the small smile that curved his mouth, acknowledging her victory. “No, I would call for him before then.” The King finally admitted; his eyes wandered to the hall, empty of elves besides Galadriel’s party, then back to her.}

_{Éowyn tried her best to sound as earnest as she’d begun to feel now that she finally had action to take. He meant nothing by his insistence, only showing his desire to have Faramir at his side in the running of the City. Again imagining the immensity of Minas Tirith and the surrounding countryside, undoubtedly plus things she had no idea of, she softened, “Then leave me be on this, please. I have work to do and I will tell them when I’m ready.”}

_{Aragorn’s eyes slipped from her again, searching the corners of the Hall, then back to focus on her face. “I’m just concerned.”}

_{Éowyn nodded and doubted if he was concerned about her; he was unusually inattentive. She remembered Arwen’s words and made her tone gentle. “I understand.”}

_{It is, oh, it is. She didn’t know exactly whom he spoke about—himself or her. Éowyn nodded and smiled, “You help me, I’ll help you, again?”}

_{“We’ll have to find out what the Lady Steward does…there hasn’t been one for forty years.”}

_{“Oh?” Trying to sound pleasantly curious, she panicked a little. How could she figure out what to do if no one else knew? Will I go into this fully blind? A strange woman in a strange city with no knowledge of what I should do other than sit and breathe and make chatter…a dull, living vessel waiting to bear the Steward’s seed? That would be the death of her.}

_{He must have seen the flash of anxiety on her face. “Don’t worry,” Aragorn soothed, taking her arm and leading her into the Hall, “You help me, and I’ll help you, remember?” He smiled, the expression not quite reaching his eyes, which kept betraying him and following the path Arwen had taken minutes before, “Come eat with me?”}

_{Éomer was still nowhere in sight and Aragorn was offering to lead her to the hobbits’ table where the remainder of the Fellowship sat, too. She smiled as gracefully as she’d ever learned. Practice, have to practice…in the City she must fit the part of the proper Lady. Éowyn thought resignedly that she did not want to dishonor her future, cherished husband with her masculine mannerisms, her tendency to do whatever she wanted, when she wanted. Smiling still, she said, voice purposely docile, “I would love to, Aragorn.”}

_{Faramir was uncomfortable and Gaer leering at him every time he got the chance wasn’t helping. The woman put her bosom in his face for a third time, bulging flesh barely held into her undyed wool gown. Ostentatiously, her nearness was to ask him if he wanted more ale…though it was painfully obvious even to a man who could not read minds or hearts that by ‘ale’, she meant something far more carnal. He tried to be as politely distant as he’d ever acted, deliberately ignoring the twin mounds of female flesh pointed in his direction. She was well endowed, to say the least, almost fearsomely so. “No, thank you.”}

_{“Ná, Ic þancie þe.” Gaer corrected him, smirking, “Say it.” He scolded, “You know this. You’re never going to learn if you keep up with the Common Tongue.” He smiled, “Besides, it’s rude.”}

_{“Ná, Ic þancie þe.” Faramir repeated it with his jaw clenched. The food had been good at least—meat pie, weak ale and freshly buttered bread, served in a timely fashion. They’d been waited upon very, very conscientiously …though that, he suspected, had something to do with his removing his outer wear in the warm inn. Faramir’s cloak, wool doublet and surcoat lay on the bench at his side. Even in his ivory-colored, near translucent linen shirt he was hot. He was seated nearer the kitchens than Gaer or his students or any of the other few people in the inn’s common room.}

_{“Hit is Wilflede, mære.” He couldn’t quite understand the word other than what was obviously her name but Gaer giggled suddenly and delightedly, just like a child. The pitch of it made Faramir immediately regress to his own youth and kick him under the scarred wooden table. Hard. The Rohir let out a muffled yelp and peered at him with betrayed eyes until the woman left them alone.}

_{Faramir gave him a look of disgust, ignoring the puppy eyes. “What did she say? What was that word?”}

_{“Gorgeous.” Gaer went off into laughter again. “My first dog had fur the color of the stuff on your head; I think she’s blind.” As Faramir scowled, he waved his hand, taking a drink, “As if I’d let you act unchastely, anyhow. I doubt Lord Éomer would take that for an instant…and,” They met eyes, smoldering grey and dancing blue, “as for Lady Éowyn, well, she wouldn’t need any of us to wield her sword, I’d guess.”}

_{He stiffened on the hard bench, his honor as both a man of gentle birth and a man betrothed deeply insulted, “I have no intentions of…”}

_{“We’re,” He gestured at the lads seated just slightly down the long bench, “here to see that you don’t…so, drink up, friend.” Gaer grinned at him. “Maybe it will make you interesting.” He laughed again.}

_{I should be, I could be doing…Faramir found he could fill that with quite a few things, so he did drink up and then decided to get some information while he was here. “Tell me why you lov—like my Éowyn so much.” He refused to use the word ‘love’; Gaer did not even know Éowyn. Well, are you sure? After all, Gaer was native born, likely having seen her for years. He might have seen her grow up, even though from afar. Faramir frowned to himself, unreasonably jealous of this trifling intimacy.}

_{“What?” The question completely puzzled the man in front of him; he could feel it.}

_{Gaer sighed and traced some spilt ale into one of the deeply carved patterns on the table. The design matched some of the moldings in Meduseld. “Hwa is se lyft bláw, Faramir?”}

_{Why is the sky…blue? Color words were many and difficult to translate. “What?”}

_{Where is this going, he thought wearily. “I don’t know.” Briefly closing his eyes, Faramir listed, “My oaths to my Lord, my City, my brother, my men and how many shall die if I haven’t thought the attack out right… My armor, my weapon, the man or thing at the other end of it about to die…if I will die…”}

_{Gaer was slightly open-mouthed, his eyes narrowed. Suddenly he accused, “You like lads don’t you?”}

_{The Rohir’s voice turned whimsical, almost breathy as his eyes focused upon some point in the distance, “I think of our Lady, standing pure and unscathed…”}

_{OH… Faramir scoffed, “Oh, no you don’t…” Slurping the weak ale, he challenged, “Leave the sweet words for our Lady, Gaer and speak straightly.” Our? He blinked a little at himself, wondering at his slip of the tongue.}

_{“Aye, I do, we do. What else is there? You think of when you die; well, when I die I go to my forefathers with honor no matter if I win the battle, because,” He thumped his chest, “I fought my hardest and fell fighting.”}

_{Rolling his eyes, Faramir interrupted; his voice was thick with sarcasm. “Oh, yes, and I was asleep. Oh, and before that I dropped my sword, pissing myself and crying like a wee little lass because everyone knows we men of Mundburg…” Mundburg? He blinked again and eyed his mug suspiciously. Perhaps the ale was not as weak as it tasted…he’d not spoken so crudely in a long time. Across the rough surface of the table, Gaer’s delicate sensibilities did not seem offended; in fact, he’d hardly paused before replying.}

_{“I think of Lady Éowyn and the Golden Hall standing unsoiled by foul hands. The rest is meaningless.” Was it Faramir’s imaginings or was that sentence charged by a darker emotion than he’d felt so far from the redheaded man? He couldn’t decide, too busy forming his own replies.}

_{“What of your King? Did you not swear oaths and do you not think of them?”}

_{“I live them and die them by being on the field of battle, by standing, by my spilt blood defending my lands or yours.” Gaer scoffed this time, “I don’t need to think of them.” He flapped his hand, drops of ale scattering in the air, “You men of Mundburg think too much, with your lettering and books and your precious City. You hide behind the walls and never see anything. You need to live in the land you protect so hard.” Leaning forward, Gaer asked intently, “Tell me, Lord Faramir, have you ever slept in a barn and woken covered in hay, your horse by your side, to drink milk straight from a cow and steal eggs from the nest of hen, still warm while she pecks at you? Have you ever stood beneath your horse’s neck in a rainstorm, hoping against hope lightning will not strike you because you are the only things for miles?”}

_{The depth in the man’s voice transfixed him; Gaer was not as simple as he’d appeared. “No, I haven’t.”}

_{The Rohir grinned; it was bright and quick and mocked the notion he’d ever been serious. “We’ll fix that, then. That’s easy.”}

_{Faramir abandoned his ale, determined to stay levelheaded. There were many hours of instruction left in the day, hours he couldn’t afford to waste if he wished to pass Éomer’s test and quickly. The Mark was beautiful, but his own land was his home. Somehow, he had to try and make it Éowyn’s home, too. “Why? What could I possibly be missing in all that? Living rough, without comforts—I’ve done that and it is pleasant enough in its own fashion, but I’d rather sleep in a bed and forgo the sunrise and the hard ground that goes with it.”}

_{“I think you’ve missed a lot if you do not see the comfort in my question.”}

_{“I’ve missed…did you ever think of what you’re missing? Can you read, Gaer?” Faramir challenged but carefully, he did not wish to offend the man he was finding himself to be more and more dependent upon. Gaer turning against him would be disastrous and not just the loss of his aid, the loss of his friendship in a land where he had so little was horrible to contemplate.}

_{Gaer didn’t seem offended. “No.” There, he saw it and felt it, the first clearly stirring flickers of curiosity. “Why? What’s there to miss?”}

_{“It is like…when you hear a story or a song…you see it in your head, true?” The redheaded Rohir nodded; he was familiar with that. “Well, when you read a story or prose it is like you hear the voices and see the action at the same time and yet, you are alone and undisturbed by others. Distractions are meaningless when it is something interesting—I’ve read for hours and not noticed how hungry or weary I was until my eyes near failed. You will never miss parts of the story; you can go back at any time.” Faramir began to talk faster, his passion for the written word deepening and quickening his voice, “It is wonderful, there is never anything that can be like it…poetry, history, all these things are changed…even the words themselves add meaning.” He held up his hands, looping the fingers up and down in exaggerated letters. Gaer frowned at him; his students stared, Scef translating as swiftly as he could. “The way they look, not just the way they sound. It makes it whole, whatever you’re reading, and it feels more complete than just listening. You can tell from the way a person writes what they are like, or even,” He thought of the history tomes he’d studied, “Or even the generations that wrote what you’re reading. You get to know your ancestors like that—their opinions come in the shades of the words and stick, unlike a voice that might be altered over the years no matter how carefully repeated. It is marvelous and private, entirely owned by yourself. Only the written word is true, all else is idle talk because once something is written, it exists.”}

_{He’d said too much, apparently, because the curiosity had guttered out, replaced by puzzlement, incomprehension and something else Faramir couldn’t define. The man before him almost looked wounded, but if he was offended, Gaer still did not show it. He sounded naught but skeptical, “I still say you’re missing out.”}

_{“Perhaps so.” He surrendered quickly, anxious not to insult, and took a cautious sip of his ale. It still tasted weak, sour and watery, but he distrusted it. Faramir glanced around, eager to move on, to shorten the time he spent here. “Let’s go back to camp, I don’t want talk getting back to É—just in time he remembered to put Lord in front of it—Lord Éomer that I was shirking.”}

_{“All right.” Something was different in Gaer’s manner; the man was studying him closely. “We’ll do that and then you and I,” He jerked his chin at the students, “and them will cut trees for spears today.”}

_{Spears…he’d forgotten he was supposed to learn that, too. Faramir agreed easily, slightly disturbed by the weight of Gaer’s gaze. Something had changed, but he wasn’t sure what—there was only a new sense of seriousness in the man’s mind; all else was incomprehensible. “Aye, we’ll do that, then.”}

_{“Too bad about you and Lady Éowyn…” The Rohir grinned roguishly. It didn’t touch his usually dancing eyes; they stayed still and direct. “Or I’d make you pay in services to our lady host and keep my money.” His gloating manner made no mistake as to what services Faramir could give the woman. “I’d think she’d like it better than coin.” Gaer rubbed his red-stubbled chin, eyeing him, “Perhaps we shouldn’t let our womenfolk go to Mundburg…it tends to ruin their judgment. I’m far handsomer than you are.” The Rohir moved away then, calling to the woman in a cheerful voice.}

_{Oh, why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut? Worried at the new way Gaer was acting, he grimaced as they stood and muttered darkly while grabbing up his clothes. “Too bad, indeed.”}

_{The courtyard was still full, horses stomping and men moving around them. The hobbit’s ponies were saddled now and all was ready but Aragorn did not call to leave; he was waiting, face melancholy and dark. Lord Elrond and the Queen were still gone, heard to have vanished into the hills. Armor shined brightly as the High King’s guards stood mounted around him; even their horses were richly outfitted, the tack gleaming, accented with silver and the leather dyed black to match their uniforms of the City. They did not speak, patiently awaiting his command. Legolas and Gimli were not yet astride, arguing in low voices. Gandalf stood alone nearby; Shadowfax was far afield, grazing undisturbed. He had no need for time spent tacking up and took his leisure in cropping the grass of his native land. Éomer, at her side, was looking at the Mearas, his expression unreadable. He’d appeared for breakfast, saying Elfhelm had come but not yet reported to him, the Marshal begging time to recover himself from his long ride.}

_{Éowyn looked at Merry, who was admiring his horn still. His little hobbit hands spanned it, tracing the horn’s slick, piebald surface; his fingers rubbed the horses and warriors as she watched. She’d had the metal smiths polish the tarnish away early this morning, revealing the runes that told its tale and then she’d taken it to the leatherworkers to have the dyed green baldric shortened to a length more appropriate to the hobbit’s stature and girth. The baldric had been long indeed, meant to wrap around even the armor of a well-built man or just a particularly stout one. Éowyn was pleased to see it now fit him well. Her brother smiled down at the hobbit, expression almost indulgent. It was a great gift, enough so to please him. Their eyes met over Merry’s head and he grinned at her with familiar mischief, looking down again, “Sound it for me, Master Holdwine. I wish to hear it.”}

_{“Oh, do it!” Pippin, resplendent in his silver and sable, lit up. His pony drowsed behind him, tail barely moving. Frodo stood nearby and he smiled; Sam was not paying attention, carefully checking the packed papers and making sure any rain would not get to them though the skies were utterly bare of clouds. Éowyn smiled, too.}

_{Merry raised the horn, and then hesitated. “I’d be afraid to rouse the countryside.” The Brandybuck frowned. “I do wish to hear it…”}

_{Pippin prodded again, “Oh, do, like Boromir! Let is sound, Merry, before we go!”}

_{“I, too, wish to hear its ancient voice.” Her brother urged gently, hopefully.}

_{Gandalf had come close, so close that Éowyn, not seeing him, jumped a little when he spoke. “Rouse the countryside, indeed. I guess this is not a toy, Meriadoc, unlike Bilbo’s crackers. I remember you, lad, were one of the loudest…” Gandalf’s eye fell upon him, “And the most impatient, too, if my memory hasn’t failed.” The hobbit flushed mysteriously as the wizard stuck out his hand. “Let me see.” Merry handed him the horn and he held it. “Ah, it is an excellent gift, but I’d be slow to wind it, my dear Meriadoc, till the country needs rousing. A great horn’s cry is not needlessly spent and this one has waited long in idleness.” Gandalf gathered the baldric, studying the new stitching, “It went not to cry at the battle of Pelennor, nor to voice the defense of Helm...its sounding must be potent indeed and shouldn’t be wasted.”}

_{Beside her, Éomer looked disappointed but he didn’t say anything, unwilling to contradict Gandalf’s desire. Suddenly the trumpets were blowing a warning from the men waiting at Aragorn’s side—Arwen and Lord Elrond had reappeared and the horn-blowers interpreted this as a sign their departure was near. The instruments rang out, calling attention to the crowd. The Queen was calm and placid, standing near her relatives and wishing them a composed farewell. Éowyn frowned, wondering at the lack of emotion. Surely, since this was goodbye for all time, they will weep. Nevertheless, none did and if tears had been shed, they’d been shed already for the elves only spoke calmly, embraced and mounted their horses. They were dazzling in the sun, all gleaming with expensive silks and jewels, their hair and eyes bright with unearthly radiance as they waited atop their light-boned restless mounts. Yet, their grief was almost palpable in the air, making the birds swoop and cry mournfully, stray chickens flutter and fly in the courtyard, hounds whine and the mortal bred horses paw and snort with wide nostrils and wide eyes. Aragorn’s guards moved aside for the Queen, who gave her farewell to him. He looked sad and weary as they spoke, raising his hand to touch Arwen’s face gently before they embraced.}

_{Éowyn averted her eyes, uncomfortable for seeing what was such an obviously intimate moment and instead watched Pippin swing aboard his pony. She smiled, observing him stick his big, hairy feet into the stirrups—the stirrups were very, very wide, obviously either scrounged from a large man’s saddle or made just for the hobbits. Merry took back his horn and wrapped the baldric around himself, mounting his pony. Frodo and Sam, too, were climbing into the saddle. All waited upon Aragorn’s signal and Éowyn was suddenly aware she, Éomer, Arwen and Gandalf were the only ones upon the ground. The wizard met her gaze and smiled, but his words were bordering upon stern, “Care for him well, Lady Éowyn or I will hold you responsible. He was a favorite of mine.” It was not a threat, but alarming enough in all its seriousness; Éomer frowned beside her, not liking it.}

_{She nodded quickly as he added, “Dreams will only come to light if you make them. Do nothing, put forth no effort and they will stagnate, my Lady…but, perhaps you’ve already guessed that and planned after your fashion to prevent it.” He sounded a half amused, half cross.}

_{Éowyn felt her heart trip in alarm, surely he would not mention her leaving in front of Eomer? Her brother frowned still, but there was no enlightening sign that came into his expression. The wizard said seriously, gaze on hers, “Do what you wish, but I council you to do so with blessings. Unblessed you went before and nearly came to great misfortune. To test fate once more would be folly, do you not agree?” His old eyes glinted and his tone was more stern this time as well as being nearly exasperated.}

_{“Good.” Gandalf broke out in a smile and all the firmness in his eyes evaporated. “Then we understand one another and I expect you to hold to it.”}

_{Her brother’s gaze was wondering now and suspicious, but she didn’t speak this time either, just nodded again in agreement, dry-mouthed as a chill went down her spine. How could he know of Faramir’s dreams and my plans? Damn all wizards! Perhaps Aragorn had told him, perhaps Faramir had spoken or perhaps the wizard simply read her mind.}

_{Gandalf then spoke a simple and respectful farewell to her wary brother, who bowed low in reply, and whistled, high and piercing. The trumpets sounded again, this time a more urgent note. Aragorn was astride his horse and Arwen had come away, standing alone. Across the field, Shadowfax raised his fine head and tossed it before galloping into their midst. Gandalf mounted him easily, grasping the long silvery mane and swinging aboard with a nimble gracefulness.}

_{All were ready and called their goodbyes, a range of voices from sweet elven, to high hobbit, to rough dwarf. The trumpets blew a final time, the King’s banner waving in the wind and Aragorn signaled their departure, riding to head the group. Merry paused and waved back, his voice was high, “Remember!”}

_{“I will!” Éowyn felt her eyes flood with tears as the company rode away; she would miss the hobbits. Her brother took her hand and squeezed it, his face melancholy, his touch reminding her he was still there. Arwen was gone already inside, climbing the steps to Meduseld with her head bowed. They were alone in the courtyard, watching the dust settle and the common folk that had come to peek resume their work.}

_{For a moment neither spoke and then he asked, “What are you doing today, sister?”}

_{She took a breath, “Many things. Visiting the candlemaker,” Picking men to oversee the incoming harvest, the dairy and everything related to the kitchens, she added silently. “The brewery, the potter and asking the falconers to get pigeons for today’s dinner.”}

_{He perked up, “Are you going to have them stuffed with garlic and sage and stewed?”}

_{It was one of his favorites. She was allowed to do that, wasn’t she? Anything to make him happy before I crush him… Éowyn smiled, forcing it bitterly and replied playfully, “Yes…I suppose I could order that the cooks do so…”}

_{“You’d better.” Éomer looked hugely pleased, making her both happy and sad, and then he hesitated. “Can I come with you for a while?”}

_{It would make it harder, his presence would restrict her to only her normal duties. She smiled again, focusing upon her hands and her fingers, concentrating on keeping them from knotting. Éowyn straightened her shoulders since she’d been told ladies didn’t ever slouch, and smiled graciously. “Of course.”}

_{“Good.” He walked beside her and murmured as they entered the streets of Edoras. “I’ve decided to stay another day with you sister,” Éomer glanced at her, “you don’t mind if I accompany you for a while?”}

_{She smiled, in high spirits and yet miserable. “Not at all, not at all.” They visited the candlemaker first, Éomer looking rather bored while she examined lines of fat white candles for the Hall, various parts of Meduseld and their rooms. After making sure all the candles were whole and large enough to service, she ordered them carried to the servants who would know what to do. At the brewery, he sampled freely, making her try the ales and wines, too and when he dipped into the cider she held her tongue. It was the batch reserved for vinegar.}

_{His expression, lips coming tight and eyes scrunching as he tried to swallow his sip was worth it. “Shame on you, brother.” She laughed, regaining her merriment. “Greedy as you are, you deserve to get the sour stuff.”}

_{“Come on, I don’t want any of that at my table.” Éowyn had already ordered the best of the ales into the Hall, along with some wines for her brother. Not that he will drink them…she might, though. Moreover, there was Arwen and Imrahil to consider.}

_{“You knew, sister?” He eyed her speculatively. Dangerously, as he still held some of the cider vinegar in a tin cup.}

_{She crossed her arms, wary. “This is mother’s gown. You’d dare ruin it?”}

_{“Ah, what do you know about cloth?” Éowyn turned her back, recognizing by his expression his giving up on the idea of getting her wet. “That reminds me, tonight I’m making you stand for a new wardrobe.” Fur-lined cloaks, shirts, boots, oh, everything…}

_{“Tonight?” As they entered the street, her brother sounded as though she was making him stand for execution. “I already have clothes.”}

_{Éowyn made her voice brisk; it was the best way to deal with him. “Yes, you do. Clothes with patches and rips that are not fit at all for a King. You put it off all summer and now we’re going to do it. Now, come on if you want those pigeons for supper. I still have to go and see to a whole new set of clay pots for the cook, many broke in preparing the feast.” He followed her, grumbling and whining until they passed the bakery and he got some of the fresh honey cake and broke it in half, not seeming to think about it.}

_{Éowyn felt tears prick her eyes as he handed her her half. The cake stuck in her mouth, hard to swallow. I love you, she thought. He grinned at her with crumbs all over his lower face, honey smeared on his chin and she nearly blurted, I’m leaving, holding her tongue at the last second. Éomer frowned at her half of the bread, only nibbled. His was long gone, wolfed in two bites. “You eating that?”}

_{Faramir shifted his gloved hands carefully, trying not to lose his grip on the stiff little sapling that desperately wanted to fly back upright and slap him and then Gaer in the head. The tree swayed dangerously under his palms; Gaer hacked at its base with the hatchet he’d found in the camp. Woodchips littered the forest floor, sap sticking them to his boots. The gloves made his skin swelter but at least his hands weren’t being ravaged by the rough bark. The afternoon had grown incredibly hot and Faramir’s linen shirt was soaked and clinging uncomfortably to his upper body as they cut the last tree. He fantasized about the cold little stream near camp while blinking sweat out of his eyes.}

_{Not far away were the lads, using their short knifes to skin the bark from the cut saplings and shave away stray branches and bumps as best they could before then piling the crude spears onto the travois. Made from interwoven branches and two long limbs; it hung from the saddle of the heaviest built mount—an annoyed looking Thorn. Faramir kept his eye on the gelding, expecting trouble, but there was none. His mount just shifted his hind legs, drowsing in the heat; sweat darkened his flanks to a leaden color and dripped off his belly. It was hot, finally feeling like summer again.}

_{Beneath his palm, the tree shuddered and then loosed so that Faramir switched from holding it down to holding it up. All the tension was gone. He lowered it to the ground, Gaer chopping the last bits of wood away. Together, they skinned it, freeing it of bark and limbs and piled it onto the crude travois. Thorn stood patiently, slate-grey tail tangled in the branches.}

_{“That’s enough.” Gaer was breathless, having wielded the axe for hours as they’d searched out suitable saplings.}

_{“Good.” He licked dry lips. His students looked weary, too. Faramir patted the horse’s neck and mounted him, his foot trying its best to catch on the long poles of the travois as they hung over the gelding’s hindquarters. Gaer swung up on his chestnut and they rode back down into the valley. It was even hotter on the flat ground as they left the shade of the trees. The horses plodded, not even thinking of moving faster.}

_{An odd sight awaited them. Ten of the Rohirrim were racing back in forth in the heat, stripped to the waist and bare-foot. Their shouts and bellows echoed in the heat. Armed with short sticks, the Riders ran and fought, a balled up piece of leather roughly just larger than his fist bouncing on the grass. Goals had been marked with rocks supporting sticks thrust into the earth, tied with strips of leather to make a giant ‘t’. The goals were rather high, standing above the men’s heads and just at the level of his. The field seemed small and only the ball appeared to be confined, often thrown back within invisible boundaries.}

_{Faramir watched the rather physical game with curiosity, steering Thorn to the lean-to. He slid off, wiping his forehead on his sleeve, and began to deposit the makeshift spears in a pile. With his student’s help, he’d soon finished and begun dismantle the travois. Suddenly the game stopped and his name was called over the long grass and hot, shimmering air,}

_{“Aiy! Farmair, ge gád tó gefêg?” The Riders had stopped and stood panting, waiting for his answer. He cast his mind over theirs, searching for animosity and found none; the man he’d fought was not among them.}

_{He looked at the Rohir beside him for explanation, already guessing what they’d wanted, “What—?”}

_{“They want to know if you want to join,” Gaer explained and then finished shortly, brow furrowing, “You don’t.”}

_{“Why not?” He glanced sideways at the redheaded man, trying to make a jest, smiling hopefully, “I thought I was here to make friends and that I shouldn’t work, work, work.”}

_{“I thought you weren’t.” Gaer faced him, eyes narrowed. Something was wrong and it troubled Faramir greatly—he needed Gaer and his friendship to survive this lonely, ludicrous task. He hesitated, and then cursed himself for a coward; it was just a game, and shouted back,}

_{“Gea!” There was a burst of laughter and voices at his reply. Gaer looked tense and unhappy, shifting from foot to foot. Around the blackened rocks were the remains of the food they’d brought—sacks of salt pork, bread, and a small barrel of ale. Faramir unsaddled Thorn; his poor horse had had to haul him, most of the food and then all of the rough spears. The sweating beast deserved a rest. He looked at his students, felt a bit of pity and then sighed, banishing it. “I want you to practice until I call for you to stop.” They nodded, weary and hot in the afternoon, and began to walk to the target.}

_{He stood beside his saddle and stripped like the others, leaving only his dark trousers in place. Faramir laid his shirt out in the sun, hoping it would dry some. Gaer looked pensive, eyeing the Rohirrim as they stood waiting and then did the same. Carefully, he asked, “You, too?”}

_{“Someone’s got to watch your back.” This answer, as well, was short. Suddenly his mood broke and he grinned like the Sun poking through leaden clouds, looking Faramir up and down, “Cranebayn. That should be your name.”}

_{He shifted, ill at ease, crossing his arms a little over his bared upper torso; Faramir was conscious of how wiry he appeared next to Gaer’s robustness. “What’s that mean?”}

_{They moved toward the waiting, panting Rohirrim. The Sun beat down furiously. Faramir answered dryly; “Yes that may help.”}

_{“You can kick, hit or throw the ball with the bat and you can carry it in your hand for up to five paces. You can cross the lines,” He pointed to the boundaries—ripped out sections of grass in a coarse outline,” But if the ball does, then it’s thrown in the other team to the last person to touch it. We’ll give you a member of the other team to play against. The first team to score three times wins.”}

_{Gaer smiled, stretching his arms; his joints popped audibly. “No, everything else goes as it will.”}

_{He found out soon enough that it did. Two of the Rohirrim left the field to make room for them while the remaining men shouted requests of water. One of the Riders tossed him his bat (it was really a long, thick branch with the limbs chopped off) and Faramir took his position, letting the movements of the other men guide him. A young, flaxen maned Rider pointed at him and then himself—he would be playing against Faramir. Faramir nodded, showing he understood and the Rider grinned cheerfully. The young man was heavy-built and muscular, his blonde hair hanging down as he shifted easily on the balls of his feet. If push came to shove, Faramir doubted he could hold his own; the man looked heavier than he did, as did most Rohirrim. Crane-legs indeed; when put in a bunch he stood just over their heads, feeling almost gaunt compared to the beefy, rounded muscle occupying the others’ bones. He heard snickers and knew they were over him. Faramir toughened his expression.}

_{The rough ball was placed on the ground in the center of the predetermined field. Faramir was positioned on the half closest to camp with four others; Gaer was on his team, he noted with relief. Five men stared back at him; two slapped their bats against their hands and grinned wolfishly, eyes fixed upon his. He sensed their amusement and curiosity. Is this a test? Faramir gripped his bat tighter, feeling his palm press the irregular wood. He cleared his throat, feeing his heart speed up.}

_{He felt a twinge of nervousness at all the rising aggression he sensed…and then it was too late. One of the Riders shouted, once, twice and on the third word, the two men closest to the ball lunged for it. Faramir moved hesitantly, wary and unsure of what he should be doing. His opponent weaved, coming right at him, apparently intent upon settling with him swiftly. Riders tangled while shouting; bodies thudded together and bats flew between them. He lifted on his feet, watching, intending to dodge. The Rider swerved with him, and then with the boldness of youth leapt up and used his whole body as a battering ram. Faramir’s eyes widened and amazed at the audacity, he was unable to move swift enough to wholly escape.}

_{They contacted with a great clout of flesh and bone. It was fleeting, not quite square, but with enough weight to send Faramir staggering and the Rider, off balance, to one knee. Around them was chaos—shouting, the low thwack of wood on leather and pounding feet. Men slammed against each other, trying to allow their teammates room to strike the ball. It was a field of wrestling men, a free-for-all with victory only really considered an afterthought.}

_{For a moment, they both wavered, and then his challenger thrust himself forward, elbow and side slamming into Faramir’s stomach. His breath whooshed out in a surprised gust and he fell backwards onto his rump.}

_{The young man fell back, too, and barely caught himself with one hand, nails scraping the earth. He opened his mouth and bellowed, adding magnificently to the general commotion around them, “RINNATH AND HIDATH, MAEGDEN-CILDAN! IC WILLE ÁBROCEN GE!” The war cry was incredibly loud, vibrating the air at close range.}

_{Faramir pulled himself to his feet, staggering back to gain distance. Oh, Valar, what…that was as far as he got before he was flattened. Literally, as the Rider hurled himself at him again and this time contacted fully, sending the lighter-built Faramir back to the hard ground. He, they, rolled once together than fell apart, sprawling; Faramir was amazed only to just be keeping his grip on his bat. The Rider thrust himself away, scrabbling up. Faramir’s mouth was full of dirt; one arm was scratched and bloody though he didn’t feel it until much later. His opponent yelled again, standing over him, voice full of bravado, “IC WILLE GEWINNATH SE WEALA!”}

_{What? He was slightly dazed, turning to his belly to rise, the shock of impact still ringing in his body. What kind of game was this? Just as his head cleared, then, indignity of all indignities, he felt the young man whap his buttocks smartly with the bat and trot off, laughing gaily. I’m going to kill that little…}

_{“Are you…are you all right?” Gaer was red-faced to match his hair, offering him a helping hand. Faramir ignored it, spitting out grass and dirt, deeply furious. The Rohir giggled sporadically; he was barely able to stand up in his wild mirth. His bat dangled loosely in his fingers as Faramir tried not to breathe fire. He cackled, eyes dancing again. “I told you you didn’t want to…”}

_{Spitefully, he thought he was glad Gaer had his good spirits back—it had only taken him bruising 1/3 of his body to do it. Faramir took a deep breath and fixed his eyes upon his opponent. “Move.” Pushing Gaer away, he loped down the short field, dodging the heavier, slower men with ease. His legs were longer, proving an advantage; men passed in a violent blur, an enthusiastic tableau just seen from the corner of his eye. He soon caught up and then Faramir ran faster, sprinting, using his lighter frame to build speed in substitute for pure force. He hurled himself against the man, actually jumping up and using his shoulder to strike the Rider’s, making sure he felled him, and they both went to the ground. The other’s bat struck him by accident, making his shin throb and burn. One of the cut away limbs left a stub that sliced through his trousers, leaving a thin scratch that stung his calf. The Rider yowled, thoroughly surprised and thrashed; Faramir twisted away. Again, he tasted earth and then copper; he spat redly—he’d bitten his tongue and not even felt it.}

_{Muscles still thrumming from impact, soil and bruised grass clinging to his sweaty skin, Faramir rose. He felt good, felt tough. Glancing around himself, he saw only two players near the ball; all others struggled. It was a scene of controlled violence, a display of physical might with boasting cries uttered. My brother would have loved this.}

_{His tongue ached and he spat pinkly down near the blinking young man. Faramir laughed and raised his voice, full of sudden boldness and good cheer, “Á LASTA LALIENYA!” The younger fair-haired man just blinked again, frowning up from his sprawled position. Faramir grinned at him and laughed, enjoying his obvious and predicted ignorance. He’d had no idea of the content of the Rider’s battle cry, either. Replying in Elvish was only fair. His grin widened, “Cenuvanyel rato.” Turning, he spotted the ball and moved towards it. There were many in between him and the wrapped piece of leather, but that didn’t matter. Actually, he suspected the ball didn’t matter much, either. The damn thing was already coming apart and flopping everywhere.}

_{Éomer gazed down the High Table. It was much smaller now, only having to accommodate himself, his sister, Arwen and Imrahil. Well, Elfhelm, too…but he hardly counted, as the one table could hold eight. The Marshal was seated upon his left, his sister on his right. Éowyn was smiling, polite and courteous, even verging upon charming—on her best behavior, he recognized it instantly. Éomer wondered why, there was no reason to impress Elfhelm. Arwen was toying with her food, making him desire to comfort her but he knew no words so he kept quiet.}

_{The Marshal had spoken with him that afternoon, after he’d left Éowyn to her duties. Orcs, three, had been found in the Mark, misshapen and starved to near death, but orcs and uruk-hai, no less, probably Saruman’s failures if Elfhelm’s descriptions of their horribly misshaped bodies were to be believed. One had chased a young boy, driving the poor child into hysterics, crying of “monsters!” and refusing to leave his mother’s side. Of course, the men in his village had immediately called upon Elfhelm’s soldiers to hunt the foul creature down. The orcs had been in such a state of starvation the company had killed them easily.}

_{Now Elfhelm requested permission to rouse some of the released soldiers and hunt the countryside and he’d agreed, suggesting that he, too, go. Elfhelm had politely but firmly stated that he was too valuable. Éomer stared at his pigeon, not hungry, feeling angry and trapped in his own Hall. Too valuable…he could not even go out and slay a few orcs that were too weak to catch a child. It was ridiculous and necessary, he supposed. He was their King and he had no heir, nor wife to rule. There was Éowyn, but she was already betrothed…the Mark would be ill at ease with Faramir as their King. Éomer smiled a little—he’d like to think they would revolt.}

_{It irked him, though. He had to sit here, endure the long hours while others rode off to protect his lands. More fires, too, had been reported along with better news. Many of the fields were thought to yield a great harvest and the stock was healthy. Some King…he sat and the Mark went on with no effort of his spent.}

_{His sister spoke to Elfhelm, who replied respectfully. Arwen did not speak at all; Imrahil listened to the conversation between Éowyn and the Marshal. Outside the Hall, Edoras was quiet. Well, he thought, quiet in comparison to the last week when it has been glutted with my renowned guests. In the Hall, his knights ate and spoke in great, booming conversations, obviously gladdened to have the land to them again. At the end of it, minstrels sang for his entertainment, projecting their fine voices as best they could. All was well, back to normal, back to what it was during the summer. He could pretend again that Faramir would not come. Yet…Éomer felt a brief sense of sadness. He could not pretend.}

_{It was beautiful in his Golden Hall, the candles shining; new candles thanks to his sister, and the hearth fire roaring. Also Éowyn had had the rushes upon the floor replaced so the Hall was full of the sweet smell of herbs and straw. His dogs—usually no one else claimed the lazy beasts—lay in the corners or under tables, gnawing bones or gristle or just sleeping.}

_{He was intensely aware of the emptiness of his city. Éomer’s eyes found his sister, her flaxen hair shining in the firelight. She was listening to Elfhelm’s tale of the boy who’d escaped the orc with angered and deeply sympathetic eyes. Stirring on his chair, the great chair sat upon by many Kings of the Mark, he thought, and it shall only get emptier.}

_{The sun had fallen significantly by the time even the first game was finished; now, after the third, it was near dark. Faramir was aching all over; he walked slowly, trying not to limp—his bare feet had taken a stomping in the last game. The young fair-haired man, who’d been his adversary for all three of the bouts, clasped his throbbing, skinned shoulder. He leaned in to ask through split lips, “God, ge art god. Dæg æfterra?” His name was Tondhere, information divulged between bruising spells of fighting disguised as playing—the game was more or less a running brawling match. In fact, as he’d played, Faramir had discovered many men would simply hit or fling the ball away the moment another charged them, not wanting to be squashed and thus keeping the game going for forever. Jeers had been shouted at those men, but they were only returned in coarser language.}

_{He’d been able to use his superior height to strike the rough leather ball several times, jumping up high over the crowd of slamming bodies. Of course, he’d immediately paid for it by being crushed beneath them, rolling out of the pile with the breath knocked out of his lungs and the owner of more than a few new bruises and scrapes. Faramir had, too, learned to use his lesser bulk to maneuver, paying for that advantage with repeatedly trodden feet as various Riders spotted and tried to thwart him by stepping or rather, stomping, upon his toes. He’d been almost viciously proud to have scored, even if only once.}

_{Now his former adversary looked at him hopefully, “Dæg æfterra, Faramir?” He simplified the question in an unexpectedly non-patronizing and patient fashion, gesturing back to the field. The blonde man spoke slower, clearer, “Gea, má? Dæg æfterra, Faramir?”}

_{It took Faramir several seconds to figure out he was being asked to play again the next day and then a few more to actually comprehend that. He stumbled his way through, “Ná, ná… tó… ǽr. Ge eart cáf.” The young Rider grinned while shaking his head in disappointment. He slapped Faramir’s back, igniting a fire of bruises and aches and then moved away.}

_{He was weary and slumped down onto one of the stumps, too tired and sore to think about setting his bedroll yet. Gaer sat beside him, looking at his dangling hands; he’d been speaking to Faramir’s students. His friend had taken his share of dives into the earth—a small cut over his cheekbone was still bleeding, smeared with dirt. Faramir’s Ranger training prodded him to suggest washing it and dabbing it with some healing plant. He kept quiet, though. “You liked that?”}

_{There was some lingering and unresolved matter between them. Faramir probed it delicately, searching with his mind. He met with nothing but a reserved watchfulness and a lack of Gaer’s natural ease and good cheer. “Yes.”}

_{The redheaded man stared into the last of the sunset. It was beautiful, the faintest touches of crimson and streaking gold over the hills, the sky almost immediately deepening to indigo with the first stars winking down. “Good. If you keep up like you did today you’ll make more friends.” The Rohir met his eyes, lowering his voice. “Until you do you shouldn’t go anywhere alone. Some men do not know when to give up.”}

_{Gaer’s earlier concern over his plans and future whereabouts and the man’s immediate relief when informed he was taking his students resurfaced in his mind. Faramir gazed at him, wary. “What do you mean? Tell me plainly.”}

_{“Do I have to?” It was coolly spoken; again, he was looking down at his dangling hands, wrists resting upon his knees.}

_{His care was not helping and he could take no more. “What’s wrong? Did I…offend you…in some way?”}

_{There was a short silence in which Faramir anxiously watched his students drag the unformed spears and axe towards them; he’d released them from practice at dusk, commanding only one last duty—that they gather the rough darts into bundles of five and tie them to the lean-to’s rafters.}

_{“You say only the written word exists and all else is idle talk…” Gaer was angry, that was suddenly obvious. The redheaded man looked up at him; his face slightly flushed with his temper and then looked away. His voice brimmed with resentment and, too, a distress that stung. “You call our history, our life, all we know no more than idle talk.” The last word was spat.}

_{Faramir cursed himself. Did he forget they had no writings here? That was no excuse; he’d known that…it was simply such a foreign idea to him. Still, no excuse; remember where you are, fool, he thought fiercely. “I didn’t mean that…I was only speaking of…” He stopped, trying to gauge Gaer’s mood from his profile. His gaze was stonily fixed on the men trying to start a fire. The sound of flint and steel striking punctuated the coming night. Faramir began more composedly, “I’m sorry, Gaer, I did not mean—”}

_{The Rohir cut him off, his tone flat. “If you’d spoken such to another man, implied that the tale of Eorl was nothing, that we did not know our ancestors… you’d not have your teeth. You should watch your tongue better, friend Faramir.” He stood and spoke a little quieter, a little calmer. “We need to make the spears for practice. Come, I’ll show you how on the first.” The fire was started, orange flames licking upwards, eagerly kissing and consuming the dry wood offered; pale smoke was twisting and contorting, seeking the sky.}

_{Faramir hacked at the end of the spear, using the axe to shape it into a point. Once that was done, he was to harden it over the fire. Gaer had demonstrated upon the first, as he’d said, and then moved away, joining the other Rohirrim. He felt painfully unwanted and knew it was his own fault. Careless, simply careless and foolish, am I…where is my head? He resolved to speak with more caution. “Gea?”}

_{Wurth asked him, “What is the City like?” In the firelight, he could barely make out their features, only sensing their curiosity. It put him in the idea to teach them another game from his youthful Ranger days. It was an easy game and one specifically designed to be taught in the dark. But later if there is time, first the spears…there were many and he thought the game would probably have to wait.}

_{Moodily, he answered, “It is much bigger than Edoras and differently shaped—there are seven levels with thick walls. The outer walls are of unbreakable stone; the Great Gate sits in the center, pointing east. There are seven gates that alternate so as you walk up to the City you go back and forth. It is built so the City is harder to attack and the Lord is easier to defend. There are passwords for the Lord’s protection and to keep simple folk from wandering in the Citadel where the nobles are.” Wurth, being the largest boy, held the spear while he wielded the axe in swift strokes, ignoring his aches. Woodchips and scraps of bark flew. He tried to aim them, recognizing the usefulness of such tinder. Faramir continued, “There are marketplaces, shops, and such like in Edoras but there are many more and larger because there are more people in Mundburg. There aren’t many horses in the City; they aren’t allowed in some places.” This time he didn’t notice his slip; too busy carving the trees into points. “At the height of the City is the Citadel where there is the Hall of Feasts, the King’s House, the White Tower and the Place of the Fountain where the White Tree stands. That is the seventh level and just below it in the sixth is the Houses of Healing. Behind the City is the Hallows where the Tombs of Kings and Stewards lie against the bones of the White Mountains.”}

_{“What?” For a moment, he just frowned, tired and sore and dejected. “It is very…” Faramir gazed about himself. The dark night, fire-blackened rocks, merry fire and quietly talking and once more docile Rohirrim gave him no aid. “Very ancient and there are places where floors, roads and steps are polished by the years of people treading on them. It is just like a rock gets rubbed smooth in a stream… Many people have lived there, all the houses pass through families, and there are no new ones built. There is much stone and it makes the City very cold and hard looking and confusing if you don’t know it because it is almost all the same grey color. Min—Mundburg stands very tall over everything, from the Citadel, if you stand upon the sea wall that comes like a ship’s prow out to the Great Gate you can see very, very far over the land. When I was a child I thought what I saw was the whole world.” He paused, saddened and feeling disillusioned, and then added, “Men are as small as ants from that height.”}

_{They were listening, piling the half-made spears and handing him others to hack into points. Faramir looked at his bloody knuckles and wondered if the blood was his from his numerous falls or Tondhere, his opponent’s. “Soldiers must do their duty no matter what. They must have courage and respect for their lords…” His father’s last harsh words tried to come but he pushed them away, “…duty is very important, tradition is very important. Most peoples do the trades their fathers did and live in the same houses on the same level and stay within the level they work and live…” He could feel their building dismay.}

_{Keeping Gaer in mind, he tried to explain, “Where would they go? Farmers go to work their fields in the Pelennor; fishermen, hunters and traders go out to see to their duties, too. Those peoples all go outside the walls, though usually not far, because very few who aren’t nobles own horses.”}

_{Faramir took another spear and then continued, “Inside Mundburg, peasants grind grain in mills, healers grow their herbs within set aside gardens, the high-born attend the to King’s Court and their affairs…all all the people’s need is within the City walls. There are merchant stands of all the types you can imagine run by common folk that are not so bound to the King—bakers, butchers, leatherworkers, shoemakers, armors, dyers...there is no need to go anywhere to trade. Traders bring their goods and set up shop in the markets.}

_{Only peasants of the lowest birth live outside in small, thatched houses. Most work the lands their fathers held and do no more. Often, my people leave the shelter of the walls for festivals out in the fields or to watch some sport between the noblemen. There is no need to go out everyday unless they work or deal with the land somehow.”}

_{He’d finished cutting the spears and now Faramir held one, carefully turning it over the fire. He was not to burn the wood, but toughen it. They felt odd around him, the lads with their minds disquieted. Their thoughts were still beyond his gift, but emotions were coming clearer and clearer from his young Rohirric brothers. Faramir asked carefully, “Tell me about Edoras. What is it like to live there?”}

_{“And…the rest of you?” He glanced up from the wood, and then quickly back down, anxious not to appear too intent.}

_{Feohtan answered for himself and the nameless lad who could not speak the Common Tongue. “Eastemnet. Our families farm the land there.”}

_{The last boy, Leodthain, said, “Near the Entwash, my family guards horses of the King’s herds.”}

_{Wurth spoke for them all, “Not before. Not after they came home.” He hadn’t thought so, guessing his students were younger sons sent into service. It was a common practice—the elder sons receiving the lands of the father while the younger sons either worked as lower standing and beholden to the elder or went out into the world to make a living.}

_{“Hmm.” He spent the remainder of the time in hushed thought, pondering his apology to Gaer as he turned the spears over the fire, watching tiny curls of wood char, but the thick shaft and point only grew darker. The many spears took a long time and it was late when they finished.}

_{“Goodnight.” Faramir set down the last spear, having piled them under the shelter of the lean-to. He stepped closer to the giant wagons, noting they were half-full of cloth bags. The salt, he guessed. If they are half-full, then…this was half over and he could return to Éowyn soon. As he moved away in the darkness, even the almost certain knowledge that this expedition would not be his only ride out with the Riders didn’t dampen his jubilation in the least.}

_{It took him a minute to find Gaer, casting for his only friend here’s mindset; he was seated with Nier by the dying fire. Most of the other Rohirrim had gone to their bedrolls, making dark lumps in the darker night. Faramir moved quietly, approaching the fire. He seated himself on a stump, too, not speaking but instead examining the rips in the knees of his trousers. His shirt had dried but he’d not put it back on; it stunk of sweat. The cooler night air felt good on his scraped and bruised upper body. His shoulders were slightly sunburned and they felt warm.}

_{“You’re lucky.” Nier spoke to him, poking the bright coals with a stick.}

_{He was glad one of them was talking. One’s pants were only so interesting for so long. “How so?”}

_{“You got to play.” Faramir grinned at the peevish tone. He had actively enjoyed playing the Rohirrim’s game, even to his own surprise. Such physical activities had hardly been his favorite before.}

_{They sat in silence for a while until suddenly Nier stood. He yawned widely and moved off, leaving only Faramir and Gaer by the fire.}

_{Faramir shifted uncomfortably, beginning, “I’m sorry if you took offense…”}

_{“I’m not…I’m not a soldier. I…” He laughed uneasily under his breath, “I am royal. I…I’ve read all my people’s tales, heard most, but read them foremost and that’s the best way I know. I don’t know what it is like to be or how to be a soldier like you,” Faramir leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs, staring into the coals. “I don’t know how to be irresponsible. I’m a Captain of Rangers, a Steward of the City, a Lord of a land that will take years to rebuild.” He laughed again, “I’ve not even started on that.”}

_{“I’m not a soldier, not really and I’ve never been. Not one of the men, always above, always the Prince, the Captain, the Steward’s son.” He hesitated, “I help with the King's accounts and books. I calculate the revenue from taxes and keep track of the money he spends. In his absence, I’m the head of the King's Court, responsible for the entirety—setting up taxes and laws, overseeing the day to day business of the City, and making decisions over punishments and other issues the people might see fit to bring before me.” Faramir sighed, “My brother was supposed to do this, not me, I wasn’t trained as deeply for it.” He rubbed the side of his face, feeling a small knot on his jaw where a man’s bat had struck him by accident. Suddenly, he blurted, “I don’t know what Éomer wants. I know what I want but I don’t know what they want.”}

_{“I…I’m courting them both.” He swallowed, feeling almost ill with the frustration that boiled in his gut. “I am, truly. And I can’t court them both, I can’t teach her it is all right when I…and yet not do it at all because he hates it. I can’t…so which do I choose? Who’s feelings do I favor? I’ve gotten myself into this, how do I get out?”}

_{Faramir sighed deeply, closing his eyes for a moment and then he opened them. Gaer didn’t deserve his whimpering. He strengthened his voice. “I’m sorry if I spoke too rashly and you took offence that was not my intention…”}

_{The Rohir spoke suddenly, cutting off his apology with an impatient gesture. “Who’s more important right now?”}

_{“Who is more important right now?” Gaer looked at him, the anger dissipated and replaced with something suspiciously like pity. “You cannot court both, and if that is true, then you are stuck…so which will you flatter, my Lord or my Lady?”}

_{Faramir watched the coals flare as a gust of wind passed by. It moved his hair over his unclothed back and shoulders and chilled his bared skin a little. The breezes felt pleasant on his sunburn and like frost everywhere else. He hunched further forward and mumbled while putting his hands out to the orange coals. “I don’t know.”}

_{They sat watching the fire flare and die a little more with each puff of wind. It wasn’t large and would go out soon, made only for the spears and to heat some of the salt pork they’d brought back. Finally, Gaer spoke,}

_{The past tense was not lost upon Faramir. He said slowly, thinking, “I was Faramir the Poet, the Lesser Prince, the Unfavored One…”}

_{“I didn’t ask what they called you.” Gaer was suddenly sharp; vehement impatience fairly sparked from his mind, burning stronger than the little blaze before them.}

_{“No.” Faramir frowned at this transition, and then answered, “I led men, I followed orders. I was Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien. I fought the enemy the best I could with wits, blade and dart.”}

_{Gaer tossed Nier’s stick into the fire. The dry wood flared a little, flames running up it. “Well, you’re not doing any of that now.”}

_{“Suppose? Bah!” The Rohir faced him, intent and scornful, “Ge eart min brôðor in here-geatu.” He made a gesture of disgust, “Ná se Faramir, se gelîffæste ætlêoþ-song æt Mundburg.”}

_{It took him a moment to translate and even then he didn’t get it all. “But…”}

_{Gaer dismissed him, voice curt. “If you are not, then go. You are no use and you wail like a woman. I would not be a comrade with such a weak one as you, nor think my Lord at fault in not granting my Lady to such as you.” He frowned, “Act like a man acts, act like you did when we played the game. Teach, do your duty, do not cry to me about your City and titles and charges that mean nothing here. I am not your wet nurse. I don’t care, Larcwide.”}

_{Faramir smiled a little, actually amused by the speech. It felt oddly cleansing, easing his frustration. “What does Larcwide mean?”}

_{“That depends on what you’re teaching, doesn’t it?” The Rohir paused, “I didn’t say that was your final name, just a choice. Something to try.” Gaer rose, then and said quietly, “Goodnight.”}

_{“Goodnight.” He took a deep breath, feeling like he was about to plunge into a great and unknown depth. I like teaching, I like the hunting and I liked playing the game…not everything is bad. This is not a trial, as I thought it would be. He’d not relaxed his guard and accepted it, as he should.}

_{Suddenly Gaer halted and turned back. His face was in the shadow; “You already have the Lady, don’t you?”}

_{“Then flatter my Lord.” The Rohir sounded exasperated, “You make things too hard, you know that?” With that parting remark he turned and left for good.}

_{Faramir looked into the fire and laughed softly. Rising, he banked the coals and went to his bedroll. He shook it out; paying no mind to the smell of manure—with so many horses it was barely noticeable anymore. However, as he lifted the blankets, there were multiple thuds of something hitting the ground and he froze, eyeing it and sniffing. I don’t believe this idiocy…}

_{Faramir’s bedroll was full of fresh dung—it had been unrolled, generously packed, then rolled back and tied. He stood very still, feeling red rage storm in his chest at this new and preposterous abuse being foisted upon him. Who? Who dared?}

_{The Rohirrim were lumps in the darkness as the fire waned and the stars sparkled. None moved, some snoring softly while others were quite loud. The sounds seemed genuine, following a sleeper’s rhythm. He stared at his bedroll in disgust, but did not make any noise, determined not to give his foe any satisfaction. Instead, Faramir grabbed up his warm cloak and unbuckled his saddlebags from his saddle, using them to pillow his head as he wrapped himself in the green wool cloak. If they thought a mere ruined bedroll would hinder him from a night’s sleep, these Rohirrim had no idea of Ranger training. At most, it was an infuriating nuisance.}

_{When he awoke early the next morning, it was though his muscles were all against him—they ached as he rose, especially his neck. Rubbing it, Faramir grimaced. His bruises felt sore and his scrapes burned under the friction of his clothes. He also felt oddly cheered despite the minor pains and his filthy bedroll. Gaer was right, he had to focus upon Éomer now, gain his goodwill and speedily end this test.}

_{And how would I do that? What did he know other than the man had a quick temper and was overprotective of his sister? —For good reason, if held a bit past need. He can’t resist a challenge, has to rise to meet it. Could he get his attention that way? Éomer seemed to avoid him, even try to ignore him if possible. Faramir doubted it would be much different when the man came. If he challenged him and then retreated, would Éomer follow? There would be a fine line between a challenge and insubordination that might inspire Éomer to order punishment upon him. On the other hand, would he just call me a witch again and scorn and expose me in front of my only friend here and my students?}

_{He pondered this disturbing riddle as he fetched his dirty shirt and threw it over his shoulder, gathering his bedroll and shaking it out as best he could. It still smelled; the stuff was caked almost as though it had been stomped into the wool a few times. Carrying it gingerly, Faramir went to the stream; he was the only man awake that he could tell. It was very early, anyhow, the sun barely up. Striding through the dewy grass, his boots unlaced, trouser cuffs dampening, belt hanging loose, just knotted around his waist, he still felt well. He had a goal, a definite battle to attend and an apparent enemy. Faramir frowned, not Éomer alone will make this hard, but some fool man…undoubtedly that contemptible bastard that I fought in Edoras…decides to make this harder. He splashed water on his face, shivering, and then drank some from his clean, cupped hands. It was cold and good.}

_{He needed deeper water than this to properly submerge his bedroll, though. Unfortunately, the stream was shallow and made shallower and more crowded by large and slippery looking rocks. Faramir gazed downstream but it was only more of the same, so he began walking upstream. He could only hope the childish idiot who’d fouled his bedroll was drinking downstream while he washed it, unlikely as that might be. The banks narrowed and turned to rock and shale and he began to despair of finding deep water until he walked up a tiny hill and around a thick stand of trees. There was a round pool there, surrounded by rocks stippled with moss, cradled by dry grass. His view, up and almost overhead, made it oddly reminiscent of Henneth Annûn. Absently, Faramir wished Frodo well and hoped Pippin was keeping his word.}

_{Watching his steps on the shale, striding delicately on his sore feet, he came to the edge of the pool. It was perfect, deep and plenty large. He stripped completely to make the process simpler and eased himself into the chill water, body jerking with shivers until he adjusted. The pool was deep enough to cover him to his chest and as he splashed and swirled his shirt, leaving his bedroll soaking nearer to the bank, Faramir felt tiny little nibbles on his calves and thighs—fish.}

_{He looked down but he’d clouded the water with the movements of his feet. Holding himself perfectly still, he waited for a moment and was able to see to the bottom. Usual rocks coated with silt and green slime, tiny crawfish, dead, decomposing leaves and, yes, at last he saw fish. Not only were there fish, but fish large enough and many enough to warrant catching for breakfast. They flicked around him, scales light and sometimes shining as they coming close to nibble at his pale, wavery ankles. It tickled and he shifted, making them scatter. Bemused, he waited motionless. The fish, stupid things, came back almost instantly.}

_{Lifting his eyes up and running them along the banks, he looked for suitable brush for improvising a net, but instead he spotted a cluster of juniper trees. Oh, good—twigs cut from those trees made the best and strongest hooks and the inner bark, stripped and knotted for strength, would make good enough line to handle the size fish he’d seen. His eyes wandered the banks again, looking to see if there were any other plants kind enough to favor him with good fortune and there were. I don’t believe it…}

_{Splashing out of the pool, Faramir stood naked and dripping on the banks, staring down at the little cluster of plants. It was soapwort, which was so utterly perfect he really almost couldn’t believe it. Soapwort, he remembered from his days as a youth training in Ithilien, was only a substitute for true soap, but handy enough in need. When the roots were pounded upon something—such as the many rocks by the stream—and mixed with water, they made a soapy foam that would clean his shirt and filthy bedroll quite nicely. Faramir began to smile. If nothing else, Rohan’s abundance endeared it to him, seeming to constantly provide just what he sought. Shivering and dripping, he began to dig the roots out and uncovered a chunk of wood that held a handful of fat grubs—his bait, right there under his feet. Faramir laughed under his breath and put the white, squirming creatures to the side. It is a fairyland I’m living in here…}

_{He’d begun to strip the bark from some of the juniper trees when it occurred to him to fetch his students. Wiggling back into his trousers for modesty’s sake, he trotted back to camp and did so, waking and shepherding the sleepy-eyed Rohirrim boys back upstream. There, Faramir demonstrated with his knife, shaving and trimming the twigs into two or three sharp points and then knotting the slick inner bark in regular lengths and shoving the squirming grubs onto the simple hooks. The lads watched him blearily, and then made their own. Minutes later they waded into the pool, yawning and casting their crude lines.}

_{“Hwa is word?” Using his best accent, Faramir pointed at the first fish, caught by Leodthain, asking for the word. He was sure he’d been taught it, but he’d long forgotten. I’ve forgotten too many things…}

_{Wurth yawned hugely and then mumbled, “Fisc, Láréow.” They’d rolled their trousers up and were knee-deep in the pool. The pile of fish caught, struck on rocks to kill them and prevent their getting away, and then piled upon the bank grew steadily. Deciding his students needed no help, Faramir went ahead and began to prepare to wash his bedroll and shirt.}

_{It was when he was pounding the washed soapwort roots that he noticed they were watching him. Not only that, but there was a light in the five lads’ eyes, a questioning and amazed sheen as the roots yielded the soapy foam that startled him. They looked at him like…well, like he supposed he’d looked at Mithrandir, so long ago. Like I know everything, Faramir thought in wonder. When had he ever been looked at like that? He couldn’t remember.}

_{“Soapwort.” He did not look up, just struck the rock again and again against the other rock, the roots in between squishing and foaming.}

_{“How…?” There was such an immense depth of questioning beneath the word it startled him again.}

_{“Why does it do that? Make like soap?” Scef, his translator, asked it this time, standing on the bank, a flopping fish in his hand. He whacked it against one of the rocks, the creature making a loud, fleshy noise. Faramir blinked, actually feeling a shock run through his body—Gollum, the fish had made the same noise, audible even over the falls. He had to take a breath before he could answer the memory was so vivid.}

_{In his silence, Wurth asked again, looking from the pool, “How did you know it would do that?”}

_{“I was taught.” So, as he rubbed his shirt into the mashed roots, using the rough surface of the rock to scrub, Faramir began to tell them. “When I was a lad the older Rangers taught us that in Ithilien we are cut off and supplies are scarce and uncertain. We must learn to use the land, to survive by our wits. We carry as little as possible, to make it harder for us to be tracked by the enemy, so we must learn to hunt and forage with naught but a knife.”}

_{“Yes, we do but bows are fragile, swords are cumbersome and spears are almost useless when one is crouched in a tree or heavy brush all day.”}

_{Faramir was finished with his shirt; he rolled up his trouser legs and stepped into the cold water well away from the lads. The rocks were slick beneath his feet. Swishing the shirt back and forth through the water, he thought for a moment. Raising his eyes to the branches of the stand of trees, he noted many birds—small birds, the social and bold kind, occupied them. Survival at all costs… He smiled, “I’ll show you.”}

_{Éomer swung into his saddle, feeling rather useless. His new wardrobe was being made, Elfhelm had departed intent upon gathering an éored, and his sister was taking care of all the pre-harvest duties. And what am I doing? Checking up on Faramir…useless.}

_{Looking down at Éowyn’s face, he decided perhaps it was not as useless a task as he thought. She appeared serious, arms crossed, hands cupping her elbows. He smiled, “I’ll see you soon, I’ll be back before you miss me.”}

_{He wanted to tell her not to worry, that if Faramir had been injured he would have already been informed. Éomer wanted to promise his strongest efforts at acceptance and friendship to the Steward, he wanted to tell her he was ready for her to leave, that it would not hurt his heart.}

_{All he did was nod again and ride out, trailed by four men, his guards and the least he had been able to persuade to go.}

_{RINNATH AND HIDATH, MAEGDEN-CILDAN! IC WILLE ÁBROCEN GE! --Run and hide, little girls! I will break you to pieces!}

_{(Q) Á LASTA LALIENYA*! —Listen to my laughter! *There SO should be the Quenya equivalent of “Be-yotch!” on the end of this. Unfortunately the good Professor did not make one. Sad, really.}

_{Ná se Faramir, se gelîffæste ætlêoþ-song æt Mundburg—Not this Faramir, the maker of poetry in Mundburg}

_{Tondhere—(army) (tough)—probably means something like tough enough to be a soldier, enduring}

Faramir listened to the birds very carefully. They chirped and whistled, hopping about, some in the trees and some on the ground, pecking enthusiastically. Feathered in different shades of brown and grey, there were several types. His students half-watched him and half-watched their lines, still catching the fish. There was quite a pile on the bank now; it was about what Faramir considered would be enough. He glanced at it and told them so, then returned his attention to the birds.

Ranger training emphasized survival. A dead Ranger could not help his people or defend his country so as a lad he had been taught to use everything and anything possible to live. If he was separated from his company and unable to seek refuge in one of the many secret hiding places, survival might become a great task in the unpredictable hills and thickets of Ithilien. Separation was taught as an eventual occurrence, not a rarity—often his men were overwhelmed by orc forces and had to scatter. Faramir’s face became slightly grim; being outnumbered was what he’d come to expect. Often men, honest men, good men and not deserters, were seen fleeing unhurt but then they vanished, were simply gone, never to regroup at any of the secret places or appear again in the City. He looked at the birds and put those thoughts away.

As per his example, if all he had was a knife to hunt, it limited his selections to small, easily catchable creatures unless he was extremely blessed and got within throwing distance of a deer. However, to his knowledge that had never happened to anyone and indeed, it would have been a marvel. In fact, for what he was looking at as a possible food source, Faramir knew he did not even necessitate a knife unless he planned to be finicky. The shiny blade made a good lure, though, to the curious little birds. His students were sloshing out of the pool now and he gestured for them to stand and wait. “Watch and do not speak.” Faramir returned to looking at his prey; he shifted his feet and then stood very still on the bank. Glancing at his curious pupils, he withdrew his blade and held it so it shone towards the birds. He’d said he’d use his knife, after all, and he would.

The birds had paid them little attention, going about their morning business of singing and fighting and eating while the large, noisy animals splashed in the water. Faramir gazed at them, thinking. He had never actually attempted this, but it had been presented to him as one alternative. Deciding he’d listened long enough, he whistled suddenly, breaking their intricate and deeply involved calls with one of his own. The birds paused, and then some chirped in reply, questioning this new and simple song from something that was most definitely not a bird. He whistled back, not moving an inch. A few nervously fluttered away, but those that had answered called again. They cocked petite heads, peering at him with tiny black eyes. Faramir whistled, making a more complicated call, trying his best to mimic the birds. Most of their trilling notes were far beyond him so he picked a fairly simple whistle and kept doing it.

A few minutes of back and forth and several of the little creatures had either hopped or flown closer. They were excited, listening avidly as he mimicked them; it was like they’d found a new friend. He was getting tired of keeping his lips pursed. His students watched in astonishment and deep curiosity. They wanted to know what he was going to do next. Faramir tilted the knife in slow, careful movements. The shiny blade flickered and the birds looked at it with an inquisitive shine in every eye. Continuing to mimic and mesmerize the tiny fowl, he managed to coax them to his feet but that wasn’t at all close enough to catch the swift little things.

He still held the knife in one hand, but the other was open and palm upwards. There were four of the birds that he’d seduced closer and they were sitting at his feet, craning their little necks way up and turning their heads to gaze at him as they either answered or waited for his next whistling call. One hopped boldly onto his bare foot, tiny-clawed feet tickling his arch. It barely weighed enough to register. Faramir waited and whistled again, knowing he was close to demonstrating his point.

It took another few minutes but two of the birds did as he’d hoped—they flew to his empty hand in a flutter of small wings. Perching there, they looked energized and cheerful, always moving their eyes or heads, and fluttering their tails. His students gaped in pleased surprise.

“Now, I’ve got them close,” He tilted the knife and the tiny birds eyed it with no thought of danger; feeling out their infinitesimally small minds, he was happy to find they considered it as no more than a curious shiny object and himself no more than a new and interesting creature. “I could shut my hand on one and gut it very quickly with my knife, make the kill swift and merciful. There would not be much meat but I could use the corpse to bait a larger predator into a noose which I could make from vines.” A fox would be poor meat but food anyway. His students looked less than pleased as they watched one of the other birds hop to his bare shoulder. Faramir winced, yesterday’s sunburn stinging a little under the scaly feet of the bird. Three were sitting on him now, cocking their heads and eyeing every part of him with intense curiosity. The birds looked very tame and very personable, cheeping or whistling softly.

Faramir smiled at the lads in empathy, “I know. They are very innocent and friendly. They don’t deserve such but if I was desperate I would and it might save me. In winter these little ones would be easier to kill, moving from thicket to thicket, than trying to hunt out and chase down rabbits and I would draw less attention with these little friends.” He very slowly sheathed the knife and raised his hand to stroke the back of one of the birds. It peeped faintly but didn’t move away, quite comfortable on his fingers. They weren’t frightened of him at all and were somewhat intrigued by his noises. In fact, as he waved his arm gently, trying to get them to move off, the birds stayed put, only swaying with his movement like he was a tree in the wind. Faramir clucked and shook his head, amused. “These are overbold, I think. They might deserve to get eaten by a hungry Ranger.” He had to shake his arm again, “Shoo!” In a ripple of alarm accompanied by surprisingly strong drafts from such little wings, they returned to their trees and from there stared at him with their beady eyes full of betrayal.

While he finished washing his bedroll and his students gutted the fish and strung them on the lines by their gills, he quizzed the lads on the plants he’d mentioned the day before—their appearance, where to locate them, their optimal seasons and uses for either food or medicine. Faramir was pleased to find they’d paid attention and remembered most if not all of his instruction. He also was even more pleased when the boys began offering him the plant names and such in Rohirric, and then quizzing him.

“Salfie, Láréow? Hwa is word?” The boy sounded quite authoritive, making Faramir try not to laugh out loud, only allowing himself a downward grin and then a thoughtful look.

He rubbed the soapwort into the coarse cloth and tried to think. Luckily, most were similar sounding but this particular herb eluded him. “Ic nat, hwa is word?”

More amusingly, they seemed pleased by knowing something he did not. Leodthain grinned, all but gloating, “Sage, Láréow.”

“Ic nat.” He smiled at their eagerness to test him. Who is the Teacher here now? I suppose I will play the student a bit longer, indeed.

“Ah.” Faramir glanced at them. “But tell me its uses in both tongues.” To make the test more difficult, he added quickly, “Besides just as a food.” He had them stumped there for none answered. “It is used in spiced wines, in brewing beer, and in medicines to comfort the stomach.” He grinned and scrubbed harder, rubbing his knuckles into the rough cloth. “Sage leaves are used in salads and green sauces and as a spring tonic.”

They were quiet for a few seconds, and then Wurth translated his words for him, obligingly slowly and challenged, “Porr? Hwa is word?”

He rinsed the cloth, sloshing it in the cold water while trying not to get too wet himself and admitted easily, “Ic nat.”

“Use?” Faramir hefted his soaked bedroll and took it to the dry rocks on the other side of the pool, spreading the cloth to dry in the sun. His shirt he patted, pleased to find it halfway dry already.

He smiled, “Give me another; I’m sure I’ll know this one.” Naturally, he didn’t and when they laughed at his ignorance, Faramir did, too. Plucking up a line of the glistening, dripping fish, he swung it over his bare shoulders. “Come, let’s go back.”

Éowyn felt like everyone was staring at them as she and Arwen walked down the street in Edoras. Ordinarily they might have attracted some mild attention, but today was an exception—the people gawked, some laughing softly behind their hands. Keeping her head high and reminding herself that none were paying much mind to her, she kept on. The Queen had seemed less melancholy today, devoting most of her time to cooing over her dog and stroking his ears, making Éowyn wonder if she was concentrating her attentions upon the puppy in Aragorn’s absence. Either way, the Queen did seem less downhearted and that was good. Rusco was limp and unconscious with the deep sleep of overfed youngsters; stuffed full, his white rounded belly was almost as big as he was…but he wasn’t in Arwen’s arms. Instead, a young serving man in the clothes of the City, bearing the dog in a fashion as fully dignified as though he was transporting the King’s scepter, was carrying him. Éowyn kept biting her lip hard not to laugh at the utterly sober expression on his face as he walked behind the Queen, bearing the sleeping puppy in his cradled arms. That poor man. She ignored the folk around them’s amusement the best she could, feeling sorry for the man and emphasizing with the staring public—it was a dog and it could walk. No one carried a dog in Edoras. She thought Arwen’s elaborate gown, layered in shades of green, and the servant’s fine clothing, better than some of the richer merchants’, didn’t help either. Éowyn herself would have been fairly becoming and familiar to their eyes in her simple white under gown with a sky blue outer gown; both of which were plain and unadorned wool. The only decoration was a trim that followed the sleeves and collar of the outer gown, sewn with cobalt thread in a pretty, looped shape; it was slit at the sides and sleeveless to show her white undergown, which was fashionably tight sleeved till the elbow where they billowed annoyingly and threatened her patience.

However, she was dreadfully simply garbed next to the Queen. Arwen was swathed in multi-shaded green silks with a jeweled necklace clasped at her throat; she showed her wealth and status in three ways—abundance of costly material, equally costly dyes and the casually worn gems. Not to mention the man who’s carrying her dog...sheer ridiculousness, that is. Glancing at her, Éowyn fingered the humble, ever-present dolphin pendant; she was silently pleased to find she considered it more valuable simply because it was Faramir’s and it was important to him. In addition to its mottled little shape riding on her bosom, she’d worn the blue triple-stone and diamond ring Faramir had given her. Although the ring itself was worth a great deal more than the dolphin and undoubtedly so was everything else he’d presented to her, she cherished it beyond all other gifts, often rubbing the familiar token to busy her hands.

At her waist was a belt with keys on it—she was planning on an evaluation of the treasury this afternoon. They jangled, bumping her side, but she couldn’t wait to do this task. It was important Éomer know the full extent of his holdings before she left or took a small portion of it with her as her birthright in independent wealth. How much? Not much, she thought, but some. Éowyn wondered if she would be allowed to keep it in Gondor…here in Edoras she kept her wealth and none could tell her what to do with it. As a wife she would be beholden. Faramir is not like that, he would not care…he’d not shown any sign of a desire to control her in any way. Éowyn frowned, playing with the pendant. He’d shown her little sign of anything he expected when she became his wife…only the fact that he expected her to be his wife and after that? No more, he says. No more than I can give. She was finding it troublesome as the time drew slowly nearer to their union and as she and Arwen walked, Éowyn pondered.

Give…give…oh, I can give him my every effort, my attention turned to him alone…be a proper wife to take off his boots at night, dress him in his finery, mend his shirts, weave his cloaks and see to his every need in and out of our rooms… Or I can give my love and reverence, my attentiveness if he has any desires and yet still leave the task of keeping his clothing up to clothiers and seeing to his every need to servants. If he abided that I could have other pleasures to occupy me such as the Houses of Healing, tending Mother’s roses when I plant them—she would like to do so herself, she knew that already—and other things I’m sure I will discover in the City…

But what does that mean to him, no more than I can give? It was frustrating not being able to ask right now, as she’d like. Éowyn could not wait until she saw him again, and not just for that reason alone, but to hug his strong body, feel his eyes upon her, his mind touching hers...just to see Faramir would be deeply enjoyable. I want to kiss him, to ask him what he’s done and if it was terrible or if he enjoyed it some, if my brother kept his manners or not and if he’s happy to see me, too. And then, once I’ve heard all he has to say, I will ask him what he desires of me when I come to his City. And after that…before I leave them, I will tell all.

Arwen’s voice startled her. “Oh, thank you.” Touching her hair, she smiled. She’d done a new type of braid for it, twisting in a thick circle and pinned up at the back, and then letting long, threadlike braids hang in loops that swung against her neck. Smiling wryly, she thought, all this and I still look like a peasant. Ah well. No one cannot say I’m not at least attempting to dress like a Lady…just not an extremely rich one.

They were on a mission this morning: Arwen wanted to school Rusco to the leash and, logically, a leatherworker must be first found to make a proper leash and a collar. Proper…inwardly she scoffed, remembering her own puppy gifted by Théodred and Éomer. She’d never used more than a length of rope knotted around his neck to keep him in line in the few times it had been necessary. But Arwen wanted a leash and collar, so Éowyn found herself right back in the same leathersmith’s shop she’d gone to yesterday to have the baldric on Merry’s horn adjusted. He was an older man who greeted her with a low bow and a kindly, “A fine morning, my Lady, how may I serve you again?”

“The Queen,” She coughed into her hand, trying not to laugh or break her impeccably mannered Lady’s voice when she glanced back at the patiently waiting Arwen and serving man. The completely solemn and sincere expressions upon their faces combined with the drooping and fast asleep Rusco nearly did her in it was so silly. “The Queen wishes a collar and leash made for,” Gesturing at the unconscious puppy, she finished, “her dog.”

To his credit, the leathersmith did not so much as chortle at the bizarre notion. Dogs were terribly plentiful; especially hounds like Rusco was and few were renowned as darling pets. Most dogs wore thick, coarse leather collars if at all and not the finely made stuff the man sold. When it came to it, horses were far more useful and deserving of a fine harness. Instead of laughing as Éowyn might have excused, he was seriously respectful, “Aye, aye… My Queen, if I could measure his neck?”

Arwen waved her hand for her servant to carry the dog inside the small room, which was filled with cutting implements, types of thread and leather and yet other tools of the man’s trade. In the center was a large, scarred table. Éowyn gritted her teeth to keep her face appropriately reflective and calm, amused as the young man hefted the flop-eared Rusco onto the tabletop and then had to force the lazy little creature to stand up. The puppy blinked and stretched, sitting with half-lidded eyes while Arwen’s man kept one hand on his tan and black flank to hold him still. Rusco soon woke up a little, yawning and then blinking excitedly at his new surroundings. His tail wagged furiously. The leathersmith was swift and gentle, unperturbed that the puppy was nosing him with interest and trying to turn and zealously gnaw and snap at the piece of string that he used to measure. Éowyn felt ridiculous, standing with her arms crossed, watching them. The man of the City’s expression was still as solemn as though such events were parts of his normal service. And as far as I know they are.

“Hold still, dear.” Arwen scratched behind the floppy ears, scolding, “Be still for the good man.”

“Which do you desire me to use, my Queen?” The smith had a small range of differently tanned leathers and buckles. Éowyn put her hand tightly over her mouth as Arwen glanced at her,

“Al-ll right.” She was going to laugh and laugh. This was utterly mad, next thing the creature would be wearing jewels on his collar and sleeping on silk pillows. It was a dog and not just a dog, but of the same blood as those who slept outside in their kennels or on the ground in various parts of her land or in the Hall. She’d had the beasts inside Meduseld shooed out constantly but somehow they were still whelping in the corners and getting fat from tossed scraps or stolen meals. It was the Knights’ fault for feeding the dogs and not reprimanding them when they stole, indulgently patting the tame and useless hounds and encouraging the things to stay so that she was left with a hall full of flea-ridden and filthy dogs to do something about. Éowyn sighed. I cannot imagine what it will be like when I am gone…chaos, perhaps. She hoped not but her brother had never seemed to care one way or another.

Arwen fingered the leather, choosing the darker dyed style, a rich chocolate color. She wanted a gold buckle, which made Éowyn stare at her before dutifully pretending to look at the varieties of pattern and shape. This is so ridiculous. The puppy wiggling on the table before them was no different from any of the others either in marking or behavior. His only saving grace was to be presented to the Queen…and, she did crack a smile now, probably it was an act of concern for the welfare of our country by my brother—there were too many of the cursed things already and one to Arwen is one less. Rusco’s fate was at least a kind one, excessive pampering or no. If their numbers rose too high or supplies were short, she knew for a fact that the puppies and older dogs in and around the Hall were rounded up, butchered and fed to the hogs. She looked at Rusco, who Arwen’s manservant was petting and also preventing from jumping off of the table as the puppy squirmed, fully awake and becoming unruly. When the man did not allow him to jump down to his mistress’s heels, the little dog flailed, whined and gnawed on his arm in rebellion. This creature will be spoiled beyond reckoning.

“Hush!” She admonished her pet before speaking, “I want this.” Arwen held up a small, simple gold buckle and the dark dyed leather. “I want it large enough so that it lasts some…” She looked at Éowyn. “How big do you think he will be?”

The Queen turned back to the patiently waiting leathersmith. “Just leave room in it so it can stand him growing for a short while at least, please.”

“Yes, my Queen.” The man was picking the chosen color of leather out of a great array of tanned hides and selecting an equally dark thread to sew it with. He took out his knife to cut, gazing up with an apologetic expression. “This will take time.”

Éowyn took an opportunity to get something done. “Do you want to accompany me?” She was buying more grain today for the use of man and horse. It was an important thing as the grain had to be enough to both last until the harvest was brought in and ground to flour or stored whole and be a goodly amount to supplement the shares of the individual harvests given by the people. Also, she was visiting the herbalist to make sure there were no shortages in medicinal plants before they were desperately required and that none needed to be searched out from the countryside. Suddenly she was cheerful, remembering her diversion in the Houses of Healing. It was a shame her own people’s healing skills were so inferior in comparison to the luxury, depth of history and knowledge available in Gondor or she would have spent time studying this summer.

“All right.” Arwen and her servant fell in behind her, the man carrying the dog once more and Éowyn could not resist asking,

“Why don’t you let him walk? I’m sure he’d follow.” There were many folk out but very few horses except those pulling carts; she didn’t think there was a possibility he would get trampled.
“On this?” The Queen gestured to the hard-packed dirt of the street, wrinkling her nose in disdain. “He’d get filthy and he just had a bath…and in rose scented water, no less, to keep him smelling nice.” She paused, patting Rusco’s head and prattling, “We must keep you smelling and looking nice if you keep the company of ladies, isn’t that right dear?” The puppy lapped and chewed frantically at her fingers while the manservant kept a sober face. Éowyn was just barely able to turn her head back before she rolled her eyes in disbelief. She did not even bathe in rose water and she had roses within her rooms. Arwen pointed to some grass in the center of the market. “He could walk there; I suppose he wouldn’t get too dirty.”

This is the most preposterous thing I’ve ever been a part of. “All right, but later.” Éowyn quickened her step. “Come on.”

She glanced back, not understanding all the enthusiasm for what was essentially a bunch of smelly storage rooms. “What for?”

“For the wonderful thing I’m doing to your hair tonight now that all the men have left us to our own devices. Really, they should have known better.” The Queen beamed, refusing to answer any more questions and they walked onwards. At the herbalist’s shop, Arwen also refused to let her see what she purchased and Éowyn began to feel a bit nervous. What can she be planning? She ran her hand over her flaxen braids and wondered. Her only consolation was that Arwen did not seem as dispirited as she’d been all the day before, so if allowing the elven woman to do something mysterious to her hair would help, Éowyn was willing to surrender. I could always have Éomer cut if off again. She smiled. And wear a wig. Her smile went wide and she laughed into her hand, one for each day of the week…I’m quite sure Faramir could afford it. I’d even have different colors.

Her smile faded. No doubt my future husband would be sincerely displeased and we’d find out right then and there just how much he plans to control me.

The Riders were all awake by the time he and his students hauled the fish back to camp. He dropped his load by the small, struggling fire and the three Rohirrim standing there squinted in unison. One asked, “Fish? That’s it?”

Faramir stared at him and then something that rarely happened, fortunate when one considered his father’s dislike for any cheek, did again—his mouth opened and ran away with him. Voice dripping with sarcasm, he asked, “What? Would you like it topped with a sauce of almond milk and rose petals, perhaps thickened with rice flour? Or just a salad beforehand? I think I saw some herbs down by the stream and in the wood. How does onion and parsley with garlic sound? That goes well with fish. Ah, but we don’t have any red wine vinegar! A shame—” He fell silent, surprised at himself

One of the Riders made a revolted face, repeating through a grimace, “Rose petals?” He moved away, leaving them.

The man in the middle gave him an incredulous look and chuckled, “Did you find your balls in that stream, Faramir?” The last Rider laughed out loud and began stoking the fire as the first returned with more wood.

Faramir was taken aback by the way he was so casually addressed by name. He’d thought himself still at or slightly above the status of ‘Lytle Bregu’. Maybe I am mistaken. Then he considered his fouled bedroll, still drying with his shirt on the rocks surrounding the secluded pool. I doubt it. Yet none of these three seemed to show him the slightest animosity and he felt himself relax his guard.

The Rohir snorted in amusement and picked up one of the fish, “Perhaps we should send Oswyn there to find his. He’s been sulking ever since you knocked them out of him.”

Oswyn? Is that his name? Faramir decided to help the men and give his students a short break until after they ate. They’d done well this morning. “What do you need done?”

The Rider gazed back at him, and then shoved a giant iron pot into his hands. “Get water first.” He looked at the pile of gleaming fish. “Too many to cook otherwise. Need herbs, though.”

Given a charge, Faramir turned to his students, eyeing Feohtan. “Get some water, not much, only so full.” The Rohir chuckled again, amused as he passed on tasks. “And you,” He pointed to Leodthain, Wurth and the nameless lad. (He really had to ask.) “Get some parsley, thyme and rosemary. Remember those? Remember where you can find them?” He’d changed his mind, it was an impromptu test and then they would be granted a break. His pupils nodded and scuttled off, leaving Scef to look at him apprehensively as he ordered, “You help them while I fetch some mint.”

Faramir faced the two Rohirrim. They wanted something other than just fish, he was going to give them the best he could on short notice—well-seasoned fish. Faramir did not plan on Éomer being informed of anything but his intent and willing service, even beyond his assigned duties. Not that he fully knew his formal assigned duties since he hadn’t been necessarily assigned anything beyond the first day and that, he’d been informed, was voluntary. Bastards, lets see you try and say I’ve not done my part. He fixed his gaze on the men. “Is there any of that ale left over?”

“Aye. What do you want with it?” The fire was sufficiently built and Feohtan was coming back with the pot, the boy’s arms straining under the weight.

“We’re poaching the fish with herbs in some of it. What about the bread?” Earlier, he’d noted a large section of a safe type of mushroom in the wood but was unsure if there would be enough, so he didn’t mention it. The mint he needed for the fish was back down the trail. It was not too far and the fish would take time. Faramir eyed the men, daring them to speak against him.

“ Aye, we’ve a little bread. Enough, I suppose, and some of the salt pork.”

“Well, there’s your breakfast.” And the fish for later, he added to himself. There was enough fish that made into the soup he planned and put with bread, the meal would feed the camp for the day or at least until the late evening. Perhaps I can show the lads to find rabbit runs and track the rabbit to its den and set snares nearby. Or we can flush them and I can shoot them...or birds, there must be some larger foul in these hills. Surely there are ducks somewhere in the stream. Faramir wondered if the hounds would bring back prey on command and then allow him to take it from them without snapping. Duck sounded delicious.

The Rohirrim just seemed mildly surprised at all his effort, and then they both shrugged. They began to cut the heads from the fish, tossing them to the drooling dogs that wolfed the delicacies down in messy, crunchy bites. His quest fixed in his mind, Faramir moved away. He reached into his saddlebags and retrieved a shirt, sliding it over his head and tangled hair in swift movement and then shoved his boots on, lacing them swiftly. Briefly, he considered catching Thorn, but decided against it. He moved more quickly on foot. Forgetting Gaer had warned him about going off alone, he strode down the trail.

It didn’t take him long to realize he was being followed—and badly if the person was trying to be at all subtle. Faramir halted, head cocked, listening closely. Scarcely, he heard the soft rattle of misplaced stones in a regular rhythm, along with the snap of an occasional twig and the musty crunch of dried dirt. The steadiness of the sounds was a sure giveaway that some proud creature followed—prey animals were more wary and often paused to investigate noises. This thing was confident, even increasing its pace and the weighty thuds of the steps indicated it was heavy enough to be a man. Faramir ducked off the path, slipping silently into the brush and crouched there in the shadows. He scanned the mind of the man at his heels and relaxed. It was Gaer. Suddenly he was irritated. Why was Gaer following him? To protect him? Nonsense.

He waited until Gaer went passed and then Faramir paced the Rohir, moving softly and easily through the dappled, morning light. His linen shirt was ash-colored, but he was far enough into the wood and the sunlight pouring through the trees was great enough so that he did not stick out too terribly. Either way Gaer never looked off the path, so it hardly mattered. The Rohir could have had two companies of Rangers sticking to his track and would never have noticed he was so intent.

Why is he so concerned? Do I appear that foolish and incapable? He was on a quest for a few sprigs of fresh mint, not a charge through orc-infested territory. Feeling himself become angered and defensive, he breathed out in a low rush and tried to find the rational angle. No doubt Gaer has reasons. He didn’t want me going alone…obviously he’s coming along to prevent that. Maybe he thinks I will be ambushed by more than one man…he calls himself my friend, naturally he does not wish me hurt. As he thought, twigs pulled at Faramir’s hair and he brushed them gently aside, unconsciously not breaking them, his training demanding he left no sign to trace. Gaer still had no idea he was pacing him, which was obvious as he kept peering ahead. Equally obvious was the man’s anxiety that he’d not been seen yet. This was mad, certainly he couldn’t be ambushed; unless they possessed qualities he’d not seen, Faramir knew he could shadow circles around these deaf and blind men of the Mark. His annoyance broke sharply through the slow, reasonable progression of his thoughts. I can handle myself...Rohan is not dangerous. Why is he following me?

But didn’t Gandalf say it was so? That made him pause but he shook his head, irritation rising again. I think I can handle the dangers of finding mint in the forest without Gaer holding my hand. Faramir followed for another minute, and then stepped from the forest directly behind Gaer. He permitted his footfalls to become audible and spoke quietly, very carefully restraining his temper. “Why are you following me?”

His friend jumped into the air with a sharp gasp and spun in place, shock flaring in his light eyes before he relaxed. Indeed, he nearly slumped with the relief that radiated from his frame. “There you are.” Faramir said nothing in reply. He didn’t want another quarrel; he simply wanted an answer. Gaer didn’t speak either, apparently expecting him to begin. They stood silent, gazing at each other until the younger, redheaded man finally said, voice a mixture of hesitancy and unease, “What? Faramir…what?” He looked unsettled, shifting his feet and making only fleeting eye contact. “You’re spooking me, stop it. What’s wrong with you…jumping out behind me and then not saying anything when I talk to you...?”

There was a new note of irritation in Gaer’s voice. “Because something might happen.”

It made Faramir irritated, too, because the only one here that should be angered was he. “Like what?”

He laughed out loud, disgusted. “And what? Like you followed me? I think I can handle that. I don’t need your concern.”

“Tell me and I will try.” Faramir began walking ahead, scouting for the plant he sought. He was out here for a reason. Gaer paced him, stepping on the other dirt track.

It took a moment. Hesitantly, the redheaded man began, “You humiliated him…it’s natural he’d want to…want vengeance. His mood’s been dark, I’ve seen it…you beat him before an audience of his peers and his lord…some men cannot take that. Perhaps he wants to…”

He flicked a hard glance across the grassy middle of the trail, interrupting. “Get beaten again?” Faramir found he was rather in the mood for it.

Gaer finished determinedly. “If you’re out alone things might go differently and it would not be good if you got hurt.”

“Not good for who? Me? Or our Lady?” He couldn’t block the scorn from his voice, though he tried. “Or you? Are you responsible for me, Gaer? Is that why you’re always around? Am I your charge; is it your duty to look after me? Is that why you care so damn much?”

Now Gaer’s eyes shone with hurt and he stopped, halting both his feet and his caustic tongue. Dammit, I didn’t want to argue… The Rohir spoke slowly, wearily. “I volunteered to Lord Éomer. I liked you when we met in the City.” He paused, “At first it was partly to see the man my…” He gave a small, self-deprecating smile, “Your Lady would marry, but I liked you still, so I kept on. I’m your friend, aren’t I?” He frowned, “Why wouldn’t I be concerned if a man wanted revenge? Why would I want you to find yourself alone in such a plight?”

Faramir bowed his head, feeling like the great ass he knew he was. When did I get so brutish? I was bred to act better than this. “I’m sorry.” He gazed straight at Gaer. “If you can understand…if you can find it within you to understand, I feel much like I am a great jest in your land, to your people…that my experience, my worth is belittled. I am insulted, mocked daily.” He sighed, “It is difficult not to be guarding against…not to turn kindly words to cutting ones. I am sorry. You are right, we are friends, it is…” Faramir offered a smile, hoping it would be returned, “Good of you to worry and I thank you.” He swallowed, “I am sorry, too, that I offended you yesterday. I did not mean to and I regret it greatly.”

Gaer returned his smile after a beat, looking more relaxed, and nodded. Just when Faramir had relaxed, too, the Rohir said quietly and coolly, his light eyes fixed on Faramir’s grey ones, “I can understand, but strike at me no longer, I am not your enemy but your friend and my words are not cutting.”

Sudden anger flushed through his veins, overpowering his guilt, “Aye and we men of Mundburg can’t do anything on our own? What about that? “They will believe that”? You do not help, friend Gaer, with such words.”

“You cry over so little?” The Rohir snorted, clearly disdainful. “You should hear the things I keep them from speaking in your presence, the great jests they tell.”

“Nothing. Do not worry, I will not say such to you again, you have my oath.” Gaer seemed irritable, though when he spoke again it was in a brisk voice indicating their troubles were over. “What are you looking for?”

Faramir felt a weight fall from his shoulders, though his guilt tightened his stomach. He did strike out at Gaer and unfairly. Subdued, he answered, “Mint.” They walked in a reasonably companionable silence which was broken shortly thereafter by Gaer asking slowly,

“Why don’t you talk to them like you talk to me? I’ve seen you with my people, you don’t speak to them. Perhaps they think you are cowardly that you do not make an effort at defense and that makes them mock you all the more.” He’d spoken very carefully and calmly, not looking up from the trail.

Faramir thought about that and shrugged. “I do not know. It is my feeling that if I leave them be, they will leave me. But that is not true and I don’t understand their dislike.” Now he felt a weary sort of pain, “I did nothing. I do not seek to quarrel or brawl. I only aspire to serve Lord Éomer’s wish in full and then have peace.” I did nothing to my father, either…

“Well, I like you…so I cannot answer truly for others.” Gaer hesitated, “My people…such things are common. Our jests are strong and we pride strength and man’s hardness to all wounds, I think, more than your folk. We are not nobles, Faramir,” He looked saddened, “You must learn not to think like what you are. You are in the dirt with us, the low levels with the common folk, not reading your books and sleeping in your high tower where one must know the password to even approach.”

The feel of his friend’s mind startled Faramir. It was a strange mix of longing and aversion.

The redheaded man went on in a lighter tone, “Not all of my people hate you.” He grinned sideways, “Some of them don’t care.” Gaer smiled, his voice turning softer. “She is ours, you know.” When Faramir looked over, he clarified, “Oh, not in the ways that matter, she is yours in her heart and the core of her being…but she was mine in my dreams and the dreams, too, of most men in my land. Lady Éowyn we hold above other women, the perfect woman, made of steel like a sword, valor unbreakable yet as to voice and touch soft as the petals of a spring flower.” This time Gaer grinned, “So I’ve guessed. I was thirteen when I first saw her and thought her the most beautiful creature that ever was.”

“What were you doing?” Thirteen? Faramir wondered again how old Gaer was and felt jealousy stirring. “How long ago was that?”

“That was…” Pausing, he looked up at the blue sky and squinted, “Eight years ago, before times grew dark. Formation practice.” He clarified, “Riding in patterns, keeping the horses in them. She came riding while Lord Éomer was instructing us, all golden hair shining in the sun, wide smile and sweet bosom bouncing under that shirt. I was too scared to even look at her.”

Faramir laughed while thinking incredulously, twenty-one? He’s naught but twenty-one? Gaer was far younger than he’d thought. Brave to cross the Pelennor…then jest about it to me. He’d not seen the battle, only the field of carnage and knew he, himself at twenty-and-one, might have been shaking in the saddle to face such a great and bleak combat.

Gaer snorted at his laughter, looking up and across at him. He shook his head. “You laugh but the line of Éomund is known for its rash temper and Lord Éomer is no exception. The man had a sword and I was just a puny lad of thirteen who was just discovering he couldn’t shoot a bow. He could have killed me with a flick of his wrist and the way he looked at us made it seem like he might if we so much as smiled at her.”

Faramir smiled. Known for its rash temper? Ah, now things begin to make a lot of sense. “I’m jealous of you. I only wish I’d come here sooner.” He sighed, “It is not so far from my land to yours and I cannot believe I never crossed the distance and saw what awaited me.”

“Jealous of a few moments over the years?” Gaer laughed at him. “You are a fool, friend Faramir and a daunting one at that.” With a sideways look, he said sternly, “Never jump out of the bushes like that at me again, would you kindly? I thought my heart would stop and the next thing I would see was the candlelit halls of my forefathers and my sire scolding me for suffering such a disgraceful death.”

Faramir laughed, striding easily in the warm day now they were no longer quarreling. It felt to get hot again soon. “You could have seen me had you made any effort to look. I followed you for a long time.”

They’d neared the little glade where he’d smelled the mint as the horses had passed by. “Practice day and night for many years. It is a skill taught to Rangers.”

“Rangers?” Gaer sounded slightly confused, and then he brightened, “Wait, those men?” He laughed delightedly. “I’d forgotten they mentioned you as their Captain.”

The redheaded man was close to snickering. “Nothing. Very, ah, nice men they are.”

“The ones I met were all so.” Here Gaer’s voice went high, “We stand and face the West before our meals…we don’t drink ale when we have service in the morning…” He rolled his eyes, “Full of themselves they were, thought us barbarous men.” Speaking normally, he said, “I cannot believe I forgot. ”

Faramir had laughed at the impression, now he sighed and smiled, making sure his words came out as inoffensively as they were meant to be. “You wouldn’t know anything about being a Ranger, really. Most of it is secret. If they were full of themselves they deserve to be. It is difficult and thankless labor. Standing at meals is our practice and you shouldn’t drink yourself into a stupor if you have service early.” He laughed, “It is not old-maidish, it is respectful and common sense.”

“Ahh, you have no heart if you can’t get up and ride with an aching head.” Gaer glanced over, “Why don’t I come and see what’s it like? Like you with this.” He frowned, “’Course there’s not a beautiful woman waiting for me but…”

“You want to serve as a Ranger? In Ithilien?” Faramir stared at him, a little horrified at the notion.

“Why not? I’m not sure about “serve” but what else am I doing? There are too many of us soldiers as there are. There is nothing more to fight and we will go back to farming or some such thing. I cannot afford to stay and be at Edoras, guarding the King. I cannot even shoot—so I can’t aspire for even a duty as a guard on the walls or over the gate. My family is not wealthy, and I have as little skill in pushing a plow as I have in drawing a bow.”

“All right.” He sniggered, unable to even imagine this venture. Suddenly Faramir thought, it might be good for Éowyn to have someone from the Mark around for a while...she might be happier. He couldn’t deny that he would miss Gaer’s friendship. When he next spoke, he was more serious, “We’ll see if we can do so, if you truly want to come. I would enjoy showing you my City—” Faramir grinned, “All of it, to the very top.”

Gaer looked flabbergasted and pleased. The rapid sound of hoof beats broke their conversation. Moving as one, they stepped from the path and stood beside it, out of the way of trampling hooves. Gaer could only look curiously up the trail, but Faramir let his mind fly ahead and give a fluttering touch to the travelers’. Éomer…the man’s psyche was a bright spot among four others, easily perceived and known. He waited to see what would happen, feeling a little nervous. Here was his test, his time to make an impression and cut short this fool exercise.

It flew through his mind in a flurry of deep and almost painful longing. I want my bed, my books, my Éowyn as wife, my life…our life.

Éomer rode swifter than most men and he made his small party keep the pace. He liked it, the concussion of hooves, and the horse moving beneath him, stretched to its utmost. He loved the wind on his face, the rush of grass and the smooth speed far beyond anything he could achieve on his own. At the moment he was in the middle of the group, not heading them. His guards rode with one hand on the hilts of their swords, eyes keen on the wood enclosed trail.

As if I would be ensnared by orcs at any second …shaking his head, he tried to ignore the annoying flap of his standard. One of his guards carried it at his side, the gold-tipped pole firmly braced where the butt of his spear would be. It made a horrible racket, irritating Éomer incredibly. Just in the corner of his eye, the White Horse ran endlessly on its field of green, the flag’s gold trim fluttering wildly in the wind of their passage. The noise was constant, flap, flap, flap, flap...and so on, driving him mad. Standard, my standard. Next they would ride with horns to announce his mighty presence. Foolishness. It was enough to make him long for the days of being a lowly Third Marshal.

The trail curved and they swept up it. His horse, a bald faced chestnut stallion, was sweating heavily but still galloping hard. Experimentally picking up the reins, he was pleased when the stud tossed his nose and fought to keep going. He wasn’t tiring the beast too much, then or endangering its soundness. Éomer let himself move with the gait, riding easily, his back straight with one hand loose on the reins and the other resting on his thigh. His green cloak fluttered softly. It was like all the other men’s except in its thickly embroidered edges and complete lack of any wear. As a King he had to appear perfectly cared for, not so much as an unraveled thread should be tolerated.

In fact, he’d worn, in response to his ludicrous guard, the most defenseless garb in which he’d ever ridden out—boots, trousers, linen shirt, jingling hauberk, over-tunic showing again the White Horse and his rich cloak. He was vulnerable to even long barbs off of brush in this but if they insisted upon guarding him then there was no need for armor. Éomer twitched under his light burden. It was odd feeling not to be riding encumbered by pounds of metal, his every movement aware of the restrictions made by weight and thickness of his body armor. His hauberk was light and short, split at the waist to ease time in the saddle. Éomer barely felt it.

Every horse’s ear unexpectedly pricked and in response, the men around him straightened, coming alert to the signal given by their four-legged brothers. There were two men on the trail ahead, standing well out of their path. One was familiar, a Rider, and the other was… Well, the other could only be one man because only one man within all the Mark had hair that shade and stood so tall and lank. He blinked; surprised at his first sight of Faramir in two days—the man looked like a villain instead of a Prince. He was unkempt and stood in a defiant pose, shoulders square, head high, his mouth slightly curled as though in rebelliousness. His trousers were marked with burs and stains. His long, ink-colored hair was full and tangled on his shoulders, bits of leaf shining green within the mass while his dark beard had thickened along his face and throat, making him a strange sight even in a land full of bearded men. He wore simple clothes, slightly above peasant’s gear—a grayish shirt, dark trousers and a hunter’s calf-high boots. A long knife was sheathed at his side. Faramir’s iron-grey eyes, piercing still, seemed the only unchanged thing. They rose to his readily and intensely, trying to hold him, projecting an almost alarming glitter so that when their gazes met it was like steel striking flint.

Éomer resisted immediately. He looked at the man; his sister’s betrothed, absorbed this new appearance so it would not affect him later, and then turned his head away. His small party galloped onto the salt camp without delaying.

He didn’t even look at me. Faramir was amazed. Surely he’d deserved a sneering remark or at least a harsh glare. Who had tamed Éomer in his absence? Mystified, he watched the five men ride out of sight.

“Come, he’ll be wanting some of that soup for later and we need to get that mint if you think it needs it.” Gaer prodded him and they went on.

Arwen had bought a brush for her puppy and now she used it to smooth his short, tri-colored coat, admonishing him when Rusco tried to chew it, which was often. They were seated on her bed while Éowyn watered her roses; Sam had told her to water them as much as they could bear.

“No…no…stop that…be good! You…dear please…” It was a steady stream of good-natured scolding.

Éowyn turned her head, glancing at the open door between the rooms and said lightly, “Oh let him come play. He’ll be happier and then you can brush him once he’s tired himself out.” She was in a buoyant mood looking down at the bright colors of her mother’s flowers. The Queen must have taken her advice for a moment later the puppy burst into the smaller room, sliding into a drift of multi-colored petals and rolling wildly. He shook his little head, ears flapping, and bit the debris before bouncing around the floor.

Arwen came and sat on one of the chairs, her arms hung loose on the rests while one dainty foot tapped the air. “A fine little monster he is.” Éowyn laughed and moved with her waterer, enjoying the way the deep, warm brown of the dirt turn darker as the moisture soaked through. “We elves don’t keep many pets…” Her face turned subdued yet she smiled still while watching Rusco. “They come and go too swiftly.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, so she hummed under her breath and kept watering.

“Celeborn bade me find the brighter side and I think I have…” Arwen glanced at her and then gestured languidly at the puppy sniffing around the floor, “My little darling right here is a part. I’ll be able to enjoy him properly, it won’t feel as though I’ve blinked and his muzzle has gone grey with age and his joints too stiff to bound any longer.” The Queen laughed suddenly, “And I won’t have time to get weary of my Estel, either. I chose him swiftly…if he were of my own kind I’d have expected a great deal more courting before I bothered to plan my enduring and never fading life around him.”

Éowyn smiled at this, still rather at a loss as what to say. Such things were not beyond her comprehension really, but she didn’t think she should speak on what was obviously none of her experience for fear to offend or sound foolish. She settled upon nodding to show she was paying heed to the elven woman’s words.

“There will be time for regret, I imagine, but not much. It is a strange thing now…” Arwen trailed off and then spoke up suddenly, her voice startling Éowyn. “There is a book in my father’s house, a great and ancient book said to be full of wisdom. It has beautiful art within and few words in the highest of our tongues. I’ve only begun it… I turned the pages only once in a day, a decade…whenever I was home and it moved me to do so. I thought to see that book finished.” She sounded wistful. “But I won’t and I dare not return to Imladris for fear some argument of my amassed kin should move me from my course.”

She nodded to make sure it was known she was paying attention, glancing at her, and then moving to another patch of flowers.

“Weary of my Estel…” Arwen swallowed loudly in the quiet room. “You are lucky; barring tricks of fate…you will not have to watch your husband and the man you love above all die. I wish I were you.”

Éowyn stared at the wall, the waterer heavy in her hand. She would not have to watch Faramir die, would she? In all likelihood he would still be hale and strong when she grew grey and feeble. Oh, it is unfair… Sadly, she resumed humming in the weighty silence that followed. Petals were under her feet; she needed to sweep them out soon. Rusco chewed on a vine and she hissed at him and lightly swatted his little rump, making him hide beneath Arwen’s chair until he forgot and romped in the small room again. The Queen was gazing out the windows. Finally, she spoke again and was once more light-hearted. “What is that song you’re humming? The tune is nice.”

“It is a harvest song. The women sing it to their men, usually beneath the stars. It is…a traditional song to some, said to bring life to the new fields and to the wombs of the women who lie with their men on the fertile earth.” She spoke softly, thinking of Faramir and herself—they would be at the festival together but that song was not for her. I am not so bold to do such a thing... It was the woman who led her chosen male to the fields and allowed him to claim her. Feeling a tingle of nervousness rise up her spine, Éowyn shook her head faintly. No, that was not for her. Knowing she was finished watering, she eyed her hands, slightly pleased to see she’d managed not to dirty herself this time. “Interesting.” Arwen stood, then bent and gathered Rusco up. “Are you ready?”

“Oh…all right…” Éowyn glanced around. She had nothing more she could imagine doing before sitting to the evening meal. I will be at the head of the table tonight… She’d accomplished all her set tasks for the day and, therefore, had no excuses. “Yes.”

“Good. It takes time. Can we get someone to build a fire in here? I need heat.” Arwen carried her dog out of the room and Éowyn followed, apprehensive but trusting. It might be worth the look on her brother’s face before he chopped it off. She smiled, imagining his laughter if her locks turned out particularly hideous. Hopefully, Gúthwinë is sharp…

Faramir ignored the impulse to look over his shoulder at where Éomer sat. Every time he thought he was being stared at, he would break and look, only discover the King of Rohan was not even turned in his direction. But…he could feel the attention being thrown his way and the discord between his inner senses and what he saw was maddening. He’d fetched the mint and eaten his morning meal of whatever leftover bread and salt pork, drug his dried bedroll and shirt back to camp and helped Gaer stuff the deer hide with grass to make a soft target for the crude spears. Now he hefted one, feeling foolish. One glance to the faces of his students proved they felt the same and Faramir straightened under the sun.

“I haven’t done this in a long time.” He spoke confidentially to them, hoping to distract them from the fact they were practicing before their King.

Faramir thought back to when he was in the uniform of the Citadel guards. He’d carried a spear then though the bow had always been where his true talent lay. “Fifteen years...about…more, I think but I cannot be sure since I carried one regularly.” Leodthain made a face; in fact, many of them did. He cocked his head, bemused. “What?”

“You are old, Láréow.” Faramir burst out laughing at the amazement and disgust in the lad’s voice. He wasn’t used to being called old.

Wurth stared up at him, adding to his young kinsman’s sense of consternation, “I am not even five and ten.” He brightened proudly, “I will by the ending of this year.”

Faramir smiled down, “I am thirty and five.” He chuckled, “Older than the hills, I’m afraid.”

Leodthain jested with him, “You’re going to die soon, aren’t you, Ealdre?”

“What does that name mean?” He thought he could guess but that wouldn’t be as amusing as hearing the answer.

It made him laugh again and yet grow a little sad—he would not, in fact, die anytime soon. I shall outlive them quite some time if my years are any match to my forefathers. He forced another smile, and then turned his attention to the simple spear in his grasp. “Well, let’s see if I can remember how to do this…” Glancing back at them, Faramir teased, naturally this time, “Since I am so very old perhaps it has slipped my ancient mind.”

He shifted his grip on the long wood pole. It was terribly crude, not weighted with a point or a butt to counter it; it wasn’t sharp, the thing would certainly just bounce off the target. It was odd; he’d carried a spear as a younger man, like his students had said, though not in so many words, a long time ago, but the feel came back quickly. Pulling his arm back, he scrutinized the distance.

Then, noticing the lads eyeing him and realizing they might be thinking themselves comparable to him since he was considered one of them in this strange service, he threw and missed, completely on purpose. His spear bounced and slid on the grass, point digging a little furrow in the grass several feet to the side of the rough target. He pretended to be greatly dismayed, frowning and drawing back a little to eye his spear lying well off-course. “It seems I need some practice.” Faramir tried not to smile when they relaxed and grew proud again.

Scef smiled at him, “Watch, Láréow. We practiced in Edoras before you came to teach us.” The boy threw with a quick motion. The throw was not the straightest but he succeeded in striking the target and Faramir made impressed noises.

He acted as if to raise his spear, and then lowered it, saying, “Show me again, I want to make sure I have it before I try to compete with the likes of you.”

The five boys grinned, two once Scef had translated, and all began to fire instructions at him in both languages so that Faramir laughed loudly and bade them with his hands raised, “Slower! Slower! Ic nat! Ic bidde ge, ná hrædwyrd!” Across the camp, Gaer caught his eye and the younger man grinned, and then rolled his in an exaggerated motion. Faramir laughed and turned his attention back to the five boys competing for it. “Now, slowly! Nu, lætlíce!”

Éomer listened and wondered if this was what he’d wanted to accomplish. I don’t think so. He let his eyes wander over, drawn by the sound of the Steward’s voice rising in what was a shockingly good Rohirric accent when compared to all his earlier attempts. His Southern inflection seemed to have faded very slightly, just enough to make it easier for the man to pronounce their words. He sounded amused, happy even, and his stance confirmed it—he stood tall and easy, no tensions held in his lanky frame. Éomer glanced away, then back, drawn by the unusual sight of a perfectly peaceful and cheerful Faramir. He didn’t think he’d ever seen him like this but for a few, rare moments at a time.

Across the camp, a little into the valley, Faramir towered over his students like none of their people would. He was laughing and watching them closely, nodding at their instruction and then following it so patiently Éomer was amazed. He knew the Steward was a mild man, even detested him for it at the same time he was grateful for it when it came to his beloved sister, but this was unthinkable to tolerate such loudness and unruliness. He was fascinated and appalled for how was Faramir controlling them if he let them act so disrespectfully?

He’d raised his spear again, but the boys were shouting different things at once so the Steward pretended confusion and had them start all over. Each tried to out-shout the others and he kept shaking his head, grinning and pleading in that surprisingly decent though limited Rohirric. There was much merriment and much laughter in the early afternoon heat and not a lot of diligent practice. At first glance, it even seemed more like recreation than actual effort but the boys soon began throwing again while Faramir watched closely. He tried once more, missed again and pleaded guidance, which the lads were only too happy to give. They demonstrated proper technique, even positioning Faramir’s hands correctly and urging him on while he threw. When the Steward finally struck the target, they cheered.

Éomer frowned, able to tell that the man was missing on purpose. He could see no reason why. No, not what I desired…I think. He’d not really had a plan, something Aragorn had been thoroughly right about, damn him, but simply an idea to give himself time. Faramir’s enjoyment of this task had not even registered as a possibility…until now. In truth, Éomer’s strategy of having the Steward instruct the lads and at the same time be categorized with them, so to have someone to relate with, seemed to have backfired on him…if enjoyment hadn’t been a part of it. He felt his brow crease. Was it? Unable to answer himself, he leaned his elbows on his thighs and watched, curious despite his dislike. This was a strange way of teaching to allow such disorder and to pretend ignorance. He wondered if it was an acceptable practice in the City or just Faramir himself who allowed this oddness.

Spear practice went on well into the day when the Riders began coming back to camp. He had little to do but watch and remain mystified until the Riders’ arrival took his attention. The heavy horses’ carts were well loaded, Éomer noted with satisfaction. Men unharnessed the beasts and unloaded the bags of salt, adding them to the large pile beneath the lean-to. Soon they would have enough to supply Edoras and trade or sell to various small villages and simple settlements around the Mark. Horses that were stabled or stock grazing far from known salt licks needed the salt as well as the people who cared for them, making the mining of it a profitable excursion for the King with a surplus of mostly idle soldiers lying about his country. The ending of the war had left him with a problem: what to do with all the Knights of the Mark. Some had already or would go back to being farmers or herders or join guilds and learn trades. Others, wealthier men who could afford armor, housing and good horses, would keep on. No doubt there would be plenty to guard him in Edoras, serve as juries to his court, and collect his dues as well as ride out and keep order over the Mark by showing the presence of the King’s men. It was a simple thing to deter any ruffians and well practiced. Elfhelm, too, would have a great company of soldiers in the east to keep order there. Perhaps some would become runners, sending messages from Elfhelm to him since most Knights of the Mark were familiar with the land and the swiftest ways to cross it.

I certainly don’t need them all…the war was over and the Mark was reasonably safe despite the presence of a few weak, sickly orcs. A single and impressively outfitted éored roaming the countryside, he guessed, would be plenty to retain order. Experienced soldiers would train youths as were needed and it would all take care of itself with no more than necessary supervision upon his part. Perhaps he could hold grand tournaments to keep their skills and whet their energies in the absence of true battle. Ah, something to look forward to… With a smile, Éomer sighed. No doubt before the winter snows made travel difficult he would hear more cases from the common folk of injustices that might or might not have been done to them by various parties, have to check the tally of collected taxes and goods from his subjects and plan for the harvest and then year’s end ceremony and feasts. It shall be lonely without Éowyn. He had much to discuss with her before she left, like what in all the Mark he would do without her company and aid. I don’t even know what she does exactly…or I do some, but I don’t know how she knows when to do it. Like putting new straw on the floors of Edoras and strewing it with sweet-smelling herbs…how does she know when and what herbs? Who will I appoint that task to? The chamberlain…have I spoken to him? Éomer rubbed his face, wearied. If he had it had been some time for he couldn’t even conjure up the man’s face. Maybe he could have some diversion this winter—ride unexpectedly to the City and enjoy the hospitality of his brother-in-law. That might amuse him…or it might kill him to possibly see his sister swollen with child.

My sister, oh sister…he came out of his thoughts, watching Faramir again. The Steward had called a halt to spear practice, helped his students put away the crude spears and now they were…what? He was curious. Faramir was taking down what appeared to be small bundles of sticks and unsheathing his knife. Riders were talking, moving around, beginning the meal and some were even setting up the goals for the night’s game. Éomer ignored the others, focusing upon Faramir’s actions. He alone was providing the only unpredictable activity in the camp.

The Steward had seated himself on some of the stumps nearby, though he did not acknowledge Éomer’s presence. The lads surrounded him, giving him their full attention. Despite all the uproar of earlier, they appeared quite respectful and obedient. Éomer, intensely curious, listened, too.

“Now, we’ve let them cure…” He unbundled the sticks and held one up. “These are no more than simple darts, if they were to be used in battle we would take far more care in selecting and curing them, but…” He smiled and began shaving the bark from the wood with quick, graceful flicks of his wrist. It fell between Faramir’s boots as he kept talking, “First you skin it, then you see if it is straight or not,” Here he held up the stick again, eyeballing it. “If it isn’t then we would use heat to make it straight but this one is fine for the moment. It will bend before we are finished and we can straighten it then.”

Éomer was not good with a bow; it was not to his taste—too delicate and too fickle a weapon. A spear was better, but wielding the sword was his love. Preferring the blade, he was natural at it and knew his strengths and weaknesses well. Faramir was supposedly a master with the bow and it appeared all the rumors were true for it took skill and knowledge to craft one’s own arms. Unconsciously, he leaned closer.

One of the students had interrupted; Éomer frowned at the disrespect but Faramir took it in stride, seeming more pleased than anything at the question. His voice was enthusiastic. “Well, we have the tips of my own broken darts but if we were on the field of battle we could also scrounge from used ones or if we were out in the open, we could use pieces of bones or chipped and shaped stones.”

Faramir seemed to realize he’d made a mistake and he began to explain. “Flint. It is less costly than metal points of course and is commonly found in parts of my country. A piece of antler would work as well, if cut and shaped. All it needs is to be sturdy and sharp enough to withstand penetration. The force you use to shoot does the rest.”

“If you would like.” The Steward grinned, apparently pleased. “Now, we notch the end like this and I’ll make you some paints so we can tell your darts from the others. The best feathers to use are…”

Éomer was silently aghast from his seat on the stump. This was nonsense, was this what Faramir had been teaching these lads? When the five were in his service they would be properly outfitted, not have to make their own arrow tips from…rocks! Is he mad? Appalled, he listened further but fortunately the remainder of the lesson was confined to shaping the arrow shaft and properly carving the shaft to hold the point and feathers. Faramir demonstrated, explaining what he did at every turn and the tools he lacked and with what he substituted them.

He was served his meal just before the others and Éomer ate it, noting that it was better than the normal camp fare. The sun was low when the Riders finished their meals and began forming teams for the game, their laughter filling the valley. Éomer felt a sense of wistfulness. He wished to play but then they would be overly conscious, make attempts to soften to blows against him so as not to injure their lord and the game would be ruined for all. He reluctantly settled for watching. Of course, there was one person of comparable rank that he could speak and interact with without having to tolerate their constant restraint and show of respect…shaking his head, Éomer pushed the idea far away. He was not so lonely yet.

“Faramir! Ge eart mid me eft?” A large flaxen-maned young man grinned and pretended to toss a punch at the Steward. To Faramir’s credit he didn’t even flinch…but of course Éomer knew he was a mind reader so he didn’t give the man too much credit. The Steward spoke to his students, instructing them to practice with their bows until he called for them to cease. Éomer paid attention—this was more in line of what he had expected.

Then Faramir surprised him. The Steward turned and bellowed a reply, voice cheerful, “Gea!” He stripped off his shirt and boots, neatly tucking his knife into his saddlebags and joined the young Riders.

Éomer watched and wondered that he didn’t feel more satisfaction every time Faramir was thrown to the ground. Not even the spectacularly bloody nose the Steward got when one man’s elbow connected with his face gave him any real gratification, which he considered a shame. Perhaps it was because two of the Riders, a redheaded man and the larger fair-haired immediately hauled Faramir to his feet and asked if he was all right to continue while cheering his very near attempt to score and ability to take a blow. Perhaps it was because Faramir barely took the time to spit the blood from his mouth and rub it from his chin to say yes. Perhaps it was because when he said yes he grinned with heedlessly bloody teeth. Perhaps it was because the men clapped him on the back and laughed, obviously glad. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…Éomer wondered while trying not to think too much about it. He was rather afraid of the answer his mind might present.

It was dark now and most were collapsing into their bedrolls or sitting by the fire, speaking wearily in the flickering orange light. The Steward’s students had been released at sundown, with their teacher checking them, noting their progress and offering quick suggestions between every game and during every pause when the leather “ball” was fetched or thrown back.

When Faramir sat heavily onto one stump and began dabbing his fingertips at the still oozing cut over his left eye and peering at the redness on them, Éomer moved, deliberately not thinking about what he was doing. He sat near, glancing at the man. “Hello.”

“Hello.” Faramir answered easily, as though he was not feeling as stilted and awkward as Éomer was.

He opened his mouth to continue, “…” And he didn’t know what to say. This was ridiculous…it is ridiculous…he almost scared himself off and bolted to his tent—no plain bedroll on the hard, open ground for the King of the Mark, goodness, the idea—but Faramir spoke instead, his tone jaunty and relaxed. The Steward raised his eyes and looked at him, grinning in an arrogant fashion.
“Does she miss me yet? Tell me she’s pining away in my absence, I know she is.”

Éomer stiffened, but not in rage at the implied presumption his sister was a moony girl that couldn’t stand a two-day separation, no the rage was drowned by his immediate confusion. He frowned, brow furrowing and his guard rising. This tone was new and strange coming from the man sitting beside him. This was not typical of the way Faramir acted. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Faramir frowned, but it was a mock frown, “Did I stutter?”

Utterly confused and beginning to feel the first pricks of annoyance, he repeated himself. “What?”

“Is she moping, you know, wandering about all dreamy eyed and preoccupied? Maybe a little sad? Mentioning me?” The last was punctuated with a wide, cocky smile.

“No…” Ordinarily he would have spoken with enjoyment, deliberately firm to crush the Steward’s hopes but he was too disconcerted to summon anything of that nature. What was wrong with the man? Éomer wondered if in one of the many times Faramir had been sent sprawling he’d clunked his head upon a rock.

“Hmph.” Faramir glanced off and shook his head, shrugging as though he didn’t care in the slightest. “Well, I’d hoped...but…I’m sure she will soon.”

“What are you doing?” It burst from his lips in a feat of extreme bewilderment. This was not the same man he’d left two days ago. This man was brash and strange.

“An impression of my brother, to get your attention.” Faramir’s eyes twinkled with amusement, “I guessed a blow to the head would not go over as well.” He cocked his head, asking, “Did you recognize it? I’ll admit it’s not the best, but I heard he stayed in Edoras.”

Éomer was even more confused, if that were possible. “I didn’t meet him.” Now he saw a flicker of the man he knew, a tiny flash of uncertainty in Faramir’s eyes that let him know the transformation was an act, if an incomprehensible one. He relaxed and settled in to play this new game, deciding to confuse Faramir a bit. Voice properly sober and sincere, an act that was not an act really, for he had heard such a thing and suffered the loss of a near brother, too, Éomer said quietly, “Unfortunately. It was said he was a great man in your City.”

Again, Faramir seemed thrown but he kept on with this bizarre act of flippancy. “Oh, you’d have had a great deal in common. Impatient, forceful, though I doubt he’d have done the equivalent to this to Éowyn when she came to the City.” The Steward made a grand gesture at their surroundings. Faramir’s eyes glinted assertively, “Pity, for it seems he would have great fun in doing so. I know mocking me must be a highlight of your day since you do do it so very often.”

He was too astonished to feel anything else, so he kept to his quietness, answering, “Maybe not, I would not know what your brother would do.” Then Éomer strived for the ultimate wondrous effort, pumping sincerity into his voice and face, speaking softly, earnestly, and even gratefully. He fixed his eyes on the grey ones of the Steward. “I deserve that. It is good of you to do this; I thank you for your understanding. I will miss her deeply; you are an admirable man to tolerate my foolish demands. I am very glad to have your family tied to mine.”

Beside him, Faramir was speechless. His face betrayed his utter shock, blinking and staring in silence.

But so was Éomer; for all his internal thoughts that he would have to put an intense effort into the words he’d just spoken…he hadn’t. There was no lie, there had been no lies, and that startled him, spoiling whatever childish victory Faramir’s shock might have given him. Do I actually believe that? Stunned and a little frightened at how far he’d gone and exposed himself, he waited for a reply, any reply from the Steward. It came in a hesitant voice, the flippancy thrown aside to show the real man. Faramir scrutinized him and said slowly, “I am glad as well.” He was himself once more—face containing the typical calmness and barely perceived progression of thought that showed caution and tact and that he chose his words carefully.

He swallowed; tense and wishing he’d gone to his tent after all because the hesitancy in the Steward’s face had changed to steady, searching contemplation. Is he reading my mind? Does he know I didn’t lie? Éomer looked away, seeking escape and quickly. “Good.” He placed his palms on his thighs, preparing to rise. “Well…”

Faramir smiled at him. Actually smiled. “And I thank you, for those words.”

Éomer gave a hasty nod. All he wanted to do was flee the almost warmth growing in Faramir’s gaze. He didn’t know exactly what that meant, but he knew he was not ready for the consequences of his own words when they both knew the truth behind them. It bore the signs of a friendship initiating as they spoke. And not even a token one, he thought in horror. No, he’d opened the gates for a far deeper thing, for cordiality and visits and…and hugs. Why did I do that? Maybe if I hit him again I can undo it. Instead, he answered, “You are welcome.”

The Steward’s voice was low, confused and holding him there with continued conversation. “Why say them now?”

“I-I don’t know.” He gazed longingly at his tent, but then was abruptly brought back by Faramir’s next sentence.

“It is not too late and I think you know that…and,” He paused while Éomer stared at him with wide eyes. “You wish what I wish…a way to interact with no hostility, with happiness between us…the three of us.” Faramir laughed and looked at him with genuine friendliness in his expression. “I am so relieved; you have no idea…it is over. We can start anew.” He laughed again, thoroughly happy sounding.

Éomer twitched, having no idea what to say. But luckily, Faramir had plenty. The man was in reality babbling with his relief.

“…no more arguing, can you imagine how happy she’ll be? We can stop this,” He gestured and laughed light-heartedly, “madness and I can…”

“You can take her away.” He didn’t have to go so far as to hit Faramir after all, apparently. No, the five words that slipped unwittingly from his mouth did it quite nicely.

The Steward stopped talking, his voice chopped into silence as cleanly as though with a knife. Éomer flinched inwardly under the weary depression and bitter anger that shone in the man’s grey eyes as he spoke flatly. “Do you mean that, in that way? Do you mean it still?”

I think I have to… Opening his mouth, he prepared to finish the job; eliminating any chances of the jubilant friendliness he’d seen every appearing again. Éomer knew what he did and was ashamed but relieved—he would not have to involve himself, not have to…to interact and be open with this man. He could be a lout for the rest of his life; it was well within his capabilities.

Faramir had not taken his eyes from him and he spoke before Éomer could. “Go ahead coward.”

He stiffened with anger and guilt but again was unable to talk before Faramir did. “Tell me…” The Steward hissed it, his face intent and livid with rage, “Tell me you do. Tell me I’m stealing her, like she was a piece of treasure in your pathetic little wooden town. Tell me you can’t see I make her happy.”

Éomer didn’t think he’d seen the man this enraged before and he tensed instinctively as Faramir snarled, “I made her happy when she wanted to die, I brought her back to healing and now you say I take her from you? I gave her back to you, you ungrateful excuse for a man.” He laughed bitterly and furiously, “Glad to have me tied to your family? I think not. I’m sure you would be far happier if you awoke to find me gone back to my City…” His voice lowered and Faramir’s eyes burned like a blaze were lit there, actively frightening Éomer in their intensity. “No matter what she thought or felt, you selfish bastard.” Leaning back, he challenged, “Go ahead, coward, and tell me what you mean. Say it loud and proudly…leave us to no choice but hate.” The last Faramir spat with a volcanic, sizzling fury, “I dare you. Do it and end this.”

Éomer stared back, nonplussed and agitated, and tried to form a response. He couldn’t. He could choose a path and shape his future accordingly but he was stymied, too rattled to think.

He felt like a dragon—fire filled him, burning in his belly and curling and licking along his spine; Faramir breathed it out as he said dangerously softly, “I’ve put up with this farce, tolerated slurs, got over the fact you broke my fingers and tried to choke me while attacking me in my own rooms…I’m patient, I like peace and when given a choice I take the nonviolent route that hurts no one, even though it may be at my own expense.” His hands clenched tightly, “I’ve run out of patience, Éomer. I can only take so much and,” Faramir felt his rage flame anew, making it difficult to talk rationally. He’d been shown a shining moment, a gift of pure liberation and bliss from his guarded misery only to have it torn apart, crushed. “You push and push me further against my limits. I can take no more.”

The King of Rohan did not reply, as he hadn’t replied for some time. It didn’t matter.

Faramir went on, voice rough with his immeasurable wrath. “So go ahead, tell me what I’m doing to wrong you…tell me how I should apologize…” Men in the camp had taken notice now and were gazing on in silence, uncertain. Faramir could sense Gaer’s eyes upon him, his anxiety, but he ignored it. He meant to have his say. “Tell me now what it is you want or I’m going to give up and in the morning I’m not going to be here.”

Éomer was startled and Faramir felt a rush of alarm from the man that pleased him.

“Speak swiftly and,” He smiled, baring his teeth, “Make it clever. I will not wait long and if you don’t, I’m riding straight to Edoras, collecting my bride and leaving your lands.” Faramir felt his smile widen, “Do not presume to think you may visit me in Ithilien…” He chuckled icily, “The City is not mine, feel free to go there all you wish, but if you step one foot in Ithilien I will have you escorted out under my Guard. Send your messages to the City, no rider under the standard of the Mark shall be welcome in my home. I will accept no word, no letter and no man.” He laughed coldly when Éomer’s mouth fell open and he gasped, panic flying over his features. “Oh, I will permit Éowyn to see you or write you all she likes…but I cannot be certain she will like it when I tell her your unbelievable discourtesy.” Hearing his own condescension, he added, “Undoubtedly her love will eventually overcome her anger.”

Éomer’s eyes were huge. He looked horror-struck beyond all he could have imagined, pale and gulping.

Faramir felt his rage peak and he smiled. “Choose now and apologize or I go forever and will tolerate your presence no more.”

He couldn’t think. Éomer had never particularly been a man of words and the Steward’s threats had ripped his remaining calm to shreds, leaving him with nothing. Say something…you must…

He struggled, trying to find words that might express the depth of his fear and desperation, the depth of his remorse and how much he wished he’d been able to accept Faramir long before it came to this. He’d never imagined it would come to this. Éomer licked dry lips and forced breath up his dwindling throat, tension tightening it with every second of silence that passed. “I—I’m s-orry.”

An arched eyebrow was his only response. Faramir appeared as composed and detached as a man in his own hall hearing a peasant plead his case.

Éomer licked his lips, terribly nervous. “I…” He had nothing, no words to speak, nothing to say that might save him and if he couldn’t come up with them… I might as well fall upon my sword.

That thought broke him. “Don’t go, please, don’t. I…” He looked down, aware he was sweating. “I didn’t mean to…I want to…I don’t know how to let her go so easily, please…my sister is all I have.” Éomer’s last words came out as a choked whisper. His pride was dead, ashes under the harsh threats hurled at him and he was going to weep before his men and beg for the Steward’s mercy and enough forgiveness to see his sister again under good terms. Faramir was correct, she would be just furious enough to leave, to refuse to see him. And for how long? It was indeterminate and horrifying. He sucked in a gasping, burning breath, looking up through blurring eyes, “Please don’t…stay, I beg you... I could not live, I’m sorry…”

“Accepted.” It was hushed and gentle, shocking him. Faramir had stood to put his hand on his shoulder; he squeezed while Éomer looked up in wonder. There was anger still, that he could see, but it was overridden with the compassion in the Steward’s voice. “Easy, I will not go.” His words were soft with mild humor, “I don’t want to have to explain why you’re a nervous wreck. Be easy, Éomer. You are forgiven, lucky I am soft-hearted.”

Men ceased to watch, seeking their bedrolls and talking in low voices as Faramir returned to his seat and Éomer tried to breathe. After a few minutes to calm himself, he said, “Thank you. I don’t deserve it.”

“Yes you do. There is always hope in a good man.” Faramir shrugged but his gaze remained steady. “But I wish to hear no more words against me, no more accusations or insults. I am finished. It is allies or enemies between us.”

“I understand.” He was quiet, broken. Whatever Faramir wished, he would have. He had all the power.

Faramir stared at him while he avoided meeting his eyes. Eventually, the Steward spoke, “I’m sorry as well to have to have said what I did but you tried my temper. Éowyn is your sister and my love, not a piece to hold against you to buy good behavior with coercion. I wish us to be friends as men are.” His voice turned puzzled, “Why do you resist so fiercely? I give you every indication I can imagine that I would be happy for you to visit, to make her happy with your presence and you reject me every time. Why? You say you cannot let her go but I do not even see you trying. Speak to me, let us discuss this like men and leave it behind.” Faramir looked questioning, “Are you not as weary as I am of this constant strife?”

Éomer stared at the yellow flames of the fire. The stars were bright above his head and in the distance coyotes howled. Finally, he turned to face the waiting Faramir and spoke as sincerely as he’d ever in his life. “Yes, I am.”

Ic nat! Ic bidde ge, ná hrædwyrd! I don’t know! I ask you, not so hasty of speech!

(I am really sorry about the format, but I tried for over an hour to fix it and nothing worked! I have no idea why it did this. The chapter is not so long. Sorry but I was going to have a heart attack if I continued to try and fix it.)

“What is what?” Éowyn turned, rubbing her damp hair with a cloth. Arwen held up a travel-worn, drab bag. “Oh…that’s Faramir’s.”

She frowned at it; it was lumpy and looked fairly full; she remembered it had felt light, though. “I don’t know. He just wanted me to keep it.” She’d thrown it on the chair and forgotten it immediately but now Éowyn eyed the bag, curious. “Probably some other gift he’s got me or something he brought with him.”

The Queen peeked inside, slim fingers probing, “Well, this is a gift and this…is quite a nice drawing.” She sounded amused, pulling out the paper and unfolding it and taking a look, before carefully replacing it. Éowyn flushed a little and rubbed her hair harder to cover it. “Estel can’t draw for much either; I’m doubly jealous. And we have things to draw with… Oh!” Arwen yanked the opening wider and turned it towards the candlelight. Then she looked up and, to Éowyn’s surprise, she appeared to be utterly delighted. “Do you want to see this? You’ll never guess, even if you lived to be as old as I am, as to what’s in this dreary little bag.”

“No…” The little exclamation Arwen had uttered made her even more curious.

Deflating a little, the Queen asked, “You’re sure?” She looked back down, frowning.

“Because, this…this is so wonderful. I want to take it out,” Arwen laughed lightly, “And play with it like a child. I’ve never seen so big of a one. I can’t imagine where he found it...” Her voice trailed off as she peered into the depths of the bag. “There was one in Imladris, but they weren’t kept as a rule…too painful for some of my folk.”

What is it? The bag itself was shapeless, tattered and gave no clues. She bit her lip and wrested with herself for a moment before asking, “What does that mean?”

The Queen touched the object, obviously charmed. “It means you have to see it.”

“What is it…I mean. He brought me presents, they were all jewelry so far…” She remembered and glanced at her mother’s little garden, “And a dagger. Is it something like that?” Éowyn had no idea what she was going to do with the thing; it would likely lie there forever. She didn’t even particularly want to touch it.

“No.” She was smiling. “Not even close.” Arwen laughed and put the bag down on the table, closing it snugly. She sat on one of the chairs, helping Rusco up as he tried to climb into her lap. “It’s not a lot of things; I told you, you can guess until you’re as ancient as I am but you are never going to get it.” She sighed, “Oh, if you were a woman of the City…maybe…but not likely. Now, if you were Imrahil’s daughter, a lovely girl whom I adore, possibly…but you?” Arwen made a dramatic gesture, “Never! The seas will crush us all, Éowyn. Just look so I can play with it.”

She ran her fingers through her wet hair, gradually untangling the mess, and sighed. “I can’t. I can’t act surprised.”

Éowyn wished Faramir were here to scold her for thinking of peeking into his things; she could apologize and kiss him. She had the urge to kiss him, to wrap her arms around his neck and tangle her fingers in his dark hair. Mmm…to press upwards and feel how solid his body was, to feel his mouth on her neck and sucking right on the perfect spot so that he made her legs feel shaky and the world dropped away, it felt so good… Distracted, she answered, “He’ll know.”

The Queen looked like an impatient child staring at a tray of treats, just waiting for them too cool. Éowyn smiled. “So…you’ll have to wait.”

Arwen made a disgusted face, petting Rusco. “For how long? I’m not immortal any longer.” Her jest had been brave, only the slightest of cracks in her voice betraying her.

Deliberately softly, she answered. “Not long. Should be…no longer than three days.” Éowyn smiled jubilantly into her mirror. Forget the present… Faramir was a gift enough. “I can’t wait.” The crack in the bottom caught her eye but she ignored it. So far, nothing had come of it, proving she was just a silly girl. The puppy straightened in the Queen’s lap and yipped once, then half-slithered, half-fell onto the floor, trotting towards the door with his tail wagging.

There was a rap from the other side and a male voice. “My Lady?” Arwen stood quickly and moved to the door; when she opened it, there stood her manservant with a vessel in his hands. Rusco sniffed his feet happily. “It is mixed, as you ordered.”

“Thank you.” The Queen just smiled and took the container; the man bowed low.

When she recrossed the room, Éowyn got her first look and she remembered. It was brown…goop and a lot of it, lumped in one of the new, large earthen pots she’d gotten for the kitchens. Moving to sit on the floor with her blue and white skirts neatly tucked; Éowyn stared at it, alarmed as Arwen plunked the container down by the little fire that burned in her hearth. “What is that? What is in that? Is that it?” That is not going in my hair…I don’t care who she is. Faramir and Faramir’s bag were forgotten.

“Yes. Henna, walnut powder and rosemary oil…oh, and red wine,” Arwen smiled. Rusco sniffed at the goopy slop and she shooed him away with her foot. “No, not for you, darling.” The Queen reached into a fold of her gown and tossed a bit of meat in front of the puppy’s nose, the treat bouncing on the grizzled fur of the bearskin. The little dog inhaled it then searched the floor around Éowyn’s skirts, studiously looking for more. She patted him. Arwen seated herself, too, immediately having to deal with a rambunctious puppy in her lap, nose poking everywhere in an attempt to find more of the treats.

Rusco’s tail wagged, lightly tapping Éowyn’s knees as she asked, “What are you doing with it?”

“Well, we’re sitting it by the fire to heat so that it will release the dye,” Here Éowyn’s eyes widened and it all made sense. Dye? Oh, no… She stared at the brownish goop in the clay pot, filled with horror as the Queen went on gaily. “From the leaves and tomorrow morning we’re putting it in your hair and leaving it for an hour or two, you can sit in the sun, that’ll be best, then washing it all out.” Arwen looked pleased with herself.

“Umm…” She tried to find a tactful way to refuse this offer besides simply fleeing the room. It would be odd; these were her rooms, after all.

The Queen rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re frightened… I promise it will turn out beautifully and it washes out in three weeks in any case, so you’ll look just like normal soon.”

“Oh…all right.” Propping a nervous smile on her face, Éowyn decided she could survive for three weeks. She asked quickly, “What color will it be?”

Arwen smiled. “We’ll find out. It’s not an exact formula.” Holding up another tidbit of meat, she clucked at Rusco. “Come, come.” The puppy jumped eagerly to take the treat, his paws on her waist, muzzle shoved into her hand while she cooed and made a face over at Éowyn. “Unruly, isn’t he? Good lad…now, let’s learn something more civilized to do than jump all over people, you little beast.”

We’ll find out…Éowyn looked at her fate. It had all the appearance of some muck someone scooped out of a bog, but as the fire warmed the pot, a nice smell came off of it. It smelled like hay fresh cut and under the sun, giving her a good feeling. Very, very slightly optimistic, she sighed. Fine.

“Rusco…” The dog ignored his mistress, preferring to sniff for more meat. Arwen caught his small jaw, voice soft as she pulled his head up so their eyes met. “Listen to me, my darling.”

Éowyn watched, wondering as the puppy went still, then, apropos of nothing, his tail wagged and he lapped at Arwen’s fingers. It had all the appearance of a touching of minds and suddenly she was very, very desirous to see Faramir. She wanted him to hold her, to kiss her hand like he sometimes did, to beam down with his eyes full of tenderness and love and most of all, to hear his inner voice. It was deeper than his normal one, warmer at times and full of emotions that seemed purer and sharper than those outwardly expressed. Éowyn hugged her knees to her chest, her heart lonely and longing, feeling the emptiness in the back of her mind. Faramir…my beloved? Min lufiend, ge eart se? Dêst ge hÿrst me ofer swâ mycel sîd-weg? Of course, there was no answer; she had no strength to do such a thing. Éowyn bit her lip, saddened. Alone, alone…she was cut off without him, unable to feel any of his warmth.

At the moment, she wouldn’t even mind having to listen to him laugh and jest, his wonderful, Southern accent rumbling up from his chest while he teased her about whatever her hair ended up looking like. Damn you brother…she missed Éomer, too. There was no enjoyment in staying at Edoras without either of the men she loved. And there will be less in Minas Tirith…

“Now.” Arwen smiled as she held the treat up and paused, her manner expectant. The puppy did nothing beyond leap for it again, his greedy little maw gaping, paws reaching up to clutch at her hand, and the Queen’s smile disappeared and she sighed. “He knows what I want him to do…I felt it. I wanted him to sit.” Her eyes narrowed, “He’s just stubborn and thinks he should get it anyway, whether he does as he’s told or not.” She patted his brown head, gently pushing him back down to all fours while withholding the tidbit of meat. Lifting it over his nose, she said, “Let’s try again. Hára, Rusco, hára.”

Several halting tries later, Arwen clapped and cooed over Rusco as the little dog reluctantly folded his haunches. Éowyn fussed, too, adding her praise and flopping the puppy’s oversized ears. Still ridiculous, but amusing. She smiled forlornly. “Let’s teach him to speak.”

Faramir remained quiet, looking at Éomer’s profile. The orangish glow from the small fire cast back and forth over it with each breeze; his eyes were lowered, his face canted away as emotions played across it just faster than the irregular light from the flames. He could sense Éomer’s deep awareness of his stare and so that he wouldn’t put too much pressure upon the man, also sensing his fragile state, he looked up and gazed at the stars. Allowing the stillness to draw out, he named one in elvish like he’d been taught by Mithrandir. It made him deeply unhappy he would no longer see the wizard and yet proud to still have retained his lesson. Morwinyon, the brightest star in the Herdsman. Two of its companions in the constellation fell to the east and west, while Morwinyon itself held slightly to the north. One could find ones way by it, if necessary, during the summer months.

At his side, Éomer still made no move or sound. He sat waiting and full of silent anxiety, shame and…hope. The hope gave Faramir hope too, though he knew he must not reveal he’d felt it. The topic of his gift was far, far too tremulous a one for him to mention now or, he guessed, for a long, long time. If ever he can accept it...it will not be now. I must seek something he can accept. Of course, he could force the issue…for a moment he was tempted, sorely tempted to simply spell out for Éomer how things would be and make them known in no uncertain terms. He glanced at the man and decided against it. I am not the one to browbeat Éomer into submission…he found the idea sickening.

Faramir carefully considered his next move, his rage cooled by necessity—they were too alike, brother and sister. Both pushed and pushed in their own fashion—Éowyn mostly by retiring, Éomer mostly by challenging—and in so, forced him into an explosion of pent up frustrations at which they retreated, seeking escape in the way Éomer was now. The King was utterly silent, gaze moving from the fire to his tent, one refuge to another, both providing the same thing: avoidance from Faramir. His fingers moved to clasp each other, then release as they dangled between his knees. His mood was subdued, cautious. Never once did he turn.

Rubbing his own hands together, Faramir tried to think of the best thing that he could say to begin the exhaustive task of bridging the gap between them. He’d been harsh and furious, and then as Éomer had broken, the man’s emotional anguish had touched him and brought deep sympathy. He nearly wept…would have if I’d not gentled. Glancing at the man beside him and feeling how withdrawn he was, he felt that pity wash over him again. Too proud, perhaps, and horribly stubborn, but Éomer was willing to change. Or so it seems. Faramir sighed; he had to stop, to put all his anger away. It would do nothing but hinder this new truce. The last truce, either way, he thought and silently admonished himself. Peace, remember?

Now he felt more grief than anything that he’d had to speak such words, but not regret. No, it had been wonderful in a petty fashion, to finally release his temper. Faramir carried no regret if his threats had done like he’d thought and ripped through the headstrong and inane conceitedness that Éomer wore like a coat of arms.

His stipulations had been a dart’s point, crafted in the fires of his wrath to pierce, to bring out the bad blood that flowed between them. And now I must play healer to the wounds I’ve opened. Now I must court him, find flattery, find ways to ease into my rightful place at Éowyn’s side and bring us to friendship. One glance at Éomer, who was purposefully looking away and he knew the majority of the burden would clearly fall upon his shoulders. Faramir felt a smile play on his lips. He was exhausted and he hadn’t even spoken yet.

Opening his mouth to begin, he was cut off. He’d not thought for a moment that Éomer might speak and it startled him. Perhaps I won’t carry this alone… Faramir focused upon the King of Rohan, listening attentively and feeling his sense of hope grow.

“I don’t know what to say…” Éomer gave him a sliver of a glance, a narrow and wary but not unfriendly look. It held the air of a youth carefully testing the waters or a soldier deeply disgraced and not wishing another dressing down. “I’m guessing you don’t either…” His eyes turned more cautious and nervous, “Because you aren’t talking and…maybe you want me to.” Pausing, he took a quick breath, seemed to reconsider his words and then eventually let them out all in a rush, “I don’t know how to begin…to do what you asked and,” He inhaled, rushing the rest out in almost one breath. “I’m not a man of words like you. Say something.” Éomer looked at him fully for the first time since he’d changed his tone from rage to gentleness and in the firelight, his face was guardedly optimistic and almost pleading for guidance.

Surprised and highly admirable of the courage that he could feel it took the man beside him to take the initiative in this, Faramir considered his response. The last thing he wished was to inadvertently squash this tiny, tiny offering. Friends had something in common; it was the very basis of their relation, no matter what it was, so he admitted the first obvious thing he shared with the King of Rohan. “I’m not sure how to begin either.” He smiled, tone gentle, “My words come slowly as well.” Éomer relaxed infinitesimally and Faramir congratulated himself. Of course, this left them with silence again, which was rather counterproductive to his goal. He opened his mouth a second time, but Éomer did too and they both stopped at once, uncomfortable. Their eyes met, and then Éomer looked away. Feeling the hobbling weight of both of their awkwardness pressing at him, Faramir tried to regain his momentum and regather his thoughts. It was made harder with the overwhelmingly dismal and tense cast of their minds. His temples throbbed in warning of their future ache; he could already feel it coming.

The King of Rohan gave him a minute smile, no more than the curving of his lips, and made a slight, forwarding gesture with his fingers. He said softly, not quite meeting his gaze, “You first. Please.”

Bobbing his head in a nod, he accepted. Faramir cleared his throat, feeling the pressure, and clasped his hands. He was very conscious of the Riders asleep around them, the dying fire and the tenseness within both their frames. What could he say? He’d forgotten what he’d been about to, so he had to start anew. But with… Any impulsive words could shatter this delicate equilibrium and send Éomer fleeing as the humiliated man so desperately wished to. The King of Rohan was barely holding himself in check; he could feel it. Dammit, why do they have to be so touchy? Both…both were so damn difficult; he thought he must be marrying into the only family with this indescribably, infuriatingly improbable level of difficulties in all of the earth. I certainly hope so in any case…Faramir shuddered a little.

He’d taken too long. Another trait shared by brother and sister: impatience, reared its head. Éomer eyed him. “May I say something?”

Do you have something to say? I hope one of us does or this is going to be even more trying than I’d imagined. He answered mellowly, making sure his words contained all his learned diplomacy and grace, “Certainly, if you wish.”

Éomer took a moment, looking at him warily. It seemed to be his new manner—a cautious scanning of Faramir’s face before he began anything. There was more respect in his eyes and demeanor, which saddened Faramir—he’d rather have earned the respect in a different way. He was a peaceful man, why did these folk always seek to drive him to hurtful fury? He’d bent over backwards until he could take no more…and now Éomer watched him with the caution one gave a viper simply because his leash on his temper had finally snapped. Faramir felt impatient as he listened; he tried to shake it away as it swelled, filling his chest with dry, rasping annoyance. Impatience wouldn’t help anyone.

“I…” He paused, and then went on carefully, “I wish to continue this tomorrow.” Éomer swallowed, speaking slowly, “If you do not mind, I would prefer to have the night to…gather my thoughts.”

He was disappointed and impatient again but he kept his voice respectful. “Of course.” Whatever made Éomer the most comfortable would probably be best, though, Faramir sensed. Rising and giving the King the properly courteous nod that his rank obliged, he wished him a good night and made sure his voice carried his sincerity. He really did wish the man nothing but good; in a way he had to or risk the same thing he’d threatened Éomer—Éowyn’s fury, but also, Faramir glanced at him and sighed inwardly. I’d rather not fight with him. He will be uncle to my children, children who have few relatives as it is, and brother to my wife…I cannot escape him no matter my threats. Faramir smiled faintly. I’m sure my Lord Elessar would be very displeased by such a fierce conflict between Rohan and Ithilien. Especially since we were all but ordered to end it. Another thought struck and Faramir came close to laughing out loud. If I do not yield to peace, I might feel Andúril across my backside. He could not call a feud; he had too many responsibilities to bring with him new hostility into the beginning of this promising age. I will not be Faramir the Pitiless.

“To you, as well.” Éomer returned his good night, expression careful as he stood and they moved to separate until the King stopped and called, low in deference to the sleeping men, “What are…your plans for tomorrow?”
Faramir took this as a sign of effort—the man was trying to make an attempt to see that they would continue; he was not trying to put it off or escape any longer. Pleased, he answered just as softly, “My students are accompanying me early to see what I can get for tomorrow’s meal and after that I shall finish our lesson on making arrows, then have them practice shooting from horseback. Later, I’ll practice throwing the spears.” And continue the memorization of herbs; add some stalking games… He would have a full day.

Éomer nodded slowly and thoughtfully. His words were hesitant; face too in shadow to read, “Would you mind if I…went with you?”

Actually, he found he did mind; his time spent with the lads was restive, pleasant. Éomer would add tension and make what was easy effortful. But… Faramir answered without pause or difficulty, hiding his true feelings. He must make sacrifices. Yes, but why are the sacrifices always mine...? Anger flashed across his thoughts but he smothered it, not letting even the slightest shadow touch his voice, which he kept smoothly pleasant. “Not at all.”

“Good.” He smiled then, quick and apprehensive, but it was a smile. “Good night, Faramir.”

Feeling himself smile in return and try to make it a true smile, not the short-tempered, irritated animalistic baring of teeth, he answered. “Good night.” Éomer moved quickly away, escaping at last into his tent and carrying his deep sense of relief with him.

Treading silently amongst the slumbering Rohirrim and feeling his unspoken anger burn, he was lost in his own world, paying no heed to his surroundings. In the dark there was a sudden movement and Faramir nearly jumped out of his skin in fright, years of prowling in Ithilien making him instinctively snap his jaw tight and press his lips together to prevent from voicing the short cry that rose in his throat. Instead it came out a muffled squeal as a thrill of shock went up his spine, the shorter hairs on the back of his neck standing up; he twisted to face the fear, ready to fight or flee.

Beside him, in the midst of two dozen prone, easily dreaming Rohirrim, Gaer had sat up without warning, snapping his torso upright like a dwarf-made jack in the box amongst a field of dead men; he was completely awake. The Rohir took in his scare and grinned widely, pointing at him in a gloating fashion. In the dim illumination of the stars, his pale eyes were nearly cavorting with delight. Grinning hugely, barely seen in the night, he voiced a very quiet and very satisfied, “Ha!”

Embarrassed, Faramir scowled and made to pass him but the redheaded man caught at his leg. He whispered equally quietly, expression concerned, “Wait. Nothing is wrong? Between you and my Lord?”

“Everything is fine.” Faramir put as much reassurance into his voice and features as he could. “Do not worry.”

Gaer frowned, then accepted his words and nodded and let him pass by. The redheaded man gave him a smirking grin. “How about Drefan?”

“Trouble.” Gaer laughed and Faramir shook his head, moving on, careful not to step on any of the scattered men.

He was called after in a small voice, “What about Galan? It means sings. You can be Galanan who doesn’t sing! Hrypa, the shouter? Caedmon the poet? Egeslic the terrible?” There was quiet, then a plaintive, “Faramir?” He ignored him. Feeling every one of the rough hits he’d taken in the Rohirrim’s’ game over the last two days, Faramir unrolled his bedroll cautiously, but to his intense relief, it had not been bothered with. Silently grateful his tormenter had let him alone for the night; he wrapped himself in the bedroll and stretched out on the hard ground.

After a few seconds, Faramir sighed and rolled onto his back, lacing his fingers and laying them beneath his head as he looked up; he breathed deep of the night air, feeling his chest expand and his heart beat steadily. His scrapes burned, his nose still ached and his bruises felt sore whenever he accidentally hit one. It was odd; he’d never really been the lad with the scraped knees and elbows, the bedraggled, roughhousing boy. Oh, often in play, but not on a daily basis that he could remember. No, that had been my brother, praised for his boldness, even his boyhood scrapes and scars. No, no place for a poet in my father’s favors, only warriors to skirmish and struggle. But that had been the need for a country under siege. My father did what he had to, I suppose… It didn’t hurt any less.

Eyes closed, he pictured Boromir as he’d last seen him, taking the reins of his horse from one of the stable boys. His brother had bid him farewell, had spoken in a low voice for him to take care of himself and to pay little heed to their father’s harsher words. Goodbyes had been frequent; this one considered no more dangerous than others, even unexciting and tedious, as it would be all lonely travel with no guarantee of ever getting to Imladris. There was no warning, no feeling between them that spoke of unease, they’d embraced, wished each other well and to take care and then parted. Oh, my brother, were that you were here…doing my paperwork. Faramir smiled to himself, his thoughts bittersweet. Or not. You, too, might have demanded to join this ridiculous excursion; if he remembered correctly, Boromir would have rather leapt from the White Tower than go over endless ledgers.

His brother would have enjoyed this place and, if he’d been able to circumvent his occasional bouts of arrogance, Boromir would have fit in easier than he. Ah, but Éomer…Faramir smiled. His brother would have been ranting and railing within scant minutes, demanding he deal with the King of Rohan. And my Éowyn…to his knowledge Boromir had had no female friends, the better to keep the idea of arranging a marriage away from their Father’s thoughts. My brother preferred a more seemly and elegant woman…though he might have made an exception. And he would have tormented me…flirting, tossing innuendoes left and right…probably just terrifying her. Faramir smiled sadly. I lie here and miss what might have been when all I should be thinking about is what I’m going to do tomorrow; I am pathetic. Suddenly he chuckled, the sound low and doleful in the lonely night, and thought of Éomer again. If my brother were here, then maybe in comparison I would not look so bad.

His eyelids snapped open and Faramir shifted his legs, feeling the dullness in his temples—the headache had been averted, but barely, with Éomer running away to his tent. That was something to be thankful for. He was tired, but not ready for sleep. I miss my Éowyn…I miss her bed, the smell of flowers when I put my face to her hair, her skin. I miss my bold Éowyn…I want her close to me… Wondering what she was doing, he stared up at the stars, naming them absently in elvish as his eyes progressed from one constellation to another. He knew most but as always could not see the pictures they were named for, only memorizing the shapes. Faramir speculated some strong elvish wine must have been needed to form them…that and endless years without the Sun.

Thinking it might help him sleep he closed his eyes again and tried to imagine a world with only stars for the heavens. The tiny little points of light seemed very bleak, cold and far away. People would turn to one another for warmth, he guessed. His hands were threatening to go numb under his head; Faramir moved them back to his chest, folding them and relacing his fingers.

She is probably asleep… Dreaming of me? A smile surfaced on his mouth. Probably not. He was too weary to try and rise out of himself and see.

Having avoided it long enough, he thought, now…what shall I do tomorrow? He had to be very careful not lose his patience or his temper, even once. The situation with Éomer was too delicate, too fragile to tolerate such a thing. Control…control…he listened to his breathing until he finally fell asleep.

A weary Éomer watched Faramir rouse his students just before daybreak. It was accomplished with remarkable ease, the half-dressed and wide-awake Steward needing little more than to direct a meaningful look to each to make them rise and begin readying themselves. He frowned, looking back down to his hands as he slowly laced his boots; each foot was at turn propped up on one of the stumps. It appeared that despite all the impertinence of the day before, the lads did respect Faramir enough to heed his signals.

Done, he made his way to the Steward, waiting awkwardly to address him, shifting his weight from foot to foot until the man had gotten the simple linen shirt down over his head. Faramir was unappealing—lanky, almost slender and rather underfed looking beneath all his dark hair. Éomer wrinkled his nose in silent disgust, wondering what his sister possibly saw in this reedy South man, a man almost as far from Eorl as one could be without being a ruffian or an orc. Faramir got the shirt down and shook out his hair, turning to him with an unruffled expression.

It seemed he did not trouble to wear much at all and appeared unbothered by the lack of gear—only the simplistic garb he’d worn before: shirt, trousers, boots and knife. Probably because he could make his own from twigs or rocks or something, Éomer thought with a flash of cheerless humor. He’d slept little the night before and felt it. “Are…you taking horses?” Trepidation nearly made him stutter, but he succeeded in asking Faramir the question.

“Good morning.” It was warm and cordial, as was the cheery grin aimed at him as the Steward ran his hands through his coal-black hair and beard again, as before doing little to order it. He was getting woollier all the time. Éomer shifted some more, startled by the greeting and, even further, by the friendly manner in which it was delivered. Idiot, that’s what people who are nice to each other say, what friends say. Wake up before he starts threatening again... He felt abruptly nervous before he made himself stop fidgeting and reply in kind,

“Good morning.” He offered a brief smile in return, determined not to incur Faramir’s wrath. Pleasantries out of the way, he waited for the answer, feeling like a fool, standing like a first year lad awaiting orders. It angered him, but he had no power.

“Yes…” The Steward gazed down the valley, brow creasing, then he said more firmly, “Yes, we will.” Raising his voice, he called to the lads, “Gað eower eoh.”

“Gea, Láréow.” They mumbled it while rubbing their eyes and stumbling around camp. Faramir grabbed up his horse’s halter and Éomer noted one of his guards; the man had come to his side, silently volunteering to fetch the chestnut stud for him. Graciously declining the offer, he took the halter from the man’s hand and caught up with Faramir. The Steward took long strides; they walked in what, between other men, might have seemed companionable silence. Éomer wasn’t sure what it was between them. After a few steps, he tried to make it companionable by saying hesitantly, each word halting, “You’ve gotten good.” He looked at the Steward, waiting.

“Hmm?” Faramir looked up politely, face questioning. He’d not been listening.

Clearing his throat, he repeated himself, this time a little smoother. “I said you’ve gotten good.” After a beat, he added, “With our language.” Then he took the frightening plunge into friendliness, “It’s very impressive after such a short time.”

The Steward looked pleased. “Thank you.” Éomer bobbed his head and went quiet again; he’d run out of things to say. Faramir appeared content in the silence, as he did not speak either. The shushing sound of their boots through the dewy grass, the muffled thumps of their strides on the earth, the soft murmur of rubbing cloth and their faint breathing were the only noises. The sunrise shone redly, orange streaks lifting while the bowl of the sky was still indigo; as Éomer walked, the Sun herself peeked over the fork of the hills, her light pricking his eyes and making his limbs feel heavy with weariness.

Halfway down the valley, his horse raised its head from cropping the grass, brown eyes inquisitive as he haltered it, making sure to keep the rope from brushing its eyes or catching its ears. “Hello, my friend.” Voice low, Éomer greeted his mount, rubbing the white forehead and scratching its chestnut neck in praise of the horse’s quiet obedience. The stallion moved with him willingly as he turned, preparing to go back, but the sight before him made Éomer halt.

“Faramir…stop. Just stop.” Éomer tried not to chuckle and failed though it wasn’t a particularly scornful sound, just amused. The Steward’s horsemanship skills were truly pathetic. “Stand still.”

A short distance away, Faramir did as he’d said, ceasing to follow a thick-bodied grey gelding. The horse halted, too, expression sour as its steps slowed, then quit altogether. The Steward glanced back, halter in hand, asking, “Now what?”

Éomer considered the horse’s stance, noting it was pointed away from camp. If Faramir moved behind, he would at least herd the reluctant animal in the correct direction and then by moving to check the horse by advancing past its shoulder, using the animal’s own language, he could maneuver it in circles until the beast gave up. “Move…get over there, on the other side of him, behind his flank.” He gestured with his arm, waiting to see how closely the animal would allow the Steward to approach. It was fairly closely, just outside actual touching distance; Éomer was relieved. This wouldn’t take long at all if the grey was that lenient.

“Now,” The grey was moving again, “Cut him off, there…walk by his shoulder and push him inward…” Faramir did, turning the horse back towards Éomer. The grey halted, raised its head and pinned its ears, not wanting to approach him in case he tried to catch it, too. It was smart, then. “Now, keep as close as you can and cut him off like you did, turn him in circles…”

It took another minute before the gelding gave in and allowed Faramir to approach and halter it. Éomer began walking back to camp, his stud still calm and willing. It was well trained; the horsemen of the Mark would not risk their King on an ill-tempered brute…such as the one he rides. He glanced over at the burly grey gelding and ventured to speak to Faramir once more. It was something he must get used to, he supposed, slightly irked that so far this morning he’d been the one initiating all the conversation. Ah, that is what you deserve… “What is his name?”

“Thorn.” The Steward smiled, walking easily and apparently not feeling as awkward as he did. Or he is pretending. This new thought gave him a jolt—it was too reminiscent of Wormtongue, always hiding, never showing his true self. He glanced sideways, wary as Faramir spoke further, “It fits; he is not the most agreeable animal.”

Éomer nodded, at a loss. He didn’t know when Faramir planned to talk to him and despite not sleeping much the night before he still didn’t have anything truly relevant to say to explain or justify himself and his behavior. He’d spent the time with his mind racing but not actually thinking much, too shocked and emotionally worn to think. This time Faramir spoke first and startled him,

“Do you have anything in mind for today?” The corners of his mouth had turned up in a rueful smile. “I’m not opposed to taking requests.”

“Like for supper. You’ve brought me more mouths to feed.” Faramir smiled again, glancing sideways with his grey eyes light and mirthful. It didn’t appear that he was feeling clumsy at all, speaking and reacting with no perceptible tension.

“Oh…no. No.” Éomer felt foolish and strained and increasingly leery that Faramir appeared to feel none of those things. He swallowed, gathered his courage to continue, and said, “Where are we riding to hunt?”

Faramir gave him a sharper glance, but he did answer. “Probably another deer would be best…so somewhere in the wood.”

Nodding, Éomer let the silence fall again; he had no more to say to break it. Neither spoke as they reentered camp, separating to saddle their mounts.

“You thought you were the only one who could scare people, didn’t you, Faramir?” Turning aside, he said, “You should have seen his face…” Opening his eyes and mouth wide, he gasped and leapt backwards into the air. Nier stood nearby and laughed at the impression. “Hiiimmmpph!” Gaer squealed with his mouth tightly shut, eyes bugging, actually making a fairly good imitation of the sound and face he’d made. Humiliatingly good. Not that Faramir was going to give him the satisfaction of saying so, of course. He settled for glaring. The Rohir sobered, “Like that.” Immediately he grinned again. “Just like that.” Faramir gave him a hard stare over Thorn’s back, trying not to laugh at the younger man’s glee. Gaer was gloating, nearly dancing with delight as he followed him back and forth from one side of the horse to the other, the better to mock him. Nier looked amused. The Rohir grinned, then pasted an arrogant look on his face and said solemnly. “Well, I think you learned your lesson about frightening people.”

He answered drolly, swinging the saddle and blankets over the grey’s withers, and then bending to cinch the girth. “Yes. I did. Quite well.”

Casting an eye over the camp, he noted his students were waiting. Faramir checked the balance on his saddle, carefully buckled the saddlebags and made sure his sword was tightly lashed down. Éomer had wandered nearby with his chestnut stud ready; he, too, was waiting. Strapping his bracers to his wrists, he paused, momentarily struck by the designs he’d scratched into the rich leather of the left one. The White Tree gleamed in the darker background. Oh, my City… A wave of homesickness passed over his heart before Faramir shook it off and strapped his quiver and bow to his back.

Nier spoke for the first time, “What’re you getting us today, friend Faramir?”

Ah, so I am a friend now. Amused at his own gratification, he tightened the girth, moving with Thorn as the gelding sidestepped under the pressure. The camp was mostly awake with men building up the fire. “Deer.”

Gaer asked almost joyfully, as though he thought the word a grand new jest, “And?”

Surprised, he echoed, “And?” He was expected to provide side dishes now? Oh… Well, it was no more ridiculous than everything he’d had to put up with so far was and at least he didn’t have to cook the food. Not yet… Faramir said wearily, “What else would you like?” He smiled, bridling Thorn, hands quick over the inelegant grey head as his thoughts turned once more to Boromir. My brother would have thrown a fit to see this day, the son of the Steward taking dinner requests from two common bred soldiers.

“I don’t know.” Nier looked to Gaer, who frowned. The Rohirrim stared at the sky and ground, respectfully, trying to think.

Valar save me. Since he had to put his foot down somewhere, he said curtly, “Make up your mind. I’m leaving soon.” Gesturing to his students, he mounted Thorn. The grey stepped forward immediately, feeling energetic. Faramir tugged gently on the reins, murmuring, “Easy, stand still.” He glanced at the heavy grey ears. You weren’t this eager for me to catch you… Almost in response, Thorn shook his head; lowering it and making his ears flop like he thought flies were buzzing around them. Éomer swung up into his saddle, not speaking. Faramir’s students felt alarmed and very flustered as they perceived their King would be coming, too. He hoped this would go well. It would be difficult to teach if they did not relax. That goes for me, too. So far, it had been a strain to remain perfectly at ease under Éomer’s wildly fluctuating sense of discomfort.

The two Rohirrim were still frowning, so he just sighed. “I’ll get something, all right? We gáþ nu.” Faramir nudged Thorn, steering him down the trail the led out of the valley, surprised at the way the grey was so hard up against the bit. He tightened his grip on the reins, wishing he’d thought to put on his gloves. The horse’s neck was bent, his jaw tight as he tried to take off. Faramir was hard-pressed to keep the gelding from bolting and wondered why. Under his breath, he murmured a constant litany, “Easy, easy…” Thorn shook his head and struck out with one foreleg, ready to gallop. Maybe he thinks we’re going back…and he can’t wait to get me off of him. Faramir smiled a little and let enough slack so that Thorn could run.

They loped down the path and he took them much farther than the first time, knowing the smell of death would have discouraged any deer from reentering the area. Finally turning off the trail, Faramir rode through the trees, enjoying the soft light and feel of the wood. Thorn’s hooves made quiet noises on the ground, birds fluttered in the brush and overhead in the leafy cover; he was painfully reminded of Ithilien and Faramir’s heart ached. It was too easy to pretend those who rode so quietly behind him were men cloaked in the greys, browns and greens of Rangers, their hands ever ready to grasp their bows or sword hilts, ears alert for any suspicious noise. Turning Thorn around the bole of a tree while using his lower legs as Éowyn had so eloquently taught him, he glanced back at who really kept to his heels—five Rohirrim lads, their tired, youthful faces full of apprehension and curiosity and a subdued Éomer who looked down at his hands in preference to their making eye contact.

Do I miss the days of war, truly? They’d been ones of more certainty; he’d known his place and what was expected. Faramir swallowed, sad and wishing for something that he could not put into thought. He didn’t know what, but something was absent and wrong. It gnawed at him with tiny, dulled teeth, slowly ruining his peace.

They rode in silence until he came to a small clearing suitable to tying their horses. He dismounted, loosening Thorn’s girth. “We’ll leave them here…” Squinting, he tried to think of the translation. “We wille læten hêr.” At once Faramir sensed that he’d been faulty in his words—his students frowned and Wurth shifted but none offered the enthusiastic corrections he’d become used to. They were intimidated by Éomer’s presence, keeping silent. Dammit, dammit, I can’t teach with him here.

He didn’t speak, either, just patted Thorn and wandered through the forest, following faint deer trails and tracks, places where bucks had rubbed their antlers on trunks and pawed out oval beds in thickets until he came upon very fresh imprints under a tree. It was huge, thick trunked with good branches. Faramir looked up at it in approval and turned to his students. He spoke very quietly. “I need some of you to go and fetch some…” He frowned, what could they get? Herbs again and maybe greens. Nothing more complicated than that. Mushrooms were far, far too dangerous. Suddenly he smiled, thinking of a simple, tasty dish. Éowyn had been correct in her teasing, so long ago when they’d lain in her bed in the City—he could cook and rather well. It was amazing what a lad could discover in the libraries in Minas Tirith. Faramir ordered, “Get me some sorrel, watercress, dandelion—leaves and roots of that, and nettle. Be very careful with the nettle, break it and use the juice if you get stung.” Tomorrow he’d send someone else to fetch bread from the village, gather the mushrooms himself and the Rohirrim would have their meals.

“We’ll go, Láréow.” Scef, Leodthain and the nameless lad nodded quickly, leaving him with Wurth and Feohtan to herd the deer. The boys stepped back, ready to flee at his authorization while the other two looked on enviously.

Faramir shrugged, feeling his annoyance and Éomer’s curiously growing dismay. Why, why did he have to come? Still keeping his voice down, he said, “All right, you three go off; you two see the tracks? That deer was just here. Go the other way and circle and Lord Éomer and I will be waiting up in this tree…”

Éomer interrupted quickly and tersely, every low word hurriedly clipped. “I’ll go with them. You don’t need me here.”

This surprised him until Faramir became reaware of the way the King of Rohan was feeling—controlled anxiety and dread. What’s wrong with him? He could see no cause for it. The man had asked to come…Éomer glanced up at the tree and the anxiety within him increased twofold. Faramir was astonished but spoke in a soothing manner. “All right. If you wish.”

He’s scared of…the tree…? Still puzzled, he touched the leather straps holding his bow and quiver to his back, checking their snugness and made sure the cloth top of his quiver was folded over so that when he swung up onto the branches no arrows would be lost. The three lads shuffled off and he’d just grasped a hold of one of the thick limbs and jumped up high as he could, gripping it securely with his lower legs, when Éomer spoke, sounding hushed and nervous.

Hanging upside down, he allowed a bit of annoyance to creep into his tone. The rough bark burned his gloveless hands and he tightened his legs, locking his ankles; Faramir turned his head to stare at the King of Rohan, defiantly not bothering to move. “Yes?”

Éomer looked up at him with his eyes dark and sober. “Be careful. Don’t…fall.”

The words startled him just as much as the complete sincerity and concern of Éomer’s expression. What is he…what’s wrong with him? What does he think, that we don’t have trees in Gondor? His first inner response was a sarcasm laced, I’ll try not to but this sounded too childish and crabbed even to him. After taking a breath, he softened it, trying to respond to the very real, if baffling, worry that he could sense radiating from the man. “I will be careful. Thank you.” He was, he supposed, thankful for the concern. At least it is genuine…that’s something, isn’t it?

Éomer nodded once, not looking very relieved, and moved away followed by Wurth and Feohtan. They look like ducklings again, he thought and smiled his first true smile of the day before he finished swinging into the tree. Faramir positioned himself securely, back to the trunk with one boot propped upon a forking branch. Moving carefully while the leaves fluttered, he unstrapped his bow and began his wait, still baffled.

He fretted, moving quietly through the wood. How high will he climb…it’s a big tree…I can imagine too easily… His fear of heights prodded his imagination with horrific scenarios. The two youths trailed him; Éomer paid them no real attention. The faint thump of hooves caught his attention though and he gestured them to fan out, keeping quiet. The deer was ahead and poised to flee in the wrong direction. Faintly, though the range of tree trunks, leaves and brush, he could see the soft, greyish tan of its pelt. Éomer sent them forward, making plenty of noise where he stood, distracting it from the quietly walking lads. In fact, he could hardly believe how quiet they were, stalking silently with their strides very careful.

The animal pricked its great ears, swiveling them; it was a young buck and with the foolish boldness youth, it stood its ground until they got around it. Suddenly noticing that the two predators were uncomfortably close, the buck panicked and plunged back in the direction Éomer had wanted it to—directly at him. He stopped making noise, stepping behind a tree as the lads began to slap branches and yell, creating a clamor to drive it. Now the buck just trotted, lazily swinging his tail; he was fairly unafraid and with good reason since few peoples lived in this area, meaning the deer were rarely hunted.

He stood tight against the tree, cheek to the coarse bark, and it passed him with only a brief hesitation when the deer caught his scent. Éomer held his breath, enjoying his brief closeness—the living buck was beautiful, springing with dainty grace over the cluttered forest floor. If he’d had a spear, he could have gotten it then and there. The boys joined him, their movements making and keeping a wedge-like shape as they walked through the wood. Éomer made plenty of noise though he really couldn’t even see the deer anymore but for its tail wagging back and forth. They were very close now to Faramir’s hiding spot and he moved slower; Éomer had never seen the Steward shoot; he’d heard he was good but no matter how skilled the archer, being behind the target wasn’t a very safe place. He gestured the lads back, too, not wishing to test fate.

As they neared Faramir’s position, he cursed and halted in disgust—the deer’s white tail had stopped wagging and stood nearly upright, which meant the buck had finally decided to get serious and flee to parts that were more peaceful. Its bouncing stride lengthened and there were sounds of its body crashing through the brush. Oh, damn. He sighed. It was going too fast and when it went under the tree in a few seconds Faramir would have no chance of shooting it. They were only two thickets behind, giving them a fair view.

Out of sight, Faramir whistled sharply and the deer froze, tail and head lifted; the big ears swiveled under the antlers. It was poised to resume its flight. Éomer waited for the twang of the bow but heard nothing. He was confused until he realized the deer was almost immediately beneath the giant tree—Faramir couldn’t get a clear shot unless it moved. They would be trailing the thing’s blood all day if he shot now and didn’t hit it correctly.

The unseen Steward whistled twice more but the sharp notes sounded odd, like each was coming from a different direction. Witch, he thought, unnerved at this new trick. Perhaps the buck thought the same thing for the deer’s ears were twitching and it looked confused. Its small, cloven feet stamped fearfully as it tried to decide in which direction to flee; black nose sniffing, it was no doubt becoming aware of the man that was very close but unseen. The whistles appeared to be coming from everywhere but the buck was too bewildered to move unless it just fled at full speed, which it was readying itself to do, breathing faster, dark eyes huge within their white tracings.

Branches swayed gently though there was no wind. Then Faramir jumped out of the tree and Éomer’s heart nearly stopped, horror filling him just imagining doing the same. He landed in a near-silent crouch very, very near the buck with his long, inky hair falling around his face, grey eyes narrowed. It was not the perfect landing since Faramir had to steady himself with one hand, but he balanced swiftly, drawing an arrow from his dark, weather-stained quiver in an action almost too quick to be seen.

The deer, overwhelmed by this, didn’t move while Faramir, arrow already in his hand and nocked, bent his bow. From his spot in the wood, Éomer gaped, astounded at this bold method of hunting. If he’d been the deer and Faramir had leapt out at him, he’d have had a fit and dropped dead, not even necessitating the arrow.

It ended all in fleet motions, Faramir’s arm drawing back with the bow bending tight just as the buck realized its grave danger. Its hindquarters dropped, its tail lifted and its head turned away towards escape; the animal was gathering itself to leap and as its slim forelegs left the ground, Faramir released, shooting it at close range. The bowstring sang, echoing itself dully as it slapped back against the Steward’s leather bracers, and the dart imbedded itself deep, killing the deer all but instantly. The buck crumpled with a meaty thud, soft beige, tapered head outstretched, pink tongue lolling while its wide and beautiful eyes dulled. Its now graceless legs twisted under itself, turning the elegant creature to a lumpy pile of cooling flesh. Its leap cut so short the animal all but fell at his feet, the Steward looked very pleased as he straightened. Without pause, he strapped his bow to his back and drew his knife, dropping to one knee by the fresh carcass. Around Éomer, the two lads were wide-eyed and murmuring in amazement. Listening with half an ear, he could hear their admiration.

Admiration…indeed, he thought and walked slowly forward, boots crunching through the brush; as he came close, Éomer gathered himself to give an offer to help Faramir skin out the buck. He is strange…

Soon after, Éomer amiably lifted the deer’s pelt as Faramir sliced slowly upwards, separating the skin from the meat; luke-warm and tacky blood covered both their hands. What Faramir wanted it for, he didn’t know since there was no time to tan the hide. Curious, he remained silent and as helpful as he could, substituting willing physical aid for his lack of amiable conversation. Bones were piled as they were revealed, food for the dogs.

“It’s going to be a target.” The Steward’s eyes met his casually; “The other’s getting ragged.” He cut sinew away, scraping blood vessels and scraps of fat from the hide, occasionally flicking his knife to clear it.

His heart sped up and his tone was cautious, nerves jumping. “Oh.” Éomer stared back at the top of Faramir’s dark head, leery. Did he read my mind…? Other than his offer, he’d not spoken and that had been minutes ago.

The Steward glanced at him, heaved an impatient sigh and spoke again. “You looked curious.”

There was a silence, then Faramir stopped and looked at him very straightly as they crouched over the cooling carcass. “Éomer…can you do something for me? It’s very important.” His voice was quiet now, barely audible at their close proximity and certainly inaudible to the lads who were waiting nearby to take their turn at helping.

He made sure he spoke softly, too, though he stumbled. Éomer met the man’s grey eyes, trying to read something in them but they were inscrutable. “Yes…w-what is it?”

Faramir smiled, emphasizing his words with a wag of his eyebrows and a small grin. “Relax. Please.”

Surprised, he didn’t think as he blurted back, “I don’t think I can.” And just like that, they were talking. Faramir answered placidly, keeping his gaze lowered as though he knew it made Éomer more comfortable. He probably does… That thought gave him the shivers.

“Well, it would make this much easier…you’re making me tense as well,” He paused, “Which we won’t go into.” Éomer nodded quickly, grateful, even though it didn’t matter because Faramir couldn’t see him do it. The Steward kept talking in a frank, calm voice as he worked. “And more importantly, you’re making them tense. I’m trying to do what you assigned me and teach,” Here Faramir lifted his head to give him an amused and very tolerant look that changed into deep patience. “But I can’t if you don’t relax and stop acting like I’m going to attack you. It’s very distracting, plus the fact that as their Lord you’re already intimidating them...can you understand this? It’s not a very great request.”

I’m intimidating…? I don’t leap out of trees… He didn’t respond and together they stood and lifted the skin, carefully turning the deer to remove the hide from the other side. Odd, he thought miserably, in a simple physical task they could function in tune but not so in any other way. The innards had already been taken out and they gleamed wetly in a neat pile. The early morning air was full of the coppery scent of blood, the lazy buzzing of flies and the admirable murmuring of the two lads as they looked up the tree, then down where Faramir had jumped.

He chewed his lip, thinking of his sister. Her face had been happy that first day when Faramir had arrived in Edoras. Éomer finally answered, speaking very quietly. “Yes, I think I can understand.”

As they fell into silence again, Éomer thought worriedly. He felt like Faramir was going to attack him, or do the vocal equivalent again. If he had to speak to this man, had to befriend him, then he wanted to do it in a place where he could be himself. I am not a King…not on the inside. “When do you think you’ll be finished?”

At the question, Faramir sounded testy. “Sundown. I’ve got a lot planned.”

“Do you…” He hesitated, nervous at the change in the Steward’s tone and pushed himself onward. “Want to go into the village with me?”

Faramir gave him a skeptical, searching look, and then shrugged. “All right, if you’d like.” That done, they finished the deer and wrapped the meat in its hide, carrying it back to the horses where Faramir seemed very pleased to see his still where he had tied it. The other three lads came soon; they’d stripped their shirts off and filled them with the greens the Steward had ordered. Faramir praised their ingenuity with his voice filled with an enthusiasm and gladness that didn’t sound forced. Éomer watched mutely from the skirts of the group, wondering at the strange sensation that swept over his heart. The situation…it felt familiar and almost comforting. All of a sudden he identified it and cursed himself savagely, cold dismay and alarm coursing through his body. He is not Théodred! Stop it!

Unbearably, as Faramir stood before the five boys, smiling easily and speaking, he was reminded of Théodred, his brother in all but name, his hero every bit as much as Uncle and Eorl were… I remember watching him instruct lads and helping him clean his kills from the hunt, going out to the taverns…like you just invited him to that little village! He was dumbstruck.

After he’d mounted, Éomer held back his horse, wanting to ride last in the group; he was letting himself brood furiously. Had he done it unknowing? Inadvertently steered Faramir into nearly every role Théodred had occupied? His cousin had taken pleasure in the occasional times he’d taught the younger soldiers, preferring it to sitting idle between long rides over the Mark. Théodred had led him on hunts. Théodred had never hesitated to call him to task or allowed him to mope childishly when a good shouting or scolding could snap him out of it; the similarities were small but there…and the ones that did not exist… He looked up, watching Faramir pat his horse and speak to the lads. I made to by ordering them or acting like a brute until I forced him into attacking me.

He was deeply disturbed, nerves winding tighter until he clenched the reins, unable to unlock his hands. Sneaking another look down at the Steward, Éomer felt only confusion. He is not Théodred, not even a poor replacement. Faramir’s eyes swept over him as he mounted the grey; they were gently inquiring. Éomer looked down quickly, not wanting to betray anything and fought to loosen his grip on the leather grasped between his fingers. Anything he can’t already sense…he felt his frame grow taut and warred with his discomfort. Beneath him, his horse stamped, its ears flat as the stallion became aware of his distress. Stop it, stop it, stop it… All the long ride back, he kept glancing at Faramir’s tousled, sable mane, half waiting for the Steward to turn in response.

Back in camp, he dismounted and unsaddled his stud, letting the animal free. Not much calmer after the long ride and hungry, Éomer stood nearby and watched uselessly as Faramir sliced the sleeves off one of his linen shirts, setting them aside with some of the sorrel leaves. Next, he wrapped the greens the lads had gathered into the linen, folding all the open ends up. He then took a small stick sharpened at one end and thrust it through the top of the cloth, making the shirt into a rough bag. Faramir tossed the bag into the pot with the venison and some water. The Steward glanced at him and grinned naturally, “My shirt—I know that it’s clean.” He scooped up the sleeves, carrying them.

“Oh…right.” He shifted his feet, terribly uncomfortable. Théodred…my brother…am I so lonely that I turn to this man? This man I do not even like and have nothing in common with besides my sister?

Faramir’s gaze turned slightly searching, but he smiled again, this time looking more forced as he jested weakly, “Now to my real work while we wait.”

Éomer made no reply, either verbal or physically; he kept his gaze lowered, only once daring to lift it. His mind was a confused swirl. Faramir’s brow creased and impatience flashed in his eyes, but he didn’t speak. Instead, he called his students to him, and then sent them to fetch the rough darts; in seconds, their hands were full of the half-made bolts. Éomer looked them inquiringly before he moved closer, part of him genuinely curious to hear this lesson. From the depths of his conscious, he thought fiercely, he is not Théodred…remember… It was an insult to his dear, brave cousin’s memory to compare him to this…

He moaned inwardly. This man who seems very much capable of a lot of things I am not and who is much loved by my sister, who has offered time and time again everything he can think to me and just asked for acceptance in return... This man who can and obviously will provide for her, protect her, love her and let her do what she likes, who will make her happier than I’ve ever seen her. Éomer floundered, not sure of anything anymore and horribly, awfully close to just sitting on the ground and weeping into his hands like a child. The only thing he had to hold onto, Faramir was taking. It’s not fair…why can’t he just let me hate him? Reflexively, he felt himself grow angry and he embraced it, taking much needed refuge.

The five lads gathered. “All right,” Faramir held up the dart. “We’ve got it nearly finished…” Unexpectedly, Éomer found grey eyes fastened to his as he hovered at the fringes. The Steward raised his voice, calling strongly with his gaze firmly intent. In it, he could read both strength and supplication; in it he could see a gift of friendship still freely offered. The offer came out in Faramir’s lightly spoken words. “Do you want to help, Éomer? It would aid me a great deal if you did.”

He hesitated, not wanting to be drawn in, but the students were looking at him with an open and friendly curiosity. Théodred, remember. He smiled a little, forcing himself to relax. Allies or enemies…and he had no desire to become Faramir’s enemy now he knew the Steward’s weapons and his willingness to use them. He had too much to lose. “All right.” Éomer found himself adding in an uncertain tone, “But I don’t know anything about bowyer’s work.”

Faramir smiled wider; gaze steady as though he was wordlessly encouraging him and at the same time warning him. There were odd depths to his eyes, coolness in the grey as well as warmth. The feeling of warning made Éomer tense again even as Faramir spoke and smiled good-humoredly. “That’s fine. You’re making paint.”

Sitting in her mother’s flower room, Éowyn grimaced in disgust as Arwen enthusiastically rubbed the slimy brown goop into her clean, freshly washed hair. The stuff was warm, at which she couldn’t decide if that made it more or less revolting, especially when some slid down her neck. Eww…it was like mud and she’d ceased playing in mud long ago. At least it still smelled good, like fresh-cut hay, which brought happy memories of her childhood summers. She sang quietly, under her breath, “Com, sumor” and laughed at remembering the tune of her youth.

“No you’re not. Rusco is, though…isn’t he a good boy?” There was syrupy sweet cooing in her ear, making her roll her eyes. The puppy sat nearby, under strict orders not to move…or whatever Arwen had said in elvish. It all sounded the same to her. He was stuffed, white belly rotund, so Éowyn doubted he had much difficulty in obeying. The little thing was yawning and could barely keep his eyes open. It reminded her of the easy way of training foals to lead—first you led them where they wished to go, only afterwards venturing other places.

The Queen adjusted the cloth wrapped around her neck, making sure none of the goop would escape to get on the simple men’s clothes she wore. They were going hunting using the hawks later; Arwen, too, was clothed in men’s wear stolen from Éomer’s quarters. Éowyn had noted silently and a bit peevishly that the elven woman made even the baggy, rough wool and linen look feminine and favorable. She moaned as the stuff dripped onto her cheek, twisting her neck away, horrified it might get into her mouth. “It’s nasty.”

“Oh, hush, you child.” Arwen wiped it off of her then resumed blending the goop into her hair. She wore old gloves they’d also found in Éomer’s rooms. Her brother was used to her petty thievery; Éowyn had had to rip apart his rooms to find things many times before, often finding he’d done the same to hers to recover the stolen items. “You’ll like it.”

“No.” She squirmed, feeling her hair thick and heavy with the glop. “Never.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re doing it. I’m glad I have someone to do it with.” The Queen rubbed the goop one last time and then shucked off the gloves and grabbed the frame of the chair, not seeming to have to make much effort as she dragged both Éowyn and it over into the morning sunlight.

“What do you mean?” Anything to distract from the way it kept dripping down her neck. She curled her toes within her boots, grimacing and gripped the chair’s arms.

“Oh, I can’t do this in the City. Those women wouldn’t let me. They want my favor, not my companionship.” Arwen sighed, sounding a cross between pensive and merry, “This is more like being in Lórien.” She sat carefully on one of the stone borders, gently pushing aside a few blooms. “These are so pretty…” The Queen smiled. “And familiar. I wonder what fool male first thought of massacring helpless flowers to present to his lady…and what fool lady allowed it.” Her pale, delicate hands traced the roses. Éowyn folded her sun-browned, lean ones in her lap. “Estel cannot feel their pain or hear the earth’s cries for the loss of their beauty and the wind’s the absence of their dipping faces…for that alone, he is excused or I would slap him soundly when he brings me them. I’d rather he rode with me to look at a live bloom than be presented a wilted and dead one.”

Feeling the atmosphere turn melancholy despite the sunshine pouring into the room, Éowyn made a face at the window and tried to steer the conversation into a less despondent vein. “How is this like…Lórien?” She stumbled a little over the name, not used to saying it.

“Well, this is what elves do with eternity.” The Queen snickered, body shaking with mirth, eyes bright, “They dye hair.”

Confused, she laughed and asked, “What?” Facing the window, she stared at the foothills and wondered what Faramir was doing at that moment.

“Oh, we spend a good few hours sitting about looking wise, and then we sing to the sky and then we practice walking ethereally in the afternoons…it’s much harder than it looks.” Éowyn turned to look over her shoulder and Arwen burst out laughing. “Oh, you mortals are silly.”

“I didn’t believe you for a second.” She smiled and asked again, “How?”

“We’re equals…you aren’t worrying if something you say will cause you to fall into disfavor.”

“Oh.” Éowyn frowned a little, understanding, yet not. That was ridiculous. “What does that mean?”

“The families in Gondor rely upon the favor of the King to help keep their status as the highest noble, the second highest and such. I don’t think you have the same here it is so small. You couldn’t imagine all the folk who’ve whispered to me,” Arwen smiled and lowered her voice slyly, “that they’ve elven blood in their veins.” The Queen burst into light laughter. “As if I cared and as if that would make me love them!” Her laughter dissolved. “After seeing to my duties, I spend much of my time by the White Tree while Estel sits in his council or his throne making decisions over his lands. He fought so hard and for so long; I cannot complain when it keeps him late into the night.” Arwen sighed and slumped on the stone, her boot nudging the petals scattered all over the tiled floor.

Éowyn swallowed, feeling afraid. She didn’t want to do the same. Faramir…my lufiend…? Dô ná ânforlêton me feorh îdle …

“Yes.” She spoke without quite knowing it. “Tell me about…” Meaning to say Lórien, the possibilities had suddenly opened in her head like a window thrown wide, a dim room flooded with the brilliancy of sunlight. Instantly, she was tongue-tied. I could ask…well, anything, Éowyn guessed. Arwen seemed very forward, not shy about any topic. I could ask… She’d never had a woman close to her to ask things. Certainly, there was much she was curious about. Oh, everything…it was too much and the depth of her questions suffocated her.

There was a thoughtful expression on the Queen’s face and a moment of quiet. “Do you want a story of great horror?” Arwen was smiling again.

“Once…in Lórien…” The Queen giggled, “I offered to rub Estel’s feet.” She laughed, “Never touch a Ranger’s feet! They are nasty, nasty beyond anything you’ve ever seen or imagined; all lumpy and callused—he’s walked everywhere… Well, not everywhere but close enough. Ugh, they were chapped and rough and he could hardly feel it unless I used my strength!” She shuddered, laughing at the same time. “I pass on my wisdom to you; never, ever touch his feet!”

Éowyn laughed, too. “Not just Rangers…an old Rider, his legs get all bowed inward and it’s disgusting.”

“Yes.” She smiled, feeling the sun warm her wet hair; it was pulled back; she couldn’t see it and was somewhat afraid to peek.

The Queen laughed, “It was a shame, too, about Estel. Poor thing, he was limping and so pitifully adorable, playing it for all he was worth. I found some nice, scented oil and it promised to be fairly erotic in a way none could disapprove,” Éowyn blinked rapidly and Arwen smiled, “until I saw those things and,” The fair elven woman pretended to retch violently. “It was a fine performance I gave not to be horrified, though perhaps not too fine for he’s not asked me again.”

“Now, what else?” Hmm? Don’t be shy!” Arwen reached out to slap her leg. “Ask.”

The Queen sighed, and then smiled patiently. “All right. Another story. Let me tell you how you should fall down upon your knees in gratitude only to be cursed with one brother…”

Faramir set the lads to trimming the still useful feathers from his broken and bent arrow shafts, showing them the proper way, and then he turned to Éomer. The King of Rohan was edgy, as he’d been for some time, his mind filled with unease. Faramir curtailed his impatience, speaking quietly as he carried the cut off sleeves of his shirt and grabbing up one of the eating bowls. “Here, come with me to the river, we need water for this.” Éomer obeyed, plainly wary and walking just slightly out of step so that Faramir led the way and conversation was awkward at best. Irritated, he slowed to match. “What’s wrong?”

The only reply was a quick, faint shake of the man’s head that sent his thick golden mane, a rougher version of Éowyn’s, to swinging. Éomer’s light eyes were careful, his mind deeply nervous and uncomfortable.

Faramir held his patience with difficulty. “What? What is it?” His voice rose, temper burning hotly and forcing its way out, “Am I being too civil? Am I not doing all I was asked to do? Do you disapprove of my teaching?”

When they were out of sight from camp, he halted altogether, directly facing the man. “Then what is it?”

“I don’t know what you mean. Why are you so angry…with me?” The last two words were so hesitant they sounded more like a question onto themselves. Faramir didn’t speak and Éomer didn’t meet his eyes; he shifted his feet, looking from them to the landscape around them, obviously wishing he were anywhere else. Faramir kept silent and still, feeling the tension build within the man before him until Éomer finally looked up, made fleeting eye contact and asked, “Can we just…” He gestured in the direction they’d been walking, “go? Please?”

“Not until you understand that,” Faramir emphasized each word, “I’m only angry because you’re not trying…”

“I am!” All of a sudden it seemed like Éomer had remembered his long-dormant temper for he snarled the exclamation, momentarily taking Faramir aback. The King of Rohan straightened, looking livid and strangely relieved in it. “What else do you want? I’m helping, like you asked me, I’m not insulting you, I’m not calling you a thief, I’m not doing any of those things you didn’t want me to…” He spat each word, fury coloring his voice and darkening his fair complexion. “I don’t like you, I’m not going to right away and I won’t pretend to like a worm… I am honest, you are a lying, pretending...” Éomer silenced himself, turning away.

Faramir offered pleasantly, feeling his bitterness smoldering just under his skin. “A witch? Was that the word you were looking for?”

His answer was a near roar. Rohirric accent heavily distorted by resentment, Éomer whirled back to face him, hair flying around his face. “Yes and don’t pretend that doesn’t make you angry!”

“It does.” He felt his muscles brace in reply to Éomer’s distressed mindset and strained body language; it was only with great will that he calmed himself. Yet…oddly, as he’d admitted that, the King of Rohan had seemed to ease, his features and shoulders appearing to be held not quite as tensely. Purposefully composed Faramir added, “Only I have the good manners not to show it.”

“Good manners…” Éomer looked even more bewildered and angry than before. “You…you speak nonsense! What else would you have me do? Pledge my undying devotion to your house? Lick your boots and follow you around like your dog?” He stared at him, open mouthed with disbelief and finally near-wailed, “Why won’t you just let me alone?!”

Faramir almost laughed; the desperation before him was that pitiful. Stern, he replied, “I already asked you what I wanted you to do. I assure you, it’s not half as hard as you are making it and if you would just do it, I think we’d come to friendship much faster and without this rubbish.”

“Relax.” You great thrice damned idiot, do I have to knock your head off to get through to you? He began walking again before it occurred to him to try. “Now come.”

Éomer’s expression was anxious; his voice was thinner as he challenged, “Not until you stop pretending. I don’t like it…it’s not normal.”

“Courtesy isn’t normal to you? Consideration of another’s mood and the desire for calm, peaceful conversation where both parties can come to an agreement isn’t normal?” Faramir laughed suddenly, answering his own questions aloud, “Look whom I’m talking to, of course they aren’t. You’re an ill-mannered, uncivilized brute who I’m shocked was even allowed in a Hall, much less crowned King of one.” He chuckled again, feeling his own mix of anger and desperation clash with Éomer’s agitation. Shaking his head, he sighed, “Fine, no more courtesy, if that’s how you want it.”

The King of Rohan looked back at him outwardly staunch, yet with caution and confusion showing in his face as well, betraying the lack of confidence within. “It is.”

Faramir walked quickly forward, tossing over his shoulder. “Good, now come, I’ve got work to do and you’re helping me.” After a moment, he heard Éomer’s footsteps. They were slow, but they were at least moving in his direction instead of back towards camp. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for an instant, blocking out the sunny morning, the green and amber valley and the bright blue sky. I will never leave this place and I will never get through to this man. I should have just left.

No. Stop. He just talked to me and did so in words of more than one syllable…Faramir mentally repeated their conversation and smiled a little while feeling the slightest bit of optimism stir. The game he’d begun with Éowyn came back to him. One step forwards…none back. Yet.

When they’d returned the meal had been ready and they’d eaten. It had been quite good, the meat tender. Now, Éomer concentrated, brow furrowed, mixing the paints as Faramir had so patiently—more patient than he would have been, certainly—shown him. After getting water at the stream, they’d wandered until the Steward had found a red maple tree and stripped some of the inner bark, using his knife to slice it delicately. He’d also picked wild onions, discarding all but the root; cut a handful of lush grass and, lastly, gathered black, ripe berries and blue-green needles from a juniper tree. Normally Éomer wouldn’t have been inclined to think that these things, except the grass, could make colors, but after mashing them, then soaking them while the camp ate breakfast and saddled the draft horses for another day’s work and then draining the water, Faramir’s various plants yielded four. The colors were soft, not bright, but there—red, brown, yellow and green. Also before returning, the Steward had gathered twigs, which stripped of their bark and the ends frayed, made tiny paintbrushes. Éomer himself had done the last thing needed before the paints were ready—by the fire, he burned the juniper needles, careful to keep the ashes, adding them to the little bowls of dye and stirring the plant, ash and water mixture before straining the liquid through the linen. He found the simple tasks very satisfying after too long a time sitting idle as King; they were also soothing, something to focus upon and take his mind away.

Nearby, Faramir was doing something else with the arrow shafts, straightening them and smoothing the wood. The students worked diligently, paying close attention. Faramir kept glancing over, monitoring his progress, Éomer guessed. Leaving them, the Steward stood and stretched his long body before coming to sit on a stump nearby. Éomer stirred the dyes a little more though they were truly ready, pasting a focused expression on his face. He didn’t really want to talk and tried to show it by ignoring the man seated beside him.

“Good. All we have to do now is paint them, oil the wood, let it dry and then fix the points and fletching.” He sounded pleased.

Éomer sighed deeply and asked what he’d wanted to ask ever since the day before when he’d sat and listened incredulously to Faramir talking about stone points. “You do know they won’t ever have to do this again, don’t you?” He glanced upwards and braved, “I assure you, we are well supplied. This isn’t necessary.”

Faramir slumped and gave him an exasperated look. “It’s good for them to learn new things, they enjoy it. They’re very curious and that’s good, too.”

“Enjoy it?” He glanced over at the lads. They looked earnest, dogged and seriously focused over the slim dart shafts…not expressions he associated with enjoyment.

Faramir said firmly, “Yes.” He rose, “Now give help me carry these over there. I want you helping and,” Raising both eyebrows, he growled, “Doing it with a smile.”

Éomer frowned at him, craning his neck up and dared to say, “No courtesy doesn’t mean ordering me about.” His memory stirred…Théodred…and he frowned deeper, nonplussed. But there was no way he could fight back; he was defenseless and it chafed.

“Of course it does.” The Steward grinned, “I’m being rude and I’m simply staggered that you didn’t recognize it.” He stood and the tip of his boot lobbed itself painfully into Éomer’s shin; he compressed his lips, refusing to give any sign or sound that it had hurt. “Now move,” The Steward lowered his voice patronizingly, “My Lord or I will move you.”

Éomer got up, grumbling under his breath. I cannot believe my sister puts up with this fool…

Faramir arched an eyebrow challengingly; then helpfully took two of the bowls of dye, “What was that?”

He sighed, unsure about this brightly genial attitude the Steward was bearing but it was far better than having him threatening again. “Nothing, I said nothing.”

Did I say I’d prefer him to Aragorn? Idiocy; I was drunk. Aragorn is far more tolerable and easy to manipulate; in fact, I wish he were here to amuse me. Éomer chuckled very softly as he walked, carefully holding the last two bowls of paint and resisting the urge to hurl them at Faramir’s back even though it might even be worth wasting all his time and efforts and risking the Steward’s resulting fury.

Or just to have someone to talk to… Of course, Aragorn’s also named Estel, which even he knows is a woman’s name and utterly horrible. He lifted his eyes to Faramir’s back and dark mane again, the latter tangled and studded with bits of bark. Faramir held all the power, even if he did not use it; surely, there could be some way to finding a level ground between them. He had no other ideas than... Perhaps I should try to get this fool into his cups tonight. If I’m stuck with him, I might as well make it interesting. He smiled a little to himself. At worst, it could result in a brawl and he could relieve some of his tension in creating new landscapes on the Steward’s face.

But I swore I wouldn’t… He had, unfortunately. Éomer sighed again, this time feeling it in the very soles of his feet.

Finally allowed to look in a mirror, Éowyn touched her hair, eyes wide. “It’s…” In the noon sun, her long hair gleamed brightly. But it wasn’t its usual pale flaxen, oh no. It’s…that doesn’t even look like my hair. She said it out loud. “That doesn’t look like…me.”

“But it’s…” She stroked the strands, most a nice, warm shade of cinnamon with lighter coppery highlights widely interspersed. It was not quite brown, yet not the vivid red often seen in the locks of her native folk. It was between, a rich color all of its own. “I thought it would be darker, the…goop was darker.” Éowyn rubbed a lock between her fingers, marveling at the shine and the hearty, radiant mahogany color.

A laugh in elven tones brought her back. “Goop? Is that a mortal word, truly?” Arwen stood behind her and fluffed her hair, smiling and talking fast. “It’s gorgeous, is what it is. Come on, let’s go hunting and then you’re my doll for the day and first off we’re putting you in a pretty gown. I never had a little sister, only idiot brothers. And, whenever you wish, you can untie your tongue and ask me whatever it was you wanted.” Éowyn was no match for elven strength. She didn’t bother to fight as she was dragged down the hall, only taking amusement from the way the servants caught sight of her and gasped. One older woman nearly dropped her basket and the Queen laughed delightedly.

Catching sight of her own hair again, falling in a ginger-colored sheaf over her shoulder, she remembered a task she’d planned. “While we’re out we can ride east and I’ll bring up Líeg.” Her list of things to do was steadily decreasing and Éowyn fought off an attack of anxiety every time she thought of it. Faramir…she wished he were here; the urge to burrow into his arms was made all the more terrible because she couldn’t satisfy it.

“Ah.” Arwen nodded and walked faster. Éowyn doubted the woman had really heard her.

Éomer watched the game, if one could call it that; Faramir had set his students to playing. One boy sat cross-legged and blindfolded while the others ringed him. The four took turns in creeping up on the blind boy; some were good, others were audible even to him as he resaddled his stallion. The blindfolded lad listened closely, pointing at any noise he heard and the game was very quiet at first, but soon he was ripping off the cloth and shouting in laughter while the caught boy stomped back in mock anger. It became a louder game, with others hissing and making noises to cover their friend’s approach. Often the blindfolded lad or others burst into laughter, meaning none won the round and they had to start again.

“It’s supposed to be a silent game with no noises, to sensitize your ears.” Faramir sounded amused. “But, in my experience in Rohan, quiet is not something your folk excel at.”

He nodded just so it would be apparent he’d heard and understood. Éomer was working on different ways to approach Faramir—he wanted to make sure the Steward wasn’t pretending anymore and the only way he knew how was to act annoying enough to provoke a small outburst. Currently, he was trying silence. It did not appear to be working at all, as the Steward chatted, looking merrily undisturbed. Perhaps he’d read his mind. Éomer shuddered, still horrified by the very notion. How can my sister like it?

“Too bad.” Faramir looked thoughtful. He was saddling his own horse, the sour-faced grey.

Éomer nodded, agreeing that, yes, it was too bad that he’d not been forced to play silly Southern games as a youth, instead learning how to swing a sword as a proper warrior should. Glancing down where he wouldn’t be seen, he rolled his eyes and tightened the girth.

The light touch of Faramir’s hand on his arm made him jump with surprise. The Steward gave him a glance, then gestured, “Stop that and come over here with me.”

“W-what for?” He was still startled; the man had crossed several feet in almost no time at all and with no sound whatsoever.

“Yes.” Faramir grasped his arm firmly; Éomer squirmed inwardly, disliking the casual contact as the Steward dragged him over. “Wurth?”

“Get up and give that cloth to Lord Éomer. He’s volunteered to help me demonstrate something that will make this game…more challenging and more like to how I played it as a lad.”

I did? Bemused, he allowed himself to be pulled further. The boy, a tall lad, handed him the blindfold and scuttled out of the way. Perhaps he did intimidate them, then. Éomer shrugged privately and frowned. So what if he did? He was their Lord, not their playmate, what was Faramir doing?

Faramir’s voice lowered; amazingly there was a glint of mischief in his grey eyes. “Do it or I’ll do it for you, Éomer.” He cocked his head, a smile resting on his lips as he whispered merrily, “You said you didn’t play games…now’s your chance!”

“I never wanted to… Fine! Fine!” Faramir had stepped forward, lifting his arms, appearing for all the earth to be about to make good on his threat to bind Éomer’s eyes like he were a helpless child. Annoyed, he snatched the cloth from him.

Folding it, he tied it in a knot and stood blind; he sounded gruff and surly even to himself. “Now what?”

“Sit.” Éomer folded his legs and sat, careful in his blindness. Faramir sounded annoyingly smug and much farther away as he began, “Now, fan out…good. This is the woodsman’s walk and the best way to walk stealthily. Watch closely. First, keep your knees slightly bent, and loose, and your toes pointing straight forward.

Behind his blindfold, Éomer rolled his eyes to the sky. This was ridiculous. I hate him…hate, hate, hate…

Faramir sounded a good deal nearer and he jumped slightly, coming to attention; his fingers plucked nervously at the grass. “If we were in the wood, you’d step lightly to avoid rustling leaves, snapping sticks, and bumping into trees or stumps. In this grass, you put your heel down first if the grass is short, your toe down first if it is long. This is short, so watch me.”

Faramir sounded nearer still. “A stalking cat moves one foot at a time, setting each down carefully; it freezes at the first hint of a movement of its prey. You must practice putting down each foot in such a way that you can stand like a statue on the slightest alarm. Be careful where you plant your feet, so that leaves do not rustle or twigs crack with your weight on them.”

This was eerie. Éomer couldn’t hear anything, no steps nor breathing, only Faramir’s voice to tell him where he was. He sounded many feet away still and slightly to the left.

There was a silence in which he imagined the lads nodding and then the blindfold was whipped off his head, making Éomer yelp in surprise and fright. He jerked backwards, nearly falling onto his back, only catching himself with his palms. Faramir smiled down, looking altogether too full of himself and folded the cloth in his hands. “When you do it correctly and practice, it works—just like that.”

The lads looked impressed; Éomer’s heart was pounding. To his surprise, Faramir extended a hand to help him up.

He took it, albeit gingerly, and the Steward beamed at him like a proud parent, dipping his brow in a respectful nod. “Thank you for your aid, Lord Éomer.”

Faramir was a mad man; he stared at him. “You’re welcome.” As dignified as possible, he escaped back to saddling his horse and got a minute’s respite.

“So, is there any special reason I’m riding out to that tiny village with you?” It was pleasantly curious, not in the least bothered; the longer he’d spent with the lads, the more Faramir’s disposition had improved. The Steward had changed before his eyes, laughing and paying Eomer no attention whatsoever, focused upon his students as they attempted to neatly paint their darts. He’d found it a welcome reprieve and discovered his own tenseness to have abated some, too. Of course, with the little blindfold trick, he was rather disquieted.

Damn. He had to answer and forget his silent game for a moment; there was not a grunt or physical gesture articulate enough for that question. Lifting his gaze from the saddle but not quite eye to eye, he said, “I thought we could sit and have a drink while we spoke…”

Éomer nodded and began to plan. He’d never seen the Steward do more than nurse his drink, so how could he get him drunk? Maybe he can’t hold his liquor…if so, Éomer found himself reluctantly applauding this example of Faramir’s careful restraint. It did little to look like an ass and to spread the reputation of being less able to hold one’s drink than a woman. He remembered Faramir speaking of getting drunk with Halorl in the City but he’d no way of knowing how much it took to get the Steward into that state. I want him sloppy, embarrassing himself, maybe saying things he shouldn’t…he swallowed bitterly, feeling anger and shame. Faramir, as it was, could control him with little more than a word; it was an intolerable situation. Down to my level…but not dead from over-drink. Éomer patted his stud, rubbing the fall-thick chestnut hair. The horse looked at him quietly, brown eyes calm. He slapped its neck gently and mounted. “Good lad.”

“Ready?” Faramir stepped into his stirrup and swung aboard his horse, turning to look at the laughing students. They now played a game that was more or less in-between the Steward’s version and their own. Under Faramir, the grey chewed its bit and pawed. “Listen…” He paused, then spoke slowly, “Adrogen æt eower bogan oððis niht.”

It was halting and the Steward’s accent varied widely, but Eomer was still impressed. Faramir was actively trying and improving. The students nodded, the lad in the center pulling off his blindfold again, this time with a flourish, and answering with a cheeky grin, “Gea, Láréow. We wille.”

Faramir grinned back, “Ge gemynte selle, Wurth.” That done, the Steward turned to him while planting one hand on the grey’s rump to brace himself as he twisted in the saddle, grinning still and looking very natural on his horse, relaxed and perfectly at ease. Only his careful pronunciation and dissimilar appearance made it known he was a stranger to the Mark. “We gað?”

Éomer gave him a tiny smile, but one that for all its smallness, was filled with actual warmth. Unbelievably, he was feeling appreciative of the effort he could see before him—in it, he could perceive, however grudgingly, the same effort that would be given to his sister. It made him think; after all, if our positions were reversed…would he have to learn elvish or some nonsense like that? He laughed under his breath and was thankful Faramir had no womenfolk, attractive or otherwise. He grinned, answering openly and easily for the first time that he could remember in all their intermittent dialogue. “Gea, we gað, Faramir.”

They didn’t go alone. His guards had not backed down even under Éomer’s increasingly irritated protests. He could not fault them, they knew their duty and they had held to it most admiringly even as he’d come closer and closer to outright fury. In the end, his arguments had given out before their staunch calm and now the four men rode behind, silent and watchful.
At least if he passes out they can help me lift him up and tie him to the saddle…he smiled again and urged his chestnut into a gallop. Now would be a good time to see to another concern long before he had to worry about it—could Faramir keep the pace? Aragorn had had reservations and the King knew him better than he. Let us see. Éomer leaned forward, wind in his face and clucked, riding strongly frontward while using his weight and motion to encourage the horse. Obedient, the stallion lengthened his stride and they flew up the path, leaving a tail of dust while the softened light of the sunset turned the land around them rose-colored.

Translations:

Gað eower eoh--You all get your horse. (Master of Rohirric grammar that Faramir, lol, he’s a South man…get it? (Lol I’m a dork))

Gáþ nu—We go now.

We wille læten hêr—should be “We wille lædon hêr.” It means "we will leave them here."

Min lufiend, ge eart se? Dêst ge hÿrst me ofer swâ mycel sîd-weg?—My lover, are you there? Do you hear me over so great a way?

Faramir…my lufiend…? Dô ná ânforlêton me feorh îdle …--Faramir…my lover? Do not abandon me to an idle life…

Éomer was pleased to find Faramir could keep up. Of course, the brief ride to the village was hardly a test and he reminded himself of this as they dismounted. A lad took their mounts, bowing low to him; Éomer smiled back as Faramir watched the boy in open curiosity. The Steward glanced at him, but he didn’t return the look. Walking into the tavern, he did eye the other man furtively; Faramir didn’t appear to be having any problems walking or obvious soreness from the fast ride. Éomer considered that and smiled to himself. Good. It was one mark to Faramir’s favor, anyhow.

His guards were intelligent enough to move away from them, granting him his privacy. Once inside the darkened interior, smelling of wood smoke, ale and cooking meat, the Steward’s long strides slowed and he hovered, looking unsure. Éomer waved him at one of the tables in the corner of the all but empty room. There were a few older men of the village sitting by the hearth but no women in sight. However, he heard noises from the simple kitchens. Feeling himself cheer suddenly, after all, it had been long since he’d last sported with a maid; Éomer said, “Let me find someone” and shooed Faramir again. This time the Steward went, boots clumping softly over the floorboards.

He’d had no luck over the summer, even with briefly putting aside his rule not to pursue a woman within Edoras. It was no wonder, though; it was very difficult to charm a kitchen girl when seated by one’s sister who was snorting in disgust and rolling her eyes, often telling embarrassing tales of one’s youth to boot. He’d garnered much laughter and cheeky responses from the maidens, but none of the warm flesh he coveted.

The villagers greeted him respectfully; Éomer smiled back, offering his own quiet greetings in return as he walked to the bar, leaned against it and bellowed expectantly. “Ay!” To his surprise there was no reply, so Éomer wandered around the high wooden barrier, glancing at the stacked and fragrant barrels. Here it smelled of spilt ales and, more faintly, food. The floor was better swept here, too. There was mostly tame beer, but he thought he saw some stronger stuff, a few dulled bottles glinting secretly in the depths of the cabinets. Perhaps that would aid him in his quest to get Faramir inebriated. He sips his drinks…something stronger would work faster…ah…but he’d taste it for sure… He pondered that as a young and pleasantly rounded woman, flaxen-haired and filling out her plain dress nicely, finally came to his call. She was drying her hands with a rag and if she was shocked to see her King, she hid it well. She was also quite pretty, at least to his frequently rebuffed eye.

The maid did him a courtesy, which amused Éomer, making him smile. Her manner was efficient and properly deferential, not quite meeting his gaze. “I apologize, my Lord. What may I fetch you?” He was blocking her passage, standing just outside the door to the kitchens where she’d come from. The kitchens were warm and much brighter than the common room, smelling better, too, full of the scent of good cooking. Éomer watched her inch forward, pointedly glancing around his sides though she was far too well mannered to speak outright and tell him to move out of her way.

He didn’t budge, amused further and liking the way she flashed an annoyed and bordering onto insolent glance up at him. “If it would please my Lord to seat himself, I’d be halfway to serving him his ale.” She set the rag aside and lifted a hand about the level of his chest, presumably to shoo him away but he caught it, rubbing his thumb along the slim ridge of her knuckles. Her hand was small, light in his and warm from dishwater he guessed; her eyes widened with surprise.

Teasing her, he said, speaking low, “Maybe it’s not ale your Lord’s wanting.” Éomer wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, barely suppressing his guffaw into a wide, playful grin.

The maid’s eyes flashed again; she was no starry-eyed girl and not easily impressed by his foolishness, rank or no. Bold, she jerked back her hand and lifted her nose to sniff disgustedly, “Maybe he’s had his fill already, to be dallying with me while I’m waited upon.” The maid jerked her chin, pointing in Faramir’s direction. To Éomer’s amusement, the older men had risen and were slowly converging on the Steward who sat alone at one of the benches pulled near the far corner of the room. Faramir stared at him almost beseechingly.

Not caring one whit, he turned his back. “Don’t worry about him.” Delighted by her spirit, Éomer laughed and lounged against the doorframe, not moving an inch and deliberately taking up the entire doorway. “Answer me a riddle and I’ll move.”

Exasperation briefly scrunched her pretty face inward as she let down her polite facade. He loved that the best, watching a kitchen maid turn as impudent as a Queen, knowing he would let her speak any way she wished. “Whatever for?”

He smiled again, knowing how repulsively arrogant he sounded and knowing still that he was handsome enough that he could just get away with it. “My pleasure.”

She huffed while looking disgusted anew. As well she should. He chuckled inwardly as her eyes narrowed. “If you weren’t my Lord you’d be taking your pleasure out of this inn and elsewhere for your churlish talk.” Éomer just laughed, snatching her hand again. The maid looked down at their clasped fingers and left it limp within his grasp, her cheeks attractively flushed in vexation. “Go on, my Lord! Look…your friend is getting impatient.” Éomer glanced back; Faramir was sitting in the group, occasionally turning his way and appearing rather forlorn and pitiful and out of place. If the Steward was looking for sympathy he had the wrong man.

He’s not my friend… “Do not worry over him. Listen.” Shifting his shoulder against the wall, he used both hands to cradle her one, smiling and leaning closer. “I’m a strange creature, for I satisfy women,” The maid rolled her eyes and he chuckled through his next words, “a service to the neighbors! No one suffers at my hands except for my slayer.” Here Éomer took a breath, feeling an irresistible grin tug at his lips. He was never able to keep a straight face, it tickled him so. Yet she was paying attention, her gaze fixed on his and rather expectantly.

He lowered his voice, growling in as suggestive manner as he could without breaking into hearty laughter, “I grow tall, erect in a bed, I’m hairy underneath.” The maid looked away and her bosom swayed in what he hoped was unspoken amusement. When she looked back, she shook her head in aggravation, but then smiled and lifted an eyebrow to tell him to go on.

Galvanized, Éomer did, hastily recalling the rhyme, “From time to time a good-looking girl, the doughty daughter of some churl dares to hold me.” He grinned roguishly and rubbed her knuckles, sliding his fingers around hers, massaging her warm flesh and paying gentle attention to her joints; surely if the woman had been working all day she had to be weary and bone-sore.

The maid gave him an impatient look, yet he thought he saw interest stirring in her gaze. After all, he was showing her how pleasant his hands could feel and that just on her own hands, a rather trivial place in comparison to all the other areas he could touch. Ah, and if I give this much attention to just your fingers, my dear…how could you resist? Encouraged by her allowance, Éomer all but purred, “Grips my russet skin,” He slid his hands up to her wrist, curling his fingers around, encircling in an unmistakable fashion and sliding slowly downward to her fingertips. He was delighted to see her cheekbones darken with a flush even as she puffed a breath of irritation through puckered, rosy lips, making her flaxen hair flutter.

He grinned, “Robs me of my head and puts me in the pantry. At once that girl with plaited hair who has confined me remembers our meeting. Her eye moistens.” Éomer smiled confidently, leaning closer still, resting his shoulder on the doorframe and letting his fingers toy with her pliant ones. “Well? What am I?”

“My Lord, you’re an onion. I’ve heard it before.” It was brisk, even though the corners of her mouth were twitching and her eyes were beaming up at him in soundless laughter, especially as she perceived his chagrin. She jerked her hand back and made to push him aside, fluttering her slim fingers at his abdomen, brusque demeanor reasserted. “Now, will you kindly move, my Lord?”

She put her hands on her hips; he swore he saw a fleeting smile curl her mouth as she asked. “Another riddle, my Lord, or is it my turn? I’ve heard quite a few and more clever.” The maid gave him an impish look. “You’ll have to answer rightly if you want your ale.”

“No, no more riddles.” Grinning, Éomer was hard pressed not to explode into robust laughter. He liked this woman; it was too bad he had Faramir on his heels or he would spend more time pursuing her; whether or not he won the day, it would be worthwhile just for the pure enjoyment he got out of it. Tapping one of the bottles, he asked, “What is this?”

Good, good… The cider held more alcohol than the plain ale. “I want some of this to go into his drink but not enough to taste easily.” It was also very sweet. Éomer nodded surreptitiously towards Faramir as the Steward smiled and spoke awkwardly with his company. From the sounds and looks of the man’s halting speech they were conversing in Rohirric. “And not into mine at all, understand?” He thought for a moment, “Only the first round.” Too much would ruin everything; he had to be careful.

Her face grew puzzled but her voice remained compliant as she bent and retrieved the bottle; Éomer took advantage of the way her dress gaped as she leaned down, standing on his tiptoes to peek, then quickly shifting back onto his heels and pasting an innocent expression on his face. The maid nodded, clueless, “Aye, my Lord.”

Pleased in more than one fashion, his mood exorbitantly lightened, he let her alone and made his way back to the Steward, sliding onto the bench across from him with a silly grin still in place. As he sat the villagers disbanded, joining his guards, both parties allowing him his privacy with Faramir. Éomer would have rather they’d stayed. He met Faramir’s stoical, grey gaze and felt himself deflate a little.

In his imposed upon state, while Éomer dawdled, Faramir had found a game and being new, it intrigued him. Now he touched the dingy and roughly marked board with one fingertip, “Tell me, how do you play this?” Nearby, there were sixteen light, eggish-shaped wooden pieces, another eight of dark wood and one sitting alone marked with symbols of horses. There were nine squares on each side; the center and corner squares of the board were decorated with the same swirling designs he’d first seen in Edoras, deeply etched into the grain of the wood. It was an old board, carved out of a hunk of oak and stained dark from hearth smoke, spilt ales, and the contact of many, many hands.

Éomer looked at him quizzically, folding his arms on the table and leaning over them; the man was barely paying attention, repeatedly glancing back at the kitchens. “You mean Hnefatafl?”

“Hnef…” Well, there was no way he could pronounce that. Faramir smiled. “Yes.”

“Let’s play then.” Perhaps beating him at it would build Éomer’s confidence; in gloating at least, he could get him to say more than a word or two at a time. Faramir rated it far better than sitting in tense silence, anyway.

The King of Rohan’s attention snapped back to him and his brow furrowed as he squirmed on the bench. “Why? What for?”

Faramir pushed the board between them and said forcefully. “Show me how to play.” Why demanding worked better than a simple request he still didn’t understand. The knowledge that he might have to demand quite a bit more this night and beyond wearied him. I just want peace…how hard is that? How? It appeared very hard indeed.

“Fine, if you want.” He watched Éomer begin to divide the jumbled light and dark pieces with quick, practiced motions. A woman, not the ample one he’d seen with Gaer, thankfully, came to their corner bearing two foaming mugs. She set them down with a mindfulness that he barely noticed, carefully separating the cups; Éomer’s somber mood broke as he looked up and gave her a lighthearted smile. The maid smiled back, her lips twisting briefly as she smoothed the front of her dress, appearing more preoccupied than charmed. “You’ll be wanting something else, My Lord?” Her eyes moved to linger on him and, uncomfortable, Faramir looked across to Éomer, who, remarkably, was grinning.

The young woman flicked him an exasperated, yet somewhat amused glance, “I meant do you wish anything to eat, my Lord?” Éomer’s grin just widened and the maid looked flustered. “I’ll bring you both something from the kitchen.”

The King of Rohan turned back and his pale eyes alighted on their untouched mugs. So far this was the most merry, in a continuous amount of time, that Faramir had seen the man and it puzzled him. He also hoped it would continue. Éomer lifted his cup and smiled. “Drink.”

Fine… Lifting his own heavy, crude clay mug, he watched Éomer take a generous swallow and Faramir smiled to himself. A little wouldn’t hurt to help him relax for this new ordeal between them and if it helped Éomer, then all the better. Now, how would a man of the Mark drink his ale? Ah… He thought he knew.

Across from him the Steward eyed his ale speculatively, then lifted the mug’s rim to his lips and Éomer felt satisfaction—as he’d thought the man would nurse it. Now I just hope he doesn’t taste it and think to question… Slowly setting the pieces of the game into order, he gulped another mouthful from his, wincing past the sourness and then nearly choked as he tried to roar with laughter and swallow at the same time. Faramir had sipped his drink carefully, given him a small, yet surprisingly reckless grin, and then downed his entire mug in a series of long, deep gulps.

The Steward wiped foam from his dark beard, looking pleased with himself as he set the empty mug down. Éomer just struggled not to cackle madly, swallowing past his penned up laughter. And I was worried he would taste it…there’d been no opportunity for Faramir to taste the stronger liquor hidden within his ale. He hid his delighted grin behind the rim of his mug and spoke as casually as he could. Oh, this will be good…oh, so good. “What did you speak about…with them?” Éomer nodded to the villagers. It would take a few minutes for the laced ale to show its effects and he was looking forward to it very much.

Faramir smiled ruefully; luckily for Éomer’s peace of mind, his piercing grey eyes were focused more on the board than him. He wondered if Faramir would perceive his jubilation and sobered; there was no true reason for him to feel so amused. The Steward traced some of the carvings around the game board, flicking away some dirt. “I’m not entirely sure. I think they were questioning me about my lineage.”

“It is…” Éomer tried to find a way to explain, acutely aware that Faramir was watching him now as he sorted the little pieces on the sides of the dirty board, separating light from dark. “Like our horses…” He glanced up, then back down, “We know about them and remember by knowing the traits of the lines. Blood tells temperament and quality.”

“Quality…” He frowned, appearing confounded, and then snorted, toying with his empty cup, “Checking to see if I was good enough?”

Éomer looked up, startled; Faramir’s voice had been tinged with an astringent coldness. He shifted on the hard wood of the bench, uncomfortable and wary of the reappearance of the man’s wrath, directed at him or not. “No.”

The Steward seemed irked, curling his lips while he shook his head and said irritably. “I am not a horse.”

“No.” He sighed in defeat; the man did not understand. It was a compliment, not an insult; in the Mark horses were numberless and only the best bloodlines were remembered and that they might bother to memorize Faramir’s in some insignificant village was a markedly high tribute. Éomer looked across the table, staring at the disheveled, foreign man opposite of him…it is a tribute to both to how they view him…and my sister. He sighed again, to expect Faramir to know that was too much and to explain too difficult at the moment. “This is how you play—do you want to be the King?” Éomer took another drink of his ale. He was beginning to wish for something to eat and to see his pretty maid again. Any distraction would be welcome. Anything to postpone this. Covertly, he eyed Faramir again, noting the man’s bruises and the scrapes won by playing with the men in the company. His sister would be displeased. But she will get to play Healer… Éomer grimaced, revolted.

Faramir smiled, once more the picture of civility; it was a picture Éomer didn’t trust, having seen it switch too quickly. “No, you can.”

“All right…see, I have half the number of warriors you do.” He tapped the empty board, and then indicated his eight lighter wooden pieces and Faramir’s sixteen darker ones. “I move first and I want to get into one of the corners. You want to stop me, to trap me and slay me.”

“The warriors can move in straight lines only, but they can move any number of places if no other man is standing in the way. You cannot pass over another man; you can move back and forth across the board as many times as you wish.”

Across the scarred wood of the tabletop, Faramir nodded. Across the room the other men, Éomer’s guards and the older Rohirrim villagers, were talking and laughing, a stark contrast to their awkward constraint. He went on,

“You can kill and take one of my warriors by making a move which traps it between two of yours, but not crosswise. You can kill more than one at a time and you can move between two men without being killed.” Éomer surveyed the board, “As I’m the King, I can move as I like and you have to get four around me to slay me unless I’m on the edge or in the center, then you only need three warriors.” He glanced up. “Do you understand?”

“Let’s play, then.” Éomer moved one of his warriors just past the center of the board, spreading his smaller guard over the eighty-one squares. He smiled a little, pleased he had something other than Faramir to focus upon. “Your turn.”

The Steward was more hesitant, using his fingers to gently slide one of his warriors out in the open. Before his next move, Éomer plotted; the edges of the board would speed his quest to the corners, but he was more vulnerable. He guessed Faramir would play conservatively, act carefully in this new thing. Éomer put his King out boldly, striding from the center and aiming for the right edge, putting his goal at the corner closest to himself.

Faramir used another warrior, again only moving a short distance. At this rate they would be playing for a long time; Éomer frowned, looking up and around for the maid, then drank the remainder of his ale in two great swallows. He was hungry.

The Steward looked up at him and spoke placidly, still unaffected except for that his eyelids looked lower than normal. “I don’t think subtlety has helped in any of our conversations…so,” Their eyes locked, “What do you want from me, Éomer?”

He nearly choked, wiping ale from his face and rubbing his damp hands on his trousers. Éomer tried to look polite and confused instead of dreading and anxious as he truly was. “Hmm? What?”

“That’s what we’re here for.” Faramir stared at him from across the rough tabletop, then gestured towards the board and spoke more lightly. “It’s your move.”

“Oh. Right, yes.” He paid little attention, scooting one of his warriors halfway out to the corner he wished to possess; it would be his guard from the left flank. Éomer stared at the table, then said quietly. “I don’t know.”

“Time, we know that.” Faramir held up his fist, sticking out his thumb. He was very intent. “What else? What else is there to make this so difficult?”

Éomer looked at him, thinking how utterly bizarre this man was. He fidgeted, desperately uncomfortable. “I don’t know.”

A fleeting smile touched the Steward’s lips. “That answer appears to run in the family.” But before he could ask just what that meant, Faramir continued, “You made certain demands upon me—learn your people’s history, language…how do you feel I’ve met them so far?”

Éomer tried to put off answering, nodding downwards. “It’s your move.” He really didn’t know what to say.

Faramir didn’t bother to look down, nudging one of his pieces with his forefinger. “Well?”

“Can I guess?” There was no time to give assent. “I think I’ve done better than you thought and that’s worrisome because every way I’ve managed to mix with your folk cuts into your time. You know full well I’m not going to put up with any foolishness anymore and that leaves us here.” Faramir sat back, gazing at him calmly, eyes moving back and forth to study each of his, “Honesty.” He smiled, looking at ease, “No subtlety, no courtesy and no more patience for my part.”

He allowed stiltedly, unsure of where this was going; every time they spoke like this Faramir struck him from some unimagined angle, wounding him deeper and deeper. “You…have done well. Very well…did I not say so?” Éomer fiddled with his six remaining warriors, the small pieces of wood clicking and clacking between his fingers. For a moment he felt like Faramir was searching him, checking the veracity of his words and he tensed a little. He didn’t wish to speak about that…gift that belonged to his sister’s lover.

“You did. Thank you.” It was pleased as he put another warrior onto the board, still not going any particular place with them. Éomer wondered if he’d properly explained the game. “And I think we’ve agreed to…honesty.” The Steward smiled, “So I’m going to be honest and not hold back any longer—”

And he fell silent. Éomer twitched his fingers, feeling the hush grow. At length, he tapped his foot and looked up, impatient. “So speak.”

Faramir looked adamant, firm and direct but not menacing. “It’s your turn.”

It was and in more ways than one. Éomer moved his King then licked his lips nervously, closing his eyes and not thinking, just speaking. “I…I want to hate you.” When he opened his eyes Faramir only looked mildly surprised; Éomer supposed he’d heard it enough. “And you know why…” They’d spoken of this already. “But I can’t just hate you anymore…” He glanced up quickly, almost in supplication, “And I don’t…and…”

Éomer ground his teeth, feeling his frustration rising. Clever words were not among his talents. “Why do you have to be so good at…why couldn’t you have just let me? Why do you have to push and push and,” His tone changed to angry sarcasm, ““Be my friend, Éomer” and “Let’s be comrades” and…make me compare you to Théodred?” That was a true sore spot; Éomer’s voice wavered, and then firmed. “Why couldn’t you be incompetent? Why couldn’t you just hit me and curse me and get it over with so I can go back to hating you and not caring anymore…?” He liked his simple life; he didn’t want it to change and Faramir brought nothing but change. Éomer ground his teeth again and clenched his fingers tightly against each other, frustrated by everything. How could he be expected to welcome a man who ripped his perfectly satisfactory existence apart? It is too late and I know it…it was and he did. He took a deep breath. He could fight still or let it go. Éomer stared across the table, meeting the steely eyes that awaited him; they glinted, terribly aware, like a sword held in ready by an experienced hand, alert and willing to check his clumsy assault. I am tired of warring with my Southern brother.

Faramir gazed at him in silence, and then he looked away and downward, dark hair falling to hide his expression, whatever it might be. Éomer swallowed, staring at the table and feeling ashamed of his own words, yet good. It was the last time he would say them and he’d had to get them out for fear they might fester and return, an illness of the heart and a danger to his spirit. He took a breath, ready to speak the rest, ready to begin anew, but suddenly, Faramir looked back and he lifted his head just as the Steward half-stood. Éomer frowned, uncomprehending as Faramir leaned over the table and then, incredibly, struck him. The shock and pure force of it knocked Éomer off of his seat and he fell, barely catching himself from cracking his head, then lay with his legs tangled over the bench, half sprawled on the floor. After a second, he put one astonished hand to his aching face; above him, Faramir was out of sight and mute. Around them the men became quiet as well, only the fire in the hearth crackling; one of his guards rose questioningly, gloved hand moving to rest upon his sword hilt, but Éomer waved him away. The guard stood anyhow; another did, too. Their faces were grim. He shifted, untangling his boots, preparing to rise and lifted his hand, checking for blood. There was a small smear on his thumb from where he’d wiped his lip.

That hurt…he thought in surprise and then amusement, well, he certainly wasn’t reading my mind… The guards had all stood and they moved forward as one, features set into hard lines; alarmed, Éomer ordered sharply, “Ná, ná dón com to min geoc. Ic eom ábannen ge.” He moved his aching jaw and sighed, looking up at the tabletop, then Faramir’s legs below, “Min…” He laughed inwardly, finding himself stupidly impressed; the man he met in the City would not have done such a thing. Éomer smiled just a little, “Faramir…min gesibling is to árianne.” My kinsman…it was about time he acknowledged that. And what delightful timing…he chuckled, and then winced, gingerly touching his lip again.

The guards frowned in disapproval but reseated themselves reluctantly and watchfully. No longer laughing, they brooded over their ales, faces dark. They had had a point; striking him, as Lord of the Mark, was an imprisonable offense or worse depending upon his mood.

It had been a fine, strong blow; his lip was bleeding and his cheekbone burned like an ember was nesting there. Éomer kicked free of the bench and scooted himself back, gathering room to rise in a semi-dignified fashion. As he did so, the Steward slid to the end of the bench and leaned down, resting his elbow on the table. To Éomer’s upturned eyes, he almost looked like he was holding back laughter. Faramir spoke very quietly, grey irises twinkling like stars, “Is that better now, or do you want to be cursed, too?”

It was exactly what he imagined Théodred would have done and said if presented with the same circumstances; he groaned, “No…and yes.”

“Well, I think it helped me a great deal. I said I wasn’t going to be holding back.” To his surprise, Faramir offered him his hand.

Éomer took it and laughed some as he reseated himself. “I didn’t think you meant it like that.” Faramir laughed, too, and he looked across the table, surprised anew, for it was the first time they’d laughed together and it sounded all right, fully peaceable…and didn’t bother him. Like nothing had happened, the Steward moved one of his warriors; Éomer moved one of his, setting up his northward guard. He took a deep breath to steady himself and blew it out. “I don’t hate you, Faramir…and I haven’t for a long time.”

Faramir laughed and shook his head, “That’s good…that’s good.” Éomer noted the laughter was slightly louder than normal and the Steward was slumped, not sitting with his back as straight as before. Amused, he wondered if it was the laced ale beginning to show; he’d half forgotten it.

His amusement faded as he said, speaking slowly, “It is just…hard. My sister is all I have…all that I hold close.” Éomer struggled with choosing the right words; he didn’t wish to ruin this.

The words startled him. In their entire interaction, Éomer had never considered that. Faramir had no brother, nor father any longer, only more distant relatives…and Éowyn. He is like me…he is me, only different. The idea that he sat before a sort of twisted mirror silenced him completely and suddenly aware that some time had passed, he blurted, “I thank you for your patience with my foolishness.”

“It is all right.” Nodding slightly, Faramir gazed at him and there was clear compassion in his eyes, something Éomer found at once difficult to endure and deeply welcome. “I can forgive and understand…if this is the end.” There was the warning, though gentle, a hint of unbreakable steel, the weapon in hand, held in readiness behind all of the Steward’s princely temperament.

It almost relieved him to hear the hardness. That was real and that was something Éomer could comprehend, no more shadows of civility around the boundary of what Faramir would and would not tolerate. “It is.”

“Good. I’m very,” Faramir smiled, “Very glad.” He leaned on the table, fingers tapping it impatiently; “Tell me, then…” And Faramir’s eyes met his, “How much longer would you like…I can endure if you can meet me halfway.”

“You never asked.” Faramir laughed, leaning back and toying with his mug. “You never asked for time…you just made me give it.”

Éomer laughed a little, too, but it was more out of realization and dismay than any amusement. “You would have waited.” It was a statement, not a question and he was horrified by the simple way Faramir nodded.

The Steward chuckled, “No. Instead, you gave me an insane ultimatum…a rather desperate one.” Countenance full of sympathy, Faramir smiled. “And, since we’ve already established,” He gave Éomer a small inclination of his head, a tiny bow, “Thanks to this duty I’m fulfilling in your land, that I am very open to accepting ludicrous propositions from you…what is the earliest you would agree to part?”

Instantly all his ease was gone and Éomer felt his chest tighten. “I don’t know.”

“Think on it.” Not so subtle, he thought, but perhaps Faramir was reading his tension and trying to diffuse it. The Steward was suddenly much less forward, at any rate, his posture and speech relaxed. “It is no great matter and nothing we need to discuss right away.”

Éomer nodded, looking down. He felt horribly depressed. I could have asked he says…without all of Aragorn’s intervention and Faramir’s patience, he might have made an enemy of a man quite willing to be friends. I am a boor.

Faramir was watching him. “We should probably ask Éowyn for her view, anyhow.” His face, too, was less glad as he played with a few of the wooden pieces. “She is not too eager to come and live in my City.”

“No?” This cheered Éomer, though he noticed Faramir now appeared depressed. He tried to comfort the man, “I’m sure she’ll be fine. You must tell her about Ithilien and give her plenty of free rein to go and do things. She will be happy then.” Of course, he added mentally, you must watch and make sure she doesn’t forget she is a woman again…make sure she doesn’t ride with your warriors and return to hardness. It would be a fine line, to let her be herself in that strange City and not clash with its inhabitants, a task needing much attention. He wondered if Faramir could do it and, looking at the man, clad in simple peasants clothes, sitting in a tavern in the White Mountains, miles from home and his betrothed, Éomer thought so. He relaxed, feeling it go farther than ever. Things would be all right…had his sister not told him so? I should listen to her more…

Then, attempting to give their conversation the lightness a conversation between friends should have, Éomer smiled and changed the subject. “You fought good at Edoras…you hit hard.” He touched his sore cheek and grinned to show he had no hard feelings. “You are stronger than you look. I’m going to have a great mark.”

Just like a dog… If the Steward had had long ears they would have pricked right up. Éomer smothered a burst of laughter as Faramir nodded to their right and moved the game board a little. Finally, their food and more ale had arrived. The light-haired maid gave him a solemn look, setting down two mugs and two trenchers of a thick stew. It looked delicious and they ate without speech for several minutes, both game and conversation forgotten.

He’d surprised himself, but what Faramir found even more surprising was his lack of questioning in his actions. Striking Éomer was not an acceptable thing; obviously, by the guards’ reactions and his own knowledge of proper decorum; yet, he didn’t think or fret about it. Faramir glanced sideways at where the four armed men still watched him. He could feel their wariness, their unabated anger. Let them come. The thought was reckless and a part of him welcomed it dearly. Let them come if they wish and try to take me away. He slurped up the stew from his trencher, amused at his noisiness. Such table manners…Faramir chuckled softly. He felt astonishingly good and strangely unstoppable.

Éomer looked at him with caution, but markedly less than the looks he’d been getting most of the day. Apparently he’d finally done something right. This place, Rohan, is backwards. The thought struck him so deeply that he missed the man’s words. “What did you say?”

“I said, can I finish now?” He touched his face; “I was going to speak.”
“You were going to say something before I hit you?” For some reason this struck him as amusing. Faramir laughed to himself.

Across the table Éomer looked amused too, a smile surfacing on his bruised mouth. “Yes, I was.”

Generously, he waved a hand full of bread. “Go on, tell me.” Faramir took a big bite, finding it delicious.

“I was going to say…” Éomer smiled again and it was very different, almost timid. His throat bobbed as he swallowed and leaned on the table, “Wilcume… héafodling min, mann æt min sweostor, tó se Mark…” The smile disappeared and he inclined his head, flaxen mane dipping. “Hit is lang gebindan inne min egeslic hreðerloca. Canst ge forgiefan me min dol inca ond ábidon? Ic eom bysmorful deoplic ond wille ná má donne dol.” Lifting his golden brow, Éomer’s pale eyes met his squarely, hope radiating from his face.

For a moment Faramir didn’t comprehend all the words, scrambling inwardly with the translation, but then he did enough to understand and it moved him both to warmth and a kind of vexed, yet still benevolent amusement. He’d finally gotten an amiable reception by his future brother in law and all he’d had to do was hit Éomer. I suppose I should have done that a long time ago…like when he came up to me and shouted at me in what used to be my own gardens in what used to be my City. What would things be like between us then?

Faramir smiled back, speaking easily; luckily for him the words to reply were simple ones. “Ic þancie þe. Ond…gea, Ic cann.”

Then Faramir frowned and, in response, he watched Éomer’s face grow wary. More amused than truly angered, he grinned and gnawed off a hunk of the bread, chewing, “You realize, most other men would have hit you again? And much harder?”

The King of the Mark gazed at him steadily, only his fingers betraying him, moving to play with his warriors. Another shared trait Faramir had noticed—both brother and sister were fidgety. Yet he spoke gently enough, “It is good my sister chose such a generous, and warmhearted man, then, to forgive my offenses.”

He was shocked; the words did not appear to belong to the voice. “Was that diplomacy or flattery?” Faramir burst into delighted laughter. “Who taught you that?” He gestured to the others in the inn, “One of them just now?” Faramir guffawed, just utterly delighted. “Because I’m sure I haven’t heard it before.” Éomer just smiled at him, seeming fairly relaxed and nodded at the forgotten board.

“Yes.” Faramir plucked up another of his warriors and continued his attack, carefully placing them in route to every place Éomer could move. He knew which corner the man planned to take and Faramir meant to cut it off soon, but not before he had all other corners and the center cut off, too. No escape, no way to put the King in the corners or center…I win. He smiled and put his darker piece in a seemingly aimless position, but one that, once he moved to the other side, would neatly block Éomer’s King—not where it was, but where it would be in four moves, he guessed. Warfare in Ithilien, mostly careful skirmishes, had taught him to look ahead and scout his enemies’ possible moves. It was strange, though, in this game he had nothing to protect, outnumbered Éomer’s warriors and could afford losses. In this game, I am the orcs, I am the attacker. He tossed one of the little wooden pieces up and caught it, amused. As far as Faramir was concerned, he had the upper hand and he intended upon winning. “Is this what your folk do for entertainment?”

“We tell riddles, too.” Éomer’s eyes gleamed and again there was a sense of cautious hope in him. They were still not entirely at ease, but Faramir was confident he’d broken through the man’s armor and that naturalness would come with time. He felt still good as the Lord of the Mark asked him, “Do you do so in the City?”

“Not much.” Faramir did not remember having to answer any riddles but he’d been rather busy for a long while. He’d been somewhat distanced from his people of late, spending his time in the Council or in his study…or studying Rohirric. He frowned. But that is over, will be over soon. Glancing around himself, Faramir felt the slightest stirring of regret. There were things he would miss. Gaer, my students and the lack of responsibility… Reminded of Gaer’s desire to see the White Tree, he decided to bring it up at some point during the night.

“Try one, then.” The King of the Mark grinned, moving his warriors and eyed him speculatively. “I’ll give you an easy one.” Éomer took a breath, “I saw four creatures, wondrous beings, travelling together. Their tracks were dark, their path deep and black. They coursed swiftly: faster than birds they flew through the air, dove under a wave. He strove without rest, the battling Prince, pointing the way across plated gold to the four creatures.”

“The four creatures are a thumb, first two fingers and pen.” Éomer still looked surprised. “I thought you were a scholarly man.”

Faramir shook his head, “I never had to answer riddles about it,” He nodded at the man, “Tell me another.”

“All right. This is easy, too, easier perhaps.” He dabbed his bread into his stew, “I travel by foot, trample the ground, the green fields for as long as I live. Lifeless, I fetter dark warring men, sometimes their betters too. At times I give a warrior liquor from within me, at times a stately bride steps on me; sometimes a girl, raven-haired, brought far from home, cradles and presses me. Some stupid, sozzled maidservant fills me with water on dark nights, warms me by the gleaming fire, on my breast she places a wanton hand and writhes about, then sweeps me against her dark declivity.”

Faramir raised his brows, bemused. So far in Rohan he’d heard more ribald things than in a year in his own lands. Perhaps I don’t get out enough.

Éomer finished, “What am I called who, alive, lay waste the land and, dead, serve humankind?” He ate his sopped bread with relish, waiting.

Once more, he had no idea. Not wishing to end the good will between them, since Éomer apparently found the telling of riddles entertaining, Faramir cheated and swiftly, lightly as possible, touched the mind of the man before him. It was easier than he expected; the answer was riding upon Éomer’s thoughts like the foam on the ale they drank. Leather. He spoke, feigning uncertainty. “Leather?”

“Good!” Éomer grinned, appearing to be untroubled and Faramir was relieved and confused to find it was so—there was little unease in the man. His earlier thought reoccurred to him. This place is backwards… Logically then, all his normal actions should be reversed. What would I do here? Faramir looked at his all but untouched second mug of ale. Normally he would let it be but…all his former prudence had just alienated Éomer and even at times seemed to disturb Éowyn.

Éowyn…he was briefly distracted, feeling himself ache with longing. In a way this was worse than the summer, she was so close yet so far. Éowyn…he wished to call to her, but it would take much more effort to touch her mind over the distance. Quiet, it is only a few more days. From somewhere deep inside he thought clearly, the words almost a correction—three days, though he had no way of knowing if that were true. He hoped it was.

Faramir forced his thoughts back into their former track. Recklessness was encouraged in the Mark, or so it seemed. Slowly, he realized that for the first time he was given free license with no consequences in sight. Faramir picked up his mug and began to smile, gently jiggling its intoxicating and promising weight. There was no Court to face, no Council, no nothing. I am a soldier of the Mark, a man free of such annoyances. And annoyances they were considered here; he leaned on the table, peering into his mug, then up at Éomer.

“Tell me another riddle…” Faramir grinned, “I’d better learn those, too.” Lifting his cup, he drained it and belched. Wiping his mouth, he grinned again, “After all, a warrior of your folk would be familiar with them, correct?”

Faramir gestured, “Then go.” Turning on his bench, he raised his empty mug at the flaxen-haired maid and then bellowed in his best impression of Tondhere, his giant blonde friend and opponent in the Rohirrim’s game. “MÁ! NU!” She did not appear impressed, which made Faramir laugh. He laughed further when he caught sight of Éomer’s face. He looked a little stunned, then he smiled.

“You South men are rude, it is a wonder you ever find a woman who stands you, much less serves you.”

Éomer laughed, shook his head and drained his own mug. “Nawhit, nawhit Faramir.”

To her complete shock, Éowyn didn’t mind being Arwen’s doll. It was enjoyable in its own way, to see how different dresses made her look, to feel soft fabrics and admire intricate lace, tiny beads and rare colors. These were her mother’s dresses and the ones Arwen had gifted her, yet she’d not examined them to find which complimented her form best. Arwen insisted, piling the gowns in order of most flattering, making Éowyn laugh even though she knew, too, they were packing. The gowns, piled neatly and folded were ready to be repacked into their wooden chests, ready for the journey to Minas Tirith. There, no doubt, she must dress her best so as not to embarrass her high-ranking husband and all this analysis would be more duty than enjoyment.

However, she’d never done such things, so it was all new and interesting as Arwen pointed out flaws of a gown or enhancements that made her appear to have a larger bust or a neater figure. Except the sleeves, the gowns with lengthy sleeves drove her mad; she shook them, irritated at the long, trailing fabric. The folk of the City knew she was rich, why did she have to declare it with sleeves longer than she was tall? Ridiculous. “Tie them.”

“Hold still.” The Queen was doing something in the other room; they were in Aragorn’s quarters, all of Arwen’s belongings once more within them and the trunks of gowns carted there by the Queen’s serving man. Éowyn turned, trying not to step on her damned sleeves. She kicked one with a stockinged foot, annoyed. The dress was pretty, the cream one that Arwen had given her; unfortunately, the sleeves had been tied up when she’d seen and approved it.

Éowyn tossed her hair over her shoulder, marveling at the color. It was so pleasing, such a warm chestnut that it surprised her still. “Arwen? Tie them or I’m cutting them off…somehow.” Her poor jade bangle kept getting caught and she couldn’t see it at all under all the cream-colored fabric. What is the point? Éowyn pushed her sleeve back, admiring the soft, spring-green stone band. It was beautiful, like Faramir insisted she was…and fairly well proved, she thought with a smile. The memory of his gaze, so intense and so full of fervent desire while she’d stood nude made her shiver all over. Her fingers remembered the way he’d felt when he’d taken her hand and placed it in his lap, the hardness and the heat. Éowyn shivered again, her blood warming, and made herself cease.

She missed him terribly; she was making herself sick with all her sighing and bemoaning and craving of his presence. Faramir… Éowyn shook her head, mildly disgusted at herself and then called restlessly. “Arwen?” I am not a lovesick maiden; it is three days until I see him. Only three; she felt an anxious and impatient sigh coming and suppressed it with a laugh and a stamp of her foot. Stop it. But she couldn’t and Éowyn groaned inwardly as the mere thought of just three more days threw her into a fit of girlish elation. Oh, she blew air through her lips, disgusted. Heart bobbing with eagerness, barely able to stand still, Éowyn knew full well that she wanted to dance at the thought of seeing Faramir again. It seemed so long a time.

If you cannot stand this, what will it be like in the City? She sobered instantly, feeling her heart sink and grow wintry with dread. Perhaps it was not too late, none knew of her plan but Aragorn and Gandalf. She could forget. But then…all her anger had faded and Éowyn frowned into the mirror, wondering what purpose she had if not anger. To make them cease fighting over her attentions? To learn independence and cease relying upon Faramir for comfort? To make sure she would not burden him? Biting her lip, she made the overlong sleeves wave, disturbed. I should have a clearer reason; I must make a firm stand when I speak with them.

Éowyn looked at herself in the mirror. She didn’t look the same, her hair and the dress…but it was something more. She was different than she’d been. Touching her hair, curling it over her fingers, she thought, I miss Éomer. Her brother could give her entertainment, could ease her heartache with distraction and console her if she was lonely; though he might dislike it, Éowyn knew he would do so if he thought she were truly upset. There was little else for distraction since she was nearly done with her duties to Edoras. Éomer, annoying as he might be, was good for doing things, for providing company as she went along with her tasks, and teasing her, always infuriating but something that somehow made the days go by more swiftly.

The Queen reappeared, carrying her little dog with her. Rusco squirmed to be put down as she fastened his collar on, buckling the rich leather into the gold; he thrashed, sharp puppy teeth gnawing at the collar. “You whine worse than a child.”

“Here,” She tied the sleeves up, winding a long, wine colored ribbon through specially made holes in the material. Éowyn liked the purplish-red of the ribbon and wished the dress had some color. She was tired of pure white. It lacked something to hold one’s interest. I am no longer the White Lady, or soon I will no longer be. “Better?”

“Yes.” It was, some. But everything else was the same. Éowyn turned and smiled, putting away darker thoughts. She could not change anything at the moment. “What now,” She lifted her tied sleeves, “Now that I’m dressed?”

For a few seconds they stood in silence. Éowyn knew she needed to break it hastily, feeling bubbling questions rise in her chest. She wanted to ask so much, so many things that were withheld from her. Éowyn wanted to ask what it had been like to come to the City, to marry Aragorn, how it had been to loose her maidenhead and assume wifely duties. But those questions were terribly personal and though Arwen had bid her to ask anything, she still wavered. I’ve lived too long under the guise of a man; I cannot even weave a cloak for Faramir on a loom or mend his clothing properly. I am to be a wife with no practical use that he will soon outlive. I wonder if he will choose a more serviceable woman for his second wife…a woman with manners and grace and who knows all a wife’s duties. Despairing, she glanced sideways at Arwen who was now smiling down at her puppy. Rusco fought the collar, indignantly snarling, teeth inflicting dents and scratches in the tough leather as he rolled on the floor. What does she do? How does she endure? Is it love alone? Taking a breath and stuffing her questions back inside, Éowyn asked, “Do you want to teach him to lead?”

“Oh, yes.” The Queen smiled brilliantly and she smiled back, feeling herself cheer. Courage, she would gather her courage and find out what Faramir might expect of her. Arwen moved away to get the leather lead and Éowyn stood very still in the center of the room, remembering when Faramir had rode into Edoras. He’d said she was beautiful, and that he’d missed her, twice. And when she’d been shy about him kissing her within the throng of folk, he’d whispered… Éowyn swallowed, throat tight as she heard his voice.

Éowyn… She remembered his words exactly; they’d surprised her so with their silliness; he’d rarely been silly, but she’d enjoyed it. “Courage, then. Never fear, I will get you out of this predicament, my lady.” He’d been smiling, grey eyes alight, a grey that was somehow warm and the opposite of the stone in his home, which was the same grey yet so cold and aloof. His voice had been soft, breath tickling her ear, her hands trapped in his. She remembered clearly the leather beneath her palm, the calluses and warm firmness of his hands and when he’d bent to her how gently he’d kissed, afraid of her fear.

Her eyes filled with tears that Éowyn wiped impatiently away. She’d survived the summer…but that was different! She interrupted herself. After a second, Éowyn asked cautiously, how?

I love him more now, he is a part of me, and without him I am broken in some strange way, unable to be complete. She walked quickly after Arwen, heart at once melancholy and dancing with anticipation. Three days.

Éomer laughed so hard he worked himself into a coughing fit. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he’d spoken his part and accepted Faramir in the only way he could find to express himself, but he’d lost all but one warrior and his King. Faramir had taken losses, too, but the Steward remained quite jovial, leaning on the table with his dark hair in his eyes. He was more horizontal than before, chin resting on his arm as he laboriously moved his pieces. Their game of riddles hadn’t ceased, with Faramir guessing them correctly all but a small number of times.

Éomer took another deep swallow of ale, vainly trying to keep up with the Steward. The man was drinking his beer like it was as harmless to his wits as water. He had to respect that, if purely out of imagining the aching head the Steward would have the next morning. “Listen…” He snickered again, laughing for no specific reason except that he was rapidly on his way to drunkenness.

Faramir perked up, “Mm?” He was toying with his remaining warriors; as of yet, his only signs of inebriation were his slow, careful movements, slurred voice with deepening Southern accent, and drooping eyelids. Éomer hoped he wouldn’t fall asleep, he finally liked the man.

“Listen.” He took a second to remember, then recited, “I’m loved by my lord, and his shoulder companion, I’m the comrade of a warrior, a friend of the King. The fair-haired Queen, the daughter of an earl, sometimes lays her hand on me, well born though she is. I carry within me what grew in the grove. Sometimes I ride on a splendid steed at the head of the host; harsh is…” He went blank, then recovered, “Harsh is my voice. I often give the singer a reward for his songs. I’m sallow to look at and kind at heart. What am I called?”

Faramir chortled into his arm. “A horn.” He sounded odd, like he was laughing at some jest but if he was it was a private one.

“Right.” Éomer was beginning to become suspicious in a dim way; Faramir had said he’d not had to answer riddles, yet he’d accurately done so to all but a very few. The one he’d just asked was not difficult, but some had been. He frowned, “How did you…?”

Suddenly, three men from camp sat down, all occupying the bench with Faramir, whom looked to his right and blinked in surprise. “Gaer.” He lifted his head, licking his lips and groped for his mug, only finding it was empty. “Má! Nu!” Faramir asked in a slurred and puzzled voice, “Why’re you here?”

“My Lord.” Proper, the soldier greeted Éomer first; he nodded back, polite. That out of the way, the redheaded man grinned, “We got thirsty.” His brows raised and he gingerly moved a few empty mugs out of his way, “I see you’ve already quenched your thirst, friend Faramir.”

Faramir’s forehead creased and he mumbled bad-naturedly, “That’s not my name…”

“My Lord, I’ve taken the privilege to provide Faramir here,” Gaer grinned, patting the Steward on the shoulder, “with a befitting name for a man of the Mark.” Faramir shrugged him off and stared at the game board. He moved carefully, sliding a warrior to reinforce his attack upon Éomer’s King.

Moving his King back out of danger, an increasingly difficult task, Éomer was astounded at this new way Faramir was fitting in with the small company. As he’d thought earlier, if the man gave half this effort to his sister, undoubtedly she would be happy for the entirety of her life. “Oh.” Curious, he asked, “What have you decided upon?” Éomer grinned, “Sweorwærc?”

Gaer laughed loudly as he signaled one of the other women who’d appeared from the kitchens—there were three, the pretty blonde whose services Éomer preferred, an amply bosomed woman and another, taller and plainer flaxen-haired girl. “No, I’m afraid we haven’t come to a suitable one yet.”

One of the other men spoke, respectful but with cheek, “Do you have any other suggestions, my Lord?”

“We could use them,” Gaer elbowed the Steward playfully, “I told you that you were difficult.”

“No!” Faramir sat up abruptly, voice becoming markedly less slurred, “He’ll name me something horrible.” Éomer was actually hurt a little; he’d only been jesting with his offer of a name. He shrugged, feigning not to care, instead watching the ample maid come with the three’s ales. She smiled at Faramir who ducked his head in peculiar shyness; Gaer chuckled, obviously filled with glee.

To Éomer’s amusement, the woman laughed, ample bosom moving to and fro. She was quite attractive as well, though he preferred the fiery spirit of the earlier and younger girl. “Gea, he is.” She brushed her hand across Faramir’s shoulders caressingly and the Steward twitched, looking incredibly uncomfortable as he ducked his head further, almost like he wished he were a turtle to retreat into a shell. “Ealfela, hit is cuð min Ides is fægen.”

It is? He was thrown by even the possible truth of the statement and felt his heart sinking. I am a fool, simply inexcusable. Then, shocking him out of his brief disheartenment, Éomer snorted, trying to hold in his great laughter as the woman leaned against Faramir’s back, purring something into his ear while her hands moved on his chest; the Steward twisted a little, both his expression and his frame taut with discomfort. It seemed to be a question she was asking though Faramir gave no reply

The two flaxen-haired men with Gaer sputtered and snickered desperately, faces turning crimson; Gaer himself was grinning. One was larger in form than Éomer and nearly as tall as the Steward was, the other was normally built with a very crooked nose. All were young men, which surprised Éomer. He would have thought Faramir would make friends of his own age than men more to the age of his sister. The very moment their maid retreated, generous backside swaying beneath her unadorned skirt, they all laughed uproariously.

Faramir’s face was dark with embarrassment, flushed high along his cheekbones. “Be quiet, Gaer. Not a word.”

Éomer cackled at the redheaded young man’s innocent response, “But she likes you! Why won’t you let her sit with us?”

That’s what she asked? He laughed harder, utterly charmed by the woman’s daring.

The larger blonde man broke in with a grinning, “I wouldn’t mind so much.”

Gaer poked Faramir in the shoulder with each question, “See what you do to poor, lonely Tondhere? And just crush the girl’s heart, will you? Can’t you let her down more gently than that? I thought you were a prince!”

He laughed delightedly as the Steward’s tone grew violent, hand slapping away the poking finger. “I said…”

The smaller flaxen-haired men spoke up, marred face still red from laughter, “Look over there.”

Men had poured into the small tavern, both from the camp and village, and were moving benches and tables. Nier looked at Gaer and smiled as crookedly as his nose, “Want to make some money?”

“I’ve a better idea. I bought our friend here some ale and a bite the other day…perhaps he could earn it back and then some. They’d love to bet on him…or against him.” Gaer was grinning at the Steward. “What do you think? Tondhere!” The burlier man had been staring at the women who studiously ignored him.

Now he eyed Faramir and nodded. “I think he could.” He grinned, “He fights hard enough; I’m still sore.” Tondhere frowned, “Bit scrawny, though, for it.”

Faramir glowered. “I am not scrawny.” Éomer chuckled and the Steward’s gaze turned darker. “I am not; you’re all just…oversized.” He sounded like Pippin, which made Éomer laugh and feel both sad and happy at once. He’d not been as close to the hobbits as his sister, but he still rather missed their lightheartedness.

“Aww, you’re just like a damn chicken. All bones and fluff.” Tondhere and then Gaer grabbed Faramir’s arms and upper body, hands pressing and pinching as they remarked,

The bigger man scoffed, “Like a twig…feel this, will you? I can span his arm with one hand.”

Gaer added, “Can’t believe our Lady likes this…it’s like I’ve got my arm around my little sister…” Faramir thrashed, cursing, but the men had him well surrounded. Éomer laughed until his chest hurt, delighted by all the manhandling.

Nier chuckled, “I know what that feels like.” He grabbed Faramir, too. “No, no Gaer, your sister’s much nicer to squeeze.” The man grinned into the Steward’s disgusted face, “No offense, friend.”

The redheaded man stopped short in his mockery, “…what did you say?” Nier and Tondhere burst into wild laughter, slumping over the tabletop; Faramir used the opportunity to shove them away.

Gaer’s pale eyes narrowed in a dangerous fashion. “No, you said…” Éomer watched, amused as he empathized with the younger man, though few would have been half as bold to speak of his sister in his hearing. Gaer reached around Faramir and shoved Nier powerfully, knocking him off the bench.

“Wait…what did I…?” Nier tried to look innocent, though he was laughing; Gaer scowled darkly as he ordered.

Tondhere broke through their words, “Look…he’s small, he’ll be able to squirm around and get out of a hold…” He grabbed the Steward aggressively, “Like this, watch him!”

“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” Faramir threw the man off with an effort, knocking him away from the bench. He glared, angry and a bit cross-eyed as he slurred, “Wouldth you geth off of me?” Éomer noticed and guffawed in delight. Finally got him drunk. This promised to be entertaining.

Gaer stood and said firmly, “I did. Get up Faramir, we’re going to make you a proper man and get ourselves a fortune doing it.”

Becoming very slightly alarmed with all the talk, Éomer spoke, “I don’t know...” Frankly, he couldn’t risk Faramir becoming injured, his sister would never forgive him the lapse in judgment and inebriation would be no excuse.

Immediately they were looking at him. Faramir rebelliously, the other three more or less respectfully. He glowered. “You…you don’th think I can do it.”

The Steward grinned and stood very carefully. He spoke carefully, too, not slurring his words; his native accent was thickened, making the four men pay close attention. “Maybe I do. Men of the Mark…do that, so I should. Too.”

This is why I hated him, he thought irritably and somewhat nonsensically because that wasn’t the reason at all. Suddenly Faramir smiled; it was very satisfied and Éomer frowned, forgetting his argument that Faramir was not a man of the Mark and unused to such things. “What are you smiling about?”

“You’re worried.” Faramir’s smile had widened enormously; the man looked idiotic beyond compare as he sing-songed, “About me.”

He was. Éomer scoffed loudly and said in a very firm tone, “I’m worried about what might happen to my sister’s heart if you get crushed like a bug.”

Faramir was standing with his legs straddling his bench and grinning hugely. As he moved over the bench he swayed, off balance. Bemused expression on his face, Tondhere grabbed his arm and steadied him as Faramir sing-songed again. “You like me now.”

He did and a bit more than he was willing to admit. “No, I do…” He changed his irritated tone and tried to act nonchalant. Éomer was finding that he liked a less-sober Faramir, anyway. “So?”

Nearby, Gaer snickered and then composed himself, a mischievous smile lurking in the corners of his mouth as he urged while elbowing Faramir’s side, “Hug.” The Steward’s grey eyes lit up and Éomer panicked. He did not want a hug; he’d not even hugged Théodred and he was certainly unwilling for more physical contact between himself and his sister’s paramour.

Taking his desperation as permission, they ushered Faramir away and Éomer stared at the abandoned board glumly. “I win.” He sighed and stood; there was no way he couldn’t watch this. He better not get hurt…because when they returned to Edoras, Éomer knew it would be taken out of his hide, not Faramir’s and, if properly provoked, his sister’s temper could eclipse his own with ease. He shuddered.

Faramir walked carefully, the floor was doing the oddest thing, it kept moving away and then closer, making his feet catch and stumble as he misjudged. It looked dirty; he didn’t wish to fall. Luckily, Tondhere and Gaer were there to catch him; in fact, they kept close, making sure he wouldn’t trip. Nier led the way, pushing through the thickening crowd. Men called his name loudly, but Faramir couldn’t pinpoint any faces in the duskiness of the inn. To his immense satisfaction, none used the condescending moniker Lytle Bregu.

“How…how do I do this?” He supposed he was drunk; talking was hard because his thoughts slipped away just before he could voice them. His senses were dimmed and especially his mental ones—Faramir could just barely identify the excitement in the room as excitement and he couldn’t settle on any one man’s mind. This was jarring and he frowned, trying to concentrate but it just made him stumble.

The three men led him to a bench and sat him there; Gaer and Nier disappeared. Kneeling down, Tondhere spoke to him. “It is easy, all you have to do is wiggle out of any holds until he gets weary enough for you to pin him. You don’t go after him, he’ll come after you.” He grinned, “You are fast and agile Faramir, not slow like me, that’s how you always catch me. I’ve watched you, you know how to use yourself best.”

Tondhere laughed good-naturedly, “Look at me, friend.” His voice turned serious, “How drunk are you?”

Trying to see clearer, Faramir narrowed his eyes. The man’s hand was all blurred, so he cheated like he’d cheated on Éomer’s riddles, though it was far more difficult now with all the ale running through his head. Tondhere had a pleasant mind to read; it was curious, open and friendly and sadly ignorant. He folded back the thumb only because he knew a hand had five fingers. Cheered and yet depressed by the contact, he asked more than answered, “Four…?”

“Good.” He got a staggering slap on the back and his young friend grinned wide. “You’re fine. We’ll make money tonight.” The inn grew louder, men’s voices shouting names; eventually Faramir became aware that all the names were really only two now—his and another man’s. To his surprise, Tondhere moved and Éomer sat down beside him.

Faramir tried to concentrate enough to argue; it made him titter a bit at Éomer’s cross expression. The man looked like that so much around him that it was a wonder his face wasn’t permanently stuck that way. “You wanted me to.”

“You wanted me here…learning.” In reply, the Lord of the Mark snorted with his face disgusted. Lifting his mug to his lips, he drank. Faramir felt slightly nauseated. Perhaps he had had enough ale.

Smiling again, he said, “You are worried.” Faramir giggled, a high-pitched sound that made him laugh all the more because of its absurdity. “I knew it.”

“Yes.” Éomer stared at him in open annoyance and spat, “Yes, I care, yes, and not just because of my sister. Are you happy now? I sound like a woman.”

“Yes.” Faramir burst into giggles. “Yes.” He smiled woozily; the room blurred at the edges and he gripped the bench, swaying without support. Can’t fall…it’ll hurt... “I could feel it.”

Wariness flickered in Éomer’s pale eyes before he relaxed and groaned. “Oh…how drunk are you?”

“Lots.” He snickered again, holding his stomach and laughed for what felt like a long while even though every time he looked up Éomer had the same expression of aggravation and amusement on his face. Tondhere made a noise of irritation and disbelief.

“Yes.” Faramir went off into giggles again, cupping his hand over his mouth. Like a child, he thought and laughed harder.

Éomer wasn’t paying him attention; he was listening to the men’s shouting. “Stop. Be quiet.” He frowned, “They’re betting against you.”

He was insulted and that finally stopped his giggles, which was good because they were making him very nauseous. “Are they?”

“Yes…and no.” He glanced at him, then stood. Faramir just watched, still a little dizzy where he sat. Éomer turned around, eyeing him, then peered over the crowd and disappeared into it.

“All right…” Tondhere was serious; Faramir was snickering again. Everything was funny and blurry and dizzy, he thought in a strange, amused way. His well-built friend, flaxen hair falling over his broad shoulders, leaned over, one hand shaking Faramir’s arm to make him focus. “Listen closely.” As he began, Gaer and Nier were returning, muttering between themselves. Faramir strained inwardly and discerned their mood—slight apprehension. Maybe I shouldn’t…he had the feeling it was too late to back out.

Luckily, he was drunk and thus, unstoppable. He grinned at Gaer, ignoring Tondhere’s advice while the young man stared at him in exasperation. “Listen! You can’t lose, we’re betting on you!”

Faramir scowled and the Rider soothed, “Not because we don’t like you…it’s just…”

Gaer patted his arm as Faramir frowned at him. “I’m afraid you’re really too drunk to stand properly…” He chuckled, then composed himself, “Maybe another time we’ll bet on you, when you’re sober. This is about money, not loyalty, and we’re rather poor at the moment.” He turned to Nier. “I’ll go next…do you think I should win or lose?”

Ale was wonderful for rebuilding one’s confidence. Faramir spotted a nearby mug and slid it towards himself, slurping its contents. A great deal went over his shirt, soaking him. He looked down, hazily dismayed. I didn’t want to do that. I’m all wet.

Gaer snatched the mug, sounding awfully parental to be fourteen years his junior. “Stop drinking! You’re drunk enough.”

Annoyed, Faramir cursed him in sloppy elvish, “Vá himya…hecal!” and tried to focus yet again. There was only one thing he wanted to know from Tondhere. “What did…?” His thoughts scattered and he looked blankly at the man before he remembered, “What did…do you shout…tell me a good cry when I win.”

The three men exchanged looks. Faramir grinned upwards, “I want something good. Tell me…now, so I can…” He felt dizzier than ever, “Remember it.”

Nier and Gaer both appeared amused and Gaer corrected gently, “If you win, Faramir.”

“He will.” Tondhere grinned and said stoutly, “That’s the man I know, shouting odd things at me when he knocks my brains out my ears. Here, remember this so they’ll know what you’re saying…”

Several rough and scarred tables away, Éomer looked at the first man appointed to wrestle with Faramir. He was a man of the village and seemed very confident and unfortunately very sober, undressing to the waist as per the rules; nudity was acceptable, but it left one more vulnerable. There were, in truth and like most of their contests, very few rules to this pastime. Weapons weren’t allowed, nor interference from the bystanders. Deadly force, too, was highly discouraged, though roughness was expected. Éomer was only slightly mollified by the knowledge that his presence would deter the worst ways for a man to impose victory.

He circled him at a distance, noting his build and his weight, both exceeding the Steward’s. Others were doing the same, carefully setting their bets; it was not a wealthy village, few would bet rashly until they’d had a few ales in them. Some men spoke with the challenger, getting a closer look at his muscle. However, it was not muscle alone that won and Éomer listened for a moment, noting the man’s self-assurance. He’d obviously done this many times, unlike Faramir, too. Éomer himself had wrested with men in taverns and knew the marks of a good candidate for victory when he saw him; peering back through the crowd, he could just make out Faramir as the man stood. The Steward was swaying quite badly and, by the looks of it, odds were fair that he might even pass out before he got to wrestling.

I’m not sure I’d put my money on Faramir, either… He frowned, worried. He couldn’t drag him away for fear of making him appear to be cowardly; he must let the Steward fight, no matter the consequences. Éomer fretted and made his way back, brow lined with concern. His sister would surely murder him if she ever heard of any of this and he wondered if Aragorn would help her. Certainly he will pardon her.

Faramir was aware they were trying to strip his wet shirt off of him; he raised his arms, making it easier. Looking at the dingy, smoke-blackened ceiling, he laughed like a child. He was so dizzy. Suddenly his legs went out from under him and he fell back into Tondhere’s thick arms.

The young Rider gave him a stern look. “Stand up.” With difficulty, he obeyed and concentrated upon remaining upright. He had to win or maybe he would be Lytle Bregu again. Can’t have that…he snickered at his own vanity. I want to be Micel Bregu. Faramir shook with his laughter.

They were pulling off his boots now, leaving him only his trousers. Men were looking at him from the crowd, most skeptically. Bidding voices raised, money was exchanged, bets changed; a great deal was going on, Faramir noted with a sudden weariness. He closed his eyes and swayed a bit, feeling like some horse at auction. The feeling increased as Tondhere raised his arm, shouting things in Rohirric about his strength lying not within…within…within what? Faramir opened his eyes.

I am drunk. Very drunk. He had to stop his thoughts from wandering or the other man would flatten him and…and…Éowyn will be upset. And then she will…his gaze drifted left, to Éomer. He smiled.

“She bites?” The man’s light eyes widened with dread showing in them and Faramir remembered that he wasn’t supposed to do that. He could have ruined everything. His heart sank. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s…all right.” Éomer’s words were labored, but Faramir was pleased. He decided to confess.

He chuckled, watching Gaer shout at someone; men were clearing an area for the fighting and Gaer wanted more room. Tondhere and Nier had vanished yet again. “The riddles.”

There was a bit of quiet in their little space, then he spoke, but his words were more stilted now. “You…read…my mind?”

“Oh, yes. But just to get the answers.” Faramir assured, and then snickered, looking at Éomer. “You’re not that interesting.” He tittered a little, swaying and then sat heavily.

“I’m not?” There was amusement as well as disturbance in his face. Éomer’s hands were locked together, fingers squeezing nervously.

He smiled, happy to be sitting. “No.” But the vertigo of the downward motion made him nauseous, so he decided to go back to what he was doing.

Faramir stood again, very carefully, his feet spread far apart for balance; near him, Éomer sat quietly and suddenly he broke their silence. His question was guarded, voice like the Éomer of old, sharp and disagreeable, expression close. “What am I thinking now?”

He let his mind float out, gingerly and casually touching. It was difficult, but he eventually got some response. “Nothing.” He giggled, “You’re waiting for my answer.”

Éomer laughed and it surprised Faramir even in his current state for his question had been as unhumorous as a man could be. “You’re right.” He looked very serious, though. “Do you remember what I said about that?”

Éomer was still quietly serious; his face full of the patience reserved for drunken men or children as Faramir’s laughter trickled down into a few burping chuckles. “I said witch would be the last word you would hear.”

Unafraid since there was absolutely no aggression radiating from the man, he asked, smiling and listing from side to side, “Will it?”

“No.” The Lord of the Mark gave him a small smile and his voice was back to its now simplicity and unguarded ease. There was care, but none of the dread. Almost acceptance, Faramir thought in disconnected astonishment.

He sobered long enough to realize the implications and their eyes met. Faramir smiled back affably. “Good.” He had broken through the man’s armor. And just in time, I suppose, for my blunder. He sighed, happy with the world. All he needed was Éowyn and he would be happier than ever he could remember.

“Faramir!” Gaer was gesturing at him impatiently as the three returned. “Wake up and pay attention.”

Faramir became slightly unsettled. “I don’t want to.” He was nauseous, but dreaded the experience.

The bigger man’s eyes widened. “No. He was your friend first. I don’t want any on me.”

“No.” Faramir echoed him anxiously though he went mostly unheard; he looked about himself, but they outnumbered him and he was too dizzy to flee. “No.”

Tondhere tried to soothe him. “It’s courteous. You’re going to do it all over him if we don’t.”

Alarmed, he tried to watch all three at once. It affected his concentration. “No, I’won’t. Your folk…aren’t cour-courteous—no!”

“Faramir!” Gaer took a sterner route, though he turned to glare at the others. “Stop that, you’re making it sound horrible.” Gaer turned back and he spoke matter-of-factly. “Now, we’re going to do it…and it’s not so bad. Remember in the City? It made you feel much better, didn’t it?”

He vaguely remembered vomiting on some unfortunate’s doorstep. Faramir shook his head, making himself dizzier. “No.”

“You are doing it, not “we”.” In an exaggerated motion, Tondhere stepped back.

Nier groaned. “I’ll do it…” He laughed, looking sideways, “I have to buy your sister something nice with this money.” And, as Gaer looked at him, so enraged that his face was nearly as red as his hair, the man whacked Faramir in the belly. He had no more choice in the matter. The three and Éomer retreated swiftly, Gaer shoving a bucket forward with his toe. This is so undignified, Faramir thought, his mind woozy. He glared at the men, as irate as he could be while so muddled. I won’t. He opened his mouth to say it aloud…

Éowyn wandered through a wood, listening to the faint sound of running water. There were irregular splashes, catching her attention; something fairly large was playing in the water but she was lost, so she only listened. It sounded like a river, like the Snowbourn but she was not in the Mark; the grass was too green for late summer.

Where am I? The land was gentle, comprised of rolling hills with many small thickets of trees. She walked through them, only now noticing she was barefoot and clad in a nightgown. Another dream? If so, it was far better than her previous ones. There was no Gríma, no place of the dead, or field of battle under a cold black sky. She was alone and fairly at peace; this had the feel of a good dream. Above the branches, the sky was blue, the air was sweet and cool, and the floor of each small wood she passed through was soft and yielding with spring plants and warm earth. Éowyn felt her heart ease, felt herself relax and her tension slip away, fading into the ground. Where am I? It was too beautiful and too detailed to be fabricated, real only in her mind. This is real…but her dreams were not so realistic unless they were nightmares…

Abruptly, Éowyn halted, feeling a stirring in the back of her thoughts. The feeling filled her with joy; it was clearly recognizable, though faint—Faramir.

He was near, but where? Closing her eyes, she concentrated, but her own mind was weak and powerless, unable to find him the way he could find her. Desperate, Éowyn called out, “Faramir?”

There was a shout, strong and blatantly male in its deepness. The river, he’s there. Yet, to her puzzlement the cry had sounded more like two voices than one.

She walked swiftly through the wood, ducking under branches and following the sound of water, only to halt at the edge of a thicket, just within the trees. There were definitely two voices, Faramir and another’s. This other man’s was deeper and less familiar. They sounded alike, yet not quite; it could almost be Faramir talking to himself, if not for the lower pitch of the other. Éowyn hesitated, and as she did, the other voice faded away. “Faramir?”

“Here!” He shouted again, this time the sole voice and she came out, blinking in the daylight. Under the blue sky, Faramir stood half-submerged; the water reflected his torso darkly, river gleaming in the same sunlight that blinded her. His feet were braced against the current; he shifted them and asked uncertainly, features awash with hope, “Éowyn?”

“Yes. Oh, yes.” She laughed delightedly, forgetting all about other voice in her joy. This was a dream, yes, but she was free to move and free to act. White nightgown streaming behind her, Éowyn flew more than ran down the bank and stopped just out of the water, toes digging in the cool mud. She smiled, chest heaving and gazing at him, taking in the pure, beautiful sight of him. He was so handsome, almost radiant to her eyes as drops of water ran down the lines of his chest, merging with the swell of the river. Long, dark hair lank and dripping around his shoulders, his arms were wet, his fingertips loose in the water; he was wearing only a smile. Éowyn stared, drinking in his presence, her mind no longer lonely, but delightfully full of the sense of him. It was indescribable, a low warmth and support that made her every moment feel lovingly looked after and willfully defended.

“How are you here? Truly here?” Faramir moved towards her, his eyes focused and voice soft, almost as though he was enchanted by her and under some strange spell.

“You.” She smiled back, “I don’t know.” Girlish laughter filled her throat. “I don’t care.” As he splashed awkwardly out of the river, Éowyn opened her arms, fully eager. Oh, this is like the other dream, but so much better…so good and wonderful! Watching him come to her, she knew, astonished, that even if she woke now, it would be to happiness. Éowyn marveled, wondering how this depth of feeling could have grown hidden within her heart. I love him so much…she’d said she would have been lost, a fearful shell, and Éowyn was just now realizing how fully she’d meant it. The depth of her feelings was almost frightening.

He fit into her arms perfectly, skin chill to the touch but so warm beneath. He was wet, soaking through her thin nightgown instantly; Éowyn hugged him tighter, uncaring about anything but feeling his arms tight around her body. After a moment, Faramir pulled back a tiny bit and his hand lifted her chin and, willing, she kissed him, feeling his cool lips and then the heat of his mouth. His tongue touched hers lightly and Éowyn shivered all over when the kiss finally broke; she was very aware of his nudeness, his eyes fixed downward upon her and, she guessed, full of emotion. She was unable to look up, afraid because the feel of his mind alone made her so happy that the light in his eyes would surely make her heart burst with gladness.

Turning her head, she tasted the water on his neck, kissing his skin, licking his earlobe in a frantic attempt to touch or kiss as much of him as she could while murmuring, “I missed you so much…”

“As much as all this?” His tone was playful, but his hand on her breast was not as it gently cupped, then moved away to slide along her hip and interlock with his other around the small of her back. Faramir shifted, pressing his front to her more firmly.

“Oh, yes.” Éowyn wanted him to pull her down to the bank, wanted him to cover her and do whatever he liked. She shivered as he fastened his mouth to her neck, sucking. The world dropping away and her legs growing faint, Éowyn moaned with pleasure. He did that so well, perhaps because it was the first thing she’d ever told him she liked. Éowyn locked her hands around his shoulders and leaned into his embrace.

“All right.” Though disappointed, Éowyn was not in the mood to refuse. Faramir lifted the hem of her nightgown, pausing with it around her neck, kissing her bared bosom. His beard, softened by the water, tickled her. He then pulled it off and tossed the garment aside. Faramir stared at her, his broad chest rising and falling slowly with his breathing.

When they came together, bodies warm and bare, it felt so right she couldn’t believe her own earlier fear. Éowyn could feel the water from his skin slicking her own and she shuddered all over. Shifting her feet, she rubbed her bare thighs together, desiring friction and pressed against him, half-hoping he would put his hand between her legs. He’d never done so. I want…Faramir…I want…you. Éowyn became aware of the knowledge that she’d never lusted for a man until now and the appreciative realization burned her as much as her own desire.

“Shh.” He was kissing her neck, her front, her mouth; she could feel his hardness rising to press hotly to her belly. “Swim with me,” When he looked down and saw her questioning face, he shook his head almost mournfully, “I want you in the waking flesh.”

Éowyn nodded, disappointed again. “Soon.” Her voice was not questioning, but instead almost ordering.

“Yes, oh, yes.” He kissed her, then grabbed her hand. Faramir looked down at her, asking eagerly. “Swim with me in the Anduin?”

Éowyn frowned; she could see the river, but where Faramir was seemed but a slender, swift offshoot. The Anduin she recalled was much wider and slower, the water choppy and full of silt. This river was slim, fast and quite clear. On the other side was a great hill and only empty lands with green smudges of trees. “Where are we?”

“Cair Andros.” He smiled down, holding her hand and squeezing it; he was virtually glowing with happiness. “Our home. This is Ithilien, to the north.” His grey eyes were on hers now and beaming with such hope and love that she smiled and didn’t feel uncomfortable at the mention of her future. I love him.

“I love you.” He pulled her into the water; Éowyn squealed as its coolness rose up her warm thighs and belly, nearly frigid under her breasts.

“Not half as cold as the Snowbourn.” He laughed, suggestively grinning, and then growling, “Unfortunately for you, my beloved” as he grabbed at her bottom.

“Faramir! Stop!” She laughed happily, splashing and leaping away into the cold depths of the river as he made lecherous faces and pursued her. Éowyn dove, holding her breath as she fled, swimming and kicking with all her strength. The current pulled her downstream and when she rose gasping she was surprised to see Faramir surfacing almost right beside her. “How…?”

They floated close together and his dark hair mixed with hers. Éowyn was astonished to note her hair wasn’t chestnut, but gold again. Before she could mention it, he grinned and grabbed at her, just missing as she threw herself backwards. “You can’t get away, Boromir made sure I wouldn’t drown; he taught me to swim quite well.”

He approached with arms spread wide to catch her, under them, waves of water closed in. Éowyn backed, clumsily finding footing in the muddy bottom, but she was giggling and not doing well at her impression of fear. Faramir sprang, awkward in the water, yet he caught her fairly easily as she splashed and flailed to get away. It was no test of his skill; she had wanted him to catch her. She wiggled against his harder body, relishing the feel of his firm, strong arms tight around her torso. He picked her up and Éowyn felt oddly weightless yet still oddly secure. She wrapped her arms around his neck and let her lower half float, kissing his wet, dripping and thickly bearded chin. Feeling the firm set of his shoulders under her arms, she asked playfully. “What now?”

Éowyn frowned, “What?” He waded deeper and she tightened her arms, feeling strangely protected by his strength, even in this new element. “What are you…?”

Chuckling, Faramir stopped and lifted her high and Éowyn screamed, perceiving his intent too late. Laughing, he threw her up and into the water and she went under, kicking her way to the surface and sputtering. For a moment she felt panic, unable to touch the river bottom but Faramir swam to her easily and she hung onto his neck.

Taller than she, he could still touch and felt solid as a rock. Éowyn pinched him. “Don’t do that!”

“Why not?” She drifted closer and his hands groped her bare bottom, making her squeal and giggle and wriggle violently while still attempting to keep her hold. In the center now, the current was strong, tugging her away unless she kept her grasp.

“No, I like it.” Faramir lifted her a little and nuzzled into her breasts, cradling her up against his chest once more. “Look, they float.”

He made her laugh, gently bobbing her bosom with his fingertips. Éowyn scolded, helpless as long as she held onto him, as long as they remained in the deep water. “Stop that.”

“No, they’re my playthings. You said.” Faramir kissed her, and then returned to his fondling. “This one’s larger than the other….” He toyed with her breast and gave her a cheeky grin. “I believe I like it better.”

Éowyn laughed at him, squirming deliciously and buoyantly in the water. His hands felt good, they always did, why she ever denied him Éowyn had forgotten. Throwing her head back to the wide, blue sky, she cried in exasperation. “What are you doing?”

“We’re playing…” His eyes grew serious and his hand stopped. Water dripped from his skin to hers. “Like you wanted.”

Éowyn didn’t think she’d imagined this but she was very glad he had. “Oh.” She laughed and slid her hand down his chest, fingers gliding across bare flesh, then slipping smoothly through the water. “Good. Yes.” But they were in deeper now and his manhood was too far to reach before her chin went under the softly rippling river. Faramir grinned; he could reach what he pleased.

“Immodest, lewd is what you are, trying to touch me like that.” He teased her, a disapproving expression on his face.

“Yes.” And he threw her again, less far, slopping after her while laughing and they floundered together for a bit, throwing up waves and showers of water. Éowyn splashed him fiercely, using her legs to kick in thick sprays until Faramir grabbed her ankle and yanked her under. She twisted free, unable to breath out of giddy laughter. He grabbed her again, this time tightly and Éowyn clung to him, letting herself float. When she lifted her head, he kissed her once, firmly on the lips. “Got you.”

Smiling, Faramir slung one arm under her and carried her to shore. As he splashed out of the river, Éowyn slid down, landing on the bank near her crumpled nightgown, her toes curling in the mud. Faramir staggered farther up the bank and collapsed, rolling onto his belly and grinning at her. “Come here.” He patted the ground; it looked soft and pleasantly grassy.

She looked around, feeling foolish. Of course they were alone, this wasn’t real. But still, Éowyn couldn’t remember lying naked in the open sun. It aroused her a little, to know he could see all of her as she came and sat beside him. Faramir’s eyes wandered, eventually returning to hers and she smiled as he did.

Leaning forward, Éowyn used her finger to tuck a bit of his dark hair off of his chin, then tugged gently on his short beard. The scruff made his smile more visible, which made her happier because she noticed it when he did smile. “You’re getting to look like my bear. Min Býúlfr, Ic wille neman ge.”

He looked amused, propping himself on one elbow. “That’s a name for Gaer. I like that name.”

She didn’t know what he was talking about but Éowyn didn’t care. Wiggling closer and onto her side, she slid one ankle over his calf in silent and bold invitation, feeling her exposure in the fast beating of her heart. He quirked an eyebrow at her, then Faramir’s hand rubbed her lower leg, sliding upwards; Éowyn did nothing to stop him, even moving a little closer to aid him, feeling her own desire and anticipation to experience something new from his trusted hand and then…

It ended and Éowyn awoke, all her sense of Faramir vanished away as swiftly as though an axe had chopped the link between them, severing it at once. She looked around her barely lit bedroom, feeling her arms, rubbing her legs; within herself Éowyn still felt the water, his hand wetly touching her inner thigh. Faramir? Her heart was torn between brilliant, great gladness and utter despondency. Faramir?

There was no answer and no feel of him whatsoever. Eventually she lay back and tried to sleep again, hugging her pillow tightly in the pre-dawn dimness.

The light was pain and Faramir moved, gingerly covering his stinging eyes with one arm. His joints ached and his head…it felt like some orc stepped upon it with an iron-shod boot, pinning him with the agony and stomping a few times for good measure. Deep within, he felt vague sorrow and an impression of Éowyn. What…? But it swiftly faded and all else was murky confusion. He’d rarely drunk even near this much and the effects were paralyzing.

Footsteps clumped to his side; he bent his fingers in the folds of his bedroll, wishing to pull it over his head but it was too twisted around his legs. “Faramir? You awake yet?” Gaer’s voice was entirely too loud and too cheery. “It’s noon.” He added, almost laughingly, “We’re starving, get your lazy self up. Northmen don’t sleep an aching head away. You have to fight it with breakfast.” He sounded like he was grinning, “Now get yourself up and go fetch us some.”

He groaned, long and drawn out, slowly stretching his legs. He was still fully dressed; his shirt felt stiff and Faramir was none too eager to guess why. What…fight…his last halfway clear memory was vomiting messily into a bucket. That cannot be good.

His Rohir friend was still there. “You’re moving, you’re awake. Get up.” Carefully, he removed his arm and hissed at the daylight, squinching his eyes tightly shut. This is what an orc feels like, surely… Faramir felt pity for the ruined creatures. Gaer must have taken pity, too, for he moved so that Faramir lay in his shadow. “Better?”

Voice a rusty croak; tongue anesthetized under the worst taste he could ever remember, he rasped, “Yes.” Faramir opened his eyes to squint painfully upwards. “What happened?”

Gaer grinned. “You did good. Very good.” He chuckled, “You lost.” The redheaded man jingled a small sack presumably full of coins; the noise made Faramir flinch. “You want your share now?”

“I did?” He couldn’t remember fighting, yet trying to stand, his muscles did, and assured him of the fact with great aches and throbbing pains. His head whirled crazily and for a moment Faramir leaned his palms on his aching shins and fought not to vomit. Stomach clenching, he dry heaved and sank to one knee, closing his eyes and concentrating on breathing. I am never drinking again.

The reply was cheery, though it came from a slight distance now. “Yes.” When, at length, he rose, Gaer nodded at him almost sympathetically. “Your students are waiting, Láréow.”

Around the fire, the five lads stared at him and Faramir felt a little ashamed. What kind of example was he giving them? A typical one, no doubt. He didn’t wish to be typical, to let them think all there was to their lives were inns and ale and women. There was more…is there, though, to them with their lives? His students were sons of herders, farmers, and not privileged men like himself. Confused, he grated out, “A moment, please.” Rohirric was beyond him as Faramir staggered the distance to the stream.

Gratefully, he sank down beside it, squinting away from the light that gleamed upward from the bright water and bent down, drinking straight from the stream. The water was cool, washing away the horrid dead taste in his mouth; Faramir splashed his face and stopped suddenly, remembering. Cair Andros… He remembered dreaming of swimming and Boromir daring him to race around the island, then…nothing. Still, some memory tickled him. He frowned and shook it off.

He washed himself the best he could, slopping water over his face and hands and combing through his matted hair. His shirt was filthy, spotted with muck Faramir would rather not identify; his trousers were similarly fouled. Walking slowly back to camp, he found himself to be limping and, changing into cleaner clothing, Faramir noted fresh bruises and aches. He hurt all over. Food was entirely unappealing; he avoided the eating men. For all of Gaer’s claims to starvation, there was obviously something being consumed. Éomer was among them and looked far better than he, only wearied and bleary-eyed, not as though he’d been stomped by mûmakil. The Lord of the Mark’s eyes met his own bloodshot ones and Éomer grinned in obvious glee. Faramir glowered in return, then was surprised as he got a laugh and a nod from the man. The way they associated had definitely changed for the better.

Now, standing before the five lads, he couldn’t think of something for them to do. Archery or spear practice would be loud, as would a game. His students were rarely quiet and his aching head desperately needed quiet. Except for one thing… “Today,” Faramir stopped speaking and groaned, laboriously translating, “Dægweorc se, ge willan feorhlast me æt má ná breahtm a ge cann.”

The boys nodded, uncharacteristically solemn and Wurth answered for them all. “Gea.” He assumed their solemnity was his fault; Faramir could see no other reason the normally boisterous lads were so somber.

In his state, bouncing with Thorn’s rough gaits was unthinkable, so he kept to his own feet. He moved off, intent upon working the mysterious soreness out of his leg. Faramir walked a long ways, at first keeping his trail fairly easy, and then making it harder as he warmed up, losing some of his aches. But his head still pounded, so after what he estimated was nearly three miles from camp, Faramir found himself a grassy hollow and sank into it. Leaning his head back against a sapling that was kind enough to grow from earth in such a position that he could lie against it comfortably, he swallowed and closed his eyes thankfully. The wood was silent and cool. Very quickly and unintentionally, Faramir fell back into sleep.

When he next opened his eyes, his head ached less and he remembered the dream. Vaguely, in a faraway voice he heard himself saying, “Our home…” and Éowyn’s hesitant, yet willing smile in return. He’d dreamed something more about that and the tiny bits he could recall seemed extraordinarily vivid—Éowyn, nude and unafraid, laughing at him and the feel of her wet skin under his wrinkled fingertips. Her joyful voice, “Stop it!” Faramir smiled dreamily up at the sky as it peeked down at him through tangled branches. I miss her. Lying quiet and for the most part blessedly painless, he was loath to move but his students should have found him by now, long ago, even. The sun was roughly a fingerwidth’s father west; he’d slept for nearly an hour. Certainly the trail he’d left hadn’t been that difficult. Feeling the slightest stir of concern, Faramir stretched his legs and prepared to rise from his peaceful little hollow; with wakefulness his headache returned and he winced against the throbbing pain in his temples.

As he rose, the blow to his side, a boot digging hurtfully into his kidneys, took him completely by surprise and he fell back down again, twisting into a ball of pain. Faramir hugged his side and looked up, his hair was in his eyes but he could see quite well enough to recognize his attacker. Attackers…he cursed softly, to the obvious amusement of the men that stood waiting. Slowly, cautiously and, unmindful of his previous aches, he rocked his weight to his haunches, watching for any signs that he would be struck again. Faramir attempted to look even worse off than he felt, the pain from the kick subsiding into throbbing heat, yet he kept his hands there, trying to take attention from the fact that he’d almost gathered his feet. It looked as though he would have to fight and he wished to appear as weak as possible, to lower their guard so that he might escape fairly unscathed.

Above him, Oswyn stood with two other men. The great, flaxen-haired brute smiled with self-satisfaction coming off of him in waves. His voice was underscored with a bitter fury that alarmed Faramir greatly. “Astanda, Faramir. Nu.”

He shifted, wary of doing as he was told; yet he was outnumbered and had little choice. Gaer had been correct, he shouldn’t have gone alone. Trying to look complacent and weak, he stood and swayed a bit to fuel his deception. Damn him. Let me be!

The big man spoke again, sounding furious. “Ge eart a dysig mann…dyde ge nà ábád me?”

He didn’t answer, certain it would make little difference, and instead Faramir tried to push his mind past its aching to read the level of aggression in the other men. He’d never seen them and they were clothed differently than the Riders in camp. Villagers? He could only imagine they came for Oswyn’s benefit, to settle the grievance. Their minds were far less hostile and the man on the right seemed unwilling to attack, continually shifting his weight backwards. The man on the left didn’t appear bothered, but still, was not as warlike. Oswyn was their leader in this matter and, maybe if he could defeat the man again, then the other two would let him alone. Surreptitiously, he scrutinized them; the plan had a small measure of success. Of course, once I attack, they might join in out of the spirit of things…these were Rohirrim he was facing and these men thought relatively little of fighting. They’d be more likely to let him alone if he pleaded and surrendered, if only out of disgust at his actions.

However, this gave him a bit of hope and Faramir stood more or less upright, keeping his distance and still trying to look weaker than he truly was. Inside, his heart was racing, preparing for what was to come. He studied the man on the right; he was the weakest link in this defense and the most likely to retreat. Keeping his eyes lowered in false meekness, Faramir asked, pleading in an abject way. “Hwa, Oswyn? Hwa dest ge ahebban æt me?”

That was a straightforward answer, at least, but it explained nothing. Faramir tried to ask. “Hwa?”

He didn’t quite understand, but did not ask again. Instead, Faramir concentrated on the other men. He met their eyes, trying his damndest to get the words correct enough to be understood, “Ge feohte a mann healf æt drenc, æt inca… Dest ge habban nà cræft?

The man on the right shifted his feet again and looked about to speak but Oswyn snarled, “Genoh.” He moved forward and Faramir readied himself. The other two came behind, not as willing and not as fast. He concentrated on Oswyn, planning to take him and him alone, if possible. Outside their group there was a rising emotive force that distracted him, a fierce disconcertment, and then intense anger.

His attention diverted, Faramir heard the whistle of the first rock before the others; they were too focused between watching him and, Oswyn particularly, gloating over his near to be triumph. Instinctively, he ducked back down; raising an arm to protect his face, but the stone was not meant for him. There was a loud, meaty thud of contact and the man left of Oswyn cried out, twisting away with his hand clamped to his shoulder. Suddenly all was chaos as rocks rained upon the three men, filing the air with swift missiles fully intended to hurt. Faramir was entirely untouched and rather astonished; scooting backwards against the sapling that had served as his pillow, he kept out of range of the rolling, bouncing stones. Who had come to his aid so soon? He half expected Gaer of having followed him again. His satisfaction quickly turned to dismay as the stones flew harder and then men became bent, their attempts at fleeing cut off with flying rocks. There were shouts of pain intermixed with cries of fury, making every woodland creature retreat in terror. Blood streaked their hands and clothes, places where sharp-edged stones had found a soft mark.

Body aching, Faramir stood and ordered sharply, raising his voice to its most audible and most authoritative. “Ætstendeð! Nu!” His shout broke through the commotion and the hail of rocks ceased. “Com!”

Around them, cleverly hidden in the underbrush, his protectors stood slowly, dropping their ammunition with little thuds to the forest floor. Well, I’ll be damned. He didn’t know whether to laugh and praise them with the pride and emotion that filled his chest or scold them harshly for such violence.

His attackers looked rather shocked, too, and that, finally, made Faramir break and bestow his praise. He could scold later. Faramir smiled, “Ic sæcge eow þancas… leofe freond.”

Ná dón com to min geoc. Ic eom ábannen ge —Do not come to my aid. I am commanding you.

Faramir…min gesibling is to árianne. —Faramir…my kinsman is to be pardoned.

Wilcume… héafodling min, mann æt min sweostor, tó se Mark…--Welcome, my (equal) companion, man of my sister, to the Mark…

Hit is lang gebindan inne min egeslic hreðerloca. Canst ge forgiefan me min dol inca ond ábidon? Ic eom bysmorful deoplic ond wille ná má donne dol. —It is long held fast in my foolish heart. Can you forgive me my grudge and lateness? I am deeply sorry and will act childish no more.

Sweorwærc—“pain in the neck” J (come on, that is so what Eomer would have said)

Ealfela, hit is cuð min Ides is fægen—Very much, it is well known my Lady is happy.

Dægweorc se, ge willan feorhlast me æt má ná breahtm a ge cann –This day’s work, you all will track me as much without noise as you can.

Ge eart a dysig mann…dyde ge nà ábád me?—You foolish man…did you not expect me?

Hwa Oswyn? Hwa dest ge ahebban æt me? —Why, Oswyn? Why do you wage war with me?

Ge feohte a mann healf æt drenc, æt inca… Dest ge habban nà cræft?—You fight a man sick with drink, because of a grudge. Do you have no skill, strength?

Éowyn entered the corral, careful to keep her movements slow and non-threatening. Éomer’s new bay stallion watched her; as she closed the gate, he came to her, brown eyes large and curious.

“Hello.” She’d forgotten his name. In her hands, Éowyn held a long rope. He came closer, bobbing his fine head to better see her and the thing she cradled; his long mane waved in the breeze and his hooves made soft noises on the dirt of the corral. She tucked her chin and ignored the stud’s puffing, sniffing breath against her forearms as she knotted and worked the rope. Once she’d gotten a giant loop out and a good knot secured, she gazed up at him and smiled. “Aren’t you kingly looking?”

The bay, his blood-red coat shining in the sun, pricked his ears at her and stepped forward. He nosed her fingers and sniffed the rope with his warm, dark muzzle, curious. Éowyn smiled, pleased; curiosity was an outstanding quality in a horse. “See?” She let him sniff a bit more, whiskers tickling her skin, and then raised her hand and rubbed his forehead gently. He seemed to enjoy it when she scratched under his chin and behind one finely shaped black-tipped ear. “Good lad, hmm? He’s a good lad.”

When the stallion stepped forward, trying to get her to scratch his arched neck, she knew he was comfortable with her and she could begin. “My brother should have done this before he left, but…since he didn’t and I want to, I will.” She felt off inside herself, out of place, and working with this horse was the best way that Éowyn could think to regain her equanimity. Faramir…she patted the stallion, delaying as she thought. He challenged her, even when he wasn’t physically present, by making her experience a dream world. The memory of her dream made her ache with longing and the bright lands that she saw with her waking eye were drab in comparison. Enough…you’ll be here all day.

Attention refocused on the curious stud, Éowyn covered one bright eye with the cup of her hand, careful not to press the sensitive skin, and swung the large loop of rope up and over his head in a quick motion.

The stallion started, but only moved a few steps away. He eyed the rope stretching between them warily, and mouthed it to see if it was edible. Éowyn waited, holding out her hand to let him smell her again and was pleased when he submitted to a pat. She murmured, “It’s all right, look at it, I won’t let it hurt you.”

The rope hung low around his withers; there was no pressure and the line in her hand was slack. His coat twitched, thinking the foreign thing might be a fly about to bite or sting. The stallion shook his black mane and huffed at what he had to put up with, making her smile. “Good lad.” She let him calm and, when he was moving to get her to scratch his crested neck, she patted his shoulder and stepped closer.

“Now.” Voice no more than a breath, Éowyn lifted the loose rope from his withers, positioning it behind his ears and slowly tightening it until it was just slack enough to slide a finger beneath with no trouble. She took a break to pet him, then slid the rope over his tapered nose and carefully knotted it under his jaw to make a rope halter with a long lead. Prudent, she also knotted the end of the lead to give herself something to hold onto. “Good lad.” For standing so quietly, she spent a long moment scratching and stroking him. He seemed to enjoy it greatly despite the distraction of the rope on his skin, leaning into her fingers and turning to guide her to itchy spots.

Finally, they were ready to begin the lesson. Éowyn clucked purposely and stepped back, putting pressure on the lead. The stallion, confused, raised his head and braced himself against the tension in the rope. White showed at the edges of his eyes; he was nervous now, uncertain of what she wanted.

“Come along…” She murmured softly, careful not to look him directly in the eyes or make any sudden moves, things that would be intimidating actions to the young stud. He shook his head and lifted one hoof to clumsily paw the air in frustrated confusion. Éowyn hissed discouragingly and shook the rope, making it snap softly, “None of that.” The stallion put his foot down, alarmed, but calmed somewhat when she did nothing but begin to pull again.

Moving back and forth in a semi-circle, facing him and keeping a firm pressure on the lead, she pulled him off balance and forced him to move his front feet. The stud took a reluctant step to the side, and then halted again with his hindquarters braced.

“Good! Good, he’s so good…” Immediately Éowyn released the pressure and scratched him, making her voice as pleasant as she could—low and sweet, she cooed his praise, “Good lad.” He tossed his head, unsure as she soothed him, then began the lesson again. It took several minutes before he was walking in response to pressure on the lead, each step very slow and reluctant but obedient. He enjoyed the praise very much in between efforts, making her think he would be a good horse indeed, to be responsive and willing to please her so early in his training.

She kept on, eventually leading him to the other end of the corral and back, giving full slack at the slightest hint of his compliance. Éowyn praised excessively, her fingers filthy from scratching him. Glancing at the sun’s position in the sky, she patted his flank. This was the first lesson and she didn’t plan to make it longer than a half-hour.

When she finally slid the rope halter off of his head, her shoulder was aching from pulling against him and her hands and fingernails were dark with dirt. Éomer’s stallion wasn’t fully trained to lead yet, but he was nearly so. “He’s a good lad.” With one last scratch, Éowyn turned her back.

The stud followed her to the gate and hung his pretty head over it, ears pricked and eyes wide to watch her. Éowyn smiled, feeling better; he would be good horse for her brother. She coiled the rope carefully and hung the halter on a nail just inside the barn, far out of reach of his teeth. He looked innocent but would gladly chew the rope to pieces. With one last pat, she left him.

Éowyn walked slowly, dirty hands held well away from her skirt and weaving through her people as they walked too, most working—she saw two men carrying water buckets. Another was pulling a small cart full of sacks of grain and further down the hill she heard the hammering of the metal smiths intermixed with the soft whirring of the windmills as grain was ground into flour. She smiled at a trio of grimy-faced boys; dogs leaped around them excitedly as the lads played some game, the rules of which seemed both elaborate and mysterious. They dodged well around her, calling greetings in shy, but cheerful voices. Éowyn gazed at the boys, finding herself wondering about the child Faramir would make in her. I hope it has his eyes… Faramir’s eyes were beautiful to her, the grey of them both fair and profoundly expressive of his love.

Hearing her own thoughts she rolled her eyes and smiled. Thankfully he wasn’t about to hear her sounding so utterly girlish and silly. Next I’ll be singing of his fairness…Éowyn laughed aloud, not even noting the cheer in her voice, merriment that a year ago had been all but buried in fear and despair. Faramir liked her singing; he would probably enjoy it and if composed in her tongue, might not entirely understand the mortifying depths of her girlishness. Hmm…she stepped lightly, watchful of the chickens that dotted the courtyard beneath the Golden Hall. A farrier set near the barns considerately waited until she was out of range to continue shaping a horseshoe—the sparks from the red-hot iron might have charred holes in her skirt. Éowyn gave him a brilliant smile in thanks and the young man bowed his head quickly. How would I start? His dark hair and his height had been the first things to strike her. How tall and lean Faramir had been with one arm in a sling, which further slimmed his form. He’d appeared scrawny for a grown man and thus weak to her experience, yet his eyes had been firm and intense, almost frighteningly so as he’d focused his attention upon her. I never would have approached him but for that window…it was incredible, Éowyn thought, to have met Faramir over so trivial a thing.

She hummed at bit, then made herself laugh by spontaneously singing, “Falewende… Is ná eower locfeax.” Éowyn laughed again, “Blæwen… Is ná eower êage.” Softer, she added, “Ge eart ná of min, Ac ge eart min ánum ond á ðý deórwyrþran.”

“Good morning.” Arwen’s voice greeted her just as she was arriving at the stairs to Meduseld; she looked up in mortification, losing her thoughts and hastily silencing her giddy song. Thankfully, it had been in her tongue and not the Common one. The Queen was making her way down them, clothed in a truly beautiful dark blue gown with her shawl and under skirts a lighter blue like the sky; she shone in the sun with bright jewels on her brow, making Éowyn feel eclipsed. Her own dress was plain as dirt, adorned only by Faramir’s color-shifting bracelet. Yet, unexpectedly, Éowyn smiled and forgot her insecurity. Before Arwen, Rusco was on his lead, but unlike the stallion she’d just taught, he was fighting it with all his might, plunging and falling on the stone steps, whining unhappily.

“Good morning.” She kept her smile, absently wishing for a cloth to wipe her filthy hands, and suddenly she remembered the roan colt. He’d nickered at her while she’d taught the stallion. “Do you…remember the foal we saved?”

The Queen nodded in distraction. “Yes…” Rusco was crouched, gnawing the leather of his lead. “Stop that!” Arwen hissed and nudged him with her shoe, which he then attacked. “No!” In defeat, she picked him up and carried him to the bottom of the steps.

Éowyn laughed, watching the puppy as they walked to the barns. Rusco hadn’t taken to the leash the evening before and, if possible, he disliked it even more today. She clucked disapprovingly as he threw himself onto his back, kicking and pawing at the leash; Arwen shook her head in exasperation and waited until the little tri-colored dog began walking again.

Looking about at the clear, cloudless day, Éowyn felt less lonely. She’d awoken a bit more resigned and a bit more patient thanks to Faramir’s visit…or whatever it could be called, their connection through the dream world. Working with the stallion had calmed her, as well, making her feel more or less like normal.

It frightened her a little, the dreams and the connection, almost as much as it brought her comfort; Éowyn had always been taught not to pursue such things, to keep to the physical for fear of disturbing ghosts. Who was the other voice so like to Faramir’s? She frowned, smoothing her simple skirt. It was a soft shade of brown, the wool very pliable and worn fine with repeated washings. Under it she wore no more than a thin shift and delighted in the lack of skirts; and luckily the sleeves on this dress were normal, making it an utter pleasure to wear. Her darker hair hung over her shoulders and Éowyn looked at it happily; she liked the new color more every day. Yet at her side, Arwen glowed and sparkled, making her feel like a handmaid clothed all in dull browns. It is your own fault. If you care so much, unpack a finer gown, she thought, purposely admonishing herself as Rusco submitted. They began walking again; this time in silence with Arwen repeatedly checking the puppy’s attempts to either run ahead or halt altogether.

Éowyn thought to herself, frowning. All of her courtly gowns were neatly packed and ready, meaning her leaving necessitated only the packing of her daily clothing, inconsiderable possessions and the tying of a few loose ends. Her frown deepened and she played with her bracelet, looking at the stones as they glittered a bright teal green, the color shifting with her movements the way sunlight played on leaves. Éowyn was uncertain of how much longer she could hide her plans from Éomer; as it was, she’d have to keep him from her rooms. And Faramir…a stray thought could mean her discovery. She would have to be careful. However, as of last night there was one thing Éowyn was completely certain of—the moment she saw Faramir again, she would hug him so tightly that she might just squeeze the life out him…and she couldn’t wait. Buoyed merely by thinking of him, her frown disappeared and she stepped more lightly down the street.

Arwen walked alongside her holding the leash but the long strip of leather was slack now; Rusco’s head was turned at a sharp angle, his small jaws fixed on the lead. He ran sideways, panting and bounding in irate attempts to free himself. “My sweet little prince.” The Queen laughed, tugging the flapping leash. Laughing too, Éowyn was glad they were visiting the roan colt; she remembered she was allowing the men to release the late foals today and it would be the last time for Arwen to have an opportunity to see the colt she had helped save.

They pulled Rusco aside for a pony and cart to pass. The driver nodded to them and Éowyn returned the courtesy with a sunny smile. She glanced at the darkened aisle of the barn. “He’s grown big.”

Éowyn played with the dolphin pendant, fingers twisting it on the rawhide thong as she added, “He’s going to be a fine roan, too. So far he’s shed out to be a dark chestnut, almost crimson, with good, dark feet and good, strong bone over a nice frame.”

They walked a bit more, Rusco still fighting any attempt at leading before Arwen asked, “What will he do?”

She answered easily; the technique for bringing up the colts was always the same. “He’ll run free for another three years, and then when we round them up, if he’s grown enough in mind and body to handle it without strain, he’ll be trained for riding and to pull a cart. Then, if anyone wishes for him, he’ll be sold as one of Éomer’s herd or returned to the fields until he’s needed.”

Éowyn smiled, “No. There is no more war in the Mark, so he will not have to face battle…the most trying duty he could have is to be a messenger’s horse, but I do not think he’s built to run as fast as all that. He’s too thickset for true speed.”

The Queen gazed at her. “Perhaps messages won’t have to be delivered as urgently soon.”

She’d never considered that. Still merry from the thought of Faramir, Éowyn shook her head. “I don’t know.” Rusco pulled them off course, battling the leash with all of his small might. She laughed, gesturing at the dog, “If he were a man of my people, this would be a great and epic duel, renowned and told of in halls for men to marvel at.”

Arwen laughed, then voice firm, the Queen ordered, “Hótuli, Rusco.” The puppy scrabbled low against the ground, oversized feet braced and if he recognized the command, he did not obey it that Éowyn could see. “Lle olca…” Muttering, Arwen dragged him into the barn until his paws touched the swept floor and then he became interested in the smells, willingly trotting with them.

Curious at the lilt of the foreign words, she asked, “What did you say to him?” Éowyn smiled blissfully; when Faramir spoke elvish it always made her feel special and important like she’d never known before. They had passed into the shade of the stable; it was cool and smelled of horses and fresh hay from the lofts. She glanced up the ladder and remembered his unhappy words and the way his head had been so heavy in her lap, his hands touching her tear-slick face. His grey eyes had been unveiled in the gloom of the loft, naked, open and unafraid of showing himself in a way she could only yet admire. Oh, I miss him… Éowyn snorted; she was making herself sick again. I am a lovesick maid. Good grief, where is my brother to pull my hair or plant a spider on my arm or some such nonsense? She needed distraction, perhaps another hunt. Something dangerous. She would be forbidden to bring down dangerous beasts once she married Faramir, Éowyn was not fool enough to not realize that much. She smiled; the time limit on taking trophies like her bearskin was rapidly decreasing. What is dangerous? Boar? Wolves? She already had a bear.

“I said for him to come away.” Arwen smiled, shaking her head, “And then I called him wicked.” She looked inquiring; “Do you want to learn his commands?” The Queen frowned down at her dog, “You’ll probably master them long before he does…” Her voice turned sugary as she bent at the waist and prattled to Rusco, “You wicked little thing.” He jumped to stand on her gown and Arwen petted him.

The opportunity to learn some elvish intrigued her and Éowyn smiled back, “Yes.” Maybe Arwen would teach her a few phrases and she could surprise Faramir by learning something for him. That would be a change… Éowyn nodded eagerly, fingers on her bracelet, feeling the slants of the stones’ surfaces. She wanted to do something for him. “Yes, I would like that.” Rusco strained and Éowyn shook her head, “Give him to me.” She was curious to see the difference between teaching a dog and a horse to lead.

“Here.” Arwen looked almost grateful as she passed the leash and Éowyn took up the slack, not bothering to watch the dog fight the restraint.

She snapped the lead sharply to gain his attention. The puppy froze, frightened, but she did no more to discipline him. Éowyn watched him closely, planting her feet and holding herself very straight and tall. She was the dominant animal, not he, and it was time he learned it. She looked at Arwen, “What do you say to tell him he’s good?”

Éowyn was relieved the word was so easy. She spoke softly, pleasantly. “Mára, Rusco.” The puppy squirmed, pulling away but Éowyn didn’t budge, letting him fight it out and realize he was trapped and must be obedient. The bitch that had borne him would have snarled or snapped and shaken him for such behavior, the restraint of the leash was hardly torture. “What is the word to make him know he is to stand still?”

She nodded and waited the dog out. Panting, Rusco finally just stood and Éowyn bent, petting him and cooing with all her might as she repeated his word of praise slowly and clearly, wishing to fix it in his mind if she could. “Mára, mára…” The dog wagged his tail down low, pink tongue lolling. When he jumped up to stand on her leg, she pushed him back down. “No. I won’t pick you up. You have to walk.”

Éowyn just smiled. “Good. He won’t bother the colt, then. What’s the word to come with me?”

This word was strange, but none too hard to pronounce. Gathering the lead up, she said firmly, “Rusco…hótuli.” Éowyn began walking forward and she allowed no slack, forcing the dog to walk near her heels or be dragged. Rusco fought but in a weary sort of way as they walked into the open again, near the corrals she’d just left. The bay stallion looked at her, then down at the puppy, his eyes bright. Éowyn knew he would undoubtedly kill Rusco if he could reach him, whether in play or not, and kept well back. Horses in the fields of her land fought wolves and coyotes; they would not know the difference between the harmless puppy and a young wolf, nor care.

“Isn’t he big?” Rusco slumped against her leg and she nudged him away to stand on his own, and then reached to pat him. He was tired, little ribcage rising and falling with his panting breaths. Arwen scratched the roan colt through the corral fence and Éowyn smiled.

They didn’t know what to do now and Faramir smiled inwardly, not because he did, but because it amused him. Things didn’t go quite as they planned… The three men stood confounded; Oswyn’s face was dark red with impotent fury. His golden-furred jaw moved and he kept his fists clenched. The man who’d stood on his right looked relieved, the other merely indifferent. Faramir doubted the two would make any further effort at beginning a fight. They seemed to care too little, which made him wonder why they’d come in the first place.

Silence immersed the forest as no one moved, the tension gathering thicker and thicker, weighing on their shoulders. The five lads felt wary and strained to him and Faramir could sense the prevailing anxiousness behind the confident set of their youthful faces. They fidgeted, looking to him and he understood—they’d partly extricated him, but now he had to decide the next move. Tense seconds passing, Faramir tried to ignore his headache and think of some solution to this conflict, be it permanent or not, but one that involved his students not being injured in any way.

Abruptly, Wurth, who’d always been the boldest, must have decided to settle the prolonged stalemate. He bent and picked up one of the rocks; it was plenty large enough to do serious damage at such a short range and Faramir felt the immediate rise in stress within their group. Alert, he waited to see what Wurth would do and, at the same time, readied himself to command the lad against it. Rotating the rough, craggy stone in his hands, as though for all to see and appreciate its destructive ability, Wurth asked very quietly, “Láréow?” The boy turned a pointed gaze upon the three men, still cradling the rock in his grubby fingers.

Though mildly appalled at his willingness for violence, Faramir was, nonetheless, struck by the lad’s bravery. By his own admittance, Wurth was only fourteen and, though the largest of the five, he was no more than a boy just grown out of his childhood with long legs and a reedy, immature build. Oswyn’s shoulders alone made three of the lad.

Yet this boy, small and ineffective compared to the physical power of the three men that he faced, was willing to not just come to his aid, but also fight on his behalf. Faramir felt strange, chest full of emotion. How did I earn such loyalty? He was incredulous. None of his lessons had been so worthwhile, nor had he showered them with things of value. Their intentions came from their hearts and Faramir had no idea of how he’d garnered such earnest affections in such a short time.

“No.” He made up his mind. “Put it back.” Wurth frowned and Faramir repeated himself, voice gentler. “Put it back, Wurth.” The lads looked wary now, but Wurth did as he was asked, dropping the stone to clatter and roll at his feet. His expression was concerned; Faramir smiled at the boy, hoping to give him reassurance. He could not allow his young charges to be injured defending him, it was inexcusable, he was a man grown and they were but stripling youths. An irritated smile quirked his lips. Why does no one think I can care for myself? Bearing noble blood doesn’t mean I am a doddering idiot.

Oswyn was glaring at him, but with less certainty. Obviously he’d expected to be forced to retreat. The man’s attention was divided, watching both Faramir and his students. The lads gazed back, outwardly expressionless and composed while inwardly a mess of anger and nerves. Under the burden of their combined emotions, Faramir felt wearied; he took a deep breath, bolstering himself for a conflict. Squaring his shoulders, he demanded, “Hwa donne ge hete me?”

Once more it was the same baffling answer given through a snarling, momentarily powerless visage. “Ge wiston.” Yet Oswyn’s confidence was dropping. Faramir noted this while quietly and hastily thinking. What does that mean? The hatred could not be because he’d humiliated him; it had been there before, to provoke the first oral attack. Their fight in Edoras had no doubt been fuel for this surprise assault. You spoke ill of my mother, fool, what did you expect? At the thought, Faramir felt his anger return, butting out all weariness.

Flatly, he spoke again. “Ic nà do…” Searching for the word, he finished. “Gyman ge ond eower hete.” All the Rohirric was a great strain on his limited vocabulary but he made himself smile confidently and willingly as he stepped forward and taunted, “Ge mægest cuman ond bist beatan…” Faramir’s smile widened as the colder fury returned to him, burning icily within his chest, “Eft.” He felt himself stand taller, muscles tensing, heart beating swifter in anticipation. You are lucky you did not face my brother…he would have slain you in the courtyard within full sight of all…

Oswyn stiffened, anger in his eyes. He cursed him fiercely and elaborately, in the process giving Faramir many new words, but ones that he highly doubted he would have occasion to use. My, my, my…

Ignoring the Rider and projecting his deep disregard for all the threats being hurled his way, Faramir turned to his students. Still in their semi-circle, they looked up in such a simultaneously morose and defiant silence that it made him lose his wrath and heave a sigh of frustration. They wished to help, he could read it within their eyes and yet, that was the last thing he would allow. Commanding, Faramir said firmly. “Stand well back and do not come to my aid, do you understand?”

They looked surlier now, answering with clear reluctance and most not meeting his gaze. “Gea.”

Hoping to soften his order, he added, “Thank you” and inclined his head to them, showing his respect as one man to another as he met the eyes, one by one, of those that would. Then he returned his attention to the giant blonde man who awaited it. Again, Faramir squared his stance, bracing himself and attempting to ignore his aches. He would soon have more, anyhow. Rohan was a rough place to live; it was a wonder any men survived to old age. Lifting his chin, he challenged, “Com ond fiht.”

Oswyn did not. He appeared suddenly unwilling, staring at him, then more suspiciously at the lads. Wurth’s jaw was clenched; Scef looked angrier than Faramir ever believed the shy boy could be. The five watched with such dark expressions that he suddenly questioned their obedience. From Oswyn’s hesitation, he guessed the Rider was doing the same. There were many rocks still at his student’s feet, clearly stock-piled and well within their range. Making eye contact with Wurth, the lad most likely to step forward and act, Faramir frowned discouragingly and then stepped forward himself, prepared to carry the fight to Oswyn. He’d had enough of this nonsense.

Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw Scef move, a precursor to bending for a stone, and Faramir stopped short, looking at the boy warily. Heart jumping in his chest, he was suddenly frightened—if they began throwing rocks again he could not guarantee the Rohirrim would not charge the lads. His three opponents had done the same, eyeing the boys, and the two men behind Oswyn became alarmed. None of the five met his gaze; he felt their guilt and he opened his mouth to command them again, more sternly this time, “Did I not say…?”

Suddenly, the man who’d been averse to fighting all along broke his position, stepping backwards. His words were slow and thick, but spoken in the Common Tongue. “I have no quarrel with you.”

Cautiously surprised, Faramir did not respond and the man retreated still, calling to the other in a low voice. After a moment, he too retreated and Oswyn’s companions left him alone. The Rider watched them move away through the wood, and then turned back. He looked furious, yet increasingly doubtful.

Faramir was almost sympathetic to the fact that Oswyn’s companions would not stand with him. The man’s distress was acute, pricking his mind, but he pushed his empathy away, focusing on his anger. Undoubtedly the ill-mannered Rider deserved to be abandoned. If he treats others as he treats me…

The woods were quiet and Faramir stood his ground, simply waiting. He could force an attack now, but he would rather wait until he did not hurt so much and his students were not nearby. As the silence mounted, Oswyn broke, taking a small step backwards and giving ground even as he spat, “Ge ná wilt habban hira helm awa.”

His abrupt lack of aggression seemed to puzzle the Rider and, face confused, Oswyn retreated just a bit more, another scrap of earth opening between them. Feeling his resentment of the entire situation, Faramir decided to taunt again, gesturing at the man derisively, “Hwa eart ge gan?”

The burly Rider looked at the five lads. “Ic ná donne neodlaðu bealo híe.”

That was his excuse. Unfortunately, once he translated it, it was the only one Faramir would accept freely. He, too, had serious misgivings about the boys’ willingness to not interfere. They are my responsibility… “Ic eom leof.” He thought quickly of the words, asking, “Ærdæg…o…oðer?” Another day would give him time to recover and strategize. And he will not come upon me again unannounced…

Oswyn narrowed his eyes; suspicion was the dominant emotion within his mind, second only to rage. “Gea.”

“Ic wille cuman mid nænig. Ge?” Faramir gave his students a stern glance. They frowned, Scef glancing at Wurth, almost as though they were co-conspirators in some plot. Faramir eyed them; he’d thought Feohtan and Wurth were better friends than Wurth and Scef. Or even Leodthain… Clearly, something had changed within his group of pupils.

That settled, Faramir turned away, motioning his students with him. Side aching from the kick he’d suffered he tried not to limp. “Come.” He and they had much to discuss.

He took them deeper into the wood, casting out his mind the best he could and making sure they were alone before finding a convenient rock to rest upon. Faramir set himself on it gingerly, brushing aside bits of leaves. Inside the small grove he’d chosen, his students followed suit, some cross-legged, some just more or less dropping sullenly to the ground. Wurth was one of those and Faramir met the boy’s eyes with difficulty, noting them flinty and dark with anger. He looked at them all, wondering where and how to begin. “Thank you.”

None replied; Feohtan was pulling up weeds, Scef was staring at his boots, Wurth was glowering into the distance and the nameless lad and Leodthain were more nervously focusing upon other things.

Eventually Scef answered, though he did not lift his head. It was a mumble, “Master Gaer.”

That made Faramir both smile and have a great urge to strike his redheaded friend. The care infuriated him…how dare he…and yet made his heart warm. Gaer did worry, even if overmuch. He leaned his elbows on his thighs, absently scratching under his beard and wincing whenever he hit a bruise. “What did he say to you?”

“This morning…while you slept he said not to let you go alone, that you would be unwell.” The lad played with the frayed hem of his shirt. “He said that man…would come soon and that you didn’t believe him. He said that if we wanted a good teacher we needed to watch out for you…especially today because you would be weaker from drink.” Scef glanced up and the clear fierceness in the boy’s normally reticent gaze made Faramir’s heart swell, “He called the man a coward, said he would try and beat you when you couldn’t defend yourself properly…but that you wouldn’t let him come with you—and we must keep watch.”

At once amused, touched and incredibly angered by this recounting, Faramir nodded. Despite his emotions, he kept his tone even as a teacher should. Gaer had called him a good one, after all. “He was right…I suppose.” He rubbed his face, not sure how to go about admonishing them for helping him. It didn’t feel very fair, but…I don’t want them to be hurt trying to help me again. Their actions had been out of the rightness of their young hearts, and if this event were any indication then they would grow to be good, valiant men. But that is long in the future…and he couldn’t let them fight for or with him no matter how much they wished to stand by his side. For a second time Faramir thought in bewilderment, how did I earn such loyalty? He took a deep breath. “I thank you very much but…”

“You think we are…we eart bearn.” The last word was spit with such distaste that it silenced him. Wurth was livid, on his feet in an instant, fists held tightly by his sides. The other four looked up, their features a mix of anger, nervousness and a kind of youthful desperation that Faramir barely remembered.

He answered gently, feeling like he was walking the edge of some precipice. “Yes, I do…but that is because you are.”

He tightened his hands, interlacing the fingers and squeezing out of frustration, which of course, hurt. “Yes, you did. But…”

Scef interrupted. “But what, Láréow?” The boy looked saddened, sitting cross-legged on the forest floor.

“But…” Faramir shifted on the rock, unlocking his hands and running them through his messy hair. His face itched fiercely under his beard; he was about tired of the novelty of it. Sighing, he appealed to their common sense. “But you must know you cannot help me.”

Wurth frowned. “But we did. We saw them and gathered rocks as we followed your trail…” Pride touched his young face, “They did not hear us.”

“Yes…” He’d not had such confidant interactions with children before and it frustrated him. They would not listen. “That’s very good…but…”

“You don’t know that. Wurth…” Faramir groaned, “You, whether you like it or not, are just lads and you are my charges, I am not yours. I appreciate you caring about my welfare and coming to my aid but you mustn’t do it again.”

“I plan on speaking with him. He did what he thought was right…and it was this time.” How dare he put them in the path of danger? Infuriated, he struggled to keep his voice calm and not to insult them, “I assure you, I can care for myself.” Faramir smiled, trying to lighten their tone of their conversation. “Remember? Ealdor? I have seen battle and survived.”

There was only a moody silence from his pupils. Bird song floated from tree to tree, circling aimlessly, light and trilling, pleasantly filling and contrasting the strained hush. He closed his eyes, wishing for Éowyn and some peaceful place alone where he could relax. The gardens of Minas Tirith had never seemed so appealing.

But he was far from her side and far from his home, so he opened his eyes and stared at his seated student’s bent heads and the standing Wurth’s tense profile. As far as Faramir was concerned, the conversation was over. Trying for enthusiasm, he slapped his thighs and rose, wincing at his many aches and pains, “Now, Master Gaer was wanting something to eat.” He glanced at them each in turn, still seeing only varying shades of flaxen hair adorning their bowed or turned away heads, dirty hands busying themselves nervously, and disheveled clothing. Noting their emotive state—anger, dejection, worry and gigantic frustration, Faramir tried to offer them some sort of amends. He did very much adore these five young Rohirrim. “What do you think we should fetch him?”

All the long way back, they trudged behind him and he occasionally heard whispers, but Faramir did his best not to eavesdrop, instead focusing his attention on the rough path in front of himself. The growing sound of the stream was soothing; he could picture it chuckling and leaping with its bright water glimmering. Pushing his way through the trees and brush, Faramir was startled; he had company. A sense of mischief arose in him and he gestured to the lads to be silent. He did not ache so much that he couldn’t steal up on a man and this man’s reactions to displays of stealth were always amusing. He glanced back at the five.

He inched a little further out on his perch, trying not to fall into the water. His shirt was disgustingly soiled and he wasn’t about to wear it again without a good washing. He could have another do it, of course, but then all he would have to occupy himself was watching the men unload the carts. I prefer this…there were definite disadvantages to being a King rather than a Marshal, for one, nearly all things were considered beneath him, leaving him with far too much idle time.

The rock’s surface was slick with waterlogged moss and grey-green slime; he watched his footing closely, carefully moving further out. Balancing on the soles of his feet, Éomer bent down to dangle his shirt into the running water. He’d have to get closer to wash it, but a good soak wouldn’t hurt, either. Wrinkling his nose, he studied the stain. It had come from Faramir leaning against him as they’d left the inn, he was sure of that; he’d half-carried the inebriated Steward out. What he was unsure of was what exactly the stain was from and so, Éomer dipped the garment in and out of the stream, trying to soak it.

At the greeting, alarmingly close, Éomer jumped, with the shock of it running down his spine. He twisted, trying to spin and face the voice but, with a coarse scraping noise, his boots slipped on the moss that covered the rocks and he slid ankle-deep into the stream. Arms flailing for balance, staggering, he came precariously close to going down all the way but caught himself just in time. Cold wetness rushed to nip his feet, slowly wicking up his trousers and he yelped indignantly, stumbling to a halt in a spray of water.

There was a quick burst of all too familiar laughter behind him, making him flush with embarrassment and annoyance.

Sloppily, water and mud churning a broad, brown swath in the clear stream, he turned to face the voice and scowled. Standing on the pebble-strewn bank, Faramir blinked innocently with not a trace of laughter in sight except, of course, for the dancing of his eyes. His mouth twitched, but he managed to sound reasonably sober. “I’m sorry.” The five lads were behind him, watching; Éomer noted some were trying fiercely not to laugh. When Faramir glanced back, he looked pleased by their half-hidden smiles.

The Steward gave a tiny shake of his head, looking smug as he assured. “Of course I am.” He laughed and stepped forward onto the rock, leaning out to offer a hand. “Here,” Faramir smiled, “I truly didn’t mean to—”

Unthinkingly, he saw the opening and took it with only a fleeting moment of appreciation. Éomer stepped forward and grabbed Faramir by the proffered wrist, wrapping his fingers tight and using both hands for maximum leverage. He jerked as hard as he could, twisting himself to the side to pull the man past him and throw him outward into space. The Steward, wide-eyed and unprepared, slipped the same as he had and staggered forward off-balance, splashing wildly as he landed in the water. Laughing at Faramir’s very astounded, open-eyed expression, Éomer planted a hand on the center of his back and shoved him hard in hopes, but the man recovered just in time to avoid falling. Water flew up around them as he retreated and the Steward awkwardly collected his feet.

Amused anyhow, he laughed, trudging and splashing exorbitantly up the bank; the lads scattered out of his path like birds. Pretending to be more irritable than he was, and he was somewhat, thanks to his feet being wet, Éomer asked, “What are you doing here?” He carried his drenched shirt, watching it drip as he walked. There were sloshing noises behind him, but no answer.

Once more on dry ground, he stamped his flooded boots uselessly and managed a grin, turning—Faramir was watching him and looking fairly well rebuked as he wiped water from his face and shook his dripping hands. Éomer smiled a little, feeling peculiar as it faded. His rowdy conduct was of that of a closer friend than he felt he was yet; he felt the need for distance, afraid he’d shown too much and, with difficulty, made himself stand where he was without fidgeting. Jesting and trying his best at casual fellowship, he asked, “Besides making me miserable?”

The Steward looked at him, face so peevish that it made Éomer smile more naturally; the man had no right to be irritable, it was only in the interest of fairness that he’d pulled him into the stream. Catching sight of the five lads’ expressions and noting their repressed smiles, Éomer chuckled. It was in the interest of entertainment and retaliation that he’d shoved him with all of his might. Faramir glanced at his students before he answered. “Fishing.”

Both Faramir and his students’ hands were empty. He frowned as the man plodded slowly back up to dry land, squishing and squelching all the way. “With what?”

Faramir kneeled and was taking off his sodden boots now; his voice was muffled. “No, most of the hooks we still have…Leodthain…” He looked up, “Wilst ge geton se…?” The Steward’s face went blank and he made a fist, bumping it gently against his thigh. Éomer gazed at him expectantly.

As the boy trotted off back to camp, he smiled a little, needling this time in play, “Did you make those out of rocks?”

Faramir looked up long enough to say humorlessly, “Wood.” One sopping, dirty boot off and working on the laces of the other, he twisted his torso and jerked his darkly bearded chin towards a stand of small trees. “Juniper.”

Faramir paused to give him a strange look, a smile rising on his lips. “You find and cut a twig of a certain thickness and shape, then trim it to a point and a nock to hold the line.”

“Oh.” Curiosity satisfied, Éomer lifted up his wet shirt and eyed it skeptically. The stain was dark and hadn’t budged. He grimaced as his boots squelched, but endured them; the lack would mean mincing daintily and painfully across the pebble-strewn bank. That was something that apparently didn’t bother Faramir one bit as, leaving his boots and socks to dry, the Steward made his way, walking very gingerly on his pale, sun-starved feet. Behind them both, the five younger Rohirrim were busily fashioning something with long-bladed grass. Lines from grass, Éomer thought and snorted. Faramir wasn’t so smart, not at all. I could make better line and faster just by… His thoughts were interrupted by the Steward’s question. “What are you doing?”

He lifted the garment again, this time for emphasis. “Washing you out of my shirt.”

“This,” Gripping the shirt in both hands and holding it up, Éomer pointed with an index finger at the stain, “Is you.” He cocked his head, “You don’t remember me hauling you out of the inn, holding you up all the way?” Suddenly, he chuckled. “Or me trying to help you onto that grey nag they told you was a suitable horse? You fell off twice,” Éomer gave him a darker look, “Once on me.” He grimaced, remembering. It had not been a pleasant experience—the drooling, muttering man leaning against him, too weak to push himself up. He’s lucky I didn’t just leave him there to find his way back in the morning.

“No.” Faramir shook his head, and chuckled. He smiled ruefully; “I don’t even remember fighting.”

“No?” Éomer laughed and began moving away from where the lads were standing; he didn’t want to scare the fish, though he really didn’t see any large enough to catch here. “You lost.” And how…he chuckled in remembrance. Faramir hadn’t been lacking in enthusiasm, merely equilibrium, staggering all over the place and missing his holds. He’d slid to the floor eventually, ending the match in an undignified fashion that few of the men would forget. He laughed out loud in delight, lifting his head to the afternoon sky. The man from the village had been half-holding Faramir up, his face both puzzled and exasperated.

Éomer snickered, pointing at him in a warning that might or might not have been grimmer than he let on; even he wasn’t sure. “Don’t you dare read my mind again.” He felt laughter bubbling every time he thought of Faramir going limp and sliding down out of his opponent’s grip, certainly unconscious before he even hit the dirty tavern floorboards. Éomer chuckled again, deeply contented by the memory.

“I know.” The reply was deadpanned, making Éomer smile again and out of the corner of his eye he saw Faramir was smiling, too, as he said tolerantly. “I heard.” The Steward chuffed out a good-natured laugh. “Gaer couldn’t wait to tell me.”

Suddenly he remembered his earlier thought and gestured at the lads. “They don’t have to do all that.”

Very satisfied, he said. “Horse hair.” Faramir just looked puzzled. Pleased by knowing something the man didn’t, Éomer elaborated, “You make the lines from horse hair, they’ll be stronger and you’ll be able to use them again. It’s easy and faster; just brush a tail out, maybe two, and you’ll have plenty.” The Steward glanced at his students, and then back to him and the man’s artlessly astonished expression made it clear as to just what he thought of Éomer’s intellect. He thinks I know nothing…that it is amazing I can even dress myself.

Slightly hurt and defensive, he added, “It is what my folk do… sometimes, when we are in need.” The Steward did not reply and Éomer fell quiet, awkward as he kneeled by the stream and began sloshing his clothing in the water, rubbing it vigorously between his doubled fists. Frowning to himself and ignoring Faramir the best he could, he lifted the shirt and glared at the stain. The edges had blurred, but otherwise it was annoyingly stubborn.

“Éomer?” When he turned his head, Faramir pointed at the shirt and smiled broadly, his manner almost placating as he looked him in the eyes. “Soapwort. It’s over there; you see the plant with the rounded leaves by the water’s edge? Clean the root and pound it against the rocks.” He was still smiling, but this time his foreign accent was tempered with hope. “It makes soap.”

Éomer looked down at his soiled shirt and spoke quietly. “Thank you.” When he lifted his head again, Faramir was already moving away.

After his tense morning, Faramir planned to spend the rest of his day as simply as possible. He would give the fish to the Riders and eat his share of the meal, watch and carefully supervise his students as they trimmed the feathers from his arrow shafts, and rest quietly as much as he could. The arrows… Glue would have to be made, and could be easily by boiling the skins and bones of the fish they caught today, but the project was all but finished.

At the moment, he was standing knee-deep in the pool, damp trousers rolled high, and watching the coarse line float gently in the translucent water. The worm on the end of his crude hook had stopped wriggling long before and he stood very still, watching the pale, wavery shapes of fish in the deeper, more sheltered parts of the pool. Most hid in the shadows of rocks or fallen branches. Darting and drifting, the fish swam unconcernedly; it had been long since he’d moved and his legs, he imagined, were but interestless pieces of wood to them. They felt cold in the water and he wished to stamp them but confined himself to wiggling his toes, making silt float cloudily upwards. Patience was a great virtue in a Ranger and instilled from the beginning; Faramir wondered how and if he could teach patience to his young Rohirric charges. Patience and their proper place in the scheme of things…my students, not my defenders.

Delicately, he jiggled the line, making the quiescent worm dance, and then letting it drift further from where he stood. Wrapped sturdily around his wrists, the line was short and the worm halted its progress about four feet away, small, pallid body twisting with the gentle movements of the water.

Faramir felt peaceably happy for the first time that day, his headache had receded to a dull pulse and the discomfort of his warmed muscles had lessened considerably. The afternoon sun was bright, lighting even the depths of the clear pool well. Nearby, his students were occupied with various duties—fishing in parts of the pool and gutting the caught fish. Their mood had improved only slightly when compared to his own and that worried him some. What else could I have done or said?

Nothing came to mind, so Faramir let his attention float, following a bird as it winged gracefully across the blue sky, scrutinizing the tracks of a small animal near the water’s edge and admiring the rough beauty of the land around him. The tracks came from some lesser creature; a fox he guessed, and led from the place they’d last gutted the fish. Faramir was quietly amused and wondered if the little beast would return in hopes of another meal.

The tall grass was yellowed everywhere but near the water and there it shone a jewel-green, rising in thick, unruly clumps; around and under the rocks there were more tiny clusters of grass that were protected from the sun’s fury and still lush. Undergrowth was thick, parted down low with the trails of small game, and the great heaped and tumbled rocks were cracked and broken from surviving winters’ wrath for longer than he thought he could truly conceive of.

Faramir imagined the pool iced over and the trees bent from snow, the rocks hidden by drifts; the warm sun did little to help and he was glad it was not yet the height of harvest time. The boulders surrounding the pool did remind him fiercely of Henneth Annûn and his earlier thought came back—do I miss the days of war?

No. He didn’t at all. Reassured, Faramir smiled faintly. There were things he did mourn, though, and his brother’s presence was at the uppermost. His smile changed, became more melancholy and he twitched the line again, feeling its roughness against the palms of his hands. There had been rare times when his father’s praise had overflowed, touching him, too, and he’d been very happy. My father…Faramir was uncertain if what he grieved for was what had truly been or merely what might have been or both.

Trying to banish his unhappy mood, he wondered what his life would be like by winter. More of the same, he thought, in serving Aragorn and his City, plus new experiences in the organizing the building of Ithilien and the managing of its government where he would be lord and master, subservient only to Aragorn and that at a distance. This, too, would be new, as he’d never controlled such a potentially large amount of property, livestock and folk. Wedding Éowyn…he twitched the line again, thinking about her longingly. He thought that at the moment he wished most to hear her voice, to have her sing to him as she’d done once in her bed. Faramir glanced at himself, noting bruises and scrapes. He’d been in rather bad shape, then, too.

And once we are wed, I will have help…or rather, I should say she will have help with Ithilien…he smiled and lost all sense of despondency. Faramir sighed contentedly and made the drowned worm dance. He still had to mention that to her and, to Éomer, Gaer’s wishes. Surely the man wouldn’t object, he had plenty of Riders.

There was a shout and a familiar face came over the little hill that obscured the pool. His mental capabilities were almost back to normal with the waning of his headache; before the Rider came quite into sight, he easily discerned it was Gaer. Feeling a mix of pleasure to see his friend and rising irritation at what said friend had imposed upon his students, Faramir looked at the pile of cleaned fish. It wasn’t enough, but he gathered up his empty line, speaking directly to the nearest boy, Leodthain. “Ge canst ætstandan.” He got a nod in response, but no eye contact and the feel of their minds was still dispirited. Faramir frowned, displeased and wishing for the return of his boisterous students. He was at a loss on how to cheer them since not even spooking Éomer had worked for more than a few minutes.

Gaer strode down the hill, steering around the rocks in a wandering path and gazing about before he settled to look at Faramir. “Here you are.”

Splashing onto the bank and picking up his still-wet boots, Faramir echoed more testily, “Here I am.” He took a breath, forcing his resentment down and spoke evenly as he handed Gaer a string of gutted fish, the grass line threaded through their gills. “Carry this?”

“All right.” The redheaded Rider took the fish willingly, and then leaned closer, voice confidential. His pale eyes were fixed keenly on Faramir’s. “What is it?” The five lads hefted their own loads and paused, waiting. Faramir waved them onwards impatiently as Gaer frowned, “What?”

His anger broke free, emerging from his throat into a protective growl. Faramir jerked his head at the lads as they walked ahead of them, just cresting the little hill, and said low and furious, “You told them to watch out for me.”

The Rider scoffed, “No, they’re not.” He swung the line of fish over his shoulder and shifted his feet. “They’re men of our land, just untried as of yet.”

He ground his teeth, disgusted and plucked up his waterlogged socks, sticking them into his boots in sharp, irritated movements. “But…”

But Gaer had a question. “When is a boy a man in the South?” He’d asked it firmly enough to momentarily redirect their conversation and Faramir shook his head, impatient and frustrated.

“I don’t know…it’s different for some…” He’d not been acknowledged a man until his eighteenth year, but boys of the lower classes worked adult hours much earlier.

“See?” His friend looked gratified, “You keep forgetting that you,” Faramir got poked in the chest and was none too pleased about it. He showed it with a dark glare that didn’t seem to impress his Rohirric friend, just as none of the many preceding dark glares had. “Are not in the South any more.”

He grumbled back, “No, I’m not. But they’re just lads and you can’t expect them to fight for me…”

“Of course not.” Gaer frowned at him and he sensed the redheaded man’s immediate apprehension. The feeling somewhat mollified his wrath and Faramir answered righteously,

“Oswyn?” He huffed, eyes trained downwards. They spoke in hasty, expressive whispers now, the five Rohirrim walking ahead.

“Yes. Why? Do I have any other enemies?” He struggled to keep up, picking his way painfully over the sharper rocks and cursed his notion of frightening Éomer. The end result wasn’t worth his brief amusement from the man’s yelping and wetted boots. Of course…he pondered for a moment, thinking of the dazzling grin that had alighted on the man’s face as he’d yanked him forward into the stream. Éomer grinning like that was unusual; perhaps his misery was worth something at any rate.

Tactfully matching strides, Gaer looked up and almost smiled. “Not that I know of.”

Faramir replied sourly. “Good.” They walked in silence; Éomer was still at the stream, though he appeared finished. The Lord of the Mark glanced at him curiously and Faramir halted. Curt, he said, “Gaer wishes to come with me.”

“The City. When I leave.” He softened his tone; aware the subject had greatly disturbed Éomer the night before. Careful, do not lose him…he’d made great progress, obviously, and Faramir was anxious not to undo it.

Luckily, Éomer merely looked baffled by the request. He shrugged, holding his sopping shirt in one wrinkled hand. “How long?”

Faramir didn’t know and when he looked at Gaer, the Rohir just shook his head. “Until he tires of it.”

Éomer took a second to examine Gaer, eyeing him skeptically and shrugged again. “All right.”

Gaer was grinning and even beginning to whistle as they walked onwards but Faramir stopped him with a coolly spoken, “You told them to watch out for me this morning, correct?”

He sighed, and then replied crossly, “They came to my aid, drove him and two others off with stones…”

Faramir gave him a disconcerted look, “No, not good…they are not to be involved, they might be injured. I’ve told them this, now you must,” He glanced sideways, gloomily, and snorted, “Since you assigned them guard duty in the first place; they are too young.”

He’d stepped forward, but now he halted and asked roughly, “Why not?” Impatient, Faramir snapped, “Give me a reason.”

“Because…” Gaer frowned, swinging the fish; the lads were out of sight now. “This man wants to hurt you…you said he brought two others. What stops him from doing the same again?”

“You trust his word?” It was incredulous and Gaer’s face showed his clear perplexity. “Why?”

Faramir could not reply that Oswyn’s mind had not felt false to him, simply doubting, miserable and full of rage. Frustrated, he said only, “Yes…and I can’t explain.”

“Then you are a fool.” Gaer sounded angry now as they trudged slowly along the stream; “Like I’ve said before.”

Head down, Faramir picked his way around rocks, feeling the warm earth and soft grass on the soles of his feet; normally the sensation would have soothed him, but he was too annoyed. Tight and restrained, he answered. “Perhaps.”

A third and familiar voice grimly invaded their low conversation; it held strong tones of alarm and of budding fury. “What man did this?”

They’d forgotten about Éomer and the Lord of the Mark had followed them unawares along the rock-strewn bank. He has more stealth than I imagined…he was fleetingly amused.

Turning to include the man, Faramir clenched his teeth, sighing through his locked jaw and shifted his grip on his boots. The last thing he needed was another body with whom to argue. What was it with the folk in Rohan? Why couldn’t they just let him be? Forcibly, he answered, “No one.”

“Who?” To his surprise Éomer was angered, even actively interested in his response. The man’s eyes were fixed on him, his attention purposely and completely focused, as though he considered the danger shared and not belonging to Faramir alone. His sheer concentration was unprecedented, since never once had Éomer showed half this attentiveness in all their interaction. He looked like a man standing full ready to jump to battle at the cry of a horn…or my whimper of abuse…

Reading and interpreting this mentality, Faramir was further aggravated. He took a deep breath, feeling the air fill his chest and then whoosh outwards. The movement did nothing to dispel his ire. How many times must I make this clear…? “It is my concern alone.”

The Lord of the Mark was ready for him, however, and renounced his statement bluntly, “Foolishness. You are my kinsman, it is my concern as well.” Between them, Gaer nodded staunchly, his face pleased. The still wet fish swung gently from his hand and the reflections off their scales sent out tiny, brilliant flashes to bounce off their clothes.

Unfortunately, Faramir’s temper overrode any feeling of sentiment that remark might have given him and he spat back, ill humored, “Since when?”

The Lord of the Mark recoiled, though it was entirely mental; physically Éomer only looked distressed, an instant’s flash of hurt moving over his earnest features before they became more resigned and even grew angered again. His stance changed and became more determined as his voice lowered, turning vehement, nigh unto furious. “You think I wish my sister upset by you returning to her injured?” He shifted again, lowering his eyes briefly, and his next words were uttered more awkwardly and in a softer, less confident tone, “You think I wish to see you injured?”

Pointedly, he replied, “I do not want or need your concern.” Faramir gave Gaer a severe look, “Either of you.”

There was a sense of unease from Éomer; a vast discomfort vying with other emotions before his tone changed to became more authoritative. “What you want does not matter in this.”

Faramir felt himself stiffening in place as he recognized the threat—the man was willing to call rank on him. How dare he? How dare he? I am his superior; I outrank him in lineage, in wealth, in my very instruction as a warrior, a Ranger, a noble… “It doesn’t?” He spoke deliberately lightly, making sure Éomer understood. Gaer looked back and forth between them, features alarmed.

The Lord of the Mark hesitated only once, his eyes flickering with warring emotions and then said firmly, “It does not.” Faramir’s fury must have shown on his face because the man’s voice softened immediately and became more reasonable. He gestured anxiously with his empty hand, “You could get hurt if you were outnumbered again and…I won’t have that.” He shifted his feet like an awkward boy, “I won’t, no matter what you wish.” Éomer hesitated again before adding even more gently and almost dismally, there was a strange combination of confusion and disappointment in his question, “Do you not care about Éowyn’s feelings if you return to her wounded or not at all?”

Guilt struck, but was quickly shoved aside by his anger. Does he think I fall so easily? Faramir’s free hand was in a fist, tightly clenched by his side but somehow he sounded fairly calm. “I care.”

The Lord of the Mark’s relief was palpable, as was the earnest good will in his face. “Then tell me his name and I will have him returned to Edoras this day,” For a moment he stared into the distance but quickly brightened, “And sent to find Elfhelm, to gather any messages and serve in his patrols. It is a valid duty and none will know or suspect any…”

He was not a coward and he would not have Éomer send away his enemies; Faramir was enraged by the mere notion, the reasonable cast of Éomer and Gaer’s features and their obvious expectance of his agreement. “No.”

“Why not?” It was frustrated and dimly, Faramir was aware of the irony—Éomer, of all people, was trying to talk sense into him. “Tell me why you refuse. It is…not wise…and,” Again he hesitated, voice nervous but ultimately firming. “I won’t allow you to fight him, Faramir.”

He felt slighted; none of the Rohirrim had acknowledged his fully earned station as a warrior, from Gaer’s flippant remark about sleeping through the battle of Pelennor to Oswyn taunting him about hiding behind Éowyn’s skirts. The situation was intolerable and his fury overflowed at last as Faramir hissed, “Do you not think I can fight? That I cannot defend myself?”

Éomer stared at him in confusion. He shook his head rapidly, making his flaxen mane fly from one broad shoulder to the other. “No. No.” He frowned, still sounding angered, but far more confused, “Why…why are you acting so…?”

Bitterly, he answered. “Why not?” None respected him in this land. My fight won me esteem of sorts, striking him won me friendship of sorts…what else am I to learn from these lessons? He’d always been a good student and the instruction given within the Mark was simple enough, violence = recognition and approval.

Faramir stepped forward, right into the other man’s space, locking eyes. He felt Éomer lean backwards though his feet didn’t move, felt the man’s intense discomfort as he challenged furiously, almost snarling the words, “Then what is it that you think? Wouldn’t it make you happier if I got myself wounded?”

Éomer blinked at him, frowning and giving the tiniest shake of his head; by their side, Gaer was forgotten.

His eyes narrowed as cold suspicion flooded his mind, “Isn’t that what you’ve desired to happen all along? You keep telling me how you wish I were less and that I would leave…yet you’ve found that I’m not and I won’t. Shouldn’t you be aiding this man so that you’ll have your sister all to yourself again, you selfish child playing at being a King…”

Faramir became quieter; barely able to breathe with the fury that filled him as he said very coldly; dripping with sarcasm, his words were meant to injure. “Perhaps you paid him to hate me.”

There was a beat of pure silence; in it he felt their shock and he continued in the tone of a man who’d suddenly come to some great conclusion.

“That would explain his hate and, since your folk fight for money, this would be nothing more than another duty for him, wouldn’t it? Scaring away the man you don’t want marrying your sister while you begin to act rational and friendly so as to disarm my suspicions?” He chuckled discordantly and felt a sneer curl his lips, “It fits well enough. Tell me, how much gold did you promise—”

From his mind there was only the instant’s warning of some great flare of revulsion before Éomer hit him in the mouth hard enough to rock him back on his heels. It was open-handed, a blow meant to hurt but not seriously injure and much like the blow he’d given the man the night before. Faramir broke off, putting a hand to his face as the Lord of the Mark hissed; “Idiot! You think you know what I want?” His voice had turned thick with wrath, Rohirric accent blurring the words even as they became louder. “You think you know what I want?”

Gaer’s pale eyes went wide and he started, quickly stepping forward with his hands raised, “My Lords…please!” Tossing the line of fish aside to slap the rocky ground, the Rider begged, “Please…do not!”

The Lord of the Mark glanced sideways; it was black and forceful enough to make Gaer silence abruptly, though his face remained deeply worried. He looked back and forth, watching with a growing expression of dread. Flushed with anger, Éomer straightened and bellowed, raising his fists as he dropped his wet shirt. “You want to fight? Then come!”

Faramir blinked. What had possessed him? Am I mad? What was he doing ruining every bit of progress he’d made—and by looks of the hard sparks in Éomer’s eyes, and the feel of how the man was so exceedingly, incredibly, almost raving with fury now, that was exactly what he was doing. Skin afire from the blow, Faramir regained a little of his composure and, still taken aback at his own words, he scoffed disgustedly. “I am…” He felt himself calming and even growing ashamed. Why…I don’t even think that, why did I say that? “I am not going to…” Somehow this man always made him lose control.

Éomer’s features flickered again; Faramir sensed emotions too swift for him to interpret and then his voice turned as coldly condescending as his had been a moment before. “Ætywan me, Lytle Bregu! Ætywan me ge canst!”

All of his chagrin vanished as he dropped his boots to the ground and did, barely conscious of Gaer’s panicked yells and hasty, but failing attempts to pry them apart before they tumbled to the rough ground.

No one called him that; after nearly two weeks in the Mark, his tolerance for insulting nicknames had reached its limits.

After a few seconds of struggling to maintain his footing, the force of the Steward’s charge threw Éomer backward; the rocks that lined the stream’s banks were painfully hard, poking into his back and body. He thrashed, finding himself in the unique situation of being in a fight with a man that he really did and yet did not wish to hurt. Faramir was less inhibited, fists tightly balled and hitting hard whenever they struck their mark, which was often.

Fortunately, the man knew nothing of wrestling and when they hit the ground, his own limited experience quickly proved worthwhile. His sister had been his best teacher, as Éomer, a quickly growing lad, had found that while she could kick, bite, scratch and thrash with abandon, he might truly hurt her doing the same. She’d been five years younger and many pounds lighter but Éowyn could fight as well as any boy, even better as she had mastered very early the crippling strike to the groin that had sent Éomer into a yielding ball of excruciating pain every time. So he’d compensated with Théodred’s amused help, trading blows for holds to pin her until she gave up and slaps for a fistful of her long hair to gain advantage yet not truly hurt his beloved little sister. Éowyn had soon renounced full-out brawls, becoming cleverer. This had posed more problems but he’d not had to worry about accidentally harming her.

This was much the same, he thought abstractly, trying to keep Faramir from bashing his face in. He kept his arm up, blocking as much as he could while trying to gain a good enough hold to pin the man. Irritatingly, Faramir’s smaller physique hampered this, the South man being too squirmy and wiggly to grab and Éomer settled for jabbing his forearm upwards and catching the man hard on the underside of his rough chin.

Faramir was thrust backwards and half off of him, falling onto his back and immediately twisting, preparing to rise again; Éomer scrambled to his knees and saw an opportunity to use the Steward’s light build against him. I don’t want to hurt him, just enough to end this. Even though it privately shocked him, Éomer found that he had enough faith in the benevolence of his sister’s paramour to realize Faramir hadn’t meant the nonsense he’d spoken. I can’t kill him…I promised I wouldn’t even hit him…he winced; he’d broken that already, of course. It was a sour mark against his honor.

So in desperation he did what had worked so many times before with Éowyn—rising to one knee and planting his heels solidly, Éomer threw himself against the Steward, knocking the lighter man to the ground facedown. He landed half on, half off of him and quickly wiggled upwards, bracing one knee on either side of the man’s chest, gripping his lean ribs. It was difficult to keep his position as Faramir bucked hard, constantly throwing himself back and forth, but Éomer used all this movement to shift backward enough so that his bulk wasn’t over the man’s shoulders, giving him freedom to move just where he wanted him.

As he’d hoped the Steward half-rose and, given the perfect opportunity, he crooked his arm down under Faramir’s elbow and pulled back, shoving his dark head downward with his palm firmly on the nape of the man’s neck. Nose to the dirt, Faramir roared curses and flailed desperately though he could do little to dislodge him. For good measure, Éomer used his other hand to steady himself, scraping his knuckles on the rocky ground; for revenge, he grabbed a great fistful of the man’s dark hair and twisted it securely around the wrist he was using to pin his nose to the earth. Straddling Faramir’s narrow back with no more difficulty than staying astride a frisky horse now, Éomer pinned him with his superior weight and firm hold. To rub in his control, he gave a good tug on the man’s hair and let Faramir flop, jerk, and bellow all he wished, confident it wouldn’t take long.

It didn’t and it seemed Faramir had more sense than Éowyn had had as a girl because he went limp almost instantly. Sitting firmly atop him, Éomer almost laughed at the man’s voice, as he sounded both fuming and humiliated. Each word had the note of being forced through tightly gritted teeth. “Let go of my hair and get off of me.”

There was a long, furious silence in which they both breathed heavily, Faramir’s ribs pushing at his knees which each deep breath, and then, “Why not?”

Éomer really laughed this time. “You deserve it.” He shifted to get a little more comfortable; the Steward’s lanky frame was less yielding than those of his folk were. Riding the scrawny South man into submission had been easier, though, as Faramir’s lithe build was also less suited to put up a struggle. My sister will have an easy time with him…he snorted, then sobered. It was time to teach Faramir a lesson. I will bow to his sharp tongue when I am in the wrong…as he’d been so many times before with this man…but when I am not, nay; I will not stand for it. He was careful not to lean too much on his arm and push the Steward’s face into the earth again; he wanted him to hear what he had to say, after all. “And, because within this land’s borders I am Lord, not you and when I ask for the name of the man disturbing you I expect it. And I care if my sister’s face darkens because you’ve hurt yourself, and I care if you hurt yourself…” Éomer smiled, admitting. “Because I like you…some.”

Dirt and particles of grit in his beard and clinging to the side of his mouth, Faramir turned to look at him as much as he could and pushed up against his arm impatiently. “Can I get up while we do this…?”

He wasn’t finished. “No. And when I say something you do it.” Éomer paused, voice serious, “Is that clear, Faramir? You’ve put yourself in my service and I expect you to honor that.” He smiled again, “Ridiculous or not, because you are very lucky I’m not making you muck out all the stalls in Edoras for saying such idiocy to me as you did a moment before.” His anger tried to return, tightening his chest, but Éomer pushed it as far away as he could. Now was not the time for outbursts, but stern rationality. He was a King; he needed to keep his temper here as much as before a throng of quarreling peasants. No matter that I’d like to strangle him for such words…I am not a child and I would not bend to such worm-like and cowardly endeavors to rid myself of him. Does he not even understand the depth of the insult? It is unthinkable. I would sooner murder him outright than use Wormtongue’s means. “Do you understand?”

Éomer released him and thrust himself away as swiftly as he could; his eagerness for more contact with his sister’s paramour had not increased. Faramir stood very slowly, wincing, and said quietly, sincerely. “I did not mean it…”

He brushed off his clothes, not bothering to meet the man’s eyes, “Of course you didn’t, you don’t think I’m clever enough to think of such a plot.”

There was quiet in which the Steward blanched and looked ill at ease; his mouth opened slightly, then closed again over whatever he might have answered. Gaer stared at them, and then retrieved the line of fish, dipping it in the water to wash away the grit and dirt from being thrown on the ground. Éomer noted that he also picked up and shook the dirt away from his shirt, as was proper to show his deference for the wellbeing of his King’s possessions, carrying it thrown over one arm. His expression of dread had changed only slightly to one of sorrow.

Straightening his clothing, not looking up, Éomer spoke quietly, hoping for an answer. “His name?” Glancing upward deliberately casually, he could see the Steward’s protest clearly outlined on his features, but the man did reply, if heavily,

He nodded tiredly, pleased and wishing that Faramir had just said it in the first place. His back ached where he’d landed on the rocks that littered the stream bank and he could imagine the Steward felt worse as he’d been on top of him, weight pushing him down onto those same rocks. “Thank you.”

Wincing as he rubbed the back of his neck, Faramir glanced at Gaer, then back to Éomer and spoke hesitantly, clearly trying for either some jest or some attempt at repentance, “Do you do that to all your subordinates?”

He didn’t particularly care to forgive but arguably Faramir had forgiven far worse from him and more than once… “No, I don’t.” He made himself smile and meet the grey and blood-shot eyes of his sister’s paramour. “I haven’t had to yet.” On that, before either of them could do something to ruin their fragile peace again, Éomer left the Steward, pausing to collect his wet shirt before walking purposely back to camp. Behind him, he heard Gaer say, “You didn’t listen to a word Tondhere said last night, did you?” and Faramir’s subdued burst of laughter.

Faramir returned to camp with Gaer, but didn’t stay to eat. There wasn’t enough and he had to fetch more food. My responsibility…he guessed he’d better fulfill it or risk Éomer squashing him again and pulling his hair. As annoying and humiliating as the experience had been, he felt a smile crack his lips. Unbelievable. It was incredible; if he’d done such an act of insubordination in the City he’d have been punished, likely publicly and likely with a whipping. Here…I’m wrestled to the ground and given a stern talk…no more. Partly it had to do with who he was, he knew that. But still Faramir marveled.

Out of the corner of his eye, as he sat on one of the stumps and stuffed his feet into his halfway dried boots, he watched as Éomer called Oswyn to him. His view was partially blocked by Riders cleaning the fish and his students as they sat glumly and he craned his neck, trying not to be conspicuous. Éomer and Oswyn spoke for a few minutes before the burly Rider bowed and turned away. He came close to where Faramir was sitting, but paid him no attention—no physical attention, the feel of the man’s mind resembled a slow wave of anger, increasing the nearer he came, then decreasing as he moved away. Faramir almost felt like speaking to him, but did not, thinking himself foolish. What would I say? Assure him I did not tattle like a child? As he bent over, lacing his boots, his side ached, competing with the rest of his pains. Éowyn would be distressed, he supposed wearily. At least he would if he came back to find her covered in bruises and scrapes.

Faramir did wonder what the next morning would have been like, however. Would I have prevailed again or lost? Boots on, he let it go. He had other things to worry about, like catching Thorn. He planned to enjoy this hunt alone, running his mount through the lower parts of the dale and hopefully scaring up fowl to bring down with his bow.

The sun was on its descent now, late in the afternoon as he got another handful of grain and picked up his bridle and a handful of grain from one of the pouches in his saddlebags, marching out into the gold-green valley. A good walk later, the grey gelding lifted his cumbersome head when Faramir was still many paces away and looked at him. He stopped and held out his hand.

Ears pricked, the old horse stared at him, then his outstretched palm, on which there was a small mound of pale oats. Thorn took a tiny step forward, and then halted warily. The other horses took no notice of this tableau, cropping grass peaceably.

“Come lad…” Faramir soothed, walking very slowly to meet the animal. “Good lad…stand still…” To his surprise Thorn did and accepted the treat of grain very eagerly. Not chancing it, Faramir wrapped the reins around the thick grey neck until the grain was gone, and then he bridled the old horse swiftly.

Thorn took to him returning bareback better this time, standing relatively still until he used his legs to command him onwards. The gelding’s ears weren’t even quite as pinned back as usual and Faramir patted the light neck, glad the animal at least seemed to be happy. He saddled the horse quickly, too, not trusting this calm demeanor and grabbed up his bow and quiver. Once mounted again, he flipped the leather top off his quiver to ready it for easy access. Gaer came to him just as he, holding his bow by his side, clucked to Thorn. “Where are you going?”

His friend’s mood was subdued, usually dancing eyes quiet and still. Faramir spoke jovially to show he was unharmed and held no grudge against Éomer. Both were fairly true. “To get you a few birds.” He grinned, “I wouldn’t want you to starve.”

Unfamiliar with the term, but able to tell its good will by the tone his friend used, Faramir nodded in return, glancing over at his students. They were watching him and he called out, “Ic bonne bæc.” Nudging the old horse with his heels, he jogged out of camp with Thorn snorting a few times before agreeing to quicken his pace to a lope.

They made their way down the valley with no trouble, passing the now full carts. Gazing at the bags of salt with jubilation, Faramir dropped his reins to see if the gelding would hold a straight line without guidance. Thorn did, or at least straight enough to suit their purposes and he guided the horse to the edges of the valley and tightened his legs, hoping to hold him to a canter. “Good…” Voice hushed, Faramir drew out an arrow and held it at ready, scanning the ground ahead for any sign of a startled bird. He hoped for partridge or quail but any fowl of size would work just as well.

The landscape was beautiful, the bowl of the sky was deep blue with the afternoon sun glinting off of the amber walls of the valley; studded with dark rocks, they were too sheer to climb but as he glanced at them, they held many bird nests. Thorn ran easily beneath him, large ears twitching back and forth. Faramir watched them for a moment, wondering if the horse enjoyed this duty. He patted the thick neck and returned his attention to their path; the rutted road that led to the small village was just ahead and he carefully steered Thorn away, guiding him back along the edges of the dale.

Smaller songbirds flew alongside them for a moment in a flutter of wings and he was almost too distracted to actually spy the number of fat fowl that did explode up from the grasses. Unguided, Thorn slid to a halt, nearly spilling Faramir from his saddle and driving furrows into the dry ground; dust clouded his vision and filled his mouth. He yelped in surprise and grabbed at the ragged mane for balance as the burly gelding gathered himself with a loud, snorting exhalation and plunged after the small flock of panicked birds.

Lifting his bow, he sighted and drew while Thorn increased his pace to a flat-out run as though he were chasing the fowl. Faramir didn’t need to make contact with the animal’s mind to realize this was one duty the old gelding enjoyed. His bow twanged once, then twice, arrows luckily going straight and true, and Thorn automatically checked his pace, jogging forward with his ears pricked and action eager as his clunky hooves galumphed and snapped loudly through the dry grass, crushing brittle stems in their wake.

“Good lad.” Delighted and mystified since Thorn had always reacted poorly to any activity, he slapped the horse’s cresty neck and reined him to about where he guessed the birds had fallen, sliding down to retrieve his prizes. Behind him, and for the moment trusted not to gallop off, Thorn blew through pinkened nostrils and shook himself all over; crouching over the fowl, Faramir was surprised to feel the horse’s dark muzzle against his shoulder and hot, puffing breath on his neck.

He turned, still bent down on one knee, and found the gelding sniffing him, small brown eyes locked intently. His reins drooped, and the stirrups still swung gently but Thorn didn’t move. He stood there, a statue of a horse but for his eyes bright and inquisitively boring into Faramir’s and showing all their intelligence in a single, open moment.

Suddenly Éowyn’s voice came into his head, along with the memory of her cuddled close and warm into his shoulder as a wide-eyed foal approached.

Breathe into his nostrils, introduce yourself…Now he knows you—you’re part of the herd…

Faramir remembered and blew out gently, sharing breaths with his Rohirric horse. Thorn’s big, odd ears flicked but he didn’t move. Sweat beaded along the more lightly haired parts of his face and wetted the leather of his bridle. Broad barrel moving in deep breaths, his tail flattened against his grey hind legs in a breeze that brought relief to the heat of their exertions and the sun. The same breeze made Faramir’s hair sweep off his brow and, prodded by a whim, he whispered softly, “Ic grete þe, Thorn.”

The grey’s nose touched his face with a questioning look in his eyes and Faramir smiled, raising a hand to rub the dark, soft muzzle. “Come, we have to get more than two.” Rising, he jerked the arrow from the birds’ breasts and stuck them in his saddlebags, sliding his green cloak over. Thorn stood quiet, head turned to watch him. Faramir found this odd and kept glancing back, each time finding the brown eye fixed upon his movements. Looking back at the cumbersome head, the short, thick neck and small piggish eye with overlarge ears flopping relaxedly, he wondered why Thorn was not as finely made as the other horses he’d seen in the Mark.

He patted the horse’s shoulder and the gelding jumped; Faramir had accidentally put his hand down on the long scar that further marred his scored coat. “Easy…” Thorn shifted as he touched the light, dappled hair near it, eyeing the pink edges critically. The wound had been deep—the battle before the Black Gate was months ago and the hair over scar had yet to fully regrow. Yet the gelding didn’t feel lame to him, just roughly gaited. Faramir patted Thorn again, this time carefully keeping his hand away from the scar.

“Come.” Mounting, he drew another arrow and steered Thorn straight ahead, cutting through the lower end of the valley on a diagonal, hoping to come across the flock he’d just thinned. The horse was more than eager, ears swiveling and when the deer leaped out of the grass near the wood, he bolted after it, making Faramir grab at his mane again. “Thorn…no…ná!” He didn’t need a deer; since the wagons were full he was certain they would leave soon. Maybe tomorrow…delight rushed to fill his heart. Éowyn…

“No!” Thorn’s neck was stretched out and, head down, the gelding charged after his prey. “Ná! Whoa!” Rohirric and tugs at the reins produced no effect, so he gave in rather than chase the deer all over the Mark. It was better than the strange, nagging feeling that he would be letting the horse down if he didn’t shoot. Using his legs, Faramir nudged Thorn to run at an angle so that he could better hit the bounding animal in a vital spot. Under his breath, he muttered, “Fine” and drew and shot in a quick motion, Thorn again slowing to a jog at the twang of the bow.

The deer leaped a few more elastic strides and fell heavily, twisting on its graceful, slender neck and flipping to lie in a small cloud of dust and dried-up, brittle grass; it was a small, immature doe and looked fairly well fleshed for all the dryness of the landscape, last puffing breaths pinkened by blood that the dirt eagerly consumed.

Faramir scratched Thorn’s neck as the gelding halted a few feet from the kill and blew loudly at it through outstretched nostrils. He sighed, “Good lad.” At least he wouldn’t have to worry about fetching food for the remainder of his stay in these hills.

Or Oswyn…or even Thorn, I suppose…just my students and Éomer. Faramir smiled broadly as he dismounted to gut the deer. I can handle that.

The evening meals were quiet now; almost formal at the high table, while elsewhere the Knights and Riders ate, drank and spoke uninhibitedly in the Hall. She envied them, wishing to do more than nibble daintily at her food or sip from her cup or speak of something other than the mildest of topics. If her brother had been here, things would be different, but Éowyn made do as she could. She needed practice, anyhow; she was fairly certain the ladies in Gondor did not train stallions to lead or propose the coursing of boars to the men of their land. Oh, what do they do? Sit and weave clothing? Chatter and gossip like birds? Manage their small households and kneel before the King? Her only notions of their behavior had been gotten from afar. I cannot lurk in the Houses of Healing, nor haunt the gardens, I must attend Court. She made herself put down her cup gently, not slam it in frustration as she wished.

As she sat and spoke, Éowyn watched Imrahil closely; when he lifted his eyebrows she knew she’d strayed from her imitation of perfect womanhood. Arwen did not help one bit, bringing up things that pointed out her mannish behavior and unmaiden-like knowledge—hunting and slaying her bear, rules of the wrestling in taverns and other equally unladylike activities. Often they locked eyes and the Queen seemed impatient, almost annoyed.

They were quiet now with only minstrels singing in soft tones at the center of the Hall. Éowyn frowned, carefully choosing a bland topic; she wished most to ask about the Sea, but feared it would be in poor taste because of Arwen’s presence. At length, she looked up and smiled, keeping her voice light and gracious. “Imrahil…I beg you, tell me what is there to see in the City? What do you find amusing? I’m afraid I did not explore much when I stayed there.”

As he spoke, naming little shops of a simple nature, she felt contempt for her deceit growing in her heart. This was not her, the perfect Lady who never thought of hunting or took delight in swordplay. But Faramir…the Lady of Ithilien was the second of all the highborn ladies in the City and the lands. Only Arwen herself outranked her…and with rank came responsibility. Oh, but what kind?

Éowyn found her attention drifting and fixed her eyes on Imrahil’s noble, sharp-featured and slightly aged face. She must not appear rude or uncouth, the people of the City would look to her, would look at her and judge her by her behavior. I must, even if I do not wish to…for him. For my love, who’s suffered much nonsense for me already. Éowyn closed her eyes tightly and forced her rebellion away. But…perhaps she could get what she wanted, just not in the way she was accustomed. A man would ask outright what there was to hunt about Minas Tirith, but she did not have the luxury. She felt a sort of curbed rage thrashing in her chest amid hope and a vast repugnance. For the first time in my bad-mannered, clumsy life, I must be artful; I must trace around what I wish with a dainty finger, but never touch. I must be a lady in all but deepest heart again. I must play Gríma’s game of speaking in shadows. She shivered in the big chair, fingers tight on the worn horseheads that ended the arms, and swallowed past her revulsion. I must.

Clearing her throat delicately, she interrupted him. “Forgive me, I beg your pardon.” Éowyn smiled her best and brightest smile, “But…are there any dangerous creatures roaming about the City? Beasts in the hills?” She gestured and widened her eyes in mock concern, “There are monstrous bears and fierce packs of wolves in the mountains here.” Arwen was staring at her narrowly and Éowyn ignored her with difficulty. Were her ladylike behaviors so shocking, then, that the Queen stared?

“No, no.” He sought to reassure her, that was clear, but it was an effort to remember he was not being patronizing, instead only conscious of the fact she was a woman and might truly fear wild beasts. “Of course not, Lady Éowyn. Even without the gates you would be perfectly safeguarded. Elessar’s lands are well settled.” His voice changed, for the first time losing its tranquillity, “As Lord Denethor ensured in his reign.”

Too bad. That was not the answer she desired at all. Éowyn tried another tactic. “Is the great gate built then, do you imagine, by now?” She leaned on her hand, gazing at him in what she hoped appeared to be naive intrigue and no more. Can I leave the City any time, day or night, or shall I be kept in like a stabled horse? Éowyn doubted she would wander out of the shelter of the walls at night or, more frankly, be allowed to, but she was still interested in the question. Very suddenly her freedoms weighed on her mind.

“No, the dwarves are just beginning their labors on it, I’d imagine.” Imrahil smiled, almost wistfully, “It is to be very great, I’ve seen the drawings. Erecting it will take much time.”

Éowyn thought of another thing to ask. “Tell me…” She smiled, allowing some of her timidness to show with this query, and she was positively timorous about this question, “Can you…Imrahil, I beg you, tell me of the Lady Finduilas? I wish to know what she did for the City…” So I can model myself the best I can, so I can grasp some clear idea…please… Faramir’s recollection would be too poor for her but Imrahil could remember quite well, Éowyn guessed.

Imrahil did not answer and, to her, his expression appeared that he was rather indisposed.

Desperate, she added, “Since I am to be the Lady Steward…” She dropped her eyes, pausing in unfeigned shyness and played with her knife before suddenly laying it neatly and stating. “I wish to learn the role prior to taking it so that I will not encumber Faramir…in any way. He will be occupied enough with this delay.” Meeting his eyes, Éowyn took a breath, “If it pains you, I apologize and say to you, do not answer…but…”

Silence reigned for a moment before the Lord of Dol Amroth spoke hesitantly. “My sister, Finduilas did not do much of importance in the City, I’m afraid, if edicts are what you’re asking about.”

Éowyn nodded quickly, anxious to keep him from ceasing. “Anything you feel you could say…”

Imrahil wasn’t looking at her, instead some place she couldn’t see. “She adored her children very much and busied herself with them and their happiness. She always wanted a babe, often holding or singing to others’.” He smiled gently before collecting himself and going on. “She did not involve herself much with the workings of the City that I knew of, staying mainly within her houses or the upper levels.” He shook his head, “I know only of some small improvement to the gardens that she showed me once. Small things of that nature; she gave a woman’s touch to whatever she affected. There were more flowers in those days, more color in the streets and the halls. Denethor was not a harsh man as I knew him later, but laughing and lighthearted when he came to court my sister.” He sounded distant and melancholy, and then recovered again. Imrahil was choosing his words carefully now, “No, Denethor preferred to control his estate himself.” He fell off, gazing into midair with a nostalgic cast to his features, “Finduilas was much beloved by the people…the mourning in the City lasted long and in Denethor’s heart, never ceased, I fear. I wish…” Imrahil abruptly silenced.

Éowyn felt small and downcast, for how could she compare to that standard? It was impossible; she was too different, by the sound of it. I do not wish to be solely occupied by Faramir’s quarters and the bearing and raising of his children…I want…I want to do and to be important somehow, to serve… Tears of frustration pricked her eyes. All I ever wanted… She was careful not to betray her feelings, inclining her head to him in respect and saying quietly; “I thank you very much.”

For a long while they ate without speaking; there were only the minstrels’ voices rising and falling with the slow beat of small drums and light, dancing harp strings amid the loud, coarse rumbling tongues of the Knights and Riders in the lower parts of the Hall.

Playing with her knife, Éowyn was feeling low when she glanced up, her eye just happening to meet Arwen’s. The elven woman smiled a particularly mischievous smile, one that she’d never seen on her fair face before, and picked up a large piece off of the tray of honey cakes. As Éowyn watched, the Queen purposely stuffed the entire thing into her mouth, using her dainty fingers to cram it in, crumbs falling everywhere. Across the table, Imrahil looked shocked.

Arwen smiled, cheeks bulging and Éowyn understood—it was a test of her ladylike manners, to see if she would be properly aghast or laugh. Glancing at Imrahil, she saw the proper reaction—astonishment and disfavor though he was too polite to speak out, confining his disapproval to a quietly stern expression. However, the more she looked, the more she wondered if she didn’t see amusement there…it was impossible, she knew him too little to tell. Arwen chewed nonchalantly and somewhat bovinely for all her beauty, cheeks moving slowly like a cow with a cud.

At that comparison she failed. Meeting the Queen’s dancing eyes, Éowyn laughed loudly and delightedly, as did Arwen though her mouthful. I am not a Lady like those in the City, I am a Lady of the Golden Hall and here we do not fear a mess, nor tremble under the burden of proper etiquette. She could pretend to be so dainty but it would destroy her eventually. I will mind my manners, learn and fulfill my expected duties and no more. I cannot be perfect, I am not…oh, I shall worry no more, I have a friend here who cares not if I am elegant or no. Feeling more lighthearted than she had since leaving Éomer’s stallion, she plucked up a cake of her own, “That is nothing to brag of, my friend Queen…”

Arwen had managed to swallow most of the pastry, muffledly asking, “No?” She drank from her cup in sips and wiped the bosom her dress free of crumbs.

The Queen, able to speak now, challenged, “Then show me something worthy of bragging.”

Éowyn laughed, for it had been what she’d had in mind all along. “This.” Hefting her pastry, she stuffed it in her mouth, savoring the sweetness of the warm honey and chewing the delicate cake. The Riders in the Hall took no notice; they were not renowned for table their manners and cared little about hers. Her fingers were coated with the slick sweet, so she licked them clean in unabashed barbarity. Imrahil stared at them both, an eyebrow raised; this time Éowyn was sure she saw a smile twitch at his lips and she felt her spirits lighten further. Perhaps the folk in the City were not as stiff as they seemed to her.

All she wanted now was Faramir and her brother to return. But not before I have a boar’s head… Éowyn smiled. A great one with tusks and whiskers and…perhaps rubies for eyes to show its fierceness… She laughed aloud and Arwen and Imrahil gazed at her quizzically.

The next morning Éowyn held her breath, attention fixed upward. She loved this, the thrill, the sheer openness of the land around them and the wind that made her eyes water. Above their small party, no more than a blink of brown in the waving grasses of the fields beyond Edoras, the released hawk’s wings beat as steadily as war drums. The creature’s beak pointed high, a curved spear to strike the heavens as it climbed up and up. Around their masters’ legs and the horses’ muscled haunches, the dogs whined and strained eagerly against their leashes, long tails wagging in anticipation.

The older man’s face was creased from the weather. He spoke softly, asking permission. “My Lady?”

Éowyn picked up Byrga’s reins, feeling the grey come aware. “Release them.”

The quietness was filled with the men’s cries to the dogs and the dogs’ yelps as they raced across the field, noses to the earth, scenting. The foothills were near, in which thickets of trees hid her true goal--boar. But first, in case they were unable to bring down one of the elusive, fierce creatures, far above the hawk had reached a height and circled, looking for signs of prey. Éowyn watched it, shading her eyes, imagining they looked very small and pitiful. We are its masters…yet we must look so insignificant... Beside her, Arwen stirred in her borrowed men’s saddle; the Queen had only a sidesaddle and Éowyn had little liked the thought of her having to ride a hunt in one of those clumsy things.

She glanced away from the hawk and then back up, finding its tiny and waiting form. “What do you mean?”

The Queen frowned, and finally asked, “Well…what did you do while Éomer was in the City?”

She smiled. “I wasn’t in Edoras long enough to do anything.” She counted days in her head and her smile brightened, “They should be back tomorrow, the next day at the latest. We don’t have time for much.” Arwen opened her mouth but Éowyn lifted her arm, “Look!”

The hawk must have found something, for it folded its wings and dropped, a silent arrow sent from a giant’s bow. The falconers mounted quickly, huntsmen calling the dogs with their short horns as they did. Putting her heels to Byrga’s side, she felt the gelding plunge forward, felt his eagerness to run in the way that he sprang, nearly rearing as his powerful hindquarters surged; all four hooves left the ground and she gripped his solid barrel with her legs. Arwen’s horse was a grey, too, but that was the sole similarity. It was a mare and so lightly built Éowyn could scarce believe the animal held the Queen’s minor weight. Glancing back over her shoulder, she watched it try and keep with Byrga’s huge strides; after a week in the barn the normally serene gelding was wild with excess energy. The mare was finely made, running easily within his thicker shadow. Light-boned and tall without much muscle, she was all long legs with a narrow frame. Éowyn sat up, asking Byrga to slow; the better to watch this elven bred animal move on those delicate, spider-like legs. The differences interested her greatly—as a member of the noble house, she’d read the Stud Book, the only real book in all the Mark, and knew the basic theory of breeding and or identifying a good horse. This new specimen was fascinating.

Éowyn scrutinized the grey mare. She was a horse useless to any but a Lady and even then, not one that rode hard. Her action was buoyant and her good, hard-looking hooves hardly touched the soil; her elegantly molded head was high, small, inward curved ears pricked and long tail lifted. There would be no market for her in Rohan; horses had to be useful, had to be able to pull a cart or carry a Rider into battle or herd animals or even tolerate children. This mare looked ill suited to do anything but float about with her Lady on her back. However… The Queen’s horse appeared to have a tractable disposition; Arwen was riding comfortably, hardly seeming to have to touch the reins or do anything to control her mare.

A gentle disposition was something so highly valued that other flaws might be overlooked. Perhaps that was why the Queen rode this dainty creature. Or this is an example of an elven horse. Interesting. She turned back, scanning the brown and dried grasses for the dogs’ waving tails; Byrga knew his duty and galloped strongly, following her slight touch on the reins. Here, out under the sun, the full brunt of the drought was seen—the ground was dry, hard and dusty, the grass thinned and yellowed and there was an abundance of hardy, yet inedible weeds. Briar plants were thick as they neared the shadow of the wooded foothills, brambles sticking to their mounts’ tails and winter-feathered legs. Éowyn glanced up at the sky, wishing for a cloud to mar the perfect, intense blue.

Within the withered grass, the hawk crouched over a rabbit, shifting warily on its talons and flapping its wings as they rode to a halt, showing the creamy under-feathers. She looked into its golden eyes, fascinated by their fierce sheen as the bird moved protectively over its victim and hissed a warning. Immediately, its masters gathered it gently up from the kill, pacifying the rapacious creature with bits of fresh meat. The hawk tore into the red, dangling flesh with its curved beak, using its sharp talons to hold the meat and gulping it while sitting on the older man’s heavily gloved fist. The bird tolerated his caresses, blinking keen and pitiless.

The younger man lifted the hare and held it for her to see; his gaze lingered on her hair, then dropped in a more appropriate manner. Self-conscious, Éowyn nodded and resisted the urge to run her hands over herself; many of the servants or folk that had not seen her yet stared. The hare was plenty fat enough for supper. Her hair flew over her shoulder with a gust of wind and held her gaze for a moment; the reddish-brown color was still surprising to her. I like it…Éowyn tucked her hair back behind her ears.

The younger man spoke, “Elra, min Ides?” He put the rabbit into his saddlebags and patted one of the hounds that restlessly circled their group. The older man held the passive hawk, the small leather hood replaced upon its dark, fine head.

She smiled and shook her head, resisting the urge to touch her hair. “Ná, se eofor nu.” The huntsman called the dogs to attention with his horn, readying them for the real prey.

Boars were a challenge since the great pigs able to run as swiftly as the horses that chased them, but with more agility and the added threat of their sharp tusks that could easily slash open a delicate equine leg. Éowyn gathered her reins, determined to keep a firm hold on Byrga. She glanced over at Arwen, “Keep close.”

The Queen nodded and they went, the dogs crying as they dashed back and forth, trying to find scent of a boar. Following at a well-controlled run, Éowyn hoped for a male to hang his head on her wall. Ah, what shall my husband say…she’d seen no trophies in Faramir’s quarters, naught but dust and books and candles, hardly the rooms of a warrior at all. That shall change soon...very soon. Laughing aloud with giddy delight, Éowyn urged Byrga forward.

She imagined both her brother and her beloved would have difficulties with it. Serves them right for leaving me here alone.

-Falewende…Is ná eower locfeax. Blæwen…Is ná eower êage. Ge eart ná of min, Ac ge eart min ánum ond á ðý deórwyrþran.—Yellow, is not your hair. Blue is not your eyes. You are not of mine, But you are mine alone and ever the more precious. (hee, full length song later, I promise!) J

-Ge maegest cuman ond bist beatan…eft.—You have my permission to come and be beaten…again.

-Ætywan me, Lytle Bregu! Ætywan me ge canst—Show me, Little Prince! Show me you can!

BTW, Éomer’s got Faramir in kinda a ¾ Nelson here, for those who are curious. And, I might add, if you see a pic of this it’s VERY hoyay and immediately conjured up every slash fic I’ve ever read.

The mood of the camp was different, something Faramir had noted the moment he’d awoken. It puzzled him, as it was not as strong as jubilation, nor as bright as happiness, but being more of a lightening of the general atmosphere than anything. After studying the Riders, he eventually attributed it to their leave-taking of the encampment and felt his own delight at the prospect. His students still seemed less animated, but Faramir was pleased to note that Gaer had recovered somewhat, if his teasing was any indication.

“We could name him…Byrhtwold?“ The Rohir had begun with a statement but ended on a question. In reply, Nier wordlessly shook his head and jerked on the laces of his boots, tightening them. Accusingly, Gaer turned to Faramir and said, “You’re too difficult to name.”

The giant draft horses were being harnessed near the lean-to. The robust men of the Mark were dwarfed in comparison as they ducked under the animals’ necks and moved around them to buckle the thick, smoothly worn pieces of leather. Faramir watched the quiet, enormous horses between packing his few and mainly soiled belongings into his saddlebags. “What happened to…” He’d almost forgotten the name, “Larcwide?”

Nier sighed; by all indications he was fully ready to depart, sitting on a stump with his packed saddle and bags canted beside him. “What names run in your blood, Faramir?” He gave Gaer a pointed look.

He thought, frowning. “My brother’s meant ‘precious jewel’, my father’s meant ‘lithe, lank’, my mother’s was…” His frown deepened as Faramir stuffed his dirty clothing into the depths of his bags and withdrew his cloak. It was wrinkled and he shook the green garment hopefully but to no avail. Below it, in the dim confines of the pack, the mail he’d been given gleamed coolly. “There is no exact translation…gold and leaf? It is an elvish name from the south…” He amended, “Further south, near the Sea.”

“Well. Hroþgold?” Gaer shook his head, sounding frustrated. Speaking almost to himself, he muttered, “Ná…ná ge, Faramir.”

Trying to be helpful, he added, “My forefathers bore my brother and father’s names. My folk tend to name ourselves after our ancestors.” Faramir thought back, but shook his head in vain. “My lineage is long, the names are many and I fear few would translate right or be fit for me.”

“Aldlaf? Cuþlaf?” Every name was instantly dismissed with a scoffing noise from either Gaer himself or Nier. There was a brief silence, in which Faramir could sense the two Rohir thinking and he was both amused and amazed at the amount of thought they gave to the subject. He folded his cloak and carefully replaced it in his saddlebags, as the day seemed growing hotter with the sun’s rising; his mail and things were fairly balanced and Faramir jerked on the buckles, making sure they would not come undone during the journey back. Back, he thought happily and felt his face stretch in a grin. Back to Edoras and to my Éowyn. Not long ago, Faramir wouldn’t have guessed the thought of the golden roof would have provoked such joy in his heart, but it did. Ah, it is not Edoras itself, but what lies within, a fair treasure hidden behind crude wooden walls… Soon he would sweep that treasure away to a place more fitting to house it.

Gaer eventually broke the quiet between them with what sounded like annoyance; “My people’s names do not have anything to do with jewels or leaves or such silly things. Ours tell bravery, hardness of spirit…” He trailed off and sighed, then said again critically. “You’re too difficult.”

Faramir smiled; with the absence of Oswyn, he expected nothing could break his light-hearted mood. “I apologize.” Then he laughed, “My forefathers, the Stewards Beren and Túrin were not named for leaves or gold. They bore names of mastery…” He glanced up, “Held by other men before them.” Only one other man of Gondor had borne his name and he’d been widely proclaimed a headstrong fool, oft cursed for his actions. His lightheartedness wavered and his hands stopped, smoothing the worn leather of the saddle. Faramir had not thought of the man who’d borne his name in a very long time. More than one father preferred his eldest, I suppose…why he’d been named for a King’s son and not for one of the Stewards or heroes of old still escaped him, though. And there is none I can ask… At least he stood a chance of knowing the motive behind his Rohirric name. Faramir glanced sideways at his two Rohirric friends. I hope.

Nier chuckled while behind him men stamped out the small fire with care, using the pot to smother it with stream water. “He is Aichus nu æt our Hlaford.”

He sighed, “A King’s son, the younger of two and a foolish one whom, out of loyalty and love of his kin and adventure, left our land’s bereft of a Lord. He was one of the last of the line of Kings.” The Rohirrim exchanged glances.

Not sure if he were bemused or not at such disrespect, Faramir looked out to the narrow valley, seeking Thorn’s bulky frame and was surprised to see that the gelding was not his usual distance from the camp. Good. He wouldn’t have to walk so far today. “What does Aichus mean?”

The big horses were harnessed now, iron buckles shining dully, the light from them glinting into his eyes as several of the Riders guided the drafts back between the shafts of the giant wagons. Their voices were soft, hands light on the long lengths of reins. The big animals moved quietly and obediently to what seemed like almost no pressure at all, ears cocked to hear the men’s quiet commands. He watched them, not as used to seeing this task as he was the saddling of a horse. More of the thick leather harness was produced and Faramir hoped they were nearly readied. He wished to leave.

“It’s a name. Means beast of burden.” The Rohirrim chuckled at him, sounding a bit strained, then hushed.

Once more richly garbed, Éomer had come to stand near. He cleared his throat quietly. Faramir looked up, as the man’s mood was unusually contemplative, giving a small jerk of his chin as his hair fell across his brow and into his eyes. He brushed it away so that he could see clearly, noting the thin film of sweat on his temples. It was very hot and not yet noon.

Éomer’s eyes met his and he felt sudden nervousness and shame. His actions weighed upon him, his foolishness of the day before in the face of the Lord of the Mark’s generosity. Faramir felt out the man’s mind, relieved to note only the same presence of nerves and no sense of anger or feeling of a need for retribution.

He took a breath, collecting himself and ordering his words the best he could. He was giving the Steward a option; not that he wished to, but Éomer felt it would help their laboring friendship. He was finding that he wished to do that, which brought many questions to light, but he refused to consider them at the moment.

Overly conscious of Faramir’s questioning gaze while the two Riders politely looked away to give them the illusion of privacy, he propped one dark boot on a worn stump and leaned against his leg, saying quietly while still looking down. “I’m giving you a choice of what to do...” Faramir didn’t respond, just appeared curious and unguarded, lifting one eyebrow in a silent gesture to go on. He obviously had the Steward’s full attention.

Looking up, Éomer finished, “You can ride with me or them.” As he waited for a reply, his green cloak was flattened to his back by a welcome breeze.

The Steward did not immediately answer and when he did his face was creased by a thoughtful frown. “What’s the difference?”

“A few hours worth.” Elaborating, he said, “I’ll go ahead to Edoras and ride fast,” He nodded at the big wagons where a few Riders swarmed like ants, checking every buckle and fastener of the harnesses and making sure of the security of both the wagons and animals. “They’ll be slower loaded down like that. You’d probably get in by sundown.” Éomer hoped the man would see what he offered—a chance to be with Éowyn swiftly. This is all I can give…for the moment. He felt inwardly saddened. He would have to give much more once they were back within the walls of Edoras. Straightening, Éomer asked firmly, “What will you do?”

To his surprise, Faramir smiled and shook his head, expression regretful. He sounded content, if a little sad, glancing at the rutted trail as he said, “I’ll go with them.”

He hadn’t expected this answer and Éomer was utterly baffled. He would have thought the Steward would have leapt at a chance to return quickly. Whatever he wishes… At a loss, Éomer just shrugged. “All right. As you wish.”

“You are a stupid man.” The moment the Lord of the Mark was out of ear range, Gaer reproached him severely. Nier stared at him, mouth curled and shook his head.

Gaer declared. “If the Lady was mine I would have kissed his boots at giving me such an offer.” The Rohir snorted as he stood and grasped up his horse’s bridle, the reins swinging loosely, “Ride with us…idiot. We walk the road back. It is long and dull,” He looked up at the bright, merciless sky, red hair falling back, “And it will be hot. Ge eart dysig, Faramir.”

He laughed again, sitting his saddle upright and grabbing Thorn’s halter. “It won’t take that long.” The rope was rough in his hands, grey hairs sticking to it. Faramir smiled. He really did not wish to ride as fast as Éomer was likely to go. When I arrive in Edoras I don’t want to be too exhausted to…what? Faramir frowned a little. He hoped Éowyn’s frame of mind had improved with his absence, that how she’d felt, a combination of shyness and wretchedness, she would feel no longer. He hung onto his dream fiercely, remembering her laugh and delighted eyes and the way she’d thrown herself against him. But that was just a dream…

Now he was just a little apprehensive about returning, about immersing himself in all the complications he’d left behind and Faramir said firmly, reinforcing himself. “It won’t take that long.”

They walked into the valley, halters or bridles in their hands, leaving their tack behind; Faramir pausing just a moment to grab up a handful of grain—Thorn seemed to come to him for the treat, at least. Nier brightened. “We can teach you some of the songs of our people.”

Nier looked at him for confirmation and his expression became utterly incredulous when he got it. “I don’t.” In the valley, Thorn had lifted his head. Faramir whistled softly and the grey's ears flicked forward, though he didn’t move. Nier said slowly,

Gaer had moved off to collect his chestnut; the blonde Rohir grinned. “Prove it.”

“You are difficult.” Nier stared at him, and then strode away to find his horse. Faramir chuckled under his breath. He was pleased by Thorn taking three small steps to meet him, dark muzzle already extended and snuffling for the oats in his hand. Faramir let him lick his palm clean before he haltered the horse, scratching the thick grey neck. Thorn’s eye met his, cumbersome head bobbing for a moment and then gelding began walking forward. He pulled on the rope, “Hey,” thinking the horse was moving away from him, but it quickly became clear Thorn was just coming to stand in a position so that he was nearer to his withers and could mount with ease. The horse turned to look at him, almost confused. Pleasantly surprised, Faramir praised, “Good lad, good lad!” and swung aboard the broad, cream-colored back.

By the time he returned to camp, Éomer was already mounted on his bald-faced stallion and, guards flanking him, riding out of it. Dust rising under his horse’s hooves, the Lord of the Mark gave him a nod and Faramir returned it before the great standard of Rohan eclipsed his view.

“Dysig.” Gaer said forcefully, tacking his chestnut swiftly. His friend gave him a sideways look, revealing a small grin. “Listen to me, I pegged you as a fool the first day.”

“Ná.” He didn’t tease back, just patted Thorn’s neck and steered him to where the saddle waited, scrutinizing his own mind—he truly was a little apprehensive about returning to Éowyn. He hoped that in the time it took to return to Edoras, the feeling would fade; Faramir did not wish for her to know. It would hurt me…it would hurt her. He slid from Thorn and absently leaned his arm over the grey’s neck, head down, thinking to himself. His dream had not contained an unhappy woman and he fervently hoped to find that Meduseld wouldn’t either. I’m not sure how much more I could stand…

Frowning, no longer so light-hearted, Faramir swung his saddle and blanket over Thorn’s back and began to tighten his girth, absentmindedly side-stepping with the gelding. He had all the long way back to Edoras to worry. Some diversion would be welcome…

His students were saddling their own mounts and he looked at them with a mixture of hope and nervousness. He still had things to settle with them; unfortunately he had no ideas on how to go about it.

“What?” Gaer had not exaggerated; they were walking slowly behind the carts full of salt. He supposed they were to protect the precious cargo, but really, Faramir doubted there were any who would fight for it. He glanced around at the hills. The landscape was empty, winds blowing with a lonely sound. Eyeing the trees, he estimated they were less than halfway to the Golden Hall.

He’d had to fend off this command or entreaty (it was impossible to tell which) several times already. “No.” The Rohirrim had been singing or talking amongst themselves the entire journey. Faramir had ridden, mostly in silence, brooding over his feelings about returning to Edoras. He was overjoyed, of course, but also leery, which bothered him a great deal. I should be happy, no matter the…the difficulties with Éowyn. These difficulties will not last forever; she has come so far…and, perhaps, if I cease pushing her… He felt guilty and the feeling was increased by his inability to come up with anything to say to his students. Faramir stared at Thorn’s ears as they flopped with his slow strides. The horse had been perfectly behaved, so far.

“Why not, Láréow?” Scef looked at him; the boy’s face was filled with real curiosity.

These Rohirrim were like to dogs over a bone. “It is true. I am not…pleasant to hear.”

Faramir ground his teeth and surrendered. “Fine, fine.” He added, “I don’t know the words.”

“They are simple…” Gaer turned in the saddle, “You are just making excuses.”

He smiled. “Yes, I am.” His students rode loosely around them and they were listening curiously.

Nier grinned, “Just sing…what I tell you.” His face turned suddenly roguish. Se lyft is má beorht…”

The five lads and Gaer echoed him with gusto; Faramir murmured along reluctantly. None laughed at him though, and he relaxed a little.

“Min eoh is má smeþes. Ic ná aswefed for þæom…” Faramir let himself get a little louder, wincing but still feeling himself become a part of the group, which made him be aware of how little he felt that way and how much he wished he did. Nier snickered before his next line. “Se sweoster æt Gaer aridan me eall niht…”

Gaer lunged at him and missed, of course, as Nier quickly pulled his horse away and into Thorn. They jolted roughly as Gaer bellowed something in Rohirric that Faramir got only half translated before it shocked him into laughter. The two Riders shouted at each other as his leg caught Nier’s. Their stirrups locked and Thorn’s ears slapped flat as he was jostled further. In a rage, the grey snaked out his cumbersome head, sinking his great, yellowed teeth into the crest of Nier’s gelding’s neck. Nier’s horse jerked away, saliva gleaming on its mane as Faramir yanked on the reins, appalled. “Thorn!” The gelding tossed his nose and snorted loudly; he was obviously irritated, ears tightly pinned, eye glaring.

It took a few moments to establish equilibrium, as Nier was laughing, Gaer was obviously fuming and the Riders in front of the cart or beside it were turning back to look at them. Faramir chuckled under his breath. Nier complained loudly, though he was grinning, “I jested!”

“She is a god wíf…” Once more Nier’s expression turned playful. “Æt se acer, æt se bærn, æt se bedde…”

This time Thorn was knocked sideways with the impact and the eyes of Nier’s horse rolled whitely in their sockets, as it did not wish to approach the threat of Thorn’s bared teeth, but had to. Nier and Gaer were shouting and the three horses were tossing their heads, pawing and squealing in distress and anger as they tried to separate. Cursing both the men, Faramir slapped the ends of his reins at Nier to get him away, as Thorn was already trying to bite the Rider’s mount again. The grey lunged repeatedly; muzzle wrinkled and even kicked out a few times, his back rising beneath the saddle, but luckily hit nothing but empty air.

They rode in silence for a while, Nier snickering occasionally, but Gaer’s face remained stormy. Faramir moved Thorn closer to his students, rubbing the gelding’s withers in an attempt to soothe away the horse’s anger. Ahead of them, the Riders began to sing and, after a few moments he joined in, this time deliberately loudly. At his tuneless rendition, often missing words and even more often, getting the accents wrong, Gaer smiled. When his redheaded friend joined him in the chorus, Faramir grinned to himself in triumph. They rode up a hill with the giant drafts straining at their harnesses while both men and lads sang loudly and cheerfully.

It was then that the wheel of the second cart broke with a loud crack, slewing the end of the wagon sideways and sending coarsely woven bags of salt rolling and bouncing in a small flood down the trail. The horses reacted first; Thorn jumped the rebounding, sliding sacks, throwing Faramir back in the saddle. He grabbed the thick, dark mane, holding on tightly and bouncing painfully as the grey bolted off the trail. Men riding ahead of the second cart shouted queries and horses snorted in high, frightened breaths. No Riders had been driving the giant drafts; they used voice commands instead to guide them and the big horses stumbled to an awkward halt under the shouts of multiple men. Their harness was twisted and a Rider grasped their bridles quickly to stop their nervous movements.

As they halted their panicked mounts, the Riders’ faces grew exasperated and many gathered around the cart, now canted sideways, to look at the broken wheel. Faramir waited, stroking Thorn’s neck. He could feel the horse’s fast breathing and his own alarm as it dwindled. Leaning slightly downward, he murmured into the tipped back ears, “Easy…be at ease, Thorn.”

Suddenly the Riders stopped talking amongst themselves and the first cart began moving again. Some busily unharnessed the draft horses pulling the second, broken cart and when Faramir glanced up again from Thorn’s ears, he started—the Rohirrim were looking at him. One spoke in a low voice to Gaer who nodded and steered his chestnut closer. “We’ll have to go back.”

“He is the biggest and can fit the harness the best.” Gaer nodded at Thorn. “He’ll have to pull the cart here, but…” He sighed deeply, “We have to go back to the village and get one.”

“Back?” Faramir was dismayed. “You can’t repair that?” He knew nothing about the wheels of a cart.

“No.” Gaer turned his horse. “They will wait while we go back and fetch another cart. Come.”

He tried, but Thorn balked instantly. Faramir clucked and rocked in the saddle, using his legs to squeeze and eventually the grey moved, though it was very reluctant. He didn’t blame the horse in the slightest. Glancing back wistfully at the slowly descending trail, he saw his students dismount and begin to pick up the scattered bags of salt. Faramir looked up at the blazing sky, and then at Gaer’s back as the Rider trotted up the long path back to the little village. He sighed and urged Thorn into a jog.

Perhaps he should have ridden with Éomer after all and risked being sore and tired…it looked like he would be both by the end of this, anyhow.

Éowyn swept her dark hair out of her face and rubbed her sweating palms on her trousers, breathing fast as they halted in the wood. The hunt was not going well. Boar was clever prey, often confusing the hounds by mixing their trails with other boar so that the dogs continually chased new and fresh quarries while never resting themselves. At the moment the hounds were flat on their bellies, having been recalled once more by the horns. They panted; pink tongues lolling and bouncing, streams of spittle covering their forelegs and the earth. Arwen nudged her grey mare closer; the elven creature was lathered just as heavily as Byrga, proving no difference in stamina between the types. Éowyn looked at the mare tiredly. The Queen gave her a smile, seeming less wearied than her mount.

“Min Ides?” The men were asking to go on. Their faces were flushed. It was nearly noon, and though they were in the shade of the trees it was still stiflingly hot.

“Berthwil.” She was tired and sticky, man’s shirt sticking between her shoulder blades, and her inner legs were chafed from having to grip for so long; under her Byrga’s sides moved with his breathing and his head was lowered slightly. She could see that his ears were slick and shining with sweat; putting her hand behind the saddle, Éowyn found the thick blanket was nearly soaked. Byrga stood motionless and the other horses were no different; taking the momentary rest for granted, none moved except to swish a tail.

Arwen nudged her mount closer and Byrga flattened his black-tipped ears, not liking his space invaded; the mare replied in kind and the two horses stood displeased while they spoke in hushed voices. The Queen looked curious. “What did you say to them?”

“I said in a moment. In a moment we will try again…” When she would call to cease, Éowyn was unsure. She sighed and stretched in the saddle; a man waited at her flank, carrying her spears. Bows were useless against the thick hide, or at least any small bow that she could draw back. Vaguely, the memory of Faramir’s longbow came to her, how great and powerful it had seemed, and Éowyn sighed. She wished he were with her, but likely if he were he would not allow her to hunt.

Ah, that was for duck…there is no danger in a duck…that made her smile, though in a melancholy fashion.

The men were waiting and she reluctantly turned her thoughts back to more pertinent matters. I want a boar… She could hear the panting of the dogs and men interspersed with the horses’ blowing through pinkened, widened nostrils. We shall try once more, but only that. The hounds were nearly exhausted and all the animals needed water and rest. To keep them running would be cruel. She took a deep breath and said firmly. “Com,” The men looked up, “Ac, áne má.” Translating more softly for Arwen, she said, “We shall try once more.” The Queen nodded.

The men and dogs fanned out again, the hounds’ bodies darting and wheeling through the sparse brush, their multi-colored coats dappled by the shade of the trees. She kneed Byrga close, leaning up when he jumped a small log and sinking back into the saddle as he jogged. The huntsmen were quickest, their mounts’ dripping white lather to the forest floor and crowding the dogs’ heels. They went a long way, twisting and turning around the boles of trees, down small hills and around high brush. The land rose steadily with bushy thickets that closed in on them and, whenever they parted, gave view to the White Mountains that hung above. Birds flapping and fluttering in alarm, the dogs found a stream and threw themselves into it, spraying water everywhere. Éowyn rode Byrga into the little brook, letting the gelding drink briefly while wishing for a drink herself.

Sudden crying interspersed with deep bays meant the hounds had found a trail. The huntsmen sounded their horns, signaling the dogs onward and Éowyn pushed Byrga up the stream bank, gripping his mane in one hand as he bounded upwards in rough jumps. Not wanting to give the boar any time to trick the dogs again, she shouted, urging the grey gelding to fly through the thick brush and dodge the gnarled trees in his path. He was light to her aids, checking himself and twisting at her slightest signal as she leaned this way and that so her knees would not be bashed against the trunks of trees. Bursting out of a thicket and into the sunshine, Byrga flew over the dry grasses and she could feel the heat of his skin even through the saddle. Her men matched her pace, their faces strained and eager as they leaned over their mounts’ withers. They, too, wanted something to show for this long hunt.

As they sped up with the hounds’ cries growing louder and louder to signal their approach to the boar, apropos of nothing, Éowyn glanced back. Arwen had vanished. Terribly alarmed, she checked Byrga sharply, nearly sliding up out of the saddle and onto his neck as he slammed to a dusty halt; the men looked at her, briefly milling in confusion, but she pushed them onward, “Gá, gá!” Pushing her sweat and dye darkened hair out of her eyes, Éowyn called out urgently, “Arwen!” Only the man that carried her spears remained by her side.

There was no answer but the slowly fading sound of hooves, breathing, dogs’ yelps and men’s high, urging cries. Reins tight, she wheeled Byrga in a circle to look all around herself; the gelding sensed her unease and pulled on the bit, trying to rejoin the hunters. To his mind there was reassurance in a group. Impatient, she corrected him and held him still. “Ná…”

Where is she? Behind her, there was nothing in sight but a few meager copses, the thicker woods that surrounded the stream and empty, sun-bleached grasslands. Perhaps the Queen had slipped past her unseen. There was certainly nothing about here that she could see. Hopeful, Éowyn allowed Byrga to gallop onward; the gelding’s ears were pricked, following the sounds of pursuit as he ran.

At the sight of a lightly built horse running through the trees behind the other hunters, she shouted, “Arwen?” The Queen turned her mare. She looked confused as Byrga plunged through brush to jog nearby; both horses pinned their ears. “Where were you?”

“Ah.” Arwen’s confusion cleared. “The women in Gondor do not. They come after.”

She had no time to ponder that rather horrifying statement. “Come.” Éowyn let Byrga jog as a thought occurred to her, “Can you throw a spear?”

A boar hunt was not the right place for lessons. Signaling the man that rode at her flank with her spear held at ready in his hand to stay close, Éowyn smiled tightly. “In the Mark, I ride to the kill and I aid in the killing.” What she would do in the City remained to be seen. Ahead, the changing sound of the dogs meant they’d trapped something. “Come swiftly but, since you are weaponless, stay behind us where it is safer.” Clucking to Byrga, she urged the gelding forward.

There were three boars trapped in a small clump of trees, all young males and all furious; their tiny eyes gleamed redly as they snorted, cloven hooves stamping and clawing at the dry earth, causing dirt to mat their coats. Éowyn halted at the generous distance the huntsman had given the fierce beasts and examined them—they looked to weigh heavily, well fleshed with nice manes and thick bristles. Because they were young their tusks were shorter and slimmer than she would have liked, but the smears of red on them proved they were quite sharp. Either way I’m not hunting the rest of the day just for an older boar…she knew her limits and she was already wearied. The flesh of these will be tenderer, anyhow.

Dogs rushed forward snarling only to leap out of the way of the boars’ charge. Some of the hounds were not quick enough and were slashed by the tusks and, yelping high-pitched in pain, they retreated slowly and clumsily to the huntsman’s ring. Éowyn watched as dispassionately as she could while some of the dogs, injured beyond help, were held by their masters and killed with a swift pull of a sharp knife across their throats. For an instant she felt ill, but pushed it out of her mind in disgust. She had seen it before. Thankfully none were Théodred’s hounds, but more the smaller and more compact dogs her people used. Like Rusco would have grown to be… The Queen watched also but she turned her fair face away from the younger huntsman as they gently picked up and removed the dead dogs from the ring of men. Later, once the hunt was finished, the animals would have a cairn built of rocks to honor their loyal service.

Hunting such murderously tempered and well-armed game could be ugly; Éowyn told herself she was used to this and to quit being squeamish. Impatient, she waved her spearman closer and took one of the four spears he carried for her. Barbed and terribly sharp, the head of the spear would detach in the prey’s struggle, leaving the shaft to fall to the ground and be reused. If the boar escaped, the dogs could trail the blood easily. Hefting the first of her spears, Éowyn squeezed Byrga with her legs, commanding him to advance.

The Queen looked at her from her position outside the ring of men and Éowyn said quietly, “Stay here.” Then, voice stern now and the voice of a hunter, no longer soft like a woman’s in the slightest, she ordered her men. “Nu. Forþ.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Arwen gaze at her, almost startled, but Éowyn paid it no attention. All her concentration was focused upon the three boars, the spear in her hand and the feel of Byrga beneath her.

The huntsmen followed her, raising their own weapons and the dogs, perceiving that now was the time to attack, rushed forward with muzzles wrinkled and their teeth bared to their pink gums. The boars squealed and roared, but the dogs were too many and they were too encircled to flee.

They reared and twisted sideways, their manes and facial bristles stiffly upright with rage, using their cloven hooves to battle as much as their sharp tusks. Heavy as a man or more so, the boars cut down many dogs, crushing them to the ground and slashing with their tusks at their unprotected backs. The noises of animal pain and protest were near deafening. Éowyn threw her first spear carefully and whooped as it hit the mark, burying itself deep into the flank of the nearest boar. At her cry the hunters threw, too, filling the air with the long and deadly shafts. With grisly thuds of impact, the barbed points drove deeply, one spilling the entrails of a boar onto the earth as it caught in the beast’s struggles. The dogs grabbed the long, grey-green ropes and tugged as the animal screamed in agony and turned on them to fight as much as it could before it died.

The air smelled of green growth, blood, sweat and feces; the roots of the trees were bared in the boar’s thrashings and the trunks of many were stippled with what could have been mud or blood. The horses milled, ears flat and the whites of their eyes showing as they were urged forward. Red blood pouring through its gaping mouth, the gutted boar fell and the dogs focused upon the remaining boar, stopped from ripping into the dead animal only by a sharply commanding blow of the horn.

She put out her hand and her spearman gave her another spear. In the second it took for her to firmly grasp the wooden shaft, Éowyn yelped in surprise, feeling Byrga lunge sideways to escape one of the boars as it charged desperately through the circle of horse legs and snarling dogs. Its flanks and sides were studded with spear points, brilliant drops of blood dabbling onto the dusty ground. The grey gelding went up into the air, twisting on his hind hooves to avoid the tusks of the boar and her leg was dashed against the bole of a tree from knee to ankle. The tree’s trunk was green and yielded under the force of impact, lessening the blow, but she cried out as her left leg numbed then burned in exquisite, blooming pain. Gripping Byrga’s mane tightly and curling her good leg around his barrel to keep herself in the saddle, Éowyn’s vision blurred with tears and she held onto her spear only by sheer will power.

Her spearman looked concerned, reaching to take Byrga by the bridle as she tried to recover. “Min Ides…”

“Ic eom fægere.” Gasping and furious, she ordered, hot-blooded, “Abreát hit! Abreát hit nu! Ic wille habban his hafela! Nu!” Three of the huntsmen wheeled their mounts and followed the bloody trail of the loose boar obediently, some of the dogs running eagerly before them. Those men that remained gazed at her in concern and Éowyn straightened in her saddle, lying as composedly as she could, “Ic eom fægere.” Her leg hurt a great deal but she ignored it, lifting her spear and clucking to get Byrga to move.

The last boar was swiftly killed, encircled by dogs with their spears raining down until one hit a vital mark and the beast sank to the earth, bemired in its and its kin’s blood. Slumping, Éowyn ventured to move her foot in her stirrup and winced. She hadn’t broken her left leg, just bruised it terribly. Byrga flinched when she moved it again, making her guess he’d hurt his side when they’d hit the tree. Leaning carefully down, she slid her leg forward so that the stirrup no longer covered the area and felt gently, fingers probing the grey coat to feel for a broken rib.

Luckily Éowyn found none, just mild heat and softness. Only a bruise… She was relieved. Byrga stood quiet under her as the hunters began assessing the dogs’ wounds, gathering the used spear shafts, gutting the boars and making a makeshift travois to carry the heavy animals back to Edoras. Arwen came close, her bright eyes concerned, “Are you hurt?” In the distance there was the blow of a horn—a signal that the third boar had been slain.

“Just a bruise…I’ll be sore for a few days.” The Queen frowned and Éowyn asserted quickly, in a false voice of indifference, “No more.”

“The tree bent under our weight,” Patting Byrga’s shoulder, she smiled reassuringly, “It was not as hard as it looked.”

Gaer rode swiftly and Faramir followed him all the way back, passing their camp at a run. The horses were breathing hard, necks wet with sweat as they galloped side by side down the valley, the return trip having taken much less time. Slowing to a jog on the narrower, heavily rutted trail to the village, Gaer spoke, “You must help me think of something to say to the Lady the next time I see her.”

He snorted. “I don’t think it matters…” Faramir grinned sideways, “She is marrying me.”

Gaer smiled a little sheepishly. “It matters to me.” He looked over, crookedly grinning, “Do you think I just opened my mouth and out came that talk of her beauty blinding us?”

Faramir admitted, “Yes.” He was answered by a loud scoffing noise which made him chuckle. Sobering, he muttered, “I don’t even know what to say to her.”

“I have not…” Striving for delicacy and to keep some privacy, he said, “Acted with the proper restraint…”

“Like what?” His friend obviously found this interesting. Thorn and Gaer’s chestnut snuffled and huffed as they jogged, dust rising softly around them while the sun bore down hard, making both men and beasts sweat freely. Faramir wished desperately for a cloud. “Well?” Gaer had gotten impatient.

“Why not?” Faramir sighed again, but was cut off. “You don’t trust me to keep silent?”

“I don’t think you know the meaning of the word.” He smiled. Gaer did not.

Faramir glanced at the red mane and surrendered. Maybe Gaer held clues to Éowyn that he did not. It was possible. “Fine. I…” Gaer turned back immediately, proving that he was not hurt at all. Faramir glowered at him but finished reluctantly, “I tried to make love to her. She…got upset. She was not happy when I left and I fear she won’t be when I return.”

There was a contemplative quality to his Rohir friend’s face that he’d never seen before. “And?”

Faramir thought for a while. He and Éowyn’s talk had seemed to calm her, but she’d been upset again when he’d left… He remembered something he’d paid little attention to at the time. She did not like the fight. He frowned. “She did not like it when Oswyn and I fought.”

Gaer shrugged. “Women don’t like a good fight. They are strange.” Faramir smiled a little but his friend wasn’t finished. “No one liked that fight.” Faramir looked at him and was reassured, “Oh, we loved how you did it, but how it was started…” Gaer shook his head, “It was shameful. A man and his misery can only be given allowances for so long.” His voice turned bitter and low, almost to himself, “We have put up with such from others like him ever since we returned to the City…fools looking for their sentence…”

Gaer looked at him sharply, and then away, obviously uncomfortable. “It is not something we speak of.” He clucked to his horse, making it spring into a run again. “Come, we’re almost there.” Thorn took more persuasion, but followed as Faramir wondered.

They rode straight into the village, dust rising in soft tan plumes with Gaer shouting loudly, “Eower cyning behófaþ ge!”

Halting Thorn, Faramir stared at the Rider in astonishment. The statement carried all the authority of a soldier and his friend’s face, usually split with a grin, was self-controlled and expectant. For the first time he found himself looking at Gaer and seeing a warrior sworn to unfaltering service. He marveled, feeling the heat of the day and his own thirst.

Some of the villagers spilled from the tavern and looked at them until one man asked, “Hwa deþ he behófian?” He seemed to carry more authority than the others and they looked to him though Faramir could not see anything that differentiated him, not clothing, manner of speech or stance. His feeling of that the deciding of leadership in Rohan was merely a chaotic and illogical choosing was reinforced.

“A crat ond a gerédan æt seo eoh.” Gaer pointed at Thorn. He grinned as Faramir sat trying to translate as fast as they spoke; the villagers’ accent was much thicker. “Get off him and get that saddle and bridle off.” He turned back to their audience, asking in that voice of crisp authority, “Wilst ge folgodon?”

The village man who’d spoken replied back, “Gea, min Hlaford!” At his word, two young boys ran to jump bareback onto ponies and they were already galloping off into the hills as Faramir dismounted from Thorn. Gaer looked very satisfied, sliding off his chestnut to loosen its girth, pat it and cheekily order Faramir, “Hurry.”

Rolling his eyes, he’d just begun unknotting the sweat-soaked girth when two girls of the village came near with water from the well in simple earthen pitchers. They smiled timidly, clearly offering him and Gaer the vessels. Faramir smiled back, looking at their pretty blonde hair and wishing for his Éowyn. Peculiarly, the girls whispered to themselves and backed far away as he took the pitcher and drained it thirstily, finding it to be delightfully cool. They did not look at Gaer, only at him. Bemused by their curiosity and odd shyness, Faramir remembered his manners,

“Ic þancie þe.” The girls giggled at him from behind their hands and Gaer snorted in obvious disdain.

Very young boys from the village came to them and took the reins of Gaer’s chestnut; Faramir looked to his friend for confirmation before handing Thorn over. The lads walked the horses to the well, drawing the bucket to wet cloths and squeeze over the horses’ sweaty coats to cool them. The villagers had returned to the inn and Gaer followed them. Faramir did as well, supposing they were waiting for the cart to arrive. Inside he was bored, as the villagers did nothing but talk to Gaer in their thickly accented Rohirric. Several attempted to converse with him in a friendly fashion but it was difficult on both ends and they soon gave up.

It did not take especially long before there were the sounds of hooves outside the inn and he emerged again from the comparative coolness into the baking heat of the day. A bulky-looking horse was being unharnessed and Thorn was being harnessed in its place. Faramir watched them put his saddle and bridle in the back of the large cart and marveled at the speed of the obedience shown by the folk around him. Gaer mounted his gelding easily and waved at him. “Get up there.”

Faramir climbed awkwardly into the cart and sat on the wooden seat; it was padded with stuffed leather and narrow. He shifted on it to get comfortable, very aware he’d never driven one before. Fully harnessed, Thorn looked displeased, his ears flat as one of the lads held his bridle until Faramir picked up the reins and nodded to him to let go. The boy grinned toothily at him, making him smile in return. He had an odd view of Thorn, seen from above and behind; the gelding looked at once huge and small. The reins were very long and there were four instead of two, baffling him. As staunchly as he could manage to look, Faramir took a deep breath and clucked loudly. “Let’s go.”

Thorn walked slowly after Gaer’s chestnut, the cart creaking and gently rattling over ruts in the dry earth. Ahead of them, Gaer was moving faster so Faramir clucked again to catch up. Thorn did so, and, unprepared for the sheer roughness of his ride, Faramir bounced and grabbed the seat as Thorn began to jog. He felt oddly out of control, as he was not in direct contact with his mount. “Good lad…”

Still far ahead, Gaer turned to look at him and grinned. He waved one arm sharply forward in some signal Faramir didn’t immediately understand until the chestnut jumped into a run.

Oh, no… He grabbed at the cart desperately, all but abandoning the reins in favor of holding on over what felt like incredibly deep ruts. Alarmed as both their speed and the cart’s shaking did nothing but increase, he called, voice vibrating comically from all the jouncing, “E-e-a-a-s-s-y-y…” Thorn’s only response was to flick his ears, relaxing them from their pinned position. Over his head in this and well aware of it, he began to snicker. What am I doing? Bouncing so much he was getting sore, he cackled wildly for a while as Thorn galloped, the turns making the cart tilt precariously several times. On one turn he felt all four wheels leave the earth before slamming back down hard enough to bounce him up into the air and Faramir heard himself screech with genuine panic, which made him laugh until he was gasping for breath. The cart made a horrendous racket, rattling and groaning so that he could hardly hear himself think. Snickers bursting from his stomach, he tried to make sense of the reins, only to fall back into helpless laughter. Ahead, Gaer looked around, which made him laugh harder. What am I doing?

Finally sobering and finding it difficult to talk, Faramir tried an experiment. He reached out and touched upon the animal’s mind. Thorn. The grey checked his stride, tossing his nose up in alarm. Easy… Perplexed by the overreaction, Faramir soothed more lightly, easy. Thorn turned his head very slightly; ears not pinned at all, but instead tipped back and listening. Easy lad…easy, be easy…

Their pace smoothed a little as the gelding found his stride and settled into a canter. Faramir still bounced but thankfully less now as the wheels of the great cart were firmly within the ruts. He gathered his reins, praising, good lad…that’s it…

Watching the landscape fly by, he wondered in amusement, what am I doing? Thorn answered with a downward toss of his nose and a huff. Faramir smiled.

The return to the broken cart took longer than it had to ride to the village, of course, but they were back before he expected. Climbing out of the cart, he was deeply glad to be on stable ground. The first cart was long gone and the second one sat where it had broken, the drafts unharnessed and tied in the shade of the trees where the remaining Riders, horses and lads took shelter.

Standing beside a sweat-drenched Thorn, Faramir looked at the mess of leather harness and then around himself helplessly. He had no idea of even where to begin. Luckily, his idle students amassed to help him.

Leodthiain took charge, tapping buckles as he moved rapidly around Thorn. “Her, her, ond her Láréow.”

Faramir followed the instructions wearily and was glad when they’d freed his horse and he could resaddle the gelding. Tying Thorn in the shade, he had no need to tell him to stay—the horse’s eyes were already drooping. Good lad. He patted the grey neck as Thorn’s eyes flickered open and sat beside Gaer in a deep pool of cool shadow. His friend grinned at him and offered a bit of dried venison. Faramir accepted it and chewed as he watched. The cart he’d brought was not quite the same size and he wondered sadly if that meant return trips. A peek through the tree limbs made him sigh; it was already well past noon. Soft warmth on his shoulder made him look around—Thorn’s head hung over him. Faramir smiled; the gelding’s lower lip sagged a good inch from his teeth. He tickled the whiskers and Thorn’s lip twitched. Faramir grinned.

The empty cart was pulled to stand very near the other and the Riders stood on the sacks of salt and threw them over into the arms of other men who more carefully laid the sacks to rest in the back of the cart. The remaining drafts were brought out and one was reharnessed and the other tied to the back of the cart, with the smaller harness that Thorn had carried carefully gathered and laid on the seat.

All in all the task of transferring what salt that would fit into the smaller wagon took far less than he wished. Faramir was weary as he rose and woke Thorn. This time the Rohirrim did not sing, but instead rode quietly, the dust of their passage rising high.

They walked back, cooling the spirits of the excited horses and dogs. Éowyn was grateful, but sat straight in her saddle as though she didn’t feel sore at all. When they at last rode into Edoras the golden roof glowing in the afternoon light and she gazed at the stairs to Meduseld and groaned inwardly.

Dismounting was painful but tolerable; leaving her hopeful that handling the stairs would be the same. She would not be carried unless she was on her deathbed. Éowyn took a deep breath, holding Byrga’s reins as the men dismounted around her in the courtyard. She stood so, pointedly, until one man bellowed for a boy. She let the stable boy that ran to her untack Byrga, pointing the bruised area of the horse’s side out to him so that he would take care and stroked the gelding’s head before walking slowly from the courtyard. Men were trotting down the stairs, cooks’ boys and such, ready to grab up the three boars. The presence of one of the great standards of the Mark, the golden staff once again placed at the doorward’s post, escaped her attention completely.

At the bottom of the stairs, while Éowyn gazed upwards tiredly, Arwen caught up with her and there was still concern in her gaze. “I am fine, just sore…” She smiled while glancing at her hands, “And dirty. A bath sounds wonderful.”

“Thank you.” They walked slowly and Éowyn was irritated by her aches. Arwen was tactful and stopped twice to speak. It was her second halt that made Éowyn look up at the doors. “The banner is there again.”

“What?” Oh, no… Her brother was home. Faramir…? Éowyn strained her mind but couldn’t feel him…but he could be inside the Hall. She was simultaneously ready to run up the stairs or flee back down them. Éowyn was fully aware her slight injury would be perfect cause to ban her from any number of things—other hunts, for example. Foolish, foolish, over-protective men…if they were hurt nothing would come of it, but I, I must be safeguarded! She ground her teeth as Éomer came from the doors and began down the stairs. He took them swiftly at first, not even really looking at her, which puzzled her until their eyes met and her brother stopped so fast on the steps that he listed sharply and came close to floundering for his balance and worse. Eyes wide, Éomer stuck his arms out, regaining his equilibrium. She’d forgotten about her darkened hair and she smiled a little as he stood, plainly dumbstruck, above her. His gasp of shock had been audible, which made her laugh.

Amused, Éowyn waited, resting while she could. Her motionlessness would be suspect, but a limp would be worse. She couldn’t help but smile as her brother began walking down to her, now one step at a time. Her hair would hold his interest for a while, it seemed. As Éomer approached, the Queen smiled kindly and headed up the stairs. “I’ll see you later?”

“What…how…why?” He was speechless with dismay and appalled disbelief. Éomer half reached to touch her hair and made himself close the gap, fingering the reddish brown strands. He felt his face move with his grimaces of disconcertment.

“It’s horrible.” His sister laughed at him, running her fingers through the tangled, sweat-matted tresses and luckily taking no offense, though he scarcely gave it thought. Her beautiful hair, such a pretty shade of pale gold, was utterly changed. It looked like she’d rubbed mud into it. Guileless and confused, he said. “I hate it.”

“Too bad.” Éowyn began to walk up the stairs and he grabbed her arm at once, seeing her painful gait. She looked at him almost challengingly and, as they stood so close, her eyes widened and lingered on his features. Suddenly his sister’s gaze grew dark with anger and he released her, afraid of what she might say. Faramir had left marks upon him, of course, as he’d done to the Steward and his face was lightly bruised in places. His sister was not stupid; she knew now that he and her paramour’s ridiculous feud had not ended and even escalated in their absence.

They stared at each other for a moment and though Éomer wanted desperately to ask about why she favored her left leg, he also did not wish for her to ask in turn about the clear, if not exorbitant, marks on his face. What could I say? Any lie would be absurd, yet the blunt truth would infuriate and or sadden her. Uncertain of what course to take, Éomer felt himself tense inside. Éowyn stared at him coolly and said nothing.

In the end, after several seconds, he inquired hesitantly, “Where did you go?” He peered past his sister’s dirty, strained features, eyeing the diminishing swarm of men, dogs and boys in the courtyard. “A…hunt? For what?” Éomer turned back to her, seeing her tiredness in her eyes, the dirt and flecks of mud on her cheeks and above all, her odd quietude. He hesitated, “Are you…well?” Returning to Edoras to find it empty had been shocking but this was even more so—finding his sister so changed and even injured.

He stared at her darkly shining hair. Éowyn was looking at his face, her expression calculating as she spoke, almost offhandedly. “Boar. I got a bruised leg, no more.”

Boar? He was horrified and Éomer pressed, unable to help himself. “You’re sure?”

There was a bit of fire to the reply, which reassured him more than anything did. “I’m sure.” She glanced past him up the stairs and his sister’s voice turned puzzled and hopeful; unfortunately Éomer also heard just a touch of accusation. “Where is Faramir?”

“He rode with the others.” At her bald stare, he added apprehensively and defensively, “I asked him to come with me. He refused.” The very moment he spoke it Éomer knew he should have lied as Éowyn’s face took on a faint, vulnerable cast and she looked very much saddened. She rubbed her upper arms, frowning.

Uncomfortable, he shifted on the stairs, making his boots scrape. “I don’t know.” Are you not happy I’m here? Éomer knew he did not matter as much as the return of her lover, but he felt slighted at seeing no gladness whatsoever at their meeting again. Éowyn still frowned and took a slow step upwards. He came closer and offered an arm silently, in hopes she would not brush him aside as thinking her weak—his sister looked very much ready to collapse.

To his relief she smiled and took his offer, leaning on him, though probably less than she needed to, Éomer knew. He tried to distract her from the oddly exposed and laid open moment he’d seen in her eyes. Her light weight on his arm, Éomer was briefly and hotly furious at Faramir. Why did he refuse? Idiocy and now my sister looks like this… He glanced at her dark—dark!—bent head. “How many did you get?”

Her voice lightened, as did her step; they were near the top. “Three. I helped to bring down two.”

“You did?” He was, as always and regardless of his worry, proud of her skill.

At the doors, he let her slip from his arm and ventured to say, “You look tired.”

Éowyn nodded. “We began this morning.” She sighed and took another step away. “I’m going to have a bath.”

Éomer nodded and she left him in the Hall; he watched his sister’s halting steps until she disappeared, disturbed.

Faramir was amazed that Thorn mustered enough energy to jog up the hill to Meduseld but the gelding did, and of his own accord, pulling ahead of the group. It was late in the afternoon, the sun slanting to alight on the Golden Hall, rays of brightness trying their best to blind him. He looked down, shading his eyes and reached to slap Thorn’s neck, feeling the heat of the gelding and the slick sweat that had dried into salt-specked and hardened patches on his crested neck. “Good lad.” Very soft, he murmured, “Good lad, Thorn.”

The grey jogged slowly up the hill, picking his own path and halting in front of the stables. Faramir smiled, amused as he spoke to the flopping, grey ears. “I’m not sure that we’re finished yet.” Dismounting wearily, he looked up at the Hall, half expecting to see Éowyn silhouetted there or even flying down the stairs, skirts and flaxen hair trailing behind her.

But there were none at the open doors but the doorwards. He frowned and chastised himself as the Riders surrounded him, dismounting and giving the reins of their horses to stable boys to hold. I can’t expect her to come running the very moment I arrive… A lad took Thorn’s bridle and Faramir joined Gaer and Tondhere as two Riders climbed the sides of the cart and straddled them to begin tossing down the dark bags of salt.

It was hard work; the bags were heavier than they appeared and he had to carry them to another, man-drawn cart and lay them carefully so that they would not burst their seams. Faramir did his share without shirking, though his back quickly began to ache at this unaccustomed labor. Following many of the others’ examples, he stripped off his shirt and tossed the sweat-drenched garment aside to lie over Thorn’s saddle. The gelding’s eyes were closed, his hind leg cocked as he dozed.

Slightly cooler, Faramir took another bag, the rough cloth rubbing his bared arms red from friction, and asked in confusion. “What?”

“We’ve tried that before, prancing around without a shirt…or even less.” His friend cackled, “Never turned her head.” Passing them with their own loads, Tondhere and Nier snickered, sounding surprisingly juvenile.

He smiled, “I see” and glanced hopefully up at the doors again. Still nothing. Faramir could sense her familiar mind and feel its nearness but he couldn’t reach her without an effort that would get him noticed. Éowyn…

Tondhere passed him going the opposite direction, his voice coming easy; he was carrying two sacks of salt and wasn’t breathing hard despite the work. “Skinny thing like you…my mother would tie you to a tree like a lamb and feed you until you burst.”

Going by on his other side, Nier chuckled and gave Faramir a slap on the back that, with a heavy sack of salt in his arms, staggered him. “Aye, he looks like a stick-ribbed lamb doesn’t he?”

Gaer, though his back was turned as he took another sack, stepped in to redeem him with a laugh, “But at least he can work.” Several of the Rohirrim chuckled; those that could speak the Common Tongue were listening. Faramir smiled too, recognizing the good nature behind the jesting. He’d just laid his burden down on the cart and turned to defend himself when the voice he’d been hoping to hear spoke up, full of suppressed laughter, gentle chiding and a wildly giddy joy,

He froze in place, delighted beyond belief, and as Faramir turned to face Éowyn, he paid only the slightest of attention to Gaer’s abrupt inhalation or the shock that flew over the man’s wits. He felt her dear mind and heard her beautiful voice, yet as he turned there was before him only an unfamiliar and entirely incomprehensible blur of cinnamon colored hair and cream gown and his arms were suddenly full of a woman’s body. She squealed with loud and uninhibited joy, a sound deeply disconnected to his perception of Éowyn, and hugged him with her arms wrapping tightly around his torso, soft front of breasts, stomach and hips pressing up to him with all her strength, a burst of laughing breath warm under his chin.

For a terrible instant, before his mind, ear and eye caught up with each other, Faramir did not recognize his beloved and nearly shoved Éowyn away from him in repulsion. Luckily, as he felt his eyes grow wide, she took his grasp of her forearms for an embrace and not the reflexive movement of pushing away the strange woman that was so intimately clasping him. Aware his mouth was hanging open, he was also aware he wasn’t alone in his shock. The Riders gaped in silence around him; they stood with their loads, frozen in place.

Éowyn, oblivious and still joyful, laughed and added as she leaned back with her nose delicately wrinkled, “You smell terrible, though.”

Faramir found he had only open-mouthed silence with which to answer. She stared up at him and her brow creased before she dipped her eyes, laughing softly and extremely self-consciously. Éowyn released him and tucked her hair back with one hand, smiling in a manner that was both less forward and less confident than before. Her movements, hands rubbing each other as she took a step back and eyes no longer meeting his, were also unsure, which fit his notion of her and how she acted and made him accept this new and baffling image at last. Oh, why…Valar…? To his mind this change was akin to some profanation of her loveliness.

Lifting his hand, he gingerly touched a lock of her hair that lay over her slim shoulder. It was…a sort of red-brown color that shone warmly in the sun but was not even a poor substitute for the brilliantly golden luster that he had first seen in the gardens of the City…and never expected to not see. Horrified outrage filling his voice, Faramir half asked, half demanded, “What did you do?”

Éowyn’s smiled faded, then became slightly more nervous. “Its just dye…” She straightened a little, frowning as her hands clasped tightly before her, “It washes out…why are you so upset?”

“Arwen did it.” She bit her lips, compressing them, and her blue eyes darted tensely to the men standing in silence around them. Very suddenly they stopped moving and fixed almost pleadingly on some space over his shoulder.

Abruptly, Gaer spoke, moving to stand nearly at Faramir’s side, his hand falling hard upon his upper arm. His voice was light, though. “Min Ides…Ic eom…” He took a breath. “Ic eom in egesa, æt a se fyrngeweorc æt hærfest… Ic habbe ná beháwod a onhweorfeþ, æt gold æt se betera a fyenhyd, min Ides, gea forcom se leáfum on se duns in whlite. Ic giernan eower mildheortnes, galdricge!” His grin turned teasing, “You did not warn us, my Lady… gea wilst ablendan us eall.”

Éowyn relaxed some, laughing in embarrassment and amusement as she shook her head. “Ná, ná Gaer.”

Faramir looked at her as Éowyn smiled, noting that when her eyes turned back to him they were worried and chagrined and suddenly he was filled with choking, bitter guilt. He was acting like a brute and hurting her feelings when all he should be doing was telling her how much he’d missed her. Taking a deep breath, he said quietly, “It does look…” The memory of brushing her generous fair-haired mane still made him wince, “Nice.”

Every bit of the exuberant joy within her had vanished and Éowyn stared dully at her feet, “Thank you.”

Faramir looked at her almost desperately, conscious that the other Riders had moved away and were unloading the salt once more. He frowned, not sure of what to do when Gaer clasped his shoulder again to say solemnly, “Go.” In a fiercer undertone he whispered, “Or this time I will kill you and take your place.”

He smiled and gazed at Éowyn, who had raised her eyes to look back and forth between them. To his surprise she reached out to clasp his hand, her fingers warm and small as they fit between his, “Come.”

Faramir let her lead him away but they did not get far before his guilt overwhelmed him into stopping them both. “I’m sorry.”

Éowyn’s met his gaze briefly, shifting from foot to foot. “It’s all right.” It clearly wasn’t. She tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Éomer said it was horrible, too.”

He tried again, remembering how much patience this required, “I should not have said that.” Faramir grimaced, “It shouldn’t have been the first thing I said to you.”

A spark of fire illuminated her gaze. “I told you once before to tell me how you felt, to not give way to me and lie like I was a child.”

“Yes…but,” He lowered his voice, feeling her mind and knowing at once how much she was wounded and now, growing furious. “I hurt you, I’m sorry…I missed you. Very much. Don’t be angry with me please.”

Éowyn crossed her arms in front of herself, eyes narrowing as he spoke. Her voice was remote. “I’m not.”

He reached out to grasp a lock of her darker hair between his fingertips. Éowyn tilted her head away from him. She was more deeply saddened than anything and Faramir understood fully—she’d greeted him with joy and he her with displeasure and umbrage. Elvish she liked, so he tried, “Melamin…”

Looking up, Éowyn answered, her words stumbling but clear, “A'maelamin.” Shocked anew, he gazed at her speechlessly and then promptly and fiercely embraced her, as he knew he should have done before. Faramir felt this misdeed keenly.

Éowyn laughed shakily against his shoulder, her arms tight enough to make his bruises twinge. “Ugh, you smell like a beast.”

I had a bath…like you’re about to. Her eyes were full of love now instead of bruised hurt and Faramir relaxed.

Am I? It sounded wonderful; he thought at the moment that he would undertake anything to keep her from losing the smile on her lips.

Yes. Her eyes seemed to swallow her face as he stood so close. They were a beautiful shade of blue, like the very bowl of the sky. Éowyn gazed at him, fingers rubbing in the dark hair that covered his face, “And a shave. I think I could have myself a new mantle with this pelt you’ve grown.” She smiled more shyly. Do it, touch to me…?

Faramir was more than glad to acquiesce. He touched her mind and connected, concentrating on Éowyn and how she felt, how her heart felt. He sensed her renewing joy, the hurt he’d caused fading, her…he couldn’t quite understand what he found. Éowyn seemed different and yet the same; something had changed. He felt in her a new openness and a willingness that had not been their before; Faramir knew it in the way she clung to him unabashed in the very same courtyard where, when he’d first arrived, she’d not wished to kiss him. And yet…there was something she hid within and did not let even herself see. He was confounded, and then forgot it immediately as Éowyn smiled and he felt her deep contentment; it matched his own.

They stood very close in the late afternoon sun; Faramir’s head was bent to hers, not touching but near as though he was whispering a secret into her ear. Her dyed hair tickled his nose and he felt her spread her hands and slide them up his bared chest, palms coming to rest on his shoulders, hands dangling with her fingers loosely interlaced. Éowyn’s body pressed up to his without inhibition and it was at once firm with muscle and yielding with the pleasing softness unique to a woman. He breathed in her good, clean and flowery smell, so welcome after days of nothing but the sweat of men and horses and almost at once Faramir was aware of his desire.

You smell…feel so good. He had to have some sort of intimate contact, a kiss or a touch, anything…please?

Éowyn wrinkled her nose again and murmured. “I can’t even find you in that wool you’ve grown…” Her eyes twinkled, “Lamb.”

Faramir pooched out his lips helpfully, which had the bonus effect of making her laugh. Here I am.

Ah, yes. But just as their lips met, she pulled away to touch his chin like something had caught her attention. It hurt a little bit as she placed her fingertips over a dark bruise. “What happened to you?”

He shrugged and bent to kiss her only to get a firm push back. Faramir answered impatiently, “A game.”

Her voice was chilly. “My brother must have played that game as well.” He hesitated but to his astonishment nothing came of it. Éowyn looked at him very frankly with an emotion he couldn’t decipher in her eyes—there was cool displeasure and anger but some other, strange thing Faramir could not distinguish overthrew it. Éowyn’s tightened expression smoothed and she tugged gently at his arm. “Come, before the women carry the tub out of my rooms and I have to call them back.”

Éowyn barely paused, speaking with her tone full of competency. “I’ve arranged for your weapons to be returned to your quarters and your clothing to be washed…is there anything else you wish for?” Her question puzzled him though it was completely innocuous. There was something odd in her efficient manner.

He looked over at the huddle of weary horses; Thorn’s bulky frame was missing. Faramir shook his head. “Nothing but the things they took from my rooms before I rode.”

A frown came over her face and Éowyn raised her voice, calling after the nearest Rider. “Ge, wilst ge ábirð giedd æt me?” In her very erect and commanding stance he saw clearly his lioness, his Shieldmaiden and Faramir stared at her wonderingly. How can she be so fearful, then so assured? He rubbed her knuckles with his fingers but she paid him no mind, Éowyn’s concentration was bent upon the man who stood waiting.

Her voice was adamant now, fully purposeful. She meant ever word and every one of the words was heavy with the distinct threat of authority. “Se scrud æt Faramir wille beo gecierran ær dægræd or Ic wille minself secan ælec hus ond bur in Edoras ond forsecan se þéof æt geearnian.”

The Rider looked as impressed as Faramir felt. He bowed low, “Min Ides, Ic wilst hieran.”

As they returned to walking she glanced up at him almost in reassurance; “I will see them returned.”

Faramir nodded. “I believe you.” Éowyn smiled a little and walked him up the stairs into Meduseld. He felt like a barbarian without a shirt on to cover himself and even more so at how filthy he was. My father would come down upon me like the hammers of the mountain trolls… The Hall was bustling with servants and he could smell food. “Is there a feast tonight?”

She glanced at him as though the question startled her. “No.” Éowyn smiled, “Though I should command one to celebrate.”

“You coming home.” Edoras was not his home. Faramir smiled anyway, hiding his instinctive aversion. He knew what she meant. Moving to kiss her, he barely got a taste before she pushed at him lecturing, “Not until you’re clean.”

Her laugh made him cheer and Faramir pulled her against him to murmur into her ear as she squirmed. He felt her disgusted annoyance and laughed. “Next time I’ll dunk myself in the river before I return to you…if my wild Shieldmaiden has grown so particular.”

Éowyn tilted her head back to look up, her face open and vulnerable, “Next…time?”

Faramir shrugged and teased. “I do as my Lord Éomer commands.” He took advantage of her motionless surprise to kiss her and it was wonderful to feel her warm wetness of her mouth, the slickness of her tongue as it touched his lightly and the way her lips moved to react. She even tasted good, like some sweet fruit. He felt her desire, too, rising to meet and entwine with his and it amazed him enough to look at her.

Éowyn’s eyes were wide and so uncommonly defenseless that he wished to gather her up and protect her from everything, including himself, but Faramir did not think that he could much longer. Her mouth was slightly parted, dark, big pupils moving to search his. One of her hands had found its way to touch his shoulder and it looked very small and slender. He was drawn to that part of her, pulled irresistibly to the openness that she couldn’t hide and that expressed of her innocence. Faramir spoke because to not say it was unthinkable in the face of the shakily budding confidence he saw. “I love you.”

A playful smile turned up the corners of her lips and her voice was light with the melodious accent of her folk. “Ic lufie ge.”

She bit her lip, smile pulling at her mouth before finally admitting with a giggle. “I have no more.” Éowyn laughed.

He grinned and she pulled at his wrist with a sudden laugh of high spirits. “Come, I don’t wish to call back the women.”

All the way to her rooms Éowyn’s heart was thumping in her throat. He’d placed his fingers against the small of her back again and his palm warmed her, the heat of it spreading to touch her very core. Faramir was behind her, just to the side and she felt the phantom touch of his body tickling her senses. He kept moving his fingertips, the blunt tips tracing stitching, tickling through the layers of her dress and making her wish they were on her bare skin.

Éowyn flushed a little, looking at her moving feet; glancing back at him revealed the patchwork of yellowing, purple and greenish bruises that covered his lean body. Discolorations laced the swell of his chest, showing dimly through the dark hair; they were liberally scattered over his flat belly; his shoulders looked as though they’d taken the brunt of many falls. He had scratches and scrapes, tiny scabs everywhere from his knuckles to the underside of his furry chin.

A game he says… Her brother bore the same marks on his face that Éowyn could barely spy beneath Faramir’s dark beard. She felt a swell of rage that she swiftly suppressed and channeled into disciplined efficiency. Her duty as wife was to care for him and his needs, not to lecture him. Walking faster and glad her leg no longer ached, Éowyn gritted her teeth briefly and succeeded in banishing her anger again.

Behind her, he felt curious and apprehensive at her mood but she ignored his slight questioning. As though to soothe her, Faramir’s hand slid lightly, brushing up and down the back of her cream overdress. She wondered if his fingers were dirtying it, as they’d been rather grimy before, and had to suppress still more annoyance. This is a new gown… My brother and he fought like they were no more than foolish, mindless beasts again… Her hair caught her eye, he hates it, thinks it ugly, thinks me ugly with it… Inside herself she felt boiling rage and sore hurt before she pushed it far down and straightened her spine. She had a duty to do for Faramir. This was her life, her responsibility as his wife; even if they’d not yet wed, no doubt he expected it.

Her door was open and she called, “Wait.” The women halted their work of hauling her bath water out with their jugs and buckets and stood expectantly. When she halted, Éowyn felt Faramir press himself lightly to her, a faint, all-body contact that she relished as much as the warm feel of his mind. Éowyn resented her anger; she’d rather be glad but the bruises he bore mocked her. Ordering the women, she said. “Fetch more water for me.” Faramir shifted, (still dirty, she could see) fingers touching her neckline and brushing the rawhide thong of the dolphin pendant.

Faramir brushed aside her hair to kiss her neck; his beard was scratchy but his lips were smooth and warm. She smiled, unable to help it, and took the opportunity to tease him, directing her comment to the women, “Quickly. I cannot stand this filthy, stinking man.”

The women laughed. Faramir’s eyes went briefly out of focus and he looked hesitant as he followed her into the rooms. The women moved on as she glanced into the wooden tub; there was a bit of water left in it but not much. Kneeling, she thrust a few sticks back into the fire that burned on her hearth, several small kettles sitting near it. Éowyn rocked them with her hand, pleased to note they were full of presumably warm water; their welcome purpose was to provide hot water so that she was not forced to sit in a cooling bath. Black and grey-streaked fur spotted with errant drops of water, her bear skin was rolled and pushed aside so that the tub could be sat as close to the fire as possible. Éowyn poked up the charred logs and watched the little flames rise.

It took a great deal of her will to not snap at him, to not point out the bruises on his body or the fact that she liked her hair this color and how dare he bark at her for changing it, it was her hair… Instead, Éowyn took a deep breath and walked into her bedroom to see if she could find the shirt he’d given her. A pair of Éomer’s trousers would give him something clean, if not appropriate, to wear. Trying her best to appear indifferent, she asked, “Can we speak of this later?”

“Will you speak of it? Most times…you don’t.” This was new between them and she felt his hurt as he followed her.

There was the soft sound of a body depressing a bed as he sat and she rolled her eyes to the ceiling, her hands stopping in the act of opening her drawers. On my clean bed. My filthy future husband has just sat his filthy self down on my clean bed when he is in a room with chairs… Rising and looking him, his handsome face so obviously clueless as to what he was doing, Éowyn covered her mouth in helpless, exasperated mirth. Faramir cocked his head at her. “What?”

“You have no notion of what it is that keep a room clean, do you?” First thing I’m doing in the City is ripping your rooms apart and slaying the multitudes of spiders that lurk there…Shelob’s kin in size by now no doubt…

A quick look into her drawers and she pulled out the neatly folded shirt and tossed it on the bed. Faramir hadn’t moved and he was just as filthy as the last time she’d looked at him. Flapping an irate hand, she cried, “Get up! And take your clothes off.” She walked into the other room, muttering, “I’ll probably have to have them burned.” Looking back, Éowyn called out. “Open the door in there wide, I want to smell those flowers.”

There was a pause as he obeyed, then Faramir walked to stand in the doorway to her bedroom. He was frowning, “Will you not tell my why you are angry? I know…” He rubbed his beard, hand making a scratching noise, “I know I upset you with what I said, but I apologized. I am sorry. Won’t you forgive me and be happy?”

Her anger melted at the gentle, earnestness in his grey eyes. They were so beautiful in their soulful nature. Faramir blinked and smiled at her thought. She answered softly. “I know you apologized...” Éowyn sighed deeply and looked at his bruises; they infuriated her the most and she almost wished Aragorn were still in Edoras to join her in berating her brother and Faramir. “Are those from a game, truly?”

“Yes…” She could feel Faramir was lying but before she could speak he ended truthfully, unhappily, “And no.”

“It was just how it had to be.” The past tense made her watchful. Leaning his hand against the doorframe, Faramir smiled reassuringly, “It is over, I promise things will not go to that any longer.”

Looking at him, Éowyn smiled a little, feeling herself relax. She was terribly glad he was back; just feeling the presence of his mind, his soul within her reach was deeply pleasing. He was still clothed and she walked to him and grasped the waist of his trousers to give them a playful tug. “I thought I told you to take this off.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He leered, making her laugh loudly and openly at him. Faramir looked wounded for a moment, making her immediately wish she hadn’t.

Éowyn opened her mouth but she wasn’t sure what to say, if anything and the women were walking in again and interrupting them, carefully dumping their pitchers and buckets of warm water into the wooden tub. She turned to speak to them, “Bring me some herbs.” Quickly, she listed some that would smell nice and soothe his bruises and hurts. “Thyme, lavender, mint and marjoram…” She gestured, “I want them laid fresh about the floor and in the water. Also bring me sponges and clean cloths.” There was no way he could complain that she lacked any wifely skills of consideration, though no doubt he found the setting terribly rustic; she’d seen the smashed and broken remains of elaborate bath houses in the City. This is the best I can offer…

When she looked around Faramir had vanished and, alarmed that she’d hurt his feelings, Éowyn went into the only place he could be—her mother’s flower room. She approached with some hesitance but could sense nothing bad from him. He was sprawled in the chair, gazing out at the bright afternoon and she marveled at how long his body was. And how lean… Faramir tilted his head back to look at her, smile on his face. “You are spoiling me beyond belief.”

Puzzled, she answered as competently as she could; Éowyn did not wish for him to be ashamed of her. She was no woman of the City but she could care for him and would to the best of her skill. “I’m only doing what I should for my Lord.” The slightest of frowns crossed his face before it disappeared.

“Thank you.” Éowyn plucked a dead bloom from one of the bushes to busy her hands; he felt so very affectionate and his tone was so warm that it made her flush.

This time he looked puzzled, and touched. “I can’t remember anyone else ever ordering such…” Faramir stretched a little, shaking his head and remarking, “Not that I was deprived of comforts but none were…” He paused and looked at her plainly as he spoke soft and tender, eyes and voice combining to make it seem as though he were awakening to something so grand and new that it intimidated him a bit, “Assured to me… alone.”

Éowyn smiled, embarrassment and sudden nervousness making her look away from the way he was beaming. She hated her nervousness; she wanted to respond to his warmth in kind but it was so overwhelming. Struggling with herself, she answered, “I want you to feel that way…I,” She made herself meet his eyes as they looked at her with such focus it was daunting, “I don’t want you to feel I’m…cold.” The last word left her weak with the fight to express herself.

Faramir patted his knee and spoke quietly and compassionately, as though he felt her inward battle. “Come here by me,” Smile curling his lips, he added more lightly, “If you can stand the stench.” She eyed him, not relishing the idea of curling up on his chest where she could see the dust and sweat that had dried on his skin. Éowyn folded her knees and sat on the floor instead, cream-colored skirts spreading on the dark and white flagstones, scooting petals with her feet; they were dried and rustled softly. She leaned her forearms across his thigh. Gazing down at her, Faramir spoke, reaching out to smooth her hair. “I’m sorry I was so rude.”

He sounded wistful, “But it was so beautiful…I loved it, the color was like spun gold but finer.” Faramir’s face was mournful. She became aware of her position, her hands lying relaxedly over his lap and the way he was touching her face. His fingers traced her hair, slipping down her cheek, “How long will it be like this?”

“Why not? It would be nice…” His features became saddened and resigned, “Do you not trust…?”

“No.” She laughed lightly and was taken aback. The thought simply hadn’t entered her mind; Éowyn had thought purely of the smallness of the wooden tub and not a bit of what he might seek to do. Quieter, she protested, “It’s too small.”

Éowyn laughed and leaned her forehead on her arm. Her stomach felt fluttery just at the thought of doing what he was asking. “I don’t know.” Teasing, she added, “You’re likely to turn the water black the moment you touch it, anyhow.”

Her chest tightened but not with fear. Éowyn felt excitement quicken her heart and narrow her throat as she lifted her head to meet his gaze. “I suppose.”

Faramir seemed to struggle with a question himself. “Would you be…afraid?”

She wanted to laugh at the suggestion, to brush it aside and call boldly for another tub for them both. But Éowyn just looked at her fingers against his dusty trousers; the dark, coarse cloth specked with grey horse hairs, and murmured, “I don’t know.”

“I’d like to…I’d like to bathe with you…” His fingers traced down her throat, making her shiver. “It would be pleasurable, I think, to wash together, to touch you…” Éowyn couldn’t look at him. Faramir’s desire was all too evident in his voice. “But if you feel…” He trailed off, no longer sounding yearning, but sad.

There was a silence between them before he broke it to carefully ask, “Afraid?”

Éowyn felt herself stiffen; they were into intimate territory and her discomfort was terrible. She fought it to reply in tiny, very ashamed voice, “A little.”

His hand momentarily cupped her bent cheek. Don’t feel so bad, please. It hurts my heart as well. Aloud, he continued, “Of what?”

Tense, she said. “I don’t like to feel like this.” Some of her fury at herself leaked out, making her almost snarl, “I hate it.”

He moved suddenly, sliding to the floor with her. Cross-legged, Faramir tapped her chin lightly and peered at her. “Look at me?”

Éowyn raised her head and there was desperation in her eyes. He wanted to help so much but Faramir had no idea how to blot out the sadness and fear within except to keep her talking. “Do you trust me?”

He remembered his thoughts on the day he’d left her, how he’d pushed and how he’d wondered if she was afraid that he might not cease no matter how many times he proved himself trustworthy. “Do you think I’m pushing you too much?”

Faramir sighed. How would she know, fool? She’d never had a man before to try such things except for that cursed Gríma… “Does it feel like I am?”

“Yes…sometimes.” Guilt lanced him. He’d been correct. But Éowyn was not finished, “I like it, I like…your hands and your mouth,” She was blushing redly and prettily at the admission, “I like it but you don’t wait for me, you just keep…”

“You have to tell me, I can’t tell if you’re nervous just because I’m pushing too fast or if you’re nervous because you’re afraid I’m going to do something.” Not without reading every thought that goes through your head, my love, which would be wrong of me…

Encouragingly, Faramir gripped her hands in his own. “You’re speaking of it now.”

“Do you want to bathe with me, truly? Do you think I’m asking too much? You won’t hurt me to tell me…” Honestly, he added, “It hurts me more when you push me aside and I feel how much it hurts you and I don’t know what is so wrong.” Or how to fix it…she’d said she needed time. Faramir sighed. He’d gladly give her all of eternity but they weren’t of elven kind, he had to settle with mortal limits and eventually he would need an heir. I cannot wait forever, but I will wait as long as you wish.

Indeed, he had to wait a long time for the answer, silently encouraging her while listening to the footsteps of the women and the irregular sloshes of water into the tub. Éowyn finally looked up and said in a faint voice. “I want to.”

Though his heart leaped in eagerness, it wasn’t good enough. “Are you certain?”

“Yes.” She was carefully choosing her words. “I don’t want to be afraid…remember, when I met you in the dream?”

“I wasn’t afraid, I was happy. You held me up in the water and you didn’t let the current pull me away…” Éowyn spoke tensely, “You won’t let me…being afraid…pull me away, will you?”

“Never.” She embraced him, to his surprised delight. Faramir hugged her fervently while feeling her relax and sensing the easing go deep within. It’s all right, I will help you make it all right. Trust me, please, I’ll hold you, anything…

Éowyn pulled back and kissed him, again to his surprised delight. He smiled at her when she did not retreat and she kissed him once more, soft and with tender emotion before pulling back. Her voice was brisk, but not odd, as it had seemed. This was natural. She was smiling. “Get up, you’re getting some of this dirt off if you’re sharing a bath with me.” Faramir followed her into the other room where she grabbed up one of the sponges and handed it to him. He held it while Éowyn spoke rapidly to the women in her own tongue. They answered and gestured somewhere else. Éowyn nodded and turned to him. “There’s a great tub nearby to Théoden’s chambers.”

The women were still in the room; he asked her inwardly, are you sure I’m not pushing? You want to?

I’m sure…and yes. She wove her arm through his. I don’t know what you think you’re getting, exactly…I’m going to make sure you get actually clean. Éowyn rubbed his cheek briskly, making him wince. And a shave afterwards? You can sit with the flowers, if you like.

She smiled and pulled him down for a kiss. Wash some of that dirt off. I’ll arrange for everything and come for you.

Faramir looked at her, still amazed at her care and willingness to provide it. On his own he might have wandered to the river and splashed about a bit; Éowyn was thinking of cloths that had been laid with rose petals between them to keep them smelling sweet. Faramir had the brief and jubilant sense that he had, somehow, struck upon something very, very good. He smiled. Yes, my Lady. Éowyn smiled back and walked quickly into her bedroom, her mind already racing ahead of her feet. He stood quiet, wondering, is this some indication of what I shall have in her as a wife? If it was, Faramir was more than pleased at the idea and felt himself to be more than favored with some splendid fortune. Ithilien…his land would have a great and wonderful Lady to rule it.

Faramir had wetted the sponge and just begun to dab at the dust and grime clinging to his stomach when Éomer walked in, already in mid-query. “Sister, what did you do with…?” The King of Rohan stopped short and stared at him, obviously perplexed. Faramir smiled; he imagined it was a curious looking scenario.

Agreeably, he replied while squeezing the dirty sponge back into the tub and rubbing it hard over his forearms. “Not long ago.”

For an awkward moment neither spoke, until Éomer asked tentatively, “Where is my sister?”

Éowyn herself answered, striding from her bedroom with a garment of some sort folded over her arm. “Here. Get Faramir some trousers…” She looked at him and shook her head, making her cinnamon-colored hair whip back and forth over her shoulders, “Never mind, I’ll do it myself.” Footsteps quick, she vanished out the open door just as swiftly as she’d entered the room. Éomer looked after her, then more uncomfortably at Faramir. He gave a small, courteous nod of acknowledgement and began to follow her, but Faramir spoke up anxiously. His thought of Ithilien had jogged his memory. “Do you think I should bring up what we spoke of tonight or wait?”

To his surprise, Éomer gave this serious consideration. “Tonight, if you wish. I see no reason why not. If you do not mind…” He turned to take his leave and Faramir stopped him yet again.

“Does your…gift not tell you that?” This was a shock and all Faramir could manage to do was shake his head. Éomer looked at his boots, then up to say soberly. “It will make her happy, yes, to have a worthy task.”

“You’re welcome.” Éomer began to turn and stopped. Shifting his feet, he didn’t look like he knew quite what to do. Sensing the man’s unease, Faramir kept quiet and concentrated on cleaning the filth from his bared upper body. Éomer smiled in a melancholy fashion and finally said, “She runs Edoras better than I…I don’t know what I will do.”

Probably most shockingly, there was nothing accusing or aggressive about his words or mood; Faramir answered carefully, “Have you asked her?” Who is this so politely spoken man? He was confused. Has all of Éomer’s boorishness sprung from his resentment of me and what I shall do? If so, when did that cease?

“I’m afraid to ask for fear to find the running of my lands beyond me.” Éomer smiled faintly and glanced up at the ceiling and around the room before he said slowly, forlornly, “My mother’s rooms will be to empty and lonely for me to stand to live across from them. I’ll have to take up the King’s quarters.” Faramir felt saddened though there was nothing reproachful in the words. If this was a new way to punish or attack him, it was working; he was depressed already. Éomer inclined his head. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take my leave of you,” He smiled more humorously though no less sadly; “You look busy.”

Disheartened, Faramir nodded at him and resumed trying to sponge off the worst of his dirt. He had nearly judged himself finished when Éowyn swept back into the room, arms full of curious garments cut like he’d not seen before. They looked luxurious and well made and he wondered if they were for him as she disappeared into her bedroom. “When you want him I’ve got a man to take care of that…fur on your face.”

“Yes.” He dropped the sponge in the water. Éowyn looked up at him, not moving at once. She smiled a little before she turned and it was plainly edgy, but not frightened.

Likewise, her voice held no fear; he was listening closely for it. “Come. I’ve got something for you to wear.” She handed him the shirt he’d given her and a pair of simple trousers.

“Good.” Faramir followed her down the passages, coming to a small room. Inside, he gaped.

“What?” Éowyn frowned. The tub was copper, the inside padded with cloth to make it more comfortable. It wasn’t especially huge, but large enough to hold them both without too much crowding. Not that she would mind terribly…she was excited just imagining it.

“What? It was musty and dark in here.” Baffled, she waved at the candles on long stands with bunches of flowers and sweet herbs from the kitchen gardens tied to them. “It wouldn’t have been pleasant.”

He looked astounded. “I’m actually frightened to think of what I might have found if I’d given you longer.” Again, Éowyn glanced around the room. By necessity, she’d had two small tables carted in, one to lay their clothing and cloths to dry themselves on and the other pulled close to the tub with sponges, clothes and wine in case they grew thirsty. There was also a little tray with red coals on it to heat more water in a deep basin. The water in the bath was scented with the herbs she’d commanded and the floor around the great copper vessel was strewn with them, sweetening the old, stale rushes. As far as she was concerned there were no extravagances, only requisites to what Éowyn hoped to be a wonderful bath. There was no point in bathing in a dank, cheerless room; it would only depress her. Besides…she looked up to his handsome face and smiled lovingly. Faramir deserved the best she could offer.

The final jug of water was poured into the bath, with steam rising pleasantly. The women exited and Éowyn bolted the door; the last thing she wished was for someone to burst in on them. Trying for lack of concern, she said. “Take off those filthy clothes.”

Faramir looked as aroused and wound up as she felt. His voice was quick, eager. “You first.”

She laughed, pulse quickening as she slipped the cream gown off over her head and stood in her thin shift. “Here.” Éowyn tossed the soap at him; Faramir was staring at her and the ball thunked off his chest and rolled away. He frowned with annoyance and looked about his feet.

“I don’t know.” She giggled madly and undressed swiftly while he tried to find it in the room’s dimmer corners. Kicking off her thin-soled shoes, she ripped her stockings off her legs and tossed them aside, then lifted the shift over her head. Naked, her bare feet pattering over the cool, fresh herbs that lay about the tub, each step crushing the delicate flowers and plants to release all sorts of wonderful smells, Éowyn felt her skin break out in goose bumps and she shivered. Gasping with pleasure as she lowered herself into the hot water and settled against the cloth-cushioned side, she moaned softly and stretched her legs as far as they could go. The tub was just large enough for her to stretch and put her toes to the other end; she doubted Faramir’s long legs would be able to. It felt delicious, the heat, and smelled delightful, all the herbs combining pleasantly. Reaching over the rim of the tub, Éowyn took a great sponge off the table and smiled at him innocently as Faramir turned around, the pale ball of soap in his hand.

“You were too slow.” She submerged the sponge and stared at him expectantly, not bothering to hide her avid smile. Éowyn felt a brief impulse to cover herself, but ignored it. There was no sense in it anyhow. She was a little bit tense, which angered her. Relax, relax, won’t you? You’ll upset him…you’ve learned by now there’s nothing to fear…

Faramir sighed and tossed the soap to plunk into the water with a splash. As he bent to unlace his boots, he asked, “How did you not know of this room?”

Rising again, Faramir was smiling. Éowyn pointed to the corner. “Put your things there. I don’t want to smell them.” He looked patient, carrying his boots and socks there and stripping off his filthy trousers. Nude, Faramir appeared mildly self-conscious under her eyes. She watched him walk to her and remarked playfully. “You got dirt everywhere.”

He grunted in reply, shivering and scampering to the tub to climb in awkwardly, his addition raising the water level to a dangerous point. It sloshed back and forth as he settled himself to sit opposite of her; Éowyn withdrew her legs to cross them and give him more room. She’d forgotten how big he was compared to her; Faramir seemed so lean and lithe all the time, never very great but he towered over her in the tub, his body taking every bit of free space.

He moaned softly and she shivered at the sound and tried to hide her excitement; Éowyn squeezed the sponge tightly. She wasn’t afraid, merely wound up with nerves. “This is wonderful.” Faramir leaned back and looked at her, his eyes half-lidded with pleasure, “If I hadn’t already intended to wed you, I would now.” The water steamed gently and the candles flickered, making the room pleasantly dim and giving it a nice feel.

His hairy legs slid down on either side of her, feet flat against the bottom of the tub. Faramir was looking at her, all of her, still with that expression of pleasure. The silence grew intent, soft sounds of water the only noise. Her heart was beating fast. It quickly became obvious he wasn’t going to move.

Swallowing and gathering her courage, Éowyn smiled. “Hold still.” He watched her unfold and come; sitting up and placing her knees between his to rub the soap under his chin until she’d gotten some lather. Éowyn dropped it and rubbed her fingers over his neck and collarbone and behind his ears. He stared up at her, eyes half-lidded and so warm with affection that she smiled back timidly. One eyebrow quirked upward. Kiss?

Faramir frowned in incomprehension but his expression quickly cleared when she retrieved the soap and rubbed it over his furry chin and cheeks. Éowyn massaged it into his beard until his lower face was white with suds, and then rinsed it out with palmfuls of the hot water. Faramir gave her a tiny smile as she smoothed his moisture-softened facial hair and leaned to kiss him. His lips were wet, of course, and it felt good, giving a new quality to the experience. Éowyn met his tongue fleetingly, then made him reach for her until he rose up little bit and met her eagerly. She felt his desire in his greedy kisses and tried not to think of how easy it would be to let him caress her here or there.

Faramir held the rest of himself still for less than a second, and then she felt his hands touch her bared breasts, each swinging a little as she moved to squeeze the saturated sponge over his collarbone to wash away the soap. She jumped at the contact, the spread of his palms and gentle press of his fingers. “Faramir!”

“What?” His voice was smoky soft. “I’m just returning the favor.” He was, indeed, and the slick feel of the soap made her thrill as Faramir massaged her, his hands amusingly thorough.

Éowyn’s words caught in her throat as his thumbs touched her nipples, briefly fondling before slipping beneath her breasts. “You had to start there?” He chuckled. After a few moments in which she rubbed his shoulders and upper chest, the soapsuds spreading in the dark hair slowly to gleam with multi-colored little bubbles, Éowyn began to giggle uncontrollably. Some of her tension was draining away. “Faramir, I’m clean, they’re clean.”

He sighed, “I suppose so” his grey eyes glinting with amusement and moved to rub the soap over her back, one hand lifting water to run warmly down her skin, the other sliding the soap back and forth in a soothing motion.

It felt nice and even nicer was his kisses, soft press of his mouth to her brow line as she bent her head to scrub his chest firmly, using her hands to knead the soap well into the dark, curly hair. One of Faramir’s flat little nipples hardened at the contact, making her curious. Éowyn had thought the nubby things useless for a man, except of course as valuable tools in winning fights over her brother; he’d always screeched agreeably loudly whenever she twisted them. She ran her finger over one of his nipples, flicking it. Faramir sighed and nuzzled her earlobe, his hands cupped to bring warm water over her cool back. His voice was amused, “Stop that.”

Rinsing him again, she looked at him, his skin damp and warm, lips soft. Éowyn laid the sponge to float nearby and braced her hands on the rim of the tub, sliding her knees up and folding them to sit gingerly on his abdomen. Faramir’s arms went around her, fingers interlocking at the small of her back. He gazed up, not moving a bit and she felt her throat tighten with emotion—he was trying so hard not to do anything that might alarm her.

She whispered, feeling bad that he did not dare do anything. “It’s all right.”

His voice wasn’t reproachful and neither were his eyes, but the nature of his words was. “It’s been before.”

Faramir shook his head and pulled her closer to slide downwards and lie against his front. “Don’t worry.” Éowyn pressed her nose to the underside of his chin, compressing her lips tightly. She wanted to give him everything he wished from her, her free and no longer withheld intimacy, her heart and body to make love…she just couldn’t. It went against her somehow, made her tense inside. Tone as soothing as his kiss to the top of her head, he added. “You’ve come so far, don’t worry, it will come…”

The remembrances of how silly and scared she’d been in his rooms made her relax. He was right. She wrapped her arms around his body, holding him just as he was holding her and suddenly Éowyn smiled. Very soft, she sang, “Falewende…Is ná eower locfeax…” Giggling at her own absurdity, she murmured into the dip of his throat, “Ond blæwen is ná eower êage. Ge eart ná of min, Ac ge eart min ánum ond á ðý deórwyrþran…”

Faramir sat up, water sloshing around them, “What song is this?” Éowyn began to laugh as he asked again, voice delighted, “What song is this?”

He was grinning, adorable with his hair hanging in his eyes, the longer strands clinging wetly to his neck. “Go on, go on.”

“Let me think of more…that’s all I have.” Staring into his eyes, she felt the warmth of his love spread through her body. Éowyn smiled faintly and touched his face, reaching behind herself to unlace his hands and put them on her thighs so that she could sit up on his stomach again. Faramir looked uncertain and didn’t move them.

The candles flickered, making light shine in his gaze, highlighting the emotions flowing there. When she began to sing it was soft, repeating her earlier verses and there she stopped, but after a moment under his warm regard, she quickly found more to sing about.

Se sweoster æt Gaer aridan me eall niht…--Gaer’s sister, rode me all night…

She is a god wíf…Æt se acer, æt se bærn, æt se bedde—She is a good girl…In the field, in the barn, in the bed…

This gold for the girl that serves me first--Seo gold æt wíf seo folgiaþ me forma

Abreát hit! Abreát hit nu! Ic wille habban his hafela! Nu! –Kill it! Kill it now! I will have his head! Now!

I am in awe, of all the ancient work of autumn…I’ve never seen such a transformation, from gold to better than a she-foxe’s skin, my lady, you surpass the leaves on the hills in beauty. I beg thy mercy, enchantress!

Ic eom in egesa, æt a se fyrngeweorc æt hærfest… Ic habbe ná beháwod a onhweorfeþ, æt gold æt se betera a fyenhyd, min Ides, gea forcom se leáfum on se duns in whlite. Ic giernan eower mildheortnes, galdricge!

Se scrud æt Faramir wille beo gecierran ær dægræd or Ic wille minself secan ælec hus ond bur in Edoras ond forsecan se þéof æt geearnian.—Faramir’s possessions will be returned before dawn or I will myself search every house and cot in Edoras and punish the thief as they deserve.

Faramir looked down at the darkened crown of her head as Éowyn sang in her beautiful voice, the sound of it lilting softly over her tongue as she gave new verses. My song… It was a thing incomprehensible and it touched him incredibly, each additional word going to his heart and impressing itself there for all time. She sang slowly, voice lucid and clear and he understood it was for his benefit, so that he would comprehend. Faramir beamed at her adoringly. He loved her so.

He felt her devotion in both her words and her arm that curled wetly about his neck, bringing them closer when she finally dared to face him and sing; she was smiling in a faint, self-conscious way, her eyes kind and wide open in the dim light of the candles. Faramir could tell she was nervous at this and he moved his hands for the first time, squeezing in a gentle motion he hoped would give her confidence.

Swutelod me eower sêfte folm.” Éowyn bowed her head in shyness, and overwhelmed, he said nothing while she paused to take a deep, unsteady breath.

She swallowed and answered her own question. “Nân.” Éowyn’s smile was quick and insecure. Faramir couldn’t stop himself from kissing her.

A circul má strang ðe se múntas.” Her eyes gleamed with tears; his heart and his chest ached with the emotion that moved within himself and between them. Faramir wrapped his arms tightly around her waist. He murmured softly, their foreheads touching, feeling her choke momentarily.

“Éowyn…” Before she continued, shakily at first, then firming with conviction, she kissed him and their lips met in sudden, passion that seemed frighteningly strong, driven not by appetite but a depth of warmth and fealty of that he’d never known or dreamed. Faramir was afraid, his pulse quickening as she kissed him. Éowyn breathed fast, her bosom rising and falling; she was flushed, pupils dark and wide in the dimness and he thought she was utterly radiant. “Éowyn, my love… nya enda, nya alassë oialë.”

Minceóce tó eower cest—eower heorte swingað tó se hlêoðor æt min lufian. Hrinon me, spræcon me, Ic eom eower…”

The song was over, his name a whispered caress. Tears were on her cheeks and he felt his throat close as she shuddered. “Shh.” Faramir stroked his hand down her face, the water from his fingers mixing with the slickness of her fresh tears. “Shh… nya enda.”

Éowyn leaned her forehead against his collarbone, sniffling before looking back up to murmur faintly and weepily. “What does that mean?”

“Nya enda, nya alassë oialë…” He laughed a little tearfully, himself, “My heart, my soul, my eternal joy.”

She looked at him and they stared at each other, feeling what the other felt and, for Faramir’s part he was nearly paralyzed by its depth, for what seemed an eternity before Éowyn took a deep breath to steady herself and said quietly, “The water’s getting cool.” She sloshed her hand around. She’d expected something of him, but Faramir could not give it at the moment; the depth of their emotional connection had staggered him.

He felt disoriented but clean, and not in the physical sense. He felt clean inside, heart and mind cleared. “Yes.”

She smiled and fluffed his mostly dry hair with a grimace. “You’re still dirty…it’s like a rat’s nest.” Faramir laughed a little shakily, trying to regain his composure. He marveled that she had. “Here, let me get some hot water…” Her glance was mock stern. “You finish.”

Submissive in a playful fashion, he replied, “Yes, dear.” Faramir added slyly, “But you missed a few spots…”

Éowyn laughed at him and rose, water running down her body in streams. “I intended to.” Faramir found the little pale ball of soap and clutched it anxiously. Just watching her climb out of the tub, the way her wet, shining body contoured and flexed in the light of the candles was immensely arousing. Éowyn glanced back, the corner of her eye glinting in amusement, then bent to grasp the handle of the little pot and carry it to him. He felt her answering arousal and Faramir quickly submerged himself, rubbing the soap into his matted hair in hopes of distraction. He didn’t wish to spoil her relaxed mood.

Éowyn didn’t pour all the water immediately, just some into the tub, testing its temperature with her hand, and stood waiting. Faramir was confused until she moved behind him and touched the nape of his neck, “Lean forward.” She rinsed his hair for him, fingers gently and pleasantly massaging his scalp. The water wasn’t hot, just very warm as it slid down his back and front, carrying suds with it.

He sighed in pleasure, “That feels good.” There was a clunk as she sat the kettle down and Éowyn’s hands cupped his face to turn him upward. Faramir smiled as she kissed him, the opposite angle giving her all the control and she used it to tease, making him reach up constantly to capture her mouth. Her fingers caressed his cheek, then his shoulder; Faramir clasped her hand to his chest, reaching up to touch her face in return, her darker hair falling around them in a cloud.

“Mmm…” Her tongue tortured him with slow kisses that changed often, lips pressing, then retreating; one of her hands always caressing his face, his neck. Faramir was breathing fast when she finally stopped and pulled away with an all body shiver.

“It’s cold out here.” Éowyn smiled shyly as she climbed back into the tub, one hand batting at the suds that floated slowly back and forth. He shook his head voicelessly and pulled back his legs to rise on his knees and come to her. Éowyn smiled, cooperating by stretching out beneath him, her head pillowed on the padded rim of the tub. Her eyes were shining in the shadowy room and he searched them, pleased to find only bashfulness and no fear whatsoever.

She wrapped her arms around his neck as they kissed, her hand sliding to rest on his lower back, wet palm compressing to push him down. Faramir refused at first, he was excited merely by the knowledge she was naked beneath him; he didn’t need to feel it. But she insisted and he lowered himself with care, the water merely adding a new and sensual element to the feel of her bare body. He felt the softness of her breasts, the hard little nubs of nipples, and caressed them. She sighed, eyes half-lidded to watch. Faramir bent, his chin in the water as he suckled at her bosom, trying not to scratch her with his beard though he yearned to press and even waggle his face into her breasts. He laughed at himself as Éowyn’s body moved beneath him and he felt her caress his arms, his shoulders before pulling his head up. Faramir kissed her soft lips again and she smiled faintly. Almost at once he became aware of how fast her heart was beating.

She caught his hand, leaving him to half-crouch on his knees, propping himself with his other palm. Her eyes filled with some unidentifiable emotion, Éowyn breathed his name, “Faramir,” and then he felt the downward slope of her stomach, the swell of her hips under his hand, then finally the firm muscle and warm flesh of her thighs as she guided him downward.

She wiggled beneath him, shivering, her voice full of needy passion. “Shh…I trust you…I want you to…”

Her earnest admission warmed his heart while sending a rush of eager heat to his groin, but he wasn’t sure if he could trust himself. Faramir frowned, propping himself up further, water dripping off his arms. “I don’t know if I…”

Éowyn smiled and murmured, “It’s all right. Please…” Her hand pushed his fingers down until he could feel the soft hair between her legs and then they brushed secret flesh that felt much, much hotter and Faramir couldn’t resist any longer.

Éowyn felt him go still above her, his breathing change and grow ragged, the faint press of his arousal immediately rising into a hard shaft that collided urgently with her abdomen. She felt a moment’s fear, sensing his change as his hand cupped her. Faramir groaned soft and gutturally, his eyes full of hunger. His fingers probed in a very gentle fashion, though, which made her relax. Éowyn tried to still her jumping nerves but it was impossible; he was brushing places that made great flashes of pleasure rise from her center. Each made her gasp, made her lift her hips in small bucks, water sloshing loudly in the tub, and made her wish fervently to spread her thighs still farther and give him full access. It made her desire him, the feel of him inside her and she frowned, her body and mind conflicting.

Faramir’s fingers found her and he pushed them inside, making her wince in pain; “Sorry, sorry…”

“It’s all right…” She accepted his apologetic kisses. He was a breathless and eager as she was. This time he eased just one and that was better but it hardly gave her much pleasure. It had felt far more pleasurable when he’d been rubbing her.

But he didn’t return to that and Éowyn squirmed; she was embarrassed to speak, “No…up…”

“Up?” Faramir sounded confused and distant, digit slipping very slowly in and out of her, his breathing coming faster and faster. His hips moved a little and his manhood thrust against her belly, hard and hot, the blunt tip dimpling her flesh.

As she whimpered, wishing for the return of that wonderful feeling, “Faramir…please…” his eyes cleared and he said urgently,

“Tell me.” His voice skipped, and became almost shy for the first time, making her wonder as he murmured. “I want to give you pleasure.”

Éowyn felt her cheeks heat as their eyes met. Hesitant, she whispered, “Up…yes…” Faramir obeyed, slightly bumbling, but he was in the right area and she gasped. “There, there…” He obeyed again; she could feel he was trying to please her and Éowyn grasped the back of his neck, pulling his mouth to hers. It was a kiss turbulent with urgency, their teeth clicking, his tongue in her mouth, lips pressing and moving hard.

And, suddenly, Faramir seemed to find the exact spot, his fingers moving so perfectly in the perfect place that she forgot about kissing. Éowyn leaned back against the cloth-padded rim of the tub and closed her eyes, feeling her body responding disconnected from her mind, and how her mind was beginning to fall away to pure need. Faramir kissed her neck; his mouth sucking and making thrills go down her spine. At once, he strayed and didn’t seem to know it; still kissing her mouth and neck greedily; disturbed, Éowyn pressed her hand to the back of his, guiding him and slipping back to her dreamlike state of ecstasy. It wasn’t long before Faramir seemed impatient, though he didn’t speak; she felt his frustration for he was much closer than she to fulfillment and Éowyn pleaded, “Don’t stop…”

He was fumbling again, having lost his place, not sure where to put his fingers, and Éowyn managed to give him more direction, “In a circle…here…” She pushed his hand so that he was in the right spot.

“Yes, yes!” Éowyn bucked, her arms wrapping around him tightly to ground herself; she was half-afraid she would just fly away or shatter with the bliss he was giving her.

“Oh.” He sounded mystified but she had no time to listen anymore. Her entire body was fired with sensation and she could feel it building and building.

“Don’t stop…” Faramir didn’t speak, just kept on rubbing in a small circle as she’d requested, right where she requested, which was reply enough. Éowyn reached down, hand sliding along his chest, feeling the hair on it, the pleasing curves and planes of his muscle, to his stomach and below to grasp him, sliding her fingers around his thick shaft, stroking it; she didn’t want to leave him behind. Faramir paused in his actions and made a noise of satisfaction, his mouth covering hers. Éowyn kissed him back, feeling her body undulate with waves of pleasure and his answering movements above her, the hard press of his manhood to her skin, then retreat, the long muscles of his thighs heavy against her legs, crushing her to the bottom of the tub. Warm water moved between them; she could feel it lapping around her bosom, and the swirl of it around his fingers, which only made what he was doing better.

It seemed like forever, his fingers moving rhythmically enough to satisfy and sometimes his mouth kissing her neck or her breasts whenever she rose enough out of the water. Finally she felt the wave return, a giant force rising and rising, as it had nearly came the one time when he’d been on her in her bed, swelling high and promising within her. Éowyn couldn’t breathe; all of her focus was on that promise, the almost frightening, all compassing promise of pleasure. Please, don’t stop, Faramir, please…

Sidetracked, her hand slowed on him, to his loud, moaning breath of objection. Éowyn closed her eyes tightly, concentrating, and Faramir seemed to sense her effort. His fingers sped up, faster and faster around her sensitive spot and he kissed her throat in that wonderful way that made her whole body go still with bliss…but it wasn’t enough. She bit her lip, trying, reaching…please…

He spoke, shocking her with his erratically voiced urging, “Now, Éowyn…yes, please, now…” Faramir was kissing her wet skin, his movements becoming more demanding as he was much closer than she was, yet trying to wait, and his urgency made him rough.

But she couldn’t quite reach that pinnacle and his frustration was almost tangible; with a growl, Faramir bit her neck shockingly hard and pushed his body against hers. Feeling his teeth and his strength, she gave a thin cry, with her throat and every muscle drawn achingly tight as her climax finally came. Éowyn arched into his length, shaking, feeling her hips thrust upwards in uncontrollable movements, trapping his manhood between them.

Faramir looked down at her intently, his hand falling still and away to prop himself and for a moment she just held fast onto him. It swept over her at once, all spasming, delicious pleasure, and when she came back, she was limp with fulfillment, head leaning against the rim of the tub and looking up at him with eyes that would only half open. In the dim light of the candles, Faramir stared down, his face still full of intensity and, strangely, curiosity.

Éowyn smiled at him, relaxed and warm all over as she slowly caught her breath. That was wonderful… She didn’t want to move, speak or even think. So wonderful…

Faramir looked briefly proud before he smiled and took her compliant hand from his shoulder to put it back on himself, asking feverishly, “Please?”

She nodded and pulled his mouth to hers, kissing languidly as she rubbed his hard length, feeling the way it throbbed and moved in her hand with awe; but he wasn’t in the mood to be lazy, no, Faramir was breathing raggedly, thrusting into her palm and against her body. It was almost frightening as he drove her to the cloth-padded metal but she pushed the feeling away. There was nothing to be afraid of. It went, to Éowyn’s surprise, leaving her without trepidation, without anxiety altogether.

She didn’t have any time to appreciate her freedom, as his fingers found her again and he pushed one, then another inside. Éowyn flinched but gritted her teeth as he moved them as far within her as he could, turning and moving, like he was feeling her. Faramir moaned softly as he did it, his eyes unseeing. You feel so good…so warm…so…

It didn’t feel particularly good to her, mildly uncomfortable and even slightly painful but she kept silent. Looking up at him and feeling how disconnected he was from her, Éowyn felt another moment of unease as Faramir thrust himself against her roughly and pinned her, gasping, to the side of the tub. He jerked and shuddered, his pelvis moving in small movements into her belly as he climaxed. His dark head dropped, wedging almost painfully up to her chin and his shoulders spread above them as he planted his hands against the bottom of the tub. He inhaled deeply, muscles tensing all over, and thrust himself one last time in a powerful motion that scared her a little and rocked the great copper vessel; the water swept up in wave over the side to patter on the rushes and herbs. Éowyn looked at his straining arms, his back, wide-eyed with astonishment; he was so strong! And then, with a rushing exhalation, Faramir lay on her limp and heavy, his face mashed to her neck, hairy cheek scratching her tender skin.

An unidentifiable yet terribly acute emotion filled her heart; Éowyn put her hand to the back of his head, the other between his shoulder blades, holding him as she nuzzled her chin to his temple. Their breathing slowed together, his chest no longer expanding to press hers, and she felt herself grow quiet. The water gradually stilled.

At length, he sighed and rose to his knees, looking at her. Éowyn smiled shyly, feeling his contentment and her own. Faramir smiled back, his expression kind and gentle, odd after he’d become so rough. He leaned down, bending his elbows to kiss her tenderly, perfectly, and said in a low, regretful voice, “The water’s cold.”

“I know.” Talking felt strange and she felt strange. Though quite fulfilled. She stifled the impulse to laugh nervously and shifted from under him, climbing quickly out of the tub to fetch herself a cloth. Conscious now of her duties and taking some refuge in them, Éowyn tossed the other at him, “Here.” She turned away as he rose and stepped out of the tub, listening to him dry himself. He will want his shave and the evening meal would be soon…she glanced at the wine they’d not touched. She would bring it to her rooms. Éowyn looked about the room; as soon as she left, she would have the women clean it and she would fetch the man to shave him.

She rubbed herself with the cloth, turning this way to dry her hip and, at a twinge, lifted one hand to touch her neck where he’d bitten her. Faramir looked concerned, stepping to look closely at the mark. “Did I hurt you?” His thumb depressed her skin as he frowned. “You should have spoken…”

“No.” Éowyn cursed the shyness that made her stumble a reply. “It felt…good.” She took a step back, feeling overwhelmed by his presence, their intimacy, and just looked at him. Faramir was very magnificent. His skin was warm and soft from the water, pads of his fingers adorably wrinkled. The dark hair on his chest and groin was curled and gleaming to attest to his cleanliness. She smiled, reaching to caress the swells of muscle in his arms, tracing her fingers down to his callused hands and wishing she could see him in action, to watch him pull back that great bow that hung on his wall or throw a spear. Éowyn had no doubt he would look very splendid and kingly doing so. Ah, if I could convince my brother to step aside… She laughed aloud.

“What?” He smiled and looked down at her, wet hair hanging in long, tangled raven-colored strands, shorter locks dripping into his grey eyes. His lips were full, swollen from the kisses they’d shared, but his eyes expressed everything she could hope to see.

Éowyn looked up, seeing his noble heart, his mild soul in their grey depths. Ic eom eadig… She smiled widely, full of joy, “I hope they have your eyes.”

He cocked his head, puzzled, a trickle of water traveling down his face. “Who?”

Éowyn bit her lip, caught in a moment of fancy; she’d not meant to speak aloud. “Our…” She summoned her will to say what she’d thought and, indeed, desired, “Our children.”

Faramir’s face softened and he fairly glowed with delight as he questioned in a low, almost incredulous voice, “You do?”

He smiled, saying with charming disbelief, “I’ve never heard the color grey called beautiful.”

Éowyn gathered enough courage and strength of will to voice easily, “Well, it is and I hope it will be so.” She leaned up to kiss him and whisper playfully. “I learned something.”

She struggled to pronounce it right. Arwen had coached her multiple times, but the words were still new to her tongue and difficult to say as smoothly as they should be said. “Estelion allen…” The next was longer and Éowyn concentrated even as his face lit up, “Meleth e-guilen.”

Faramir hugged her tightly and murmured, “Vanimelda”, which she knew, from hearing Aragorn voicing it to Arwen, meant something good; that it was some affectionate name from a man to the woman he loved.

Éowyn hugged him back, enjoying the feel of his harder, larger body before stepping back to finish drying herself. She still had much to do before he would be as contented as she would see him. I love you enough to do woman’s work… He laughed at her and rubbed himself with the cloth.

I appreciate it…Faramir crooked his fingers into his furry chin, making exaggerated faces. You have no idea.

Éowyn laughed again as she dried the ends of her hair, then, looking at the color, she burst into a great gale of laughter, releasing her slight tension at all they’d shared. I didn’t even wash this.

No? He looked at her, then the tub, appalled. You didn’t. Faramir grinned, his internal voice hopeful, tomorrow?

If you can manage to get filthy enough, I suppose I could endure putting together this shameful indulgence…

He reached to cup one bare breast; flushing, Éowyn knocked his hand away as he chuckled. I believe I can manage every day with that agreement.

Body dried, Faramir held his cloth and inhaled; it smelled of roses. He smiled and looked at her. But Éowyn hadn’t said anything in a while and he felt the first stirrings of fear. Surely she wouldn’t pull away from him now…as she did twice before. Faramir tried not to panic, delicately feeling her mind. He sensed nothing but preoccupation and a vague shyness, which barely relieved him.

He looked down her body and frowned. There was a dark, irregular line of bruises on her left leg, from knee to ankle. Concerned and disbelieving that he was just noticing the marks, he asked, “What happened to you there, on your leg?”

“Byrga, my brother’s old horse, took me into a tree…he had to, to avoid the…” She looked loathe to reveal it, but he just gazed at her expectantly until, wincing, Éowyn finished. “Boar.”

“I went hunting today in the hills.” There was in her stance and words a warning that if he fussed, she would rage at him. Faramir was horrified but held his tongue.

Éowyn answered firmly, if a little confused. He knew from her mind that she’d expected him to reprimand her. Éomer did… “Yes.”

Instead, Faramir asked, “Does it hurt?” Leaning down, he ran his finger close to the discoloration.

He put all his relief that she’d not been further injured into his reply. “Good.”

Éowyn looked at him and he felt her soften and accept that he wasn’t going to rebuke her. She spoke with pride; “We brought home three without losing too many dogs.”

“You did?” He was impressed and yet still aghast. What is too many dogs? Faramir had hunted in great parties with his brother plenty of times but rarely such dangerous game as boar…or bear. He eyed her, wondering if the kills would mean new pelts draped over his floors and finding the idea slightly abhorrent.

She smiled and dropped her cloth entirely, reaching for the clean, soft-looking shift that lay on the table. Faramir forgot his thoughts and admired her body until she covered it with the thin white garment. She slipped clean stockings over her feet and reached for her simple overdress. It was another cream one, which she covered with a warm, deep blue tunic, its slides slit to show the cream dress, which made him lament the memory of her golden hair spread against his mother’s star-studded mantle.

Éowyn clasped the silver, flower-shaped buckle on a slender, dark blue cord that hung low around her waist, cinching the gown. Looking more closely, he noted these were rich garments, better than most he’d seen her wear. Faramir also noted the cord held a ring of keys as she glanced at him, still bashful in a curious way, “Are you going to get dressed?”

“Yes.” He watched her a moment more as she ran her fingers through her darkened mane and slipped her thin-soled shoes on. Éowyn was ready and as she passed him, she plucked up the untouched wine.

He felt a pang of suspicious fear. She wasn’t retreating from him, was she? Please no… Faramir was aware he spoke a little too intensely, but was helpless to stop himself. Twisting his cloth between his fists, he asked, “Where are you going?”

She tucked her hair back. Éowyn’s eyes didn’t quite meet his, but she was gathering together her clothing and, more gingerly his dirty clothing, so he couldn’t be sure. “I told you. To fetch someone to shave you and to see when the evening meal will be ready.”

“Oh.” He hesitated, “All right.” Faramir watched her leave him and tried not to give way to his dread. She is just taking care of me again, I should be grateful and happy…not…afraid. Surely he was overreacting. Faramir clad himself in the simple trousers and shirt, trying not to brood. She’d left his boots, so he stuffed them on his bare feet. He walked to her rooms, head down, frowning to himself. Éowyn had seemed all right, but prior experience made him wary. It would hurt more than ever if she pulled from him now. He remembered the words of her sweet song; she could express herself that way, at least. And she is learning how to speak to me…why was his chest so tight with tension, then? Every time…every time they’d shared an intimate moment she’d pulled away after. He felt his stomach churn. Please, no…

Faramir was so deep in thought he nearly walked into the Rohirric man who stood quietly beside Éowyn’s door. The man’s hands were full of shaving implements while a boy held a basin of gently steaming water. He was asked patiently, “Min Hlaford?”

“Gea.” He led them to the room were the flowers were and sat, allowing the man to do his trade. The smell was delightful, sweet fragrance of roses in the slowly cooling dusk. Faramir stared out over the foothills of the mountains and once more thought himself favored by some great fortune. What other woman would seek to please me so? To assuage every unspoken need? He tried to remember the women of his City but few faces came to his inward eye. He’d never been interested in them, quickly bored and repulsed by their endless gossip or simplicity of mind. They’d all been eager to wed him, their fathers eager to draw up contracts, offering no challenge, guaranteeing no depth of feeling.

Yet that fortune is cruel; I am favored, but I must endure a parting with each gain… He felt his heart hurt in silent anticipation and he thought to her. I love you, don’t pull away…

After sending a girl after the man she’d found to shave Faramir, Éowyn took his filthy, stinking clothes to the women who kept the laundry and deposited them. Glad to hand over the garments, she rubbed her hands briskly, not noticing how the women quieted when she walked into the room. How did he get so soiled? She was unsure if he would want the simple garments but did not take her chances. “Have these taken to Faramir’s rooms.”

Carrying the wine in the crook of her arm, and stopping one of the lads that turned the spit in the kitchens as he ran by, she learned the evening meal would be soon, but not terribly so. Pleased to have more time alone with her love, Éowyn walked quickly to do the last duty before she could return to him—replacing the keys to the room where she and Faramir had bathed within the King’s chambers. Opening the heavy door, she stopped and stood there, quiet.

This room was behind the throne in the Hall. It was dusty in places, she knew her brother kept few hours here but that was to be expected. There was no council of war, no arguments over where to send armed men or how much food to hoard in case of siege atop the exposed hill of Edoras. It should be dusty, that was a sign of peace. But I remember… Éowyn remembered running into the chambers as a girl, often barefoot and dirty, greeting her Uncle with a happy shout. She’d been allowed to stay at the meetings, to sit by Théodred and listen. She’d even been allowed and encouraged to voice an opinion or add to the discussion as her brother and cousin grew to participate in them. Théoden had always taken her seriously, though her additions had rarely been more than to remind them of the state of Edoras and to include it within their deliberations. She’d desired to ride out and do more, but as the days grew dark they’d forbade it entirely.

Oh, envy… It was not until Gríma that she’d known what true envy was, to stare out of the great doors and wish with all her might that she, too, could mount a horse and gallop away to pure and honorable service. Touching the long table and banishing all thoughts of that foul creature, she looked at the grey dust lingering on her fingers. Oh, I miss you, Uncle…my father in spirit…and my cousin, Théodred, my brother in all but blood… She missed them indeed; the strong and honorable men who’d cared for her like she was born in their house. With a deep breath, she left her memories behind and walked to her rooms. Faramir was waiting and she didn’t wish to be melancholy.

There was no sound, just quiet with faint birdsong through the open shutters. The wooden tub had been taken away, the bearskin rolled out and spread in its proper place; the sunlight was fading and the fire in her hearth was dead, leaving her quarters dim. It looked cheerless and oddly morose, making her frown and call, “Faramir?”

“Yes.” She approached to stroke his shaven cheek, finding the look of him to be just as odd as when he’d had the beard. The bruises her brother had placed there were fully revealed, making her sad and a little annoyed but Éowyn brushed her feelings aside. It was too late to act on them, anyhow. Careful not to touch the bruises, she caressed his jaw and ran her thumb along his cheekbones, testing the skill of the man she’d sent—he’d been good, Faramir was quite smooth.

He didn’t speak, just looked up at her very soberly. Teasing to hide her unease in his silence, she said, “My lad again.” Faramir smiled, but he seemed off. There was a watchfulness she didn’t understand in his eyes. He felt braced for some hurtful outcome. Had she displeased him in some way? Éowyn searched her mind anxiously but could think of nothing. “Oh!”

Éowyn went into the other room and grabbed up the bag he’d left her. She deposited it in his lap and stood smiling. “I didn’t look.”

What was wrong with him? Tension coiled in her belly like a snake, making her stomach turn and her playful tone sour. “Arwen tried to tempt me with hints.”

In the afterglow of their happiness, Éowyn couldn’t stand this any longer; she blurted, “What’s wrong? What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything.” He looked guilty and confused. It’s not your fault, really…

“I’m happy…I’m very happy…it’s just…” Faramir looked away; his fair face was deeply saddened.

This was odd; their positions were reversed for once and he wouldn’t talk. Éowyn took his warm, pliant hand, leaning against the chair. “What?” What is so wrong?

“I just don’t want to be surprised when…you…” He looked at her dispiritedly and admitted in a very low voice. “It hurts too much when you pull away. I want to be ready for it.” Éowyn was aghast. She felt her eyes fill with tears.

Bewildered, her chest tight, Éowyn said, “I don’t know.” She didn’t feel afraid and, until she’d seen his dreading mood, she had felt very glad, blissful even. The intimacy they’d shared hadn’t frightened her but a little and that was only when he’d been so rough. She’d initiated it, had wanted his touch and been thoroughly pleased by it. You didn’t hurt me or do anything I didn’t ask; I loved what you did…why would I pull away?

Faramir’s face was resigned. You did last time…he gestured into her bedroom. And the time before that…he glanced up. By the river. You said you liked what I did then, too.

Éowyn felt herself flush with deep shame. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t tell her it was all right, because it wasn’t. She was so full of humiliation she wanted no more than to sink to her knees on the stone floor and weep into her hands. What could she say to ease his mind? Éowyn knew of nothing but to entreat, “I’m sorry I did that. I won’t this time.” Faramir didn’t reply and she insisted, feeling her heart twist with misery and, sounding like a pleading child even to herself, Éowyn whispered. “I won’t.” Her throat was tight; fighting the hot swell of a sob that burned in her middle. Won’t you trust me?

For a horrible moment she thought he would say no, but Faramir sighed and laid his bag on the floor. He looked up at her, eyes sad, and opened his arms. “Come here, don’t weep, please.”

Éowyn curled into his lap and she did sob once with guilt, holding onto him tightly. “I’m sorry…”

“Shh…it just hurts…” He spoke into her ear, “It just hurts, is all…I wish it didn’t…I wish so much you didn’t feel you needed to pull away…”

Sitting up to meet his eyes, she said, sniffling away her tears, “I’m not.”

“Yes.” Éowyn tucked her head back under his chin. Faramir was quiet, one hand rubbing her back soothingly. To think that she’d conditioned him to fear her actions even before she did them and, even worse, shut himself down to protect himself from the pain she caused him was horrible. She cried a little, wetting his collar before murmuring, “Swutelod me eower sêfte folm.”

He took a deep breath before asking in a very hesitant manner, “I don’t have to fear?”

Faramir held her crushingly close, pressing his face to her hair. “Good, good, oh, good.” They stayed that way for a long time, before he asked gently, nakedly, “You liked it?”

It was odd to hear him so vulnerable; she was used to Faramir being her shield. “Yes, very much.”

Éowyn did not respond, too overcome by her own shyness. After a moment, his hands came back from around her, “Come into there with me where I can look at you while we speak?” Éowyn nodded and slid off his lap to walk tensely into her bedroom. She sat on the bed and folded her knees to her chin, watching him sit beside her, putting his little bag nearby. Faramir turned to her and didn’t speak at first, just looked at her searchingly before he lifted his hands and used his fingers to smooth the wetness from her damp cheeks. “Don’t weep.”

“I can’t help it…you feel so bad.” Éowyn glanced at him, “I don’t want to…to make you feel like this. I’m sorry.”

He still did not want to relax, didn’t want to trust. The knowledge made her assert, in a desperate attempt to make him see, “This is different!”

She turned to face him, to cup his shaven face in her hands, the power of her concern allowing her to voice what she wished to say, “I’m not going to pull away from you. I…I’m not afraid, I’m all right…you’ve made me all right. You don’t have to worry.”

Taking her hands, he held them in his lap, their fingers interlacing. “You’re sure?”

Éowyn smiled even as her throat constricted. “Yes.” She bit her lip, feel? Faramir gazed at her very seriously and she sensed his mind touch hers, a gentle, caressing touch that made her feel he was very close.

Although it embarrassed her, she let him see the memory of her pleasure, her enjoyment, and her admiration of his body; her joy at their reunion and her love, in whole, uninhibited by anything but the shyness born of how unaccustomed she was to their intimacy. Éowyn smiled at him, hoping with all her heart that he would let go and relax his guard. It’s all right, see? I won’t pull away. I can’t. I’ve gone too far and made you the thing that makes me complete and happy.
Slowly, a smile spread on his face and he pulled her close to press to his front. She felt him relax on the inside, open his soul to her. His arms wrapping around her waist, fingers interlocking to hold her to him, Faramir leaned his chin on the top of her head. Éowyn shifted so that her ear was over his heart, listening to its strong, comforting beat.

After a while, she lifted her head to kiss his mouth, which responded, making her smile hopefully as she touched his smooth cheek. “This is much nicer.”

Éowyn spoke in an encouraging tone. “You were all scratchy before, like kissing a burr.” He laughed and she relaxed. Everything was all right again.

Faramir asked softly, his breath warm against her temple. “You liked that, truly?”

There was a pause before he inquired, with the smile evident in his voice, “Tell me what I did?” When she laughed, he chuckled, “Because I’m not entirely sure.” Éowyn laughed again, great, heart-lifting and relieved laughter, and he wiggled his fingers into her sides, “I remember something like this…” It tickled and she squirmed onto the bed, kicking her feet to lift her skirts. Faramir turned, too, swinging his long legs onto the blankets to stretch them out, one ankle over the other, and she ended up on her belly, skirts askew with her arms folded over his waist. He leaned far down to cup her chin, lips meeting hers gently then parting to give her a soft, passionate kiss.

Éowyn felt her heart melt and she smiled at him and kissed his palm warmly before reaching to grab up a long, snarled and wiry lock of his dark hair to curl around her finger. “Look at you!”

Faramir gazed down at her and his face, if not merry, was at least tranquil again. “What?”

“You’re all tangled.” Éowyn glanced at her brush sitting on her dresser, which also held the clothes she’d fetched. They were some of Théodred’s, rich clothing he’d never worn but once, and suitable for her prince. She felt her mood try to darken and pushed it away. Her beloved cousin would have been happy to learn his clothing went to attire her dear love for a day rather than lying useless in a wooden chest.

Sitting up and working past her infuriating skirts to the edge of the bed, Éowyn fetched the brush and carried it back to him. Faramir looked at her as she flapped a hand, “Move over.” Scooting behind him to rest her back on a pillow, she guided his shoulders with a touch to sit him between her outstretched legs. His back felt solid and very firm with muscle as she squeezed it with her thighs, almost like a horse, just differently shaped. Faramir’s hands slid aside her skirts to rest warmly about her ankles.

“Don’t yank.” He turned his head and she pushed him back, fingers to his jaw.

Scolding lightly, Éowyn parted his hair into sections. “I’ll be gentle.” It was horribly tangled, if clean. “You didn’t brush this once did you?”

“No. I don’t have one with me.” He angled his head, listening to her; she straightened him out again.

Éowyn teased, “And I thought you were so courtly, such a well-groomed, well-spoken man,” She clucked her tongue, grimacing behind his back as she began to brush the very ends of his long, raven-colored hair, holding the locks up so she didn’t accidentally pull on him. “And you’re no better than the men of my land…all filthy, boorish creatures.”

Faramir laughed and his hand reached back to catch her wrist; he turned to look at her, eyes serious. “You don’t have to…you’ve done everything so far,” He smiled, “And I am capable of some things.”

“I’ve already started.” Straightening him yet again, Éowyn brushed the snarls out gently, teasing, “And I don’t trust you to do it rightly.” With her palm, she smoothed the little section she’d managed to untangle. “You brushed mine, remember?”

“Before…” He sounded mournful enough to make her snort. It was just hair.

Éowyn went to her task willfully, soon able to run her fingers unimpeded through half his mane. The part she’d tamed was thick, soft and full, gleaming with health. She smiled to herself, thinking of how one could tell a stallion’s virility from the way his coat shined.

Hmm…she ran her fingers through Faramir’s sable locks; they shone brilliantly in the fading light of the sunset. His hair was very straight and though she wrapped it around and around her finger, wouldn’t hold a curl. There wasn’t a single grey strand, which made her sober. Faramir was young for his folk, and perhaps even, for all that he’d walked the earth longer, he might be thought younger than she was. But such thinking was foolish; Éowyn put it out of her mind and concentrated on ordering the rest of his hair.

Gradually, she became conscious of Faramir’s hands. He slipped off her shoes and laid them aside, stroking her feet through her stockings before removing them too. Éowyn didn’t speak, curiously allowing him to do as he wished. Faramir reached to grasp his bag and drag it to his side, fishing out things. She couldn’t see past his shoulders, of course, but she could hear the rare sound of a scratch of pen to paper and feel the muscles in his arms moving. He was drawing her feet, like he’d said he’d wanted to. Éowyn thought it was silly, but kept brushing out the snarls in his hair; if that was what he wished to do, she had no objections. Suddenly, she asked,

Finally, her brush’s stiff horsehair bristles moved smoothly through his dark mane and she could set it aside. Éowyn leaned forward onto his back, resting her chin on his shoulder to peek over it. He was drawing her bare foot as it lay on the bed, her leg stretched around him and angled very slightly inward, toes pointing out. Faramir’s hand moved swiftly, the slender, brown reed pen scritching as he made the tiny lines that characterized her foot. She glanced at the bag and wondered what else he had in there; he’d used a sort of charcoal or black chalk pencil to draw her nude. Comfortably resting against his warm back and enjoying their simple, physical closeness, she watched for a while, awed by his skill. His hand moved fast, effortlessly and as though it had a mind of its own. Faramir had drawn the shape of her foot perfectly and was carefully shading and adding details, one bit at a time—wee wrinkles in her skin, the faint lines of the relaxed joints in her toes, translucent toe nails and the shadowed underside of her heel. You’re so good…

Thank you. Even his mental voice was absentminded with concentration. Faramir added shadows below her arch before he tipped his chin to look at her and ask softly, “Finished?” His teeth gleamed in a smile, “Am I acceptable now?”

Éowyn nodded against his shoulder. “Mmm-hmm.” She pointed one finger at her dresser. “Once I get you into those clothes. They’re much better.”

Faramir chuckled and turned his upper body just enough to kiss her, his hand propped across his waist. “I can’t go like this?”

She curled her body against his, wrapping her arms around his front and murmuring, “They’ll think you don’t have a woman to care for you properly.”

His smile widened and he looked amused. “They would be wrong.” Faramir kissed her again, “Very wrong.” His eyes turned kind and his voice was quiet, his plain statement filled with an appreciativeness that made her heart warm, “I can’t remember a time that I have had better care.” He gestured to the paper, adding with a more casual smile. “I’d like to finish the other…”

Yes. He scooted forward, lying his drawing aside for the moment. “What did Arwen say?”

Faramir grinned. Éowyn smiled in return, “And that she wanted to play with it.”

He laughed and said firmly, “Close your eyes and hold out your hands.” She obeyed, biting her lip with a smile. There was a rustle as he withdrew something from his bag and she giggled with anticipation. Something light and cool, hard to her palms, was placed in them and Éowyn’s eyes flew open. It was an oddly shaped object, narrowing at one end to nearly a point with the other end widening to encompass a rounded opening. Dark brown, tan and chestnut striations ran around it in regular bands with rounded triangular bumps; the color beneath them was a pale cream. The great curved, nearly round, opening was all but the size of her palm, the interior a bright shade of pink she’d never seen before except in tiny flowers or the throats of baby birds. Éowyn slid her fingers over the slick surface wonderingly. The closest her mind could come to the feel of it was a comparison to a snail shell’s cool, polished exterior.

“A sea shell.” Faramir was obviously delighted at her reaction. “One of the great ones. I found it in the marketplace.”

He grinned broadly and watched her, “Put it to your ear…I’m told that’s the sound of the Sea.”

Éowyn did so and found herself listening to a sound without description, a low, rhythmic rushing…my dream. She was awed. He looked at her inquiringly. “I dreamt you were showing me the Sea, this was the sound…”

“You did?” Faramir was suddenly intent, sliding across the bed to sit beside her. “What was the dream?”

“You were behind me, leading me up a tall staircase…I could hear the Sea…” Éowyn put the shell to his ear and watched his face. “You told me not to open my eyes.” She hesitated, asking finally, “Will you take me soon?”

He held the sea shell, fingers spanning it, and then looked up to smile at her. “Whenever you wish.” Abruptly Faramir lifted the great shell up and grinned. “Come here.” He scooted off the bed and vanished into the flower room.

“Listen, the man who sold it to me showed me how to blow it.” Giving her a mischievous smile, he put the narrow end of the shell to his lips.

She looked at him in amazement. “Blow it?” To her delight, he did and it sounded almost like the call of a low-pitched horn. Faramir did it twice, the sound very loud, undoubtedly carrying for miles. She laughed, enchanted by the gift, then laughed again; surely the folk below in Edoras were listening in confusion.

Faramir handed it to her. “Here, try.” Éowyn put it to her lips gingerly; the end tip of the shell had been cut to a small, smooth hole. He was watching her closely with a smile on his face, making her smile back and caress the glossy outside of the shell. Faramir laughed almost with embarrassment. Taking a breath and firming her lips around the small hole, she blew gingerly, making it honk. He guffawed and came to stand behind her, one hand pressing to her belly,

“From here. It’s more difficult than a horn.” Éowyn tried again, this time managing a long, muted and reverberating blow before she ran out of breath. “Good!” Faramir’s arm squeezed her waist.

She turned to put one hand under his chin; he met her kiss warmly. “I love it…” Éowyn stroked the shell, pleased by the gift.

“I’m glad.” He nuzzled into her neck, whispering, “I’m so glad.” Faramir didn’t speak of his present to her now and she knew it. Éowyn put one hand over his; weaving together their fingers, then looked up to his handsome, gentle face,

He smiled just as her brother called her name anxiously from the other room. “Éowyn? What is that noise?” She burst into guilty, delighted laughter, as did Faramir. Giggling, Éowyn pushed his chest, slipping by him while ordering.

He smiled playfully. Yes, my dearest. She snorted at him and went to pacify her brother.

Éomer stood just inside her quarters, shifting his feet nervously. He’d heard her voice speaking to someone, he guessed Faramir, and it made him uncomfortable not knowing if he was intruding or not, and even more so in not knowing how he felt if he was intruding on something. At any rate, Éowyn had come from her bedroom, shutting the door behind her and he caught only the briefest look at Faramir moving in the other room before what she carried in her hand took all his attention. “What is that?”

She was smiling and her expression was that of a very happy, contented woman. “A sea shell.” Éowyn handed it to him, and Éomer cradled the strange, light thing in his hands wonderingly. It reminded him at once of a horn and a snail’s shell. His sister moved past him to poke futilely at the mass of ashes in her hearth. “Put it to your ear.”

He did, not expecting anything, and was surprised. The sound was strange; a rushing, yet muted booming that seemed to come in rhythms. Eyeing the empty, gleaming shell, Éomer was unsure if it was real or his imagination. “What is it?”

She was lighting a candle, giving some illumination to the slowly darkening room. Éowyn halted briefly to beam at him, the bliss in her eyes and voice shining out much brighter than the tiny flame. “The Sea. Faramir brought it for me.”

The way she said the Steward’s name gave him pause; it was different than before, with more radiance and love within her voice. For a moment, Éomer forgot the shell and just looked at his sister as she went from one candle to another—she was light of step and seemed more than glad, positively joyful. He felt a great surge of emotions fill his heart; an aching sorrow for his pending loneliness that tore at him and a great, warm happiness for her obvious high spirits. With a feeling of wonder, he realized, this is how my sister should have felt…all those long, dark years when she grew hard and cold and pale… His chest swelling with equal parts pain and happiness, Éomer looked back down at the shell before she could meet his eyes and see the conflict within. Ashamed, he was well aware there should be none. I am a horrible brother to have objected so… Éomer glanced at the closed bedroom door; behind it was his redeemer and a man worth rewarding twice over with every piece of gold within his coffers. “Is…” He swallowed past the remorseful lump in his throat. “Is it?”

She’d lit the candles in their holders and was working on clearing the ashes from within the hearth, putting new hunks of wood within it and using bits of kindling to light a blaze. Éowyn turned, kneeling on her bearskin to give him a smile. “I hope to find out.” She smiled eagerly. “Very soon.”

Éomer blurted, his vocal cords tightening so much that his words came out as croaks, “Very soon?”

Éowyn slumped a little, some of her lightheartedness vanishing, to his dismay, as she reassured him, “Well, not that soon…”

He tried to put on a brave front, to act as though the thought weren’t almost unbearably hurtful. “But soon.”

“Yes.” She looked at the struggling flame, hands on her thighs and said no more. They were quiet as Faramir finally stepped from her bedroom.

His expression held just a trace of caution as he greeted cheerfully, “Éomer.”

Éomer looked at him and his heart twisted painfully yet again. She’d dressed him in Théodred’s clothes. They fit well enough; the shirt was slightly too big at the shoulder and in girth, while the sleeves and legs of the trousers did not extend as far as they might. They were of good material, colored in the dark green of their country with a pattern of bright gold stitching about the collar and the ends of the sleeves. He tried not to betray his discomfort, inclining his head and saying pleasantly, “Faramir.” Éomer noted the man’s shaven face, his combed hair and managed to coax up a bit of humor along with a smile. “You look much better now.”

Faramir laughed, his stance relaxing minutely. Though his sister was not looking up and putting another bit of wood on the fire, he could tell Éowyn had relaxed as well. Éomer wondered if they’d been waiting on him to comment and that made him feel downcast. He fiddled with the slick shell as the Steward replied, “You can thank Éowyn.” And though his voice, too, turned warm and loving on her name, Éomer got the sense that Faramir was being careful, holding back to make sure he would not be upset by too much of a show of affection.

Anxious at the situation and wishing he knew of a solution so that they three could interact naturally, instantly, he held the shell up, directing his question to them both, “How did you make the sound?”

“It’s like a horn.” His sister finally rose, the small fire in her hearth burning merrily. “Just blow it.” Éomer did so and was surprised at the volume of the sound that came from it. It was akin to one of the great war-horns but slightly deeper in tone.

Faramir perked up, “The man I bought it from said men out at sea use it to call across the waters and signal things of importance. They even order battles on the Sea with them.”

The Steward replied as though he, too, were fascinated. “He said code, that there was some way to make it sound differently.” Silent, Éowyn eyed them with watchful optimism. Éomer understood; the last time they’d spoken before her had hardly held this much easy civility. He smiled at her reassuringly and handed the shell back as Faramir added,

“I hope to hear it when I go to the Sea.” His sister’s eyes were immediately on him and again he felt his throat tighten, but Éomer swallowed past the great lump and changed the subject with as much lightheartedness as he could muster. Faramir glanced at them both and his face grew uncertain.

He turned to his sister, a false smile nonetheless firmly in place, “I came to find you to see if you were even going to eat of those great boars you killed.”

“How great?” Was it Éomer’s imagination or was there an edge to the man’s question? He felt at once protective of his sister and sympathetic to the feeling. A laugh filled him; this is but the beginning, Steward…

Éowyn answered with the tiniest bit of ire, which fortunately turned to teasing amusement as she waved a hand in his direction. “About my brother’s weight…except that they are twice as beastly,” Her eyes twinkled, “And he’s only half as ugly.”

In return he said drolly, “Thank you for that.” Éowyn laughed. Faramir smiled as though he wasn’t sure if laughing was wise. For a moment none spoke; he shifted his feet, “Do you want me to go on…?” He added more hesitantly, offering what he could in good will, “The meal is ready…we are waiting…but…”

She shook her head and gave Faramir a discerning once over that made Éomer smile despite himself and the Steward look slightly peevish. “No, we’re ready.” To his pleasure, she took his arm; Éomer noted with some discomfort that Éowyn took Faramir’s hand in her other. As though she thought nothing of it, she walked between them and he could see that the Steward looked slightly uneasy before his expression smoothed. Éomer wondered if she’d wanted to take the Steward’s hand, but not make him feel alone…he wondered if he was thinking too much. They’d use to walk like this when Théodred had made up the third, his sister in the middle, only without the contact. My brother, my cousin were that you here to help me let go…

Luckily, Éowyn broke their flustered silence by tilting her head to speak to him, her voice very cheerful. “I taught your horse to lead.”

Faramir listened on the other side of her, his eyes alert. Éomer tried not to pay attention to him. “Did you?”

“Yes, he’s very smart.” A frown touched her face, “I forgot his name…”

“Shining-fire.” The Steward nodded to himself and Éomer smiled, asking a question he found to be easy, as it involved neither his sister nor her looming departure, “Have they named you, yet?”

“What?” Éowyn looked between them, curious, her face full of an odd hope. After a moment he decided it was because he and her paramour were conversing in a civil fashion. Éomer allowed the man to answer.

Éowyn shook her head, “I think it’s a pretty name.” Éomer snorted and at the other end, Faramir laughed. His sister frowned in mild irritation and huffed, “Oh, what?”

Éomer sobered while, to his surprise, his sister argued immediately and vehemently. Éowyn rolled her eyes, stating in a firm tone. “No, it does not.”

Éomer frowned and shook his head. Nonsense. He interrupted them both to insist, “It does.”

Éomer interrupted her again, stressing, “Fa means outlaw, criminal, a foe.” The Steward looked between them, his face showing how very engrossed he was as they walked slowly to the Hall.

His sister countered hotly, “Farameans one who is a traveler.” Éowyn scoffed, “What is bad luck in that?” She added, “If you want to say it differently, Fera means to be a companion,” Her gaze met his earnestly as she emphasized, “A friend. To use it other ways it is to travel, too or to conduct oneself properly or suffer unjustly. It is a word for spirit, one’s soul.”

Scoffing in turn at her lighter interpretations, he added firmly, “Fær is danger, warning, a terrible thing. The very word for fear!”

His sister’s eyes flashed, “Fær is also a journey, or even the word for the notion of life, of being. Færa is the word for raven.” Faramir stared at her.

Éomer snapped back, “It is the word that means to frighten, too.” Darkly, he added, “Ravens feed on corpses left in the fields of battle, sister.”

Unconcerned, Éowyn argued further, “Mearh means horse, steed. Mære means splendid, a declaration of greatness or shimmering and pure and light.” She glared at him in exasperation, “It is even used as a word for the Sea in some of the old songs!”

He countered dismally, “Yes and mære is again the word for nightmare, a terrible thing or person.”

Her voice was quick to retort, even proud, and she spoke as though some new meaning had come to her. “And Fara is also the word to describe one who suffers loss and overcomes it or does not bow to it.”

He could hear the swell of conversation in the Hall growing as they rounded the last corner before entering the great chamber. Éomer argued in rising displeasure, “Ridiculous. A name is not a riddle and you would have it so, Faramir as Faramære. They make no sense as Sea-great-traveler because we have no such name and no one would understand it. And the others make less sense. Feramearh? Steed-soul? Færmære?” The word mære had no perfect translation, being a cross for pure, light and the great Sea was merely a metaphor to help clarify something that could not be fully turned to the Common Tongue. Éomer continued with the best that he could translate, “Unsullied-life? Those aren’t names, they are just words strung together.” Firmly, he said, “The only way that makes sense is nightmare-warning.”

Faramir looked startled at his indignant outburst, then very thoughtful. Éomer’s mind put them all together. Warning traveling on horse of sea’s nightmare… He glanced sideways; if one judged by both views the meanings almost did become a riddle of sorts…foolishness. Éomer put it from his thoughts.

He was suddenly aware of how it might seem, his arguing so hotly, and Éomer hesitated, not wishing to incur Faramir’s wrath. I’m not sure how I see it… He phrased his reply carefully; “I see it as the only translation that would make sense to our folk.” Which is why Gaer said it so! His sister was just being fanciful. He added in an unconcerned voice, “It does not matter to me.”

“It matters to me.” Éowyn shook her head stubbornly before stating in a righteously angry tone. “It is how you wish to see it and you are seeing it wrong, brother.” She looked up at Faramir and smiled brilliantly. Éomer stiffened a little as his sister became quiet. He could sense some communication between them, subtle hints in the language of their eyes, the way Faramir smiled for no reason. It was the first time they’d done it in front of him, with his full knowledge, and he found it disturbing. His sister added in a voice softened with tender emotions he’d never heard her express, as she loosed her hand from his arm to touch Faramir’s brow, and turned back to assert, as though nothing at all out of the ordinary had happened. “It is a beautiful name and well chosen.”

Éomer did not disagree, though he felt like doing so. They were within the Hall now and Arwen rose from her chair, calling to him in a lightly scolding tone, “You are a terribly lax host, Éomer. Imrahil and I have been waiting with naught but wine.”

Quailing a little at her bright eyes, he put everything from his mind, saying smoothly, “My apologies, Lady Arwen,” Éomer nodded at the Lord of Dol Amroth, “Lord Imrahil.” His gaze swept the hall. The servants were already moving at the arrival of his presence, carrying in trays piled high with the boar’s rich, steaming flesh. It smelled delicious and he remembered how long it had been since he’d eaten boar. Éomer glanced at his sister and added, more humorously as he seated himself in the great chair, “I had to fetch them or likely they wouldn’t have come.”

Arwen shook her fair head, gently chiding. “Young lovers are inconsiderate creatures.” Faramir smiled and chuckled, as did Imrahil; Éowyn gazed at her dish with a smile of a more surreptitious nature touching her lips. Hiding his discomfort, Éomer sipped at his cool, sweet wine and felt himself momentarily craving the sharper taste of a foaming ale. His eyes wandered about the banners in the hall, women carrying trenchers of food, mugs of ale and the benches full of loudly laughing and jesting Riders and Knights and he felt weary. Soon the high table would be very empty. He should make the most of what company he had.

His sister protested, her voice teasing as she glanced at her lover sitting at her side, “I was quite ready.”

Their eyes met, then Faramir admitted to the table, “It was I that caused the delay.” He smiled and bowed his head courteously, “I apologize, Uncle, my Queen.”

“No matter.” Imrahil looked at him and said warmly, “You look more like your Father’s son now than the scapegrace I saw walk into this Hall.” He chuckled, “The fullness of your services are, Lady Éowyn, beyond my poor comprehension to work such a marvel and to find my nephew within the coat of filth and wild thatches of hair he bore.”

Éowyn smiled and flushed a little. Éomer beamed at her proudly. Faramir did as well, but his face had an odd cast to it, a shadow, before it cleared and he praised, “My dear Lady’s talents are beyond even my poor comprehension, as well.” He gave a small bow in Éowyn’s direction and grinned broadly.

“I might request the secret of those services, once my Estel returns to me.” Arwen laughed, “He is oft trice as filthy and disagreeable than you Faramir…though less marked with bruises. Tell me, who or what did you such harm, my dearest Steward?”

Éomer sensed his sister grow rigid in her seat and he waited to be blamed but Faramir easily met the query. Carelessly, he said without pause and without full truth, “A game of this land. The rules,” He smiled ruefully, “Or lack there of, escaped me at first.”

The Queen’s eyes fell upon him and Éomer looked away, unable to meet her penetrating elven glance with a lie. She, too, kept the illusion and went on as she took a dainty bite of the fine cuts of boar placed upon her dish, “This is delicious…well worth the effort. Éowyn, you must teach me the art of hunting.”

His sister looked at once uncomfortable, which puzzled Éomer, and delighted, which he recognized well. Her voice began lightly, “I would love to…I want to ride the lands around the City again…” Her eyes touched upon Faramir briefly and anxiously and her tone grew heavy. “But it will depend on if I have…time.” He had the impression she’d been more about to say permission and Éomer looked at Faramir, who met his gaze with puzzlement, diffusing his instinctive rise of anger. His sister should not have to ask permission…and if she did, this man would break her spirit. Faramir’s face was open and guileless, which reassured him again. Eomer admonished himself…he is a good man, stop being foolish…you know this.

Imrahil appeared interested. “The mountains are very beautiful…” A sudden thought seemed to occur to him, “You should visit Denethor’s old estate near the Sea, Lady, if you like travel. It is near the hills and the sea.” He smiled slyly, “It would please me if you came…and it would give me more time to spend with my nephew.”

“What estate?” Faramir looked utterly perplexed. Arwen paid them a quiet, melancholy attention that made Éomer wish to comfort her, though it was not his place.

“It is an small legacy of my family, a great, rather simple house near to the beach with a high tower to look out at the sea, stables and a beautiful garden that has probably run to weeds long ago.” He sighed, “My sister lived there only a very short time before she went to the City. Her flowers are probably long gone.” The Lord of Dol Amroth paused. Éowyn’s eyes had widened for no reason Éomer could discern and he watched her discreetly. “It was your mother’s property and part of what she brought to Denethor…” Imrahil looked saddened, “Your father and she never visited it once beyond the first year of their marriage. It is still well staffed with servants, per his commands, but unoccupied. It might have done him good to visit it, but he never did no matter how many times I entreated him to come and let the Sea air clear his heart.” Imrahil sighed again, “Perhaps if you came the house would not look so empty and cheerless.” His eyes twinkled, “And the laughter of children would brighten it even more.”

Éomer stiffened against his will and he tried to hide it with a quick drink of his wine. At his left, Éowyn flushed with an uncomfortable laugh. Faramir gazed at them both and smiled in a pensive, yet still hopeful way before asking, “What is the name of it?”

There was a moment’s silence and Éowyn smiled gracefully, “I would love to come as soon as I, we could.” Again her gaze turned to the Steward and met his almost pleadingly. Faramir frowned and turned to him, grey eyes questioning. Éomer understood—this was the time to mention their agreed upon idea. He nodded imperceptibly, fingers toying with his knife. Éomer could not think of a reason why not to or why it would trouble her to speak of it before Arwen and Imrahil.

The Steward spoke, his usual care tempered with hope, “I see no reason why we could not come whenever we wish…my duties at Council are few enough, it is the building of Ithilien that would hinder us…”

Éowyn gazed at him and asked with some anxiety, “When would you begin? Winter will come soon…”

Arwen interjected, her voice in such lightsome dissimilarity that it brought the nervous tenseness of the Steward and his sister’s tone to the open and they fell silent. “Are you so anxious to leave me in the City with no one but Lothiriel to enjoy myself?” Imrahil smiled and Éomer only absently wondered whom they were speaking of, he was busy trying not to flinch or voice the protests that gathered to burn acidly in his throat at all the talk of his sister leaving.

“My daughter does like to enjoy herself, sometimes to excess.” The Lord of Dol Amroth glanced at him. “She is fond of horses. I should have brought her.”

Faramir cleared his throat, trying again. “The winters of my country are usually mild…we could build with but a short delay or two.”

“Yes.” The Steward went on, looking at them all in turn even though Éomer knew his words were really to his sister. “I was hoping…that you would like to be involved with the undertaking…” Éowyn just frowned and said nothing. Faramir added almost timidly now, “I don’t know if you would be bored or not at Court…”

His sister finally spoke, her voice very low. “Neither Imrahil or Aragorn could think of something the Lady Steward could do. We have no court, I would not be used to it.”

Arwen smiled at her, seeming to catch on swiftly to Faramir’s idea and, Éomer felt, approve. “You wouldn’t like it, my friend, I have yet to see you sit idle and gossip…though I expect there is little gossip in a land with no other noble families.” She laughed, “I found it interesting for a while but I’ve since grown tired of hearing of such and such rumor.” Imrahil chuckled.

Finally, Faramir turned to Éowyn and only her. “I was thinking the same…and Éomer agreed.” He nodded at Éomer, who suddenly understood that the Steward was very nervous. He tried to help, though he found it painful, breaking into the man’s explanation,

“I think it is a great task, worthy of you, sister.” She smiled at him, then her lover, more in exasperation this time.

“If you wish, my love,” He smiled small and endearingly, “You may head the building of our home and leave the City to travel the lands as much as you wished.” His voice lowered, “I don’t want you to feel confined with the walls…”

Éowyn cut him off, her question firm and quick with astonishment. “You would leave it to me, only me? The building of Ithilien?”

“Well, I would appreciate the chance to help you…or give an opinion.” Faramir smiled slightly, his tone much more relieved, prompting Éomer to believe he’d sensed some clue of approval within Éowyn.

Imrahil laughed heartily, “You just gave her free rein, my dear lad. Do not expect weekly reports.” He chuckled, “I anticipate she’ll have it done long before you’ll imagine, if the Lady Éowyn’s resolution in ordering you, and the skill in managing this city are as mighty as they has shown themselves. Edoras is quite well run and I recognize my nephew once more.”

Éomer jested dolefully, as he could see Faramir floundering again in his sister’s extended silence, “Indeed, I shall have to set runners to the City to learn what to do with my kingdom.” Éowyn smiled at him a trifle sadly, her grief echoing that within his soul.

The Lord of Dol Amroth shook his head, “Nay, you need a Queen of great worth.” His eyes twinkled again, “I did mention I had a daughter of wedding age?”

The table laughed; Éomer smiled though he felt acutely uncomfortable in this line of discussion. He tried to hide the tenseness in his reply. “You did.” I do not need a wife and when I need one I will find one! He had more to be concerned about at the moment, such as orcs in the Mark, the constant threat of fires and what to do with Faramir.

Imrahil teased, “She likes horses and she has little interest in the men of the City…perhaps she would find a home in Rohan more to her liking.”

Faramir smiled in an astonishingly devious fashion, as though he sensed Éomer’s discomfort and intended to tease him. “It would add a new tie between our families, insuring peaceful accord for many ages. I’ve no doubt Elessar would leap at the chance to bind you and my cousin in wedlock.” He chuckled and added more playfully. “Though I suppose in observing fairness you’d have to visit Dol Amroth and learn the way of the sea men.”

Éomer smiled, thinking more of his curiosity with the shell than his discomfort. “I don’t think I would have an objection to traveling to the Sea, though I’m not good with boats on the river…” He disliked the water almost as much as he disliked heights, hating the feeling that came without solid ground beneath his feet. Éomer found he couldn’t even imagine the Sea, which piqued his curiosity more.

Imrahil shook his head, “Ah, those little things I’ve seen your fishermen with are nothing to riding on the deck of a proper ship. You must come,” He gestured to indicate Meduseld. “I insist on repaying this generosity. You can stay in my home.”

Arwen had fallen quiet again at all the talk of the Sea. Glancing at her, Éomer answered graciously, “I would be honored.”

For the rest of the meal his thoughts wandered and he spoke little. I don’t know what to do… Éomer sighed. Tomorrow they would ride to the harvest festival, tomorrow he would be confronted with days of watching his sister and Faramir’s obviously growing love with no prospect of escape. He silently and sincerely hoped that he would do nothing foolish. I am a man grown, it is time to act like it…

He watched them covertly, helpless not to notice the almost constant silent intercommunication; in fact, it was so obvious that Éomer wondered how he’d ever not seen it. Éowyn and Faramir did not speak to each other but rarely, more often sharing glances and smiles and only replying aloud to the others’ queries or comments. Once Arwen caught his eye and she nodded furtively to the pair and rolled her eyes, mouthing, “Rude.” Éomer chuckled. He’d been thinking somewhat of the same thing himself. The Queen spoke up, setting her empty dish aside. “When are we leaving?”

“To where?” His sister managed to tear herself away from her lover for a moment; she was so carefree and happy that he ached, wishing strongly that he could stop his hurting heart.

“The harvest! You would know if you could lift your eyes from yonder Faramir’s,” The Queen eyed the Steward, “And he from yours for a moment! Selfish young lovers, open your ears!” Arwen slapped the table in exasperation. Imrahil smiled.

“You were no better, my Queen, as I seem to remember a newly crowned King ignoring his waiting people…”

Arwen narrowed her eyes at him. “You lie, Imrahil. I have never stood between Estel and his people.” She giggled in a surprisingly girlish fashion, “Estel and his door, perhaps, but never his people.” She was laughing, “Now, when are we leaving, Éomer, my friend, will you not tell me?”

They looked to him and Éomer shrugged and fiddled with his all but empty wine, gazing down at the rich gold of the goblet to hide his prevailing discomfort at any and all mentions of his sister and Faramir. Stop it, you are being a child… “Tomorrow.” He glanced at the Steward, who looked unperturbed; he remembered Aragorn’s concerns and wondered if he was weary of riding. Éomer added, “If no one objects.”

“I can’t wait. It is wonderful. I haven’t been in years!” Éowyn looked to Faramir and smiled. He smiled in return but did not speak aloud and Éomer was forced to actually ask him,

He smiled a little, anticipating. He hadn’t been free to visit one of the gatherings for many years, either. “Good.” Éomer surveyed his Hall; all but a few Riders and Knights remained at the lower tables. Kitchen lads and serving women moved freely, the women laughing and talking as they cleared the mess, dancing aside from the occasional grasping hand of a Rider or Knight, their voices rising to reprimand while the men’s lowered to plead.

Beneath the tables, dogs fought for scraps, snarling and barking, only to be shooed away or placated with a bit of something or other. The fire in the great hearth was popping and burning merrily, the peasants’ stew pot still above it. His sister’s hunt had provided meat even for the lower tables and Éomer speculated that most had gotten a taste of the boar, at least. It is no wonder they love her, what do I do? He glanced at the bone and meat-laden trays on the high table and for the first time noticed a tiny black nose pop up from Arwen’s lap. Is that…? Éomer laughed aloud. Rusco was secreted there, lying still across her thighs. He asked in amusement, “What are you going to do with that dog?”

The Queen pulled Rusco to her chest to cuddle him, holding him back from leaping onto the table. The puppy opened sleep-heavy eyelids, then wiggled and whined, eyes fixed on the nearest platter of meat scraps. “Take him with me, of course.”

“Take him? How?” He watched her pluck up a bit of boar’s flesh from her plate and feed it to the wildly squirming dog. Imrahil made a face, prompting Arwen and Éomer to laugh while Éowyn grimaced in agreement.

“He can ride in her saddlebags.” Éowyn smiled, gesturing, “And stick his head out the top.”

Arwen cuddled her puppy to keep him from leaping to the tabletop. “He won’t jump out?”

His sister shook her head, “No.” She rose, “I think I’ll retire.” Faramir smiled at her, and then Éowyn bent to kiss him, only once, but warmly enough and without reserve as to make Éomer avert his eyes. They met Arwen’s and the Queen smiled at him gently, almost compassionately, making him feel ashamed. He stared at his lap and listened to his sister say sweetly and lovingly, “Goodnight all.”

Éomer looked up because he did not wish to appear indifferent. “Goodnight sister.” She laid her hand on his shoulder, squeezing once and giving him a happy smile.

It was not long before Imrahil and Faramir went to their beds, or in the Steward’s case, wherever that he would prefer not to speculate on, and Éomer would have said his own farewells but Arwen’s eyes fell upon him and he bade the two men of the South a good rest and did not rise. The Queen stroked Rusco’s brown, floppy ears, glancing down at the dog indulgently as she fed him another bit of meat. When she lifted her head, her lips were curved in a smile. “He is a wonderful present.”

Éomer nodded in agreement; he had the feeling that she wished something of him but he was not bold enough to ask what. Arwen was very fair in the simple light of the candles on the table and the fire in the great hearth, making him conscious anew of her incredible beauty. Almost immediately he was tongue-tied.

The Queen’s smile faded and she looked at him in a very serious manner, putting one hand to her breast as she asked quietly, “Tell me, Éomer, please, what is so wrong to make your heart ache such that I can feel it so terribly?”

He tensed and for a moment his throat filled with words that burned to be released but Éomer could only voice the lie, “Nothing is wrong.”

“Come, I know you are too old for your kind to act like that.” She put the dog on the floor to gnaw at a bone and scooted her chair closer to his. “Speak to me, tell me your sore cares.” Arwen smiled broadly with her gentle teasing and cuffed his shoulder in a playful gesture, “I will not have such a sad heart to escort me to a festival! Come, speak and unburden yourself. It pains me to see you.”

The Queen challenged him at once. “I call it wrong when you are unhappy. Éowyn is happy, Faramir is happy…” He winced and she fell silent only to heave a great sigh of exasperation. “You remind me of my father.”

The elven lord? The sheer ludicrousness of her statement made him ask, “How?”

Arwen answered, her eyes fixed upon his as mercilessly as her words came, “Though you know better…in the face of contented love you see only your own grief.”

He flinched, deeply ashamed. It is the truth. He knew it as well as the elven woman who sat at his side. Where is my gratitude? Where is the joy in my heart? I am selfish, indeed… Suddenly he was close to weeping with frustration and despair.

She took his hands quickly, “Hush, I mean not to shame you.” Arwen squeezed his fingers when he would have withdrawn and did not release him. “Éomer, why are you so saddened?” Her fairness was touched with a distress that only made her more enchanting as she listed, “You have you lands, your folk, your sister is happy with her love…” She smiled, “To my eye you lack only a Queen.” He stiffened and she frowned, “Why do you grieve?”

He couldn’t stop himself this time, snarling bitterly. “What is there to rejoice in my lands?”

The Queen recoiled at the sharpness in his tone, then asked, “Explain it to me?”

Éomer looked away and felt her squeeze his hands again. “I earned them not by greatness, but by the death of those I loved. Why should I be a happy King? I never wanted to rule the Mark as its Lord and now I shall do so in this Hall alone.”

“Ah.” He couldn’t look at her, staring blindly at the dark wood of the table. “You are my brothers, as well.” Arwen spoke softly, “They do not want the burden that is Imladris, nor the task of mending the hole in our people’s minds that my father will leave as a great and honored elf.” She took a breath and said more lightly, “I wish to give you another generation of Men to learn your heart and grow into your crown but I cannot, nor can any of this world.” She loosed one of her hands and touched him with her slender fingers skimming his brow, making Éomer raise his head. Her face was very somber. “This is the way things are. Even my folk must recognize it. My father set a test for Estel…” Arwen smiled and it turned bitter as she spoke, making him wonder. “You’ve set a lesser one for my dearest Steward, thankfully, as there are no crowns for him to fetch you as a payment for his prize.” She gazed past him for a moment and he felt there was a great vexation within her, then their eyes met again and she was composed. “Tell me the flaws Faramir carries to bring such anger from within you whenever he comes into your sight.”

If Arwen was at all intimidated by this outburst, she didn’t show it. Instead, she asked almost speculatively, “Why such rage in one so young and from where does it spring?”

Éomer did not answer for a while, and she did not prompt him. Eventually, he realized the idea of his out-waiting an elf was very foolish and he spoke, not knowing the words until they sprang whole from his heart. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Then don’t.” When he glowered at her, she laughed, “Who is Lord in the Mark? Where do you wish to go, Éomer? I could mind this lovely, simple land in your absence! It is naught but horses and families of men. Find yourself a trusted Steward…”

“A Marshal.” He corrected her and said darkly. “I have one and his name is Elfhelm.”

Arwen continued, “And spend half a year or a year within the City. Go with Imrahil and see his lands.” Her face was drawn with a sudden grief that concerned him. Éomer moved closer as she said quietly, with a melancholy smile, “Look upon the Sea…for me.”

“Oh, dear.” Arwen smiled, still melancholy even as she pretended to be horrified, “Do not say now that you love me, Éomer…”

He smiled in return, “Never.” She was the most beautiful of women, fair of face and form, her laugh only sweeter than her voice, but he couldn’t love her. Éomer asked as gallantly as he could remember to be, “May I say yes, if the love offered is as a friend alone?”

He gazed at their clasped hands. “I don’t know if I can…” The Queen did not speak and Éomer felt warm, almost painless tears well in his eyes and spill down his cheeks as he whispered, “What if she dies in childbirth? What if…? My sister is my only blood, my only…”

“Shh, Éomer.” Arwen brought their hands to her lips and then pressed them, warm and soft, to his knuckles. Her silken voice was roughened, “Listen to me, my love-friend.” He looked up, not bothering to wipe away his tears. “I understand…but she is happy. You cannot take her happiness away to satisfy yours…or the only thing Éowyn will carry within her heart for you will be hatred. My father realized that, so must you.”

He nodded, feeling wretched. “I know, but…” Éomer was as helpless to stop his protest as he was his heartbeat, as though it was bone-deep, meshed with his very soul. The feeling terrified him, making him think that he could never be truly soothed.

The Queen sighed, “It hurts, yes. I miss the golden leaves of the mallorns, the peace of Imladris, Galadriel and Celeborn, my brothers, Elrohir and Elladan…I miss my father,” Her words caught in a sob, “My mother…so much…” Anxious, Éomer squeezed her hands, not sure of what to do to comfort her further. He gazed powerlessly at her bent head as she regained her composure. Finally, Arwen smiled at him, tears making her bright eyes glisten, “I am no better than you. I would have it both ways as well.” She looked down again, then met his gaze, “Now listen, and I will give you my wisdom such as it is, to a great warrior from a maiden soft of hand and arm…” They smiled at each other. “It shall hurt.” She bit her lip and closed her eyes tightly before continuing, “The heart heals slowest. But it shall heal and you will be whole and well, Éomer. You will be alone, yes, until you choose not to be.” He laughed a little, embarrassed for no real reason he could pinpoint, and she smiled, “I could aid you in that, if you wish.” The Queen beamed at him, “The women of the City would love to wed such a handsome man who cares so much for his family that he would torment himself while all others rejoice…” When Éomer gazed at her, subdued, she chuckled softly, “Or maybe not. But they would love to wed the noble Lord of the Mark when he has decided he has earned his lands and has cleared his heart of its desire to suffer.”

“If you agree to do one thing for me I shall argue your side and win you a few more weeks at least.”

“Smile.” The Queen smiled while he just blinked. “Smile for me, Éomer, and see how happy your only blood is now. Smile for your sister and yourself. I told you, I would not have a sad heart escort me to a harvest celebration and I mean it.” She touched his cheek, “I don’t think I have seen you smile in real happiness once.”

Éomer was silent before he summoned the strength to smile faintly and tease, “Escort?”

Arwen’s eyes flashed, “Estel is otherwise occupied and if he takes objection, it is his own fault.” He laughed at her and she rose, squeezing his hands once more before releasing him. Her tone was more purposeful now and less intimate as she gathered Rusco up. “What time shall we ride tomorrow?”

He took a deep breath, trying his best to cleanse his heart and soul. “In the morn…but not too early.”

He walked the darkened corridors by memory and paused at his door, stricken. In his sister’s room there was laughter that carried faintly through her iron-reinforced door and into the hall. Éomer listened for a moment, hearing Éowyn laugh again and her voice, though of course he could not make out the words, was joyful.

It hurts…but when have I heard her laugh so? He smiled in the dimness, having to force it some, but less than he would have expected and with that, Éomer sought out his bed. The peace of sleep had never seemed so inviting.

He’d come to her rooms after leaving the Hall, as she’d said he might, and Faramir had found Éowyn already half undressed, the dark blue tunic put away and the cream one folded in her arms. When he’d walked into her bedroom she’d paused and smiled at him in such welcome that he marveled and smiled back, feeling how his heart leapt with happiness. Finally, finally, oh finally I meet with joy…all his patience had brought a reward sweeter than he could have imagined. He was happy just to stand idle and watch her pull off her stockings and toss them aside. Éowyn lifted the hem of her shift, giving him yet another chance to stare, like a glutton did a feast, at her exposed flesh, and replaced it with one of her basic nightgowns. Faramir frowned and broke their comfortable silence, “Isn’t that the same thing?”

She looked at him, puzzled and tying back her dye-darkened hair in a simple fashion with a short length of red ribbon that, for all its simplicity, he still found delightful. “What?”

He gestured at her, sitting on one corner of her bed and folding his leg under himself. “What you just took off.”

Éowyn shook her head and crossed her bare legs, leaning lightly against her dresser. He frowned at her bruises, wishing briefly that he could heal them with a touch, disappearing their purplish marks from her otherwise fair skin. I doubt even Aragorn could… He almost didn’t hear her, charmed by her natural, artless pose that with no effort made him both desire and dote upon her. “No, that was a chemise, this is a nightgown.”

“They look the same to me.” When she rolled her eyes and smiled as though he was very foolish, Faramir elaborated, “They’re both white, thin, they come to the same place on your leg,” She smiled at him, an eyebrow raised, and he grinned in return. “What? I just noticed.” Faramir finished to her light laughter, “They are the exact same thing!”

“Oh, what do you know about a woman’s clothes?” She slapped his shin playfully as she moved by.

He admitted, while turning to watch her walk to sit cross-legged, resting her back against the bed’s carved headboard, “Nothing.” Faramir could just make out the shape of her body through the diaphanous gown; the padding of her bare feet had made him smile. Admitting further, he said simply, “I know nothing about women…I never had one close to me besides my mother.”

Faramir wanted to come to her, but held his peace. He liked looking at her, the unconscious way she sat, and knowing that even if he did come, she wouldn’t tense at his new movements. Éowyn had carried their untouched wine into her bedroom, setting it onto the little table beside her bed. He glanced at the table, noticing the long cord from her gown and all the jewelry he’d given her lying there, the jade bracelet, the blue-stoned ring, the color-changing bracelet. Faramir was pleased; she obviously wore the gifts. And his shell sat on her dresser, pillowed on a folded bit of cloth to keep from rolling away. He glanced around the room again…this is more of a woman’s room…Faramir smiled to himself. Despite the bear.

Éowyn was still gazing at him, now she laughed and patted the smooth blanket beside her. “Come over here and sit with me.”

“All right.” He wasn’t sure what she was doing, but Faramir decided quickly that he didn’t care. In hopes that he could stay the night, he unlaced his boots, kicked them beneath her bed and stripped his overshirt off to toss it over the side of the bed as he went. From her spot, Éowyn looked at the garment and sighed in mild exasperation. He smiled at her, bemused, and ventured to send, you might as well get used to it…I’m not half as orderly as you.

Her eyes sparkled with good humor. Oh, I doubt you’d be much harder to train than my brother’s horse.

He laughed and she smiled, entreating with a girlish, playful pout, “Come here and kiss me.” She’d blown out most of the candles in her quarters, leaving only a few to shine with the warm firelight painting every other surface with shifting reds and golds. The blaze popped and crackled distantly, giving him an odd sense of peace. Éowyn sat cross-legged but when he came to sit before her, she shifted to meet him immediately, making his heart glow with delight. She leaned against the headboard, propping herself on a pillow and curling her legs under her while her hand reached to touch his lips. Her thumb stroked, gently depressing his lower lip before she lowered it to the blanket. In the dimness her smile gleamed as she said softly, but so without reservation that it startled him, “I love it when you kiss me…have I told you that?”

Faramir stared at her wonderingly. “No, you haven’t.” Éowyn smiled and he teased in a whisper close to the cup of her ear, “I shall plan many small trips in the future…if they all reward me so well.”

“Don’t you dare.” She snuggled closer, her hand worming its way beneath his shirt to lie against his skin. Faramir placed his own hand over it, feeling her cool fingers. The curl of her palm was hotter, making him shiver. He hadn't lied, he’d thought his heart would stop when they’d done their acts of intimacy. Her voice was in parts excited and curious, “What do you know?”

“What?” He didn’t follow her at first, too mesmerized the way she was smiling. Her fear was gone and her nervous tension had faded to nothingness or at least a measure too tiny for him to sense. Faramir took a deep breath, unable to express the depths of his thankfulness or curb the joyous hope that was expanding in his chest.

“About women…” She laughed, but it was different, full of self-awareness and when she said, “You know how to kiss me so that I want to faint,” Éowyn’s voice was breathy. Her eyes were full of as to now held back emotion and he asked, a trifle shakily with the burden of both their hearts,

Her eyes were shining with anticipation. “Mmm-hmm.” He leaned and she met him halfway, lips touching lightly, then with growing passion; her mouth was so responsive, so warm and willing that he almost couldn’t believe he was kissing the same woman he’d met in the City. Is this my Éowyn? Or is it the real Éowyn who hid so long within, my wild Shieldmaiden without care of fear?

“You…” Faramir was without speech, only able to kiss her again and again in a poor display of his delight and devotion. She laughed as he unfolded, pressing her back to the headboard. Propping his hands on either side of her body, he rose to his knees, feeling her slim legs. Without thinking, he laid his hand on them, sliding down to cup the inside of her hot lower thigh with his palm. She squealed but didn’t protest. Éowyn’s encouragement, with her arms wrapping about his neck, amazed him,

“Yes, yes…” She was laughing between kisses. Her fingers ran through his hair, over his shoulders, under his shirt, everywhere, almost massaging his upper arms. It felt like she was testing his muscle, his body, measuring his deserving of her maidenhead and Faramir’s heart beat faster, helplessly responding to her touch. Éowyn smiled as her hand came to rest on his jaw, fingertips caressing. She touched his cheek and murmured, “Much better.”

Faramir nodded, feeling that, for as long as he had craved her willing intimacy, the emergence of it was making him almost embarrassingly aroused. He tried to ignore it, breaking the kiss to touching his nose to hers, nuzzling in a more playful and less passionate way, “Tell me what else I know.” But it was too late; she’d noticed and Éowyn smiled more shyly,

“Too much…” He hesitated, trying to think of a way to speak what he wished without hurting her. “I don’t want to spoil this…” She nodded solemnly, sitting up a little. Faramir sat back on his heels and gazed at her. She seemed only a bit disappointed, not hurt and he relaxed but was at a loss of what to say or do next.

Éowyn glanced aside at the wine and smiled. “I wonder what you are like when you are in your cups.”

Faramir hung his head for a moment before meeting her eyes and stating plainly, “I don’t trust myself to act properly.” The fact that he hadn’t so far, made it only more of a concern. I push you, I ask for liberties I shouldn’t…
“Drink. I trust you.” Éowyn’s firm voice hushed, “You wouldn’t do anything I wouldn’t want.” His heart choked him. Faramir did not even try to analyze her words, instead nodding dumbly. She smiled and he fancied he saw her very soul within her blue eyes, shining brilliant and good and with love, not fear. “Drink with me…” Éowyn took a breath, adding in a much lighter voice than the deep and rending emotions he felt within her would indicate, “And tell me about Ithilien and how we shall be a husband and wife.” She peeked at him between pale lashes, saying timidly, “I wish to hear it…I wish to know.” Her inward continuation was tinged with yearning desire behind which he could sense her strength. Éowyn had power within, great reserves of strength that would aid her in whatever became her chosen task. I want to make you happy, like you’ve made me, no matter what.

Faramir stared at her, unbelieving, his mind awhirl with what he sensed was being offered. You make me happy. He couldn’t refuse her request, taking the wine from her hand to drink as he thought. It was sweet. But Faramir soon had to admit, “I don’t know what to say…I have no picture in mind, no plan.”

Éowyn prodded gently, like she’d given far more thought than he to the subject, “What do you want your house to have…since you wish me to arrange it. Tell me what you desire of your country,” She smiled, a lighthearted expression belying the intensity he felt within her, “And of how you see me as your wife.”

Faramir tasted the wine again, then handed it to her. Éowyn drank swiftly, then held it in her lap. She was waiting raptly and he felt how she felt, like Éowyn was a bow drawn just waiting for a target to spend its force. He couldn’t quite comprehend and he felt strangely powerless under her intent gaze. I want…

Éowyn smiled at him, her entire attention focused. “What? Tell me, please.” Again he had the same sense he felt when he pulled back on his bow, his Captain’s bow whose pull was greater than any other and which could send a dart flying farther and faster than he could see.

A stray drop of wine made her lips gleam. He smiled at her and leaned to kiss it away before saying from his heart, his eyes locked to hers, “I want the gardens in my dreams. I want what I saw, my happy wife, and my laughing children. The rest matters not.”

She shared his smile, but it faded to a frown and he didn’t understand how his words could have displeased. Éowyn looked briefly away. “That is all?”

They passed the wine twice before he could find another way of expressing his desires, “I’ve done enough of war, of service. I want peace, with you, and time to visit the Sea, to sit in my garden.” Éowyn smiled faintly and did not answer. Faramir felt her silent, hastily suppressed dissatisfaction. Quickly, he asked, “What do you want?”

Her eyes were resigned, which made him worry. “I want to do…to accomplish things of worth. What I’ve always wanted.”

At once he saw why Éomer had had his idea and pushed for it for his sister’s happiness. Faramir said the only thing he could think of that might please her. “I have given you Ithilien. Do with it what you will.”

“I know.” Éowyn smiled, but her eyes did not change until she finished and then they became hopeful. “I know, but you’ve yet to tell me what that is. I can’t do it alone, I don’t think I’ll be allowed.” She paused, “I want to make you happy, to give you everything…you freed me…do you understand?” Éowyn spoke haltingly, trying to communicate her heart, “I would see you as you see you, in your gardens, by the Sea, with me and…” Her smile was embarrassed. He answered it with a smile of his own, wishing he could help. “With your children…but I don’t want that alone…I…” She gazed at the blankets for a long while before her words broke free from her throat, “I have to do…something.”

Faramir gazed at the bottle of wine, trying to answer, but he could think of nothing. He simply didn’t understand. Éowyn was not sad, nor afraid; he’d healed her heart and he could do nothing to soothe her. Her mind was full of frustrated strength, making him confused anew. She needed something to release it, but he could think of nothing more to offer. “I give you my country and you do not think it is enough?”

Éowyn smiled tenderly and tugged at his shirt, pulling him to sit at her side. Her voice was low as she leaned her head on his shoulder; “It is enough…more than enough. Please, do not think I am…ungrateful for all you have done and suffered…and will suffer at my brother’s fool will.” She laced their fingers, then lifted their hands to kiss his, and laughed very soft, “Most women have only their house and their children and do not even get offered more.” Her voice quickened with anxiety, “Faramir, I want to make everything as you wish…”

He laughed, putting his arm around her shoulders to squeeze, “Building my house will not be idle work. Ithilien is half-wild still, and some of it is spoiled and will take much effort to renew. Do not worry, there will be plenty.” Faramir nuzzled her hair. “I want to help you, do not deny me that right.” She hugged him back. He teased in hope, “I’m beginning to worry if I can keep up, though…”

“I want to be happy, with no worries…I’ve worried enough.” Faramir sighed, “I want to rest.”

“I don’t.” He sighed again, feeling her struggle. Éowyn’s worry came out in a single, desperate question, “Will they, the folk in your City, allow me to do as I wish or will they bid me sit with the women? I can’t…”

Faramir felt a stab of jubilation. That is what she means. He sat up, making sure she heard him and saw his eyes and how much he meant his words. “They will do as I command…and I shall command them to follow your word as though it were mine. And if that is not good enough for you, I will beg Aragorn to do the same.”

He asserted, almost with exasperation, “Yes. Yes!” Faramir smiled, “Do not worry, please…be happy with me.”

Éowyn smiled and cupped his face in her hands, “I love you.” You are too good a man…what fool women passed you by?

I passed them. He smiled and kissed her; I was waiting for you. Then teasing, Faramir kissed her cheek, murmuring into her ear, “I’m not so foolish, you see, to wait only for the richest woman or the one with the greatest of noble families…” He chuckled, “Nay, I was wise and chose instead the one most willing to please me. All I had to do was ride to her country, pacify her brother, endure a large amount of taunting in another language…” He gasped in mock dismay, “Why, I could have had a wife months ago and with no trouble at all!” She laughed, squirming as he nibbled her earlobe.

Éowyn smiled up, her arm wrapped around his chest to hold him close. “Has it been so much trouble?”

“A terrible amount of trouble.” Faramir added, “But worth it, I think.” He cackled fiendishly into her ear, “None of those women would listen to the idea of planning my house, ordering my country and bearing my children and still ask for more. I think I have discovered some great secret—the women of Rohan are tireless.” He chuckled again, “I expect to not lift a finger and grow quite fat in my Stewardship.”

Éowyn huffed. “You expect wrongly. In fact, the moment you set foot off this bed you are picking up that shirt and doing something with it.”

She met his kiss, the bottle of wine tilting between them. Faramir smiled, his statement only half in play. “We shall see who picks it up…I wager I can stand it lying there longer than you can.” But Éowyn didn’t answer, just stared up at him in growing dismay and Faramir began to laugh. “What do you want to wager? Anything, anything at all!”

She glowered at him and picked up the wine to gulp some down. “Play a game with me. Whoever wins picks it up.”

He grinned at her cockily, feeling the first warmth from the alcohol spread over his body. “All right. What kind of game?” He added lovingly, “Ambarinya, alassënya?” At her curiosity, he translated, “My world, my joy?”

Éowyn smiled, “It is a drinking game of my people.” Her smile was mischievous but he grinned.

Faramir slid down to lay on the bed, pulling a pillow with him to hold as he got comfortable. “As long as there are no riddles, I accept this challenge.”

Min ceóce tó eower cest—eower heorte swingað tó se hlêoðor æt min lufian

Éowyn cupped the bottom of the wine bottle in her hand as she thought, stroking the pads of her fingers absently over the tiny flaws in the glass. Her gaze wandered downwards and stopped—Faramir lay full-length before her, sprawled on his belly with his long legs every which way like a child, one of her pillows wrapped in his arms and scrunched underneath his chin. He looked adorable and she smiled fondly.

“What?” Faramir quirked an eyebrow and hugged the pillow tighter, an answering smile curving his lips. His shirt had ridden up, bunching in creases around his midsection. She eyed the narrowly exposed bit of skin around the small of his back. It looked very smooth, his pelvic bones gently showing, and Éowyn lingered a bit, gazing at the enticing slope of his shape and the way his skin seemed pale there, though it was a warm dun color compared to the even paler line beneath it where his trousers came to rest. She wished to touch him without even the pleasant interruption of his touching her, to explore his foreign body, so different in make from hers. Éowyn’s eyes wandered over his familiar features, seeing his strength in them, their definition. Her gaze passed on to Faramir’s slim fingers that had drawn so well and with such ease; his lightly furred arms were darker on top, but as he held them curled around the pillow she saw they were pale with fragile, life giving veins beneath. His legs were long, ended with long, narrow feet that made her bite her tongue in amused disgust. Arwen was braver than she was.

Her lover was all planes, no real curves; all length, made even more so by the way he was lying stretched out and over her bed like an oversized, contented cat. Contented, indeed. The thought made her smile as a shiver went down her spine.

Éowyn glanced down at the wine bottle before answering, “I’m trying to think.” She’d not really had a specific game in mind. No riddles…most of her folk’s pastimes involved the telling and guessing of riddles. She didn’t like them and was horrible at them, but that was what she knew best. Other games were those that needed some pieces and Éowyn frowned, her fingers tapping against the cool glass of the bottle. Faramir smiled up again and she smiled back, barely able to see him. His hair had fallen in his eyes so that they were beautiful flashes of bright grey peeking through his dark locks, like, she thought fancifully, wolves sprinting through the forest. He gazed at her, smile gently fading. His mind was full of a warmth that she could feel just touching her own. It was a feeling Éowyn cherished because it was linked to the knowledge that he was near. Min lufiend, Ic eom eadig…

She leaned forward to sweep his dark hair from his eyes. Still beautiful. Faramir pretended to turn away with embarrassment, ducking his head, and she laughed at him, teasing, modest.

He chuckled softly and reached to play with a loose thread that hung over her thigh. His fingers were very warm and they tickled slightly; Faramir’s brow creased just a tiny bit as he tugged the thread. He looked even more adorable with his forehead wrinkled by his concentration; with an effort, Éowyn concentrated on something else. No riddles…and no guessing games…he wouldn’t know the legends or tales of her folk to guess correctly. Lifting the wine and feeling its weight, Éowyn frowned. “We need more.” They hadn’t drunk much yet, but in a game the remainder would go quickly.

He’d lowered his chin; his voice was muffled and his limp hand felt heavy and hot on her bare leg, fingers just moving this way and that to tug on the thread. Her nightgown’s hem twitched, tickling her. “Why?”

Faramir tilted his head up to scold at her, “We’re supposed to be riding early in the morning…”

“So?” She took a long drink of the wine to show how little she cared, savoring its flavor and the first, faint feelings of intoxication. Éowyn felt a little flushed and eyeing him made her thrill. He reached for it and she handed the wine over easily. Faramir smiled at her,

“Fine.” She sighed and began to get up, scooting to the edge of the bed. “Come.”

“To the Hall.” At his stare, she explained, “I don’t have the bones here for knucklebones.” Éowyn drew her drab woolen robe out of her drawers and wrapped it around herself, tying it firmly. At the most she expected they would encounter a few men of her folk or serving women lingering at the tables. The fire should still be burning in the hearth, the coals banked for the night. She turned to the bed expectantly; he hadn’t moved. Trying to urge him, she smiled and thought, I don’t want to go alone… Faramir frowned and rose slowly, padding close by her in bare feet that made her squeal internally. Don’t touch me with those!

Looking down, then back up, Faramir laughed at her, “I doubt you’ve walked as far or as much as I have.”

“No, but still…” She made a face at the elongated, callused thing he called a foot.

His face mischievous, Faramir grasped her arm firmly and lifted his foot to very deliberately put it down on hers. Éowyn gave a hastily muffled screeched at its rough feel and tore herself away as he laughed again.

“No!” She took back the wine and carried it out her door as they made their way to the Hall. The corridors were murky, not lighted by snapping, flickering torches as they were in the City, but Éowyn found her way easily, one hand trailing along the wall. Behind her she felt him sober in the darkness, too. Faramir tread on her heels twice, his voice a murmured apology, his body no more than a denser shadow in the shadows surrounding them. It is so dark…their footsteps echoed softly and reechoed, making strange noises. He grasped her arm suddenly, making her jump and giggle as their hands met to clutch together like two lost and fearful children. Fearful… Éowyn marveled at her fearlessness in something that not long ago she wouldn’t have considered doing and if she had indeed made it this far, she would have been clutching her dagger with white knuckles.

Faramir rubbed her fingers before releasing her hand and she felt his amusement mixed with exasperation, why are you dragging me about this late? I was happy in your bed… She felt his inner voice warm and tease, where I’m always happy…

Yes… She glanced around at the empty, gloomy corridors and shuddered. It was too like her dream, wandering about vacant, dark halls listening to weeping and cries amid the stench of smoke and for a moment she felt panic. Éowyn halted, her heart in her throat.

He bumped into her back and Faramir spoke in a hushed tone over her head, “What is it?”

Her chest ached, it was so full of petty relief and sudden thanks. She was doing something she’d not done in a long time for fear of whoever might be trailing her footsteps. “I love you.”

He snorted, almost in laughter, “And I love you.” She turned but she couldn’t see him, only the vaguest of shadows that made up his features and even that Éowyn couldn’t be sure she wasn’t just imagining. Reaching up, she managed to blindly poke him a few times before his hand caught hers and flattened it against his shaven cheek. Faramir’s voice was softer now, if puzzled, “I’m right here. Feel?”

She was the one who would leave him, of course, one day when her years ended and his stretched forth. Éowyn was very glad he couldn’t see her face as she struggled to silence her thoughts. They might lead her other equally dangerous places, such as what she planned to do after the festival. “I know.”

She told a half-lie which, after focusing upon it alone, became her only truth. “It’s just…I’m not afraid, I’m,” Éowyn swallowed and rushed, “I thank you so much…”

“Shh, don’t thank me.” He bent; she could feel his warm breath, but he was sensible and used his fingers to map her face in the dark so that his fingers went before his lips, gently touching her mouth, cheeks, and chin to orient himself. Faramir kissed her and she tasted wine, tasted the intoxication already within him and felt the promise of more still with the weight in her other hand. Éowyn felt a strange, wild thrill—soon she would be vulnerable like she’d never been; merry and hazy with drink, thinly garbed and alone with a man just as intoxicated and fully capable and willing to make love to her. She found the thoughts more exciting than alarming and pulled him closer in the dark, delighting at the feel of his solid body. But it wasn’t long before he slipped from her embrace again, voice reluctant but practical. “Shouldn’t we…”

“Yes.” She led him the rest of the way, the soft firelight in the Hall seeming bright to her deprived eyes. The Hall was empty of all but a few collapsed and snoring men and Éowyn made her own path around the sleeping forms of dogs, glaring at them in annoyance while her bare feet moved gingerly and silently over the rushes she’d had strewn. Drunk, in a stupor, idiot men…lucky I don’t awaken the chamberlain to roust them…leave them to sleep in the barns… Faramir was even quieter, startling her when he touched her waist. Waving at him to wait for her, Éowyn found enough of the scattered, flat little bones where they usually lay, owned by none, on various tabletops, to play. She walked back with a handful, scowling at the dogs, the skewed tables, the general disorder. I’m frightened to think of what this might look like in another year…

Faramir smiled and spoke, hushed by the empty Hall, “I’m frightened of what my lodgings might look like in another year.” He was standing before the fire and the light made his skin glow, brought a brilliant shine to his dark hair like a crown was set there, and made the thin, delicate gleam of wine on his lips catch her eyes. Reaching up, she kissed it from his mouth, again feeling the delicious thrill of her vulnerability. She was very conscious of his larger size, his stronger body, his long limbs that could outrun her with ease. She shivered, and then smiled as his gaze searched hers. Faramir looked wary and ready to catch any slight sign of her alarm but this was a good fear, a nervousness that made her heart pound with excitement.

She jiggled the little bones, nearly ten sheep’s knuckles polished by long use. “Do you know how to play?”

His eyes were on her closely, their intensity only slowly relaxing its guard, “No.”

Éowyn smiled, “You take the bones in your palm,” She demonstrated, laying her palm flat with the wee, squared bones gleaming like warm ivory from the firelight, “Then toss them and try to catch them with the back of your hand.” Éowyn did so with dexterity; it was a game often taught to children. She managed five of the nine and smiled in pleasure before bending to retrieve the other four. Undoubtedly as the wine disappeared, so would her skill. “Whoever has the most wins.”

He smiled and took the bones from her as she offered them. Éowyn took another long drink of the wine, feeling its warmth course through her as they began the walk back to her rooms. As though he were aware of her exhilaration, he spoke simply of genial things. “This is easier than what I played with your brother.”

“Riddles and…” Faramir’s brow creased as he carefully nudged the bones on his palm, separating them, “some board game with a King and warriors…but we never finished.”

He chuckled, “Yes.” The last light from the Hall faded, leaving them in the dark.

“I fought a man…badly, though I won money for Gaer, Nier and Tondhere,” Faramir’s smile was in his words and she wondered who these other men were, “And a share of my own, though I don’t know where it is now. And I think I fell into a stupor halfway through. I was drunk. Very drunk.” He laughed in good humor, “I know for certain that I lost. Also, I hunted a great deal and taught my students some woodcraft.”

The rest of their walk passed quickly, Éowyn keeping a hand to the wall. Entering her softly-lit rooms made her blink at the light. Her fire was lower than ever and the only other illumination came from the candles in her bedroom. Faramir closed the door behind them and the muffled sound of it made her aware they were alone as they’d been alone before. When she glanced at him, he smiled reassuringly.

But she didn’t want reassurance, she wanted… Uncertain, Éowyn glared at his shirt lying crumpled on the floor before stripping off her robe. Pointedly, she folded it and put it back in her drawers. When she turned, he was laying sprawled back on her bed and Faramir was pretending not to notice as she closed the dresser drawer firmly. Climbing up with him, she sat with her back to the headboard again and folded her legs.

Éowyn nodded, letting the wine sit in her lap. It leaned against her knee, making chill bumps rise on her bared skin. While she watched, Faramir tossed the bones up, moving his hand in an exaggerated movement and managed to catch 3, with one falling off the back of his hand. The remainder pattered to the bed.

She smiled in encouragement. “Good.” Éowyn took the bones and tossed them quickly and efficiently, catching four this time. She laughed in triumph, feeling her spirits raise to heights they’d long not, “Drink!” He obeyed and she watched his throat move as Faramir took a long draught of wine. “Here.” She gathered the smooth knucklebones, warm from their hands, and passed them.

“I’m going to lose, aren’t I?” He tossed them before she could answer and managed to catch 2.

“Yes.” Laughing at his mock-despairing expression, Éowyn flipped the flat, squared bones up in a shallow throw while keeping her hand still and flat, fingers together, as the best landing surface she could make. She caught only three but it was enough. Triumphant again, she nodded at the bottle already within his hand, its contents shifting darkly, “Drink!”

Faramir did and asked, “What are you going to do if you win…besides making me pick up that shirt?” His eyes twinkled with good-natured teasing that tried in vain to belie the heat that crackled within his voice, rising into his question and making her body respond instantly. Shifting her legs, she felt her skin was too tight, and only movement would relieve it.

She answered without thought of anything but to tease, caught up in his stare, “Tie you up and ravish you.” Out of the corner of her eye, Éowyn caught sight the long cord she’d left lying on the little table beside her bed. She giggled recklessly and gestured at it as though she’d meant to put it there all along. “I’ve got something to do it with lying right there.”

But, to her surprise, he didn’t share her laugh, only sobered and tossed the bones again, this time getting five. Faramir smiled at her, brilliant with sudden cheer, making her say firmly. “Naught but luck.” He chuckled and it sounded deeper; Éowyn wondered if it was a flush that she saw on his face or merely the reflection of the orange candlelight. She tossed the bones swiftly and caught three. Faramir laughed once more, pushing the wine to her. She drank deep and set it back, feeling her body heat. The drink was slowly getting to her. Éowyn welcomed it, nodding at him. “Again.” Faramir tossed them high, making her giggle as over half the little bones fell back to thud on the bed. He wasn’t even trying to win. She said so, nearly winded with her merriment, and he growled at her as his eyes met hers and then slid to linger meaningfully on the blue cord,

“Why would I ever want to…with such an offer?” Éowyn felt herself flush all over and she put her hand to her mouth to hide her laughter and the heat in her cheeks. His mind touched hers in a familiar fashion, you’re pretty when you blush like that…especially when it goes all the way to your bosom… While she stared, Faramir smiled and pushed the bones to her. “Here.”

When she leaned forward to get them, he did so, too and kissed her, his hand light on her chin to hold her in place. It was a kiss rich with wine, making her head feel light, giving her the fool notion she could get drunk just from his kiss. Sitting back against the carved wood, Éowyn tossed them and caught only one, still feeling the press of his mouth and its desire pulsing through her. Faramir took them again and grinned as he teased lightly, “Maybe it’s you that wants to be tied and ravished.” His smile was slow enough to make it uncertain if he were playfully jesting or more seriously contemplating the idea. Either way, Éowyn felt herself shiver under her skin as he said in a low voice, “Drink.”

She reached for the bottle, not bothering to hide her embarrassed, shy smile. “Well, give it to me then.” Faramir did so and watched her drink; he was very intent all of the sudden and she felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch. Seating the wine back in her lap, she waited for him to take his turn.

Faramir tossed the bones, his eyes not leaving hers and of course caught none. He smiled wickedly and her heart pounded. His Southern accent was just a little thicker now, “Your turn.”

Éowyn looked down at her hand, shifting her fingers to move the bones. They clacked and scuffed very softly as she murmured, her own daring making her voice no more than a breathy undertone, “I don’t want to play anymore.”

His question was inevitable, charged with heat, but still couched in that easeful tone as though Faramir wished desperately to speak in a more wanton fashion and yet was not sure if he should or might even be too shy to attempt it. “Then what do you want to do?”

She wanted to do a great many things; to make him answer her question about what he wanted from her as a wife, to ask him to talk to her wantonly because she was sure the words alone would be enough to bring her to climax and she could well imagine his murmur into her ear, the warmth of his breath, what words he might say… “Sit up.” Éowyn swallowed, “Get up.” He rose to his knees, settling back on his bent legs and gazed at her with carefully restrained passion in his eyes. With a sudden snicker, she pointed at the floor, "Now fetch the shirt.”

Faramir deflated slightly, but he laughed in good cheer. “Yes, my Lady.” Climbing from the bed, he picked it up and held it in expectance. His face was alight with amusement, with a warm and loving agreeableness.

Éowyn turned to face him and ordered, smiling, “Now fold it…you know how to fold a shirt, don’t you?”

His eyes sparkled with laughter as he replied solemnly, “It’s been a while. I might have forgotten.”

“Here.” She pretended great annoyance as she slid off the bed to stand before him. Éowyn grasped the end of the shirt, holding each of the embroidered corners in one of her hands. Speaking in a playful tone, she began, “Fold the sleeves inward…”

Faramir smiled down at her and did so. He leaned to kiss her as she began, “Then…” Éowyn felt anew how much she loved his kiss, only reluctantly breaking it.

Another kiss, another breathless, teasing question, “And?” Her heart was beating fast as she answered.

“Fold it to me.” Their fingers met together, hers slipping beneath his and away and at the same time he kissed her, making her smile in both shyness and eagerness. Éowyn laughed, her chest tight with excitement and delighted pleasure as he stepped back and took the time to lay the garment very neatly on the table beside her bed. Faramir gave her a raised eyebrow and an acknowledging look that made her laugh again. He had tasted of wine and when he picked up the bottle and drank, he approached to kiss her again immediately, his hand fast to the nape of her neck. Éowyn’s eyes widened in surprise as some of the liquid slipped sensuously hot from his mouth to hers, wetting the corners of their lips, slicking their tongues and making reality of her fancy of getting drunk off his kisses. She tasted it, tasted him and found that both were equally rousing.

When they finally pulled apart, panting slightly, he asked, “You know what I want to do?” He sounded playfully hinting at something, yet soft and intense, as he stood very close. As he waited for her reply Faramir wore a tiny, rather silly smile that she’d never seen before.

Éowyn took a moment so her voice wouldn’t shake, licking a bit of wine from the corner of her lips. “No.” But she thought she could imagine his desire and it made her heart speed up. The wine had gone to her head, making it swim and she was suddenly very uncertain about what her answer would be.

Faramir beamed at her, then set the bottle aside and cupped her breasts through the nightgown, lifting them up and pressing them together to form a small well. As she stood, not comprehending the motion—it was not a caress, but an almost informal touch—he smiled in an expressive way and said in a low voice. “I want to drink some of this wine from the cup of your bosom,” Faramir’s eyes dropped, then rose as he finished more avidly, “To taste you and it, then to let some of it run down your body and lick it away.” Éowyn had no answer for this incredible, unfathomable statement, so she just stared up. He waited a moment, and then met her wide, flustered eyes. Faramir laughed abruptly, almost tittering, then released her bosom before leaning to kiss her, cheek nudging hers, his breath warm on her earlobe. His voice was an amused and partly sheepish rumble as his arms slid around her waist, “Forgive me.”

It was a very long moment before she could ask, mind awhirl with the image of his desire and the imagined feel of cool wine and his hot, eagerly slurping tongue; Éowyn was uncertain who’s imagination, hers or his, “W-Why?” She imagined the dark crown of his head bent over her bosom, his panting breaths, the guzzling, ravenous sounds as he drank from her like an animal and she shuddered with pleasure at the thought. Oh, but this man would kill her with such notions.

Faramir just laughed again and pulled back to nuzzle his nose to hers before kissing the corner of her mouth and murmuring matter-of-factly, “I’m being foolish.” He held her to him and gave her that tiny, silly smile as his forehead pressed hers and his dark hair brushed the sides of her brow with downy, feather-like touches. Leaning forward, he touched his lips to hers in tiny, repetitive and smacking kisses that made her start to giggle uncontrollably. Faramir laughed with her and she felt his body shaking against hers. Had they ever laughed like this? Éowyn didn’t think so but it made her feel good. She wrapped her arms around him tightly.

Once their laughter had subsided, she smiled, slightly dizzy from the wine and her giggles. “A little, I suppose.”

“But not too much?” His eyes dropped and his hand rose slowly to very deliberately slide the shoulder of her gown so that the hem pressed to her neck and her shoulder was revealed.

She squeaked out, “No.” At once, Éowyn was at an utter loss of what to say or do. Faramir’s fingers traced her throat, the blunt tips tickling almost unbearably as he trailed them along the edge of her nightgown where he’d pulled it to bare her skin. He was doing nothing, really, so she stood quiet and complacent and felt herself heat as he gazed down. Éowyn closed her eyes, mentally following his fingertips. When she opened them again Faramir’s face looked spellbound, as though the scant and entirely innocent part of herself that he’d bared was fascinating in some way.

He spoke softly, “I want to draw you. I want to…” As though words escaped him, he fell still.

Faramir answered and the word sounded to her incredibly carnal for all the simplicity of his murmured reply. “Naked.” His eyes met hers and they were full of a marvelously avid light, glowing like stars as a smile spread across his face.

Éowyn shook her head, biting her lip. “No.” She wanted to say yes; to watch his skilled hands remaking her form, capturing it so precisely within their grasp as she’d seen him draw other things. She wanted to bare herself to his eyes, to let him seize the curves, lines and hidden places of her body to put them on the paper, to know her as no other, to see her flaws and perfections. Éowyn shivered within the circle of his arms and felt how very much the idea aroused her. If he did so she could not refuse him the request of making love to her, it would be no more than an extension of his drawing, his knowledge of her from sight to bodily touch. Oh, I want…but she did not dare to speak the single, simple word that would declare her assent. She was too timid to make the final step. It seemed too great a stride.

A frown touched his beaming face like a dark shadow passing across a clear summer sky. “Why not?” Faramir’s silly smile returned to broaden into a silly grin. “Shy?” He chuckled and nuzzled his nose to hers again, “Or afraid I’ll make a mess of it?”

She was shy, and almost as eager to do it. Biting her lip with a smile, she said timidly, “No, you’d make me beautiful.”

“As you are.” He kissed her hotly, passionately, pressing his body to hers; Faramir dipped to kiss her bared shoulder. “Oh, as you are…I want to draw you, please, won’t you let me?” His face was intent, lit up with a kind of zeal she’d not seen; he very enthused about the idea.

“But…” Éowyn went on with her protest, unsure of how much it was illusory and how much it was true, “What…if someone saw it?” She felt both quivers of excitement and hotly blushing embarrassment from the idea. She almost wanted someone to see, yet dreaded it as horribly mortifying.

“Who would see?” He smiled and his fingers traced the curve of her breast, her hip, in a gentle and strange fashion. Neither were the tentative caresses of a suitor, but the touches of a husband, the casual handling of one who has full permission.

The touch of an artist to his tools…she shivered and felt briefly lightheaded remembering the quick, effortless movements of his hands as they’d guided the reed pen over the paper. She had little doubt that with insight, if she gave to him knowledge of such and such touches that gave her pleasure, he could do the same only over her body. “I don’t know.” He began to open his mouth again to assure her and Éowyn shook her head and said more firmly, drawing her resolution from her mortification in the thought of someone stumbling across the drawing. “No.”

He pouted, something that made her stare, hypnotized by the sensual, puffed out and slightly damp curve of his lower lip. “Never?”

Faramir smiled in hope and delight when she took a breath and released it in a soft rush, “…no.” Éowyn shook with a violent shudder born of the titillation, the thrill that came from the rampant and wild imaginings within her. She laughed uncertainly, voice small, “No, not never.” For an instant she almost wished he were a less mild man who’d simply pulled her nightgown over her head and told her that he would draw her naked. I wouldn’t have refused…she shuddered again. But that was why she trusted him—he didn’t simply do things, he was patient and gentle, as understanding as was possible of her silly fears. Éowyn pulled his mouth to hers. “Not never…soon…but,” She laughed nervously, “Another day.”

“Good.” He murmured, leaning to kiss her, “Good…” Faramir stepped forward, his body pushing against her body and she understood. Grateful to move away and take a respite from his lavish almost to the point of being deliciously unbearable attentions, Éowyn returned to the bed, straightening her nightgown, and retrieving the wine to drink long and deeply. She was surprised at how much was gone, how little the bottle weighed. The liquor heated her stomach, her veins and made her flush. She wasn’t drunk, but quite affected and she felt a moment’s flash of nerves as Faramir had come to sit behind her. He’d had more than she had.

The faint edginess quickly changed to pleasure, though, and Éowyn did not move as he brushed her hair aside; in an instant she felt his mouth on her throat, small, light kisses that nonetheless made her lean to them. The bed shifted as she did, sloping very gently under his heavier weight, making it easy for her to lean against his side. “When?”

She was confused, distracted, “What?” Éowyn turned to face him, swinging her legs up to stretch them. Faramir rose to his hands and knees and crawled atop her, his palms planted on either side of her waist, her legs between his knees. She frowned up, reaching to push his hair behind his ears so she could see his face. He gazed down at her, serious,
“When will you let me draw you?” Before she could answer he leaned down to kiss her neck.

Despite the pleasure of his wet kisses, again she felt the passing annoyance that she could never be atop and could not explore him, that because of his objections she could not give him simple pleasure as he’d done her. As he is doing right now… “I don’t know…” At once Éowyn decided to do something about it. She frowned and put her hand to his chest, sitting up, “Move.”

Faramir was quite amenable and they switched positions more easily than she expected; he rolled over to his back, his hands resting lightly on his stomach. Éowyn glanced at the cord and smiled, but did not fetch it. He was still, lying on his back with his head and upper body pillowed against the headboard while she sat up on her folded legs. Moving deliberately, planting her hands and knees on the other side of his long body, Éowyn hovered over him. Faramir’s grey eyes watched her and they were smoky, dark; he was strangely yielding, motionless. It gave her a feeling of great power to bend over his larger, stronger body and he was the pliant one, she the vanquishing, the action to his repose. He stared up and she down, neither spoke. Finally, he did and he smiled with an eyebrow quirked, “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” She was smiling bashfully, feeling it on her face. His hands rose to touch her shoulders, her arms, caressing them, then down to her waist before he leaned to grasp the backs of her thighs and pull her down and closer. Éowyn kissed him as she resettled herself over his lap, straddling him, “This first, I think…”

“Good…” He smiled between her kisses and murmured as she bent press her mouth to his neck, “Will you sing for me later?”

She laughed, and sat up to hit his chest lightly, “I’m not your minstrel!”

Faramir’s face grew exaggeratedly sad. “You won’t?” He widened his eyes like a child, lower lip pooched, and whimpered pathetically. “You won’t sing for me?” Éowyn smiled down and words came to her, slipping swift and deep like a river whose channel passed through her heart; words full of love, devotion and trust. She quieted, feeling overwhelmed by the instant composition; the song was just beyond her grasp and she sensed it was great indeed. He studied her face and lit up, “Another song for me?”

Faramir pouted in play, his hands finding a home in the warm crease of her folded legs, fingers trapped between her thighs and calves. “But I want another.” He murmured simply and more intimately, making a lump form in her throat, “I liked it very much.”

Their eyes locked again and the love she could see made her smile and look away in embarrassed delight; Éowyn broke into laughter. “You are a child, aren’t you?” She smiled, “I told you, I’m not your minstrel to command into verse whenever the mood strikes you!”

“I didn’t command…I asked.” He smiled, “I’ll beg, if it pleases you.”

She smiled, “You’re going to beg? The great and benevolent Lord Faramir, whose noble breeding makes a mockery of mine,” Éowyn paused, and put her hand to her breast to show her astonishment, “Is going to beg me for a song?”

“Gea.” She lowered herself to him, lying on his body, caressing his face. “Min Feramaerh…” Her brother’s derisive voice came back to her and she smiled, taking the name he’d scoffed at as homage. Soul-steed… Despite his mocking, it was a perfectly honorable name to her folk’s ear; there was no shame in comparing one’s soul to a horse. Noble, loyal, strong and protective of one’s friends and family…she gazed into his warm grey eyes. What is wrong with that?

They kissed very simply for a while and it felt good, felt wonderful to trust him so equivocally, to not feel a moment’s fear. He smiled at her when she lifted her head. Emboldened, Éowyn felt her heart beat faster as she leaned over to grasp the long blue cord; Faramir’s eyes watched her movements and he did not protest; indeed, she felt him shift beneath her almost eagerly.

Yet his brow creased and she felt an odd emotion run through him; when he finally spoke, it was in a falsetto, making her laugh in shocked delight. Faramir turned his head away sharply, feigning horror. “Do what you will, but be gentle, I beg you!” His eyes dropped and he admitted, “I am but a chaste maiden.”

Éowyn gasped in her laughter and what had been within her as an amorous thought, abruptly turned playful. She demanded, “How chaste?”

He fluttered his eyelashes flirtatiously, “Quite.” She laughed again and he shifted under her, admonishing, ruffians don’t giggle.

Not the ones I’ve caught. His eyes glinted with mischief, “Please, I’m just a maiden…”

With a mocking and raspy growl she answered, “Not for long” and she leaned down to kiss him, grasping his chin to hold him still as he was struggling a bit in play. Underneath her, she felt his chest and stomach convulse with silent laughter. Éowyn felt the heat of the wine course through her body, easing her shyness and urging her forward. Obeying an impulse, she lifted her head and barked, “Hold still girl!”

Faramir’s eyes went wide and his mouth opened with real surprise, forming a startled “o”. She burst into more laughter but made it harsher, more as she imagined a ruffian would laugh. Éowyn felt strong and fierce at his capitulation—she caught his wrists and pinned his hands to the blanket and he went limp beneath her, allowing her to catch his shocked mouth. But he quickly recovered and for the first time she had to make him open to her and yield to her wishes, to hold him by the jaw and make him accept her kiss. “Quit wiggling!” She snapped at him, “Do as I say!” Éowyn couldn’t help a tiny snicker slipping past her guard, “Or it will be worse for you!”

He gasped back, still in his high-pitched voice, “Please…no…” Under her, Faramir’s erratically, but eagerly upward thrusting movements made lies of his whimpering objections. He turned his head this way and that if she didn’t hold him, so Éowyn gripped his chin, fingers firm to his jaw. She was giggling, trying not to hit any of the bruises. Faramir compressed his lips, making her struggle to kiss him. He was still shaking with unvoiced laughter, gasping with it in muted barks. Éowyn’s stomach ached with her own laughter. It was difficult to even sit up, much less hold him still.

She had to coax kisses; almost lapping at his tongue to get him to respond and it felt strange…Éowyn wondered if this was what he’d felt all this time. The thought made her realize what she was doing—playacting at rape—and she was astonished and a little uneasy. But one glance at his enthusiastic, passionate gaze convinced her it was different and all right, that no matter what playacting they were doing, it was and would never be anything akin to rape.

Eventually, Faramir had been tamed enough to accept even her most wanton kiss and she lifted her head, taking deep breaths. He was flushed, lips parted as he, too, panted. But she was the ruffian, so she could not simply admire his handsomeness, she had to take charge. Éowyn liked the thought. “Let’s see you, girl.” He guffawed, eyes shining with amusement. Boldly, smiling and on the verge of laughter, Éowyn yanked the linen shirt up. She snickered, “Agreeable lass” when he lifted and arched his back up from the bed to aid her as she pushed it to bunch at his collarbone. His chest and stomach bared, she gazed at him, taking time to gently and sympathetically touch near the bruises marring his otherwise splendid body.

Éowyn trailed her index finger around the marks, saddened by their presence. Her hand slid down his side, very gently caressing the scar that had nearly felled him. She laid her hand over it; it wasn’t very big at all, a small pocked place where the healers had drawn out the Southron’s bolt. So small…it hardly looks like it would slow him… Certainly her brother bore worse marks from his headlong, reckless charges.

Smoothing his scar with her fingers, she was wishing she could make it disappear, yet at the same time she was silently gladdened for it, otherwise… Aware she’d become caught up in her thoughts, Éowyn looked up hastily and somewhat self-consciously. Faramir was gazing at her in silence, no longer laughing, but solemn, his face quiet. She met his soft, quiescent eyes, then just as hastily looked down. Under her hand, his crossed wrists were entirely lax, allowing her mastery of the moment.

Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she resumed her exploration. His skin was amber colored, darker than when he’d left. His ribs showed less to her eye, pleasing her. Curling her finger around a bit of his dark chest hair, Éowyn tugged on it and clucked her tongue disapprovingly as she met his eyes again. “No bosom at all. Flat as a boy up top, aren’t you?” He grinned immediately. She ran her hand over his upper chest, flicking his nipples with her thumb, amused and curious when they stiffened. Faramir huffed as though her exploration was a great annoyance. Obeying another impulse, she bent, brushing aside chest hair, and took one into her mouth. He inhaled; she felt his chest move sharply and the tiny, rather unimpressive nub hardened still further. Éowyn rolled her tongue over it and was satisfied to learn he enjoyed the same as she. Faramir moved restlessly, the muscles in his trapped arms jumping against her pitiful single-handed restraint. Still curious, she switched to the other; neither tasted of anything but clean skin. It felt odd, a firm and twisty, movable little nub in her mouth. She tugged it, trapping it very gently between her teeth, not wanting to hurt him, and wondered if her own nipples felt the same to his mouth.

“Why?” She felt her irritation rise. He could do this to her and torment her, why could she not do the same to him? Why am I denied?

“Too bad.” She wiggled backwards on him, squeezing her thighs. Éowyn bent farther to lick at his flat stomach. It jumped under her teeth as she very lightly scraped his skin. He groaned and begged, peering down at her,

Lifting her head, she smiled at him. You’re sure? Éowyn slid a little further down his legs, kneeling on the bed. Her heart jumping in excitement, she took hold of his trousers, fingers caressing the buttoned fly, ready. His eyes widened.

She sighed in disappointment and discontent, returning her attention to his upper body. A few leisurely caresses later, her palm testing the softness of his belly in comparison to his lean sides, the thickness of his hair on his chest to the thinness of the trail that led down his stomach, Éowyn snorted in a dismissive fashion, “No wonder you’re yet a maid. Flat and prudish.” She reseated herself on his lap.

Faramir’s jaw was clamped as he fought laughter before managing to look away and whimper. “Cruel. You’re terribly cruel.”

“Yes.” She sighed. “But you’ll have to do.” Éowyn lightly tweaked one of his nipples, earning a real buck of surprise. She snickered and growled impatiently as she pulled his shirt back down, “Come on girl, I’ve had lame horses give me better rides.”

He blinked at her rough talk, delighting her with his astonishment. Ah, I’ve heard worse than I am likely to speak… Faramir fought her weakly, his strong arms with their curves of muscle only pushed against her enough to prove his resistance; he twisted beneath her in a mock fight that ground his groin up against her. Éowyn encouraged in her voice of feigned disgust, “Show some spirit.”

The exertions made them both pant and the sound of him so breathless added to her excitement. Éowyn was giggling helplessly, chest and cheeks hurting; under her Faramir laughed whenever he caught his breath enough; he was using all of it to fight her without fighting hard enough to actually overpower her. The feel of his body was wonderful, bucking and flexing under her like an unbroken stallion, but even more delightful was riding him into submission, planting her knees firmly to the soft feather mattress, her hand to his crossed wrists, and pushing him back to the bed. The old bed frame creaked and groaned under their vigorous struggles, making her wonder if the noise carried far. To the hallway, surely not…oh, but what if some serving woman or man walked by? It gave her a sense of wickedness, heightening her arousal and Éowyn’s heated imagination followed her idea of grabbing up the blue cord but there it stopped. She wasn’t quite sure how to use it.

She knew knots well from years of working with horses. It would not take any time to tie him. But how…the headboard had no hole to pass the cord through and the elaborately carved posts on either side would be too fragile, plus position him awkwardly…she would have to bind his hands behind his back or some such way.

Under her, Faramir struggled a second time, as though reading her thoughts. He was flushed, panting as Éowyn kissed him then roughly pulled his head to the side to lick the shaven underside of his chin and press her teeth to his neck. Instead of retreating, he pushed up to her gentle nipping bite, and writhed to kiss and slick her skin with his hot tongue when she licked his neck; Éowyn giggled and suckled at his earlobe. To her surprise, Faramir moaned very soft and the sound of it made a great bolt of excitement run through her. Not thinking, she pulled back to stare into his eyes and ask forcefully, “You like that?” Éowyn felt her excitement mount that she was the one talking so wantonly. Her question seemed very lewd indeed, “You like that?”

His eyes were half-lidded, full of lust, and the shame in his voice, though undoubtedly false, drove her wild. “…yes.” Faramir seemed very willing to play this game, whispering, “Yes.”

She gripped his sides with her knees, generating very satisfying friction by rubbing back and forth against his prone body, “You want more?” His expression showed, he, too, found it satisfying as he squirmed up to meet her.

Faramir’s reply was instant, if in a soft and properly maiden-like tone. “Yes.” The cord was still clasped tight in her fist; thinking about it with a thrill, she loosed the hold she had on his wrists. She would need both hands to tie a knot.

But immediately, Faramir’s released hands came up to her waist, fingers sliding back and under her nightgown to grasp and knead her bottom. Instinctively, she wiggled upward, giving a cry of surprise, unable to escape. Under her, his eyes were unfocused, attending to the movements of his hands; his knees bent up, catching her. Éowyn twisted on his body, unbalanced, caught off guard. She felt a moment of unease at the swiftness of his actions.

Quickly, and in an unbridled way they’d never done before, his fingers probed, tips slipping down and pressing slightly between the cleft of her buttocks, so that she squealed involuntarily and leaned forward against his front to escape, almost in his face. Faramir laughed and kissed her firmly, making her glower. At her embarrassed, infuriated glare, he burst out laughing. She rose on her knees and he lost his place; breathless with astonishment, she gasped wide-eyed, “Stop!”

Faramir’s hands caressed her thighs, her buttocks slowly now, palms firm as he passed them up her flesh. He spoke softly, curiously, a roguish grin spreading over his face, “Why?”

She licked dry lips. “Because…” Éowyn couldn’t think of a reason fast enough under his distraction. He was running his fingertips lower to just skim back and forth along the sensitive flesh between her legs. It felt good, though more ticklish than pleasurable, but Éowyn forgot her indignation, sinking back to his lap. He wasn’t laughing anymore but staring at her seriously. The pressure of his eyes made her flush, as did the slight movements of his fingers. She felt warmth grow within her middle and under her skin as he kept teasing; Éowyn moved her hips a little, wishing he would give her more.

He could obviously sense it and spoke up, grinning impishly, “Still want me to stop?” She glared down and didn’t answer, knowing her face was red. Suddenly Faramir chuckled and it was wicked. The blunt tip of one of his fingers delved inside her very gently, slicking itself with her moisture before slipping back upwards along the cleft of her buttocks and almost too late Éowyn realized what he was planning on doing. She pulled back with a yelp to slap and yank his offending forearm as Faramir burst out in laughter, yielding immediately, dropping his hands to the blankets. Éowyn eyed him and admonished, “Maidens don’t do that.” She was stunned and roused, broken from their game, half-wishing she had been able to curb her reaction and allow him to go on. He smiled at her and it was warm and reassuringly good-humored.

Éowyn glared and he sniggered delightedly, making her smile against her will as she thought, sounding fussy and overmodest even to herself, You didn’t tell me you would do things like that.

“I didn’t?” Faramir was grinning widely; when she shook her head, his grin fractured into tittering snickers, then great loud peals of laughter; he was nearly choking with mirth as his body vibrated under her. She ducked, smiling, not entirely sure about the situation but liking the sound of his laughter. Éowyn glanced at his reddened face, wide, weary grin and dancing eyes and thought that she’d heard it too rarely. He finally lay back, trying to catch his breath while murmuring, “What do they do?” His eyes were dropped and Faramir had abandoned the falsetto, but his voice was still very meek and tame. She could feel how it lied, though; he was full of anticipation, of impudence and eager passion and Éowyn shivered because he’d turned it on her again. She wasn’t the ruffian in this bed, but was instead perched atop of him, only strong and fierce in his fancy of helplessness.

“What?” He purred softly, “Tell me how to please you…” Faramir fluttered his lowered eyelashes, peeking up, “cruel Master Ruffian.” She bit her tongue not to giggle, feeling herself relax again into their game. His impassioned gazed fixed on hers; Faramir started to move, rhythmically rolling his hips, rising up and down. He was grinding into her lustfully, also like he’d never done, hands firm to her hips to hold her in place. She was briefly shocked but not displeased. It felt delicious, not in any fashion that he was touching any sensitive parts of her, but in the knowledge of his desire, adding to the burgeoning and half-forgotten warmth in her body and Éowyn forgot their game for a moment, her eyes closing. She felt the passing urge to touch her breasts and her hands half rose before her shyness returned. She’d not had near enough of the wine to caress herself so blatantly and lewdly.

But Faramir answered her urge in a breathless plea, “Do it” and she felt the growing bulge of his arousal. When he rolled his hips next it was with more restlessness. I want to watch…Faramir grinned, then help…

She opened them to say softly, eyes narrowed as though in suspicion, “You are awfully wanton for a maiden.”

He stared up at her, crooked grin spreading across his mouth, “Maybe I lied.” Éowyn felt him moving a little faster now, becoming more intense, and even in her pleasure and happy playfulness she knew that the time to stop their play before it grew too serious to stop was swiftly approaching but…she didn’t know what she wanted to do. Éowyn wished to respond, but she was afraid to go too far and anger him when she couldn’t reciprocate.

Frustrated, she thought, what do I fear? Her pride arose. I fear no pain…Éowyn knew that he wouldn’t hurt her if he could help it. Yet she was afraid, the unconditional and naked openness of the act haunting her. She would have to give him license over much more than just the simple caress of her breasts, the kiss of her mouth or even his most recent stride along the path of conquest—his fingers access to her most private place. She was frozen inside with indecision, the wine, her desire and her heart urging her forward while her fear of the sheer and great emotional and physical exposure involved held her back.

His eyes had softened, no longer afire with passion; he’d noticed her pensive mood and slowed, then stopped his grinding motions entirely. Faramir’s hands caressed her back in a soothing fashion, rubbing and smoothing her nightgown. Don’t worry…whenever you wish to stop…I jested only, I would stop…

That’s not what… I don’t…I don’t want…I want to… Faramir’s brow creased with his lack of understanding and Éowyn lay down on him, pressing her nose to his neck. His arms came up to hold her, hands spreading over her shoulder blades. He didn’t speak and neither did she; their playful, amorous mood was broken and she felt fury that she’d done it. Éowyn’s jaw clamped tighter and tighter with her rising self-hatred and rage. She relished the pain, clenching her fists, every muscle taut with her bitter anger, trying to char and burn her fears away in a single flash of pure, seething hate.

Abruptly, he spoke. “Éowyn…?” Faramir sounded worried and he moved under her, sitting up a little on his elbows. “Please answer me.” What’s wrong? Don’t…don’t do that…don’t feel like that…please…

She let out her pent-up breath and relaxed. Éowyn rubbed her eyes, wiping away her few, hot, damp tears of frustration and anger. Why couldn’t she just give in? Why? I want to, I’m not afraid of him…what did she fear then? Éowyn gritted her teeth. She was utterly mad. She couldn’t look at him, staring bleakly at the junction of his neck and shoulder, shining, clean locks of his sable hair, “I’m sorry.”

He was worried. She could feel it, which made her guilty. Faramir touched her cheek, making her turn. His eyes searched hers almost desperately. “What for?”

Éowyn rolled off him, hanging her hand off the side of the bed to drop the cord. It landed with an almost inaudible thud. She stared at the ceiling and tried not to scream with her frustration. Voice dull, she answered before he questioned her again, “We were…I liked it.”

“So what’s wrong?” Faramir turned on his side and propped himself on his elbow, gazing at her in fretful bewilderment.

“I didn’t want to stop. I want…” Why couldn’t she just say it? Maybe she was mad.

Éowyn felt her shyness and raged against it. She was tired of shyness that was born of her fears. She wanted the thrill, enthusiasm and all of how she’d felt when he touched or held her, when he’d given her pleasure not so long ago. And very suddenly her cowardice broke and she took the moment, meeting his gaze. “I want you to make love to me. Now.”

Faramir looked uncomfortable and as though he didn’t know how to respond. He shifted on the bed, glancing away before asking hesitantly, “Why?”

Impatient and afraid she’d soon revert to her weakness, she answered. “So it’s done.”

“No.” Faramir shook his head. He was deeply hurt by her words and she could feel it, which puzzled her. “I won’t do any such thing.”

“Why not?” She was irritated and guilty at his hurt, lashing out, “I thought that was what you wanted so very much to do.”

For a moment he looked abashed, and then he gathered himself again. “Yes, but not to,” His voice was full of nausea. “To just get it done.” Faramir stared at her. “That’s wrong, Éowyn. That’s not love that’s something horrible. Why would you want that?”

“Because…” She was just tired of dealing with it. “I don’t want to be afraid…”

“I thought you weren’t.” His helpless confusion was palpable. “You said you weren’t…” Faramir frowned, “Did I do…”

“No!” The notion of his guilt was unbearable. It was her, not him. Faramir was gentle and loving, he didn’t deserve such difficulties. Éowyn shook her head, daring to look at him. “I’m not afraid of…” She closed her eyes, trying to explain the unexplainable. Éowyn was near tears. “I want you, so much, I want to…be with you, I just can’t…I can’t let go…please…just…”

“No.” His face had softened and Faramir scooted to lie beside her. “It would not be an act of love…” He smoothed away a tear from her cheek; she’d not even felt it slide down. “Understand, I couldn’t do it. It is not just that I won’t, I couldn’t. You would hate me, I think…” Faramir kissed her brow, putting his arm around her when she moved to lie against his side, hiding her face in the hollow of his throat. “You don’t need to fight so hard…do you think I’m…angry?” He felt saddened and pained; she sniffed back tears. “I’m not…I told you, it matters nothing. I just wished to be closer, to make our words of love into deed.” He frowned, “Don’t think I need it from you to be pleased with you…”

Her voice was small, but truthful. She took his arm to hug it, intertwining their fingers. “I don’t.”

Faramir tilted his head to ask, his breath against her ear, “Then why would you make such a horrible request of me?”

“What?” Éowyn had no idea how to explain in a coherent way how every muscle in her body revolted, how she couldn’t allow such vulnerability for fear…but she was supposed to submit to his desires, it was her duty as soon as she was his wife. She’d listened to enough talk from the women to know that much, even if she was a poor excuse for a woman herself. Yet…Faramir had given her no indication of wanting such… Éowyn felt her frustration swell, making her want to explode. Am I mad? Do I imagine his wants and fear things that he will never ask? She didn’t know and didn’t think he would be able to answer. He can’t even tell me what he wants in a wife…how would he know what duties are mine?

He’d been gazing at her very closely; she could feel the weight of his concentration. “What is wrong?”

“Come here.” Faramir held her to him and she curled against his side, wishing she could stop her stupidity. The warmth of his closeness was very soothing, making her shut her eyes. Eventually he spoke and his voice was soft, “Do you wish to speak about it?”

Éowyn wished she’d never said anything. The vision of his face filled with such repulsion shamed her. “No.”

Faramir sounded almost relieved. “Then go to sleep.” He kissed her temple and curled a little closer.

“The candles…” It was dangerous to let them burn to nothing, they might start a fire.

“I’ll do it.” Somehow, from somewhere, Faramir managed humor. “It’s time I did something.” He rose and she opened her eyes to watch him stride into the other room. Éowyn listened to the scrape of ashes, clunks of wood and soft hiss of sparks as he banked her fire. He reappeared and she watched Faramir blow out the candles one by one. It was dark now, the only light coming from stars, tiny points of light visible from her window and the little flower room. The bed depressed with his weight and she pushed the wrinkled blankets down, shoving her feet under them and shivering at the fabric’s coolness.

Faramir put his arm over her shoulders and she sighed, pillowing her head to his chest, feeling peace rising to overcome the turmoil within her soul; his peace, he was trying to soothe her, to give her comfort; she appreciated it greatly, nuzzling her cheek to his front. Several seconds passed before her guilt made her whisper. “I’m sorry…”

He answered immediately, “It’s all right…I just don’t understand why you…” Faramir paused and she sensed his frustration in finding the right words. “You fight so hard…just let it come…” He swallowed, “It will, don’t worry…I trust it will.” His arm squeezed her, remember the dreams? Her mind was flooded with a vision of sunlight, of green grasses, of creamy stone walls, the sound of hoof beats amid the laughter of children and the sight of herself smiling. Beyond that was his voice, softly prodding, “You have to trust with me.”

Éowyn felt her chest tighten and she pressed her face to his front before whispering. “I don’t want to hold back with you anymore. I want to…I want what you want.”

Faramir shifted, “But why then…?” Why did you ask such a horrible thing of me? That is not what I want.

For several minutes she fought through her answers, trying to find one, anything that made coherent sense. It came out in a blurry, jerking speech, “I can’t let go of myself, I can’t…you don’t understand…you’ll be inside me…I have to let you in control, to give myself…” She was breathing fast, body tensing, “It’s so hard. I have to…surrender and I can’t.”

Faramir sounded distressed. “I won’t be in control of you…” He shifted downwards to face her directly and she could just barely make out his features, “You let me make love to you, you let me inside,” He touched her chin, then her cheek, “Here, too.” He gently placed his hand on her breast, above her heart. “And here, too. It’s not surrender…” Faramir hesitated and his voiced sounded very vulnerable and wavering, almost frightened of her answer, “Did you think you surrendered today?”

She’d not taken that into thought. Looking away from even his indistinct gaze, Éowyn muttered, “No.”

“You let me, you wanted me to, isn’t that what you said?” His bafflement was clear. “I don’t understand.” Pausing, he said softly, “To make love to you to just…” It was as if he could barely bring himself to speak the words, “Get it done, would be rape to my mind.” Now Faramir sounded so saddened it made tears rise in her eyes. “You would not want me, wouldn’t want to feel how much I love you or to take any pleasure in the act or our closeness.” He sighed, “You’d just resent me and want nothing but for it to end.” Please say you understand.

Inside she felt her spirit twist with silent rebellion. Éowyn was alarmed that within herself, to some degree she doubted his words, doubted the very compassionate nature of them; but at the same time she understood, very abruptly, what he desired, what he truly seemed to want of her and she was horrified at herself. She hugged his chest, whispering. “I’m sorry…I…didn’t…”

“Never mind.” He kissed her cheekbone, and then found her brow to press another kiss there and murmur. “Never mind. Go to sleep.” He added, almost in solemn invocation, “Wake happy. It’s nothing between us. Just misunderstanding, it is no great matter.”

Éowyn frowned, not trusting his calming words. He felt upset still but when she took a breath to speak, he repeated, “It’s all right. Go to sleep.”

She closed her eyes and focused on relaxing, but her uncertainty and the nagging sensation of his chaotic thoughts gnawed at her. “I can’t.” Faramir touched his mind to hers, surprising her with its tightly contained turmoil. He was upset still, but before she could speak it faded and he touched her arm; she rolled to her side and he moved his body closer, bending his to match her curves. Éowyn clasped his hand to her stomach, silently holding him tighter. He felt good with his arm around her, chin on her shoulder, felt loving and patient and, enclosed in the feel of his emotional bond, his immeasurable affection, she soon fell into slumber.

Faramir lay very still and listened to her breathing slow. His heart ached, not because of Éowyn’s words, no, he understood now that she did not understand what it was, the act of love. How do I explain? How do I teach her? He didn’t know and so he was in silent discord, unable to give clarification to her confusion and peace to her great and almost vicious heartache. The only thing Faramir could think of was to pretend her disturbing request had never happened, to concentrate on how happy she had been, how happy he had been. Their play had been astonishing; Éowyn was so bold as to make him wonder. Now he wondered dismally if she would be shy and withdrawn the next morning.

No, his heart did not ache because of her words; it ached because of his inadequacy, his wrongs. He’d somehow given her the thought that he was no more than a grasping, lecherous creature, a man who would accept her flesh and not necessarily her heart. You pushed her, you kept pushing and now that’s what she thinks… He felt guilty, sick with it almost. Faramir carefully kissed her hair and hoped strongly that she would awake and not remove herself, would not hide her soul from him again.

He took a deep breath and glanced down, the starlight just gleaming off the dye-darkened strands of her hair. I trust that you won’t… It was all he could do. Éowyn was asleep now with the soft rise and fall that her breathing gave her body as the only sign of movement he could see. He slid his hand out and away from her stomach to touch her extended arm, feeling the softness of her skin, the tiny pale hair that dusted her forearm, the faint wrinkles at her wrist. Faramir placed his hand over her gently curled one; hers felt cold so he laced their fingers, hoping to warm her flesh.

As he lay there, unable to sleep, the thought rose unbidden, but rang fearfully true. I don’t think I can help you… Faramir felt trepidation coil through his chest, tightening his throat; unconsciously he tightened his hand on hers. I don’t think I can help any longer…please don’t fight so hard… He felt her move away from his embrace and let her, shifting his legs into a more comfortable position, and pulling his arm back so it wouldn’t go numb in the night. Lifting his head to look at her, he saw that Éowyn looked at peace in the dim starlight. Faramir hoped fervently that it would last. Please, please just trust… What had gone wrong? He ran over their actions and could see no instant cause of her change. He felt intense, stifling frustration and closed his eyes, hoping for sleep and another vision of their future to ease his anxieties. What came to him was something else entirely.

“Don’t move…” Boromir’s familiar voice was a whisper carried on the wind. His brother lay very still, body making a large, splayed impression in the rushes by the river. Beside his brother, he was equally splayed, flat on his belly on the muddy earth. Faramir touched the ground absently, pressing his palms to it with pleasure at the coolness of the wet, squishy mud, feeling its clinginess, its life, the answering force to his tiny inquiry. The land felt happy, echoing his own cheer; today he was out with his brother. Faramir told the land so and it responded with simplistic fashion, some curiosity but mainly indifference. Many things walked the earth. Yet at the contact, he felt a moment’s pride—his much-lauded brother could not do the same—but the pride turned instantly to humiliation. Boromir was not jealous of him. Faramir frowned; he knew jealousy was not something a man of noble blood should feel. Quietly, he glanced at his brother to see if his lapse had been detected. But Boromir was paying him little attention, focused on the ducks, as he should be. He admired how his brother’s face was strong-looking, eyes firm, features staunchly focused ahead. Faramir bit his lip and stared out over the shimmering water, feeling his legs chill from the mud. No wonder Father praised him less, he could not even keep his thoughts on what he was doing!

Downstream, Faramir could hear singing of women and the slap of wet fabric on rocks as they washed clothing. It reminded him of his mother and he wished to listen but they were too far away. He wasn’t a babe anymore, to run about and do as he pleased. Faramir strained to make out the words of the song, but there was only the sound of water and the small talkings of ducks to each other. They ducked their heads under the water, quacking in muted or animated voices, fluttering their feathers and chasing one another. He listened to the birds, smiling at their silly noises and wished he could know what they spoke of. Their minds were too foreign; he got only images of rocks, water, other ducks and the landscape seen from eyelevel. His curious touch seemed to alarm them; they fluttered their wings and squawked loudly so that he pulled away. Perhaps his brother knew. His brother was wise in all things. Faramir didn’t want to speak aloud but Boromir hated it if he spoke in his mind. Whispering, he asked plaintively, “Boromir, what are they saying?”

His brother glanced at him in impatience and frowned. Boromir gave a small shake to his head, “Hush. I’ll tell you when.”

Chastised, he returned to staring at the fowl. Father might be pleased with him if he managed to get one. Faramir scowled, looking at his throwing stick. It was hard, much harder than his bow. Boromir tried to teach him; he was patient and sure somehow that Faramir would learn, but he wasn’t good at it. He returned to looking at the ducks, but his attention kept drifting. There were giant bull frogs hiding in the grass, their shiny, stretched throats filled with air like bellows, and other brightly colored birds flitting around and over the water. For what felt like a long time Faramir stared at tiny black, long-legged bugs as they walked and ran on the water’s surface, magically not falling through. He wondered what sorcerer had enchanted them so and fantasized about being able to walk across the choppy Anduin. He imagined that would impress Father.

Suddenly the mood of the ducks changed and he followed their attention up the bank. An image rose among them and he caught it—a fox. The ducks saw it as a blurry creature, associated with brief spats of terror; they didn’t think it was very smart and they thought it was awkward and heavy as it could not fly; it also smelled fetid and slinked instead of striding properly. Faramir was fascinated; he thought foxes were clever and pretty, especially red ones. As it trotted cagily down to the water’s edge, he squirmed, daring to whisper, “There’s a fox.”

“Up there.” He pointed, nudging aside cattails. They were fuzzy and he stroked them, pleased by the ticklish feel.

“It’s close.” His brother smiled. “Do you want a fox tail?” Faramir looked at the peacefully drinking fox and shook his head. Boromir nodded at the ducks. “Look.” The birds were quacking loudly, making sure all knew of the predator. His brother gestured at him, “Get ready.” Boromir rose up swiftly, uncoiling and shouting at the ducks.

They rose in clumsy jumps, flapping dripping wings and making noise. Faramir’s mind was filled with their alarm. He tried to block it; lifting his arm to throw his stick…but even as he threw he knew it went astray. The stick plunked into the churned water and the ducks moved downstream, resettling with angry and frightened conversation.

“Ah, well.” His brother wiped his trousers, sending bits of dry mud and dust into the air. He barely paused while Faramir stood crushed by failure. He always failed. To his horror, he felt his eyes burn. He was too old to weep! Boromir looked at him and shook his head. He laid his hand on Faramir’s head, ruffling his hair and plucking a bit of leaf from it. “Come, let’s go back.” His voice was gentle and although his brother was unable to touch his mind, there was the flooding warmth of his love that soothed Faramir’s heart, so unlike the cold chill of disappointment that radiated from Father. “We’ll try again another time.” Faramir rubbed his grubby hands on his face and smiled up at his brother who was smiling so cheerfully down at him. “All right?”

He nodded in agreement, forgetting all about his grief. As they walked back up the road, the walls of the City towering high, he looked up at Boromir’s tall, broad frame, his long, swinging stride. Men called to his brother, their voices full of admiration and respect though he was little grown past the title of lad.

He awoke, tears in his eyes and chest burning with withheld sobs; Éowyn shifted behind him, hand touching his back, pressing to it as though in comfort. He felt her confusion and disturbance like some dim ripples far underwater; she was still asleep. Faramir rubbed his face and jumped, breath catching in his throat—there was a single, loud pounding at the door to her quarters, rattling the thick frame, then immediately afterwards there was a bellow in a familiar voice, “Éowyn! Wake up!”

It was just after dawn, the sky outside her window was blue still touched by the rosy blush of daybreak. Faramir felt the swift flash of his recognition of Éomer’s mind, the man’s nervousness and then nothing as Éomer moved away. He obviously didn’t dare to enter. Faramir took a deep, unsteady breath; he couldn’t say that he was entirely unhappy with that since he guessed that his presence discovered within this particular bed would cast quite an awkward pall over the day. He smiled weakly, still full of sadness. Indeed…

Éowyn stirred again, inhaling to murmur something negative before pressing her forehead to the center of his back. In their sleep they’d changed positions, now he was facing away and she was curled tightly to his backside. Faramir rolled over carefully, giving her some room and gazing at her in apprehension. Please, please… She opened her eyes after a while and smiled at him in a drowsy fashion at which his heart leapt with hope. He spoke softly, voice raspy, “Good morning.”

“Mmm.” She stretched her legs and yawned before shaking her head, curling up tightly and burrowing into the pillow. “No.”

He smiled, hope growing while his heartache was fading. “What?” But Éowyn frowned and she raised her head very abruptly and her sleepy eyes were suddenly less sleepy and more filled with chagrin and nervousness. Faramir soothed quickly, “It’s all right, remember? Nothing between us.” Please, my love… He was unsure if simply smoothing over this incident was for the best but…he couldn’t keep himself from trying. He wanted happiness, not grief.

For a moment her frown deepened, but then she relaxed and nodded hesitantly. He smiled encouragingly and was relieved by an answering, if very small and shy smile. Anxious, Faramir changed the subject, hoping to keep her from mulling over the night before. “How am I going to get out of here?”

“I don’t know.” She’d lost the smile but kept a shy quality in her eyes and her features. Éowyn gazed at him, plainly questioning. He smiled again, and she reciprocated without hesitation but some nervousness. Nonetheless, Faramir took her smile as a good omen, relieving some of his anxiety. Finally she murmured, “You’re not.” Éowyn seemed to relax; she snuggled close and her voice grew thicker as her eyes closed again. “Not going anywhere…”

“I thought we were.” He was very awake, years of springing up in Ithilien ensuring that. Not that I want to wake…he was tired, feeling the weariness that came from wine still coursing through his veins. At least I do not have an aching head…he smiled, thinking of Gaer’s assertion. I have heart anyhow.

Faramir prodded, “He’ll come back…and he might come in.” Her eyes opened, they looked slightly alarmed as she thought about that. He highly doubted it. More than likely Éomer would find someone else to send in to wake his sister if she did not emerge. But who…? The entertaining part of the question was just who the man trusted to see them in such a shameless and brazenly intimate position. He grinned to himself and chuckled. It was almost worth it to lie in bed and find out.

“Mmm…mmmm.” With a groan, Éowyn rolled to her back and stretched with legs and arms all akimbo, which made him smile. She laid one arm over her face and peeked under it sleepily.

“What was that?” Faramir was still grinning, his sadness fading. He looked at her and imagined future mornings of lying together in unabashed indolence, deciphering her sleep-imbued talk with none to bang on doors and interrupt…except… He laughed aloud, remembering his brief dream of a cheeky boy with a wooden sword and hair the color of the sun on a field of ripe wheat, eyes the color of a summer sky. Gazing across at her, he thought, I can’t wait until we are in my City, when we are man and wife and none shall disturb us… His more recent vision came back to him and he sobered. That was no future, only the past come to haunt me. Faramir felt himself to be a contemptible lout with his next thought, my brother, you are gone, leave me be…

Éowyn’s face had changed, became very timid. She smiled, her teeth indenting her upper lip, worrying it, and wormed to lie nearer to him. Her voice was small as she pressed her hands together palm to palm and rested her cheek on them, answering his earlier thoughts. “Truly?”

“Yes.” Faramir smiled at her, chiding gently as he rolled to his back and folded his hands under his head, turning to look at her, “Why would you even ask?”

“Tell me about it.” Her blue eyes were large, intent. He could sense Éowyn’s curiosity, her hope, awaiting joy, and was surprised at the depths of her emotions. There was nothing negative, nothing but trusting expectation and enthusiasm…exactly the things he’d always wanted to feel from her when he spoke of them and their life. Faramir stared at her in wonder. She wanted greatly to hear, she wants to know…like she’d begged the night before. Faramir cursed himself. This is what he should be doing instead of pushing her for intimacies she had so much trouble giving; he should be telling her how he envisioned their life, reassuring her of its happiness so she would not fret over things like her disquieting notions of what lovemaking was. He frowned. I am an idiot.

The trouble was that he wasn’t sure how he envisioned it much beyond abstract moments like this one. “I don’t know…”

“Oh.” Her face fell and so did his sense of her eager hope. Faramir hastened to reply but he could think of nothing to say. Éowyn sighed and rose up, her hair in tangles, sleep creases on her face. She sat up in the bed, preparing to get out of it and suddenly he thought of something,

“I see…” She turned, expression cautiously optimistic. Faramir scrambled to think of a way to finish the sentence that might please her. What pleases her? He didn’t know…orderliness, duties, horses, flowers… He trailed off, abruptly conscious of the fact that he knew very little of what would please his future wife. Faramir settled for the blunt truth. “I don’t know what to say, that would make you happy…” He glanced away guiltily, then admitted in a voice of determination, “I don’t know what you want. I’ve not asked nor offered beyond the building of my lands…which was not my idea at all.” Faramir sighed, “Tell me what you desire.”

To his puzzlement, Éowyn laughed faintly. She scooted to sit by his side, meeting his eyes. “I want to wake up to the smell of my mother’s roses…” She’d taken his hand and was toying with his fingers, smoothing the joints as though by repetition she could press the wrinkles flat. Faramir nodded and made a noise to show he was paying attention, eager to keep her talking. It saved him from showing his ignorance. “Samwise told me how to take cuttings, so that I will have them in your…” She paused and clasped his hand, giving him a fragile smile. Éowyn corrected herself very deliberately, making eye contact so that he knew she did so. “Our land.” She dipped her head self-consciously, but in a positive fashion, her other hand picking at the blankets. Faramir’s heart swelled with joy. He nodded, feeling himself grin like a fool. She licked her lips and went on almost sadly, “I want to wake up to you…like this every morning.”

He eyed her in mock suspicion, eyes narrowed and hoping she would tease back or simply laugh and show some sign of relaxation or merriment. “I would hope so.”

To his delight, Éowyn laughed and collapsed to the bed. Any lingering tension between them dissipated and she kissed him before saying more seriously, “But I want to know that I can leave the City…if I can go out in the morning or afternoon…” Éowyn frowned. “If I wanted to ride to hunt or just leave to explore the hills.”

Leave? Puzzled, he nodded again and rapidly, rolling to face her. “Of course you can.” Faramir knew well there were few predators close to the City where she was likely to ride; her hunting deer or rabbits or some fowl was not at all disturbing to him, only the great and dangerous animals. No more bears…ever…or boars, or wolves. A great surge of protectiveness arose in his chest. He wouldn’t lose her to anything.

Faramir faltered in his eager agreement, “I suppose if you wanted to go alone…” He frowned, “But you wouldn’t feel you wanted a guard? You wouldn’t want to go alone, surely. It could be dangerous…if the horse spooked or…” Feeling himself grow apprehensive at the thought, he added more hopefully, “Gaer is coming to see the White Tree and Ithilien…you wouldn’t mind him riding with you?” Gaer would provide an easy solution until he could convince her to take a guard. He was relieved when she smiled and agreed.

“I wouldn’t mind Gaer.” But Éowyn frowned and asked, her fingers busily playing with the blanket, “Would you not want to come with me?”

Smiling at her, Faramir answered, “Sleeping.” He remembered his dream, no more than a snippet, of lying in bed in the early morn while Éowyn undressed and joined him. He slid over to kiss her. I’ll keep the bed warm for you when you return… She smiled, but it was shy again and he thought he could sense very slight tension. Faramir said in as soothing and simple a manner as he could, “You can wake me if you like.” He nuzzled her, not trying to be or imply more than affectionate fondness, just kissing her amiable lips once more before pulling back to smile. “It won’t bother me.”

She smiled back and touched his arm, pulling him close. It was very pleasant to lie with her in the warmth of her bed, to close his eyes, duck his head to her throat, breathing in air warmed by her body and feeling her press a kiss to his brow, to imagine that instead of cloth on his side, it was the furs of his own bed and that when he opened his eyes again he would see the comforting messiness of his own quarters. Faramir could almost smell his books, the ink and the leather of bindings. He could almost see the bright white of light that poured into his window, the great plain of Pelennor crossed by fields, laboring men, women and animals, the endless, gleaming mithril ribbon of the Anduin stretching from horizon to horizon… His homesickness made him swallow thickly; Éowyn touched his face and he opened his eyes and withdrew to see hers full of concern.

“Oh.” Her expression became at once sad and quiet. Faramir clasped her hand. They lay very near for a short while; he looked into her eyes searchingly and she didn’t retreat from the scrutiny, only smiling a bit timidly and hugging his side. The fact that Éowyn accepted his kisses and touches, returned them even, gave him still more hope; she usually did not if something was wrong. Banishing his gloom, Faramir gave her a light, playfully smacking kiss; he found the noise of it amusing.

She laughed and sighed before stretching again. Once more, there was an efficient quality to her manner as Éowyn sat up. “You need to go and see if I have to hunt down your things.”

Faramir had forgotten about it utterly. He stared at her in amazement and admiration. “You would do it?”

Her glance was puzzled. “I said I would.” Éowyn was already standing; she picked up his small bag from the floor, setting it aside.

Moving much slower, he set his feet down, wincing at the coldness. “I’m taking that with me.”

“I’ve got another something for you…the last of it, I’m afraid.” She shook it gently, making him laugh, “And in case I get the opportunity to draw you.”

Carrying the bag, Faramir found his boots and stuffed his feet into them; he glanced around but he had nothing else here. “I’ll see you in the Hall?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She didn’t look up, already half-dressed, rapidly buttoning up a man’s shirt with other shirts and a few pairs of worn trousers lying neatly over the bed. Several nightgowns, shifts and gowns lay there, too.

Faramir felt oddly useless, not unwanted, but unnecessary and rather like he was showing poor behavior to simply leave. Shifting his feet, he offered, “You want me to do anything?” Éowyn glanced up and he grasped onto an easy task, “Make the bed for you?”

She gave him a peculiar and obviously taken aback look. “All right…if you want.” Éowyn smiled and it was sweet, making him return it in pleasure. Adding with an impish smirk, she said, “If you can remember how.”

Faramir smiled, delighted by this playful gibe; his guard was relaxing by the second. Laying his bag down, he picked up her clothing and moved it to her dresser or her waiting arms, then concentrated on making the bed. He took his time, pulling the tangled sheets up, then straightening the blankets and the pillows with care, lining up the corners as best he could, tucking them under and making sure the bed looked as neat as he was used to seeing it. Finished, Faramir circled the bed to eye his work critically. He smoothed a few stubborn wrinkles, only looking up to find her watching him with an amused smile.

“Thank you.” She’d dressed herself, complete with men’s boots, and packed her already neatly folded men’s clothes in a small, dirt-streaked sack. Her gowns and women’s garments were in a larger, slightly less dirty bag. He looked at the two, fascinated by the fact that she took both types of clothing. Now, Éowyn came to his side to cup his face and lean upwards to kiss him. Her eyes sparkled with held-back laughter. “You did it very well.”

He narrowed his eyes, enjoying their playful banter and hoping it would not take a darker turn, “You’re not going to redo it when I turn my back are you?” Inside himself he felt a twinge of misgiving…perhaps I should have pushed for an explanation. She is forgetting swiftly and seems merry and all right…it bothered him but for all his wariness he could not make himself speak of it. Faramir’s desire for peace and happiness between them was too powerful, overriding even his good sense.

He leaned in close to her lips, “I’ll do other things for you…” He glanced at a tiny sliver of a view of roses through the doorway, “I can water flowers, I can dust…” Éowyn laughed and scooted around him, hauling her shapeless sacks with her. Faramir walked her to the door, feeling much better as he held it open. “I’ll see you in the Hall?”

“Good.” To his overjoyed surprise, she snagged his sleep-wrinkled shirt and they exchanged one last kiss before he made his way down the corridor. Faramir felt himself relax. He pushed away the annoying twinge of unease in the back of his mind. Things will be all right.

Éomer gazed down at the bay stallion’s head as the horse ate grain from his hand. The horse’s damp muzzle moved over his palm, his fingers, whiskers tickling as the animal searched out every last bit of oats. He’d found the rope halter but left it for another day. “Good lad.” The stud eagerly licked his hand free of even crumbs, getting him sticky. He smiled, using his other to rub the thick, gracefully curved neck; the young stallion’s coat shone warm red, bright russet in the morning sun, gleaming in fiery spots like hot coals were set here and there. He admired the long, equally bright mane, colored like a raven’s wings, and not much unlike the head of his sister’s paramour. The stud’s hooves were untrimmed as yet, but naturally in fine, rounded shape, showing his good health, fitness and satisfactory bloodlines.

When Éomer took a step back, the horse pricked up its ears and followed him to stand close once more. Alone as he was in the small corral, training was made easier by the animal’s instinctive need for companionship. The bay’s brown eyes were curious and unafraid, which pleased him. He rubbed the horse’s forehead and scratched behind the tender bulbs of his ears with care. Blâcfÿren had a single long swirl in the hair on his forehead; that meant luck, friendliness and intelligence. Éomer sighed inwardly. Wlite, the black roan he’d coveted, had born two, which meant great keenness and even better fortune.

He kept scratching, fingers journeying under the stud’s chin as he went, learning where his future mount liked to be petted. He used the horse’s name often, and with much praise as he scratched his neck and the slanted angle of his shoulder. Brushing the black mane aside, he scratched under it along the stud’s crest where rolling rarely satisfied an itch, making the stallion stretch his head out and lift his upper lip in delight. Other places the bay couldn’t reach himself were his withers, his upper neck and under his jaw. He scratched them all, taking his time, his fingers, knuckles and fingernails growing childishly grubby with dirt.

Though friendly, the stud was unsure about several things; his ears flipping back to track Éomer’s hand while his eye watched him whenever he touched the shining coat below his shoulders or much past his withers. His hooves didn’t move, but his body swayed back. Noticing, Éomer was careful to only skirt these regions, not wanting to alarm the animal with too familiar actions too soon. He had plenty of time for training; this was the time to build trust.

“Good lad…” He murmured it as a near constant litany, well aware that the beast would consider him more of a threat than his sister as he was a male, and would thus be more wary. “Good lad.” Éomer kept his voice soft and light.

It startled him when another spoke up to confirm his statement, “He is a good lad.” The stallion jumped when he did, dark nostrils flaring as he snorted low and long, a sound of warning. Éowyn was leaned against the wood fence, peeking through the slats. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” He felt odd, like he should act carefully, and not at all comfortable. Éomer was unused to this and it disturbed him deeply. Éowyn was his sister, the last of his blood and most beloved—he should not feel anxiety at her presence. She smiled at him but he could think of nothing else to say, consumed by his unease. She didn’t look very uneasy as she put her hand through the fence, whistling low and like a bird; the stallion came to her, sniffing her bent fingers, then submitting to an awkward pat. Éowyn withdrew and pushed some wisps of her darkened hair back to smile at him,

“Yes.” He’d packed much earlier, even before he’d called for her. Éomer gazed at his sister; she looked less purely joyful than the night before and the lack was worrisome. Despite his own misery he’d been happy at her laughter and brightly shining eyes. He wondered half-dismally and half-hopefully if her mood was related to the absence of Faramir at her side. If it is, then the reappearance of the Steward means the reappearance of her laughter… Éomer knew full well which he would prefer. In truth, he was surprised Faramir was not with her.

She stepped back from the fence, coming to stand near as he climbed over it. The stallion watched with his ears pricked and head raised, unsure of this movement. Éowyn smiled at him, “I can’t wait.” Éomer grunted a reply as he jumped from the last two slats to the dusty ground, still at a loss of what to say. He’d heard loud laughter from her rooms that night, even waking him once. She’d not been alone. The knowledge discomfited him terribly even if she bore no new marks on her skin—her men’s shirt was unbuttoned enough to show her throat, collarbone and the rawhide thong of her necklace. Glancing at the slim brown cord of rawhide, twisted on one side and starting to look a bit frayed, Éomer realized with a start that he would be very taken aback to see her without the rustic bit of jewelry. Has it been so long?

Éowyn gave him a look and clouted his arm playfully. “Aren’t you excited?”

He stared ahead, just flicking his eyes at her, “Yes.” Stop it, you’re being childish…she is still your sister, nothing has changed…everything had changed.

She questioned as they walked, smiling, “You don’t sound it.” Éomer compressed his lips, unable to find an answer and growing increasingly angry with himself. Éowyn’s next glance was puzzled. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He was upsetting her; he saw the smile she wore begin to fade and it pained his heart. Éomer took a deep breath and smiled in return, making his voice light. “Just hungry. I haven’t had anything yet.” He even managed to tease, “Unlike you, I rose early.”

His sister looked uncertain before she seemed to accept his excuse. She smiled and quickened her pace, taking his arm with an amused shake of her head. “Come on then, let’s get you something.” Éowyn laughed in a high, excited way he remembered from their childhood, “I want to start!” She was obviously lighthearted again and he felt better as Éomer let himself be lead into the Hall.

Faramir was waiting there, standing near to Arwen and Imrahil, which didn’t shock him much. What did was how Éowyn hesitated, just a half stride, the briefest of uncertain halts, before pulling away from his arm and throwing herself against the Steward to embrace him. And really, as he slowed and stopped to join them, Éomer silently admitted that it was the hesitation that had surprised him, not the embrace. Above the darkened crown of her head, Faramir’s eyes met his warily and Éomer hastily summoned an unconcerned expression to his face—in truth, he didn’t know how he felt at the display except for the gladness at the light in his sister’s eyes and happy glow on her cheeks.

“Good morning.” Arwen held her puppy, dressed similarly to his sister in oversized men’s clothing that Éomer was amused to note were among his many missing items. She gave him a smile and an expectant look.

He smiled in return, well aware of their words the night before, and waved his arm at her, looking imploringly to Imrahil, “This is why I have nothing to wear but King’s fare.” Indeed, his garments were really too fine for a ride—embroidered and fine-stitched, made of costly material instead of the plain undyed wool the Queen and his sister wore. “When I turn my back, women steal it from my closet.”

Éowyn laughed at him. “It’s your own fault. You leave it lying out.” She stood with her back against the Steward’s front, her arms clasped to his, both secured around her waist. Faramir’s gaze fell on him again, cautiously questioning and clearly asking if he was bothered by their behavior. Éomer did his best to ignore it. I have no answer, let me be... “Who would wear a hot gown if they did not have to?”

Arwen agreed, “It gets terribly hot in the City.” Her face was mirthful, “I’m afraid I’ll have to keep these and leave you clothesless, Éomer…or else I shall burn within the finery they insist on heaping upon me.”

He returned as playfully as he could be, “I will willingly sacrifice for you, my Lady Arwen.” Grinning, Éomer added with more boldness, “Even if you raid my closets again and I must go without to ensure your comfort.”

Her eyes flashed with amusement, glancing up and down before laughing lightly, “I doubt any would mind.” He flushed a bit and the Queen’s laughter rose even more gaily. “The ladies at court would be glad to sew you something to protect your modesty, I’ll bet.” There was a pause in which he tried not to flush anymore, feeling his fair skin betray him. Éomer felt it worsen under the Queen’s laughter and cursed his fair-skinned and light-haired derivation. She smirked at Imrahil, “Isn’t Lothiriel skilled with the needle?”

The Lord of Dol Amroth chuckled, “When she wishes to be, which isn’t often, I’m afraid.”

He wished they would cease proclaiming the virtues of this girl to him. No doubt aware of his discomfort, Arwen teased, lifting one slim hand to pat his cheek, “So fair are you Éomer that you redden so easily!” He ducked his head away and she laughed again.

“Does it get very hot in the South?” His sister angled her head to peer up at Faramir’s chin. Éomer sobered and felt a pang in his heart. Please don’t speak of it…please…

The Steward looked down and reassured, “Not too bad.” When his eyes lifted they met Éomer’s. They were full of sympathy; he looked away.

Servants had laid a small, simple meal for them. Arwen set her puppy down to pick a slice of bread. “Imladris never got that hot…I felt like I was roasting!”

“Does it snow much?” Éowyn was frowning. “You said the winters were mild…”

The Queen glanced at her. Éomer winced; would she not stop? Faramir was looking between her and him, his grey eyes ceaselessly moving before he admitted, “It does not snow much. Perhaps trice in a year.” His sister fell quiet for several minutes. Éomer took a piece of buttered bread, glancing at the other offerings—a platter full of cold slices of boar meat, ripe apples in a bowl and a pitcher of some drink.

Éowyn sighed and said mildly, “I will miss all the snow.” Her eyes lifted to meet his, “Remember how we used to play in it until our clothes were wet and Théoden would say that we would catch chill and forbid us to go back out until the morrow?” She smiled gently, “I loved it when they pulled the sleighs out and oiled them…it was so much fun, bundled in furs…”

“Yes.” Éomer’s heart ached again and he avoided the Steward’s gaze. He would miss her so terribly much. What shall I do all winter…? Arwen’s words came back to him. But where would I go? He desired to journey nowhere. I could not stay in the City, I would bother them. Or perhaps it would only bother him. Éomer did not know and for all his assertions of hunger he only picked at his food. He had no appetite.
His sister smile hadn’t faded and she looked at him as she sang very soft and under her breath, “Com, se grég rodor! Ic lyste snáw…” Éomer’s laughter burst out, surprising him, his spirits instantly and wholly lifted by the two simple verses. They brought memories of horses stamping, bells hanging from sleighs, his mother and sister singing together, his sister’s voice high and reedy but still beautiful. He remembered his family, his father’s voice deep and strong as he sang the children’s tune with them. Éomer remembered grey skies, warm mugs of cider and sweets, he remembered his sister wrapped in a fur, riding on their father’s shoulders and how Éomund had had to hold her tightly as she wiggled and strained to catch the flying snowflakes on her tongue. She smiled at him and her eyes, too, were full of both sorrowing and joy, “Remember, brother?”

“Yes.” Éowyn was smiling, and they sang together, his voice not as good, “Ic lyste bifón flaeeajft ac min tungan gelîc Ic dyde eall swâ bearn…” He did remember and the memories brought him a painful sort of elation.

“It won’t be the same.” Her smile faded, leaving her face pensive and gently wistful. Éomer felt his veins run cold, cheer replaced with sinking, icy dread. She was already bidding farewell. Panic swelled within his chest, but with an awesome effort he managed not to betray it. Instead, he took a deep breath and agreed in as even a voice as possible,

“No, it won’t.” His sister looked to him wanly. Éomer smiled at her sadly, wishing with all his heart that he could go back. Why had he not cherished his childhood while he could?

Suddenly, Faramir spoke again, his words careful. His face was drawn, heavy with compassion and distress, but he offered lightly enough, “If you wished we could return this winter.”

His sister’s eyes were brighter than any stars; her features had lost their melancholy tinge. When she leaned on her chair to beam at her lover and ask, “Could we?” it was in the voice of a delighted young girl. Éomer remembered that girl and it pained him all the more despite the talk of the chance of her returning so soon.

The Steward’s expression was unguardedly disappointed before he recovered himself to smile patiently and return, “Of course.” He glanced over her head, seated in the same place as he’d been the night before, and on the uncounted time that morning, his gaze met Éomer’s. He repeated himself, “Of course” and his lips turned in a smile that was at once sad and in jest, “That is if your brother wouldn’t think it too soon for me to beg of his hospitality.” He smiled, “I doubt he would turn you away.”

He swallowed, forced to participate. Arwen looked at him and smiled purposely, her eyes full of kind, yet firm support. Éomer smiled back at her, still well aware of their agreement, “Of course not.” He shifted to Faramir and finished, wording his reply to include the man and make seen his acceptance to all, “You are my kin, Faramir, it is no burden to me. You are always welcome whether with my dear sister or not.” Éowyn’s dazzling smile rewarded him; Faramir looked rather surprised before pleasure spread across his face.

The Queen glanced at him in approval. “See? All shall be well for you young ones.” She smiled and they ate in mostly silence, quickly finishing the small meal. Imrahil had refused to accompany them; he bid farewell from the Hall. Éomer followed his sister and Arwen down the stairs into the courtyard. His guards were already saddled, their horses standing in the morning sun with drooped heads and half-closed eyes alongside the horses of the small company he’d ridden with. Men and lads spoke in soft voices to their mounts; iron bits gleamed, tails lashed and reins were thrown over eagerly tossing necks. Most were readied as his mount was tacked, his small bag tied behind the saddle. He touched Güthwine’s hilt at his hip; none but Éowyn were permitted to handle the blade while he had strength to carry it; it would be him alone that secured it to the saddle. His sister had already brought her baggage and selected her mount—a small golden chestnut stallion bore her saddle and two sacks. Éowyn took the horse’s reins from a shyly smiling stable boy and patted her mount, murmuring into one pricked ear as the stallion shifted excitedly. Éomer frowned when she glanced at him, showing his disapproval at her choice. “Why couldn’t you take one of the geldings?” Something calm and easy to handle so that I wouldn’t have to worry for once…

She just laughed, then sobered, patting the stud’s gleaming neck, “I’m saving Líeg for…” Éowyn paused and bit her lip before she continued in a voice of forced cheer, “For the ride to the City.” Uncomfortable, he did not answer, just turned away and busied himself with making sure Güthwine hung correctly on the saddle. Éomer stared at the dark leather of his baldric, adjusting the buckles in their well-worn holes, and tried not to think about anything else. When he glanced up, his sister had drifted away and her eyes were lifted to the doors of the Hall.

“That was lovely, Éomer.” The Queen’s long-limbed grey mare was tacked and readied, her serving man holding Rusco while she stood near. She’d tied back her comely hair and looked very different from the stately and regal elven princess who’d first been admitted to his crude, rough Hall.

“What was?” Éomer tried not to stare, fascinated by her beauty even without the enhancements of finely woven, brightly colored cloth or jewels. Hearing his own voice, he realized he sounded like an idiot besotted by a pretty face and it amused him. Éomer smiled to himself. Maybe I am…a bit.

She answered with a smile of her own, “Making dear Faramir welcome…it soothes his heart.” Her features turned pensive, “He needs such balm and when you say such things it lifts his spirits very much.”

He sighed, then answered plainly. “I’m glad.” He was, in a way, or at least thought he was. I don’t know…when did I seek to bring him happiness? Éomer brooded, why should I? His sister turned to look back at him, one arm thrown over the neck of her mount. She was smiling, playing with her rawhide necklace, the blue-green fish between her fingers. Ah, that’s why. He sighed again, bittersweetly. If his happiness is linked to hers, then I would give my heart to please him.

“See?” Arwen gestured with one slim arm and Éomer watched Faramir, loaded with his belongings, come down the stairs.

She looked very intent. He glanced at the Steward, then back, uncertain about what it was he was supposed to be observing. “What is it?”

“He walks with a lighter step.” Éomer squinted, but could not tell how so. Faramir walked down the stairs no different than any other time to his eyes. The man disappeared into the barn only to reappear shortly afterwards leading the ungainly, raw-bodied grey, saddle and bridle thrown over one arm, baggage in the other, loaded with his weapons. It was a comical sight, prompting Éomer to smile yet again.

As the Steward neared, his sister returned at once to hand him the golden stud’s reins and cross the courtyard with light, quick steps to take the grey’s from her lover’s hands, holding the coarse creature while Faramir tacked it. Éomer could not hear them over the loudness of the other men, but she was smiling brilliantly as they exchanged words. He held her horse and his own, waiting with much practiced patience as he glanced at the Queen, then again to the Steward. His sister’s lover was smiling as he spoke; his sister was laughing, features alight with gladness. “If you say it is so.”

“I do.” She was obviously pleased. Faramir and his sister were moving now towards them now with the grey behind him, its face surly. Éomer handed her the stud’s reins without comment and stepped away to mount his horse. Arwen’s serving man put the squirming puppy into her saddlebag, slinging it over the saddle’s front where she could keep one hand on the dog. The narrow-framed grey mare tossed her small head and fretted until Arwen spoke some elvish and then the horse stood quiet.

One of his guards unfurled the standard he’d ridden under, lifting it on its long pole, securing the butt to his stirrup; gold, green and ivory gleamed in the morning sunlight. The White Horse ran when the wind blew, ripples making it leap unseen obstacles and Éomer looked at it respectfully. His forefathers had fought under that same standard, died, watched their people die…and I whimper and fuss at the distancing of my sister. Despondent, he turned in the saddle, scanning the men with a practiced eye as they put boot to stirrup, settling into their seats, “Ready?”

His sister nodded, just holding her stud to a halt; the horse’s neck was a straining bow as it pawed furiously at the dry ground. Éomer was gratified to note that Faramir, too, gave her choice of mount a dubious and not especially pleased look. He smiled, spirits lifted some just by that. Oblivious, she was glowing with eagerness. “Yes!” With a laugh, Arwen nodded as well. She had her hand firm to the strap that held her puppy in place; Rusco stared about wide-eyed and subdued, shrinking against his mistress’s front. Faramir and his inelegant grey were stone still now, waiting in silence. He glanced at the man and their eyes met; Faramir nodded once in agreement. Wariness and clearly questioning shadows had eclipsed the earlier happiness in his face—obviously he would not cease until he had an answer.

I have no answer. Turning back, Éomer gestured and his guards lead the way, his standard waving bright and bold as they jogged out of Edoras with dust rising around them, settling on their flaming armor and caking to their mount’s shining flanks.

They did not ride as fast as he would have alone with the company; the horses settled to a jog early. Éowyn had trouble with keeping her stud to their slow pace and he nudged his bald-faced chestnut nearer only to get an irritated look for his troubles. “Brother…”

He watched Éowyn see the same nervousness reflected in Faramir’s eyes. His sister tightened her jaw. “Do not.” She glared at them both in turn, “Do not dare to suggest anything. I am not helpless.” Arwen laughed.

“Sing me the rest of that song…that shall quiet these beasts,” Her eyes twinkled, “And the horse, I think.”

He snorted belligerently at the Queen, who only laughed again. Faramir said nothing, his eyes gently appealing to Éowyn, whose face softened in response. Then, to Éomer’s delight, his sister agreed with a smile. “All right.” She took a deep breath, humming to get the tune. He waited eagerly. Éomer loved her voice and by the look on the Steward’s face and the way he urged his grey closer, the man appreciated it as well. He would have to be deaf not to. The company of men, boys and guards closed in to better to hear as Éowyn’s humming became very soft words, then much louder, light and quick with a child’s enthusiasm as she finished the short song.

Éomer felt his heart in his throat. He remembered his mother and the way she would sing over them with a sort of exasperated patience at their endless demands for songs. His sister’s voice was just as good, light, warm and golden like honey. When she laughed shakily with emotion and began over again, he joined her, relishing the sound of their voices blending. Not for long… Surreptitiously, he glanced away so as not to betray the gleaming in his eyes. Faramir only listened with a look of admiration and Éomer was further gladdened that he could enjoy this moment alone.

Éowyn finished with a laughing shout, “Com sumor!” Almost immediately she was beset with humbly and not so humbly pleading men.

The guards did not turn their heads but another of the Riders asked, properly deferential, “Oðer min Ides?”

Faramir’s redheaded friend called audaciously, “Grace us again, Lady Éowyn? No sweet-tongued bird of the night could compete!” There were loud calls of agreement. His sister flushed and smiled.

She turned in her saddle, eyeing the surrounding men in turn. Faramir’s young students dropped their eyes immediately, turning red to meet her gaze, but more than one Rider grinned at her boldly and did not look away. Éomer caught Faramir frowning darkly at an especially brashly leering one and he bit his tongue to keep from howling with laughter. This was a new source of amusement he’d not suspected of existing.

His sister smiled, her voice more than brazen. “What shall I sing?” She arched an eyebrow while saying cockily, “Since I am your minstrel, my lords?”

Gaer smiled, guiding his horse close enough and addressing her familiarly enough to be considered disrespectful. However, Éowyn did not appear upset, and so Éomer did not speak or gesture the man back to his place. “A song for the harvest, my Lady?” He glanced at the Steward and grinned. Éomer frowned. Many of those songs were not suitable for voicing in the open without the excuse of ale and it was just like his sister to sing one of a carnal nature just to bother him… She acts like she did…years ago…before… Perhaps Faramir had truly brought his sister back to him. Éomer looked at her in wonder. Éowyn was smiling, sitting straight in her saddle, briefly favoring her lover with a warm glance before answering Gaer.

“Gea.” She smiled and began in a much softer, more rounded and womanly tone, “Lóca hwǽr is se gearwe?” There was no sound but the clopping of hooves, breathing of horses and creaks of leather harness. The small audience was completely still, fully intent. Éowyn continued, sounding almost shy at first, then gaining strength. She sounded so beautiful that Éomer could not make himself interrupt though he recognized the song and dreaded the hearing of it.

She did not sing with cheek, but with instead a gentleness that made every word meaningful and poignant. Considering the lyrics, Éomer would have preferred cheek—it had less power to stir his heart and bring him to grief even as he rejoiced at the beauty in her voice. Faramir did not look away, his face utterly captivated.

Lóca hwǽr Ic seah ge, Ic wæs losian.” Éowyn finished softly. Her head was bowed for a moment before she lifted it and asked with a merry tone that tried unsuccessfully to dispel the mood of hazy longing and gentle, not unpleasant regret that she’d given them, “Another?”

For the first time Faramir spoke. He sounded very loud in the quiet, though he did not raise his voice. Possibly it was the firmness of his reply that made him seem so forceful. “Yes.” Éowyn met his eyes with a quick, nervous smile. The Steward returned it warmly. “I’d like that very much.” Something passed between them that Éomer could just sense. Again, he felt intense discomfort and tried to ignore it. Faramir added, “It was beautiful.” Éowyn smiled anew, this time less touched by nerves and more by happiness. When she lifted lightly into the next song Éomer marveled. My sister is happy…my sister is whole. He glanced aside at the raptly listening Steward. He owed this man much. It was time to make amends.

Of course Éomer knew what would make Faramir happier than anything and what was, really, the only way to please him. He glanced aside, gazing at the man as he looked to Éowyn, trying not to give the thought a chance to make itself known. Éomer felt his whole spirit try to rise against him but it was in vain. He already knew what he should do, the only option he had. His sister was smiling as she sang, bouncing lightly with the stride of her mount. Her hair blew in the wind, a short length of red ribbon tying it back. She looked very much like he’d always seen her and yet very different…the darkness of her hair had nothing to do with this difference; it was entirely from within. Éomer sighed in defeat and allowed himself to know what he’d realized.

They stopped at noon to rest the horses. Not sore, but grateful for a respite, Faramir dismounted and slackened Thorn’s girth, sliding his fingers under it to loose it from the grey’s sweaty side. He glanced around himself at the wide open plain, gingerly following the relaxed example set by the other Riders—they let their horses free, allowing the animals to drink from a small pond and range to graze on pasture still kept green by growing at the water’s edge. A wide swath of churned hulks of mud dried into the molds of countless hooves and then broken into dusty and roughly crumbled ground showed the pond had once been much larger before the drought. He patted Thorn’s flank as the gelding moved off, saying firmly, “Don’t roll and soak my things.” A flicked ear was his only reply and he eyed his bow and scabbard fretfully, half tempted to fetch them back.

Faramir had found his bags and saddle sitting on the bed and floor of his rooms that morning. The knots on his bags had appeared untouched, their contents undisturbed and, most ridiculously of the entire ridiculous incident, his saddle had been oiled. When he’d approached, the dyed sable leather shone near enough to reflect his amused face, the silver trimming was burnished and every speck of dirt had been removed from even the tiny, stylized leaves of the White Tree carved into the dark wood of his stirrups. He’d left it behind, guessing it too narrow to bridge Thorn’s broad frame without pinching. Now Faramir watched the burly grey jostle for position at the pond and stretched his arms over his head, straightening his back with a few satisfying pops, inhaling deeply of the warm air. The mystery of who’d stolen his things was still unsolved, though, and he wondered idly why they’d been taken if the intention was not to ransack or destroy them…or even hold them for some preposterous idea of advantage over me…it made no sense. Who and why…? Impossible as it seemed, Gaer had been the only Rohir who’d taken an interest. He turned, looking for his friend’s red mane within the group.

“Tired?” Éomer surprised him; standing near, but not too near, the man smiled as tentatively and with as much good will as he’d spoken. Faramir glanced around him. Arwen and Éowyn sat on the grass nearer to the pond, members of Éomer’s guard loosely spread around them. The other Riders and boys were closer, though still keeping their distance from the women.

“No.” Squinting, Faramir peered up at the bright blue sky and then smiled over at the Lord of the Mark, putting aside his thoughtful ideas of treachery. “It’s a nice day. Your country is beautiful.” The sun shone hotly but there was a breeze to cool him and Rohan seemed particularly agreeable with its endless grasses under the faded blue bowl of a sky. He smiled again, adding, “I look forward to returning this winter.” He was unsure about it, really, but the simple mention the night before had lifted Éowyn’s spirits so much that Faramir had no heart to even try and back out now. A few weeks of traveling in snow…he just hoped she was not yet with child. Travel on horseback might be dangerous…especially the horses she likes best. Faramir frowned to himself wondering if either he or Éowyn realized how everything would change. I wish for the son I saw…yet, am I ready, is she ready? Teeth gnawing his lip, he stared at the dusty ground.

Éomer agreed quickly, almost eagerly. “Yes. It is beautiful.” He didn’t seem to know how to reply to the other statement, but Faramir had felt the man’s enthusiasm rise sharply at his words and guessed he felt the same as Éowyn. He sighed inwardly and they walked together to their womenfolk, matching stride for stride. Faramir paid the man careful attention but was relieved to note no dark feelings. Finally…finally we meet the end of this…

His smile reappeared just watching his beloved; it was clear that she was happy as well. Beside him, he sense Éomer’s mood lighten and Faramir silently resolved to put away all worries of his future. The Lord of the Mark chuckled softly. “They will spoil that creature.”

He agreed with a laugh, boots making rustling noises through the tall, dry grass; it was almost standing hay. “Yes.”

“I’m glad I won’t have to deal with it.” Éomer sounded both amused and wistful, making Faramir aware of just how lonely the man felt or anticipated to feel. He frowned. There must be some way of happiness for all… The company was under the shade of a few trees clumped together, the coolness of which just extended along a skimpy line of smaller trees over the Riders and boys’ heads. The coolest shadows were almost entirely monopolized by the two women and puppy.

Faramir chuckled, grinning at the spectacle under the trees. Released from his bag Rusco lunged over and over, barking at Éowyn’s hands. She ruffled his ears, then jerked her fingers back, prompting the puppy to leap at her, tail wagging, floppy ears alert and tongue lolling as he jumped and bounced. Arwen was smiling as she grasped the little dog’s tail. Rusco spun to hop onto his mistress, who laughed and ran her hands over his tri-colored coat. She called out to them,

“Faramir, when we depart will you not spare your lady’s voice and sing us some of the songs of your folk?” Her eyes were bright, “Éowyn and I wish to hear them…” He looked to Éowyn in surprised pleasure and she nodded, pressing her lips together as the Queen continued, “And I think its time for a new minstrel before the throat of this one’s is too raw.” She scolded lightly, “We’ve not as much as given her a single coin for her kindnesses.”

Éowyn had caught Rusco up to her chest, scratching the dog’s round belly. One of the puppy’s legs kicked briskly in time, making her laugh as she nodded again, smiling now. “If you keep me singing I’ll not have a voice by dinner! Let another go…” Her smile turned unsure but still full willing as Éowyn added in a softer tone, “And I wish most to hear the songs of my new country.”

His heart warmed at once, her plain statement lifting his spirits to soar, and he smiled broadly in return. Éowyn dipped her head just a little; shyness radiating, but she met his gaze. She means her words. Faramir felt his soul fill to brimming; his delight was a pleasure so acute it pained him. Beside him Éomer swallowed audibly and his face seemed to pale, but he said nothing, voicing neither protests nor agreements. Carefully reaware of him, Faramir prepared to lower himself to the dusty grass, sitting as near to Éowyn as he dared within Éomer’s company. He was not yet sure of what the man would tolerate in shows of affection…and what might reopen the slowly healing wounds of their struggle. That I wish least to do… After an instant’s pondering, he fell on the side of moderation, folding his legs and sitting near but not so near that he could touch her effortlessly. Still beaming and petting the joyously wiggling and panting dog, she asked him, “Please?”

His heart sank under her hopeful smile and Faramir remembered himself. “I’m afraid I cannot…” Éomer frowned as he, too, sat.

“Why?” The Lord of the Mark, if not in favor of his sister’s request, would obviously still support it. Faramir found this amusingly exasperating and counseled himself to answer with forbearance. If this is my complaint, then we’ve truly neared the end…

The Queen also beseeched, if more impatiently. “Yes, why not? I heard many in the City that would compare to the songs Éowyn has been so generous to favor us with.”

There was nothing but to admit his fault. “I cannot sing well. I would not do them fair justice…my voice would be a raven’s harsh croak to our nightingale.” Éowyn smiled at the compliment as Faramir gestured to Arwen. “I’m sure they would like to hear verses of your land just as much as mine.”

Éomer spoke up, his face full of curiosity as he added to their conversation, “I would and more so, as I’ve not heard them before.”

Arwen looked disappointed, but she nodded gaily enough. “Well, if you wish it, Éomer, dearest friend of mine, then I shall sing for you.” The Lord of the Mark smiled with boyish eagerness, prompting Faramir to glance at him in surprise. What have we here under sun and sky? He tried not to laugh, deeply amused by the simple, harmless infatuation he could sense. As he grinned to himself, Éowyn set Rusco down and leaned over to lightly touch his knee to gain his attention.

His first thought was can you not wait, but he stifled himself. What was it to him if she alone heard his tunelessness? Faramir silently berated his own cowardice, do not check her just to save face, she is just now easing and if this helps… He took a breath and returned with a faint smile, if you will it…and promise not to laugh at my pitiful croakings. Faramir inclined his head in surrender and Éowyn smiled in a gentle fashion as though she’d been aware of his struggle…and empathized.

I would not laugh at you, my love, min Feramearh. Again she used the version of his name that Éomer had culled from within her people’s tongue and he smiled, thinking it quaint. To his surprise, she didn’t pull her hand away, resting it lightly on his knee and squeezing once, almost to comfort him as their gazes lingered. Faramir smiled with happiness and some trepidation about his future singing until he felt how Éomer was discomfited. The Lord of the Mark was growing increasingly aware of their inward communications.

Seeking to bring back peace, he lifted her hand away to clasp it in his own, so that they touched still, just in a less familiar manner. Éowyn’s brow creased for a moment before she bent her fingers, lightly touching and stroking his callused palm in tiny, ticklish movements. Faramir looked down at their hands; hers was smaller, slimmer, and altogether more delicate. But it was not the hand of a Lady—there were calluses, if lesser than his; her nails were short and ragged with dirt and horsehair beneath them; she was browned from the sun and had a number of hairline scratches to spoil her smooth skin. He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand as Éowyn smiled at him, her gaze searching, and he felt how she wished for more than the simple, passionless touch of hands. Her mouth turned up; she smiled in hopes, tilting her head endearingly. Kiss? He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing them to the back of it. She sighed in soft disappointment, but kept the smile.

It was mildly annoying not to be able to express himself exactly as he desired but Faramir was willing to sacrifice for a short while longer. He looked aside to where her brother sat quietly talking. Not long ago his simple gestures would have provoked a giant reaction—either sullenness or outright anger—this day there was none. He doubted the man had even noticed. Faramir sighed to himself and kissed her hand again, clasping it to his chest. There is little reason to complain… Éomer had already made great strides in acceptance; again he glanced aside at the Lord of the Mark, whose expression had long reverted to tranquility and even lightened to merriment as he spoke with Arwen, hesitantly asking her about elven songs. I should respect that…and not push for more within his presence. He looked at Éowyn reassuringly and stroked his thumb over her hand again. It will not be so long…it cannot be. Faramir frowned to himself. How long could this strange farce of service go on?

But his solution of simply clasping hands did not work in the slightest for Éowyn heaved a sigh of her own and almost immediately scooted closer to lie down in the dry grass and pillow her head on his bent thigh. She stretched her legs, boots sliding through the sparse, thirsty turf, and crossed them. Not yet comfortable, she extended one arm backwards over his lap to crook her elbow loosely about his side, splaying the other palm down and out, twisting strands of dry, wiry grass around her fingers.

Body stilling, Éowyn exhaled deeply; she sounded and looked to be fully at ease. Nearby, he could feel her brother was not…but he could also feel that Éomer was controlling himself and slowly the sensation of unrest faded from the back of his mind. Arwen smiled at the Lord of the Mark, who smiled feebly back, then seemed to relax. He raised his voice to the nearby grouped Riders, asking a question in Rohirric. One replied and went to fetch whatever Éomer had requested.

Freed from the burden of another’s discomfort, Faramir looked down at his love and she smiled up in satisfaction; she appeared merry and very much untroubled, which warmed his heart anew. He looked into her eyes, fascinated by the way they looked to be pools of the purest, stillest waters reflecting the sky perfectly and yet the color was entirely her own. Éowyn’s arm tightened about his side and she closed her eyes for a moment, obviously at peace. Faramir chuckled under his breath as he thought, no one told me betrothment would mean so many times of serving as a giant pillow… She laughed, eyes flying open, and smiled at him in a pleased way.

But you make a very good pillow… Éowyn’s eyes were closing again, her face smoothing, mind drowsy from the warm sun. Her hand moved gently against his side, fingers tickling him through his shirt. Above them, tree limbs and leaves made shadows flicker and jerk in mysterious patterns across her features. Carefully, so as not to disturb her, Faramir shifted to keep the sun from shining onto her face and she smiled quietly, just the slightest movements of her lips. Thank you.

Rusco broke their intimate moment as he came from Arwen to lick enthusiastically at Éowyn’s face, making her hide herself against his shirt and shake with laughter. Her voice was muffled, “No!” She giggled and pushed weakly at the puppy, “Ná!” Tail wagging, Rusco put his paws on her shoulder and Faramir’s hip, digging into and around her darkened hair with renewed vigor, and for good reason, as the word for no in Rohirric was the same as the one for yes in the Queen’s tongue. Éowyn remembered herself, laughing, “Áva! Va!” Arwen had to scoop her dog up and pull him back. Éomer was grinning lightheartedly, all his unease vanished as he teased,

“Oh, leave me be!” Éowyn stuck her tongue out at her brother, picking twigs and bits of grass from her hair before resettling herself.

Faramir laughed as well, but with less assurance. Éowyn speaking elvish was incredibly strange to his ear; her Rohirric accent wrapped around the fine syllables, smothering them in earthy, velvet tones so foreign to the airy speech of the elves. He glanced at the Queen and it was with a start that he saw her unearthly beauty again; with near daily contact, Faramir had long become accustomed to it. No wonder Éomer is besotted—Arwen was more beautiful than other women, including his own Éowyn. He glanced downwards, looking at the peaceful face of the woman whose head lay in his lap with a rush of affection.

But she is a beauty and a form less warm to my mortal hands. Her heart does not beat as mine does, quickening from season to season, but with the weight of years uncountable, long memories forgotten. No, he wished not to reach for immortal flesh, he was but a man whose blood called faraway of Númenor, no powerful seer of his forefathers, a man alone and the last of his line…gifted or burdened. Éowyn thought him strong but his father’s mind had been as the walls of his City—unassailable and indestructible save in death. No dark lord broke him…Mithrandir was mistaken.

She shifted her head on his lap, penetrating his cheerless thoughts. Éowyn smiled while looking back up at him and he touched her dark, mussed hair, using his fingertips to move it from her cheeks and brow. She blew a few strands from her mouth, laughing up at him as she did and he smiled back, but dolefully. He missed her flaxen locks more than he would have imagined; without them his Éowyn simply did not look right.

Her brow creased and she reached up to playfully touch his lips, index finger gently tracing the curve of them. So stern today…why?

She shifted her legs and smiled with an indulgent shake of her head. Will it make you happy if I try and wash it out tonight?

Faramir beamed downwards, breaking into a grin. Yes, very. Éowyn smiled her agreement. He knew she liked it but the prospect of her regaining her beautiful golden mane was too wonderful for him to refuse.

One of the Riders returned with a full waterskin, making Faramir realize he was thirsty. Éomer drank from it briefly, and then passed it to him; Éowyn sat up from his lap to drink and her brother drummed his fingers on his leg, seeming to take the opportunity to ask with a tone of impudence aimed at his sister, “Have you rested enough?”

Éowyn nodded, giving him a matching look of impertinence, and stood, brushing dust and dirt from her clothes. “Yes, very much.”

The Lord of the Mark turned to him questioningly and Faramir gave his own agreement before Éomer felt moved to ask him. “Yes.” Éomer stood and the Riders and guards stood as well. They weren’t half as organized or obedient as men of the White Tower, but the Riders of Rohan were well enough servants. Faramir’s eyes fell on his students and he frowned, wondering if they were still upset. Wurth’s hastily redirected gaze made him think so. But what can I do? Scef was looking at Éowyn with a harmless sort of longing as she giggled and helped Arwen wrestle the struggling puppy back into the saddlebag. Faramir smiled, moving to grasp her elbow as they walked to fetch their horses. They all love her…perhaps… And Éowyn certainly knew more about Rohirric lads than he did. “I need you.”

Her brow creased. “To who?” As if on instinct, Éowyn glanced at her brother and her face grew upset, its glow dimming. “Why?” He felt her mind tense, emotions running high and strained; fury, despair, anxiety all building in an instant. “What—”

“No, no, no.” He smiled reassuringly at her and Éowyn’s dark thoughts stilled with a great final swell of thankfulness as he clarified. “My students.” Faramir tried to think of a way to explain without telling any of Oswyn’s part. If it had infuriated Éomer to such lengths, a man who had little reason to care for him, it would doubly infuriate her or worse. She commanded them with harshness over my belongings…what would she do to this man who threatens me? Faramir had more than a guess that Éomer had been far, far more lenient than Éowyn would have liked had she been told of the incident. He looked at her fondly. Faramir had no doubt that his lioness would have set upon the insufferably arrogant and hostile Rohir with great fury. And I’ve no doubt the victor, either… He grinned.

She frowned just a little, looking out at the boys as they fetched their horses and, helpfully, the mounts of whomever that might be grazing near. “What did you do?”

One of the lads had tried to catch Thorn. The burly gelding pulled away quickly, reins swinging. Faramir watched in sympathy. “I don’t know what to do to lift their spirits.” He whistled, Thorn, and Thorn’s ears flicked forward and the startled horse looked for him in the group, cumbersome head turned and motionlessly upraised long enough for the boy to snatch the reins. Faramir grinned suddenly. The lad that had captured Thorn was the one whose name he’d never learned. He prodded Éowyn, “Ask that one his name.”

She gave him a baffled, sideways look, “All right,” and Éowyn called lightly for her own mount. The gold-colored stud lifted his head and began to walk to her obediently, still chewing a mouthful of brownish, parched grass. Thorn was led to Faramir, who smiled down at the boy.

“Ic þancie þe.” He took the reins, rubbing the gelding’s forehead. Thorn pushed at him, driving Faramir back a step as his palms were thoroughly nosed and even licked in a search for oats. He scolded quietly, secretly pleased, “No, stop, I don’t have anything for you.” Thorn had done much the same when he’d fetched him from the barn.

The lad nodded silently, not meeting his eyes. He turned to go with a low bow, but Éowyn smiled at the youth, “Hæl, Ridend.”

The boy flushed, making Faramir clench his teeth not to laugh. He returned immediately and courteously, also using the familiar greeting, if stumbling with shyness. “H-hæl, min Ides.”

She smiled brilliantly now, asking, “Hwa is se naman æt swá a glæd hold mann?”

Faramir glanced at her, man? The way she spoke: as stately as any Lady and yet very relaxed and familiar reminded him of the way that she’d treated the two younger halflings. She was already better with his students than he; he compressed his lips in disgust. Oh, I shall be the worst of fathers. I cannot even deal with such simple lads. Faramir beamed at Éowyn adoringly. At least he had a wonderful mother for them.

“Gudrad, min Ides.” Thorn bumped his head against Faramir’s shoulder, then rubbed it roughly, getting light hair all over his clothes and as the wind blew, in his mouth. Grimacing and spitting with as much grace as he could, he yielded to Thorn’s insistent pushes, the big angular head knocking against his side, shoulder and arm, and scratched under the bridle to keep the horse happy.

Éowyn spared him a mirthful, laughing glance, then nodded and replied smartly. “A cynelic naman.”

Gudrad answered and there was a glimmer of pleasure in his eyes when he finally dared to lift them, “Ic þancie þe, min Ides.” He bowed low, acknowledging again, “Min Láréow,” and retreated to the group of Riders with his horse trailing him. Faramir smiled as his four other students gathered around the boy, murmuring excitedly and staring at Éowyn who’d already turned and began tightening the girth of her mount, paying them no attention at all.

He spoke pitifully, having moved on to rubbing behind Thorn’s big ears. “They like you more than me.”

“What?” Faramir pulled on Thorn’s girth, but the gelding was holding his breath. He put his hand to the grey’s side, waiting for him to exhale.

She took a step closer, eyes sparkling with amusement, one hand coming to rest on his shoulder, arm wrapping around his neck as she pressed her body to his. Éowyn’s face was aglow; she was smiling as she murmured in a playful and fetchingly teasing tone, “Láréow, teach me…” Her voice became at once soft, ardent and her smile faded to be replaced by unsteady composure. “Læreþ me se foldweg æt lufu…”

He couldn’t resist kissing her once, just a touch of lips, mild and subdued before their audience, and replying back in a soft, private whisper, “Lustfullice, Ic wille. Más lustfullice…” Faramir added gently, “Hwa ge willes.” No pushing. When she willed was when he would and no sooner.

Her eyes shone and though there were still the faintest ripples of unease within her mind, Éowyn laughed and bowed her head before hugging him. Her reply was willingly, quietly earnest. “Ic wille ge to…min Feramearh…” She smiled beautifully, as though simply looking at him made her feel joy. Faramir stared at her, wondering and slightly afraid. His heart beat faster as Éowyn finished with a kind laugh, meaning every word. “Se más cynelic ond cystig æt mann.” Her voice turned warm and she stroked her fingers along the nape of his neck, “Se más awhetness æt mann.”

That was a word he didn’t know. Smiling, Faramir asked, “What does that mean?”

“This.” She leaned up and kissed him; this was no mild kiss but one full of passion. Éowyn caressed him; there was no other word for the motions of her hands over his shoulders, down his arms, fingers cupping his face. It took long to break because neither wished it to, but finally he took a breath, pulling away. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her eyes on his mouth before they lifted to his and she smiled demurely. No woman of elven blood could have stirred him so and he bent to kiss her again, savoring her eager, uninhibited response. Oh, if all times could be like this…

But behind her, he saw that his students watched with envy and admiration. Faramir lifted from her mouth and smiled, lightly touching upon their thoughts. He pulled away from her embrace with regret, then leaned to say confidentially, “They love you…” She glanced back with an embarrassed giggle as he ended, “And they have no idea how it is that I hold you in my arms.” Her arms found their way back around his middle to hug him as he chuckled, “I’m not as grand to their eyes as to be worthy of you, se Ides æt Riddermark.”

Éowyn shook her head, glowing. “They don’t see you with my eyes.” As he leaned his forehead to touch hers and her hands came to lay flat to the sides of his face, holding him even closer, Faramir concentrated on their emotional link. Éowyn’s eyelids fluttered and the intensity of her love merging with his own was like flames of two fires reaching higher and higher to intertwine into a single light, a blazing star against the darkness of the space between them, around them, the blackness of the void. Her mind was soft, willing and he touched to it, letting her know his happiness in that still moment. He heard her laugh shortly, throat choked with emotion.

There was movement to his right; Éomer steered his horse near and Faramir became aware they were the only ones not mounted. When he looked up, the Lord of the Mark gave him a tiny, very quiet smile. And then, to Faramir’s utter astonishment, he neither said nor did anything in censure, only casting his eyes away to wait with patience.

Amazed and horribly self-conscious in the face of such unsuspected generosity, Faramir straightened and took a step towards Thorn, but Éowyn didn’t feel self-conscious in the slightest. Instead, she was irritated at the interruption and when, in regard for Éomer’s feelings, he would have pulled back and mounted Thorn, she turned to her brother. “Quit gawking.”

Éomer grimaced and his eyes jerked away. He feigned disgust but Faramir could easily see through it—her sharp words had startled them both and her brother was silently hurt. “I’m not.”

She still wouldn’t move, so Faramir stood shifting his feet and feeling trapped and resentful as she asked, “You think this is so wretched?” Her brother didn’t look like he had an answer to the sudden attack and Éowyn didn’t seem to need one, saying entirely unapologetically. “I’ve seen you do far worse to a maid in a crowded Hall,” She sniffed in disdain, “Too drunk to know how much of an boor you looked like.” With that, Éowyn swung aboard her horse in a single, effortless motion. Arwen covered her mouth, fair hand not entirely obstructing her bittersweet smile. Faramir did not smile, noticing Éomer’s embarrassed and guilty expression. His gaze followed his sister and there was deep confusion within his mind.

He mounted Thorn and kept quiet, gathering his reins and patting the grey’s thick neck, not wishing to add to the man’s dark feelings of rejection and disgrace. As they rode out the Queen began to hum, then sing in her light, flowing tongue. The Riders and lads listened with respectful and quiet curiosity while Faramir barely heard it, too focused on Éomer’s tumult and Éowyn’s sense of righteousness. He glanced at the gamely resolute face of one, and then the worried set of the other’s and wondered restlessly what would come of it, if anything.

It was early in the afternoon when the festival came into sight, first as a lively speck of various colors long in the distance, but quickly rising higher above the grasses. Faramir gazed in pleased awe at the great, brightly colored tents, waving banners and horses, horses uncountable like blades of grass in a field; hundreds upon hundreds of horses were spread around and inside the crowd. There were rarely such things in his country, the majority of people staying within the walls of the City to celebrate…and for years they did not venture far… Abruptly he wondered what Aragorn had in mind for this year’s end. Perhaps Éowyn would like to be involved…he looked at her and she smiled widely, happily, bouncing with the quick strides of her mount. Faramir gazed ahead, thinking. Maybe this year our folk could embrace a few of her traditions…make her feel at home… He felt the idea had some merit and resolved to ask Éomer later. It could be a surprise…

There were many people camped with smaller, dull, dirt brown tents ranging widely, thin grey smoke from fires filling the air along with sounds of music, laughter, song and simple conversation that grew and melded into a concentrated roar as they rode nearer. There was the high, rich blow of a horn and the resulting wave of attention directed at their party was so immense that he flinched under it, closing his eyes tightly and desperately willing himself not to feel the weight of all the amassed minds. Beneath him Thorn balked, tossing his cumbersome head violently and Faramir blinked back into awareness, picking up his reins; somehow, they’d fallen from his hands. After a moment he was conscious of Éowyn staring at him with some worry. Her voice was very low. “What is it? What’s wrong?” She looked at the gathering, then him, chestnut hair flying about her face. Is it too many?

Her concern made him smile against the crushing impact as the many Rohirrim became aware of the approach of their King. Close at hand Éomer, too, was gazing at him with brow furrowed and eyes full of anxiety as their horses jogged ever nearer to the mass of people. Faramir took a deep breath and forced himself to nod as Thorn danced sideways, still tossing his head. I’ll be fine… She reached across the space between them and took his hand to squeeze it, holding tightly against the jostling. The loving worry that flowed from Éowyn’s eyes and soul was enough to break the grinding press against his mind and he sighed affirming I’ll be fine. She smiled at her brother and he looked relieved; there was no discord between them now, making Faramir wonder.

The minds of so many were a never-ending clamor just under his awareness, fatiguing but bearable as they were not mourning, but rejoicing and it lifted his helpless spirits as well. Folk swarmed to surround them and Éomer’s guards tightened their circle, hands drifting nearer to the golden hilts of their swords. They shouted warnings, bellowing to let the King through. Slowly, the massive gathering of people broke into twain and Faramir became instantly aware of the stares directed first at Éowyn’s hair, then more intently at himself. Young girls ran beside the slowly jogging horses and handed braided circlets of wheat, bright ribbons and flowers to Éowyn who laughed and thanked them in her tongue. She placed some on her brow and held the others, looking utterly radiant garbed in the colorful blooms, which Faramir could hardly believe had been found and plucked from the arid fields. He straightened to look above the crowd—dry grass stretched as far as he could see, broken by the gleam of a river he guessed was off the more eastward banks of the Snowbourn. How far did they travel…?

Éomer smiled gently, sadly, and leaned to touch his sister’s arm. Brother and sister beamed at each other in a silent moment that was both pensive and joyful before she reached to clasp Éomer’s hand in her own. Faramir, who rode at her side, was touched when she turned to hold his and smile with tears in her eyes, bringing him into their intimate moment though he knew nothing about it. The people cheered around them and it made him feel welcomed anew or, perhaps for the first time, in this foreign land. He looked over her head at the man that he felt had finally accepted him and laughed aloud, his spirits soaring with theirs, the crowd’s, and, it seemed to him in that moment, the earth under them itself. Faramir raised his face to the blue sky, blinding white sun, the yellow-brown grass, the colors of the festival, shining flanks of the numberless horses and was overwhelmed.

Éomer grinned in return as the shadows of grief that lay always within his pale eyes were momentarily overthrown by his revelry. He called across their horses and over the voicings of the crowd, “Glad is this day, my friend…” His smile was true, “And I am glad to see you in it.” Faramir was without words to respond, just laughing softly as he lowered his head, overcome. Éowyn looked between them and her smile was dazzling, faint tears slipping down her cheeks. Her familiarity overrode the press of the multitudes and the sense of her sweet happiness made tears rise in his eyes as well.

At a steady jog they rode through the multitude, passing horses and the tents under which sat goods unnamable and innumerable, to the magnificent pavilion that had been set for Éomer, his standard already flying before it. Nearby was another for the Lady, the flapping entrance decked with flowers, leafed branches and sheaves of corn and wheat. It was swiftly decided that Arwen would share berth with her, as the tent was plenty large enough, as well as the generously bedded pallet. Faramir looked about himself and Éomer laughed, sounding apologetic. “It is the earth for you, I’m afraid, unless…” He laughed again; face chagrined, “You want to share with me…and somehow, I doubt you will.”

He found his voice and shrugged, saying lightly. “No, I won’t disturb you. The earth is familiar enough bedmate, I’ll lie with her again with no bitterness.” The Lord of the Mark bowed his head in acknowledgment and looked rather grateful as he murmured low.

Faramir smiled and shook his head, “None.” Their eyes met and before he could dismount from Thorn, Éomer reached across the space between their horses and clasped his arm briefly in silent thanks. The touch startled Faramir more than anything did since physical contact with him was something Éomer rarely consented to and seemed to value even less. But the expression of the man before him was completely unguarded, open and very simply happy in a way that Faramir had not seen yet and he knew suddenly that it was that for the first time he looked upon Éomer when unweighted by painful sadness or bitter, jealous anger. Unable to help himself, he stared—years of hard care seemed to fly from the younger man’s face and his golden hair shone in the sun, fair skin and pale eyes so like to Éowyn’s all bright, all marked by joy alone. And in wonder, he thought, this is a son of Eorl who stands before me.

The Lord of the Mark spoke again, soft and very plain, almost inaudible in the din of the people around them. He was smiling faintly, “Wilcome, min broõer, se lufiend æt min sweoster. Wilcome ealdorlang.”

Once more overwhelmed, he could find no words and just smiled in return, throat tightening to close off his voice and breath. He thought, ah, I am home, and Faramir knew not what he meant but there was a gladness within his heart that burned like the fiery sting of a knife drawn sharply across bared flesh. Éomer seemed to understand, for he laughed and his eyes were glowing sunnily as he looked about himself and swung lightly down from his mount.

Éomer’s guards were placing their things about his tent and carrying their master’s within it; Gaer waved to him, so Faramir led Thorn to his friend, who was setting the poles of several small, mud-marked canvas tents on a spare patch of ground. Gaer grinned and took down one of Faramir’s bags. “Not too royal to bed with us, are you? There’s room here.”

He swallowed, shaking his head and laughing away some of the emotions that had drawn his chest taut. “Ná.” His friend grinned and Thorn was swiftly untacked and loosed; his saddle was set upright outside the tent and Faramir’s bags were piled in a corner near where he laid his bedroll. The tent was crowded and he almost wished to say he’d rather sleep under the stars, but held his tongue. The friendly gesture was more important than his desire. He emerged bent and straightened to the full weight of thousands of curious gazes so that Faramir had to close his eyes to center and collect himself, finding his heartbeat with an effort, seeking his mind among the seeming infinity of others. It was a burden so heavy, so great to bear up under that it strained his reserves of strength, leaving him feeling weak and unable to tell how much he could stand.

Éowyn flying to embrace him took his awareness away from the crowd and eased his labors. She was clothed in the deep green and gold gown he’d seen her wear before and giggling madly, swept up in the exhilaration about them. He took a step back to fully look at her, holding her arms. Faramir gazed in curiosity at the flowers in her hair, green ribbon entwined with blossoms of daisy-like aster, ocher yellow spears of cowslip, reddish purple germaniums and soft, fragrant pink lavender. Low about her waist were scarlet and ivory ribbons to hold the garlands of tawny wheat, green leaves of corn with silk still clinging to them, more aster and rounded buds of red clover. Flowers and crops of the harvest…at once he understood the meaning of why she’d donned them and why she wore them still. Éowyn blushed at his infatuated gaze, gracefully twirling with her arms spread so that he could see her. The crimson and snowy white ribbons flew out as well as her dark green skirts. She was a living picture of the harvest and of the new growth of spring, as he saw the simple jade bracelet upon her wrist. Judging by the frequency of her wearing it, the jade was by far her favorite. Maybe she’d like more…

When she stopped she was laughing with all the innocence of a young maid, cheeks flushed, blue eyes alight. The dolphin pendant lay outside her gown today; flung upon her bosom with her motions, it gleamed dark blue and dark green in fair contrast. Faramir reflected that the darkness of her hair, though it shone ruddily in the sun, was the only flaw in this sight of womanly beauty. He smiled. “You look lovely.”

She laughed again, ducking her head and touching her blossom-adorned brow with a conscious hand, almost as if she’d known he’d been thinking about it. “Thank you.”

Faramir gathered her to him, careful not to crush her pretty laurels. “I’m afraid I’m not a fit escort.”

“Then be one…” She ran her hand up the center of his chest and smiled shakily, “Wear the White Tree. I would like to see it again, I think…” Her brow furrowed, “To me you look...strange under the Horse.” A quick and hopeful smile took any sting out of her admission.

This was a shock and his words stumbled in his confusion and even, delighted hope. “You…do you want me to?”

Her laugh was full of nerves and again her eyes gleamed with tears. He touched her damp cheek wonderingly for they weren’t tears of sadness alone, but joy as well as lament, emotions too tied to ever separate. “I remember you best with it.”

“Then you shall have it.” To his pleasure, Éowyn caught his chin to kiss him and it lingered sweetly, ending with her smile before Faramir withdrew to fulfill her wish.

Everything around her made her want to weep from the knowledge that she would see it again but rarely, and then it would be from the nostalgic eyes of a woman whose home and life were far away…and yet it made her heart fill with joy. Memories pressed her: Théoden, Théodred; Éomer much younger and all knees and elbows as he carried her on his shoulders. Women from the passing crowds called to her, their words merry and lightly teasing, making her laugh and her cheeks burn. They celebrated her coming union, adorning her like the Maiden of the Harvest…she fingered the ribbons, the delicate flowers and sobered for a cold, shameful moment. Do I celebrate?

Éomer coming from behind to touch her arm and, when she turned, embrace her tightly made Éowyn smile and hug her brother with all her strength, glad for a distraction. He grinned down, looking far merrier than he had in a month, a year, oh, years. Had a malevolent spell, a tainted dream held them both for so long? She didn’t feel her age, but more that of a girl just treading into womanhood. As she brooded, he laughed lightheartedly, reaching to her brow to fiddle with the vivid sea green ribbons that held together her circlet of blooms. “I see I have a sister again.”

“Not when you swung a sword.” Arwen had emerged from their tent and the crowd murmured appreciatively for the Queen outshone the sunny sky in an elegant blue gown. Rusco pulled at his leather leash, alternately wanting to rush to the folk with wagging tail or cower beneath his mistress’s skirts. Éomer leaned down to pat him and Arwen smiled as they exchanged words. Then the crowd’s murmur grew louder instead of fading and Éowyn felt a gentle touch to the back of her mind. She turned expectantly, heart swollen in her throat. Yes, he looked as he’d done in the City, garbed in sable and silver-white, glaringly different from her folk’s earthy tones. His dark hair hung loose, shining over his shoulders as Faramir smiled crookedly, just a little shy before the staring masses. Admiring his tall, regal form, she laughed while opening her arms wide in welcome.

When he held her it was like coming home in a curious way that she’d never guessed to feel. Oh, how strange…she ran her hand up his arm, breathing in, aware and wondering. It was familiar and comforting to know again the mixed sensations of the firm, slight stiffness of his raven-colored leather surcoat, the warmth of it in the sun, and under it the longer, split length of his dark, faded and worn cotehardie that pressed to her skirts. He had no mail on, so she could feel his body easily and Éowyn pressed herself to him. Oddly, Faramir even smelled to her like the City—ancient stone swept by clean winds—and she felt tears well as she hid her face against his shoulder…how can I leave him and go alone, I must, I must…for myself…for us… She was so very tired of hurting him, tired of her weakness and her uncertainty. The only way she knew how to fight it was head on.

His handsome brow was creased and when Faramir looked to the crowd she sensed him weaken; his throat moved as he swallowed. Éowyn touched the White Tree, tracing its etched trunk and graceful branches as she liked to sometimes, fingertips following the upraised argent stars that arced above it, feeling his gaze on her bent head. His voice came to her mind, hesitant, uneasy. It feels…different.

She touched the fasteners at the side, brushing a sticky bit of corn silk from them. “How?”

“I don’t know.” Faramir’s face was troubled and she smiled with an idea.

“Here.” Éowyn carefully withdrew one of the ribbons from her girdle of flowers and crops to tie to his arm, a token to show her favor to her Knight who, she reflected with a laugh, was not a Knight at all but a Captain under the White Tree. My champion, anyhow.

Laughing, she looked into his eyes, seeing how touched and happy he was. Had she been so cold and cruel? Éowyn smiled broadly, determined to make up for her coldness, “Yes!” The adornment shone crimson in the sun, a vivid contrast to the faded black sleeve of his cotehardie. “Now it is different.”

He laughed, leaning in to discreetly kiss her brow, as always restrained in view of so many others. “What duties did I perform to earn this favor, my Lady?” His fingers toyed with the red ribbon. “First I’ve ever borne.”

“I don’t believe that.” Eyes amused, he snorted as she corrected pertly, “And it is what duties you will perform.” He chuckled in delight.

Faramir leaned down near to her lips, murmuring playfully, “And what are those?”

Éowyn shook her head, shy again at his mildly insinuating tone. She touched his shaven cheek, feeling the day’s tiny bristly growth. “I don’t know yet.” Faramir laughed once more and she linked her arm in his, turning to Arwen and Éomer…but they were already gone. She looked up to her beloved and he smiled down more gently, unsurprised.

Faramir bent, his voice a whisper in her ear. “Show me your people.” His eyes turned regretful, as I should have shown you mine, my love.

Éowyn smiled in reassurance, loving him, loving her brother and Arwen for leaving them alone. She wondered if it was hard for him to do so, silently thanking her dear sibling.

Faramir sniggered suddenly, eyes glowing with mirth. Not as hard as you might think.

What? She was confused, brushing his words aside to say, “I don’t know what to show you first…” In the distance there was the blow of a horn signaling a horse race and her heart leapt with remembered excitement. Laughing, she pulled at his arm and cried, “Come quick!” They ran through the crowd with hands clasped and she could hear Faramir laughing as he matched her shorter strides effortlessly.

Éowyn turned a corner formed by dug-out cooking pits, shouting at him over her shoulder, “The races!”

Her lover was laughing too hard to speak. Behind her, he gasped, “What races?”

“Just come!” They bolted through the crowds, halting at the edge of a field marked with spears from which hung scraps of cloth. The horn called again and filling the air around them were shouted wagers as horses stood in a rough line, the boys that rode them barely keeping the animals in check. Their coats gleamed over flexing muscles and Éowyn admired the racers; not a bit spare flesh marred the horses’ lean forms as they danced on quick hooves and tossed their small heads, eager to go. Glancing aside at him, she declared, “They look like you.”

“Yes.” He looked amused, “I’ve been called underfed many times since I stepped foot in your land…scrawny, compared to a starving lamb…”

Giggling at the memory, Éowyn shook her head, taking his arm. “No, you’re perfect. I love the way you look.” Faramir smiled, his artless, open expression showing that he was deeply stirred by her kind words.

“Yes.” She laughed and pulled his jaw down so that they could kiss. “To me you are a man perfect in form and noble in heart…it is but some great luck of mine that you love me.” In obvious pleasure, a slow smile came across Faramir’s face and then, with impulsive passion, he bent to kiss her again, asserting,

“Not luck…” It was just the opposite of the moment before—where his previous kiss had been gentle and mindful of spectators, this was wonderfully raw and heated, his tongue pushing, teasing hers, his fingers lingering to her chin. Éowyn hugged his body, loving the firmness of it, the way he amorously pressed himself to her at her slightest sign of willingness. She remembered the excitement of first touching his lean, muscled chest and grasped the fasteners on the side of his surcoat, intending to do it again, audience or no. Her fingers slid across smooth, well cared for leather, finding the simple snaps and twisting them as she’d done before, feeling the first come free with a jolting, eager thrill.

But Faramir’s hand slapped hers aside, making them both laugh with embarrassment, realizing their roles reversed before he kissed her again, insistent and hot-blooded with passion. She could feel her heart beating faster, warmth spreading under her skin, through her limbs, and her desire rising so deliciously that she shivered and breathed deep as Faramir kissed her throat, once, twice and Éowyn shuddered at the fleetingly hot, wet touch of his tongue. It was as though her body, having once been satisfied, rose more swiftly at the chance of being pleasured. Her hand grasped the back of his sable surcoat, fingers digging into the supple leather as Faramir nuzzled her jaw until she pulled him back to her mouth, relishing every moment. When they moved apart for good, he smiled at her and kissed her brow lightly, pausing to breathe in the scent of the flowers that crowned her.

“These are beautiful.” He smiled, chest expanding with his inhalation, “They smell almost as nice as you look.”

Laughing, Éowyn touched the pennon of his surcoat again, marveling anew at how to see him wearing the White Tree brought her such pure and strange comfort. She murmured, shy now with the admission, “I think I missed this.”

Though he smiled and blinked rapidly, clearly taken unawares and pleased by her words, Faramir did not reply. His eyes unfocused and his body tensed slightly; through him she felt the anticipation in the crowd build as the horns blew a third time and the horses flew forward, great chunks of dirt and clouds of dust flying out behind their pistoning legs. She cheered and cried out with the others as the beasts strained, young boys clinging to their backs and steering them the best they could. The horses passed them with heads down, hooves reaching and digging deeply into the earth for just an inch more ground or an instant’s more speed than their rival.

Then something new—Faramir kept any of the excitedly shouting and moving crowd from jostling her, his larger frame coming close to defend her with one arm hovering lightly and possessively about her waist. Looking up, she gazed at him and to her mind his body was tall and strong like to the walls of his City.

She’d never had anyone to do such a thing before, to hold her and make sure she wasn’t bumped or elbowed and it felt very good as he took a small step closer, not bothering to look down. Éowyn glanced up again; Faramir was looking at the horses, so she smiled at his profile, loving him. The fact that it seemed to be an entirely natural and unconscious gesture made her heart warm all the more as he determinedly used his body to shield her from the wildly cheering throng of bystanders. Éowyn felt his arm slide around her and she clasped her hand over it in thanks even as she jumped up and cried out encouragement to the horse that was pulling away from the others.

They watched two more races before her stomach rumbled. “Come with me?” Faramir nodded and followed closely, hand light to the small of her back, keeping her aware of him. He said nothing and his face had been strained, making her glance backwards again in worry, “Are you all right…?”

“Yes…” He hesitated, expression apologetic, “Can we…can we go somewhere less…” Faramir gestured to the endless throng around them and she nodded, unsurprised. He’d felt increasingly tense even between races.

But he reassured almost immediately, speaking rapidly as though afraid he was upsetting her with the request, “Just for a little while. I just need a moment’s rest, then…”

“Shh, it’s fine.” Éowyn stopped walking to turn, lifting her hand to press a finger to his lips, stopping his anxious words in mid-sentence. His keen grey eyes, so lovely, were fretful. She said firmly, “I’m happy to be with you.”

Éowyn swallowed, heart aching. “Never.” Somehow, she managed to smile in return and lead him on without thinking much of how he would outlive her, how he might grow to think of being wed to a woman aged long before him, how he might feel revulsion at her worn body and regret his decision. It was a worry that was growing deep within her, making it harder than ever to endure talk of their future. They weaved through the multitudes with hands clasped, soon coming to the edges of the tents and the empty land beyond. Faramir sighed and she could feel his spirit lighten. Éowyn smiled as she halted, “Better?”

“Soon.” His hands cupped her cheeks, warm and slightly rough with calluses. She knew what was coming, and welcomed it, closing her eyes and stilling her mind the best she could. He touched to her with a flood of deep, clean peace, like a pure waters rushing through her conscious, sweeping everything away but the sense of Faramir’s spirit and her own.

She took a deep breath, feeling her heart slow and steady itself along with his, the sound filling her ears. The sense of their connection was great. Oh…wonderful. When she finally opened her eyelids he was smiling down with crinkles of amusement about his grey eyes. His soul was in them, benevolent and thoughtful, making her wonder how any could not see it, how any could treat him with anything less than perfect love and civility.

Never, never enough. She smiled and at length, Faramir pulled away and she linked their fingers; they began to walk roughly parallel to the gathering but still far on the outskirts. High grass rustled against her gown, and her light shoes and his boots made crunching, crackling noises with every step; she trailed her other hand along the tops of it, brushing the brittle, yellowed and faded stems. Rain…oh that it would rain! Éowyn briefly thought of asking Arwen if elves knew how to call rain from the skies and smiled. No doubt she would laugh at me…

His voice was low, intimate, breaking their pleasant stillness, “Tell me something, anything that you like…” Faramir glanced at her, “Besides horses, besides women’s work or men’s work…something new you’ve not told me.” His face was very earnest, “I want to know what will make you happy in my City.”

Éowyn smiled up at him adoringly, even as she battled thoughts of parting from him for Minas Tirith, unable to help herself from the briefest of pensive fear for her near leaving. Luckily, he didn’t notice or, her mind supplied more darkly…maybe he doesn’t want to notice. She frowned, “I don’t know…I like…” Her free hand played with her girdle, gently and repetitively pulling on the ribbons and sliding them through her fingers until they reached the frayed ends. She laughed, at a loss, “I don’t know.”

Éowyn frowned; she’d not thought about it, but, “I suppose so, yes, I like the color and it’s just…so smooth and…” She laughed, “I love it.”

His voice was honestly eager to please, “You can have anything, all that you wish when we return…you know that, don’t you?” She ducked her head, heart filling with emotion. His thumb caressed the back of her hand and she nodded mutely. “I want you to be happy, lack for nothing…”

Éowyn felt compelled to protest, smiling uncertainly, not wanting to hurt him or reject his generosity, “I don’t need…” Images of jewel and silk garbed women of the City rose to her inner eye. Their gowns had been very marvelous, many times greater than anything she’d ever owned. “I won’t need so much…”

“My wealth is greater than I’d ever imagined…the fortunes of my father, my brother are now mine.” He chuckled, if soft and somewhat forced, “And Imrahil tells me I have lands near the Sea…” Faramir squeezed her hand, murmuring, “Anything you want, I will grant you…not just because I can, but because I wish to.” Like so many little things he’d done, it made her heart warm, tears rising from happiness and the overt knowledge of how much he cared. Éowyn took a deep breath, thinking that if it pleased him for her to wear jewels, she would do so. Faramir was too good for her to have any desire to disappoint him any more than she’d already done. But she was curious, asking,

“I don’t know yet, but I would like to.” He glanced at her, “I could send word ahead with Aragorn for things to please you, if you would like. You’d stay in an apartment in the Citadel before our joining.” His face glowed at the word and she laughed helplessly as his happiness washed over her, brilliant, so bright, like the warm light of the sun itself. “I could have it furnished as you wanted, and command for anything that you could think of to have gathered for you before we even came to the gates.” Éowyn flinched. He laughed quietly, “I don’t know what you could want but you have but to ask and I will command for it.” She did not answer at first, her heart twisting until she banished it and replied carefully.

“I don’t know what I would need…if anything.” She bit her lip, laughing softly, amazed at his kindness, “I don’t know that you have to do all that…”

Faramir’s hand squeezed hers, “I want to please you.” He stopped walking suddenly and faced her, grey eyes solemn, “I want you to be happy. Lack for nothing, do as you wish. No sadness, no shadows of darkness. I want my dreams to be truth.” Éowyn felt tears rise, chest tightening. He was utterly serious. She smiled and leaned on tiptoe to kiss him tenderly,

Long legs moving again, he chuckled and began to list, amazing her further, “You like all things about horses, battle, flowers and the pretty trinkets I’ve brought you…” Faramir smiled, “You like the snow and to sing…”

“Now?” His face screwed up in a horrible grimace, making her laugh and grasp his hands to shake his arms.

“Yes, now! I want you to…sing me a song, Faramir.” She frowned playfully, “How many have I sung you?”

His gaze softened, “Do you want me to count the one I caught you singing in the gardens?” She swallowed and he said more quietly, “You never explained it. I’m curious.”

“Oh, it was…it was just…” Éowyn struck the center of his chest, fingertips rebounding off the White Tree, “Stop distracting me! Sing!” She didn’t want to tell; he would get it from her eventually, but for the moment she wished to keep her heart glad and not delve back into the gloom that had once wrapped about her like a shroud. He laughed reluctantly and she murmured, “I’ll tell another time, please? No sadness today.”

With a slow nod, Faramir sighed deeply and stared into the distance. “I can’t think of anything…except…” He made a face again.

Unable to understand, she shook her head. “So?” His teeth worried his lips, making her aware of how he was uneasy and of how he was nervous to perform in front of even her alone. Éowyn took his hands in hers once more, swinging them gently back and forth as their eyes met. “I won’t laugh at you. Never,” She smiled, “Ever.”

“I used to sing this with my mother…no.” And unexpectedly everything changed and his mind went so far away so swiftly that it frightened her a bit. The land around her was mute but for the lonely wind, thirsty grass and burning sun, very empty as he looked into memories and forgot where he stood and what he did, forgetting her as well.

She was just about to say something, as Faramir had fallen entirely still and silent for a long while, when he spoke. It was in a tone of terrible misgiving, a murmur, “Not my mother, my…father.” His gaze was on her, almost pleading, as though he wished for reassurances that she had no power to give. “I forgot…” His brow creased as he repeated himself, “I forgot. It was when I was very small…I had many little wooden boats that I would sail in my bath.” He smiled at her sorrowfully, “I would pretend they were the grand fleet of King Ar-Pharazôn as he was sailing to Valinor with the Dark Lord on his decks and I would push them forward with one hand and then,” Faramir laughed unsteadily, self-conscious and more that she could not tell, “Cry aloud that they were encroaching, were breaking the law…and make a giant wave to batter and sink them, getting water all over in the process.” His face grew bleak. “My father laughed every time and,” His voice choked, “Bid me just once to have mercy, for they were misled and not evil men…” Faramir lowered his head but not before she saw tears gleam like stars balanced upon his eyelashes.

Éowyn could not stand to feel his anguish. She folded her arms around him and he leaned low to rest his brow on her shoulder. Patting his back, she reassured, “Shh, you don’t have to sing.”

Faramir laughed, but painfully as he straightened and took a step back. “I…I think I wish to.”

“All right.” Licking her lips, tense, she waited as his mouth moved hesitantly, forming words, and then discarding them. He took a breath, then sang very softly, nearly inaudibly,

“Blue-green, blue-green Sea, blue-green, blue-green Sea…” Faramir laughed, growing just a little louder. He never met her gaze, his eyes wandering over the arid, golden-brown fields. Listening closely, she frowned—his voice was not as bad as he’d let on. Though tuneless and rough, it was neither as offensive nor as awful as she would have expected for all his protests. Éowyn smiled in encouragement as Faramir added more verses,

She relaxed as his face lost its strained quality, “Blue-green, blue-green. Blue-green Sea, where can you take me?” He sighed and finished, “There is no end, the path was bent. Blue-green, blue-green Sea, how far can you take me?”

“You’re not so bad.” It was the simplest of songs; he must have been young.

Faramir chuckled, “I used to sing it constantly. Sometimes just repeating blue-green, blue-green over and over.” His face turned whimsical, almost fiercely so, and she could sense he was trying to hide his sorrow as he laughed and jested. “Maybe that’s why my father grew tired of me, because I sang it one too many times.”

Éowyn bit her lip. She didn’t know what to say and inwardly she protested—no parent would tire of their child simply by a song; she could not fathom such a thing…but what did she know of the past Steward? Nothing save what Faramir has shared of his many memories of cruelness and this one of charming love…oh, it makes no sense! So instead, she took a deep breath and smiled firmly, doing what she could, which was only to speak of other and less miserable things. “Do you want to return?” Making herself laugh, she added truthfully, “I’m hungry.”

He sighed and smiled, “Yes.” As they walked, she took his arm, leaning close, offering physical comfort which was the only comfort she could truly extend. Faramir’s chin rested briefly on the top of her head and she knew he was grateful. His hand squeezed hers, fingers rubbing over her knuckles as they walked back into the mass of people.

Food was everywhere, making her mouth water. Simple ovens of cut strips of sod and stone or clay bricks smoked and filled the air with the rich smells of cooking meats. Tents were occupied with scarred tables that bore up countless platters and trenchers of dishes—meat, vegetables in steaming tarts, cheeses, more food than she’d seen in a long while. Not even Théoden’s funeral feast had such immensity. Éowyn laughed to herself. Of course it hadn’t—they’d still be eating it. Women bustled, red-faced and dirty-aproned, cooking and cleaning and serving while children ran underfoot, dogs were shooed away and men lounged gambling or speaking of the arts of farming, herding, war and the like. Whole pigs, sheep, hares and or fowl were turned on charred spits, children and women calling to the passing folk to buy a portion of this or that. Pots of stew boiled and steaming loaves of dark bread were pulled from the simple ovens. Venders hawked ales and beer, cider, cordials, special brews of a more mysterious nature and a few had wines made of dandelions and various sweet fruits.

Faramir laughed at her, then gestured ahead through the constantly moving forest of people, “There’s your brother.” To her gladness he’d shrugged off most of his despondency, left only with the slightest of shadows lingering in the corners of his face.

Even standing on her tiptoes, Éowyn couldn’t quite see over the heads of the crowd. Faramir was a near tree of a man to catch sight of Éomer over the flaxen and red heads and broad shoulders of so many Riders and men. She asked, hanging onto his arm to gain a petty and utterly futile inch or more in height, “What’s he doing?”

He was smiling in amusement. “I don’t exactly know…I can’t see him anymore.”

“Let’s visit him for a moment, then.” She was rather enjoying her time alone with her love, but she was leaving her brother as well. Éowyn felt her heart twinge as Faramir led her through the folk, weaving his way around a denser crowd. I will leave them both…but only one for good… Bowing her head in misery, the slowly growing louder irregular clink, clank of metal on metal that ended with an abrupt cheering roar, caught her attention and she quickly guessed what Éomer was doing. He did it every year they came and every year that she could remember, he had won, even as a much younger man. It was little wonder; her brother was very skilled with a blade and Güthwine was a swordsmith’s dream of fame, as it fit his hand and arm to perfection.

At the sight of her, he bellowed delightedly, “Sister!” and came to hug her as Faramir tactfully stepped aside. Éowyn wrinkled her nose, pulling slightly away from his sweaty embrace. He’d tied back his flaxen hair and stripped to a linen shirt, the thin cloth darkened in places with dust and sweat.

She wriggled from his hold, smiling, “You smell.” He laughed, then plucked up a mug from the ground and gulped from it. Then her brother returned to the center of a large dirt circle, raising Güthwine to shine in invitation as he roared good-naturedly,

“Oh, yes.” Arwen turned to Faramir, pleased as Éowyn found her curiosity growing. She glanced at Éomer, and then her lover as his expression became hesitant. Éowyn smiled, squeezing Faramir’s hand. Who would win? The question was too delicious not to have an answer so she added her voice to the entreaty, smiling in enthusiasm.

“Do it, Faramir?” He frowned at her and she laughed, “I want to see you.” Éowyn added more enticingly; I’d love to see you boasting your warrior’s skills…

Taken unawares, he blinked, raising his eyes away from her hopeful gaze and shook his head, “Ah…I…”

“Oh come, I’ve not faced a real warrior yet!” Éomer struck the ground with the tip of his sword. He pointed into the crowd, jovially ordering a man to bring “se sweord æt se weorðlic Hordere.” When Faramir tried to protest again, flattered by being called honorable, Éomer just grinned and cut him off, “Too late.” The man spun in a slow circle, sword moving easily as he practiced various thrusts and jabs against an invisible opponent.

Bleakly, yet with amusement, Faramir thought, I am outmatched. He didn’t even need to spar with the man to know either, for one studious look at Éomer and the way he handled his sword proved it. He’d never been best with a blade, but as he watched further, he sensed this would be a disgracefully quick contest. Faramir did the only thing he could think of and glanced aside at Éowyn to plead his case in a low voice, “Must I?” He tried for pitiable, “I don’t want to…”

She stared at him and laughed loudly, “Yes!” She rolled her eyes, teasing, “What a child you are! Trust my words, he’s not half as great as he thinks he is.” Within earshot, Éomer laughed and bragged cheerfully,

“Better than I am.” Faramir hung his head, pretending chagrin and peeking at her under his eyelashes, “By far.” Nearby, the Queen smiled and shook her head, tsking softly as though to shame him. He grinned at her and returned to pleading. “You don’t want them to think I’m wretched just when they’ve decided I’m not,” He jerked his chin at the crowd which was mainly comprised of Rohirric warriors. “Truly…I’m not very good…”

“Really? Then how have you survived these years of war?” Éowyn hugged him, smiling up and not sympathetic in the least that he could tell, “I wager I can beat you.”

“Mmm, at what?” She laughed as he trailed his hand up her side, thumb just brushing along the gently curving underside of her breast.

Éowyn squeaked and jerked back with a giggle, slapping at his fingers. “Stop it!”

Éomer moved past, grimacing, “Yes, stop, please.” But to Faramir’s surprise, the man grinned at him when Éowyn’s eyes narrowed and she glared over in annoyance. Noticing he was looking at him, the Lord of the Mark lifted his mug, gesturing aside at some of the stands, “Thirsty?”

He was, now that he thought of it; not that he would have refused anyhow, his sense of courtesy forbade it. “Yes…thank you.” Looking at Éowyn as she smiled in the bright sun, he knew at once that he would not dare to ruin their frail camaraderie even if it meant humiliation at the point of Éomer’s sword. Bemused and resigned, he watched Éomer call for two more ales.

Around them, men shouted wagers while Éowyn hung onto his arm and leaned her head against his shoulder. Faramir glanced about and decided that he could almost get used to this simpler, more casual life. Would I be in Council now or at Court? He shuddered a little, and then laughed. There is no Council in the Mark, no Court…perhaps it is not such a bad place after all. He looked at his future brother in kin and smiled. At least no longer.

Éowyn raised her head to command, “And get something for me to eat.” Again, perfectly obligingly, Éomer called and a large steaming shank of goose was brought for Éowyn; it dripped juices, skin browned, and smelled delicious enough for Faramir to covet a piece as he sipped his ale. She reached up, but as she did her brother took a giant bite from of it, making her cry out in dismay. “Éomer! That was mine!”

He laughed, mouth full as she struck his shoulder. “Ow!” He shook his head, protesting and backing up a pace, “There’s plenty!” Éomer took another giant bite and Faramir watched, awestruck, as his Éowyn, who was garbed so daintily and had acted so modestly all day, turned into a beast. Without hesitation, she slipped from his arm, drew back her fist and punched her brother in the stomach so that he wheezed, “Stop, you’ll make me choke!”

“Soon…I’m not finished.” He took another huge bite, holding it over her head. Éomer snickered gleefully around his mouthful as she turned red with frustrated anger, refusing to jump up for it. Faramir felt his own laughter rise and clamped it down as Éowyn gave him a sharp glance. He bit his lip, trying valiantly to keep the smile from his face as the man added with a smug grin and bulging cheeks, “It’s good.” Éomer chewed for a moment and looked at him scoffingly, “Oh laugh, or has she gotten you so tamed already?” Nearby, Arwen began to snicker, gasping with one hand to her mouth.

“Éomer, you are a beast.” He grinned cheerfully in reply and at that, Faramir did laugh.

Éowyn’s lips pressed themselves flat and she hissed in agreement, “Oh, you are! Oh…you are always such an ass!” Lifting a foot, she stomped on his boot, aiming for the sensitive arch and when Éomer yelped and bent forward, she took back her much lessened shank of meat. “Look at this, you ate half of it!”

“It was good. I’m hungry, too.” He was snickering, still chewing and now favoring his foot. “That hurt.” A young soldier of the Mark had returned with Cólo’s faded sable scabbard in his hand. “Mm.” Wiping his mouth, Éomer tried to hand his mug to his sister, but she ignored him. Arwen smiled and took it instead and he rubbed dust on his greased palms, unsheathing the long, broad Rohirric blade with a friendly jibe. “Come, let’s see how they train you in the City.”

Reluctantly taking his sword, Faramir shook his head and attempted once more, aiming his words to the two women, “I’m not going to compete for your amusement.”

“Didn’t stop you before.” Éomer snickered again. “It was very entertaining…even after you fell on him.” Glancing sideways, he grinned, “I trust you won’t do it again—I can’t say I’m as well mannered as to catch you.”

He felt his face heat in mortification and Faramir heaved a sigh, tossing the weatherworn scabbard to lie at Éowyn’s feet. She picked it up, brushing the dust from it, making him smile in thanks. He lifted Cólo, shifting his hands on the familiar grip. It had been long since he’d done this and he was afraid the contest would be over almost before it was begun. But Éomer didn’t begin, instead eyeing his sword with curiosity.

“Certainly, if you wish.” And Faramir found himself hefting Éomer’s sword. It was uncommonly heavy and when he swung it he could feel the weight behind the gleaming blade. Obviously well cared for, it was a beautiful weapon with molded gold and silver in the hilt; when he lifted it outward, he was unsurprised to find that it was perfectly balanced.

Opposite, Éomer was frowning at Cólo in clear distrust, “What is his name?”

“Cólo.” The grimace on the man’s face made Faramir laugh and smile, “I know, I know, what name is that?” He looked at the sword in his hand with open appreciation. It was a fine weapon. “And his?”

“Gúthwinë.” The pronunciation alone revealed volumes of cherished respect, as did the possessive glance Éomer gave his sword.

“Come! We don’t have all day!” The crowd of spectators echoed Éowyn’s cry and they switched to their proper blades. She smiled, “Quickly, I want to see my brother taken down like the pig he is.” Éowyn laughed, “And if you can’t, I will!” The audience of Rohirrim whooped their approval, even the Queen joining them with a cry and sparkling eyes.

Éomer scorned the remark, “I let her win.” And suddenly they began, slow at first, very slow, trying each other with light contact to test the other’s skill. Faramir knew at once his earlier assessment had been correct—he would lose this match, it was only a question of when and how the Lord of the Mark chose to defeat him.

Faramir looked rather intimidating as he held his sword low and close, taking the more prudent stance as Éomer had expected. But the crimson ribbon flopping along his arm took some of the menace away. Looking at it, Éomer smiled. After a few restrained thrusts, he grinned at the man and leapt to meet him with force, a test to see how he would be received. Faramir did well, rebounding him with ease and even striking back so that Éomer narrowly escaped a wicked slice across his chest from the foreign blade. Of course the movement had been completely under restraint—only experienced warriors could fight with bare steel and the Steward was as commendably skilled as Éomer would have expected the Prince of Ithilien to be. Outside their limited field of war, Éowyn cheered the action and it was clear whose side she fell on. He gave her a scowl, but she and the Queen just laughed in response; Rusco watched them with interest, tugging on his leash and whining restlessly as though disturbed by the conflict.

Éomer grinned and resumed studying the Steward—his feet moved faultlessly, carrying him with perfect balance and ready to move in any direction at need, he held his sword well, and in a position fully prepared to counteract any move. Congratulating him on the near win and the aptness with the blade that was so easily seen, he smiled, “You are good.” How exactly, with that light, delicate little sword, I do not know…

“Thank you.” The words were cool and clipped, just as dispassionate and focused as the man’s features and Éomer frowned, not understanding. This was supposed to be a friendly competition to test each other’s skill, not a serious contest. He gave some ground to see if he could spark zest in the Steward’s grey eyes but there was only wariness and he was followed with care, not enthusiasm.

Ah, there! Éomer started, noticing a opening in Faramir’s guard—the man appeared unaware and, not wishing to defeat him so swiftly before his sister, he did not use the opportunity, instead smoothly ignoring it. Or so he thought of as smoothly—there was a flash in Faramir’s eyes and Éomer knew the man had realized both that some part of his defense had gone awry and that he’d refrained from using it. Awkward, he did not speak.

Minutes passed, their footsteps crossing and recrossing in the dusty arena and still Éomer could not understand for there was not the slightest sign of enjoyment on the man’s face. It reminded him of Faramir’s fight with the Rider Oswyn…yet there was no anger in him this time, only the same dispassionate sense of duty. None of his vigorous challenges changed it, either, as Éomer again and again struck with varying speeds and all his ingenuity, using many of his wiles to try and inspire a competitive urge within the man. The crowd followed them intently, amassed Rohirrim howling like wolves with each strike in his favor while Éowyn hissed and called encouragement to her lover. Arwen took no sides, laughing and calling to them both. Rusco barked and whined nervously so that the women comforted him.

Come, come at me! He was curious to see Faramir at his finest and tried to rouse him with no success. Come! For once he would not have to hold back his arm as he did with his sister and yet, the Steward used force sparingly, meeting him and no more. Éomer frowned to himself, where is his joy? Where is his spirit? Faramir could not be under control always. Éomer frowned, thinking that certainly he was like any man and used his fiercer temper to carry him into battle. But if Faramir did there was no sign of that fierceness here and it frustrated him.

Surely, they did this in the City: noblemen or men-at-arms fighting for sport and the entertainment of the people. It was common in the Mark and branded a man as gallant, stout and spread word of his skill, giving him a respected and honorable reputation, sometimes earning him higher station within his éored. He frowned to himself. And surely, as only ranked below his brother and their Lord, the Steward, Faramir has done such as this.

“Some.” Across his face there was a flash of repressed emotions, the sadness of a fond memory, “My brother did at times.” The Steward smiled faintly, “He was more able than I and would have been a better match to your skill.”

At the compliment, Éomer smiled, surprised at his own pleasure. Their swords spoke for a moment before he questioned, bolder now and more curious, “But you yourself did not?”

“No…” Faramir smiled, effortlessly knocking aside his attack, “I do not like the blade.”

Éomer nodded at the response, taking a moment to circle and study the man again. A bit of wood and string? He grimaced, letting Gúthwinë rush back to strike the sword of the City with a clash, “Why?”

But the Steward asked him first, “Why do you like this dead piece of metal?”

“Dead?” Éomer was so horrified that he skipped a step and had to duck awkwardly out of the way. His sister shouted in premature glee but he recovered almost at once to proclaim forcefully. “Gúthwinë is not dead.”

Faramir laughed, raising one hand in a gesture of peace, “To you.” He glanced at his sword, “To me this is just weight against my arm…dead and reshaped stone dressed with silver, nothing but a burden when I could have slain you long ago without so much as you seeing me.”

He shook his head, still aghast, and spoke with no thoughts except those of dismay for the attitude he was shown, “Those are the words of a man who knows nothing of the joy of battle…”

With another laugh, the Steward interjected, “You’re right. I don’t like war.”

Éomer finished indignantly, “…I won’t have any blood of mine with such notions. You send my nephews here and I will teach them the pleasure in wielding a blade.”

This time Faramir slipped and their eyes met. For a moment both froze and Éomer blinked, abruptly conscious of both his words and the impromptu, yet decisive way they had been spoken—there was no change in the Steward’s face save that of blankness that fell across it, a cautious lack of reaction or emotions. Drawing in a deep, steadying breath and continuing their dance, he confirmed with his heart in his throat, nearly stammering but trying nervously to finish his commitment, “You…you send him, them, to the Mark when they grow old enough to learn how to swing a sword.” He swallowed, “I will teach them.”

Slowly, a smile came to Faramir and he nodded. His response was quiet but full of sentiments that made Éomer want to fidget, for they were emotions of love and family, things he wasn’t sure about yet with this man, even if, for his sister’s sake and his own, he would embrace them. “I will.” For a while there was no speech between them save that of the clink and shrill scrape of steel and eventually Éomer saw again the hole in the Steward’s guard. This time he stepped sharply aside and drove inwards, cutting Faramir off in mid-stride and winning with a mock blow across the gut, turning Gúthwinë so that it was the flat of the sword alone that knocked against the man’s midsection. His sister’s paramour lost gracefully, bowing acknowledgment of the kill and standing down. His sister was less graceful, booing loudly and making Faramir laugh and scold. “It was a fair contest.”

The Steward resheathed his sword and arched an eyebrow at her, smiling, “In a skirt?”

Éowyn stated confidently, somewhat exaggeratedly, “If I wasn’t, it wouldn’t be a fair contest.”

Éomer laughed, but shook his head. He was growing tired. “Not today, I’ve done enough.” There was a silence and his sister stepped closer to her love and he knew she was looking for a way to leave them; heart heavy, he made it easy for her, wiping Gúthwinë with a bit of cloth and speaking as though it took no effort. He kept his gaze firmly on the lustrous metal. “Go on, I’ll see you?”

When he looked up, still feigning disinterest, her smile was his reward, as well as the steady light of appreciation that glowed in Faramir’s eyes. To his great surprise he found that light meant very much to him and Éomer smiled in a hesitant, yet cordial reply. Face merry under her crown of yellow, purple and reddish flowers, Éowyn reached up kiss his cheek and squeeze his arm as she smiled, “Yes, of course.” They walked away arm in arm and he watched Faramir’s tall shoulders clothed in his raven-colored surcoat blend into the crowd, the brighter gleam on the man’s dark hair as he bent to speak to her, and faint now, Éomer listened to her familiar laugh, so carefree it hurt.

At the sound, something clean and pure, comprised of great joy and yet terrible pain rose from inside him. Above it all was again the thought, I should let them go…but his heart’s terrified, warring response overrode it as the Queen came to stand at his side. Éomer glanced at her, words filling his throat, unable yet to escape the iron desperation that clenched his jaw achingly tight. I should let them go…I will let them go…when? If he spoke it aloud he would have to keep his word. If he spoke it aloud, it would be akin to turning his sword on himself. I must…I would not have their anger again…I want my sister happy, Faramir, even, with happiness. Haltingly, little above a whisper, he managed to grate out, “In two days I will ride on…and…”

Arwen’s face was gentle. Rusco pawed against her skirts and she patted him, scolding softly; Éomer sensed she was giving him time and he couldn’t help but feel deep, revering affection as he glanced at her bent head. Dangerous, dangerous…he knew that. In his long silence, she asked delicately, “And?”

“I will…” But he couldn’t do it and wretched, burning tears filled his eyes. Éomer lowered his head in shame. Faramir would have to do as he’d threatened and take his sister away for he could not let her go willingly. I am a coward.

The Queen’s lightsome elven features were marked by sadness as she touched his shoulder, her voice soft, “Éomer, do not be so hard on yourself.”

Taking a deep breath, he finished hoarsely, soul rebelling at each word, “I will tell them to ride back to Meduseld, to ride on with Aragorn and you to the City.”

Oddly, he felt lighter, though still terribly dejected as Éomer answered soberly, “Go on to the Wold and look on my people…” He sighed and his shoulders felt less burdened, but his heart heavier, “Make sure all is as it should be.”

She smiled at him. “You are a good man.” They stood quiet for a moment before Arwen tugged his wrist, her voice brisk and no longer redolent of sorrow, “Now come, be my happy escort as you promised and show me what there is to see here, I too have tired of swordplay.” Looking at the passing folk, she said, “I hope to see new things. After so long a life many things I’ve done and seen seem to blur…” Arwen smiled even as a shadow passed over her eyes. “I expect I won’t have to mourn over that any longer but the habit remains…and I would like to see something I’ve not.”

Éomer smiled back, feeling weak and woeful inside, but did as he was requested and thought of something, some rare sights that might please her. “Have you seen man eat fire?”

“No! Of course not. What sensible elf or man would do that?” She laughed and he saw delight fill her, which sparked delight in his wearied heart as she begged with a winsome smile, “Show me?”

Dangerous, dangerous and I know it. Éomer smiled anyway. It is no more than simple affection…he hoped not, at least. Estel would not like that much… Imagining the scowl on Aragorn’s face, Éomer laughed heartily and offered his arm in a courtly gesture he copied from memory, from watching Faramir with his sister. This, too, amused him and took his thoughts from their darker track. I can play a princely role…for a while. “This way, I think, my Lady.” With Rusco trailing his mistress, they walked into the crowd to find enough novelty to sate the Queen and distract his languishing heart.

Happy at Faramir’s side, she wandered with him through the crowd, not caring where they went. Merchants were gathered with goods from all over, calling to her as they passed but Éowyn smiled and shook her head, not wishing for anything. As they walked, Faramir kept looking at her, then the merchant’s wares. Teasing him, she stopped to peruse a few, watching him stare at the items on the table in an obvious attempt to guess which one it was that caught her eye.

“That?” He murmured it into the cup of her ear, the soft, hot puff of breath warming her sensitive skin and sending a chill through the rest of her. His chin pointed to a silver bracelet set with green stones.

“No.” Faramir’s brow creased charmingly and he nodded at a pretty comb molded into the shape of a flower. Éowyn couldn’t help but laugh as she bumped his shoulder with her own, teasing. “Not even close.” In reality she was looking at the necklace made from wolves’ teeth and claws, wondering how many had been slain to make it and what brave warriors had done so.

He smiled and said in defeat, “Perhaps I will have to send for Merry to aid me…”

She took his hand, fingers tracing the lines of his palm so that she would not have to meet his eyes when she said, “I would like that…later, once we’ve built our home and can show it to him and house him as he deserves.” Éowyn was afraid that if she looked him in the eye he would see her secret. With a cheerful laugh, she added, “We’ll have to build special hobbit sized rooms for when they visit…with man-sized pillows.”

He sighed and his arm came around her waist, just above her girdle of flowers, “Say that again. I love the words,” His voice turned tender, “But even more when you say them.”

Faramir’s chin thunked against the top of her head, jaw moving a little as he clarified. “Our home.”

He took a breath and shook his head, chin moving back and forth as he begged, “Oh again.”

Éowyn laughed and this time trusted herself to look up. The happiness in his face was clear, dazzling and honest. Soft with the fine and delicately sharp emotions that filled her heart, crowding it so that her chest felt hot and tight, she repeated, “Our home.”

He kissed her and they moved on to another table. Faramir spoke over her shoulder, quietly and plainly, a smile in every word. “It makes me very happy to hear you say that.”

“It is no matter now.” His eyes and mind were full of reassurance, of hope and blissful eagerness. “Soon we will be home and everything will be as it should have been long before now…” He sighed, trailing off and she felt a twinge of unrest run through him.

Éowyn was more curious than discomfited, as always desperate to learn what he wanted of her. She asked, “How should things be?”

“We should be wed,” He blinked at her, then smiled warmly, “Man and wife.”

She interrupted, gazing at him in expectancy and no longer paying attention to the wares, “Yes, but what else? What after that?”

“You don’t know at all?” It was utterly ridiculous that she would know the duties of a wife and he would know nothing of them. What would he censure, then? Nothing? Could I just do as I wish with no thought at all? That was absurd.

He spoke carefully, part in lamentation, part in reflection, “I never planned to wed before my brother…I was gone too much, there were too many things that held my attention and I never felt any of the women I met were right for me to take as my wife.” Faramir smiled at her, “Until I saw you.”

She smiled in return, arm finding its way about his side to hug. His features turned gentle as he spoke further, sharing unreservedly, “I felt you needed me but not for anything that anyone else has needed me for in my life—not my bloodlines in the line of Stewards, my knowledge, my sword or my bow in battle.” Éowyn tightened her half-embrace and his words became kindly, “You looked like you needed my heart to listen to yours, and I felt I had to give it, to do something, anything to ease the suffering I could see.”

Oh…you… Placing her hand on the nape of his neck and rising on tiptoe, they shared a kiss before he went on, talking slowly,

“I thought that I could help. You looked so fair and so sad that I couldn’t just let you walk away without trying my best to lift the sorrow from your heart.” He smiled down at her, “None of the women of my City ever looked at me like you did…even though I know for certain,” He grinned crookedly, “You held no intentions of trying to lure me with such a exceedingly rare charms.”

“Your tears.” Faramir beamed down, “You shared your heart, showed me a woman vulnerable, open and heartfelt and I knew that was what I’d wanted all along.”

Éowyn smiled and brought his hand to her lips to kiss the knuckles. Now her curiosity was truly piqued. “Did you meet many women?”

“Of course.” He strode easily beside her, long-legged and tall, so different from men of her land, “Noble women of the City, mostly, some daughters of wealthy tradesmen or esteemed soldiers who’d been much lauded in combat. I had to marry someone, sometime…I was taught from birth that if my brother fell the line of Stewards rested on my shoulders.” He smiled dismally. “None believed it would ever happen.” With a sorrow filled pause, Faramir continued, “I was expected to seek them out but, truthfully, I did not. I only danced with them if they asked or spoke with them if they approached me, escorted them to see different entertainments when I was in the City—plays, gatherings… Refusing would have been discourteous, especially insulting as I had no excuses to give save admitting distaste in their company.” Faramir chuckled softly. “My brother had to cope with more than I did and he always swore he would never wed until he felt like it. But the men in the City knew he was the favored son, that he was of more value to have linked to them in blood, that his name on the lists of their kin would give them more power than mine.” He glanced at her with a smile, “My father would have coveted you for Boromir and forbid me to stand in the way.” His smile turned crooked again, this time with amusement, “Do not take this as insult, but I believe he would have liked you.”

Liked me until I heard him say one unkind word to you, my beloved… “How so?”

Faramir gave her a look filled with dark humor, “You would have been the second son he never had…riding fierce horses, wielding a sword, delighting in the slaying of bears, wolves, what have you.” He gave her a sideways grinning stare of mock fear. “I would have been very frightened with my brother and you as a match. Gondor would have never been the same.”

He grinned, “Tried to talk sense into him, and if that failed, marry you anyhow even if I had to take you away in the night on my horse with my guard about us and have some barbarous prince of Harad to do it!” With a laugh, he smiled, “Even if in the City they called you the White Lady of Rohan a coup for Faramir!”

Morbid curiosity made her ask, hesitating and knowing she probably shouldn’t, “And if Boromir wished to wed me?”

Faramir’s face darkened and she saw glints of steel in his grey eyes before he said firmly, almost harshly, “I don’t want to speak of that.”

They walked in silence for a while, moving around the crowd, wandering aimlessly before Éowyn gathered her courage. She cleared her throat, saying very quietly, “I know what a wife’s duties should be…and I want to please you…tell me if, when I say them, you would desire me to do it.” She had to have an answer; uncertainty had gnawed at her too much.

His face was troubled, but willing. “All right.” Faramir stopped her with a finger to her lips. “Let us go somewhere less crowded?”

“Back to your tent, I suppose?” She nodded and they walked the long way back, Éowyn parting the folds of cloth that formed the door to her pavilion and holding them aside so that Faramir could duck low and pass beneath them. It was empty save for her bags, saddle and bridle neatly sitting in one corner and Arwen’s in another with the wide cot in the center. A washbasin full of water strewn with petals and a small mirror sitting on a plain stool were the only other furnishings. He gazed around, smiling at once, “This is much nicer than what I’ve been given.”

“No, don’t trouble yourself; even bedding with Gaer is better than some of the places I’ve lain.” He smiled again but she still frowned.

“My brother should have sent riders ahead for them to honor you as you should be.”

Faramir sat on the cot, noticing all the blankets that had been lain upon it to cushion it. Someone cares very much for the comfort of the Lady’s backside. He laughed at himself, reassuring, “It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not.” Éowyn stared at him, arms crossed over her bosom, “Not to me.”

Heart warmed, he patted the blanket and scooted over, “Come, sit by me and tell me what you think I should expect.” Her light weight rested against his side, warmth of her body cozy as a breeze fluttered the cloth walls of the tent, making them billow. Faramir used a pillow to prop himself as he lay down, very mindful to make sure his dusty boots did not touch the blankets—he had an idea he might be scolded if he were careless. He grinned, then became aware of her agitation; it showed in the caution with which she spoke.

“You say I may leave the City, that I may visit my brother whenever I wish, that I may order the building of our home in Ithilien…”

She sat upright still, leaning against his side, free fingers playing with a loose thread on his trousers. “Yes.”

“You say that I can have what I want,” Éowyn smiled, “And that you want me to lack for nothing.”

She was looking at him anxiously. “I want to know what you expect. I need to know so that I can do it…I don’t want to disappoint or to anger you.” Éowyn murmured, “You’ve done so much for me…” She bowed her head, glancing away as she repeated, “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

He chuckled, asking teasingly and hoping to lighten her heart, “How could I be angered if I don’t know what it is you should do?”

Éowyn frowned, “I don’t know.” He laughed and pulled her to lie against him, relishing her pliancy, her lack of fear.

“Don’t worry over what I want; I want you and whatever you want to give, nothing else.”

She listed rapidly, the obvious quickness with which she came up with the duties amazing him. “I’m supposed to weave your cloaks, make sure your clothes are clean and grand enough, your weapons are ordered and ready if time of war came again, your servants and vassals obedient and doing their duties well, your house governed…” Éowyn took a deep breath, saying in frustration. “Here, I buy grain, spices and meats from traders, I know who grants the Lord the largest yields at harvest, whose cattle is the best for dairy, what bakers or brewers of beer are the best, where the greatest metal smith is for armor for man and horse… I know who to tell to do this or that. I take care of all things except those of war or what concerns Éomer’s warriors or his gold. I am the Lady of the Hall and it is my responsibility, but…” Éowyn stared at him pleadingly, stirring his heart.

“But when I am your wife I’ll have more responsibilities in a bigger land that I don’t understand and where I know no one but you, Aragorn and Arwen…” She bit her lips and he felt her fright, her vulnerability as her hands chafed each other worriedly. “I just want to know what I can, what will be certain.” Éowyn added more softly, ducking her chin so that her hair hid her face, “I don’t want to embarrass you…I’m not a Lady like them, I can’t act properly, I don’t know how to weave, I don’t know how to dance or…”

He touched her shoulder, making her look at him and she silenced with tears rising in her eyes. Faramir thought his heart would break. It was one thing to know of her love, to hear it and to feel it through his gift that linked them, but to see it in this effort was utterly grievous in how hard she tried, how much she wanted to please him. He had no idea how that, in her mind, he’d garnered such a debt from her. Carefully choosing his words, he said slowly and with regret, “I can’t give you anything for certain because I don’t know what the future will be or how we will live in it.” She frowned, unrelieved, and he smiled, jesting gently, “But I will promise that you can be cross with me if I ever fuss at you.”

With a sheepish laugh, Éowyn leaned close to embrace him. “I had planned to.” He chuckled and she smiled, hands cradling his face and leaning in close that her breath was a touch of soft warmth near his mouth. Faramir smiled, waiting as she murmured, “Oh, but you are so…ow.” She laughed more naturally and sat up again—the hilt of his sword was in her way. Fingers quick and clever, she unbuckled the silver buckle of his baldric, sliding Cólo aside so that she could lie against him.

Placing his hand on the dip of her waist, he let his palm and tripping fingers trek along the curving country of her side, tips walking along the yielding northern swell of her breast and venturing down into the valley of her waist. Intrepid travelers, they journeyed further to the south, crossing the broader, firmer rise of her hip and pliable knolls of her buttocks before sliding swiftly up the long plain of her back. Fingers tangled in her ruddy hair, grinning, he asked in play, “So what? Go on.”

“So good…” Her lips met his and, as every time when she’d dared to initiate any intimate contact, Faramir loved it. “And patient…” Éowyn smiled kissing him again very softly, “And handsome…”

Playing with one of her ribbons, he smiled, “Such a graciously tongued lady to compliment me so…”

They kissed again, and he learned just how graciously tongued before she answered him, “Nay, I tell only the truth.”

“Then I fear for when I’ve grown old and fat and lazy…” She laughed but he could see something had touched her. Éowyn’s hand curled around the dolphin pendant as though for strength and he frowned, “What is it?”

It took a moment before she asked, timidly and nervously, “Will you be happy with me, knowing I won’t live as…?” Her words halted suddenly and she looked away.

He leaned close, kissing her cheek, holding her near to him. “I wouldn’t be happy without you. You know that.”

Her features grew morose as she said with increasing anxiety. “But you will be without me…have you thought of that? How long you will be without me…you could marry again, sire more children, have an entire life… It would be easier for you if…”

Sitting up to face her directly, Faramir shook his head slowly and resolutely. He took her hands, meeting her eyes. “Listen. It doesn’t matter; I can’t change my heart…I’d rather have those years with you than any other. I know what I do and I love you, no one else. It is my burden if I am unhappy, not yours.”

“What else?” He watched her face, “Tell me what else.” Tell me everything so that we will have no worries…

“Will you be happy with me when I am old and you are not? When,” Éowyn grimaced, touching her breasts, “When I am an old woman who no one would desire and you are a man in your prime?” Her voice dwindled to a shamed whisper and she buried her face to his surcoat, making her words hard to hear, “I don’t want you to look at me with disgust…I would die.”

He sighed and smoothed her hair, staring at the ceiling of the tent and gathering his energy to grin, “I didn’t know my wild Shieldmaiden was so vain.” She laughed a little, but it was distant. Faramir sighed again, begging, “Don’t worry so much, please. Everything will be all right. You don’t have to worry about what I will think or do…or what you will do in my City.” Éowyn closed her eyes, jaw clenched, and he could sense her restless frustration.

She took a deep breath. I want to do as you say, to not think of so many things…

Then do it. Faramir kissed her eyelids, feeling the delicate skin quiver under his lips. He reassured, “I will help you, I will take care of you…anything, anytime, come to me and I will be there no matter if it is Aragorn or the most respected of noblemen,” Éowyn’s eyes opened wide, searching and vulnerable, wanting so much to trust and ease. He finished solemnly, looking straight into them, “I will make time for you.”

She turned her face away and some unknown emotion flew through her, making him frown before she took a breath, then jested weakly, “And if the women call me crass and uncivilized?”

He growled, “I’ll have them banished.” Éowyn laughed and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him so tightly that he wondered about just how worried she truly was. “What else?” Faramir smiled at her, “We’ve spoken of what you might do, what I might feel and I’ve learned that you’re awfully vain to worry about what I might think in so many years time…” Éowyn shoved his shoulder, making him laugh. “Anything more or can we be merry now as two lovers should be in a festival?”

She didn’t answer for a long moment and he watched her throat move as she swallowed. “One more thing.”

“Later…before we leave.” Éowyn smiled at him, “I want to have this…and I need my brother as well.” She reassured, “It is nothing so terrible.”

Faramir couldn’t bring himself to argue though he tried. Terrible or not, he could sense her trepidation. “All right.”

She rose, “Walk with me? I want to look on my country.” The implication that it was the last or near to last time hung in the air between them, puzzling him. He nodded, buckling Cólo back again, and they walked hand in hand out of the crowd and under the sky. The land opened above him, skies huge and overpowering, grass endless and brown. Éowyn steered towards the river. As they neared the gleaming water, she asked, “Why do you not worry as I do?”

It seemed a very simple answer to his reckoning, though one hard to put into words. “Because…you are what I want and I will do anything to keep you and to have the life I was promised in dreams.” Faramir watched his boots move through the grass before looking at her, “This,” He raised their clasped hands in emphasis, “Is all I have now for family.” Éowyn was paying him rapt attention, her eyes soft with compassion as he kept on, “My father and brother are dead, my Uncle lives but his home is far, and his kinship is not the kind I need.” And he did need it; the lack was just making itself known as a painful void in his being. “I will fight for us…I do not worry because whatever needs doing, I will do with no hesitation to keep this promise of family,” He heard himself grow wistful, tone yearning, “Of love and happiness, of peace and children in a sunny garden in a prosperous land.”

Éowyn was gazing at him, “You have family already.” She smiled with gentleness, “Not just myself, but my brother.”

Oddly, this simple sentence filled him with great pleasure and he recalled Éomer’s generous words as they’d dismounted earlier. Wilcome ealdorlang… He knew what it meant. Welcome for all time… And the offer of teaching his sons to handle a sword, too, came to his mind. Maybe I do have family already. “You think so?”

Faramir took a breath and said quietly, “I would like that.” A squeeze of his hand was her reply. As they walked, he asked, “Why do you worry?”

“Because…” Her words came slower and he waited patiently, heart gladdened by answers that came without pains or an argument, delighted by her show of intimacy in answering him with no fear or nervousness.

As she struggled to find a way to express herself, he added with voice lightsome and merry, “I do not worry because of how far you have come, how much ground has been covered between us.” Faramir smiled at her and she laughed, sounding fond and very contented, swinging their hands. “You see it, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Éowyn murmured touchingly, “I have you to thank, min Feramearh.”

Faramir smiled again but said quickly, “I need no thanks…you owe me nothing.” He didn’t want her to feel that way, didn’t want to her feel beholden to him; it would only cloud their happiness. Thoughtfully he justified his belief, “I asked and you tried, giving what closeness that you could, then I asked again and you trusted me. There is no debt between us in my mind. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” She smiled and there was comfort and relief in her eyes before she frowned and spoke slowly, almost with shame. “I worry because I want to know what will happen…too long I lived with no notion of what might happen tomorrow, of what horrors awaited me and were assured to me by…that foul worm in the skin of a man.” She shuddered and he felt her sick revulsion. A great wave of protective fury rose in his heart, making him unclasp their hands and put his arm about her shoulder to hold her closer as they walked. “My hope was…like you’ve seen a candle drowning in its own wax, the light struggling and eventually overcome so that I could not dream of light again. All those I trusted and loved were either dead or might as well be…Théodred beneath the earth, my Uncle deaf and blind to the darkness around us. My brother was drowning like I was, but he could not see it,” She smiled faintly, “Too stubborn.” Éowyn shook her head and there was definite shame in her voice now, “I worry and it is an old habit that I should not have. Not with you.” She swallowed and when she looked up to him it was with the eyes of a young girl. “I trust you; if you say it will be all right, it will.” Éowyn’s smile turned fragile, “You’ve not led me wrongly.”

He smiled, feeling a great warmth rise in his chest, hugging her tighter while stating firmly. “I say it will.” She leaned her head against his shoulder and they walked in a silence that was both peaceful and soothing before he saw a shape against the riverbank. It was a small boat without a master drawn up along the dusty shore and Faramir’s spirits rose—he could not imagine a more pleasant thing at the moment. Extending his senses, he felt no one near. Ours for the taking...if just for a little while... Rare mischief filling him, he grinned and tugged her arm. “Come.”

Éowyn followed him, laughing in confusion at Faramir’s back as he glanced around them, footsteps quick and near silent. He jogged to the boat, towing her by her arm so that she trotted behind him. He felt…like he’d not felt before, but jovial, full of delight and she was happy as well, gasping, “What are we doing?”

“Shh!” She watched him push the little rowboat until the stern was in the river, craft rocking buoyantly as water lapped at its sides. In it were two oars and nothing else. Faramir grinned at her, looking upriver, then down. “Get in.”

“In?” Éowyn looked at the gently rocking boat with misgiving. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been on a boat and eyed the little craft with wariness. Not Faramir—he clambered in with no hesitation, not seeming to notice how it swayed and moved unsteadily, bottom scraping against the bank with alien noises. He grabbed up the oars, looking at her expectantly.

“Yes. In.” His grin was blinding, full of gleeful mischief. It reminded her eerily of Pippin when he’d revealed his plot to steal Shadowfax. “Quick!” She placed one hand on the side, grimacing and regarding the rowboat with apprehension. “Here, it’s all right, I’ve got you.” Faramir extended his hand, his grip steadying her and giving her comfort as the little boat swayed and moved while she sat on the narrow board, which was her only seat.

Gripping the board with both hands, Éowyn frowned at him. “What are we doing? Are we stealing this?”

“Not stealing.” He chuckled, grinning and using one oar to shove them off. Faramir half-knelt above her to do it and she marveled at his strength as the boat lurched out into the river, swaying and bobbing. Wide-eyed with alarm, Éowyn clutched the sides as it tilted before steadying. Faramir turned them and smiled down at her as he reseated himself and grasped the oars. “Borrowing.”

“I don’t know. For fun…isn’t that what your folk do? Do as they like without bother?” With a laugh, he set to the oars, arms and upper body moving rhythmically as he took them upstream, making it seem like it was all effortless. Éowyn stared at him admiringly and wished dearly that she could see the play of his muscles as he steered them to the center of the river.

She allowed with a widening smile, “I suppose…some of them. Though I would expect it more from my brother than you.”

Faramir guffawed, grinning at her merrily, “I would have expected it more from my brother than me.” He smiled, “But here we are.”

Releasing her grip on the sides of the boat, Éowyn looked up to watch the trees hanging over them, sunlight sparking off the yellowing leaves, gnarled roots going deep into the ground, twisting over themselves on the passing banks like the laced and aged hands of giants. Peering carefully over the side, she gazed at her reflection in the smoothly running water, often broken by swirling currents as bits of leaves, twigs and glossy air bubbles from Faramir’s rowing drifted past. She smiled again, anxiety much appeased by the restful mood created, “This is nice.” He grinned at her, still pulling easily.

Faramir explained, breath not coming hard, “I’m just going upstream, then we can float back down as we like.” Nodding, Éowyn slid her hand into the cool river, feeling the water slip past, pulling gently at her palm. Glancing at him in impishness, she flicked the droplets of water off her fingers, aiming for his face. He gave her a narrow stare, growling, “Don’t start a war you can’t win.” A turn of his wrist and the oar jerked, causing water to splash up beside her. Éowyn laughed and shrank away, giggling,

His tone was innocent, “I thought you wanted a bath.” This time he did it from the other side, making her jerk and the boat sway. Éowyn grabbed her seat again, gripping it tensely in fear of an upset.

Her voice went high, “No! Stop!” Faramir chuckled as he kept rowing. He was looking at the water, saying quietly, his eyes moving over the banks now,

“I spent a lot of time on the Anduin as a boy, hunting ducks, fishing, learning to handle a boat, swimming in the pools until I could manage the current.” She smiled,

“I think I learned to swim because Éomer grew tired of towing me behind him.”

Faramir laughed, and then his voice grew thoughtful as he considered. “This river is much easier…slower, shallower, not as terribly wide…” He spoke reflectively, “Many times in the spring after a hard storm we’d see drowned cattle or sheep float by. Oft times corpses were fished out to be buried properly. The Great River cared not what she took with her on her journey.” He sighed, “Sometimes I wonder if the elven boat my brother drifted in still goes or if he’s been overturned…I think it could reach the Sea if it survived the falls. Perhaps some kind folk will bury him as he deserves.” Faramir frowned at the water. “I wonder if the Valar would bar a dead man.”

Éowyn didn’t know what to say. She reached to touch his hand as he paused in rowing, clasping hers over his, squeezing his warm flesh in an attempt to soothe him. Faramir smiled at her and sighed, “But enough sadness.” He rowed again, moving them smoothly upstream and she watched, curious as he made it look so simple and easy. His smile grew, “You want to help me?”

“Sit here.” He scooted back on the board he sat on and she saw it was wider than hers was. Faramir spread his legs and very carefully, mindful of the movements of the boat, Éowyn sat between them with her back nestled cozily against his front. “Take these.” He slid his hands up on the oars. She smiled, having to reach farther than he, as his arms were much longer than hers were. The wood of the oars was polished smooth, warm from his hands. Faramir’s breath was in her ear, patience in his words. “Now pull with me.” Éowyn did, moving slowly at first, feeling the resistant weight of the water, the rise and fall of the oar. She could hear the low splash it made and the soft sound of it sweeping through the water, driving them up the river. Faramir did it with her, helping her find the rhythm and taking foremost of the weight from her shoulders. Even with his help, it was much harder than he made it look.

The boat was going faster, pleasing her. Éowyn smiled over at the water rising against the sides as it glided more swiftly against the current. Turning her head, she said with admiration, “You’re strong.” Muscles moved in his arms; she could feel them easily. His chest expanded against her back with each deep breath that fueled his exertions.

He sounded bemused. “Thank you.” A moment later, Faramir nuzzled into her neck and her hands slowed on the oars. His cheek nudged hers, voice mildly scolding. “Keep up with me.”

“But you…” Warm puffing breath of his laughter came against her throat, then his nose touching her ear, subtle and light little touches of lips tickling so that she laughed and ducked away the best she could. “Stop, I’m trying to…” His tongue slid delicately along the curve of her ear and Éowyn squealed, “Ahh!” She scrunched her cheek against her shoulder, squirming and shivering with thrills, kicking her foot against the bottom of the boat in protest. Her shoe made a loud, hollow noise as she giggled and gasped out, “Stop it!”

“Stop what?” He sounded innocent, but his breath was tickling her again, this time the other and unprotected side of her neck. Éowyn shook her head back and forth, trying to scrunch both sides at once, which was impossible. She ducked her chin and hunched her shoulders like a turtle, eyes slitted as unstoppable giggles burst from her. Faramir’s chest shook with his laughter. “What? What am I doing?”

Éowyn closed her eyes, gritting her teeth so that she sounded serious. “Stop it!”

“I’m not doing anything…” He snickered, then nuzzled along her shoulder, pushing at the edge of her gown and kissing her wetly, making her wriggle, moaning and laughing all at once while still trying to row.

“Yes, you are! You’re…ahh, that! That!” Laughing behind her, Faramir stopped rowing and the boat slowed gently, prow now pointing at an angle as it drifted leisurely, current carrying it back down the river.

He kissed her temple, idle arms coming about her waist to pull her closer. His voice was smoky, murmuring, “I think this is far enough.”

“Am I?” He was smiling, eyes shining. He shifted behind her, making her reaware of how close they were, how close they had to be to remain seated on the simple boards. Faramir kissed her temple again, then her cheekbone and then he held himself a little away, a small smile curving his lips as he looked at her. Grey eyes the only part of him that was moving, his gaze seemed to linger over her mouth before ascending back to meet her eyes. Faramir’s smile faded as his face became solemn, intent and full of growing passion; he leaned forward to lightly kiss her, just the barest of touches but full of intimacy, of hunger. Éowyn felt her heart speed up, body warming automatically though he’d done nothing more. She gazed at his mouth and wished for his kiss again; felt his hands loosely encircling her waist and craved his pleasing touch.

Throat tight, she said faintly, trying to continue their playful banter. “Yes.”

“Mmm…then I must be.” Faramir’s amused gaze became searching, then mystified. He ran one blunt fingertip from her collarbone to her throat, just grazing her skin, all the while watching her tremble, aroused, and suck in a breath in an attempt to quiet herself. Éowyn felt her cheeks heat—he’d done that on purpose to see her reaction. Quickly, she cast her eyes away in embarrassment. Voice enchanted, and even, she heard with horror, amused, he murmured as though he was truly asking her and not teasing at all, “What’s this?” She didn’t answer at first, and his arms jiggled around her waist. Faramir sounded like he was smiling now, “Hmm?”

Frowning, disconcerted and full of her body’s impulses to touch him, to pull him closer, to kiss and do anything to have more contact, she muttered, “I don’t know.” But she did know and it was a little frightening in her impatience, what she wished to do and was willing to do; she wasn’t as ready as some of her thought.

He bent a little, coming nearer, wearing a smile as she’d guessed. Faramir was waiting for her to meet him and when she didn’t, he came anyway, lips touching hers with restraint. They kissed and he was gentle, as she liked best, one hand to the side of her face, thumb caressing her cheek, the line of her jaw. He shifted again, pressing himself to her backside. “Hmm?” Faramir’s mouth moved to her neck, planting tiny kisses in a line. “What is it…?” He knew what it was; the smile was too evident in his voice. Éowyn ducked her head, mortified,

Faramir kissed her shoulder and when he looked at her, his face wore a poor mask of innocence; he was all but laughing, asking between pecking kisses. “No, I’ve no idea. Tell me…tell me why you shivered, why…you blushed…why you feel so tempting…now…” He took her earlobe into his mouth and she squirmed.

He was serious now, low and intimate, “Because what?” Faramir wanted an answer, wanted, she saw, confirmation. It softened her heart and Éowyn grimaced; the words sounded horribly awkward coming from her mouth as she finally gave in, ducking and muttering,

A wide smile spread over Faramir’s handsome features. “Did you?” Her heart beat faster with his longing; she could feel how great his desire was, tempered only by his knowledge of her possible fearfulness. Her own desire rose, eager to feel him and his weight pressing her down, the slick friction of his bare skin against hers and her own pleasure made sweeter by his eagerness to give it. Overwhelmed, Éowyn pulled away to look out over the river.

“No, no, it’s just…” But it was too right for her to be comfortable. Éowyn tried not to lean into his body—she didn’t want to encourage him, to whet his appetite for something he would not have. She wondered if this…hunger for him, his touch, his warm flesh and strength was what he felt for her. If so, then no wonder he’d wished and asked to make love with such ardent invocation. “It feels too good.”

When she didn’t jest back, he sobered. Moving the oars to correct their course, Faramir said softly, “You’re tense…” He slid his hands from the wood and down her arms, resting his palms on the backs of her hands, warming them. “Relax for me?” He kissed the top of her head, “It’s all right.”

“I know.” Éowyn turned, looking into his eyes. They were troubled and whatever passion she’d stirred was buried beneath his care. She touched his face, cradling his chin and stroking one finger over his wee, growing stubble. “Don’t worry, I’m not afraid.”

Faramir dipped to kiss that finger. “I don’t like making you feel like that…”

She protested with a frown, shaking her head. The fault was hers, not his. “You don’t…I make me feel like that.”

His gaze dropped as he moved his hands from hers to her shoulders, squeezing. “Rigid…all of you, drawn tight like a bow.” His eyes crinkled as he tried to make her laugh, “And I know how that feels.” Éowyn smiled, leaning into him this time with no fear of stirring desire. She bent her arms back to hold him in an awkward embrace, looking up at his chin.

“I wish I could help it…could stop and never do so again.” She dared to turn to him, saying low, “I wish it very much.”

If only I knew. Éowyn shook her head helplessly. Faramir nodded, not especially disappointed—she sensed he’d expected her lack of answer.

They floated for a few minutes, listening to faint birdsong and the soft lap of water on the sides of the boat. Éowyn felt secure leaning against his front, peaceful under the warm sun as it peeked down between branches of trees. She wanted to kiss him again but didn’t quite dare to, as she was still tense. Relax…nothing’s wrong except you…she squinched her eyes shut, ashamed.

He began, tone soft, “First, I would guess, would be for you to relax…and I think I know one way.” Then he started to rub her shoulders, hands moving slowly, not too hard or too soft, but just right. She relaxed as he moved down her back, fingers seeming to find the perfect places by instinct or gift…oh, that is a wonderful thing…

Breathing out a moan, she felt him push her hair over her shoulders to have better access. “That feels so nice.”

He sounded gratified. “Good.” This time Éowyn corrected their course herself, not as aptly, but well enough, pleasing her before his massage distracted. They weren’t far at all now from where they’d started. Faramir hadn’t stopped his gentle kneading and rubbing and it was pleasurable in a different way from his more ardent touches. This was sensual, arousing her in a lesser but no less purely satisfying fashion as slowly and thoroughly he worked all the tension from her muscles. He moved here and there, staying longest where it felt the best and she knew he was reading her, paying close attention to her thoughts. His fingers slid down her arms in slow strokes that moved inward, when the tips ran over her inner arm it tickled, sending wild thrills all over her body and she shuddered.

She heard his smile in his reply. “Good.” Her eyes were closed with pleasure and when the boat hit the bank with a loudly grinding jolt of wood on earth, they flew open. Éowyn blinked in surprise—they’d crossed the last part of their return without her even knowing. When she straightened to step from the boat, she felt wonderfully eased, heart and body lightened. Faramir rose, hand in hers to steady her, careful to help her, then as she moved aside, he jumped as lightly and as gracefully to the riverbank as though he’d been sired by a deer.

Back on solid land, Éowyn smiled and hugged him, leaning against his body. “Thank you.”

He teased her, wide smile making sure she knew it was teasing alone, “It would feel better without this gown…” His fingers plucked at her skirt.

Éowyn laughed and agreed, “It would.” Faramir raised an eyebrow in amusement, then leaned to kiss her. Wrapping her arms about him, she held him closely. “Promise me you’ll do it again…another day?” She could not say when, of course, but the time of their joining was near, no matter if she left before him. Éowyn felt a flash of pressure and the resulting nerves. She had little time left before she would have to yield to his desire, as a wife should.

His face softened, “I will.” Faramir kissed her again, gaze searching hers. “I love you. Don’t worry, it will come.”

Éowyn brushed his hair from his brow so that she could see him better, fingertips lingering over his skin as she replied with a smile, “I know…and I love you.” His eyes were on hers, focused and so earnestly full of loving kindness that she laughed, embarrassed and dropping her hand. Faramir smiled and his features stilled as all lines of care vanished; there were no furrows on his brow, no creases drawn about his grey eyes. She could feel his peace and it touched her heart as he linked to her, sharing his loving contentment. Nearby shouting and several figures moving towards them broke their eye contact.

She laughed again, as judging by the men hastily coming down the shore, they’d not brought the boat back to exactly where they’d left it. “What’re we going to tell them?”

“I don’t know.” He grinned and stepped backwards, raising his arms in a gesture of helplessness and innocence. “You’re the Lady here.”

“Coward.” Straightening her skirts, Éowyn marched up to meet the men. I’m blaming it all on you. His groaning chuckle made her smile, as did his hand reaching for hers as she climbed up the bank. Éowyn looked to his face, searching his open, noble features. Good man, too good…what did I do to deserve him?

When Éowyn neared the men they stopped their shouting and Faramir knew they’d recognized her. A feeling of dilemma, then sincere abashment swept over the little group and the Rohirrim were quiet now while they approached. Wind ruffled her flowered circlet, sending the green ribbon flying out to flap and tangle with her darkened hair as Éowyn smiled pleasantly at the nearing Rohirrim and stepped forward to hold onto his arm. He glanced at her delicate profile, and then down to her arm wrapped about his with their hands clasped, studying the easy way that she held him close. Faramir felt his heart warmed not only by her nearness in that moment, but by her consistency in nestling close to him and not retreating. Oh, this is but the beginning… He smiled to himself in pleasure, squeezing her hand, spirits buoyed beyond all sorrows.

Éowyn apologized to the men in the Riders’ tongue, her manner very gracious and sincere as they bowed their heads in deep chagrin for so coarsely raising their voices to their Lady. And she seemed very much a Lady in that moment, almost startlingly so. Looking at her, the way she smiled, stood and spoke, he saw again the easy grace and confidence of her words with his students. Feeling rather useless at her side, Faramir nodded, granting his own much more unwieldy apology, “Ic sarie”, silently amused as the men shifted their feet and fidgeted. They were mumbling quick acceptance of her reparations almost before she finished, bowing very low and walking hastily past them to the boat.

As soon as they moved on up the little hill and out of earshot, he asked, smiling, “I thought you were going to blame it on me…?”

The shade of the trees was behind them and the late afternoon sun glowed off of her fair skin as Éowyn laughed and squeezed his hand; she’d not let go of it once. “I decided to have pity on you.” Her eyes twinkled with mischievous teasing, “Your accent is still…” She made a scrunched face as she stepped through the tall, dry grass that came to her waist, rustling and tawny against her dark green gown. The contrast of it made him mourn anew for her flaxen hair. Faramir turned his head sharply to look again with longing; he could have painted her, he knew how to make the paints for it and the picture of Éowyn standing against the blue sky in the tall sienna grasses with her emerald green gown and her golden hair would have been beautiful. He sighed and tried not to think about it.

“I thought that I was quite good.” Faramir repeated carefully, “Ic sarie. See? I can say that very well.” He jested, giving her a sideways grin, “I’m rather of the belief that that mastery, at the very least, will suit me well in coming years, my dearest.” Glancing off at the horizon, he confided, “I had heard the line of Éomund was prone to fits of rash temper.”

She laughed loudly and she was looking up at him with adoration, making his heart glad, “Yes,” Éowyn smiled more bashfully, “And yes, you can say that good enough, but,” She laughed again, “You sound like you’ve a mouthful of rocks sometimes.”

He teased, “That is because your tongue has words that are terribly long and ridiculously hard to say, much worse than the elven tongues.” Faramir put his fingers into his mouth, mumbling around them, “I think I’ve gotten more muscle…here…then when I came, just trying to say them.”

Éowyn burst out in delighted laughter again, yanking his arm, “No, you have not!” She was smiling so brightly. “Ah!” Now she scoffed, “Words of the elven tongue sound the same…all la and na and running together like a river so that you can’t tell anything apart!”

He taunted with a short shake of his head, hoping she would complete their simple jest, “Ná.”

Éowyn gave him a look, eyes narrowed in a show of annoyance while a smile lurked in the corners of her mouth. “What tongue is that? Nay or yea? Elven or,” Her face was alight, teasing, “A proper one?”

He chuckled, jesting more cautiously now, “Your language is more difficult to my learning, probably because none of you have had to deal with the bother of ever spelling the words you use.” Faramir was aware he had no idea how she felt about the lack of schooling within her folk. He braced himself, but there were no reprehensions.

She rolled her eyes, “That’s just long” and repeated it fluidly, “Rhtfæderencyn.”

“All right…” Faramir thought for a moment, “Modw…modwlon…” His mouth refused to move in both directions, sounds at once, forcing him to concentrate to eventually get out, “Modwlonc.” He chuckled under his breath and made an effort, “Ge eart modwlonc.” It meant spirited.

“Thank you.” With a playfully adorable half-curtsey, free hand pulling at her dark green skirts, Éowyn laughed at him, turning to walk backwards with a smile and say in a lightly bantering tone that he’d not heard much before, but instantly loved, “Mouthful of rocks.” Her hand reached up to pinch and lightly tug his cheek. “You sound like a squirrel would.”

She laughed again and, to his pleasure, returned to hugging his arm. “I like your accent. It sounds very agreeable to my ear…” Her brow creased as her tone softened, “Sounds comforting, makes me feel good when I can find your voice among others.” Éowyn looked up at him and her smile was gentle, deeply fond, “But that’s because you are my comfort.” Faramir smiled in happy return and she leaned to snuggle against his shoulder with a contented sigh.

Not sure how to respond, his soul was so overfull with joy, he just squeezed her hand, feeling her slender fingers comfortably interlaced with his. They walked back into the crowd and he sighed as the veil of minds surrounded him again, the ups and downs of emotions of the people near and far dragging at his consciousness, prodding him to pay attention, to feel what they felt. The weight seemed to grow easier to bear with time, but it still fatigued. Music was loud in this part of the festival, providing a welcome distraction as numerous minstrels played feverishly for folk that clapped and danced round and round in giant rings or more closely with another in the center near to a great fire. He imagined that when night fell in a few hours the sight would be one to marvel at.

Faramir smiled, cocking his head to listen more closely. The melodies were very exuberant; swift and chaotic, none were what he felt he could dance to with any degree of grace as there were few consistent rhythms to be found. Éowyn stepped from his side and led him by the hand about the edge of the dancers, then through clumped groups of clapping, cheering people that made room for her with hails in merry voices. Men bowed and women curtseyed as they spoke to her, faces full of cheer, flushed with high spirits and, no doubt, ale. When he looked down, her features was alight as she answered too fast and to too many for him to translate more than one word in ten though many times he heard the word Hordere used, the Rohirric term for his title of Steward. But whenever he turned to her for clarification, Éowyn just shook her head and smiled beatifically.

Finally, Faramir lowered his mouth to her ear, “What?” What is it? She was laughing, tilting her head to look back at him with bright eyes and gesturing with her free hand but he couldn’t understand what she was trying to say.

“You…they say…to you!” Éowyn shook her head again, gasping with laughter as he frowned in incomprehension. Her words were mostly drowned out by the loud variety of instruments and voices, but he gathered that the people had greeted him as well. Anxious to return as much courtesy as he was presumably being shown, and finding himself touched by their effort, Faramir looked around himself and smiled and nodded briefly in return to any eye that caught his. Yet, gazing at the joyfully and rather uninhibitedly dancing, clapping and loudly praising onlookers, he frowned. This was her home, her world and Faramir was deeply aware of that what he was taking her to would oft seem cold, bare and colorless in comparison. Still…he looked more closely. The people who lived in the lowest levels were much like these folk. Occupying the simplest, poorest houses in the City, they were commoners who worked the fields and herded their stock, living off what they could make, herd or harvest themselves and yielding a portion of what they could glean from their small plots of borrowed land to their Lord. As he examined those around him, he rather thought the lineages of those in the lowest levels might have mingled or originated with the Rohirrim, or other North Men. Faramir vaguely remembered that they were more boisterous in their celebrations during feast times and holidays, more like to the people in Rohan, I think…

Éowyn leaned up close, eyes sparkling as she raised her voice to entreat, “Teach me how to dance like they do in the City!”

“I can’t with this…it’s too fast, too…” Faramir laughed, waving a hand helplessly as he tried and failed to accurately describe the manic cheerfulness of the Rohirric musicians. He stared at the singing, playing men half in consternation, half in incredulous mirth. Are they drunk?

No, well, possibly. She laughed and before he could speak, Éowyn turned and caught the eye of the nearest minstrel who came immediately to her side, bowing low and offering his services. She looked at him expectantly. “Tell him what to play, Faramir.”

“I…I don’t…” Her words from not long before came to his ear, her murmured desperate desire not to disappoint or embarrass him and he sighed, looking down at her blithely hopeful expression. With a gesture for patience, he laughed, “Let me think a moment…I’m not a minstrel, I don’t write the music, I just dance to it!” Éowyn’s smile was well worth the effort of rifling through his memory.

Arwen had buried her head against his shoulder and grasped his arm with elven strength when the man had swallowed the burning torch, only to look up immediately, crying out and applauding in delight as the quenched brand was withdrawn with no harm. The feel of her curved body, even momentarily pressed to his, had stunned Éomer into silence. He clapped more slowly, trying at once to shake off his surprise and a brief, but very improper thrill. It was not seemly and he ground his teeth, thinking that he would not tolerate it within himself. She is another man’s wife, a man who happens to be my friend. I will not allow more than affection, friendship. Heart set, Éomer swept it from his thoughts and shouted his appreciation for the Rohir’s talents, adding his voice to the crowds’. The man bowed low, obviously delighted in pleasing his Lord and the Queen of the City. With more relish, waving the flaming torch and building suspense, he performed again, swallowing and snuffing the red-yellow flame with no apparent effects. The dead brand was shown with a boy from the crowd allowed to touch the blackened end to confirm it was still hot, and then the man showed his unharmed mouth, equally unburned tongue wagging in spectacle. Arwen applauded anew, throwing many coins from her purse onto the gleaming pile on the grass. The man bowed low with a bright smile.

They moved on to a troupe of acrobats who amazed Éomer with their effortless grace and made him cringe and shudder as they walked with ease over slender ropes suspended well above the height of a horse’s back. Some vaulted from long poles onto the shoulders of others and still others balanced lightly on one another, stacking men like cords of wood. But Arwen just shook her head, “I’ve seen this, only in the branches of mallorns in Lórien.” She laughed, “Young elves boasting their lightness of foot.”

“A tree much bigger than you can imagine,” Her smile turned teasing, “Or would wish to, I guess, Master Éomer.”

“As well you shouldn’t!” One slim finger poked into the muscle of his arm. “Heavy-boned creature you are, you’d fall straight to the earth like a stone.” Éomer ducked his head and laughed, feeling curiously unashamed at his admittance. The open declaration of fear was not something he was used to being acceptable. She sounded wistful as she continued, “They are beautiful trees…you should travel to Lórien and look upon them.”

“Why not? The paths are open now and I could send word to my kin. They would guide you to the city, show you every kindness, even let you sleep on the ground if the trees were too high for your tastes.” Arwen smiled, teasing, “Or have you not the courage to enter the,” Her voice lowered in mockery, “Mystery shrouded elven lands alone?”

He admitted, shamed, “I think that I don’t. Not alone, and those that would come with me would be just as fearful.”

“Ah, well. Perhaps one day.” She patted his arm and Éomer was pleased to note no thrills or lewd feelings whatsoever as the Queen added warmly, “If you change your mind you have but to ask, dear friend. I’m sure I could sway Legolas into showing you Mirkwood if you wanted. I hear it is less dark these days, that the old woods are full of light rather than spiders.”

At the word spider, he smiled widely. Old tales of giant spiders in Mirkwood had terrified Éowyn to no end as a girl, even though most had been regarded as fancy or lies spread by elven folk to keep out trespassers. Éomer chuckled softly in remembrance. He’d spent many a night by the firelight in the main Hall embellishing those tales until she was begging to sleep in his bed, screeching at unexpected touches and generally terrified out of her wits. He shook his head, like I would be any different…faced with entering an elven Hall. Arwen smiled up at him, breaking his reminiscing by asking lightly, “Come, what else?”

They walked into the dry fields to where men rode two horses, straddling open air with one foot planted firmly on their backs, some controlling four at once, galloping in tight circles and leaning with the animals. A few were skilled enough to fly over a jump without tumbling from their precarious perches. Here, like the man who ate fire and the acrobats, the ground sparkled with gold coins and silver pennies. Éomer asked curiously, “Have you seen this?”

“Young elves, again, but more rarely. My brothers did such feats.” She clapped and cried aloud in appreciation before murmuring into his bent ear with a dancing eye, “They are good horses to tolerate such nonsense.”

He agreed with a smile, “Not all would, but they enjoy it, as they must. It is but another game for them to play—we teach them as foals that all riding and work is a game,” Éomer’s smile widened, “One that they are always best at.” They walked further to watch men attempt to ride a bucking horse that leapt and spun and sent a man flying to the dirt. Arwen frowned and he reassured, “This, too, is a game to see if he can get the rider off his back. He likes it better to throw his rider than to sit under saddle, so here he does what he likes best and gets praised as he wins his master a dinner and a dry roof for their heads.”

Her keen eyes focused on the sweating horse as it pricked its ears and shook its head, blowing through pink nostrils. It wore no saddle or bridle, only a halter. At a soft whistle, it stepped around the slowly rising man it had just thrown, and came to its master, who patted it with much approval and then held the now quiet horse by the halter, crying a further dare to the watching throng of men. Several boys wiped the gleaming sweat and dust from the gelding’s flanks with damp cloths as another provided a bucket of water. Arwen smiled as one man took up the challenge with a cry. “Brave young Riders.” She smiled, “You’re right…he seems well enough.” The Queen clasped her hands and laughed in anticipation, “What else?”

Completely without thought, he growled at her with the tone and narrowed eyes of mock reproach and a grin of suggestive bantering, “Insatiable.” Arwen seemed taken aback but then she laughed long and with delight. Éomer blinked, immediately and silently reprimanding himself. What did I say? Friendship! Act like a nobleman and not a boor for once!

However, the Queen didn’t appear offended in the slightest, giving him a laughing glance coupled with a worldly and teasing response that tied his tongue and rooted his gaze to his feet in an instant. “Aye.” Still laughing, she took his arm and pulled him back through the crowd, Rusco straining at his leash with every stride. Nonplussed but helpless to resist, Éomer allowed her to lead them both onward.

Faramir was patient with her, which Éowyn quickly grew to appreciate. The watching crowd made her nervous until she looked up into his eyes—they were held steadfast onto her own, full of love, composure and kind support—Faramir’s gaze made the rest of the world vanish and her nervousness went with it. She smiled; relaxing and letting him lead her, the minstrels playing slow and lightsome behind them; higher pitched trills of pipes melded with the mellow strumming of lutes and the soft chang-and-shake of tambourines. It was pretty music, simple and repetitive with precisely prescribed divisions, which made it easier for her to remember where she was in the dance.

“Good…now again just like before.” Faramir smiled encouragingly, “How did it go?” His hand just rested in hers, fingers sliding along her own as he retreated. The soft frictions of skin on skin were teases of chaste touches before their hands lost contact entirely and he bowed to her, formally enough to make her smile with the unfamiliarity of seeing the gesture. Faramir rose with his typical grace and courtesy, dark hair swinging gently, his eyes still held steadfast to her own.

Éowyn admired him, then opened her mouth to answer and realized she had none. She laughed, moaning, “I can’t remember.”

From her left side, where he was supposed to be, he nodded soothingly and began, “Right, left, right, right…left, right, left, left…” Éowyn felt her smile widen, awed and loving him as she tried to memorize his low directions. The steps were simplistic, made complex only by the sheer repetitive extent of them. He grinned, “Remember now?”

“No.” She giggled helplessly, stepping closer to him, desiring at that moment to be less surrounded by folk and more within his arms, as he looked incredibly handsome. Head tilted, his mind touching hers to seek the reason for her sudden focus, Faramir smiled cheekily. Flatterer.

Laughing softly, she looked at him fondly. No, I’m not. The leather of his sable surcoat was gleaming warmly in the sun, the ivory of the White Tree unsullied and glowing in contrast; his hair was hanging in a shining mass over his shoulders, a few strands venturing into his grey eyes, where his gaze sparkled with good humor and adoration. You are handsome.

With a grin, he shook his head, “All right.” He sounded completely unruffled with her fault as he continued with the lessons, “Now again, just the same until you can remember.” Faramir’s every movement was perfectly unconscious and natural; he made for all the world like they were in a fine Hall surrounded by courtly Lords and Ladies instead of in a dusty field encircled with quietly gawking peasants who’d likely never before seen such elegance or nobility of manner. They went through the same beginning steps until she’d achieved a modicum of bearing and some memory of their order, then Faramir smiled brilliantly, praising, “Good! Good.” He raised and kissed her hand, lips warm and making her thrill with silly girlishness as he murmured, “All right, this is harder…”

Faramir laughed again, eyes sparkling with good cheer. “Yes! Right, left, right, right…” The melody went on and she did her best to follow his movements, giggling at her own mistakes, trying not to trip over her skirts, pleased and reassured when he paused both her and the music. Éowyn found herself actually breathing a bit fast. Faramir smiled at her, “Very good. You want the rest or to repeat this?”

“Oh, do it again.” She looked to her left, where he stood. “And you’re lying.” I feel like an ox, and a lame one at that.

He furrowed his brow, a grin springing to his mouth, and then shook his head firmly. “Ná.”

Éowyn laughed, stepping back, her clasped hand extended as she turned and curtseyed as delicately as she could manage—he’d schooled her first on how to begin with a courtesy to her Lord. Imagining Aragorn crowned and seated upon the High seat in the Hall of Feasts in Minas Tirith, his features alight with happiness for her, she asked merrily, “Which tongue is that?”

Another emotion was in his face now; it was bright with rascality, making her giggle in anticipation. “This one.” After helping her stumble through the steps she’d learned, he held her hand and kneeled, leading her in a slow circle around him. Éowyn walked slowly, hearing the lightsome music and feeling as though she were floating about his kneeled, still and courtly figure. Faramir’s hand was warm, grip firm as he rose just in time with the swelling music—deep strums of lutes, piping of recorders and even the trilling of harp strings—to plant a firm, lingering kiss on her lips. He smiled, standing for just a moment longer and Éowyn smiled in return, feeling her heart beat faster, her desire rising to make her yearn for just another touch of his, another kiss.

She yielded to it and broke the rules for just a moment, curling one arm about his neck and pulling his body to touch hers, loving its feel. Faramir laughed against her mouth, eyes full of pretend sternness; Éowyn dropped her gaze like a scolded girl and he laughed again, then lifted her chin with a surprisingly masterful hand. Handsome face gone solemn now, intent, he kissed her a second time; this was softer, slower and with more passion so that she tightened her arm, holding him closer, wishing for far more closeness than she could or dared have, the closeness of skin to skin.

There was laughter and a few admiring calls from the women in the crowd, making Éowyn flush as he took a breath and stepped back with clear reluctance. Faramir laughed softly, arching an eyebrow. Do they think I’m handsome or no? I’m not sure I know what that means when they do that…envy or pity for their Lady.

She couldn’t answer at the moment, too dazzled, and he continued the lesson with a smile. “Right, left, left, left…around to my other side…and back about, then I go and you stand.” He stepped perfectly, every stride falling to the beat of the slow melody as he circled her and urged her to stand still with the light, guiding touch of his hand to her waist or the small of her back. Éowyn felt odd, smiling in shyness, but very pleased as he circled; the crimson ribbon caught her gaze and she squeezed his hand, watching him. His attentive eyes never left her, affection shining out from their grey depths as Faramir halted on her left again and half-bowed. He grinned and gestured, “Now we’re both opposite of where we started and we begin the dance over until the music stops.”

Éowyn stared at him and shook her head, finally able to answer. If it is not envy, they are blind. Smiling, he dipped his brow, dark hair falling around his handsome face, and took an extra moment to kiss her again before he sent her away to curtsey and end the dance in the proper manner to her imagined Aragorn. She felt…light of foot, near weightless with giddy bliss, yet knowing she undoubtedly looked dreadfully graceless to his experienced eye.

After a moment to speak with the minstrels and change the tune to a sprightlier one, he returned. “This is a simple circle dance…double left, double right, double left, double right…left four steps…” Éowyn laughed breathlessly, barely able to keep up as he took her in a large, somewhat irregular circle. She was sure they looked incredibly silly but Faramir didn’t so much as feel embarrassed; Éowyn looked at him sharply—he didn’t seem anything but merry. He was enjoying this, enjoying the teaching of her very much. She smiled. Min Láréow…my brother has a better eye than he thinks…or I think. Éowyn laughed.

Faramir grinned in response. “Now kick left, right, left and…” He burst into laughter, “Not so high.”

A rare sound—her Prince was giggling breathlessly just like a lad, hardly able to instruct, “Gently, gently…you’re not riding a horse!”

Éowyn frowned as he paused, expecting the next command. Hearing him humming cheerfully under his breath, she could sense he was waiting for something and suddenly he turned and was twirling her playfully with both hands to her waist and lifting her high enough and all so unexpected that she screeched and clutched his arms. “Faramir!” Faramir laughed in another great burst as he sat her down again, this time to the other side of him. He sounded so happy it was startling. Éowyn stared at him, her heart racing, and marveled. How much younger he looked than when she’d first met him in the gardens of the City, how few lines of care were laid on his brow and how no longer drawn with worry and strain his features seemed!

Assuming a scolding tone and putting her hands to her hips, she frowned at him in mock anger, “You did that on purpose!”

The grin disappeared and a naughty smile appeared in its place; Faramir leaned to growl softly, “Got you to squeal, didn’t I?”

Éowyn laughed, shocked and not displeased by his boldness. She took a breath, biting her lip and trying not to giggle and keep her sternness as she admitted, giving his chest a shove. “Yes, you did.”

He moved closer and asked, his voice low with a playful smile riding on his lips, “Want me to do it again?” Faramir put his hands to her waist; she was very aware of the light, warm pressure of them.

Her control broke and she laughed with thrilled pleasure, pushing him away again, but gently. Éowyn furrowed her brow, trying and failing to make her mouth stop smiling and purse into a glower as she scolded through her laughter. “Stop that and teach me!”

With a boyish chuckle of indulgence, he began instructing her in more of the simplistic, and yet highly ornamented steps. Faramir was incredibly knowledgeable of how and when to move apart or come close, what to do when the music changed and on and on so that her head spun. Éowyn learned immediately to look to him for guidance, as he was somehow able to direct her with a mere smile, nod of his head or a glint in his eyes. This was communication akin to their link but a newly voiceless kind. It made her feel closer to him, to his heart. Oh, but I love you…

He glanced to her and a smile spread across his mouth. His face fairly glowed with contentment. She smiled as Faramir came close, breaking the rules of the dance, of all the dances he’d shown her, to fully embrace her and hold his body to hers. Éowyn leaned on his shoulder, reaching up to whisper into his ear, not displeased at all, “I thought you couldn’t do this.”

He pulled back so they could be face to face and his smile turned into another crooked grin born of roguishness. “I can do as I like…” Faramir nodded to their audience. “We’ve no Court of disapproving…” He kissed her, just the tiny, barest touch, “high-born Lords and Ladies to…”

“…what?” Murmuring her question close to his mouth, she could have melted into his hugging arms, never wanting the fragile, wonderful moment to end.

“Shake their heads and call me unchaste, say that I should have more…shame…” Faramir kissed her again, soft and full of warmth. They moved together with very small, slow steps, far closer than any other time. It felt deliciously wonderful to move with him, his body guiding her so slow and close. His arms rested about her waist; their weight was lovely, as was the firmness of his sable surcoat, the faint smell of the City coming again to her nose when she nuzzled to his collar.

Faramir’s eyes were on hers and she smiled shyly as he leaned to whisper faint and intimate into the cup of her ear, “You look so beautiful…you should always wear a circlet of flowers, my Arien.”

She felt delighted knowing that she could please him in the City, yet doubting. Éowyn still knew herself as lumbering when compared to his effortless dignity. “Liar…and who is that?” She passed her hands up to spread against his broad back, marveling. He held himself so straight with his shoulders squared and back erect, no matter the music or her mistakes his every step had been flowing and light of foot, utterly unconscious in his ability. Certainly, no men of her lands could duplicate his grace or deftness. Éowyn turned her head to see many of those in the crowd standing in awe and she smiled, feeling the same but favored as she was within the sphere of his enchantment.

He recounted for her in the easy voice of a man reciting a lesson learned with deep fascination, “She is the maiden whom the Valar chose to guide the vessel of the Sun, whose light foretold the awakening of Men. It is written that she shed her form when she took her duty, for her eyes were too bright for even the Eldar to withstand and she became as a naked flame, terrible in the full measure of her magnificence.” His words were filled with reverence, “The Sun embodied.” Faramir touched her hair and became sober, lamenting, “I thought of Arien when I saw you on the stairs of Meduseld…your hair glowed in the Sun like it was made of Her rays, a crown of sunbeams.”

“Oh.” Éowyn laughed, thinking. That is a compliment, to be compared to this Arien, who you like? Returning her arms to their place, clasped around his neck, she leaned upwards to kiss him.

Yes…a fierce maiden she was, as you are. Faramir smiled when she kissed him again, “Mmm, I should lie more often…”

“No!” She hugged his neck, “You’re the one that looks lovely.” Éowyn ran her fingers over the warm leather collar of his surcoat as she smiled up, feeling herself almost intoxicated by the happy grace he’d given her. Perhaps her brother had not been entirely overcome by an overactive and distrustful imagination when he’d named Faramir a witch—in truth her love was a man charmed with many gifts of gallantry and refinement that none in the Mark could match.

Faramir shook his head slightly, answering with mild reproach. “Thank you.” He stopped moving and sighed, then turned to the minstrel and gestured. “Enough for today, I think.” Éowyn nodded, but he didn’t let her go, running his index finger under her chin to lift it. Faramir kissed her briefly and only with subdued emotion; she could feel he was reaware of the crowd. As they stepped apart, there was a great swell of applause from her people. He tugged her hand so that she curtseyed self-consciously to their audience, flushing with laughter and embarrassment. Faramir nodded amiably to their cheering onlookers, then beamed at her. The minstrels bowed low, voicing lavish praises for her efforts while other musicians began anew with the quick rhythms of her people’s music, anxious not to lose the crowd. Faramir kissed her brow and they shared a private smile.

You taught me well. He laughed at her saccharine response and offered his arm. As they began to walk away from dancing folk, Éowyn asked eagerly, “You looked so perfect, how did you learn to do that…and so well?”

“Practice, it took much practice and the bearing of much teasing from my brother…he had less rhythm, or less will to learn. I’m not sure which.” Her love laughed, his face rueful before he nodded beyond the edge of the amassed folk, “What do you wish to do now?”

“I don’t know.” When she glanced around herself at the mingling dancers, trying to think, Éowyn started, catching the bright blue of an expensive gown, beads and jewels winking in the sun, veil glowing nebulously among the far more plain and drab dresses worn by the womenfolk of her country. Her brother and Arwen were standing not far off; they had been watching them. “Oh no.” Able to see her brother’s grin already, she ducked her head, mortified as Faramir took her hand and led her forward. He squeezed her fingers in reassurance, don’t be embarrassed…

I can’t help it…I looked… She grimaced and asked with suspicion, did you know they were there?

Faramir smiled, peeking at her with his dark hair in his eyes. Possibly. Éowyn’s mouth fell open and she shoved him. He laughed and his inner reply was warm, gently arguing against her distress. You looked beautiful, happy…what is wrong with that?

I think you have to say that…and I looked dreadful. He chuckled, then sighed, giving up on any further protest. Éomer and the Queen came to them even as the great rings reformed with people laughing and dodging around their Lord. Rusco barked nervously, cowering close to his mistress as skirts billowed; feet were stamping and hair and cloaks flew in the winds of the dancer’s passage. Arwen bent and plucked him up, moving faster. Her brother was grinning still; she read his teasing eyes and cringed. I knew I looked like an ox…

Arwen spoke first, praising. “That was lovely!” The Queen smiled, “Faramir, you never danced or looked so well in the City.”

His voice was mellow, pleasant as he looked down at her, then answered good-humoredly, “I never had a partner whom I enjoyed so well.”

Éomer opened his mouth, grinning gleefully, but Arwen touched his arm and spoke first again. Her tone was brisk and would brook no interruptions, “Where are you going now?”

Grateful for the way her brother was so neatly silenced, Éowyn looked to Faramir, but he just shrugged. She answered quietly, still abashed and hugging his arm, “We don’t know.”

The Queen smiled, her eyes going from one man to the other. “Good. Faramir, I’ll return her to you by the evening meal.”

Arwen smiled, taking her arm and stating firmly. “Éomer has no appreciation for this. He’d only be a pain.” Her brother looked wounded, objecting,

The Queen replied indulgently, one slim, fair hand patting Éomer’s cheek fondly, “Yes, you would. You’d be positively horrid.”

Making a face, Éowyn groaned and guessed, “Oh, is it wrestling…? I don’t want to see that, it’s…”

With a burst of laughter she was cut off, “No, just come! I promise you will enjoy it.” And then she was tugged away, powerless to fight against such strength. Éowyn looked back over her shoulder just as her brother and Faramir gazed at each other awkwardly; both then smiled weakly and turned their heads to give her eerily identical pleading looks tinged with uneasiness, making her laugh and wave at them with her free hand. Éomer’s scowl made her smile, as did the expression of yielding resignation that flashed across Faramir’s face. Goodbye my dear loves…act nicely.

Éomer shifted his feet, feeling compelled to speak. He was Lord here, after all, and the Steward was his guest. He took a breath, paused in an effort to think of something to say, then asked, “You said before that you like the bow?”

Faramir nodded, his expression uncertain but full of earnest good will. “Yes.”

He smiled and offered, “Do you want to show me?” It was the first and only thing he’d thought of at the prospect of being left alone with the man, and the last thing they’d spoken of this day. He scowled in the direction Arwen had taken his sister. We have one thing in common and that has just been dragged off…

The Steward nodded again, then frowned. Looking at him, Éomer realized that the man was just as desirous as he to appear friendly and comfortable within each other’s presence and he felt himself relax and grin as the Steward asked, “How?”

“They have contests.” He looked away, feigning innocence while he added spice to the light challenge, “I heard you were good, that was part of why I had you teach those lads. But there is good and…”

The Steward gazed at him for a moment, clearly amused, then smiled and laughed as he gestured with one hand. “All right, show me where and I’ll,” His smile widened, “Defend my apparently great reputation.” With a nod, Éomer led him back along the route he had taken with Arwen, passing vendors. After several minutes of surprisingly comfortable silence, Faramir asked suddenly, “What was the other part?”

“Oh…” Éomer’s hand plucked at his trousers. “It was…to ease your trials…” He glanced aside, but didn’t quite meet the other man’s eyes; Faramir’s touched expression and gentle smile was enough to know his meaning was understood. “The lads would feel out of place, I supposed it would go easier if you could learn with them and not feel to be the sole man who didn’t know what he was doing.”

Faramir turned to gaze at him, speaking in a low, surprisingly appreciative voice. “That was very considerate. Thank you.”

The appreciation and the affection easily heard within it made him squirm a little, so Éomer just bobbed his head in a nod. He dared to look at the other man and accidentally met the Steward’s gaze. It was warm with friendliness and very much filled with gratitude—more than he would have guessed. Clearing his throat, he said roughly, “You’re welcome.”

After a moment the Steward chuckled, teasing lightly, “And all this when you hated me?”

Faramir glanced at him, a grin just hiding as he spoke soberly, innocently. “You said hated.”

Éomer smiled, feeling himself relax in their bantering. “I would have called it…intense dislike. I intensely disliked you.” He smiled again, “Now,” He cleared his throat, “Now I almost like you.”

“Well, that’s good.” Laughing softly and clearly amused, Faramir smiled at him and they walked in companionable silence until they came to a cleared field. Old wooden shields had been repainted and used to stand as targets. Many men stood nearby with bows in their hands.

Grateful to speak more impersonally, Éomer asked, “Do you want your weapon?” He motioned to an on-looking boy. The lad came running at once.

“Please.” Faramir was not paying attention to him, instead scrutinizing the targets. He looked up, squinting at the sun and taking several purposeful steps away to stare about himself, though Éomer could not discern what the purpose was. “Here, take this.” The Steward unbuckled his sword, handing it to the lad who bowed and trotted off swiftly. Éomer left him for a moment to inform the admittance of a new competitor. As he spoke, casually commending the Steward as an accomplished archer of good skill, he smiled, hoping the man would not make him look like a fool.

It was not long before the lad returned with the bow of Gondor and Faramir’s worn quiver. Éomer eyed the man’s things, curious as to why they were so stained, as certainly the Prince would have all amenities. Yet the quiver was ragged at the seams with bits of thread unraveling. The simple leather and cloth sheath was so faded as to be only darkish, colorless really, and the only thing that looked unaccustomed to heavy weather or wear were the straps to hold it to Faramir’s back. Éomer guessed they were protected by the man’s cloak. The bow was another matter; its wood was a warm dark color that glowed with the light of many careful oilings. The string was new, but he noticed that the fair and delicate carvings that made it a nobleman’s piece were worn away in places.

Faramir smiled as he took his weapon, holding it with tender care as he slid the quiver over his shoulder. Éomer watched him, noting the easy way the bow fit in the man’s hand. Smooth wood of light construction, it looked deceivingly trivial and not dangerous at all. He asked, “Ready?”

Just holding his bow lifted the Steward’s spirits, if his fervent expression was any indication. He nodded, Southern accent seeming to reappear more strongly. “Aye.” Together they walked to the line of Rohirric archers, mostly strong-armed men who looked like they could break the slender bow of Gondor with a single pull.

The Steward chuckled, tone unconcerned, “Thank you.” Faramir seemed terribly frail in their presence as Éomer walked away to watch from a safer location.

An older Rohir shouted commands in their tongue. Bolts were put to string, securely notched and waiting with expectant hands. Faramir stood still, he looked at ease, even speaking pleasantly to the man beside him. Éomer frowned; he’d not even notched his arrow, instead holding it loosely between his fingers. They shared more words until the last command was called out and all bows were bent, men firing at will. The Steward shot with no apparent effort, arm pulling back swiftly, drawing the feather to his cheek and releasing it just as swiftly, all as though he’d not even sighted down the field, but simply shot into open air with perfect confidence that his arrow would reach the wooden shield. Bolt sent, he didn’t watch it, but lowered his bow and stood courteously waiting until the man beside him had shot to speak again.

The Rider stared down the field, then turned to him. “Good shot, Lady’s pet.”

“Thank you.” Faramir smiled, feeling the light, comforting weight of his bow, the living tension in the wood, the thin string vibrating under his fingertips, the smooth roundness of his next arrow and its perfect balance. Using these familiar sensations as a shield, he pretended he wasn’t bothered by the name, centering himself and breathing normally though he wanted to snarl with fury. The Rohir had been one of the six who’d pretended at guarding him on the ride to Meduseld. Why does he wish to anger me…drive me to impulsive, ignoble actions? He could not fathom the reason. Do they think that if I act so then Éomer will banish me, forbid me to marry Éowyn…so that they will keep their beloved Lady? He ground his teeth on a harsh laugh. No such thing would ever happen. He’d won the man’s favor long ago, even the Riders must recognize that.

The man seemed to pause, taken aback by his lack of visible outrage and Faramir watched a glimmer of respect come to his eyes before he asked with less assurance. “Where is the Lady? I do not see her.”

He replied easily, still feigning indifference, “You mean why does she not watch her trophy earn her more acclaim?”

The Rohir grinned widely, as though they shared a great jest. Faramir frowned to himself, careful to keep his expression calm, indifferent. In a voice of mockery, the Rider asked, “Aye, where is she? Have you slipped your collar?”

His jaw clenched and Faramir said coldly, losing all sense of stoicism, “I don’t wear a collar and I am not her pet. Do you understand me?” He lowered his voice, hardening it and receiving a certain fascination from hearing it shake with rage, “Or will I have to beat it into you right here and now?” The thought of doing so before the crowd was not displeasing and he had the urge to set aside his bow and quiver and throw the insolent Rohir to the ground. The last shreds of his sense that peace should be upheld to the last possible moment were all but gone. And I don’t care…

The man beside him broke into another grin. “Ná. At ease, Hordere.” He nocked his next arrow, peering at the distanced targets and setting his shot with care.

Turning to fully face him, Faramir stared blankly, utterly nonplussed. The Rohir glanced up and just smiled, obviously pleased by his confusion. His manner was not aggressive or hateful as Oswyn’s had been—there is no reason for this…foolishness! Bewildered, he frowned and did not speak at once, and then it was too late, he had to shoot again. He sighted with irritation and did so, loosing his bolt with particular force, feeling satisfaction in seeing it whack into the wood with a very audible thud, point wholly buried. If it had been sent into soft flesh he would have lost most of the shaft, as well.

Suddenly a question of Gaer’s returned to him, the question of why he did not speak with the Rohirrim as he did his redheaded friend. Why not? I do not know. His abuser did not hit the center and cursed. Faramir smiled, “It is no surprise to my thinking that the Lady went outside her lands to wed if all of your men have such softness…” He paused deliberately, “Of arm and carry little skill within it.”

The Rohir jerked to look at him, clearly surprised. He stared ahead at Faramir’s bolt where it lay securely within the center of the wooden shield and then laughed aloud, clapping his hand to his back. Faramir jumped a little; he’d been expecting contact of a more aggressive nature. “Aye, if you like.” He was dismissed then, leaving Faramir to stare after him, disconcerted, then ahead to his arrow.

I should listen to Gaer, more, I think… He smiled and withdrew another bolt.

The crowd broke into whistles and whooping cries as arrows flew, thudding into the targets with varying degrees of success. Éomer grinned and applauded; Faramir’s dart had hit the center again. But he’d expected as much and this was but the beginning of the contest. The targets were dragged further down the field, adding distance and a further chance that the light wind would carry their bolts astray. The performance was repeated and again Faramir’s arrow struck perfectly and he stood waiting.

Over successive shots with the additions of distance until the shields could be moved no further back, and the use of smaller targets, men were removed from the field until only a handful was allowed to remain. The Steward was one and looked no more ill at ease than when he’d started—Éomer had begun to wonder if he considered this a contest at all, as every shot had been done with the same effortlessness and seeming lack of care. He’d also begun to wonder what wood the Gondorian bow was made of; it was smaller than most of the others and yet the farther distances didn’t seem to strain it. Éomer was impressed with the man’s skill and knew those around him were as well. Really, he thought the Steward almost looked bored, shooting his arrows swift and effortless, then often shifting his feet and glancing about himself as he waited for others. After sending another dart into the target with perfect ease, Faramir turned, peering up into the crowd, his expression eagerly searching as a smile of welcome came over his face.

As he was wondering what the man was looking for, his arm was grabbed with a hard hand that dug its nails into his skin painfully and twisted him around; he jumped in shock and pain, turning to see who dared such a thing. His sister and Arwen had come through the crowd. She glared at him in outrage, blue eyes flashing, “You were going to let me miss this? You didn’t think that I would want to watch him?”

Éomer stared at her, unsettled, “What? No, I…I don’t know.” Baffled, he gestured to the Queen standing behind her, “You went off with her…what was I supposed to do, run fetch you?”

“Oh… Just be quiet so I can watch!” Éowyn shook her head, glowering darkly. She heaved an irritated sigh and glared at him once more before stepping on her tiptoes to smile and wave at her love, who grinned in cheerful return, raising a hand. Faramir drew another arrow and turned back to the contest.

Once more they fired their bolts, the target reduced to not much bigger than a man’s head, the painted center as large as an apple; Éomer had to squint to see if any arrows struck but Faramir hit it perfectly yet again. His companion had long been removed and he stood quietly now, absently rubbing his forearm, as he was not wearing any bracers to protect it from the string’s stinging rebound. Two men missed the target entirely and only three remained—one of which was the Steward himself. Éomer grinned and applauded loudly, showing his support; even if the man lost now he would be acknowledged as very skilled indeed.

“Æt me, min cempa! Faramir, min cempa æt Mundburg, æt Riddermark!” Éowyn’s spirited cry of encouragement made him smile, as well as her label of champion. And her sign…the crimson ribbon was still firmly tied to Faramir’s arm. Éomer studied his heart and was pleased to feel nothing but amusement combined with slight pride in the Steward’s efforts. He smiled in delight, finding himself utterly at peace. He felt light, unburdened and shouted for Faramir, openly giving his favor to the Prince.

Faramir turned his head slightly in response to their cheers and there was a flash of a touched, almost embarrassed smile on his face before he shot anew, not bothering to hurry or notch his arrow beforehand. He simply withdrew one from his quiver and set it to the string, pulled to his cheek and released, all in one motion, all without pause and all with the same perfect confidence of every previous shot. Around Éomer, the crowd had begun to grow and murmur to one another as people from elsewhere in the festival heard of the contest and came to see the victor.

“Min cempa, gea wille ofercomme him ond deð se geflit!” Éowyn called out to her love, her voice full of happiness, firmly upholding her earlier cry. Faramir had to shoot again, but this time he waited until the other two had gone, one missing, before drawing a bolt from his tattered quiver with a flourish, making Éomer grin to himself and chuckle as he came to a realization.

He’s showing off now that she’s come…it was almost cute, as was the wide, hopeful smile on his sister’s face, one of her hands wrapped around the pendant at the end of her rawhide necklace. The Queen’s eyes met his and she laughed softly, making Éomer laugh and admit silently that it was adorable. Oh, so much that it is nauseating… He chuckled to himself, grinning lightheartedly. Meanwhile, the Steward had nocked his arrow and pulled, angling the Gondorian bow incredibly steeply and leaning backward with the effort so that his whole body was bowed. Around them the crowd seemed to gasp and their murmurs turned into concerned, confused whispers as they looked to one another in bafflement. The remaining Rohir archer stared at him in equal perplexity.

Éowyn frowned, looking back and forth. Her voice was anxious, “What is he doing?” Éomer just shook his head. He had no idea, but knew, even as a man who rarely shot a bow, that the angle was far too sheer.

He frowned to himself, staring at the Steward’s bent figure in the second he was stone still, holding the tension, the breath before the release. But why would he lose on purpose…and in front of my sister? Faramir had only more one archer to outdo and Éomer found that he was quite confident that the man could accomplish it, which made whatever the Prince was doing all the more puzzling.

Seemingly oblivious to their worry, and all still with the same perfect confidence, Faramir had pulled until the slender bow looked like it would snap. The force concentrated against his two fingers and pulling against his arm and shoulder must have been terrible, but to Éomer’s incredulous eye there was no strain to be found within the man’s posture or on his face. Instead, Faramir appeared nonchalant, wearing a growing smile of triumph.

When he released, the string didn’t sing so much as howl, twanging back to slap against his unprotected arm as the dart flew impossibly high and far, vanishing into the blue sky. Straightening to stare ahead, one hand shading his eyes, the other lax with his bow, he wasn’t looking at the sky, but instead straight to the wooden shield. The Steward’s face was still confident, wearing the relaxed and pleased expression of a man just waiting for what he knew would come. Éowyn grabbed Éomer’s arm, tearing his gaze away from Faramir’s motionless figure to meet her troubled, eager one, “Where…where did it go?”

He shook his head, peering into the bright sky. Éomer saw nothing but emptiness and the light of the sun as it began its descent. He squinted, glancing at the target, then the sky again. “I don’t know…I don’t see anything.”

“Blind mortals…” Arwen pointed into the air. The Queen’s cry was full of delighted excitement. “There! Look!” She laughed. “Watch it fall and see if it lands where our Prince intended!”

After a second of straining, he saw the bolt. It was tiny, having been sent powerfully upwards, a black needle in the vast field of blue sky, growing larger as it plummeted, curving down, down then angling…

Éomer’s mouth fell open as the bolt sank itself deep into the target, only slightly off-center. The thudding noise of it was loud within the suddenly quiet throng. I don’t… It was difficult to believe what he’d seen, but the proof was still vibrating, point securely embedded in the scarred wood. Around them the crowd was still and silent for a moment more, turning to one another in shock, then one and all exploded in applause, voicing raucous howls of delight and admiration. The remaining Rohir archer bowed low to Faramir, who inclined his head in a show of similar appreciation, and walked off the field, gracefully yielding to the Steward without further contest. Éomer was jostled as Éowyn pushed past him, running down to laugh and embrace her love.

It was almost too much, he was almost overawed. This was not a contest…what would be if he could do that so easily? Éomer walked more slowly down as Faramir lowered his bow carefully to the ground and stepped forward to swing Éowyn up into his arms. Her laughing cry of surprise made him smile and think kindly, they look so happy…

Then Éomer was astonished to feel a pull another sort on his heart and one he did not recognize—not sadness of her leaving, nor jealousy of how swiftly she’d run down and left him behind—this was nothing he’d felt before in their presence. It was almost a longing that filled his chest, a lonely sort of yearning as Faramir spun his sister with her dark green skirts flying, flowers fluttering, ribbons shining and floating outward; she leaned close, arms about his neck, hugging him tightly as she shared his triumph. Something touched him in the way they laughed, their laughter mingling, the way they seemed not two apart, but two together, lines blurred as to where one ended and the other began.

Their eyes were so bright, smiles so radiant. His heart pined and he glanced at his empty side. I am alone… Faramir held his sister up, and kissed her again as he looked on and Éomer sighed deeply. He was a coward and should not wait. I will give him leave to go… He smiled, heart bittersweet.

“That was…” She shook her head, eyes as stars, cheeks flushed with excitement. Éowyn cupped his face and kissed him firmly before pulling back to exclaim proudly. “Ge eart min cempa, dyde Ic ná sæge hit? Min cempa, betst æt se boga.”

“Gea.” Somewhat embarrassed by her pride, Faramir laughed and set her back down, bending to pick up his bow and carefully brush the dry dirt from it. He looked at her furtively as he did so, heart swelling with gratification and finding that while he wasn’t used to such outspoken joy in his efforts since Boromir’s death, the return of it pleased him mightily.

Éomer had come with Arwen and Rusco, who stood on the Lord of the Mark’s boot, panting, his long, pink tongue flapping. Éomer looked down and gave the puppy a nudge; Rusco didn’t move, so he submitted to being stood upon. Faramir smiled, daring to glance up at the man and jest in a tone of regret, “I suppose I shouldn’t have done that…”

“Why not?” Éowyn frowned as well, silently echoing her brother’s astonished question. “It was…impressive.” There were volumes of esteemed laudation behind the halting words, but those were intimate emotions the man had no better way of clearly expressing. Feeling Éomer’s frustration and touched by it, Faramir acknowledged him in the only way he could, with brief eye contact and a smile. Éomer nodded slightly, almost imperceptibly as a wave of relief came to his mind, and he expressed himself more smoothly. “It was very impressive. You possess uncommon skill.”

If you’d only known how my heart was in my throat… He laughed. It had been a shot not guaranteed, a fortunate guess at the proper angle and amount of force. “Thank you. But I really shouldn’t have…” He grinned, finishing in a deliberately lightsome fashion. “Because now I’ll have to devote a summer to teaching your sons the bow.”

Éomer blinked, clearly taken aback. He shifted his feet and then a hesitant smile came to his face. He nodded shortly, voice quick and a bit apprehensive, but overall suffused with true fellowship as he answered, still smiling. “Aye, then maybe you shouldn’t have.”

Éowyn smiled as well, stepping forward to put an arm about his waist and hug her brother’s side. Éomer looked at her and they shared a moment in which Faramir could read the tacit praise in her eyes and the abashed, but very pleased response in his. She teased, “If you have sons.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Faramir glanced over, near finished with his task of cleaning Tarwatirno; the man’s voice had held too great of a degree of nerves for their playful bantering. He frowned. What bothers him?

“I don’t think you could get a maid to settle that long in your company…” Éowyn smiled, “They commend your arm in battle, your bravery, handsome face,” Her smile widened and she laughed, “But I’ve heard nothing of your wit or conversation. They seem to prefer that you don’t speak.”

Clucking her tongue, Arwen defended Éomer staunchly, “Then they’ve not fit for him. Foolish things.” She gave the Lord of the Mark an adoring gaze. “I find his company very pleasant.”

Éomer half-bowed, grinning. “Thank you.” His mind was still in tumult, settling only when the subject was changed.

Éowyn had come back to his side; she touched his bow with light fingers, “What wood is this?”

Faramir held it up; wiped clean, the dark wood was now glowing with care. This was alive, string humming at his touch, responding to his administrations; his sword was not. “It’s gathered from groves in Emyn Arnen.”

“Oh.” She paused, then said with soft casualness, looking him in the eyes, each word filled with warmth and spoken distinctly, “Our home.” He swallowed, thinking he’d never heard such beautiful words; the simple, free way she’d stated it nearly made him choke. Éowyn took his hand and her smile was gentle, happy in knowing she’d pleased him.

He couldn’t speak aloud, resorting to inward communication. I…I love you…you…

I know, I know and it makes me glad, more than anything. Her eyes were fastened to his, tender, open, letting him see within to her soul and how proud she was in him, how at ease with him, how blissful in them.

I…I…he possessed no words in the Common Tongue. Vanimelda… She smiled in understanding and embraced him briefly, careful not to jostle his bow. He lowered his head, pressing the side of his face to her hair, breathing in the soft smell of it.

A moment later, Faramir was startled from their intimacy, shocked by the voice made all but unfamiliar with merriment as Éomer leaned to whisper loudly into the Queen’s ear, “That bow? I bet he made it himself. You know he makes his own arrows?”

She laughed. “Ranger craft, aye, Estel can do amazing things with a few twigs…I got a few such presents in Lórien long before he came into his fortunes.” Arwen smiled and it was fond as she continued, almost to herself, “I still have them all.” With a moan, she sighed, “I miss him so.” For an instant Faramir saw them through Éomer’s eyes—two couples, one momentarily absent, and one fully alone.

A trace of stillness and quiet contemplation had come to his face before Éomer shrugged it off and smiled. “Not that one, then, Faramir? I’m disappointed in you. It’s a lovely bow.” The Lord of the Mark laughed at him, then extended his arm to Arwen with a declaration, “I’m starving.”

It was late in the afternoon and Faramir felt his own stomach rumble as they walked to where a magnificent table was being carried before Éomer’s pavilion. Arranged for four places, it seemed very cozy to him, very intimate and pleasant. Set for repast among family…when he glanced at Éomer, the Lord of the Mark smiled at him and his heart was lifted still further, filled with a happiness so acute it was almost pain.

The light-colored canvas of the tent flapped gently, both ends pulled back to let in the slowly fading sunlight and the breeze that was cooling as the sun sank from its blazing height. He peeked at it fleetingly through his lashes, Arien… Éowyn held his arm the entire way and whenever he chanced to look down, her eyes were filled with loving admiration. Faramir found that he couldn’t stop smiling.

At his side, she smiled again when he slipped from her arm. A moment… With a playful half-bow, Faramir took brief leave of her to replace his bow in Gaer’s tent, checking to see that his sword was returned. Relieved to find all his possessions well, he next slipped into Éowyn’s tent, intending to plead for license to wash his hands in her water basin. When he entered, Arwen turned and gasped in mock horror, holding her puppy closely and speaking to the little dog in a girlish voice, “A rogue! Oh, whatever does he want?”

Éowyn giggled, standing by the wide cot; her girdle of flowers lay untied on it and she was carefully untangling the ribbons from her hair to remove her circlet. “I can’t imagine.”

“I’m dirty…” Faramir smiled, holding his hands out palm up, “I come to you in supplication, to beg water and a cloth.”

Stepping away from the bed, she intoned, “There is a tax on my basin, rogue.” Her face was solemn only by great force of will. He could feel her inner jubilation and played along, smothering his grin to paste on a more pitiful expression.

“Come closer and I’ll show you how to pay.” Behind them, Arwen snickered, using a bit of damp linen to clean the dust from Rusco’s coat and paws. The puppy wiggled, snapping at the cloth and trying vainly to catch it in his little jaws, intending to rip it to shreds.

“I like this game, I shall have to remember it…” She stared at the cloth walls of the tent and smiled ruefully, “Estel never truly enjoyed playing Lost Lad of Númenor, I think.” Éowyn looked over at her, nose wrinkled in a grimace and laughed before sobering and crooking a finger at him, her lips compressed and trembling with the effort of not smiling. Faramir came, head bowed, tone humble.

“Aye.” When he leaned down to kiss her, slightly self-conscious in the Queen’s presence though Arwen had long turned her back to busy herself with Rusco, Éowyn grasped two handfuls of his sable leather surcoat and jerked him forward, scolding in a voice gone breathless with laughter.

She’d gone motionless as well, eyes softening; he could feel her melt and then the flush of her sweet desire came over him before she laughed and wrapped her arms around him, hugging and yet not kissing. Éowyn’s smile was content, utterly serene. “I promise.”

Faramir laughed, using his most roguish growl, “That doesn’t give me much incentive…”

Éowyn leaned back, pulling against his waist and gave a little, adorable jump up against him as she cried with laughing impatience, “Oh do it, before I have to beg!”

Lowering his mouth, he watched as she anticipated, lips parting slightly. Feeling her desire and the way she softened further to press to his front, Faramir gave her the lightest of kisses, no more than a brush of yielding lips, a taste of her warmth, a test of her willing pliancy. When he pulled back after that first, delicate touch, Éowyn gave a faint moaning breath of disappointment, fingers pulling at his surcoat; the sound and feel made his heart jump with eagerness and longing. Faramir smiled, taunting, “Wait…” He narrowed his eyes, “You’d beg?”

She bit her lip, tilting her head and smiling endearingly. Éowyn freed her hand and reached up to touch his chin, thumb skimming over the swell of it, pressing the slight dimple in the center. Leisurely, she gazed at his mouth, then locked eyes with him, licking her lips. Her smile was self-aware, full of womanly confidence; before it, he quailed just a little. Voice throaty, she murmured, “Possibly.”

Relenting because he had no reply, he kissed her then and she demanded two, catching the nape of his neck and making it linger delightfully. Her tongue touched his; she tilted her head for a new angle, one of her hands catching his jaw and pulling him closer before releasing him to wash. Voice still low, she commanded, “Go on.”

“Thank you.” Faramir rinsed his hands in the cool water, drying them on a soft cloth. Now he was fit for supper…at least here in these lands, he thought with a smile, glancing at his dusty boots, a few burrs from walking in the grass clinging to his trousers. Quickly, years of the habit of propriety goading him, he plucked the briars away and stamped his boots to shake the worst of the dirt from them.

When he’d finished and turned, Éowyn had withdrawn a few sweet-smelling cloths from her bags and set them on the cot. Her voice was playful, innocently contemplative as she packed a few things into a little satchel, “Now, whomever could I find to watch out for me while I bathe in the river before dinner…?”

Chuckling under his breath, Faramir came behind her, wrapping his arms about her waist to murmur, “I wouldn’t know.” He nuzzled to her neck, “Hmmm…me?”

Nearby, Arwen rolled her eyes and he laughed aloud. The Queen advised, “Wear the red gown when you come back.”

Éowyn turned to smile at him, compressing her lips and obviously forcing herself to say sternly. “You can’t.”

She kissed him, explaining lightly, “You’d join me, you rogue.” Her eyes lit up, “How about those virtuous lads of yours…wouldn’t that lift their spirits?”

Faramir laughed, I think that it would. He frowned a little. “They’d want to join you, too.” No doubt they’d be watching her from the trees or some such place of hiding. He eyed her, doubting. If they could trail Oswyn and two Rohirrim… Faramir tightened his arms over her waist in an unconscious gesture of possessiveness. I taught them stealth…perhaps I shouldn’t have.

Patting his cheek, she slipped from his embrace with a laugh, “But they wouldn’t dare join me…” Éowyn gave him an ardently teasing smile, “I’d turn around and you’d be in the water, too.”

No. She smiled, more shyly this time, and spoke aloud, “It would be wonderful…but,” Éowyn’s smile turned merry, “Hardly proper.”

“Good.” Éowyn poked her head out of the tent, calling to one of Éomer’s guards. Faramir listened as the man was instructed to find the Hordere’s students and bring them to her.

“It may take some time.” He looked up with all innocence that he could manage, “I’m right here.”

The Queen smiled, adding to their conversation. “I rather think they’ll come at a run.” It seemed she was right, for Wurth was peeking into the partially open flap of the tent almost at once.

“Good. Here they are.” Éowyn gave him a broad, confident smile as she breezed out, surveying her four young guardians. The lads immediately bowed in a show of deference. “These are your students?” She beamed, “I’d forgotten they were such handsome men…and civil, as well. But I doubt that’s your teaching…” Her face turned briefly mischievous, sending a smirk in his direction before she smiled again, asserting. “They look to be fine Riders.”

Again she’d left off any indication that they were youths, lads barely to their fifteenth year. Faramir felt compelled to point it out. “Fine young Riders you mean.” Wurth stiffened and he saw a flash of anger go across the boy’s features.

“Ah, was that how you got into trouble?” Her eyes sparkled. Éowyn was nearly laughing.

She wasn’t laughing now, but looking at the lads in a way he couldn’t exactly read—it was compassion, but not at all mixed with soft sympathy, more resolute than that. Her voice, too, was unreadable. Quiet now, she murmured. “I understand. More than once I was called too young…and other things.” They retreated before her as Éowyn took a step forward, and their eyes were wide, nearly as full of shrinking timorousness as deep admiration. Folding his arms, Faramir assumed a stern expression, carefully standing where she could not see him; he kept his face very strict through her greeting, silently laying an undercurrent that they should comply honorably or else.

She smiled; her cloths were in her arms and the strap of a small satchel was wrapped around her wrist. “Hæl, min freonds.” The five lads bobbed their heads as one, answering,

“Hæl, min Ides.” His expression of sternness was tested; Faramir bit the inside of his cheek. Éowyn smiled, glancing over her shoulder. He knew at once that she could feel his amusement and shared it.

They won’t be when you notice one peeking at you gawk-eyed from the trees…

Voice purposeful, obviously trying not to giggle, she began, “Ic gangen easteð.” Éowyn nodded to the riverbanks, “Ic þurfe a mann æt bewit me.” Her eyes fell on them in turn as another, wider smile grew, “Wilst ge…?”

They answered before she finished, nodding quickly and mumbling almost as one, again. “Gea, min Ides.” Faramir had molded his face back to its expression of sternness—he gave each lad a forbidding glare as Éowyn continued, her voice firmly questioning now, brooking no foolishness,

“Fremeden hit mid clæne gehygd?” Wurth glared back, not budging an inch. Scef had flushed at the question, making him bite his tongue not to smile at the shy boy.

Again there was a flurry of nodding among mumbled, earnest replies, “Gea, min Ides.”

“God.” She turned and Faramir quickly smiled, unable to hide his lesser enthusiasm. Éowyn read his expression and laughed softly. Her eyes were teasing as she reached up to pinch his chin, shaking his face back and forth very gently. “Not jealous, are we, min cempa?” She dropped her hand to finger the red ribbon; he’d long forgotten about it.

With a sigh, Faramir shook his head. “No.” He gestured to the river, “Go on.”

Éowyn stood on tiptoe to kiss him and then turned, lightly commanding her young guardians, “Com mid me.” The four lads trotted after her, glancing at him warily and giving him room before grouping to whisper excitedly to one another and stare at her back.

Faramir watched after them and smiled to himself. If I were a lad again…his Éowyn was beautiful; he would have done near anything to spy upon her at her bath, no matter her paramour’s stern glares. Ah, well. It was not as though he’d given her no warning.

Éowyn slowed, abruptly self-conscious of her swift, decisive and not at all ladylike strides. I must practice again…she would keep to her vow of minding her manners and no more, but her admittedly faulty sense of decorum would have to be revised and upheld as well. I will be a Lady, I must act like one in public, at the very least. Her legs felt impatient to be held to such a leisurely stride, but she gritted her teeth and walked slow. Why does it have to be so hard?

Despite her easy pace, the lads still kept to her heels. Finally, she stopped, letting them circle her. They shifted their feet, nervous, and kept their heads bowed, making her smile. “Ic ná wille bit.” They laughed, but nervously still. She asked for their names, looking at them in turn.

“Wurth, min Ides.” The tallest lad was the most daring, smiling and bowing slightly from the waist. He added forwardly, “I await your desire, my esteemed Lady.” His words were bold, but she saw how he trembled with nerves to address her in so open a fashion.

Éowyn nodded, trying desperately not to giggle; she adored them already. The next spoke softly, giving his name in a lower, gentler voice. He barely met her eyes, “Scef.” She nodded again, encouraging the shy lad. Éowyn highly doubted that bold Wurth needed much encouragement.

“Feohtan.” He’d stared at her with concentration during her brief speech with Faramir and she was uncertain if he knew much of the Common Tongue.

When she came to the last, she spoke for him, “Ond Gudrad.” He nodded, smiling a little. Éowyn began walking again, this time making sure they stayed with her. None spoke, so she asked curiously, “Did you enjoy Faramir as your teacher?”

Wurth nodded. “Aye.” He seemed to speak for them all, both as boldest and eldest, she guessed.

“What did he teach you besides the bow?” Amused, Éowyn listened to a wealth of herblore and woodcraft recited in eager voices in both the Common Tongue and Rohirric, obviously learned with the same eagerness. As they trailed off, she asked, “Tell me, since he did not, why is it that he thinks you are cross with him? Besides that he thinks you are young…why is it that he thinks so?” She clarified, “What did you do to make that come to his mind?” The lads looked at one another and she waited. Éowyn had not bothered to press Faramir—at his very reluctance to bring it up, she’d decided the boys would be easier to question. But the five lads still had not spoken, so she prodded, “He said something of being accused of treating you like children…”

“My Lady…” Wurth looked pained; he obviously did not wish to answer, yet knew he must.

“Yes?” Éowyn did not push yet, still wanting their free compliance. She soothed, “I will not be angered.”

“You would.” He amended hastily, speaking with more respect, “My Lady, I think that you might be.”

“Why is that?” The lad looked to the others, face desperate and questioning, but she said more firmly, “Do not look to them Wurth, you seem to speak for them all. Your Lady has asked you a question, will you not answer it?”

His voice quavered; there was not much boldness in him now as he forced himself to meet her expectant gaze. Wurth whispered, “N-ná. Ná.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Disobedience on the behalf of Faramir?” Éowyn didn’t know whether to be charmed or annoyed by their loyalty.

Looking away to take the pressure from him for a moment, she murmured softly, taking a different approach, “You’re making me fear for what he did.”

“Why not? I’ve no reason not to…unless you would give me one.” She smiled inwardly; apparently, a mild, ladylike attitude could be an occasional boon.

This time Scef spoke, just as worried but very earnest. His pure heart shone through his words and humble face, “He did naught to us, min Ides…fear not, our Láréow is man good and kind.”

Éowyn smiled, captivated by the lad. She assumed an expression with more sternness, “Then what do you hide? Not what he did, but the nature of how he angered you, then? The circumstance? Or was it another that acted…?” Wurth looked sharply away and dark anger flashed in more than one eye; she felt close to guessing the reason. “Well?” None answered and the lack clearly weighed upon them. They were good lads, dearly loyal; unfortunately, she thought, their loyalty had shifted to another. Éowyn sighed deeply and began walking again. “Com.” It would be sunset before she returned if she questioned them much longer. I might not know all of a Lady’s qualities but I guess that making the Lord of her land wait on their dinner is not one of them.

At the banks she sent four of the five lads away, one upstream, the other down and two to stand guard from the direction she’d come. Scef seemed to be the shyest and purest in action and least likely to spy upon her so she bade him stay nearest, guarding the opposite shore from a spot that, admittedly, it would be very easy for him to see her. Before she’d sent them to their duty, Éowyn gave them all firm looks, reminding them, “Mid clæne gehygd.”

The lads nodded and trudged to their stations, Scef mounting a small knoll to stand guard over the tree-lined banks. Slipping through a few bushes and putting distance between them, Éowyn glanced about. Above and at an angle, Scef was still properly turned aside. She watched him as she laid her cloths down, taking a lump of perfumed soap from her satchel, as well as a comb. The lad’s head never turned, so she kicked off her shoes, pulled her stockings off and began to slip from her green gown. Piling her garments on a patch of grass, carefully laying aside the jade bracelet and rawhide necklace, she stood nude for a moment, enjoying the warm breeze, the heat of the sun on her pale skin. Really, it was a shame Faramir was behind in the festival…or was he? Éowyn smiled, glancing around herself. For all she knew he could have followed and kept hidden. Her knowledge of his woodcraft was limited but from the magnitude of the lads’ recitations her love knew much. Faramir? There was no answer, which was both reassuring and disappointing. It would not be long before he had leave to join her at a whim and Éowyn told herself to enjoy her solitude while she may. Ah, but there is less pleasure in it…she giggled to herself, then made a face, sounding revoltingly girlish even to her own ears. Slapping her bare flank with impatience, she made herself pick up the soap and approach the river.

The water was cool in the shade, making her bite her lip to keep silent; they were but boys, after all, and a cry from her would be a convenient excuse to come running. Éowyn glanced up again warily but Scef was still facing away to the opposite bank. Her eyes scanned the brush along the riverbank where she was, but none of the bushes rustled or gave sign of any occupants. The trees were similarly empty. Splashing a bit and enjoying the water, she kept where she could feel the muddy bottom and swiftly washed, taking more time to work the soap into her hair. Éowyn rinsed and soaped it several times, unsure of how swiftly the dye would come out.

After the last rinse, diving deep and feeling the water icy near the mud, warming by degrees until she came to the surface, Éowyn pulled a handful of her hair over her shoulder to peer at it in the sun. Pleased, she determined that she’d lightened her hair by several shades. It was still darker than normal, but more a warm reddish ocher than the deep, robust chestnut of before. She washed it once more, then lay on her back and drifted in the water, staring up at the sky, moving her arms gently to stay afloat. The overhead view of the trees and the soft sounds of water lapping around her body put her back in mind of the boat and Faramir. She felt the cool sense of peace that came with it as she stared at the dappled leaves, gnarled branches hanging with vines, high brush withered from drought. The warmth in her heart, she felt not, that was in him.

But the light was dimmer now, shadows creeping and deepening around her, making the water murky. Rising, Éowyn put her feet back to the mud and glanced over her shoulder to where Scef had stood; his head was still turned. Good lad… Quick now that she was done, she splashed to the bank and began to dry herself vigorously, well aware of her nakedness. She began to imagine Faramir watching her from the trees and slowed, smiling to herself and taking her time. Éowyn knew it was silly, but it amused her to put on a show for him, even if he wasn’t there to see. Perhaps later I could describe it for him. She shivered in anticipation, laughing under her breath as she dried her legs.

There was a noise, a soft crackle, like that from of a foot set too heavily on a bit of the dry underbrush. With a gasp, Éowyn froze, heart beating faster, and gathered the cloths to her front; her bare skin prickled. Softly, so as not to be heard by the nearby Scef, she asked, “Hwa is hit?” Faramir?

Again, there was a faint rustle. Neither of the sounds had been loud enough to pinpoint and she could see no movements in the undergrowth, or as her eyes raised, the trees’ boughs. Feeling herself tremble with growing nerves, this time she called his name aloud in hopes, “Faramir?” Surely, even if he’d come to spy, he would have revealed himself after a moment of scaring her; he was not so heartless as to frighten her by remaining hidden. Éowyn glanced backwards. Scef was still staring at the opposite banks. Assuming they’d kept their places like he, her lads would have caught all others…unless it was one of the young Riders who came to see me at my bath…

Éowyn stood straighter, calling upon her authority as the White Lady; she put all of it into her low question. “Hwa is hit?” Paying no heed to her nakedness, save the few cloths held to her bosom and front, she marched up the grassy banks to stand nearer to the scrub of bushes and grass, choked with tall, spindly thistles. I can be horribly embarrassed once I roust this fool… Éowyn peered into the tangle, discerning nothing but shadows and slightly withered yellow-green foliage. Above her, the trees were the same, birds flying unconcernedly from one to another. Neither brush nor branches held any spying men. Faramir, answer me? If you are hiding, I swear I shall be very cross with you…her inner voice trailed off with a brief prickle of shame. He was not here and such wicked things were unlike her Prince.

There was another crackle, this one louder and she jumped to face where she thought it might have come from, voice tight as she demanded, “Andwurde me. Ic abanne ge. Answer me. I command you.” Éowyn waited, heart thudding, but there was no answer, either from Faramir or a guilty peeping lad, and no further noises. A breeze blew, making the bushes wave gently and the tree branches sway. Frowning, Éowyn was aware that the sound of leaves and brush rustling and moving could have easily masked any retreating footsteps. Eventually, still wary, she finished drying herself and, glancing about furtively, regarbed herself in the green gown, putting back on the bracelet and necklace. The dark blue and green dolphin was warm from the sun, a spot of heat against her water-cooled flesh. There had been nothing suspicious for several minutes but she felt watched and not at all comfortable enough to sit and comb her lightened hair by the pleasant waterside as she’d planned. Slipping back into her stockings and shoes, she shivered. No, she had no more desire to remain.

When she emerged from her refuge in the bushes, hair still dripping and tangled, Scef turned, eyeing her with curiosity. Éowyn was briefly amused and heartened to note relief in his face when his gaze alighted on her lightened mane. Did none like it?

“No, but I heard…” He frowned and she shook her head, “It was nothing, no more than a hare.” With a smile for his proper manners, she dismissed the crackle as a small woodland animal and her imaginations as left over fears—Gríma would have trailed her to her bath without hesitation. Éowyn shuddered a little, remembering the resentful, lecherous way he’d spoken to her, looked at her and even touched her, grateful he was long banished from the Mark. He’d not always been so callous, but she’d never cared for him; he’d been too zealous and too uncaring of her lack of desire for his presence even before she’d openly scorned him as unworthy.

A chilling thought struck her. Or so we believe he is banished… Éowyn looked around herself again, horror in her soul. No, no, do not be foolish…suddenly the thought of Minas Tirith’s high walls, multitudes of armed, uniformed guards and the barrier where the gate had stood was very, very comforting. I would be safe there, safe from all bad memories…

Away from the river, she found the other four lads were still in their positions and that none were flushed, appeared to be breathing fast or looked in any way to have run back from the Snowbourn. Meeting their eyes, she found none held guilt, either, only the same shyness of before. Relieved at their abilities to maintain decency, she led them back to the festival, deciding that even if one had spied on her, it was no matter. They were but harmless lads.

But…Éowyn shook her head sharply, sending drops of water from her wet hair onto her cheeks. Do not be foolish! Jaw clenched, she stared ahead, the lads following her, not noticing their inquisitive, worried looks. Finally her worry infuriated her to the point of breakage and she thought violently, and if he is not banished, Faramir and my brother would hunt him down as the wretch deserves! This thought, at last, gave her a measure of comfort, but her hands wanted to twist.

They’d mistaken her remembered fear for the other, the mystery concerning Faramir. “It does some.” Éowyn halted, meeting their eyes. She spoke carefully, “I am puzzled. You are loyal enough to Faramir to refuse to answer my questions, yet how are you still so angered with him…?” If she could not soften Arwen to Aragorn, perhaps she could do this lesser task of returning rapport.

Wurth argued with voice heated, reminding her somewhat of her brother’s stubborn, irrational temper. He sounded like he was continuing an argument long fought, “He was wrong! We can fight, we are not children…!” The lad shut his mouth quickly.

Éowyn’s heart jumped to her throat as fear tightened her chest, then turned to anger that burned like a red-hot ember lodged within her ribcage. She asked with deceptive quiet, “Fight?” None spoke but the riddle was easy enough now. Faramir had forbid them to fight for or with him, calling them too young. Éowyn clamped her jaw, furious as she hissed, “With who? Fight with who?” That man the day he rode or another?

Scef answered faintly. “Lord Éomer sent him away. No one fought, we helped Láréow.” The lad’s voice was soothing, trying to comfort her and ease her supposed worry.

Éowyn did not worry so much as she raged. With an effort, her temper was pushed aside and she asked with a softer tone, “Did you?”

She closed her eyes briefly, rage giving way to cold fear again. Please, please, I could not stand it if he were hurt… “Good. I thank you.” Éowyn took a breath and offered them, for their bravery and loyalty, a reward of their choosing.

The lads just looked at each other and when they answered timidly she burst into delighted laughter, momentarily forgetting her terror.

Éomer found Faramir seated at the broad table, drinking wine. Servants moved around him, setting platters and goblets, as well as knives for eating. A few dishes were already on the table; the majority was being set. He hesitated, then asked in real curiosity. “Where is my sister?”

He frowned, “Now?” Faramir shrugged with an easy smile. Éomer stood a minute more, but Arwen was nowhere to be seen. He sat at the end of the table in his honored seat and looked at the man nervously. Faramir had taken his usual spot on his left, a chair lying empty between them for Éowyn. They sat in peaceful quiet, the Steward watching people walk by with interest. Loathe to disturb him, Éomer busied himself for a few minutes with looking at the dishes laid on the table—braised beef and onions with golden leeks; guinea fowl in apple and cider sauce with shallots; pies of coneys and ducks. He smiled when he noticed partridges stuffed in his favorite dish. But there were more—vegetable pottage with hedgerow herbs; loaves of barley bread; capons in many dishes as well as fish; chopped and browned vegetables and pork roasted with spiced wine, haddock in sauce. It was a rich multitude, making him marvel as still more was placed on the table. Finally, he could delay no longer and began, “I wish to say something…”

The Steward turned to him, expression inquisitive. Éomer took a deep breath; he’d thought to put it for the last day of the festival, to give himself longer, but he knew that was cowardice. Better now, to get used to the idea than later, better to ease his parting with a few days than shear himself away so swiftly. Or so I hope…

He’d taken too long. Faramir spoke, his face had gentled and there was clear support in his grey eyes. “Yes?”

Éomer’s mouth was dry. He sipped some of the wine the servants had poured him and tried to find a way to begin. “I see…now…how happy you and Éowyn are together…and…”

“And…” Éomer looked away, “I don’t wish to hinder that happiness any longer.” He struggled, heartsick. “I think that, when I ride on to the Wold…” No more would come. He ground his teeth, forcing out, “That you and my sister should return to Edoras,” The last was a rough mutter, “You should go on to the City, tarry no more in the Mark.” There was no answer, so Éomer made himself look up, say again with more forcefulness, “You should go, leave. I’ll not hold you anymore.” Faramir was looking at him, but not speaking. The Steward toyed with his cup, watching the dark wine swirl. Éomer fidgeted, not understanding. He would have expected delight, even anger for his irrationality of demanding service and proof of knowledge, yet then releasing it so suddenly without that proof, anything but the contemplative stillness he was faced with. He waited longer, feeling the awkwardness grow, at his end, at least; Faramir did not look perturbed, only musing as his gaze returned to the passing crowd. Stiltedly, confused, he asked, “Do you not understand me?”

Utterly baffled, he blurted, “Why not?” Éomer was almost angered. What did I torment myself for if he doesn’t wish to go? Why does he not wish to go? It was inconceivable, unbelievable.

He was angry now, asking irritably, “Not finished with what? Did you not hear? There is nothing for you to do, nothing to prove.” Éomer added, dejected even in his anger. He waved a hand in a sharp gesture of impatience and grief. “You can leave, go on to your City, you’ve nothing to hold you.”

“I heard.” The Steward set his cup down with a decisive thump, turning to fold his hands in his lap and gaze at him with calm eyes. “And I disagree.”

He stared at the man, open-mouthed, even looking about himself in search of aid. Faramir was utterly mad. What…? What? What is he…what does he speak of?

The Steward repeated, shaking his head, “I disagree, I’m not at all finished here.” He smiled, “I’m sorry.”

At Faramir’s quiet, almost amused apology, Éomer lost his hold on his temper and he burst out, frustrated, “I’m releasing you, go on, take her, be happy! Have your lives!”

The Steward seemed about to speak, paused, and then shook his head again. “No, I won’t.” He smiled, “Though I wish to and I thank you.” His words were more cautious, “I know that was very difficult.”

“You know…you do know!” And you throw it back in my face! He sputtered, incredulous, half-wondering if this was some vengeful plot to infuriate him, but that was not like Faramir at all. “But…why not?”

“Mithrandir spoke of danger. There has been none.” Éomer was speechless. The man was mad, so completely mad that he could not see an escape when he was offered one. Faramir’s gaze fell on him and for the first time in a long while there were sparks of anger as he said, “I don’t want to escape.”

The Prince dipped his head, “My apologies.” Éomer nodded impatiently as the man went on, “I feel that if I leave now…it will be purposeless. I’ve not proven anything to anyone save you.” Faramir smiled, “Some would think that a great enough feat, but not I.” His smile faded, “I’ve more.”

Éomer scoffed, “What does it matter? What does it matter in the South if they,” He flung out a hand to indicate the passing masses, “dislike you?” Incredulous, he begged, “What does it matter here?”

The Steward shifted in his chair, frowning, playing with his knife. “I cannot say. It is a feeling.”

“I’m not sure…but it lies here for the moment.” The Steward sighed and his eyes went far away, “I miss my City, the stone, the wind from the height, the horns that changed the guard…the view of the Pelennor, the mountains and the Great River…” He trailed off and Éomer followed his gaze. Éowyn had returned, followed by five lads that she smiled and spoke with, dismissing them, he guessed. Her hair was lighter, a dark rose honey color rather than the deep reddish-brown of before. She seemed to feel Faramir’s scrutiny and turned, smiling briefly, then entering her tent.

“No…not any longer. I think her heart is readied,” Faramir looked at him sharply, “Not that it will not be a parting of great sorrow, you understand…?” His face had become troubled, anxious.

“Yes.” He watched some of the anxiety vanish. Éomer did, very much, as well as he understood the Steward was trying to comfort him. It was odd, that, but quite welcome. “You stay for yourself alone, then, in this land that does not hold the bones of your fathers?”

“Yes…for a while longer.” Faramir turned to him and there was a surprisingly boyish smile on his face, “I like it here.”

“Not when I’m having to fight, no, but otherwise, it’s very nice.” He looked around himself and murmured, “Simple.”

Éomer stared at him for a long while. Simple…that’s because he doesn’t have to do anything or make any decisions… Faramir was not in charge in the Mark, nor beholden to anything or anyone within its boundaries. In the City that would change drastically, he would be a Prince again with duties and great charges; a Lord called upon daily. And all this with a wife, my sister who will push him still forward in her desire to accomplish things of greatness… he knows that as well.

Éomer felt compassion grow in his heart, wondering if Faramir was afraid of what his life would come to be once he rode out of the Mark. Afraid that you cannot meet the challenge? That you will be unworthy in all eyes, even hers? That is not so hard to understand…why do you not say so? He’d not known Faramir to be so fearful in speaking his heart or so held by what he might consider weak behavior.

He himself was terrified of what he would do once Éowyn left and would admit it in a moment. My days will be filled with silence, empty silence…the sound of the winds over the mounds of my Uncle and cousin… He looked down at the table, its surface covered with a fine cloth. Éomer touched it gently, rubbing it between his fingers, feeling its smoothness, its softness. It was a cloth that a King expected on his table.

Faramir smiled at her, rising to acknowledge her arrival. Éowyn looked beautiful, hair lighter and thus better to his eye, with a warm red gown that clung to her curves. The red of the gown brought out the reddish tones still left in her hair and it looked pretty. He told her so, smiling lightly, his spirits lifted by her presence.

She nodded and smiled in reply, “Thank you.” But as she seated herself, there were shadows in her face, matching the ones he was certain lurked in his. He sensed anger and distrust, a welling sense of helpless grief and gazed at her, troubled.

Éowyn’s eyes were very vulnerable, nearly gleaming with tears. She looked away, blinking and whispering back, “Nothing. Nothing.”

He frowned. Éomer was looking at him nervously, wondering if he would speak of his offer or not. The man smiled, greeting his sister with a little nod. “You look nice.”

She smiled weakly in return, repeating, “Thank you.” Éowyn turned to Arwen and fiddled with her damp hair. “No one liked it save me.”

The Queen sighed. “Ah, well.” Her smile was far firmer, urging. “But as long as you did…?” Éowyn just nodded faintly and Arwen frowned.

Faramir watched his wine move as he tilted the cup, thinking. Éomer’s offer had come as a shock, one that opened a black pit of fear in his belly. He’d thought at that moment he would have felt great joy and eagerness to return but Faramir felt only the slightest of homesickness when faced with the prospect of actually packing his belongings, finding and mounting his horse and riding back to Minas Tirith. He gnawed his lip, tapping his fingers against his thigh. What is wrong with me? Why did he seek to stay? To prove myself to them…his eyes turned to the crowd. Éomer was right, and sensible, in stating that it mattered not. Then why did it matter to him?

I don’t understand. He rubbed his temples, then turned to Éowyn. She was gazing at him, quiet and watchful. When she spoke her voice held a dark anger that swiftly turned to dejection. The sadness astonished her, melding with her distrust so that her voice was a low murmur when she leaned to ask,

“That some of my people want to hurt you. That,” She included her brother with a raking glance, “you had to send one away.”

Face guilty, Éomer looked aside and did not respond. Faramir took a breath, answering, “I would have bothered you to know it, I thought…”

“And what will you do when we are wed? Keep from me all things bothersome?” Éowyn surprised him with her frankness and her open hurt, as well as her effortless talk of their marriage.

She gazed at him, wounded, voice small and sad. “I would hope not.” Picking up her knife, she began to eat with no further comment. He’d hurt her. Faramir felt guilt and his own desperate confusion. Looking about himself, he tried to lighten his spirits with the bright flags of the Mark as they rippled in the wind, the growing orange light of torches and bonfires scattered here and there, the laughter of passing folk. His eyes lingered long on playing children as they ran and caught another, their laughter high-pitched, their glee touching him. None worked.

He turned, hands clasped tightly in his lap, and stated simply, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to burden you…” Faramir fought to keep any defensiveness from his tone, “I am able to care for myself.”

“I know, you don’t need help.” He frowned. Éowyn added, “They told me, your lads.” She smiled thinly, “And the next time, if he comes with more than an ally or two, but a knife, a blade in the dark? You can care for yourself then?”

Éomer was frowning darkly, not wishing to interrupt. He did so anyway, blunt and earnest, eager to soothe her and, Faramir sensed with a small smile, return them to happiness. “He will not come again, he is riding with Elfhelm. Do not fear, sister, please.”

“Yes, do not fear, as I was not to fear for you.” Her eyes were so dispirited it pained his heart. She laughed bitterly, “Tell me how I am not to fear danger to the ones I love most, the two I love alone in all the world?” At the word danger, Éomer’s eyes flicked to his and he straightened. Faramir tensed, knowing the man would now plead his case unless he spoke otherwise. Éowyn would certainly agree in this moment, he knew; her mind was awhirl with fear and concern for him.

Do I want to leave? He sighed and interrupted just as Éomer opened his mouth. “I’m sorry. I will take more care in the future.”

Éowyn compressed her lips, worrying them. “Swear it to me?” Her eyes met his, “Anything that happens to you is as it happens to me…” Voice hesitant with this public show of intimacy, she murmured in frustration, “Faramir…I hurt when I see you hurt.” This surprised him and he softened, nodding quietly. Her hand reached to touch his face, palm cradling his jaw, fingers gently skimming his yellowed bruises. “I see these and I don’t wish to see more…” Éowyn swallowed and her eyes shone with dread, “Or worse. Please swear?”

“I swear.” No relief touched her, so he said further, “I swear that I will take care,” Éowyn smiled faintly and he finished, “By the White Tree and the White Horse, you have my word that I will return unharmed barring accident.” He added simply, “I cannot help that.”

She nodded, “I know.” Éowyn looked down and her tightly interlaced hands, “Thank you.”

He could not argue with a plain statement of truth. Éomer said very quietly, “I will watch out for him in the Wold, sister.” The man’s eyes met his and they were grave though the Lord of the Mark gave him a slight smile acknowledging that he truly needed no watching. However, at the same time, when he looked again to his sister, his level gaze firmly upheld Éowyn’s concerns. Faramir sighed.

He wanted to protest, to vehemently declare that he was not an invalid, but Éowyn was looking to him, her face still and vulnerable. “All right…” He asked in hope, “Does this please you, ease your heart?”

He made himself smile and ask with more cheer, “Then smile for me and be merry?” She did, giving him a gentle curve of her lips with her eyes still troubled. Faramir caught her hand to squeeze it firmly and she smiled with more conviction. Then, as he relaxed and turned to survey the first of the dishes offered, Éowyn leaned from her chair to embrace him tightly. He froze, astonished as her arm wrapped around his front, brow to his cheek, her face pressing against his neck, breath hot on his skin as she breathed raggedly. She held him for a few heartbeats, then inhaled; he heard her throat click and she withdrew without a word to pick up a piece of bread, still quiet.

It touched him, this nearly desperate embrace and Faramir looked at her, heart aching. Éowyn put a little butter on her bread, eating slowly and without much appetite. I will be fine…nothing will happen.

I know. He slid his chair closer to put his arm around her. Éowyn leaned against it in welcome, one of her hands clutching the dolphin pendant. In the silence, minstrels came to sing and play their instruments, giving their Lord entertainment as he dined. All in all it was a solemn meal, the musicians picking up the tone of their table to play slow, gentle tunes. After a while she leaned her head against his shoulder and he kissed her temple.

He looked at the men as they played and asked her, “Do you want to dance with me when we’ve finished? Just for a song?”

She smiled and it was more natural, more relaxed and held more merriment, reassuring him incredibly. “Yes, but not in front of my brother.”

Éomer protested loudly, his features relieved at their easy speech. “I said nothing!”

His tone was gentler, a little embarrassed, “That you looked lovely, sister.” A beat, “Happy.”

Éowyn’s eyes narrowed and she scrutinized him for several seconds before smiling. She reached to put her hand over her brother’s arm, squeezing it. “Thank you.”

When she turned back to him, he smiled. “Good.” Faramir leaned to kiss her brow. Éowyn closed her eyes, opening them a moment later, slowly, gazing through her pale lashes. It was all so intimate with their locked gazes heartfelt and open to bare souls and their touches bringing them closer in a way not at all related to carnal desire that he felt strange and slightly frightened by the depth of her emotions. With her newly willing familiarity, Éowyn tested his courage. Now she was the one pushing him, urging him to give of himself, to do and accept things that he did truly not wish to merely because she asked. Faramir looked at her and smiled, an oddly pleasant nervousness in his belly. It was strange...and wonderful, oh, wonderful.

After they had eaten, plates occupied only by bits of crust or unwanted crumbs and cups emptied, he rose and took her hand. With a smile, Éowyn followed lightly, walking with him as the common folk retreated. Minstrels stood out of the way, prepared to play as the Rohirrim moved to open a large area. Glancing over his shoulder, Faramir laughed, amused as Éomer was half-cajoled, half-dragged with them. The Queen had him by the wrist and was clearly in control; the expression on Éomer’s face was one of deep displeasure and apprehension; he drug his feet. Behind them Rusco howled, his leash tied to the table leg.

“Which first?” Her eyes had returned to their sparkle, though he could easily sense that her unease was still there, wrapped around her heart.

“Yes.” Chuckling, Faramir looked to the people watching, wondering if they would join if he asked. He was not in the mood for a solemn, intent dance, but a merry one, a wild one even, to loose the tension of their meal and renew all spirits. If he had to teach the gathering the steps, so be it, but he would dance and with proper merriment. I’ve no haughty Lords or Ladies to work with—he looked to Éomer’s surly face and laughed. Perhaps I will soon wish for some. “Éowyn, will you ask them to join…?”

“Do we get to trade ladies…?” Red hair bright in the light of torches, Gaer emerged grinning from the multitudes, “I’ll only dance if we do.” A roar of approval rose from the men. Éowyn laughed, but even as she did, her hand tightened on his. Faramir was about to shake his head but Arwen smiled and, surprisingly, answered in light Rohirric, the word made slightly dreamy sounding by her buoyant elven accent,

“Gea.” She looked to Éowyn, “I have many scores of years to make up for not dancing with men…and I doubt Estel would be happy to see me do it, but as he is not here to object…” Arwen smiled and gestured to the crowd of Rohirrim with a carefree laugh. Éowyn wrinkled her nose.

Faramir frowned, feeling her hand still tight on his, but when he opened his mouth, Éomer laughed and his statement was firm, underscored by a tone of derision. “You can be selfish when you’ve taken her away.” He granted the throng, voice raised, “You may dance with whoever is willing.” Éomer smiled at Éowyn, who narrowed her eyes at him. He shrugged, saying softer, “I said whoever is willing, just be unwilling.” Her brother laughed.

She sighed, then shook his hand and looked up to him, “Teach us, min cempa,” Her smile was sweet, “Min Lárérow.”

He shook his head, protesting, “I don’t know the words, I don’t know…”

Her hands cupped his face, “Yes, you do.” There was clear trust in her eyes and he found that when he looked again to the waiting folk, he could. Faramir took a breath, gesturing and speaking with hesitancy at first, “Monn astandaþ æt lef…” Then as he noticed how none looked scornful, but merely patient, and in Éowyn’s case, adoring, he said with more boldness, “In hond,” He took Éowyn’s hand in his right, the Queen’s in his left, “We ga lef twuwa, riht twuwa…”

They began, slowly at first, people tugging each other the wrong way and nearly collapsing in howls of laughter, but the Rohirrim caught on soon and they went so fast that he had to shout. Éowyn and Arwen were laughing, Éomer was groaning and Faramir thought he’d never felt so happy.

Éowyn’s hair was flying as she cried, “Stop, stop!” Éomer echoed her, more desperate. Arwen laughed and her bright eyes met his as she commanded,

“Faster!” Faramir obeyed, chest aching with laughter until the ring buckled, some folk falling out of it, others pulled to a halt. He stood, hands on knees, breathing hard and snickering whenever he got a spare breath. Éowyn leaned against him, arms about his waist. She was flushed and beautiful.

Just as he was about to kiss her, he was pushed aside as Gaer called, “Wandrige!” He swept her away, leaving Faramir in the grasp of two smiling flaxen-haired Rohir maids. They pulled him into the reforming ring, giving him no chance to object. In fact, it was all so swift, his parting from Éowyn, that he turned his head to look for her, suspecting Gaer had planned it.

Æt me, min cempa! Faramir, min cempa æt Mundburg, æt Riddermark—For me, my champion! Faramir, my champion of Minas Tirith, of Riddermark

Min cempa, gea wille ofercomme him ond deð se geflit—My champion, you will overcome him and take the contest!

Ge eart min cempa, dyde Ic ná sæge hit? Min cempa, betst æt se boga—You are my champion, did I not say it? My champion, best at the bow.

Ic gangen easteð. Ic þurfe a mann æt bewit me. Wilst ge…--I am going to the river. I need a man to guard me. Will you…?

In hond… We ga lef twuwa, riht twuwa…--In hand… We go left twice, right twice…

Éowyn looked over her shoulder as Gaer tugged her away through the milling throng, his hand firmly grasping to hers. But as she did, he halted at once, pale eyes dim in the torchlight, and surprised her with his care, “My Lady, does it displease you to be parted…” The Rider paused, saying meaningfully, “For a short while, a dance or,” His voice held hope, “Two?”

She smiled graciously, thinking that it might have if another man had rendered her so swiftly from Faramir’s side, but Gaer she could handle without nerves. He was brazen, perhaps somewhat infatuated, but utterly harmless in word or action. “Ná, Gaer.”

His wide grin showed she’d delighted him. “My Lady, highest and most beautiful of gentlewomen, has bothered to remember my lowly name.” He bowed deep, asking with a glinting eye, “Do I chance to believe she favors my humble company?”

She couldn’t help but smile, replying archly, “I would never say that you were humble, Master Gaer.”

“Ah, plainly I stand in well-needed correction, my Lady.” Éowyn laughed, extending her hand in a show of formality. Gaer kissed it with obvious relish and she laughed again, allowing him to pull her farther, skirting the ring of dancers—it was already complete, there was no room for them in this turn. As he led her, she glanced at him surreptitiously, still amused. He was a fine man, a kindly one who made her laugh and if she’d returned to her country without a love in her heart Gaer might have made a decent husband to stand at her side. But he would not bid me change nor challenge me to greater being… Éowyn smiled. Faramir did what no man of her land could simply by being who and what he was.

She laughed, seeking simpler thoughts, “Wherever are we going to? I thought you wished a dance?”

“Here, no farther…” They were on the edges now, well out of the way of dancing folk and amid some maids selling ales. He was grinning, “Can I be faulted for desiring a quiet moment in my one chance to speak to my dearest, most generous Lady?”

She smiled, narrowing her eyes at him, reproaching playfully, “I’m not your dearest and I fail to see how I am generous.”

“Ah, yes, but I had heard of an agreement between you and some of my younger companions. A most generous one.” Gaer’s face was attempting to look innocent, an expression she guessed he’d had little occasion to wear as he said lightly, “There was talk of a reward of great magnificence given for a certain duty and it seemed to me I performed and saw no reward.” His features sank into mock despondency.

Éowyn flushed with laughter even as her heart chilled, “Did you do as was required?”

“Aye, most willingly and would again.” They spoke with teasing voices, but his eyes had long become sober. “I enjoy his company.”

He looked away, voice sly, “I do bear hopes of redress…once I’ve proven myself worthy, of course.”

She burst into laughter. “Fetch me an ale…” Éowyn looked about, “And a seat and we shall speak for a while before you return me to Faramir.” Gaer blinked at her as though he could hardly believe his good fortune, then half-bowed and bolted away with comic eagerness to do as she’d bid. Turning to watch the dancers, she smiled as her brother moved by; his grimace, as well as the grim concentration in his face made her laugh, hand to her mouth. It’s supposed to be fun, brother! The Queen looked quite content, urging him onward, her eyes bright, feet moving with confident elven grace as she laughed and danced. When Faramir passed two smiling maids were attached to either side of him, trying vainly to keep up. Éowyn watched, finding herself to be fiercely jealous when he grinned at one and nodded in praise of her efforts. She rolled her eyes at herself. Oh, I am a fool…

Gaer returning brought welcome distraction. He had a stool over his shoulder, precariously holding two mugs in his other hand. She took one quickly as he sat the stool down for her, saying with a smile, “I apologize for its crudeness, but I feared if I took longer some other would have stolen you away.”

“Ná.” Sitting gratefully, Éowyn sipped from the mug, expecting bitter ale, but instead she got a much sweeter cordial. “This is good.” Gaer looked pleased. She used the same voice as she did when she heard the claims of injustice given forth by peasants, “Now, tell me of your services so that I may judge if you are worthy of reward.”

“I’ve taught him as much as I could of our folk, though,” The redheaded Rider grinned, “Faramir is slow to learn our ways. He does not see no matter how I try to show him that we are different, that this is not the South.” He reassured, “But he will. He is a good man, worthy of you, my beloved Lady. Not all see that in him…he hides what he is and what he can do, and I do not know why. The lads love him because he has great knowledge, more than most…” Gaer fell quiet for a moment, pensive, “More than we, much more.” He sighed, “He is kind-hearted and quick to pardon, too quick. Faramir acts as a nobleman does, it is his life and it should be expected. But I have seen some think of this as contempt or weakness, which he does not intend and does not have.” Gaer finished simply, “He is different in heart and mind, that is all.” He smiled, “I like this difference.”

She smiled back, “So do I.” Then Éowyn asked more tensely, “What of that man…?”

“He holds grudge for the loss of his honor, but I do not know what Faramir had to do with it…save that he hails from the City. Some have soured on those from Mundburg…” He looked away, “They think themselves as men ruined, dishonored and it is all foolishness. They cannot be helped, only tolerated and left be like rogue horses, my Lady. Some will come back to themselves, some not.”

This puzzled her, but she had more serious questions. “Are there others that seek to hurt my husband?” Her words came without thought or effort, surprising her so that she fell quiet and clutched her mug. If they surprised Gaer he did not show it,

“None that I hear of, my Lady.” He inclined his head, “I give my word that I have asked far and wide.”

“Why?” He looked confused, “Why should I not guard Faramir? He is dear to your heart and so my purpose is yours, my Lady, to keep him safe until he returns to his land with you and though I grieve at your absence, I rejoice in your happiness.” His voice lowered, “I would see you with light in your eyes again and always.” Gaer gazed at her and she saw very suddenly how he loved her deeply and unapologetically as he murmured, “And not darkness, ever. If it is Faramir æt Mundburg that brings this light, then I will do all in my power to safeguard him. It is my duty as your servant.”

She swallowed, throat tightened with emotion. “I thank you very much.” Éowyn glanced to him, wondering, where did you ride when Gríma lived here…I could have used your comfort and service then, Gaer. Perhaps he’d been like to many of the men of her lands, their honest eyes slowly clouded by dark dreams, hardly knowing what they did or even if what they saw and heard were truly real. She shuddered.

“Yes.” Éowyn took a breath and tried to recapture their easy bantering. “I’ve found you worthy.” More than worthy for your aid…

“Aye.” She laughed, stomach filled with butterflies, able to see that the man before her was strong, broad and robust under his plain trousers, shirt and rough brown jerkin; the notion of rewarding Gaer was far different than the that of granting the same to the five lads. He’d been crouched to speak to her, now he began to rise and step back so that she could stand and she gestured, laughing hastily, “Oh, kneel, so I don’t have to attempt to reach you.” He did with a grin that quickly faded, his usually cheery face uncertain. Gaer waited and she leaned forward to push some of his red hair from his forehead, then press a swift kiss to his warm, fair-skinned brow.

Immediately he raised his bowed head and spoke, declaring with much cheek, “I had heard it was given on the mouth.” When he looked at her his eyes glowed.

Éowyn laughed loud in delight, shaking her head and rocking back on her stool. “You heard wrongly, Gaer.” She put her hand to her face, giggling, “Humble, indeed, you’re no such thing at all!” Éowyn smiled, “You misjudge the boldness of those lads. They’re not half as daring as you!”

He sighed in disappointment. “Will you not dance a while with me?” Gaer nodded to the ring of folk, “I’ve gone to all the trouble of laying a pair of pretty distractions on Faramir…it would be a shame to waste my work.”

She stood, smoothed her red skirts, and drank the rest of the sweet liquor in a series of long gulps. Éowyn was amused to feel her head swirl just a little as she took a step forward. “Yes, I will.” He made to take her hand and she saw for just an instant how he wavered, how he extended his with care and a respectful hesitancy. Utterly harmless is what he is… She liked Gaer very much and was terribly glad he’d befriended Faramir. “I am glad you are coming to the City with us.”

He smiled in pleasure, more ardently offering his broad, callused palm. “My Lady?”

Taking it and feeling how his fingers were thicker, blunter than Faramir’s slender, graceful ones, she commanded. “Éowyn.”

“Éowyn…” He nodded, repeating her with doubtful shyness so that she laughed.

Completely harmless. “Aye, you know my name, and now I grant you leave to say it as you wish, Master Gaer. Call it recompense if you like, for not receiving your kiss on the mouth…though I quite think you’d rather have the kiss.” Éowyn laughed again as she led him to the dancers. “Now, as you distracted my betrothed, I expect much merrymaking and I shall not be disappointed!” He was glowing again and she smiled widely, adding, “Let none come between us save Faramir, understand?” Éowyn glanced at the multitude of unfamiliar men around her. She trusted them to an extent; to act with courtesy, to protect and serve her, but she found she did not wish for more intimate contact with them. They were unknown, made dangerous in the very fact that their danger was unascertained.

“Aye, min—” He caught himself, “Éowyn.” Gaer’s pale eyes had gentled, singularly so, and she looked at him, wondering. “I understand.”

Filled with reservations, Éowyn did not ask if he meant what she thought and he did not speak again, simply grasping the hand of a passing dancer. As the circle quickened and grew, she was near pulled off her feet with all words and notions running out of her head like water from a pail, leaving nothing but laughter.

They danced for several turns, fast and wild, but after nearly falling twice with Gaer’s quick, strong grip the only thing keeping her on her feet, she begged to stop. He led her aside again, both of them breathing hard and occasionally laughing in exhilarated bursts, to stand against the side of a cart that held barrels of ale.

She felt something, light at first, and frowned, disbelieving with shocked little snickers starting to bubble up from her chest, “What is that arm?”

Éowyn giggled and shrugged her shoulders. “No, this heavy one here!” It was heavy, thicker and weightier with muscle and bone than Faramir’s. She let it remain, finding herself unafraid of the intentions of the man that owned it and curious at the difference of the feel. This is what I would have felt had I wed a man of my lands… Éowyn was not terribly displeased, but knew at once that she preferred the lighter touch of her beloved. She glanced at Gaer. If he fell asleep atop me I would be trapped…they’d find me squashed flat…and broke into blushing laughter for her immodest thoughts.

Meanwhile, Gaer had been turning his head this way and that as though to see. His puzzled expression cleared as he craned his neck to glance behind her. “Ah, that one.”

Gaer looked at his arm with mild surprise, as though he’d not known it had strayed to rest so brazenly over her shoulders. “It is mine…” She stared at him expectantly, smile on her lips, and he added with droll solemnness, “I would not worry, it is a chaste, respectable arm…” His face broke into a wide grin like he could hold it back no longer, “For the most part.”

Bursting into laughter anew, as he so often and so easily seemed to make her do, she gasped, “May it stay that way!”

“Aye, I would strive to keep it so, friend Gaer.” A familiar and gently ribbing voice, masked for the moment in sternness, made her spin. Faramir stood smiling to the right of her. Éowyn heard her own delighted squeal with half an ear as she ducked from under Gaer’s hastily withdrawn arm and rushed to embrace him. His surprised grin of pleasure as his arms slid around her waist was as bright as the Sun. She snuggled tightly into his hug, loving his familiar body, long and tall like to the very bow he carried and used so well.

Behind her, Gaer sighed with defeat. He peered about himself. “Where did those maids go? I thought I told them to keep you occupied for the night.”

Éowyn glanced between them, comparing. She smiled and wrapped her arms about his neck, standing on tiptoe to kiss his nose and declare, smiling, “You’re all legs, min cempa.” Gaer raised a brow at the name, making her laugh. Am I a bit drunk? Éowyn rather thought so though, but she could not say whether it was from liquor or happiness or both.

Amused, Faramir nodded, looking to Gaer with even further mirth. “What did you call me, Cranebayn?”

“I know.” Faramir’s eyes danced, “I’ve got the feeling you’ve begun to shirk at that task…I haven’t heard a name in days.”

Éowyn’s head rested against his heart, her arms hugged his middle; she murmured into the White Tree on his surcoat, “Dælric. You may call him that.” Gaer looked at her sharply,

“From what does it come?” He frowned, “That’s two parts at least; noble enough to fit without insult. But I’ve never heard it before.”

“Mmm-hmm, because I made it just now.” She laughed and pulled back to smile upward, “You could say it Dale-ric, too. Nobleman of the dell, the groves.” Her smile widened, “My Prince of Ithilien.”

Faramir blinked at her, “That’s not bad at all.” He glanced to Gaer, taunting, “You couldn’t think of that?” The redheaded man grimaced.

Éowyn continued lazily, “Dæl…as a word it means greater than can be measured,” She smiled, touching his face, “Ric means a man of nobility, a ruler of influence. Dælric, a Lord whose supremacy and greatness cannot be measured.”

Faramir looked at Gaer, brow raised. The Rider stared back for a moment, then threw his arms into the air with a cry of impatience. “What do you expect from me? I’m but a lowly man-at-arms, of course she’s better!” He laughed and shifted his feet, wanting to take her away to privacy, but before he could speak, Gaer sensed this and smiled, bowing low, “Lady Éowyn, if I may take my leave of you?”

The Rider glanced at him, saying wryly, “Aye, I believe there are two maids I must go scold, as they’ve not done their promised duty.” Faramir smiled,

Gaer smiled, taking a step back as he chuckled, “I would guess they were frightened of our Lady’s wrath if she found them.”

Éowyn reached to press the Rider’s hand. “Goodnight, Gaer.” Her voice softened, “Thank you again.” Then she laughed aloud. “Come closer, I’ve another reward for the kindness of your heart.” The Rider blinked and to Faramir’s surprise, bent his knee and bowed low, holding the position of subordination. Stepping away from his arm, Éowyn ran her fingers through the red hair that adorned the Rohir’s head, still cast downward, then put a hand to his temples, holding him to plant a light kiss upon Gaer’s brow. She smiled as she released him, “Are you compensated enough for your want?”

Rising slowly, he nodded. “With all fullness and all welcome, my Lady.” Gaer answered with his customary cheek, though Faramir could see the flush that had come to his face. He then bowed low and retreated, leaving Faramir to wonder in slight jealousy what that was all about.

But not for long, as Éowyn pulled him down to kiss him deeply. She wrapped her arms about his neck, leaning close to nuzzle her nose to his as she said slowly, speaking each word with smiling deliberation. “I…love…you.”

“Aye…” Éowyn took a breath, then murmured in soft song, the words coming faintly to his hearing as the night air was full of music and the noises of multitudes of rowdy Rohirrim, “Ic eom fealu gien in eower earms… Girðing máre seo hrimmceald stan weardiað scop me swa…”

He’d understood some, but not all as she’d been barely audible. …something about being in my arms. Faramir smiled; the tone had been happy, at least. Oddly, her words had flowed together, melding unlike the usually clear way that she spoke to him in her tongue. “What did that mean?”

Éowyn did not answer, only sang further, still with a bashful smile, “Ac, ge habbe hlupon seo eall, Feramearh hræd ond stearc.” She touched his chest, sliding her hand down his arm, “Eower eages afor, ge seáw me afeorran. Ic hæbbe ná wyrd fleon mon swa unforht ond swift in æfterflygung.”

He’d pulled his name from the indistinct words but little else, shaking her arms gently. “Would you not tell me?”

He leaned down to kiss her, murmuring playfully, “I thought I only got one song…”

“I lied.” She laughed then Éowyn tugged his hand towards the darkened fields. “Come with me under the stars.”

He tensed, wary at his own eagerness. “For what? It’s dark…don’t you want to dance?”

She smiled in return, mind and thought utterly innocent and he was annoyed with himself. Éowyn hugged his arm, explaining, “To look at them.” She entreated, “Tell me their names in the elven tongues. I like it when you speak in elvish.”

“All right.” It seemed a peculiar request, but a simple one. Faramir glanced upwards at the black heavens, the distant points of brilliance, faintly colored blue, red, white, all flickering and shining. The Horseman in the sky… “Where do you wish to go?”

The shapes of horses were dark and many in the night, some snorting in alarm, others barely moving as they passed. He gazed at them, listening to swishing tails, thudding hooves and teeth cropping the dry grasses. So simple…so peaceful…what danger could come? Faramir frowned. He didn’t know and he was afraid to find it…is that why I stay, if not for her?

Suddenly a few of the horses bolted in the night, frightened by their movements. Faramir pulled her closer, anxious that they might get trampled. Éowyn stood still, comparatively safe in the circle of his arms and hummed softly to some tune he’d not heard before and the minds of the horses around them calmed in realization that they were but Men and not other beasts of a less savory nature. They walked further, hand in hand and it was pleasant in the coolness of the night. He smiled, “This is nice.”

After a few more minutes, he asked, “How far do you wish to go?” And as though summoned by his voice, there was a loud, deep neigh. One of the horses, at first a mere black shape in the blackness, came to them. It moved at a slow, heavy jog that he recognized and Faramir smiled in sudden pleasure as Thorn walked from the night, voicing the faintest and gentlest of nickers over the thudding of his hooves. Finding himself delighted by the animal’s soft greeting, he smiled and gave one of his own. “Hello.”

His hands were searched again, slicked with the horse’s long, nimble tongue, making him both grimace and laugh. Then his pockets too, were searched with nipping teeth before the gelding went to Éowyn and Faramir took some petty gratification that his mount sniffed her hand only briefly and with little expectation, quickly returning. She rubbed his thick grey neck, murmuring sweetly, “Hello, Thorn. He’s a good lad.” Turning her head, barely seen as she smiled, she said, “He likes you very much.”

He was pleased, patting the grey’s still searching nose. “Don’t bite me…you think so?”

Éowyn laughed, “I know so, why else would he come to you?” She tugged gently on the dark mane and Thorn took a step forward so that she stood at his withers. “Come, he can take us farther.”

“Careful…sometimes he’s a bit…” He’d needed not to caution her, as Éowyn was already aboard, yanking her gown into place so that she could sit astride with her skirts hanging down around her. Finished, she patted the grey’s broad back and smiled,

“Get on, he’s willing.” It was awkward with her before him and without the aid of stirrup or mane, but he managed to swing onto Thorn’s back. Immediately Faramir was aware of her riding ahead of him. He circled his arms about her waist, aroused by the firm press of her backside to his front even through what felt like yards of skirts. He scooted forward, wanting to pull up her skirts to feel her bare backside against his front, but that lead to the thought of unfastening his trousers and far, too far, I’d guess…

She leaned backwards, saying, “I doubt he’d much like what you’re thinking…”

“What am I thinking?” Éowyn giggled and shook her head, making him think wryly that she’d not known at all. Smiling to himself, he stroked his fingers over her stomach, aware that she had nowhere to go, that she could wiggle all she liked, but couldn’t get away. I’ve got you, my love…

She jumped when he moved his fingers between her thighs, pressing her skirt down, then spreading his hands and using the tips to slide firmly upward over the curve of her inner legs; that tickles!

Does it? Good. Faramir took his time to slide his hands over her upper legs as she’d teased him so long ago by the banks of the Snowbourn. She felt pleasingly firm, yet still soft and feminine as he squeezed his legs and scooted close to her, trying to mimic her movements from before that had aroused him so much. Faramir quickly found that though he enjoyed his efforts, he couldn’t, that she could squeeze far more firmly than he could.

When she finally answered her voice was breathier and held enough appetite to gratify him anyway, “You’re thinking…terribly indecent things.”

“Mmm-hmm…” He nuzzled her neck, feeling the warmth of her body as Thorn began to walk in response to all his movements. The slow back and forth friction was maddening. He experimented, shifting to press more closely, enjoying the teasing nature of it. Almost too much…he laughed to himself. “I think I’m allowed to…as you’re being terribly indecent yourself.”

“Let’s see…my beautiful…incredibly desirable maiden leads me alone into the dark fields under the guise of telling her the names of stars in elvish…” Faramir kissed her neck, her cheek, sliding her gown aside a few inches here and there to put kisses on her bare shoulders. “I call that having intentions of being indecent.” Her skin was warm, soft and smelled very, very good. “What soap is this?”

“I don’t know.” Éowyn protested with a laugh, “And I’ve no intentions at all!” She pinched his leg. “You know that, you scoundrel.”

Sliding his hand up to cup her breast, he growled, “Aye, you don’t, but I do.” He’d meant it only as jest, but she turned to look at him, capturing his hands in her own.

Her eyes were unreadable in the dimness as she asked hesitantly. “Do you know what the women do at harvest festivals?”

Faramir shook his head. “No.” She seemed to relax and didn’t answer. It took him a moment, but he guessed and saw the reason for her hesitation. He smiled, finding that he did not truly think for a moment that she would lead him out to do such a thing. Don’t worry, you’re not half as indecent as I…

Pulling his arms to link chastely about her waist, Éowyn leaned comfortably against his front and pointed upwards to a blazing star. “Tell me the name of that one there.”

He frowned, gazing around the clear, vivid sky and taking in the constellations about it though he’d already guessed by its intense light. “Helluin, the brightest of stars.”

Éowyn pointed again, almost in challenge, and he supplied, “That group of stars is called Wilwarin, the ‘Butterfly’. I don’t know the names of all of them.” Thorn plodded forward and after a short while Faramir nodded upwards, raising his arm, “That is called Soronúmë, in the Eagle.” He pointed to another, nudging her shoulder so that she faced the correct way, “There is Valacirca, the ‘Sickle of the Valar’.”

“We call it the ‘Wain’.” She was smiling again; he could hear it, “And that one, min cempa, wise in all things?”

I don’t know about that… Aware that his voice contained a rather boastful note now, Faramir smiled as he named, “The brightest blue…right there…is Luinil.” He leaned back, resting his hands on Thorn’s broad rump; rarely had the gelding been so docile. The grey had even dropped his head and was grazing as though unaware of their weight. I assume this is to his liking…somehow. Looking further, he added, “The red star is Borgil at the head of the Swordsman.” He pointed to a familiar constellation, easily remembered because of its belt of three stars in a line. “The whole is called Menelvagar, the ‘Swordsman of the Sky’.” Faramir frowned, “I can’t remember the name of his girth.”

Faramir listened to this with a mixture of fascination and skeptical amusement. “The Mearas came from the sky?” He dropped his chin to her shoulder, curling against her body again. “I heard Oromë gifted them from over the Sea.”

He nodded, smiling. “Yes, I was taught that that is his name in the Northern Tongue. He is called many names by many folk.” Faramir challenged lightly, “He was a huntsman, not a horseman. He had one horse, a splendid one that shone like silver and was shod with gold. Its voice was great and proud.”

That was more difficult to retrieve and he thought for a long while, listening to Thorn’s teeth crop the dry grass. The grey’s tail swished back and forth, slapping his dangling legs. “Nahar…?”

Éowyn sounded a little awed, “That is very fitting name for such a noble beast as the sire of the Mearas.”

“Nahar…Never-old.” She smiled over her shoulder. “They are a long-lived breed. Do you know more of him?”

“No, my folk would not have cared as much.” Sadly, Faramir added to himself. He was finding that he cared a great deal.

“Here it is said that he came from the sky, that he ran so swiftly that his hooves threw sparks and his tail caught fire so that he glowed like a star falling to earth as he ran up and down the mountains. His eye was an Eagle’s, able to see far ahead and behind, and tell truth from lie, nobleman from outlaw. His strength was that of the earth’s bones; no bridle or saddle could break him, no rope or chain of steel could hold him, no rider could sit his back save the Horseman and he allowed that out of fellowship.”

“What of this Horseman?” He turned upwards to stare at the familiar constellation. A new meaning for it held promise of long pondering and stirred his interest.

“Aye, Oromë was one of the Vala.” But he is not in the sky… The Rohirric version of ancient times was strangely twisted, elements left out or moved, but enthralling anyhow.

“One day…Nahar as you call him… ran down with the mares of Men.” Éowyn murmured, “He did not return to the sky and you see the horse there?” She lifted her hand to indicate the constellation of a horse. The great rift in the tellings of their folk fascinated Faramir even more with this addition and he listened closely, “She is the outline he made to lure Nahar back, the mare he formed with stars.” Éowyn turned to him, smiling, “But Nahar was wise and called to her and she did not answer, so he knew she was not real.”

“What happened after that?” It was all different and he looked about himself with an inward laugh. What do I expect? But he hadn’t and Faramir knew it well. I am…somewhere else. None of their other stories or history had made such an impact to his mind. The very sky is different here…

Éowyn went on, “He preferred the warm flesh of mortal mares, the guarding of his foals and herd to the endless Hunt and did not return.”

“Wise, indeed.” He chuckled softly. Who would prefer slaughter to family…? Faramir frowned, hugging her waist, feeling her warmth. Why do I stay? Everything I wish for sits before me…

“It is also said that he was wise enough to see that the foals he sired were swifter and stronger and that in the broad lands they were Masters of his kind. That we, the Children of Men, were weak and slow in likening and would not last without the help of his kinfolk and so he counseled his colts to bear us and serve us in willingness so that we might multiply and keep safe the earth from darkness.” Éowyn fell silent before stating with anxious quickness, “There was an oath between the first man who forged a bit and tanned a bridle and the first horse that wore it, Faramir…an oath given before any ever sat the back of a horse.” She was serious now, intent. He was utterly captivated.

Éowyn’s arm left his embrace to stroke Thorn’s side. She turned her head to look at him and in the starlight her eyes were very solemn. “An oath of trust, of love and shared hearts…that all effort would be made to care for the other and that both were equal, none mastered the other and both stood for the other in all their doings without fail or grudge.” Éowyn clasped his hand, “Without this oath there can be no partnership between a rider and mount and no love to go beyond all courage and strength.” He heard her laugh softly. “They know and remember our injustices but they will forgive if we make but the slightest effort of understanding…they are nobler creatures than we.”

Éowyn patted Thorn’s side again. “This oath means everything, means survival in a field of battle, for the horse that is your friend will defend you with hoof and tooth if you lie wounded, will die for you and drive itself to the ground for you. It is love, it is trust, it is being bound beyond word or action, bound heart to heart.”

Like a joining…a marriage… He sensed her silent agreement at the comparison and swallowed. Faramir held her closer as she repeated softly,

“It is an oath of trust and love…” This is what she’d meant in his dream so long ago; his dream-Éowyn had wished him to discover this, to know that the concept behind the Rohirrim’s most important and sacred of myths was trust. Trust and love, the things he’d fought so hard to earn from both her and her brother…and finally had.

She murmured, “Our horses are our people though they walk on four legs, do you understand?”

Éowyn was quiet for a long moment before she whispered, “Though you are from the South, you will be of us when we wed, joined in bonds that last forever.” She smiled and took his hand to press it to Thorn’s flank. “Feel him? He trusts us to sit on his back with no bridle or saddle, nothing stops him from throwing us to the earth save his kind heart and willingness to serve. That bond of trust and love, once won outlasts any bit or leather strap or any trapping you put on my hand to show I am yours in your City. In full love and trust, we need neither, him and I.” She smiled, “It is no insult to be compared to him.”

Éowyn sighed deep, content and brought his hand to her lips to kiss it. “Good.”

He held her to his front, weakly jesting, “And if I promise it will be a pretty trapping?” Éowyn laughed and turned her head so that they could kiss.

Again he heard her content, felt her fingers wrapped around his as she murmured placidly. “Whatever you wish it to be.”

They sat Thorn in silence for a little while with Faramir often raising his head to the stars and staring at them in curiosity. They did not seem different but he felt himself to have changed and it made him slightly uneasy; he shifted and felt how his surcoat, one he’d worn many times, seemed strange. It was not too tight or too loose, not any different at all, but it felt off somehow in a way that he could not place. Perhaps it is I… What would he be when he walked back into his City? A Ranger, a Prince, a man of the Mark? All of these? He frowned, then forgot his unease as Éowyn sighed and put her leg back over Thorn’s neck.

He nodded and she slid to the ground. Thorn raised his head to look at them as Faramir dismounted. The grey turned, coming to face him with ears pricked, sniffing his front with quivering lips and bright eyes. Voice low, feeling himself in part playful and melancholy, he asked with an affected growl, “What do you want?”

Éowyn smiled at once. Faramir was many things: a man of certain, unequaled perception, of noble patience, of great learning…but he is not a horseman. Her smile widened as she read the horse’s body language, his erect ears, his eyes alert and focused upon Faramir—in fact his entire focus rested on her Prince, aligned to face his rider from hoof to tail. Before she’d said Thorn liked him; it was quite true and she remembered how the gelding had looked for his Lord when she’d taken him from his stall in Edoras. Just a short while ago he’d been apprehensive when she’d mounted, ears and eye quickly turning to the unwitting Faramir for guidance, the muscles in his back twitching under her weight. I doubt I would have been carried with much enthusiasm had he not joined me so swiftly…

Now she put her hand to her mouth to hide her laughter. Faramir was petting the horse absently as he asked, “Do you wish to go back?”

“Yes.” She was smiling, unable to help it, charmed by the scene in front of her. Standing before Faramir, Thorn nosed his arm, then shoulder and when neither provoked a reaction, the horse pawed the ground, asking for attention. When he did not get more than a pat still, the gelding took a step forward and his eyes alighted on the bit of crimson ribbon tied about Faramir’s arm, the ends swinging gently. Éowyn laughed silently into her hand, guessing what was on the grey’s mind.

An instant later she laughed aloud with pure delight as Thorn reached out to grasp the ribbon in his teeth and pulled it free, leaving it to dangle and flop from his lips. “Hey…” Thorn bobbed his head with enthusiasm for the jest when Faramir reached for it, making him unable to grab it. Her love turned to her to complain in bemusement, “He’s got my ribbon.”

She burst into giggles and exclaimed, “Well, fetch it back!” He still did not see what was so terribly obvious to her. Thorn wanted to play with her love, which meant he liked him greatly. Éowyn watched them interact, Faramir still woefully ignorant of the horse’s entreaties for play—Thorn took a step back, head down, dangling the ribbon with his eyes fixed intelligently upon the man that stood before him. When Faramir reached for the flopping bit of fabric, Thorn lifted his head too high for him to grasp it and shook his nose up and down violently. His dark eyes were spirited and glinting with naughtiness as the ribbon was flung back and forth to snap and pop airily. The horse’s desire for merriment was clearly seen even in the dim starlight.

“He won’t let me, he’s being contrary.” She laughed again as Faramir said morosely, “I was going to treasure it forever…now he’ll probably eat it.”

Éowyn smiled warmly, touching his arm in reassurance. “You’ll get others. I promise.”

He looked delighted at her simple vow, “But this one would remind me of this day…” She could see the gleam of his smile in the starlight. “This wonderful day.”

Faramir put his arms about her waist and pulled so that she swayed to him and kissed her firmly, passionately. “Very.” His grey eyes radiated happiness and she felt her heart melt.

“I’m glad…” He kissed her again, then a great shove from behind made them both yelp in surprise and stagger. Their pleasant moment was broken and the reason why stood near—Thorn had pushed Faramir’s back with his heavy, cumbersome head to regain his attention. Éowyn laughed as her Prince scowled at the gelding. Undeterred, Thorn just flipped his nose, making the ribbon bounce temptingly, trying to get Faramir to come for it. He looked at her and chuckled as she declared, “He’s jealous.”

“Ah, he will have to learn not to be.” He held her again, kissing her neck, her collarbone with soft, heated presses, one hand moving on her breast.

Éowyn leaned against him, enjoying his caresses; they made her want to beg him to never stop. She heard her voice made soft and breathy with pleasure, “That feels good…so good.” She shivered in growing enjoyment, feeling again how her body reacted, how she softened in response to his touch, unable to move away and waiting for the pleasure she was sure would come. The darkness around them only intensified her senses. She could smell his familiar smell—leather, the wind and stone of the City that clung to his surcoat, now horse, too; feel his heat against her; on her breast, the slightest movements of his fingers hardened her nipple and made tingles go down her legs.

His reply was deep, satisfied with what he wrought in her and what she knew he could feel. “Good…”

Éowyn peered over his shoulder at the stars, feeling terribly content. I wonder what they look like from the Court of the Fountain…would they be clearer from the height? She wanted to know, wanted to lie with him, be beneath the stars in the well-ordered gardens of the City. It was a new, strange desire.

He pulled back to smile at her, then lowered his mouth to hers. For a moment it was pure bliss, then she cried out in alarm as they were shoved again and he stumbled against her. In that instant it was uncertain whether they would fall or stand, whether Faramir would pitch atop her and mash her to the ground or no; they swayed and she shuffled backwards, struggling to handle her balance and his. Behind them, Thorn snorted loudly then she heard his hoof pawing the dry earth and Éowyn began to laugh. Hugging Faramir to brace herself with his solid form, she held onto his front as they both steadied; he’d finally gotten his long legs under him and they were spread, feet planted firmly, his arms grasping hers to hold her up with him. Secure again, she laughed long and with relish, shaking, gasping out, “He wants to play and he won’t stop until you do it!”

Faramir released her and turned, asking curiously, “Play? He’s just being perverse,” His voice turned amused, “As usual.”

Éowyn went speechless. You do not know, cannot see, still? He didn’t and she was appalled. The game the grey offered was an early one played with foals, their leads and halters tugged and thrown about, gnawed, stomped and otherwise known to make them harmless for all time. Now Thorn sought to play it again with Faramir. Éowyn smiled, recovering as she watched her love try again and again to pull the ribbon from the horse’s tightly gritted teeth, frowning and muttering with growing exasperation. Finally she could take no more and laughed, stepping forward to show him how. “Here. Watch…if he’ll play with me.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Thorn’s playfulness became more wary when she reached for the ribbon, his ears flicking to Faramir, but he let her grasp it. Éowyn pulled, then released and made a great fuss, laughing and crying appreciation for the jest. Thorn nodded his big head powerfully in joy at completion of the game, shoving the ribbon at her, then pulling it back and making it flop and flap wildly to her laughter, cries of delight and exaggerated praise of his cleverness.

“What are you doing?” Faramir moved to stand beside her, smiling in amusement while he observed them. He sounded very inquisitive, as he always did when given an opportunity to learn something new.

“Look!” Éowyn reached again, but the horse just bobbed his head cheerfully as if to include and exclude her at once, then ignored her in favor of extending his nose, the ribbon fluttering, to put it near to Faramir’s lowered hand. The gelding stayed that way with his eyes fixed on her love’s hand; Thorn’s long bony face, a face capable of little expression, nonetheless conveyed hope and a childish eagerness.

“See?” She smiled; Thorn was nearly putting the end of the ribbon in Faramir’s palm to make him understand and play, occasionally pulling back to flip his nose and make the slender line of fabric dance enticingly. “He likes you, not me.” Faramir looked touched. Éowyn instructed, “When you get it, you must make a great commotion for him…he loves it; horses love laughter, they understand it.” She smiled at the gelding as he nudged Faramir’s hand earnestly. “He likes to make you laugh, to make a game with you to show how much he likes you, how much you are a friend to him.”

Éowyn smiled and nodded as Faramir grasped the ribbon. Thorn pulled back and her love let it slip through his fingers with an animated cry of mock dismay. She laughed and the gelding’s big ears pricked and he nodded his head in delight before offering the ribbon to Faramir again. “He’s like a child…he loves to be fussed over, the louder the better.” The two played for several minutes while she watched, her chest filling again with a great sense of content, so deep and full she felt she might burst open with joy with the wellness in all she saw and heard. Faramir sounded so happy, his laughter and playful shouts ringing like bells in the quiet night. It is like he’s never made such a friend…

He looked to her, pausing in the game. “I’ve never played with a horse before, just ridden them.” He smiled, “I’d never shod one before I rode here.” Faramir pointed down at Thorn’s forelegs. “That one right there. It’s still there.” He sounded pleased.

Éowyn could not conceive of such a life. She answered softly, saddened by what he’d passed by. “Then you have missed much.” Watching in silence, Éowyn smiled again—it looked that Faramir would get another chance.

Only listening to her with half an ear, captivated, Faramir had just laughed and nodded; Thorn had lowered his head so that he had to reach down and just as he did, the horse lifted it too high, nodding his muzzle so that the ribbon flapped tauntingly. Her love growled, “Let me get it!” In response, Thorn took several strides backward, head lowered, nose extended. Faramir followed and before he got close enough to strike with a rear, the gelding jumped up, pawing the air in play. He came down, then wheeled and trotted around them with his tail held high; his gait was proud and effortless, hooves floating over the dusty ground in strange grace for such a usually ungainly animal. Thorn stopped and snorted a challenge, letting the ribbon flutter in the wind of his passage. His ears were forward, attention fixed steadily on Faramir.

Éowyn laughed again—the seasoned warhorse was acting like a week-old colt. She smiled, looking at the gelding with adoration for the lighthearted way her love acted and sounded. He loves you…and she was suddenly overcome with vast affection for the animal. Her dear Prince had rarely been so filled with the joy he deserved.

Faramir looked at her and his grin flashed in the dimness; it outshone the brilliant lights of the stars. No…

“He does love you.” Éowyn reached for the ribbon and Thorn sidestepped, offering it again to his man. His man…oh, yes. She smiled, not begrudging what she saw—the first growth of love between horse and rider that made duty not duty at all but willing aid and transformed all service between man and beast into recreation and never labor. “You do not see with my eyes.” He was smiling broadly; Thorn’s neck was arched, tail lifted almost to curl over his back as he loped in a small circle around them, every stride that of cavorting glee. Dust rose as the gelding slid to a halt and half-reared, still well away from striking distance. Watching him, she found new support for her argument, stating, “He takes care not to hurt you when he does that, see? He knows himself stronger and larger and he takes the same care a mare does with her foal…is that not love?”

“Are you calling me his foal?” Sounding bemused, Faramir reached for the ribbon and the old horse danced back, nostrils flared and eyes bright. This time her Prince strode to meet the gelding, cutting him off as he circled with his arms out to catch him. Thorn wheeled, hooves digging deeply into the dry earth, and galloped around them widely, changing directions twice, planting his feet and sliding into a dusty halt before charging forward again. The gelding bucked high as he circled them, his shoes glinting in the starlight. Thorn was blowing and snorting with effort and enjoyment as he slowed to a prancing trot. His dark tail still flagged gaily as Faramir laughed in appreciation, then sighed, asking with a smile. “How do I make him stop?”

He raised both arms and took a step forward to get the horse’s attention, then stood still and commanded, “Thorn, whoa.” Thorn slowed and halted, pale sides moving with his fast breathing. The crimson ribbon still fluttered from his dark muzzle as Faramir extended his hand, “Come.” The grey took two strides backwards and bobbed his head, wishing to play still. He frowned. “No, it’s late.”

Thorn just nodded more and nickered in a spirited, joyful fashion, inviting him to continue the game. Éowyn smiled, still adoring the horse, “He doesn’t want to stop.”

“I know.” Faramir frowned, “Ná, Thorn.” He reached for the ribbon but the horse backed and dipped his nose to shake the bit of fabric that dangled from it, thinking he wanted to play still. He tried to think of a way to cease without hurting the animal’s feelings and approached slowly, not reaching for the ribbon. Thorn eyed him warily, but stood. “Good lad…it’s late…”

He pressed his palm to Thorn’s forehead, visualizing a swift sunrise, the first sleepy flight and chirping of birds as light grew on green grass, making dew sparkle…tomorrow…tomorrow I will play…

The horse stood very still and when he tugged the ribbon, Thorn released it. Faramir grimaced—it was wet on the end, discolored with saliva and the juices of chewed grass. He praised softly, stroking the grey’s neck, which was warmed from his exertions. “Thank you.” Faramir meant far more than thanks for the return of a bit of fabric. Smiling, he murmured, “Thank you for playing with me.” Thorn pushed his head against him, stepping forward so that he was touching Faramir’s side. Pleased, he rubbed the gelding’s withers, leaning against his bulk to scratch the other side of his body, rubbing the angle of his shoulder before stepping back to slap his neck. Thorn snuffled a faint voicing of expectation and turned to face him as he bobbed his nose and reached for the ribbon with lips popping in eagerness to grab it a second time.

Faramir closed his hand over the wet thing, scolding gently. “No, no more.” When he turned to Éowyn, Thorn nickered again, this time very soft and plaintive. It touched his heart and he groaned, turning back. “Ná. Tomorrow.”

Éowyn took his hand and said firmly, “Min, Thorn, Faramir is min.” Faramir laughed and let her lead him back to the light of the fires. When they’d reached the soft orangish glow, music coming again to break the soft stillness of their footsteps and breathing, Thorn whinnied shrilly. He glanced back but could see nothing; his eyes had already adjusted to the illumination of the torches and bonfires. Éowyn hugged his arm, “Don’t worry, he will be there tomorrow.”

“I know.” Faramir smiled but his thoughts wandered farther ahead and he thought with great sorrow of his own much duller horse, the one he’d ridden to the Mark. He’d never played with it, never given more than a pat, treat or kind word, had always thought that was enough; it had never occurred to him to do more and the gelding had never tried for more…that I’d recognized. He chuckled faintly and with little mirth. It will be an uneventful ride home… Faramir glanced back into the blackness of the night, thinking with dark humor that he had yet a new reason to not wish to depart from Rohan. Of course, Éomer would grant me the horse if I named the reason…it is not as if Thorn is a creature of great worth bearing noble beauty. My own horse is more comely. He laughed to himself, then sobered. Thorn’s worth was more lasting—the worth of friendship won.

He would have to discover why he stayed soon, probe his heart and learn his reasoning. I want my life…but not yet. Faramir frowned, troubled as they walked back into the crowd. Thorn was not the mount of a nobleman with his scars and uncomely big head and ears, his willful disposition. No, he is where he belongs… He imagined the stables just outside the Citadel—they were lavish, as they had to be to house the mounts of Knights, honored noblemen and the King, but they would be terribly cramped in the mind of Thorn who roamed wide fields, whose eyes lifted to endless horizons. The gelding was rarely even asked to stand tied; his boundaries were rivers, mountains, not wood walls. He remembered the Thorn’s anger to be confined even in the great, fortified corral. It would be cruel, I think, to make him live within the City and spend his days without the allowance of cropping his own grass… Faramir sighed deeply. I would not be the friend he thinks I am. But… He knew at once that he did not want to say goodbye to the horse. Turning to Éowyn, he asked, “What does a horse think of a stable?”

She bit her lip as a smile came to her mouth, making it bow and curve as she laughed delightedly, “You want him to take back with you?” He nodded, slightly embarrassed to be read so easily. Éowyn’s smile faded, “They do not like them. Imagine standing in one room…and there is naught in it but a cup of water, a dish for your meals, which come but twice a day, and a plain bed. You have a window and you can see others like you and even outside where the sun shines and many things are happening, but you cannot go out and if you call to anyone, they ignore you.” She sighed, squeezing his hand. “It is not pleasant to their thinking and rightly so.”

He agreed, discouraged. “I thought it would be cruel.” A new thought struck him. But in Ithilien, could I not have him stabled as I wish…perhaps in a great stone-walled paddock? Faramir frowned. Ithilien was but empty land without so much as a brick laid in the making of his house, never mind stables. He’d not even thought of stables yet.

The voice inside him spoke up again, more impatiently, more willfully. But when it is laid, I could do as I like…I will be Lord, no one else. He supposed he could house Thorn for a short while in the seventh circle—there, he could visit him easily no matter if he had a full day of duties to Elessar or the Council. If I take time to ride him…or I could have a boy exercise him…he smiled. If Thorn would tolerate that. Faramir laughed softly, “They will look at me as if I were mad with that horse and the luxuries I would grant him. He is not the mount of a Lord.” Indeed, the homely Thorn would look exceedingly out of place in the seventh circle stables.

“No, he’s scruffy and rough.” Éowyn smiled. She turned to him, asking intently, “But is he the one you want?”

“Yes, oh, yes. I think riding another would be very dull.” Spirits much lifted, he stopped and pulled her close. Faramir looked down into her pretty blue eyes, seeing her pupils large from the darkness. His movement had been swift, the pulling of her body to his without a word, thought or act of forewarning, yet there was no fear in her eyes, her face, or her soul—he’d conquered it…and with such simple weapons. Months ago she would have either been paralyzed with fright, stiff as wood, or had fought her way from his arms in violence; even weeks ago she would have been shy, waiting to watch and see what he might do. He swallowed and felt tears prick, overcome by his own happiness.

He laughed faintly, “Nothing…this was a most wonderful day…the best of all I can remember. The best of my days.” Faramir lowered his head against her, to smell her hair and just lean. Her arms pulled from his embrace and came up to hold him nearer as she said, voice soft,

Éowyn repeated herself more firmly and lifted his chin so that their eyes met. “No, it can’t be.” When he just looked at her, not understanding, she murmured, “I won’t let it be, Faramir.” Her arms tightened around his neck and her voice rang with determination. “You deserve more, you will have more.” She pulled him down and her kiss was equally determined. All I can give, I give to you…in return. Touching his brow to hers, he smiled and let her feel how happy he was in that moment, how utterly content. Éowyn leaned up to kiss him in reply, a gesture of her own happiness.

Eventually, Faramir looked to her tent; it was alight from within and he saw movement. Arwen had retired already. He groaned, murmuring, “I don’t want to let you go…”

“I know.” Éowyn hesitated, then kissed his cheek, intimately soft, lingering. Her inner voice was shy, murmuring soon…as she pressed his hand.

He stepped back, smiling to reassure her, marveling that even the hesitance he could sense was but fleeting and trivial. “I know.”

Éowyn still held onto his hand. After a moment, she let go, saying, “Sleep well.”

“I sleep cold, alone but for a tent full of filthy men and on the hard ground…how can I sleep well?” He grinned.

She laughed, “I don’t think the High Queen would take to being tossed out of her bed for the likes of you, my simple, handsome Steward.”

“Ná.” Éowyn smiled and he watched her enter the tent, watched her shape move against the light cloth and heard her voice lightsome and laughing at some words of Arwen’s. Faramir turned and sighed. He was wearied in mind more than body and wondered if he could sleep so soon. Taking the damp ribbon from his pocket, he stepped into the deserted tent where his bedroll lay and placed it deep in one of his bags so that it would not be lost. That done, Faramir wandered out again, smiling at the music, feeling himself at ease as most of the gigantic crowd had long gone to their beds. The dancers had dwindled and the circle was much smaller now and populated by the much more intoxicated, but still merry. Faramir walked past many dark tents, many dying fires and a few snoring men who lay where they’d dropped.

A few contests went on still, lit by firelight—wrestling, men throwing short-handled axes at wooden shields, a huge man lifting a boulder high to open-mouthed onlookers. He found it all strange and incredible and he began to wonder how he would fare at the different trials. Faramir smiled to himself. If he but mentioned the desire to Gaer or Tondhere, he would be dragged to each one and made to compete. Perhaps he could win the respect of more of his northern brothers by doing so…at least they would respect the efforts… He glanced back at the tent in which Éowyn stayed. At least it could earn me more ribbons… With a flush of boastfulness, he remembered her pride, her forceful acclaim and title of champion. That, I think, I shall do. Faramir vowed to try his hand at as many as he could enter, thinking shamelessly, I want to hear that again in her voice…

Laughing at himself and his foolish pride in her pride, he returned to his own tent and untied his bedroll, laying his head on one of his bags. Gaer and another woke him briefly as they entered, muttering and smelling of ale. He heard them snickering and closed his eyes again, hoping he would be undisturbed. One trod on his ankle and he hissed in pain, jerking it back. There was a muttered apology, then a giggle, “Eower scancas eart lang, toss lang, Hordere.” The Riders giggled with him.

An unfamiliar voice asked, near breathless with cackles, “Hordere, hwa scrud dest eower Ides hæbbe onslepan in?” Faramir bit his tongue, tempted to snap something back to the indecent question.

There was a burst of rowdy laughter and he heard Gaer hushing the other Rider and snickering.

“Náhting…Faramir, ná? Gea?” The Rohirrim howled with laughter. He did not respond, still feigning sleep and the Riders soon quieted and to his surprise, left him be entirely so that soon Faramir fell back into real slumber.

He woke but one other time, feeling as though he’d forgotten something, but the feeling was vague, merely troubling and he slid into sleep again with only the barest of murmurs.

Undressing, Éowyn watched Arwen brush her puppy with amusement. She removed Rusco’s leather collar, wiping dust from it and the lead, then laid them nearby for the morning. It was only when the Queen had changed to a simple shift and lifted the puppy up to sit on the cot that she realized, “You’re letting that filthy little beast sleep with us?”

The elven woman laughed, “Since Estel I’ve grown used to a beast in my bed.” Arwen stroked the dog’s tan flank, “And he’s not filthy, he’s been washed and brushed. Just as clean as you.”

She smiled, jesting as she brushed her still-damp and still dark tresses out, “Is that so?” Éowyn spied a few long, coal-black hairs in her brush and smiled in a more secret pleasure.

“Aye.” Arwen laughed as she climbed into the cot, having to push the eager Rusco aside with a gentle hand. “I wouldn’t know how to sleep without a great deal of groaning and growling and hair against me.”

Éowyn laughed again, thinking more nervously about sharing her bed for more than a night or two and without the innocence Faramir had thus far submitted to, about how she would live in her marriage bed. She hesitated, glancing to the Queen. I could ask… But that would be prying, certainly, and she did not wish to do that. Éowyn felt herself cowardly, but unable to help it. Another time…

She sat on the simple but thankfully comfortable and well-bedded cot, sliding her feet beneath the cool coverlets; Rusco came to her and stood on her breast and licked her cheek and wagged his tail under the blankets, making her laugh then push him gently away. Arwen blew out the candles so that the tent was dark and quiet and when she lay down, the dog went back to her. Éowyn felt briefly awkward, never having shared a bed with another woman. She turned her thoughts elsewhere. I can’t wait for tomorrow…she smiled eagerly against her pillow and concentrated upon falling into sleep.

There was the familiar sound of hooves, but it grew to hoof beats numberless so that they were thunder, an endless thunder broken by screaming and a strange roaring…suddenly the rhythmic feel of galloping hooves and straining muscle beneath her stopped. She fell, seeing the blackened and churned ground come at her so swiftly it was terrifying. Éowyn couldn’t breathe or move at the impact, rolling, curling into a ball, hearing hooves around her, the high, whistling breaths of horses driven past their endurance.

Someone was crying out, shouting commands and their voice was strong at first, then coming with greater and greater fear as it cracked and shook, as its owner lost their courage to stand. The words she couldn’t understand but the voice was so like to Faramir’s that it hurt her to hear such panic in it. Another answered and it, too, was familiar, her brother’s deep tones strained and rasping and filled with fear as he tried to shout above the ever-present roaring.

The voice, her brother’s, Faramir’s, the other’s wanted her to rise, begged her, demanded it of her.

I can. She’d just fallen from her horse, not a cliff; her body was not broken, only bruised. Not understanding, Éowyn struggled to answer, to rise but she was held down by invisible bonds, held down by a giant hand that would not let her stand.

She thought…Not again…please, no…and realized it was no thought of hers.

The voice came anew, desperate, not at all her brother’s. And it was not Faramir’s but another’s, so like his, so like to his that it sounded as his. She’d heard it once before but not like this, not with such terror and desperation. He cried out again, pleading, but Éowyn could not understand though she strove to, realizing that she must.

And she called back with her throat tight, guessing, feeling her heart go cold at the guess, for he was not alive, not here, could not be here… “Boromir?”

A low snarling awoke her and Éowyn jerked up gasping, frightened still. Instinctively, wishing comfort and calling for the one who gave it, she whispered, “Faramir?”

“At ease.” Arwen’s eyes glowed in the starlight. It was dark in the tent. Wind blew, rustling the cloth.

She was sweating, her limbs trembly. “What…what is it?” Faramir? Éowyn refused to even think the name she’d cried in her dream.

The Queen clasped her arm, voice soft. “Be still, there is no danger to us. You do not have to fear.”

She sat up further, straining. A low noise made her jump, made her think again of the sounds as she’d bathed, made her think of Gríma… “What is it?” Éowyn heard her voice quavering in her timid question, “Who is it?”

“It is but a shade of Man…” The Queen caressed Rusco; the puppy’s small body was rigid as he stood between them, tail between his legs, shaking, cowering, but growling fiercely. “He can do us no harm.”

A shade of Man? A spirit, she means, a ghost. Éowyn felt her hair stand on the nape of her neck, felt her skin prickle as the dog growled again. She could see nothing. Whose spirit? She shuddered.

Arwen repeated, “He can do no harm.” The feeling faded as Rusco whined then relaxed. The Queen soothed, “He is gone. I saw many in the City, they mean no harm and have no power.”

In the City? They were far from Minas Tirith. Confused, Éowyn nodded, lying down again as Rusco whimpered and Arwen spoke lightheartedly, comforting the little dog with many caresses and what sounded like soft exclamations of bravery in the elven tongue. Whose spirit? She didn’t wish to guess, ever. Closing her eyes and hugging her pillow tightly, she thought of Faramir beside her, remembering the feel of his warmth, the way the bed sloped and how his arm felt heavy over her side; she concentrated, but it was of little use to imagine what she knew was not there.

Faramir…? Was it possible her fear hadn’t disturbed him? Éowyn bit her lip, wondering. Perhaps the dreams and thoughts of so many had been as a forest between them and he’d been unable to sense her. Eventually, still wondering, she fell back into sleep.

Faramir rose earlier than his bedmates and eyed the sleeping forms of men between him and the bit of sunlight he could see through the tent. He sighed, then abandoned his pleasant notions of courtesy, clambering indifferently over slumbering, snoring and moaning Rohirrim to the tent flaps, snatching a shirt and a pair of trousers as he went. Faramir paused over his bags, eyeing his sable surcoat of the City, then the green and brown of the Mark. No, he smiled, I will see if she asks again for the White Tree… It might be slightly manipulative of him, but he wanted to hear the words, to sense her desire. I am a fool…he left behind both surcoats of the White Tree and White Horse.

He changed in the cool morning air, running his fingers through his tangled hair and fetching a handful of grain from his saddlebags. He’d made a promise, after all, and though Faramir was not entirely certain if Thorn could remember, he could and he did not want the guilt—the horse’s innocent play had been too enjoyable.

The dry grass was dewy, wetting his boots as he walked into the empty fields. For a moment Faramir stopped to turn back and look at the sleepy festival. The colorful banners stirred gently, Éomer’s standard rising high into the still morning air, the gold of its staff and thread of its border glowing in the sun as the White Horse moved. Smoke rose from cooking fires; there was the sound of dogs barking, voices singing, calling. It was peaceful, simple and he felt a rush of contentment, humming lightly as he walked on to find Thorn.

The grey lifted his head as Faramir approached and then flipped his nose, nickering a greeting as he ambled forward to meet him. Pleased, he smiled, “Good morning” and held out his hand, on which sat the small mound of oats. Eyes aglow, Thorn dove for the offered grain and in his eagerness his dark, shoving muzzle soon spilled half the pale, flattened kernels to the dusty ground. He then licked and snuffled Faramir’s hand and sleeve before searching among the dried stems of grass beneath himself for the last bits. Faramir laughed at the horse’s greed, patting his thick neck with a sticky palm. “Next time I’ll bring more.”

Once the gelding had assured himself that no more grain was forthcoming, sniffing both hands and pockets, then giving the earth a quick snort, he pushed up against Faramir. He smiled, “What do you want now?” Without Éowyn to interpret, he watched the horse closely, trying to read all the signals he was sure he was missing. Did Thorn want to be scratched or something else? Guessing, Faramir scratched, following the gelding’s movements to itchier spots: under his jaw, his neck and the slopes of his shoulders.

His fingers were black with dirt and threatening to cramp when the horse pulled away, pushing at him with his nose and raising one hoof to paw clumsily at the air and bump his leg. Thorn’s eyes were bright as he bobbed his head and pushed his nose against his stomach again, prompting Faramir to think that the gelding wished to play. But what? He had no ribbon or rope. We will have to make a new game…he found the idea very agreeable.

He retreated as the horse advanced, ducking away abruptly with a slightly embarrassed but lighthearted laugh. For an instant he hesitated, self-conscious, and asked himself, what am I doing? But then Thorn tossed his head, making his dark mane fly and reared, striking out with one foreleg. In response, Faramir retreated again, moving behind the horse’s flanks, trusting him not to kick, realizing that in this game he was trusting very much that the burly gelding would act with gentleness—the stout, strong grey could easily kill him.

Thorn spun, wide and a bit lumbering, and then charged him at a quick, springy trot, his neck arched, ears pricked in eagerness, tail rising to flag. The horse’s sense of happy mischief overcame both his embarrassment and cautions and Faramir chuckled at the waggish gleam in the gelding’s small brown eye.

“You’ll have to be quicker…!” He sprang easily out of the way and cuffed the grey’s muscled hindquarter in jest as he did.

Thorn wheeled and charged anew, this time snaking his heavy head out to get him with flattened ears and a harmlessly fierce spark in his eye. Faramir laughed and with an instant’s notion, he stepped aside again, but this time stepped back to grasp the dark mane. Boldly, he used the animal’s momentum, swinging aboard, then letting himself slither over the grey’s broad back to land in a crouch on the other side of him. Faramir watched as the gelding trotted in the opposite direction and he grinned, delighted; he’d never done that before.

Thorn skidded to a dusty halt, turning to look at him. His long, heavy ears flipped rearward to scrutinize his empty back, then forward and his expression held such astonishment that Faramir burst into great guffaws, his chest hurting with his laughter. He gasped, bent to brace against his knees, eyes watering, “I said you’d have to be quicker!”

The grey huffed, blowing through pinkened nostrils and reared, springing powerfully up and forward from his haunches, moving from a standstill to full gallop in one stride. Faramir shifted on the balls of his feet, waiting until the perfect moment. Half-crouched, he managed to evade the thickset, muscular animal with a quick leap to the side, rolling and gathering himself up again as the gelding swept by, head low, hooves digging into the earth. The horse spun, grunting with effort as he threw up his hind legs, bucking and lunging in play, crumbles of dry dirt flinging high, then showering down to patter widely over the faded grass. Thorn came to a halt and tossed his big head, licking his lips and pricking his ears to stare at Faramir in cheerful expectancy.

He grinned and slapped his thighs, “Come!” This time Thorn only trotted forward, but it was a beautiful trot, high-stepping and light-footed with glee. He swerved close and Faramir used his trick again, grabbing a handful of mane to spring up onto the grey’s back, but suddenly that back lifted beneath him as Thorn’s head dropped and he lunged forward to buck a second time. Unbalanced and with nothing to grasp onto, Faramir was knocked sprawling to the grass. Around him, there were the sounds and vibrations of hooves as the horse circled him with the same proud, beautiful gait, tail and head held high in triumph.

He groaned and rose slowly, admitting with a laugh as he brushed himself off. “You win.” Prancing to a stop, Thorn bobbed his head cheerfully, then made as if to rush him anew, but Faramir raised his arms, “Whoa!” and the gelding halted several feet away in a small cloud of dust, his ears pricked and alert.

Thorn obviously remembered their last game. He praised immediately and in a lavish tone, “Good lad, Thorn”, wanting this simple, vital rule to be reinforced. Faramir stretched out his hand and Thorn came to him, sniffed his palm hopefully, and then pushed his head against Faramir’s chest for a scratch. Helpfully rubbing behind the horse’s ears, he glanced back at the sleepy festival, then the open lands about them. I have seen little of Rohan’s great fields… “You want to explore?”

Thorn didn’t object to him pulling himself up, standing quietly as he scooted forward to more securely seat himself and took a handful of the dark, coarse mane. He turned the gelding, clumsily pushing at Thorn’s grey neck and nudging him with his legs, as he had no harness with which to guide his mount in the traditional fashion. The horse didn’t seem to mind and soon they were loping gently across the plain, up a hill, following the ridge of it so that Faramir could look far to the north and east. Other horses lifted their heads from their grazing and nickered in friendly curiosity, but Thorn pinned his ears and tossed his head aggressively, not allowing them to come near.

Look at me…I’m at his mercy… Faramir supposed he should feel insecure without so much as a halter for control, but he did not. Riding Thorn’s bumpy canter, looking between the grey’s big, black-tipped ears, he thought he’d never felt so secure on a horse, so relaxed and comfortable. He patted the gelding’s neck, gripping lightly with his knees, using his legs the best he could to ask him to keep to the ridge and to maintain his lope. He smiled, remembering Éowyn’s words, the oath of trust and love. Perhaps he’d yet to swear an oath only to his mind; Thorn seemed quite ready to abide by his will and grant him the privilege of riding without bit or saddle, to play and treat him with the care that a mare showed her foal. He murmured, patting the horse’s shoulder again. “Good lad, Thorn, I thank you…” The grey’s ears flicked back in reply. I shall repay you as well as I can… He leaned low, grinning. “How does a knotted rope sound to you? I think we could get more use from it than a ribbon and there’s less chance I’ll be tossed to the dirt.” Again the ears flicked; Thorn was listening, if not understanding. He thought further, smiling and remembering toys he’d watched youths enjoying in the City streets, “A leather ball? Would you like that? I’m sure I could find one between here and Minas Tirith.” Faramir stroked Thorn’s neck. “You won’t like it in the City, but it won’t be for long, I promise…” The grey’s ears were tipped back, listening closely as he vowed. “You’ll like Ithilien, you’ll have whatever you wish there.”

Perfectly at peace, he eyed the distant lands, wondering why the ground seemed so dark at the top of one rocky knoll. There seemed to be nothing to throw a shadow and it did not look to be the mouth of a ravine. Faramir clucked to the grey, urging him onward, keeping him at a much smoother lope as they climbed the steep, short hill. He bent, frowning curiously at the ground as it turned from dry weeds and brownish dust to pale ashes and cinders, soot-covered rocks.

Thorn shied without warning, blowing loudly in alarm and he had to pull at his mane, very nearly spilled to the earth. He nudged the horse onward and they crested the embankment; able to see over the knoll, his eyes widened. The grass had been burned away in a great swath perhaps miles wide, the soil bared. It was a bleak sight, black stems and sticks rising above the singed ground, the charred bones of what used to be thick brush. He sobered, remembering Éomer’s talk of fires. It seemed so long ago and he’d given it but little thought.

Thorn pawed the blackened ground and sniffed it; he shook his head and danced and Faramir felt the animal’s nervousness grow. “Easy, let’s go back…” He rubbed his withers to comfort him. The air smelled of ashes stirred from Thorn’s hooves, rising to fleck the gelding’s light legs and flanks as they retraced their path. Glancing around himself, he spied something on the ground and squinted—it was the seared, twisted corpse of a hare that had been caught in the flames. Some voice inside himself spoke immediately, crying a warning. Don’t look at it!

Not heeding his possibly wiser side, Faramir felt his gut roil as he stared at the pitifully small lump of blackened bones and cooked flesh. His legs tightened, unconsciously urging the balking Thorn closer as he gazed at the poor dead creature in gruesome fascination. The rabbit was barely recognizable, no more than a charred, gnarled mass of bone, gristle and withered tissue. He looked into the blackened eye sockets, seeing the gloom within, its face surrounded by dark, cracked skin that was tightly shrunken over its skull to hug the equally blackened bone, jaw gaped wide, teeth still white and gleaming. It looked awful, tragic and he felt pity rise that the thing should have died in such pain.

Suddenly he thought he might vomit, tasting sour, acid bile in the back of his throat, his stomach hitching and gathering itself even though he’d not yet eaten. Faramir looked away, slumping and holding tightly to Thorn’s mane, focusing all his being on trying to purge the image from his mind. Horribly, his nostrils filled with the smell of it, the thick and sweetish smell of overcooked, spoiling meat mixing with the harsh, biting scent of soot. The smell coated his tongue as he tried to breathe slow and deep. He gritted his teeth, eyes closed, ignoring it to breathe slowly, purposely, refusing to give into his belly’s slow rolling. I will not!

But…Father…he moaned, sobs gathering in his quaking chest. Faramir leaned low, resting his brow to Thorn’s neck, feeling his eyes burn and his heart twist painfully until he thought in desperate rebellion. I don’t even care! But he did and it was dreadful the way his imagination all too eagerly provided him with the image of his father’s face enveloped in fire, of his hair burning, his skin turning black as his flesh cooked, his bones showing dried and brittle as his blood boiled away. I don’t want to care…he never cared!

If he didn’t care, why did he not send me to Imladris? Faramir moaned again, feeling a few hot tears slide down his cheeks. He just wished to forget, to never think of his father, to pretend he’d not been told of Denethor’s fate, to pretend he’d never had a father just as he’d not had a mother. Why…he struck his thighs, slamming his fists down on his upper legs, seeking distraction from his inner anguish in the flare of physical pain.

Thorn seemed to sense his distress and wheeled under him, turning his back on the blighted ground. Terribly thankful, he leaned forward, clucking so that the horse went into a gallop, his strides lengthening, coming faster and faster as they fled down the hill and over the fields. He breathed deeply of the sweet air, pushing away his grief, burying it in his gladness to get the smell of ashes, burned turf and death from his lungs. Thorn was as eager as he was to get away from the grim and scorched tract of ground, running hard until Faramir sat up. His voice was raspy with his struggle not to vomit or weep. “Easy lad, whoa…” The horse slowed and halted, twitching his tail in wide sweeps, stamping his feet and impatiently awaiting a new command.

Faramir did not wish to end his morning outing with Thorn with such grimness. This time he went a new direction, jogging slowly and bouncing gently on Thorn’s back. Here was another part of the river, its banks not lined by trees, but exposed and Thorn waded into the water, lowering his head to drink in long gulps as though he wished to wash the taste and smell of the burned soil from his mouth. Sympathizing, Faramir waited, but the gelding seemed content to paw and muddy the water, using his ponderous muzzle to fling it in great shimmering sweeps, launching tiny, ephemeral rainbows.

He laughed, glad for a light-hearted moment, and slapped his mount’s neck. When the grey began gathering himself, he realized too late that Thorn was planning to drop and roll. “No…no!” Faramir put his heels to the horse’s flanks but, bridleless, Thorn sank to his knees anyway and Faramir was forced to dismount in the river, stepping back into shallower water, his lower legs and boots soaked. He got splashed a few times as the horse groaned in pleasure and rolled, rising to shake and blow loudly, water flying everywhere.

Faramir was smiling again, though, amused and no longer sick at heart. “That felt nice, didn’t it?” His horse was streaked with orangish river-mud and dripping. Thorn shoved him a few steps backward with his wet nose, making him stumble deeper into the water as though he were urging him to roll, too. He laughed again, shaking his head. “No, I think I’m wet enough, thank you…” With difficulty he remounted, taking care on Thorn’s slippery back; his boots hung heavy, dripping as the grey waded out of the river.

He held to the Snowbourn’s course, watching the slow water, the blue sky, birds flitting around them, some singing, others feeding and feeling his tension drain anew. Hearing shouts and following them in curiosity, Faramir found Rohirrim further down the river, some men clad only in glittering mail shirts, dripping wet and cheering. Intrigued, he steered Thorn closer for a clue as to what they were doing. To his initial disbelief, then delighted surprise they called out to him,

Sensing no aggression or mockery within their voices, he urged Thorn to stand near the group. Very aware that he was riding completely without harness on a wet horse and of how absurd he would look within his own lands, he asked politely, bracing himself but knowing his heart to be full of hope anyway. “Gea, min fréind?”

Faramir nodded, perceiving at once that it was another contest, this time of swimming. “Gea.”

“Ge willst fleotan mid us?” The same Rider gestured to the river, then the men around him. His words had been slow, but said not in a patronizing fashion, merely spoken with care in an effort to make sure that Faramir could understand.

“Gea, Ic wille.” He slid from Thorn’s back, accepting the merry challenge with a growing smile. The slow, gentle Snowbourn was more likened to a pond in comparison to the wide, powerful Anduin. This river… Faramir glanced to the Snowbourn, remembering rowing the day before—even against the current he’d not had to strain much. He’d learned to swim in water more vigorous and more dangerous long ago. But Éowyn…he felt a moment of intense disappointment that she was not here to witness and applaud regardless of his winnings or losses. Faramir glanced back to the festival, to the light canvas of her tent and frowned, putting his hand back onto Thorn’s wet side, debating.

He nodded and smiled, quickly deciding. “Gea. Ic eom.” These Rohirrim, men that he did not even know, were so welcoming, so finally welcoming and friendly that he could not bring himself to refuse or call pause to fetch her. Gently patting Thorn and allowing him to leave with a soft word of praise, Faramir began to strip. There will be other times in which she can watch… He grinned to himself. I will make sure of it.

Éowyn lay abed a long while even after Arwen rose, dressed and took Rusco out, gazing in silence at the fabric walls of her tent and brooding. The wind ruffled the cloth and the rising sun made it both brighter and hotter; she flung her blankets off restlessly. Hugging her pillow, she bit her lip, worrying and wishing that she could simply forget the unease within her. She didn’t know what to make of her dream and didn’t want to make anything of it. It was nothing…a dream, no more…she reminded herself firmly that not all dreams came into being.

The sounds of alarmed shouts and thudding hoofbeats that halted right outside her tent and then Faramir bursting in completely startled her from her gloom; she sat up, staring at him in wonderment. He was sopping wet, hair dripping, and grinning so widely that it amazed her. “You missed it!”

Outside, Éowyn glimpsed a bridleless and saddleless Thorn before the flaps of her tent fell back. “Missed what?”

“I won…I won three times!” He was glowing, eyes alight, voice made higher than normal with elation. Faramir both looked and sounded like a boastful lad. Éowyn stared at him, a smile coming as she forgot her troubling dream. His happiness washed over her like sunlight, the blinding brightness of joy and it swept away all her dark broodings in an instant.

“Won what?” Smiling, she patted the cot, scooting to the side and folding her legs as she encouraged, “Come here and tell me!”

He did, sitting beside her and still wearing that great, irrepressible grin. Faramir’s dark hair dripped onto the coverlets; drops of water ran down from his temples to quiver on the tip of his chin before falling to her blankets. She smiled wider, unable to help it. More water from his hair made the shoulders of his simple linen shirt turn transparent and Éowyn used the edge of her sheet to wipe some of the drops from his face and neck.

Ignoring her minstrations, still aglow, Faramir began to explain in his charmingly youthful, excited voice. “Swimming…I went out to find Thorn, to play with him like I promised, and when I was coming back along the river, some men were there swimming and they invited me to compete…and I beat them, I beat them all!” She put her hand over her mouth, utterly delighted by his boyish giddiness. He laughed, boasting in a way she was certain she’d never heard, “Even with a mail shirt and my boots on. They were floundering and splashing like…lame cows!” He laughed again in an enthusiasm so profuse it was childlike, “And it was so easy I could do it again in full armor!”

Éowyn was barely holding back her giggles, her palm clamped to her lips. She’d never seen Faramir act this adorably—it was almost as though he were an entirely different man from the one she’d met so long ago in the gardens of the Houses of Healing, a different man who’d lived a different life untouched by grief or pain. She smiled and avowed, “I wish I could have seen you!”

He took her arm, pulling her to her feet. “Come, come, you can…they want me to compete in other contests and you have to watch me!” Faramir finally paused for breath, his voice softening as he beamed down at her to smile and say with more intimacy. “I want you to watch me, I want you to see me win, shout for me, call me your champion.” His eyes dropped as he laughed, embarrassed, “I want more ribbons, to bear your token again today, every day.”

“Of course you will…” Éowyn smiled in adoring reply, nodding and stepping forward to embrace him with her heart ablaze in happiness. He was wet, instantly soaking through her nightgown, but he felt wonderful. “What do you wish?” She turned to eye her bags. “I have a few more ribbons…some cloths…” Éowyn laughed, “I did not pack intending to hand out so many favors…”

Faramir teased softly, visibly pleased. “You will have to remember for the future.”

“I will.” She leaned up and kissed his wet mouth before quickly finding and pulling out a handful of ribbons and cloths for tributes. “Now…will these satisfy?”

“Yes, good, good.” He grinned, nodded swiftly and tugged impatiently at her wrist; Faramir would have taken her with him then and there but she remembered herself.

“Wait, wait…” She was still clad in her shift. He frowned and she laughed, crying out between her gasping, delighted laughter, “I have to get dressed first, you silly fool!”

He blinked and looked up and down as he took her in, then grinned at her in embarrassment, gesturing, “Well, hurry!”

“All right!” She turned to her bags again, cackling helplessly all the while, then turned back, asking expectantly. “Aren’t you going to leave?”

For the last sake of propriety…! “Get out!” Éowyn laughed and shoved him, feeling the coldness of the water against her palms mixed with the warmth of his body; his shirt was soaked now, clinging to his skin, the thin, translucent linen showing the warm tawny color of his flesh and darkness of his chest hair. He looked terribly handsome and she admired him even as she pushed him out of the tent and yanked the flaps together. Quickly rummaging through her bags, Éowyn dressed in men’s clothes; they were faster to put on and she had the feeling she would need more mobility this day. She was lacing her dirty boots when her brother poked his head through the tent flaps, then walked in, a strange expression on his face.

He gestured outside, asking in a low voice of smiling, teasing confidentiality, “Is Faramir drunk already this morn?”

“Are you certain?” Her brother turned to peer outside. “I’ve only seen him act like that when he was.” Between a crack in the flaps she could see Faramir scratching and speaking enthusiastically to Thorn. The gelding took a mouthful of his wet shirt and tugged it; Faramir laughed and pulled it back from the horse’s dark muzzle, gently scolding.

Tittering, as Thorn had left a great green stain, Éowyn closed her eyes for an instant to calm herself before nodding. “Yes, I’m certain.”

Éomer’s lips twitched; he was clearly holding back laughter as he said further, “He told me he won…” He frowned, then grinned broadly, “Something. It was all too fast for me to make sense of it.”

“It was swimming. I heard, too.” Her brother met her eyes and she saw her own gigantic amusement reflected there; Éowyn compressed her lips tightly, fighting the mirth that built within her chest.

He sounded strained, battling his own laughter. “How many times did he win?”

She closed her eyes. “Three.” Éomer had looked away; now he grinned at her in vast gaiety. Éowyn giggled in their silence and an instant later they both broke into a great round of charmed laughter that they smothered with their hands until it left them, now red-faced and panting. Heart much lightened as she caught her breath, Éowyn stood, braiding and then tying the ends of her hair with a bit of string.

Éomer glanced at her and spoke in a lower, far more composed voice. “I’m glad he’s happy.”

Touched, Éowyn did not answer immediately, still tying her braid; then she nodded, swallowing as her hands fell still and smoothed her shirt. “Me, too.” Obeying a heartfelt impulse, she turned and embraced her brother, holding him tightly. Éowyn felt his surprise in the way he froze, then his arm’s slow rise to hold her in return.

His voice had roughened when he responded to her wordless gesture of thanks, saying low and fervent. “I am.” Éomer laughed faintly into her ear and hugged her tight, so tight it hurt before releasing her and stepping back. She smiled up, beaming at him in reward as she gathered her small armload of tokens. Her brother frowned, “What are those?”

“My fancy.” Éowyn smiled, laughing at his blank expression, “Clearly you’ve never held any Lady’s, dearest brother, or you would know.” He just frowned anew as she walked past him and flung the tent flaps back to open wide, half-turning to declare, “I have to go watch him now.” Éowyn laughed again, offering, “Do you want to come, too?”

Éomer followed her. He sounded like he was grinning again. “I think so…yes.” He smiled, ending simply and with what Éowyn heard with elated wonderment as a mix of amusement and sincere affection, “I don’t think I want to miss it.” Unable to help herself, she hugged her brother once more and this time he laughed aloud.

Outside, Faramir was already mounted on Thorn; with quick, impatient nudges of his heels, he turned the grey to her and stretched down an eager hand. “Here. Get up.”

Éowyn took it and he all but pulled her off her feet, powerfully yanking her upwards in his enthusiasm. She held tight to her tokens, seating herself on the gelding’s broad back and asking, “Where are we…?” The grey bounded into a rough-paced canter; she was only half-settled. Surprised, she yelped and grasped tightly to Faramir’s wet middle, holding on and reassured when he clasped her arms to his front. His answer was drowned out in hoofbeats and the rush of wind from their passage, but she began to laugh again anyhow, caught up in his eagerness, his unconditional pleasure. Éowyn leaned against his sodden back and didn’t ask again; it didn’t matter where they were going.

Forgotten and more bemused than grudging, as Faramir’s enthusiasm did not allow a grudge, Éomer watched them leave him behind, and then began to follow the burly grey. Arwen called after him, making him realize shamefully that he’d forgotten her. “Éomer…” He turned and could see the amusement in her bright eyes as she asked lightly, “Where are you all going this day?”

He smiled, hoping he’d not caused offense. “I’m not sure…” Éomer hesitated, then glanced back to where he could just see the top of the Steward’s dark head and his sister’s dyed one as they moved with the grey gelding’s choppy strides, cutting through the mob of people. Wherever Faramir goes… Chuckling as the thought struck, he turned back to her and smiled widely. “This is Faramir’s day, we’re going wherever he wishes.” He offered her his arm, proposing, “I’ve promised to go as well…if you want to come with me…?”

The Queen raised a brow at him, then smiled and fell into step with her leashed puppy trotting with a wagging tail, “Of course.” However, the crowd soon eclipsed Éomer’s view of Faramir’s horse and he had to stop and ask folk along the way so that when he and Arwen caught up with his sister and the Steward, Faramir was already beginning another contest, this time of speed. Foot-racing…he eyed the Prince’s long legs and decided with amusement that he might have an edge. Seeking Éowyn, he moved closer. The watching throng parted for him courteously and with a few murmured thanks, Éomer sat by his sister under the shade of a cloth that had obviously been raised to shield her from the rising heat of the day.

He sighed, plucking at dry blades of grass near his legs and saying drolly, “Yes, we had to walk, that takes longer.”

Éowyn laughed, but her attention was upon her love. She called out to him, “Ge wille beride thaege, min cempa geatolic!”

At the cry, Faramir turned and the grin that came to his face was near blinding. Éomer smiled; he watched the men who’d chosen to compete form a line; all looked to be young and lighter in bone than most of his folk. But Faramir was by far the lightest and he stood taller than all with his longer legs and lank build. He smiled again. He just might win…

A Rider officiated, making sure all that wished to run stood together and that none held advantage. He raised his arm to a sudden stillness that came over the watchers, then dropped it. In response, the men sprinted forward, racing down a great stretch of beaten grass. At Éomer’s side, Éowyn’s voice led and overrode the many cries of encouragement; she sprang to her feet almost immediately, hand over her eyes, shading them to see more clearly. Wet inky hair flying behind him, to all appearances Faramir’s long legs carried him effortlessly into the lead so that the race was over nearly at once with many of the slowest Rohirrim dropping out without even trying to catch the Steward. The gathered broke into loud cheers of disbelief and delight and Eomer grinned, impressed as he cheered with them. Éowyn cried, hands cupped around her mouth to project her voice to her love’s ears. “Faramir, ge eart cyst æt cempas, stánstrang ond má caf, tæle æt beam, cene in hige, min copenere!” His sister laughed and affirmed more boastfully than he could remember hearing in a long time, “Ic eom gielpa ge eart min!”

Faramir jogged back, obviously at ease, grinning broadly and not even winded. Éomer stared, further impressed by the man’s leisure as he halted before Éowyn. She was beaming, smiling and laughing triumphantly as they embraced. Still grinning, the Steward bowed to her in a gesture of prideful and splendid courtesy—it contrasted with his rough appearance, his wet hair and damp, coarse clothing, clothing marred by dirt and the grassy green from his horse’s spittle. When he spoke, his voice, too, was courtly and of deep contrast from his appearance, “The promised token, my Lady?”

“Here.” His sister withdrew a white cloth and tied it to Faramir’s arm; with it she gave a brief, but very warm kiss. Utterly charmed by the display, Éomer hid a smile, then another, as the cloth was the sole clean thing on the man. Beside him, Éowyn frowned, “You should have worn the White Tree and sable…” She touched the cloth and smiled, playfully chiding, “It would show better.”

The radiant smile that came to Faramir’s face was filled with pleasure; he bowed, saying lightly and clearly with great joy. “Tomorrow I shall.” Eomer couldn’t help but smile again.

“Go on…I’ve more to give,” Éowyn laughed, eyes sparkling, “But not for free.” She waved a hand outward and to Éomer she seemed very much like a gentlewoman in that moment; men’s clothes aside, his sister looked terribly ladylike, admirable and queenly. He swallowed, knowing his heart to be at once merry and tormented for the brief vision. Features still marked only by bliss, Faramir bowed low then returned to the group of men and as Éomer watched him return, his step seemed lighter, more brazen; he carried himself with more pride. He chuckled to himself at once, heartache forgotten. Perhaps this is why he does not wish to leave… Certainly Éowyn had never boasted over him so openly before, nor had he been received with such welcome in the City that Éomer could see, as he did now with many of the Riders cheering his return and remarking with jealousy over the bit of cloth he wore.

“I don’t know.” Éomer watched with fascination as it changed from Faramir simply competing randomly to multiple men of the Mark purposely taking the Steward from one competition to another, testing his skill in this or that, seeing what he could do better than they and what he could not. And in all truth, it was not difficult to guess that Faramir was superior in contests of speed and agility and inferior in all that required brute strength. He could run and swim more swiftly, climb trees easier, jump higher, but was laughably awful at games of wrestling and was pulled off his feet when playing a game that required that he solely pit his strength against a heavier-boned man of the Mark. But his losses brought no incivility, as the Steward was clearly giving his greatest effort and losing with relaxed ease, bowing to the greater and holding no envy. Indeed, the losses seemed to make them love him more, consoling him with slaps to the back and good-natured laughter, offering a hand to pull Faramir back to his feet.

At last Éowyn called halt for a meal and a rest and when she did the Steward and his companions turned to her and some groaned like boys who wished to play longer—the comparison seemed to him so apt that Éomer nearly burst into laughter. But his sister was adamant, “Come, I don’t want you running him into the ground.” Éowyn had stretched her hand out and collected Faramir into a tight embrace, holding him and laughing upward; now she was frowning, “Look at you.”

“What?” He was grinning widely, still panting from his last contest: a hide was stretched over a small fire with a group of men set on either end of it to see who was strongest. Faramir had been pulled completely from his feet many times before the hide had caught fire and ripped, ending the game with a tumble for all.

“You don’t feel that?” She was touching near a scratch on his neck. It was streaked with blood, but superficial; there were rents in his clothes and other scrapes here and there from his competition.

“No.” The Steward smiled still. Éomer believed him—the man looked to be near floating with bliss. He turned his head so that he wouldn’t break into delighted cackles at Faramir’s carefree, blithe expression.

“Well, I want to wash it…and this one, and this…” Pointing out various small cuts and scrapes, Éowyn frowned deeper and this time Éomer did laugh. He waved a hand at Faramir, grinning,

“So that’s where you went…” Éomer glanced at her and nodded slowly, grinning as he admitted, “I would have been a dreadful pain.”

Arwen looked at him, fondly indulgent as she answered, “Of course you would have.”

As they started to walk back, Faramir asked Éowyn, their clasped hands swinging, “What did you learn?”

His sister began to speak eagerly, making Éomer marvel at the happiness he could so easily see, the lightness of her voice and the animation in her face, the way her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. It was not just the subject of healing that made her glow, but Faramir, too, and else…he guessed his being a boor no longer, the festival, all these things make her happy… Éomer sighed. He didn’t want this time to end, did not wish for her to leave; he wanted to hear her joyful voice forever.

The only way it will stay joyful…he sighed more deeply and glanced to Faramir’s beaming face. I tried…he could not be faulted for that, at least. He let his sister’s words wash over him, listening only to her buoyant tone, feeling a smile grow. It was impossible to remain melancholy when his only blood was so happy.

They’d eaten and she’d made sure Faramir had drunk something, to her brother’s teasing. Now Éowyn dabbed a bit of clean cloth, one of her favors, into some water and squeezed, then rubbed it over a filthy scrape on his knuckles. It was ugly, not deep at all, but full of ground in dirt and she did not wish an infection. Faramir squirmed and she eyed him sternly. “Hold still or I will have Eomer hold you.” Her brother laughed, then teased mysteriously,

“No thank you.” He made a wry face, under which lay great amusement and lightly teasing mischief. Faramir moved again, then whimpered when she huffed at him, “It stings.”

She smiled, daubing at the scrape while murmuring, “My great warrior…tell me, did you whine this much when they pulled that arrow out of you?”

“I don’t remember.” He smiled more gently, watching her with an odd indulgence. Éowyn had cleaned that particular scratch and was working on one of the many others when he leaned low and kissed her cheek. It made her tingle with surprise and she felt herself flush in pleasure as she asked, voice low,

“You’re taking care of me…” Faramir kissed her again and smiled broadly. “I like it.”

Éowyn licked her lips, holding the cloth tightly over a scratch that, once cleaned, had started bleeding again. She looked up, smiling hesitantly. “Do you?”

“Of course.” His eyes searched hers, then his mind touched to hers, so gentle, so loving; it was a flush of warmth…why wouldn’t I? Faramir kissed her hand, the damp cloth still folded within it, still pressed to his oozing abrasion, and teased. “Be my Healer?”

She laughed, “If you want.” Éowyn bent back to her task and her brother leaned over, grinning as he advised,

Faramir laughed aloud and she felt her throat tighten to hear them laughing together in fellowship, in kinship, to look up and see no anger between them. Éowyn smiled and tried not to weep with her sudden, almost painfully acute elation. Finally…she didn’t feel trapped between them anymore, her attentions torn between brother, lover. Perhaps Faramir was right, perhaps this is the best of days…

She returned to cleaning his petty wounds; they showed his heart and valor just as much as her tributes of cloth or ribbon did. At least for now they are the best…

Eower scancas eart lang, toss lang, Hordere—Your legs are long, too long, Steward

Hordere, hwa scrud dest eower Ides hæbbe onslepan in—Steward, what clothing does your Lady sleep in?

Ge wille beride thaege, min cempa geatolic!—You will overtake them, my magnificent champion

Faramir, ge eart cyst æt cempas, stánstrang ond má caf, tæle æt beam, cene in hige, min copenere! Ic eom gielpa,ge eart min!-- Faramir, you are the best of champions, strong as stone and very swift, tall as a tree, keen in wit, my lover! I am proud you are mine!

After his last scrapes and scratches had been cleaned and inspected, Faramir was allowed to return to the field. He walked from their table feeling his step light and quick and his heart the same, beating with elated joy, knowing that if he turned she would be watching and when he contested, she would be cheering. He glanced back and Éowyn waved at once; he felt her happiness amid gentle and sincere worry that he would injure himself. Faramir smiled broadly. It was wonderful to know she cared and deeply, delightful to see it in her face, to feel it in her soul and to hear it in her voice. Her joyful openness made his spirits soar so that he felt more like he was floating than striding earthbound.

Gaer’s voice broke through the veil of his happiness. “It is unfair to my thinking.”

Falling into stride with him, the redheaded Rider sniffed and pointed to the token Faramir bore so proudly. “That.” He raised a brow and spread his hands wide, palm out. “I beat you at the hide-pull…where’s mine?”

His broad, flaxen-haired young friend had come as well. Tondhere frowned, good-naturedly complaining. “So did I.” The two Rohirrim had been opposite of him in the contest, cheerfully bellowing insults and goading him to more and more effort. Faramir rolled his shoulders, tilting his head from one side to the other and feeling his spine and neck pop; he still ached, but it was a good ache, the pleasant discomfort of exertion.

Continuing, Gaer nodded, his features forced into uncommon solemnity. “Where’s Tondhere’s fancy?” He turned, walking backwards to peer at Éowyn and sounding concerned, albeit in a teasing fashion. “Did the Lady not see me beat you so soundly?”

Shaking his head, Gaer interrupted with a prankish grin. “But she was…she cheered me the entire time.” He glanced at Faramir, all innocence and confusion, “Did you not hear her?” Tondhere guffawed.

Delighted, Faramir laughed at his friend and stopped; with quick fingers, he untied his cloth. “Here, if it troubles you…” Extending the dainty token, he could feel his face stretching in a grin, “I expect to have plenty more.”

“Ah, do you?” Grinning in return, Gaer’s brows lifted higher and he took the cloth to look at it curiously.

“In what, then, friend Faramir?” The Rohir gestured widely and grandly, his arm encompassing the festival, the fields and beyond, the white cloth flapping in the wind.

Faramir halted once more, turning to face him, and again heard his pride shine through his brazen words—it was a strange sound, one he was unfamiliar with but found very pleasurable. “Whatever you want.” His grinned widened as he added and heard more than pride, his voice made positively conceited, “Whatever there is within your land that still holds a challenge for me.”

Tondhere snorted, pleased, “Bold for such a little lamb.” He clasped Faramir’s shoulders, giving him a grin, “I like it!”

Gaer laughed and Faramir puffed out his chest, growling in their language, “Seo lamb wille betst ge, Tondhere, ond eall seo com befer me.”

The Rohirrim guffawed and made appreciative noises then exchanged glances and rapid conversation that, as far as he’d come in their tongue, Faramir could not quite understand. A minute later, Gaer handed him his cloth back, grinning, “You may wish to keep this, you are not the best in the saddle.” Tondhere cackled in agreement.

Faramir smiled, undaunted and thinking of Thorn. I need no saddle, Rohirrim… “What contest is it?” He glanced past them to the golden fields, searching for and quickly finding the grey’s burly form—Thorn had not wandered far from him all morning, which also made his heart warm with gladness.

“Duels on horse. The end of it is to knock a man off his mount with your shield or blade; the skill is in handling your horse, in seating it no matter what comes in battle, in its willingness to defend you.” Gaer grinned. “You can wear mail…if you,” His grin widened as he ribbed good-naturedly, “Or the Lady, are so fearful of your royal hide.” By now many of the Rohirrim that had been shepherding him about had gathered; they listened fervently, the ones that understood the Common Tongue nodding and grinning in anticipation.

It sounded intriguing and mildly reminiscent of the games he’d seen Boromir play when the City was less under the weight of the Shadow. For a moment he was lost in memory, hearing his youthful shouts for his beloved brother, the people’s cheers, his father’s smile…he stiffened, feeling the intrusion of pain. Not today, today the only pain will be of wounds, of sprained muscles, broken bones! He smiled with an effort, gesturing impatiently, eager to leave his memories behind. “Let us go, then…” Faramir pointed to the grazing Thorn, “My horse is not far.”

In the end, Éowyn forced him to wear his padded doublet for some meager protection, finding an unexpected ally in her brother, and Faramir scowled tolerantly at her while he laced it, complaining, “They’ll call me Lady’s pet again once they see me in this…thing.” He snorted and plucked at the quilted fabric. Made of rough, nut-brown cloth stuffed with sedge, it fell to mid-thigh and was split to accommodate the saddle and would somewhat protect his upper body from the blows Éowyn knew he would receive during the rough tourney. She’d not been able to make him wear his mail.

He straightened the brown doublet, tugging the laces tight and knotting them with quick fingers before looking to her and grinning. “They called me that…did you not hear?”

“No, I didn’t.” Éowyn laughed, uncertain if she should. But nothing seemed to dampen Faramir’s spirits—he just grinned further. She held his token and began to carefully retie it to his arm, making sure it would not flutter away even in the thick of battle. He beamed at her while she did, making her duck her chin in embarrassment.

“I just got them to stop calling me Lytle Bregu…now I’ve just to stop Tondhere from calling me a lamb.” Éowyn laughed aloud and freely, still delighted by the moniker.

She patted the front of his doublet, meeting his warm, good-humored grey eyes. You are no lamb…she smiled, remembering the ardent forcefulness of his body against her in the tub, against her dresser, pinning her deliciously to the bed and felt a flush of recalled pleasure. He must have alighted upon her thoughts for he leaned close, one hand cupping the nape of her neck to kiss her hungrily. But his hunger soon changed to eagerness; a more innocent sort of zeal that made her laugh giddily as it flooded her senses.

“I love you…you’re so…” Faramir beamed at her, then kissed her again, murmuring, “I can…kiss, touch…” His arms went around her, “Anything.”

“I don’t think anything…” Teasing him, Éowyn could feel the wadding of the doublet and its cushion comforted her.

He pulled back just enough to smile into her eyes, his features filled with love as he whispered. “You’re so soft against me…it is wonderful, Éowyn, wonderful. Everything I dreamt and more, so much more.” His head dipped to kiss her lips, her cheek, just under her chin in quick, blithesome grazes; she pulled back, laughing and scolding,

“Be still!” Her tone softened as he did; Faramir was grinning, face slightly flushed, his eyes bright with joy. Éowyn smiled, murmuring, “I can’t kiss you” while keeping him in place long enough to meet his mouth.

And he did stay motionless, but only for a moment more, then suddenly he lifted her from her feet and then high, swinging her up as her eyes went wide with surprise, hands grasping his shoulders, ankles locking together at the small of his back. It was a swift, easy motion expressing his rapture and he laughed at her, eyes sparkling, crinkled with good cheer. She clutched his shoulders and cried out in laughing alarm; jigging her playfully, Faramir grinned and she kissed him, relaxed now, knowing that he would not drop her. His arms were strong like to the limbs of a tree—she was utterly secure within them, not feeling even the slightest of trembles that indicated strain. Too soon he set her down again, letting her slide down his long body, and kissed her passionately, but euphorically, laughing in the middle and grinning at her like he could not contain himself. You’re so unafraid…

And you’re so happy…she stared at him in marvel, loving his overflowing, charming bliss that had not yet faded, and she hoped fervently, would not ever. His smile was wide, his warm, callused hands cupping the sides of her face as his mouth met hers again and with more seriousness, all heat and ardent enthusiasm to make her grow shamefully near to faintness, her legs weakening. Oh…she thrilled. He felt as wonderful as he’d called her, his body firm and hale; she could sense his anticipation, his keen desire unwhetted, only checked by patience and warm regard and the distraction of his joy. Éowyn laughed at him shakily, half-embarrassed, but pleased that he was so pleased. Then she swallowed, throat tightened, no longer able to meet his eyes. She leaned against his comforting mass, whispering into his neck, dreading the answer. “Was…was it so terrible…when I was…?”

“It was horrible.” When she looked up, heart choking her, his face was briefly mournful, crossed with gentle sympathy. “I cannot lie.” She nodded, pained as he continued tenderly, “I couldn’t hold you without you growing so stiff, so afraid. Don’t feel badly…” His finger caressed her cheek, surprising her. “It was no fault of yours, my love…”

Faramir was stern now. “Never.” Éowyn frowned, confused and he insisted, “Never feel bad.”

She laughed a little stiltedly, but felt budding hope and joy. “You won’t let me?”

“Good.” Heart touched, Éowyn wrapped her arms around his neck and held him close. She felt his body move with his breath, his warmth and the padded doublet that would protect him. Around his side she could see Riders gathering their horses, marking a field, passing out shields and taking their swords from their baldrics to fight with them, the blade kept safe by remaining within its wooden leather-bound scabbard. But still…many men were wounded or accidentally slain in the tourneys, more still in the war games she was certain would follow. Her arms tightened as she whispered into his ear. “Please don’t get hurt.” She compressed her lips, begging, “Please Faramir, take care…”

He hushed her, vowing, “If I did I’d let you heal me and be very contrite and swallow all the potions you saw fit to give me no matter the taste of them.” He smiled as though it were nothing, with all confidence in the coming trial. His ready and bold confidence was strange, but as welcome as his joy to her eye. Faramir patted his doublet. “See? I’m following your advice already, dearest.” Leaning down, he kissed her again and finished with a brighter, more indulgent smile, “My sweetly concerned Healer.” His grin made her relax somewhat and Éowyn nodded, slipping from his embrace.

“He’s there.” Pointing, Faramir beamed at her with the same boyish exuberance of before, making her laugh, then whistled. His grey eyes took on the faintly inward cast of when he communicated with his gift, making her wonder and look to the gelding. Thorn’s head had lifted. With a short toss of his big nose, he began to come, trotting over the field and then slowing to a much warier walk as he entered the crowd, pausing, his ears flicking cautiously as he moved around clumps of people, cumbersome head lifted and turning this way and that. After crossing half the distance and surrounded by unfamiliar folk, Thorn halted and neighed stridently, head raised as high as he could put it, ears forward to listen for a reply. Éowyn smiled, charmed by the horse’s search for his master. Faramir called, “Thorn!”

The grey found him a moment later, enthusiastically breaking into a jog, then ambling the last few strides to inspect Faramir’s hands and push for a scratch in what had nearly become ritual now. He stood patiently as her Prince grasped his dark mane and swung aboard. She frowned, “You don’t want a saddle, bridle?”

“No, I’ve just got to fetch my sword.” Faramir smiled sunnily as he seated himself. “Wish me good fortune,” His smile widened, “And victory.”

He touched his adorned arm and inclined his head to her, looking almost breathlessly grand; his hair fell around his face and shoulders, shining dark as night with his brown doublet lending a touch more formality than his soiled shirt had; his voice was deep and princely. “I want to earn another of your fancies, my Lady.”

“I’ve no doubt that you will, my Lord Faramir.” She smiled and spoke, as she’d not for a long time, with ceremony and cheek mixed together, loving him and his splendid nobility. He grinned at her before turning Thorn, pushing gently at the gelding’s neck and nudging with his heels. Éowyn hugged herself, worried as she watched him jog towards his tent, dismount and emerge with his covered blade, the leather of the sheath sable, then remount and gallop to meet the other Riders. She bit her lips, then moved to where Éomer and Arwen had seated themselves.

Faramir held his sheathed sword across his lap while Thorn loped to the field; under the bright sun the dry grasses were withered, coated with dust and did not gleam. Rohirrim were many and, after a moment of looking through them, he spotted a familiar shade of red and guided Thorn to stand by Gaer’s side. The Rider was busily saddling his chestnut, but he stopped to look at him strangely. “Where is your tack?”

He smiled, trying not to sound too boasting. “I ride without it today.” As I’ve never done…Faramir hoped fervently that he would not fly from the gelding’s back and embarrass himself.

“Ah, so you’ve come so far?” The Rohir looked to the grey, asking in a more indulgent voice, “Have you taught this foolish South-man so well, Brémel? Last that I saw he looked more like a calf tied in the saddle than a Rider.” Thorn’s only response was to flick an ear.

Faramir stroked Thorn’s neck in deep affection, giving Gaer and the other Rider a less affectionate glance. “He has.”

“Well, you go as you like.” But Gaer was grinning, chiding in a lower and teasing tone. “I hope you’ve improved from the last time I watched you ride. I don’t want to hear you’ve fallen and cracked your head open like a nut.” He paused, and then mused jestingly, “Though the Lady would be free to remarry…” Gaer brightened, continuing his thought, “And who better than me whom she adores?”

Oh, does she? Bemused, Faramir pointedly ignored the man, watching Gaer’s chestnut come to sniff his boot, then boldly nibble his trouser, taking some of the material to chew it like a cud. He hissed and shook his leg but the chestnut only looked at him with interested brown eyes, utterly unafraid. As he jiggled his leg again a moment later, Thorn pinned his ears and swung his heavy head threateningly, glaring in displeasure to drive the startled horse back two strides. Faramir scolded gently, privately delighted that the grey was so protective and jealous. “Stop that.” Gaer’s chestnut stayed well away from them as the Rohir finished tacking and mounted. Thorn was quiet again, his head raised, ears moving as he watched the men and horses milling around them with keen and deep involvement, stock-still, tail not even twitching.

Faramir watched too, and took note that many had shields. He did not, his mind listing the first of his disadvantages, adding…saddle, bridle… Suddenly Gaer began to speak, unbuckling his sword from his baldric and holding it across his thighs. He was grinning. “Do not hold back your arm because we are friends, Faramir.”

“I won’t hold mine with you…” The Rohir teased him, “Since you’ve grown so bold, I think you no longer need my aid.” Faramir laughed and he nodded, “This is not battle of just men against men, but man against man. Only one can stand…” He fell momentarily quiet and turned in the saddle, glancing back where Éowyn, Éomer and Arwen sat.

Where the royal party is seated, Faramir thought and was surprised to think it. He was unused to associating Éowyn or Éomer with any such thought born of nobility or higher culture. But they looked so beneath a cloth raised to shade them, laughing while sitting on a blanket spread over the grass. He blinked, surprised, and thought ruefully that he must amend his thinking. Faramir glanced down at himself. I am the ruffian here. He smiled widely.

Meanwhile, his friend had been speaking again. “…and I suppose that man could become the Lady’s champion.” Gaer’s grin widened. “Shall we ask her and make the competition worth something more?”

“Worth a day at her side?” The Rider chuckled, eyeing him good-naturedly and bantering with a growing smile, “Wouldn’t you be angered. I would.”

“I think I will.” And before Faramir could speak again, Gaer was clucking to his mount and jogging away. He nudged Thorn, getting him to follow. Éomer looked up at them curiously as Gaer dismounted, acknowledged his Lord as was proper, then bowed low. He asked in a surprisingly attentive voice, “My Lady, if I may speak to you?”

Éowyn questioned, smiling archly, “Am I to be surprised?” Her eyes met his and Faramir laughed, feeling a burst of kind affection, thinking that she had spoken in a decidedly queenly fashion. This was strange, but as he looked at her, not displeasing…not displeasing at all. A wave of happiness came over his heart, seeing in the brief moment a flash of grandeur and eminence, of a splendid Lady. My Lady of Ithilien…White Lady of Emyn Arnen… He smiled, joyful. One day she would be called so and in the accents of his City and in my lands yet unbuilt, in our house. Faramir felt his own joy at the thoughts, and then a great flood of deep frustration. Why do I stay, what holds me besides…everything? He bowed his head, uncertain.

Gaer grinned, sounding less cautious as he continued, “I ask that you offer a prize to the victor…perhaps a day by your side…?” She frowned, glancing to Faramir and he felt her wariness. Gaer noted their exchange and grinned, prodding, “Or does the Lady not have faith in her champion, that Faramir will not win the contest?”

Éowyn smiled, but her fingers had knotted in her lap. “I have faith.” She looked down for a moment, brow gaining a faint crease.

Gaer seemed to hesitate, then asked, “A lesser prize, then, I fear I am too bold, after all.” Faramir looked to him, surprised at how well the redheaded Rohir had read his love. She’d just begun to show anxiety and that only vaguely, yet Gaer had already lowered the stakes. He smiled faintly, touched. He cares for her…

“What could the Lady of Ithilien grant?” Arwen took up the challenge, smiling. Éomer’s eyes sank for just a moment and Faramir felt his sadness at the title, but it was fleeting and soon the Lord of the Mark was smiling again, offering,

Éowyn frowned, then nodded to her brother in acceptance. “I like that, a meal.” Faramir noted silently that it was the briefer of the two options. He wondered as he gazed at her.

Her eyes lifted and they bore shame as she answered. I do not know them…or what they might do…what if it is not you who wins?

I would let no harm come to you, whether touch or ill words… Éowyn smiled and it was warm, trusting his simply granted vow like it was a weighty oath.

Gaer asked eagerly, “Alone?” and she laughed at him; it was plain to see that her heart had been lightened.

“Do you think you will win so much?” Éowyn glanced to Faramir again and her smile was dazzling. “Or that you will so easily defeat my dearest and bravest champion?” His heart swelled with pride and he couldn’t stop the grin that came to his face. When in his City had he ever been called dearest or bravest? Never, never…

Gaer bowed, “With such a prize, I know I shall…” He grinned, adding intently and with just the slightest of shyness, “And, if it pleases you, be named champion in his stead.”

Arwen turned to Éomer, almost giggling as she declared, “I see his desire plainly now…”

The Lord of the Mark chuckled, looking just as merry, “To out perform Faramir…?”

The Queen finished for him. “And win the Lady’s heart and pride.” They laughed uproariously together and Faramir was delighted to see Gaer flush. He turned to the Rider and raised his brows, questioning. His friend looked away, red-faced, and Faramir roared with laughter, unutterably charmed.

“You may try, friend Gaer!” He guffawed, glancing to Éowyn who’d put her hand over her mouth, smothering her own laughter, and then finished flippantly. “But you shall fail.”

The Rohir was still a bit flushed as he answered firmly. “We will see, friend Faramir.”

“Yes, we shall.” She was smiling indulgently up the redheaded Rider. “Go, now, and may one of you be the victor, or I will be very unhappy with you both, my braggarts!” Laughing, Éowyn released them and Gaer bowed even lower before remounting his horse and returning to the field. Holding Thorn there, Faramir smiled at her reassuringly and she returned his smile. Éomer grinned at him, teasing lightly,

“Good fortune to you, Faramir, my kinsman,” The freely given epithet startled him and he smiled, touched as Éomer continued without pause, “I will be displeased if you force my sister into another’s company…though I think not as displeased as you.” He chuckled gaily and Faramir smiled, looking at Thorn’s withers before he answered,

“I think the same, my friend.” Éomer seemed pleased at the returned familiarity, making Faramir smile in gladness. He felt…good, so good and welcomed. Thorn stamped beneath him and he sighed. I don’t want to leave this…Rohan is where I am welcomed, where I am a champion…he glanced down at his attire, then around himself and sobered a bit, feeling a pang of shame. Where I am not called upon ceaselessly to fulfill obligations, not drawn to sovereign standards…he stayed and in doing so, adhered to all of the failings his father had put upon his shoulders—laziness, fearfulness, uselessness to his people. I must return…but he could not yet bear the idea. Improbably, the Mark had become a haven of warmth, laughter, and familiarity.

Arwen laughed, drawing his attention. “Aye, it is a good sized field you must defeat…my dear Prince, I hope you have the strength and stamina of your forefathers!” The Queen’s voice lowered to jest with a wicked eye; “Or else I suspect you shall disappoint your Lady to no end.” Éowyn flushed a little as she laughed, but as her gaze rose to meet his, he saw that her eyes were not at all shy, instead smoky, anticipative. He felt a thrill he’d not in a long time, a surge of wild excitement and eagerness and smiled at her, nervous and delighted all at once.

Éowyn’s smile was oddly sensual, spreading slowly over her lips; the womanly effect spoiled immediately by her breathlessly light reply, nearly giggled. “Aye, he shall.” Their gazes locked and Faramir’s skin felt too tight for all the emotions that it contained. He was not as ready as he’d thought for his life…I cannot even look at her without blushing like a boy! He laughed under his breath, embarrassed as he ducked his head, acutely aware that he was acting more like his students than a man his own age and temper. The Queen laughed lightly, in good cheer, and Éomer joined her; they were laughing at him.

Regaining control, he smiled and nodded to Éomer, “Thank you” and answered Arwen smoothly, “I hope that as well, my Queen.” Faramir bowed from the waist and squeezed his legs around Thorn’s barrel, taking his leave with a smile and a warm parting, “My Lady, my dearest.”

Her farewell was equally warm, pleasing him. “Go and be victorious…” The sound of Rohirric deepened and made ardent had never seemed so wonderful as she finished with blushing zealousness, “Min cempa ealdorlang, min ceas mann, min Feramearh, ge wille ofercom seo!”

He smiled joyfully and Thorn turned, loping back to the field where Gaer had already spread the word of the great incentive of their Lady’s company; the Rohirrim were in high spirits, boasting and calling to one another as they began to form lines. Faramir followed Gaer, unsure of where he was supposed to be. The Rohir waved him nearer and he obeyed, using his legs to steer his mount, having to nudge harder to get the grey’s attention. Thorn was keenly interested in the doings of the other men and horses, watching them as alertly as a general preparing to engage in battle and he smiled, patting the horse’s neck. “Come, Thorn, this way, lad.”

Riders were forming into long ranks across the field and half bore shields; he still did not. The line of competitors was broad, ranging far and made up of boys and men, some rough-clothed Riders, some men-at-arms with newer tack and richer clothing, some clearly common folk, all mounted on horses that tossed their heads and pawed eagerly. Faramir admired the beasts—even the animals the common men rode were truly beautiful to behold, flanks gleaming, shod hooves stamping and lifting lightly, eyes keen.

Dust clung to sweaty coats and flesh, gloved hands shifted on their carefully sheathed weapons. He could feel the growing anticipation and his nerves hummed. Under him, Thorn seemed to sense it and shifted, but otherwise did not move. The horse nearest to them rose suddenly, half-rearing and twisting before coming down to paw at the dirt, digging a sharp trench; others would not stand and jigged or circled in eagerness. Tensing, Faramir held his sheathed sword up and ready, conscious that he bore no shield; he was wondering if he could pick one up from a fallen Rider when a roar arose. His sense of anticipation peaked and he cried aloud with the others, leaning forward as the other horses sprang ahead, prepared for Thorn’s rush—

But Thorn did not rush, instead he held his ground still, ears flicking and Faramir frowned down at the horse’s small, quick eyes that searched…for what? Before him, Rohirrim were clashing in gleeful mayhem, striking at each other and straining to throw each other from the saddle. The unseated men retreated, cursing as they gave up their places in the tourney and their chances at the prize of repast with their beloved Lady. Loose horses added to the chaos, galloping around and through the competing men before finding their way either into the empty fields or to their master’s hand.

All at once Thorn seemed to finish with his baffling study and he tossed his head and sprang forward into a smooth, controlled lope; Faramir grasped his dark mane, gripping with his legs and holding on tightly, well aware that Thorn was in control, not he. Easy, easy, trust…the grey would not injure him. Remember, trust, love…Faramir relaxed his tight grip and raised his covered sword again.

They galloped into the fray, Thorn dropping his head as though to buck, but instead pinning his ears and slamming his bulky body against a lighter boned gelding whose Rider had turned to engage him, sending the other horse staggering and retreating in terror despite its master’s exasperated shout. Faramir found himself surrounded but Thorn struck out, kicking and lunging to bite the Riders’ mounts, guarding him so that no more than one man could come at a time and then only to his side, where it was easiest to defend himself. The horses around him swiftly learned to avoid the fierce, burly grey, wheeling away and giving him a sort of miniature, open arena in which to choose and pick of his opponents. Thorn was amazingly easy to direct; whichever Rohir he decided to engage, the gelding went for without Faramir’s signal—he merely had to look and decide of which one and the horse leaped before he could motion with leg or heel—it was as though the gelding also practiced second-sight.

The covered swords made a great din, a heavy thudding and thwacking instead of the thinner, more piercing sound of steel to steel. Shields banged, horses neighed and snorted, some squealing shrilly—he saw two geldings rise to battle, biting and striking at each other as their Riders swung their weapons and understood Gaer’s remark about one’s mount defending oneself. Thorn had an easier job of it than most horses; he simply used his greater bulk to throw them off balance, knocking them back and jolting their Riders terribly. Faramir quickly took advantage, reaching out to knock the unsteady Rohirrim from their saddles; he plucked one’s shield from their falling hand and set it before himself. Without reins to worry over, he had no trouble using it and his sheathed sword in tandem, defeating still other Rohirrim.

But there were many to go and the sun and effort made sweat roll into his eyes; he blinked it away, concentrating on each Rider that came for him and keeping his position on Thorn’s increasingly lathered back. Faramir had not had as much experience on fighting in saddle as the Rohirrim did and it showed in his hesitation, his yelp of alarm and panicked grasp of the mane whenever Thorn moved suddenly to either retreat or attack. He simply was unable to predict his mount’s motions.

In fact, Thorn had several tricks and each took getting used to before Faramir was able to weather them without feeling as though he would tumble from the gelding’s back. Dropping his head and neck suddenly, he nipped other horses’ forelegs so that they kneeled in startled pain, allowing Faramir to shove their equally startled riders forward over their horse’s heads and to the ground with little effort. Thorn also used his burly body to knock the other horses off-balance with a heavy charge, jolting both Faramir and the unsuspecting Rider; he learned to brace himself firmly and act before the other man got his bearings. Or the grey reared almost in their faces, pawing with iron-shod hooves and forcing them to retreat whenever the fighting grew too fierce and his opponent came too closely or Faramir’s arm grew wearied of enduring their battle. Each upsurge required a tight grip on the gelding’s dark mane and barrel or, saddleless, he would slide straight down the horse’s slippery back and to the earth. Faramir soon abandoned his shield to hold tight as all inferior competitors had long been cast out from the field and his mount had to resort to his tricks again and again.

Thorn drew back from the fray as he shoved, then felled another man and Faramir gasped under the hot sun, coughing from the dust, abruptly conscious that the field was thinning and that he was still well. He grinned, feeling a burst of pride. He’d taken a few bruising impacts before he’d garnered his shield and after he’d discarded it, but was otherwise unharmed and only lightly wearied. Thorn was lathered, his neck dripping with white foaming sweat and his barrel moved in quick breaths under Faramir’s gripping thighs. He admitted to himself with a smile, this horse is working harder than I am… Patting Thorn’s sweaty neck, he praised, “Good lad, good lad!” The gelding had more than earned his treat of grain and scratching. And a game…when he and I have strength again to play it. He praised again, “Good lad, Thorn!” When he looked up, Gaer’s eyes met his across an expanse of heavily trodden grasses and he fell silent, expectant, but the Rohir only booted his horse forward to meet another. Faramir was barely allowed a moment’s breather; even Thorn’s face made ugly with menace and lowered to glower forbiddingly at the approaching horses could not spare him much more than that from the eager Rohirrim.

At long last he became aware that only himself and three others remained—Gaer was one, making Faramir grin in surprise. He cannot shoot a bow…but apparently his friend was decently skilled in mounted battle. Again Thorn had taken him away and he watched, catching his breath as Gaer dispatched another Rohir, striking over and over with an unwaveringly ferocious determination he could sense clearly even across their distance. He is serious…Faramir gazed in silence, breathing as heavily as Thorn. It was clear that the contest meant much to Gaer. He frowned, wondering if he should yield. I see her daily…a meal alone would be pleasant but no great thing. Faramir shook his head sharply. No. He would not yield, nor risk losing the respect he’d earned from his Rohirric brothers.

A Rider galloped to meet him and Thorn rose on his hind legs, twisting away. Refocused, Faramir held on tightly, desperately, as his horse’s back had become quite slick with sweat, and put his heels to Thorn’s flanks. It was an unnecessary signal—the grey had already lunged forward off his haunches, powerfully catching up with the Rider even as he turned his mount and a strong blow from Faramir’s sheathed sword, leaning over the other man’s saddle with the boon of Thorn’s plunging into the other horse, felled him.

He panted, turning to see Gaer fell his opponent, the last beside himself. Faramir was pleased, finding satisfaction in his friend’s skill. He saluted him with his covered sword, calling in a delighted voice, “You did not say you could fight so well on horse!”

Gaer met and returned the salute, grinning, “You did not say you would be letting Brémel do your fighting!” His arm raised and he saluted again, this time making it clear that he saluted the horse, “Well done, Brémel, I do you honor!” Gaer grinned, adding cheekily, “For putting up with your South-man and carrying him to…” He paused purposely and his grin widened, “Near victory.”

Faramir asserted firmly, feeling Thorn begin to jog forward to meet Gaer’s equally lathered chestnut. Both the Rohir and his horse were smeared with dust, filthy and looked weary. “Victory, you meant.” He lifted his sheathed sword as his mount surged into a rocking canter, big head and ears forward and ready to act.

“You know what I meant!” Gaer’s sense of determination was as palpable as the sound of his horse’s hoof beats. The chestnut, too, had lengthened stride. Faramir felt Thorn move slightly to the side, the indication of when he plunged into another horse and gripped tightly in response. His legs had begun to ache fiercely, unused to supporting his weight and balancing without the aid of stirrups.

But Gaer’s chestnut sheered away before they met and the Rohir’s cry of surprise echoed the crowd’s calls of disappointment. He drew up his horse, turning it to charge again. Faramir suddenly remembered there was a crowd and turned; Éowyn waved her cloth at him, the promise of his token. He could hear her voice, but faintly, calling for him, warming his heart and bracing his soul.

My token… He saw Gaer looking too, and again felt the man’s deep determination to win. He sent his horse forward but once more it sheered off, frightened of Thorn’s promising glower. Heart firming, Faramir sent Thorn after his friend, but the chestnut evaded, stopping short and the rising thunder of hooves meant Gaer was behind him. He turned to raise his sword to meet the strike he knew would come, keeping his balance with one hand locked in Thorn’s mane, and when Thorn stopped unexpectedly and wheeled to face Gaer, Faramir was jolted and grabbed the grey’s mane with both hands to keep from being spun to the dirt. He’d not learned this trick, apparently.

Bearing down on him, Gaer shouted in premature victory, prodding his chestnut to lunge boldly and hit them broadside. At the impact, Faramir felt Thorn give a grudging stride, ears pinned and eye fierce. His dark muzzle wrinkled to bare great teeth in a threat. The chestnut came again, nearer to Thorn’s front and all but hitting Faramir’s leg. With a yelp, he pulled it back too quickly, overbalancing and nearly slipping off the other side of Thorn as he did; the gelding’s lathered back was terribly slick.

Sliding back into his seat, he’d barely gotten himself secure again when the grey stumbled. Thorn’s head and neck disappeared and a violent jolt shook them. His eyes widening, Faramir abandoned his sword, using both hands to keep himself from falling off as Thorn went down to his knees. The shoulder that bore the great scar seemed to give way and Faramir was jarred again, his mount staggering and gaining his feet with an effort. For the first time Thorn felt unsteady beneath him and he squeezed with his legs, trying to keep his horse from going to its knees again and fending off the persistent Gaer at the same time. His friend bellowed in frustration, swinging his sword as hard as he could, as though he were battling for his life, “Fall, curse you!” Gaer looked wearier than he did, like he’d fought harder and with more men—he was sweating, panting, sending his horse forward again and again.

“No!” Determined not to yield, not to lose the respect he’d spent the day playing games to earn, Faramir reached out to grab the sheathed weapon and fight Gaer for it. His friend’s eyes widened at the bold, unexpected maneuver, nearly losing his grip on his sword. Faramir grasped the Rider’s wrist and jerked determinedly, all the while struggling to hold his place on Thorn’s sweat-slick back and to keep his horse turned so that the chestnut would not hit the sensitive shoulder again. His legs ached, his hand in Thorn’s mane ached, and his whole body ached.

As Gaer pulled back, Thorn was favoring the leg, worrying Faramir and distracting him as well as putting them both off-balance. They danced, horses circling with pinned ears, their faces ugly and angered. Faramir was amazed that he’d lasted so long, ducking or deflecting each of Gaer’s swings and snatching at the covered sword to grapple for the weapon, jerking at it while the Rohir bellowed at him in frustration. “Stop! It!” The indignation in Gaer’s voice made him burst into dust-harshened, breathless caws of laughter.

He wished for his shield, feeling his reaching arm and shoulder ache, the fingers of his left hand cramping, tangled in Thorn’s mane. Around them he could feel the distraction of the crowd, their anticipation and hear the growing volume of their cheers. We are putting on a magnificent show…

Faramir laughed again, tasting dirt in his mouth and his Rohir friend frowned at him in incomprehension then leaned in and shoved him hard in hopes he would slip from Thorn’s back. “Stop it…fall! Why won’t you fall?!” Suddenly Gaer booted his horse forward, shouting again as fiercely as though uttering his desire would command it into being, “Fall!” and the chestnut reared high—too high, when he came down his foreleg caught over Thorn’s neck and he was unable to withdraw it.

There was a horse’s leg in his lap; Faramir stared at it in weary stupefaction before Thorn lurched and bowed under the weight and all of his mind went to keeping his seat. He saw Gaer’s eyes go wide with surprise and fear while he shouted, jerking at the reins to pull his horse away, all determination to defeat him immediately quenched. Faramir felt the chestnut breathing hotly onto him, saw it looming over him and he pushed at its sweaty chest, desperate, seeing that the panicking gelding was helpless to keep from sliding down on top of him, stopped only by its jerky efforts to withdraw. He thought of swinging off of Thorn, but the horses were moving too much and too erratically. They would surely knock him to the ground, then stomp upon him in their panic.

If I fall…he felt his heart racing, beating so fast he felt faint, knowing he would be crushed to death beneath the animals. His hand tightened in Thorn’s mane, begging that the grey would keep his feet and that the horses would not fall in a tangle of heavy limbs and torsos, mashing him beneath and between them. Faramir slapped at the chestnut, trying to get it away, but to no avail. It was well stuck, shorter in height than Thorn, leaning on him with its other foreleg helplessly swinging and banging Thorn’s shoulder. All of its weight rested upon its trembling flanks, which were not meant to support all of the chestnut’s mass; his hindquarters shook and jerked as he leaned more and more on Thorn. The more the poor creature tried to rear and get itself free, the more it wearied itself and could not pull again.

The horses struggled too hard for aid, nostrils blown out with their terrified inhalations, rearing, trapped and jerking against each other in growing frenzy, their eyes rolling whitely, Gaer’s lumbering and staggering on two legs. Their fear added to his and it was near paralyzing. Faramir tried to gather his wits, to project calm to Thorn at least, but could not. With the chestnut’s full weight over his withers, unable to get out from under him, Thorn could not remain standing though he tried valiantly, reeling and trying to retreat, teeth bared and biting at the chestnut’s shoulder in vicious strikes. A yowl from Gaer meant he’d missed his target at least once.

But despite his efforts, Thorn was doing no more than pulling the panicking horse with him. Faramir felt his shoulder give again, the knee and leg buckling under pain and they finally went down as he’d dreaded, Thorn collapsing, falling heavily to his side with a grunt of out-rushing air, powerless to stop himself. For a terrifying instant Faramir was certain the chestnut would follow and crush him between them, but Gaer’s freed horse kept its feet and the Rohir jerked the reins again with a cry of command, making it wheel away at the last moment, mouth torn from the bit.

Feeling a burst of fear as he saw the dusty, trampled ground rise at him, Faramir was knocked to the hard earth, letting go of everything and quickly rolling away, almost under Gaer’s retreating horse. He felt the vibration as Thorn hit a moment later, his legs kicking, eyes rolling in fright and anger, gathering himself to stand almost immediately. He blew, snorting through dusty nostrils and turning awkwardly and painfully to sniff at Faramir’s face, nickering softly in anxious fear. Raising a filthy hand to the horse’s face, he panted, gathering his breath and aching all over. I’m…all right. Thorn blew again, then sneezed on him and he laughed weakly. “Thank you.”

A great roar arose from the throng, as well as hisses and jeers—from losing bettors, he guessed. Staring at the blue sky, Faramir lay panting, rising slowly and wearily to sit upright, not terribly upset and not injured, only shaken. It is just a meal…he was glad Gaer had won, at least, rather than some other. “Easy, easy friend…” He patted Thorn’s nose, reassuring the animal as it peered down at him with troubled brown eyes and looked over at his covered sword, the sable sheath now beige with dust and the silver hilt browned with the smeared mud of his sweat. It was astonishingly far away—their last battle had seemed to be only a few heartbeats time to his mind.

Gaer had dismounted the instant his horse had been freed from the tangle and come to offer a strong hand, asking gravely, nervously, “Are you injured?” He was clearly upset. “That was an unlucky turn and a hard fall.” Nodding in agreement, feeling drained, Faramir took the hand and was hauled to his feet without effort, surprising him though it should not have, the younger Rider was just as powerful as his robust physique indicated.

Brushing at his clothing, he answered wearily, “I’m just bruised.” He smiled to show he held no hardness of spirit and was then shocked when the Rohir gasped,

“Oh, good!” and pulled him into a hearty embrace, grinning with a profound relief that washed over Faramir’s mind like a cool balm. “I thought for certain he’d stepped on you and my heart nearly failed me!” Gaer nodded to his horse; Faramir felt himself stay stiff for a moment, unsure and astonished, and then relax and smile as he was commended. “You fought well, my brother, and even without your blade!”

A slow grin came to him, along with the feeling of his pride; loss notwithstanding, it had been a great battle and…I did well… Faramir felt his shoulders straighten, his proud enthusiasm return in full. “Thank you…” He laughed, “You did, too. I didn’t think you…” He caught himself, not wanting to insult.

“The bow is a tricky weapon.” His friend grinned, “I was a rider before I could walk.” Nodding, he expected Gaer to go and claim his prize, but instead the Rider grew hesitant, regretfully shaking his head, “It is a shame.”

“What is?” He stretched a little, wincing at the many complaints from joints and muscles.

Gaer looked back at Éowyn and her companions, his features marked with contrition. “I did not unseat you fairly…we will have to have battle on foot.” He smiled, patting Faramir’s shoulder, “Once you’re ready, friend Faramir…” Gaer repeated himself with more worry, “That was a hard fall.”

“No,” Faramir smiled quickly; he was weary and concerned now as his eye fell on Thorn and he saw at once how exhausted and lame the horse was. “I accept defeat, you felled me.”

“Truly?” The Rohir looked him up and down, his open face breaking into a radiant grin. “You fought well for a Southerner,” He nodded to Thorn and chuckled, “If you could match Brémel you would be very great in the contests.”

“It is a compliment…” His friend protested, clearly upset that he might have given insult.

“I understand.” Raising his hands, he laughed and the Rohir nodded, less anxious. A moment later Gaer was once more grinning hugely and Faramir felt his growing pride and exultation as he was praised,

“You did well, fought with honor, determination and even when you lost your weapon did not give until your horse fell…and all with no tack!” The Rider glanced around them at the masses, marveling. “They will not easily forget such a display…such a splendid and daring display from a man not of our folk…a very stout-hearted one at that, Faramir.” Gaer bowed slightly, his voice changing to a very rare note of formality, “I am honored by our combat.” Then he grinned wide, “I can say I defeated a Lord…”

He laughed, “Aye.” Smiling gaily, spirits lifted and amused at his friend’s happiness, Faramir glanced again to where Éowyn sat, wondering if she would be displeased. No doubt she is worried about me; she’d stood, one hand shading her eyes to see him better and he waved to show that he was unharmed.

Gaer watched him look and asked more quietly, “You are certain you do not wish to fight…? I will wait.”

“I am.” Even with the padding of the doublet he was now grateful that Éowyn had made him wear, his shoulder, side and hip had begun to ache from the impact of falling from Thorn; he could only imagine the horse felt worse.

“As you wish.” Gaer beamed in victory. With one last, companionable clap to Faramir’s back, he turned away and mounted his wet horse, jogging to the royal party. Faramir smiled in affection and amusement, but both faded as Thorn took a stride forward and he saw that the gelding still favored his leg. He knelt tiredly and felt the limb and near the long scar with dread, unable to sense any points of greater heat—even in the hot day Thorn was nearly steaming, covered with sweat and lather, his nostrils extended and pinkened, blowing loudly from all his exertions.

“I think we need to go to the river…” Perhaps the slow, lukewarm waters would cool his horse and ease his aches. Faramir hoped it was merely a wrenched muscle that made Thorn limp. He knew nothing was broken, thankfully, but that was the extent of his guesses; he simply was not very knowledgeable in healing the body of a horse. Speaking softly, he murmured, “Come, I’ll walk.” He glanced to Éowyn, expecting to see her only from a distance and instead saw her approaching and quite near, strides quick, face worried. Despite his fatigue, rising soreness from his tumble and concern over Thorn, her care made him smile widely. Faramir turned to the grey and whispered in soft, private jest, “Here comes my Healer to fuss…” Thorn just blinked in reply, looking tired.

She walked quick, wishing to run, but holding herself in control. Éowyn blurted, anxious, as soon as she was within earshot, “Are you well?”

“Yes.” Her heart lightened, relief flooding through her veins and easing the knots in her stomach. He smiled at her as though he could tell that she still wanted to strip his doublet off and check. Éowyn restrained herself to just a quick up and down glance for blood; finding none, she relaxed entirely.

Free to embrace him, she did and held tight, whispering, “You scared me terribly…” He was dusty, bits of grass clinging to his doublet, hanging in his hair, and he smelled strongly of horse and sweat.

Faramir jested in weak play, holding her just as tightly, “How do you think I felt?” She could hear and feel his weariness. Nearby, Thorn held his head low, sweat running down his flanks and legs, dripping down his muzzle. Her love frowned at the horse, brushing his soaked forelock back in a tender gesture, “Can we take him to the river? He is very hot.”

Éowyn took his dirty sword to unburden him the only way she could, holding it as she nodded, “We can.” They walked slowly, keeping Thorn’s pace, Faramir’s grey eyes watching each hobbling stride in deep concern. He didn’t seem to notice that his own gait was slow with exhaustion and soreness. She took his arm, letting him lean against her, if only a little. Faramir smiled briefly before turning once more to the grey.

She chose a section of the Snowbourn where the banks were not steep and were wooded, giving shade to the hot horse. Thorn appeared grateful as he shuffled into the shallow water, nosing at it with his muzzle. Her love waded in too, pausing only for his boots, not heeding his clothing. She called from the banks, stripping off her stockings and boots and rolling up her trousers to her knees. “Do not let him drink yet…not for a short while, or he will be sick.” Faramir nodded, gently pushing the gelding’s nose away and she relented, “A few palmfuls of water will not hurt him…slowly, and with a pause between.” He nodded again, obeying carefully.

The water was cool, swirling around her feet and lower legs as Éowyn waded into the river, using her cupped hands to begin to wash Thorn. She felt of his neck; it was hot, throbbing with the flow of his blood, then along his shoulder and leg. The leg seemed well and she felt of it carefully to make certain, but the shoulder was hotter than either his knee or pastern; it was clearly the place of strain. “He’s hurt himself here…” She touched the long, rippled scar, wondering how deep the wound had been; if it had severed part of a muscle, the tissue would be weaker and might have torn again. It was not even a year ago…odd, but it felt longer to her heart.

“How badly?” Faramir sounded as concerned as a parent would over a child. It made her smile a bit and she soothed,

“Not terribly, he could walk here, couldn’t he? And look, he’s putting his weight on it.” That alone made her certain the injury was not in the hoof or leg. Éowyn stroked the gelding’s neck, noting that he did not even respond to her unfamiliar touch. Thorn’s head was lowered, his eyes half-closed, breathing slowly but normally now. He was very tired and needed rest after being cooled. She ran her hand over his lax muscles. Maybe a rubdown…

She turned and smiled reassuringly, reaching up to cup his face with her wet hands. “We will have to wait until he cools to see…but he will be tired, tomorrow morning will tell for certain, if he is not too sore.” Faramir nodded soberly, trustingly.

“You know more than I.” She pulled and he leaned downwards, water from her hands forming chill drops that fell from the tip of his chin onto her collarbone. Faramir met her kiss, soft and brief with his anxiety.

“He will be all right.” Éowyn smiled, hoping to make him do the same, “You were very magnificent, min cempa. I cheered you…though I’m sure you couldn’t hear.” She leaned up to kiss him again, but he pulled back with a smile and a shake of his head,

“Uh-uh…” Her Prince grinned at her, playful mood back, though his warm grey eyes were still tempered with concern. He looked at her sternly, a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. “I believe another bears that name now.”

“True.” Éowyn smiled widely, “I shall just have to find another for you.”

“You will?” He beamed in pleasure, making her laugh, just as delighted by the prospect. The he chuckled, eyes alight…until Gaer steals that as well…

He didn’t steal it…he won it. She laughed at him, knowing he trusted her and was no longer so terribly worried over Thorn. “I will find a very noble one.” This time he let her come, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him, feeling her feet squish in the river mud. “You’re just as filthy as he is…” She kissed him again, then smiled, “Finish with him and yourself while I fetch you something to wear and return this?” Éowyn pointed to his sheathed sword where it lay on the banks near her stockings and boots, then smiled broadly. “Get undressed.”

“Why not?” She laughed at him, “Do you think I would be so heartless as to…” Éowyn widened her eyes, whispering, “Leave you?”

Faramir chuckled softly, bending to kiss her, “I think you should stay with me.” He patted Thorn’s side, jesting and pouting endearingly. “Help me?”

“I think not…” His wet hands came to her waist and pulled her closer, holding her against the cushion of his soiled doublet. Éowyn pushed him gently, laughing, “No!”

“Why not? You know I can’t do it rightly…you’ll have to watch, maybe help…yes, I think I’ll need help…” He nuzzled into her neck, kissing the junction of her shoulder as he bantered. “Did our bath not teach you anything?”

“Yes…it did teach me something.” Éowyn answered softly, smiling a little with her own admittance, but her embarrassment at the sound of her voice made ardent and intense and his raised eyebrow soon had her giggling, feeling girlish and silly instead of seductive. Faramir laughed at her and she was astonished to hear a note of self-consciousness in his reply,

“Is that true…?” He smiled, lowering his mouth to her neck, murmuring in gentle play, “Perhaps we can learn something more…”

She giggled again and twisted against him, pleased to see that his heart was not too darkened by Thorn’s injury. “No! You can take care of yourself, did you not do it for all these years?”

“Ah, but of late I’ve been spoiled by a certain ravishingly delectable Lady…” He kissed her throat and she laughed, thrilling at the contact of his warm mouth.

“No, now care for your horse, Rídend!” It was the first time she’d ever called him that and he drew back to look at her. Faramir appeared surprised, then gradually accepting and contented, making her smile in relief. The title had been impulsive, slipping off her tongue without a thought.

“Yes, my Lady.” He undressed awkwardly, handing her the dripping clothing, then, nude, Faramir withdrew to begin splashing more water over Thorn’s side; it would be a long task as the usual grey of his coat was now buff with dust and dirt, his knees smudged green from his fall. She admired her love for a moment, gazing at his long, lean body, neatly sculpted by muscle, only marred with bruises and scrapes. Éowyn wondered if he’d ever drawn himself. Faramir smiled at her as he urged Thorn into deeper water until the horse was half-submerged, the river coming up to give her love some partial modesty, its warm waters lapping around his midsection. “Will you not stay a moment to help me?”

Persuaded by his boyish grin, Éowyn tossed his waterlogged clothing to the banks and moved to the gelding’s other side. Her trousers were instantly soaked, water rising under her breasts, making her gasp. She used her cupped hands to splash water upward against Thorn’s sides—but there was more raining down on her than was going up. She giggled at once, shielding herself with her palms, “Stop it!”

He was soaking her. “You’re getting me wet!” Perhaps it was a plan… Éowyn laughed again, “I’m not going to stay!”

“Am I wetting you?” Voice innocent, grinning with mischief, Faramir stepped around the horse and as she turned, curved his hands inward, pressing his arms closely, and used them to send a volley of water to douse her front. Thorn snorted and shook his dripping head; he seemed amused by their antics and she thought that if he were less weary and pained he might have joined them in play. His lame leg rose to paw clumsily and further wet her. Hands up to cover herself in poor defense, she laughed,

Faramir grinned, declaring in open delight, “I’ve got an ally!” He smiled, encouraging the horse, “Get her!” Water was dripping down his chin, gleaming off of his skin as he waded nearer.

“No! You…you…” Éowyn abandoned all of her futile thoughts of dryness to leap after him, awkward with her cumbersome, soggy clothes, and he began to laugh as they collided. Her Prince staggered and fell back easily under her drive, still laughing; the sound made her heart leap, so light, so joyous. But he fell too easily—an instant later, Faramir disappeared, sinking like a stone and as she frowned, he rose just as swiftly. She felt his arms under her back, her thighs, lifting her high. Éowyn knew what was coming and shrieked in frantic protest, but he threw her anyway and she fell into the deeper part of the river, surfacing to gasp and kick her way to shallower water. She retreated, bobbing under the waves made from her splash and cried, “The horse, not me!”

His response was bordering on lurid; Faramir was aware of it, too, grinning brazenly. “But I’d rather have you wet.”

Éowyn closed her eyes, giggling, embarrassed and delighted by their play, loving this new sensation of thrilling, lovely passion, of enthusiasm without any pressures or fears. She opened them, smiling uncontrollably, aware of her heavy wet clothing, “Would you?”

“Aye…” His face was crinkled with laughter and he gestured to her, holding his sobriety only a moment before breaking into gasping bursts, snickering, “More pleasing to the eye.”

The water had molded her ample men’s shirt to her breasts and hardened her nipples, the cloth clinging wetly and showing her shape. She laughed and covered herself, scolding; “You didn’t want me to help!”

“I did…” Faramir guffawed and moved nearer, his grey eyes shining with bliss, “It simply occurred to me that there could be more pleasing means to washing him…” He was very close, arms spread, and she giggled in anticipation. Faramir lowered to kiss her and she dove away under his arm and then the water, kicking up a great, exuberant splash before surfacing to cry,

“You thought wrongly!” Backing into the shallows, arms crossed over her front, Éowyn teased, “Scoundrel, I’m going now to be with my champion, a man of more decency!”

Faramir called with a laugh; “I doubt that!” He met her gaze with a smile and, becoming solemn again, ordered over Thorn’s lowered neck, “Do not forget us.” Dripping, Éowyn waded back to the grassy bank, plucking his sopping clothing up as she did, the weight of both her soaked clothing and his dragged at her so that her arms ached. At his nervous call, “Éowyn?” she turned her head, features as puzzled as she could make them,

“What’s that?” He glowered at her and she laughed, nodding, “I won’t, I won’t.”

It did not take much time to return to his little canvas tent, passing through crowds that parted easily for her, murmuring at her wetness; she kept his clothing to her bosom, hiding herself. It was empty and she kneeled, entering and finding Faramir’s familiar bags with ease. She laid his wet clothing on the ground to dry, carefully wiped his sword’s sheath free of mud and retrieved a pair of trousers, socks, and a linen shirt from his plain sacks. Within the dark privacy of his tent, she wrested from her soaked shirt and drew on one of his sable high-collared shirts to cover herself and maintain some partial decency. It smelled of Faramir, stone and wind, the City and she smiled, absurdly comforted. Backing out of the tent, she was startled. A less filthy Gaer smiled and inclined his head for her.

She nodded, amused that despite the fact that she’d given him license to address her by name, he never seemed to take the very familiar step to do so. “Gaer…” Éowyn thought to add, “My champion” and was rewarded—the brightness of his smile increased ten-fold and he bowed again,

“I’m afraid I must tend to my Lord first, but…” She smiled, finding his earnestness lovable, “If it pleases you, my champion, we will have our meal this night and then I’ll decorate you as you deserve.”

Gaer grinned and bowed low once more. “I am very pleased.” He gestured, “Do not allow your lowly servant to keep you, my Lady. Is there anything you desire to be fetched…” His grin broadened, “That can lessen the time between now and my reward?”

Laughing at him, Éowyn remembered her thought of giving Thorn a rubdown. “Do you know the makings of a bracer for the horse and,” She smiled, thinking of Faramir’s wearied face, “My Lord?” No doubt both bear sore muscles…

It was not long before he returned, making her marvel. Her brother and the Queen sat at the long table outside his tent, playing a board game, drinking wine, laughing merrily together; she sat with them, weary, her hair dripping and listening to the clicking of wooden pieces and their conversation until Gaer approached, carrying a leather flask. He bowed as he presented it, making her smile, then turned and she called, “We thank you, Gaer, very much.” Éowyn meant for more than a simple liniment of crushed herbs and heated water.

This time when he bowed it was with a solemn expression, his voice entirely sober and holding no jests, “It is my pleasure to serve you, my Lady.” He retreated and she watched for a moment before retracing her steps to the Snowbourn.

Faramir and Thorn were out of the river, the grey lying flat on the grass-covered banks, her love sitting beside him and leaning against the horse’s back, still nude, of course. The eyes of both were closed. They looked charmingly pastoral and she smiled, holding up the wad of dry, clean clothing and saying quietly, “I did not forget.” The bracer she held in her other hand, a strong solution of herbs and water mixed with oil.

“Good.” Faramir barely stirred, only peeping at her through his dark eyelashes. Thorn did much the same, turning a large ear, making her laugh softly.

“Are you very weary?” Éowyn sat by him, well out of the way in case the horse decided to stand, disturbed by her less familiar presence. His grey eyes peeped at her again and he smiled, laboriously turning his head to look at her.

“Very sore?” She looked up and down his body, frowning at the blemishes and wishing to make them disappear. You are just like a lad…all scraped and scratched… Éowyn smiled. You weren’t like this in the City.

No, I wasn’t… After answering her inner words, he turned his face up to the heat of the sun, sighing in clear pleasure, “Some.”

Éowyn’s gaze turned to the pleasing lines of his muscles, muscles that would undoubtedly be beginning to stiffen; the longer she let him lie there the worse it would feel when he stood. She offered, “Would you like a rubdown?”

This time he lifted his head, blinking, then smiling widely. “Yes.” Faramir grinned at her, nudging his shoulder against Thorn’s side, “What of him?”

“Him, too…it will do you good.” She squeezed his arm, “Keep you from stiffening.”

“I have to do it?” All at once, Faramir sounded much more pitiable and on purpose, fluttering his eyelashes at her and groaning loudly when he shifted.

Éowyn laughed at him, then sighed, moving a bit of his hair out of his eyes. “I will help…” She smiled, “If you hurt so much.”

“Come here with me.” Éowyn scooted nearer, surprised when he pillowed his head on her lap, cheek to her thigh. She stroked his damp hair, running her fingers through it, untangling it and feeling terribly protective. Faramir touched her sleeve, fingering the fine, rich fabric. “This is my shirt.”

“Yes.” She smiled again, then said with mild firmness and slight hesitation in the act of commanding him. “No more contests…for this day at least.” Éowyn bent and kissed his sun-warmed brow, softening her direction, “You need rest.”

“Hmmph.” He made a noise of equal parts disappointment and relief, then stirred, “Sing?” Faramir smiled against her trousers, “My song?”

Éowyn laughed and nuzzled closer, enjoying their coziness. “You should come with me tomorrow…look through the market, see if there is anything Meduseld needs.” She hesitated, wondering, then teased, “I could buy you a present, something to take back to the City.” But he nodded at once, complacent and entirely unperturbed. Éowyn added softly, “I liked your presents.” She’d not thought to grab one this morning, but silently vowed to wear something he’d bought her tomorrow.

They lay still and she felt the warmth of his body, the heat of the sun, heard the soft, deep breaths of the sleeping horse next to them. It was pleasantly restful, soothing, giving her peace and relief from all troubles. It was very…simple, she thought, not at all what one would imagine the Prince of Ithilien to be doing—lying nude on the banks of a river far from his lands, leaning against the bulk of his horse, his head resting on his Lady’s lap. Not wanting to move, Éowyn fingered a few coarse strands of Thorn’s mane, then twisted a bit of her Prince’s silky hair between her fingertips. The difference lay not in color, but in fineness, as both were nearly the same shade of coal black. She touched Thorn’s side, felt his drying coat quiver, then Faramir’s shoulder. He stirred just a little and she smiled as his arms slid around her and he rolled from his side to his belly; he lay nearly atop her now as she sat, shoulders pillowed on Thorn, and Faramir lifted his head so that their eyes met.

His grey ones were weary, but content, peeking at her through a few wet and clumped tufts of his sable hair. Faintly, Éowyn laughed into them, feeling a strange blend of emotions—tenderness, desire, nervousness. She wanted to hold him, to keep him safe, to make sure her heart never leapt into her throat like it had when Thorn had fallen and Gaer’s horse had been but a stride from trampling her love. Her dark dream had come to mind: falling from a horse, being unable to rise while terrified voices called… Shuddering, Éowyn whispered again, “You scared me…”

“Mmm.” He glanced down and sighed. For a moment she looked at the crown of his dark head, then his long, arms that held him up, behind him the stretch of his flattened body. She was very aware of his long legs as he shifted them, one of his thighs lying halfway across her leg, flattening her down to the soft grass; as he moved to brace himself, one knee fell between her legs. Grit clung to his elbows as he lifted his chin up again to look at her, about to rise, his palms flat to the grass.

Impulsively, she leaned forward and caught him in a kiss that lingered. Éowyn didn’t want it to stop, feeling terribly protective. He smiled in weary reassurance and she pressed her palms to his cheeks, thinking it strange that their position was so amorous, yet she felt nothing of the sort. He was propped half atop her, upper body angled over hers, his long leg stretched beside her, one knee braced between her thighs, yet…it was nothing, the mere comfort of his body near hers. She was confused and, oddly, relieved. It is pleasant…

His reply was slow. Mmm…hmm…Faramir leaned down, kissing her warmly before smiling. She returned his smile, feeling all unease and hesitation vanish. Éowyn hugged him tighter, delighting in how close he was, how she could feel him without any fears. His low, emotional laugh and the kindly spark in his grey eyes meant he was rejoicing as well. His mind touched hers and his deep, silent thanks nearly made her sob—he was terribly proud of her.

I love you. He shifted back to crouch on his knees and shook his hair from his face and shoulders, smiling gently. She eyed him, having entirely forgotten his nakedness. Éowyn reached up to finger a bit of his chest hair.

Good…I think…he chuckled, dropping down to all fours again with an oomph! of weariness. She gasped in surprise, giggling when he kissed her. Their eyes met and his radiated love, shining like polished steel, the grey of them somehow bright and not at all dull. Arms wrapping about his neck, she laughed at him as Faramir groaned and grumbled, nuzzling into her throat and sounding like a pig rooting for grubs. A burst of heated breath and laughter against her sensitive skin meant he’d caught her thoughts. A pig?

Éowyn squealed as he lowered his head again, sensing his mirth. Seconds later she laughed and laughed while he burrowed and growled and complained with coarse grunts, nuzzling his chin into her throat no matter how she twisted and pushed against him, her hands weak with merriment. Behind them Thorn raised his head, ears pinned in protest of their clamor. His tail lashed, slapping hard across her Prince’s bare backside, making him yelp and cease. Éowyn giggled breathlessly, feeling flushed with laughter. Her voice was weakened with it. “That’s…what you deserve.”

“Mmm…yes.” At her giggle, he bent again and she smiled, anticipative. His mouth was warm, meeting hers and angling, noses brushing, his tongue just sliding against her own in a teasing touch. His kiss was wonderful, as always, making her tingle as it went on and on, slower, then faster, so that her heart raced with eagerness. She wrapped her arms about his bare shoulders, feeling the hardness of his shoulder blades, the hale muscles under his warm, smooth skin, the tangle of his hair. Éowyn tugged it gently. Stallion’s mane…

She laughed, pulling him closer, her world shrunk to the tiny distance between their faces, their bodies. He beamed at her, so happy, so content. At length, after many more kisses, Faramir rose. She stood with him and together they urged the prone Thorn into rising as well. The horse gathered his feet with clear reluctance. Her Prince soothed him, holding the grey’s big head in his arms, cradling it to his bare chest in a surprisingly tender gesture.

She looked at them and saw that Thorn’s eyes were closed, perfectly trusting as Faramir held him and murmured into one ear. She couldn’t hear the words and did not attempt to; they were private, some gentle conversation between a rider and his horse. He plucked bits of grass from Thorn’s mane while Éowyn poured a generous handful of the liniment into her hands and began to gently rub the horse’s body, neck to hoof, working each muscle. It was still warm and smelled good with the strong scent of fresh plants. Silently, she marveled at Gaer’s obedience.

Her love looked at her over Thorn’s back, getting some of the solution. She could feel his presence effortlessly, a warmth touching her soul, so it was little surprise that he caught her thoughts again. “This is his work?”

His voice became even sulkier as he came to her side, rubbing gently over Thorn’s broad rump. “Do you like him more than me?”

She burst into laughter, shoving him away. He came back and kissed her, putting his wet, slippery hands to her face and holding her so that she grimaced and laughed. “No…ugh!” As she slapped his shoulder, Faramir retreated to continue his rubbing. Under their hands, Thorn groaned and lowered his head, eyes closed, obviously enjoying the efforts. Éowyn rubbed her wet cheeks against her arms, grimacing; it made her skin tingle.

With two, the horse was soon finished and she stepped away, watching Faramir rub the grey’s shoulder one last time and turn to her. He smiled; “My turn?” and she felt a flutter in her stomach. He was still nude.

“Yes.” Éowyn bit her lip to contain her girlish giggles, not sure why she felt so silly. “Put on your trousers at least…” He pouted as she added, sternness spoiled by a smile, “I’m only doing what you can’t reach yourself, you lazy thing.” Her Prince grudgingly obeyed, rubbing some of the solution into his legs and thighs with sighs of pleasure stirring enough to make her flush and direct a few laughs to the ground. He noticed and became louder; trying to contain her giggles, Éowyn stared at him until he clothed himself from the waist down. She smiled, “Come here.”

Faramir’s eyes were alight as he did and she turned him, wetting both palms with the fragrant mixture and standing on her tiptoes to rub his shoulders. “Oh…ahhh…” Immediately he groaned and his head dropped, hair hanging loosely.

Just like that horse… She laughed, parting his inky mane and standing on tiptoe again to shove it over his shoulders and give herself better access. Her hands moved over his lightly muscled back, his upper arms, his sides, feeling him respond to each touch: he sighed, he moaned faintly; he made many noises of satisfaction. Éowyn took pleasure in the feel of his flesh, pausing to gently rub each bared part of him, to turn him and press her hands to his chest. He was firm in body, both muscle and bone, swaying just slightly on his long legs as she put more effort into the rubdown, kneading and slicking his skin with the liniment. Nearly finished, she played a bit, patting his stomach, amused at the hollow sound. Éowyn laughed, then her hand moved more purposely to his side, yet stopped at once, lingering, fingers circling with hesitation.

She felt the pressure of Faramir’s gaze when she touched his scar, the twisted dimple from where the healers had withdrawn the bolt; Éowyn looked up, apprehensive, and he smiled quietly. Her Prince took both her damp hands and held them, turning them so that her palms faced the sky, then held the one alone, the hand and arm that had been struck by coldness. He stroked her arm, gentle fingertips moving across her skin, pushing up the loose sleeve of his shirt and Éowyn’s throat tightened. Faramir asked, nearly inaudible, “Does it ever feel…?”

“My Healer, healed…” He seemed very intent and bent to kiss her. The touch of his mouth was benediction; he was warm, alive, desiring of life, a beginning within a man, her beginning. She put her free hand to his face, holding him closely for fear of losing the feeling he gave her—blessing, joy, of being redeemed and saved from darkness.

Éowyn nodded, whispering her reply and feeling her heart beating with some strange anxiety, “Healed…yes…” Breaking their closeness, she turned her head away, unsure and breathing roughly. Was she healed, was she whole again, able to do what she must to live in the happiness she’d tasted of in the last few days? His words from long ago came to her…a garden…and she swallowed, suddenly unable to speak. As if in solace, her Prince leaned low and kissed her hand, mouth warm on her palm, the touch igniting a wave of warmth that rose in her chest. It was the warmth of love, desire…fear and this warmth could not exist together. She was unafraid.

When he rose, his dark hair was in his eyes and he looked very disheveled, very handsome, and still intense. She cupped his face, then simply hugged him, not trusting herself to meet his gaze; she was afraid she would weep. He laughed, confirming shakily, “Mended, healed…” Éowyn nodded, staring at his throat, watching it bob as he swallowed and muttered, “Can we have it now, the house of peace, the garden?”

She nodded, but heard her own uncertainty. “Yes…” Not replying at first, Faramir sighed, then hugged her back just as tightly, his chin dropping to rest upon her shoulder. For the first time he seemed just as uncertain as she, which made her nervous, made her feel strangely adrift without his firm guidance. It was always his vision…always…that drove them despite any difficulties. Éowyn shivered as she sensed his uncertainty; it was as if the earth had shifted beneath her.

What…is it? His lean body pressed to hers, warmed by the sun, smelling of the bracer—mint, other herbs and horse.

His eventual response shocked her, spoken as it was in bursts of raw frustration. “I…I don’t want to leave…the Mark.”

“Oh.” She was pleased, yet unsure of his reaction, hiding her instant smile. Her Prince did not speak further and Éowyn absorbed his words, then thought wryly that this would make her ambitions easier to achieve.

But he caught her thoughts this time and frowned, “What…?” Faramir looked confused, “You think of my City.”

She took a breath, gathering her courage. “I want…to go to the City by…myself.” Éowyn told herself fiercely that that was a shameful display for a daughter of Kings and repeated more firmly, “I want to go to Minas Tirith by myself.”

Faramir stared at her, his brow creasing as he took a step away, frowning, “Why?”

She licked her lips, hands clasping each other to squeeze. “I…don’t want to burden you…” Hadn’t she always felt a burden to him?

“No. No.” He shook his head at once, clearly disturbed. “You will be no burden, Éowyn…my love. Never.” Her Prince exhaled, and by its distressed nature she knew that she’d hurt him.

“How can you think that? Why?” He sounded frustrated once more and this time she was the cause. Faramir’s words cut, making her flinch bleakly. “How many times must I reassure you before you listen?”

How many times indeed… Éowyn felt a wave of horrible guilt. It has been too many times and I will not stand for more! Her determination came back, making her straighten and look him in the eye. “Faramir, I’ll keep you from your duties, I know nothing, I will be useless, you’ll have to be constantly running away from your people, Aragorn or your Council to aid me…”

He answered with a touch of desperation, a pleading smile. “I might like that.” No longer so angry, Faramir smiled at her, obviously seeking to lighten her mood. He took her hands as if in apology for his words.

“For a day, perhaps, not a month.” She would be a disappointment, a hindrance. She would shame him with her ignorance.

His grey eyes narrowed, turning inward to admonish her tensely. No, no burden…please…stop…the shame is in your mind, not mine! His answer burned with sincere indignation. Do not think to put it there, Éowyn! I will not permit it!

“Yes…but…” She felt nerves again, meeting his gaze. If he pleaded, she was uncertain that she could hold firm. It was almost easier if he remained angry. And if he commands me to stay? He was her Lord though he never exercised his authority; she had little right to contest him. “But I do not wish to keep you from your folk…they need you and it will make you resent me to constantly leave them to aid me. Do not say that it will not!” She pleaded, thinking quickly to charge his soul with compassion. Do you not remember them, the children, the women, the widows and orphans? The ones that you aided…and those you did not get a chance to?

“Yes.” Answering both her pleas in a single word, he hung his head for a beat. She felt his thoughts, but could not hear them, merely sense their swiftness, flashes of anger, unease. Éowyn knew she’d won even before he lifted his gaze to ask quietly. “You will leave me here?”

Faramir looked around himself and seemed less convinced. “I liked you in it with me. I’ll be alone.”

She hesitated. “You have my brother.” To her joy, he did not immediately reject her words, but cocked his head at her as though he was deeply considering them. Éowyn smiled hopefully, “Gaer will not let you be unhappy…I will command him to keep to your side and make merry.” She laughed, “He will undertake the duty with his entire being.”

“Will you?” He smiled back at her, but it was grey with dejection. “What will you do in my City…what is so great to seek alone…” His hand took hers, tightly, needily grasping, “To leave me for?” Faramir’s features were touched by pain, his voice no louder than a rough mutter, “Why do you push me away…still?”

Please… She took a long time to reply, searching. “I…” It came all at once, “I cannot live with you, when you are my courage.” I cannot go on knowing myself in constant debt!

“Yes…and no.” Éowyn smiled at him, feeling her trembles. They were deep into intimate territory. “It is better…I am better…but you’ve made me better…”

“No, you.” Faramir frowned at her, creases running even deeper as he listened, clearly objecting to her words, but allowing her to go on without interruption. “I don’t want to lean on you any more, don’t want to be able to run to you…” He shook his head, still frowning, but she continued. “I want to be strong for you, to be the Lady of Ithilien, to help you, to be what you need me to be.”

He sounded confused. “But…you are.” Have I ever demanded more than you can give? His inner voice was incensed.

No… Éowyn knew her own shaky uncertainty, her nervousness in the imagination of Minas Tirith’s high walls, the Hall of Feasts, the White Tower. “No, but when you return to your City, I will be.”

Abruptly, Faramir strode away from her, pacing the riverbanks. He was angry. “How long?”

“I need to stay…” He glanced around them at the peaceful river and she followed his gaze from Thorn, lying once more on the grass, to the trees, the fields, the tents of the festival. “No more than a few weeks…?” Éowyn nodded and he moved to hug her tightly, needy once more. “I don’t think I could go without you for any longer.”

His sense of play had returned, if only mild. Faramir shook his head, smiling faintly. “No…” He sighed, then smiled a bit more shamefacedly, revealing, “Éomer released me yesterday…we could be in Edoras now, packing.” He paused, “It was very generous of him, very hard for him.”

“He did?” Her brother had more courage than she’d thought. I love you, Éomer, my dear brother how I shall miss you… Meeting Faramir’s gaze, Éowyn asked cautiously, “Why aren’t we?” She would have guessed that he’d jumped at the chance to return to his home, his people.

His response was confused, matching her confusion. Again she felt his uncertainty. “I wanted to stay…I like it here…though my people need me…” That was truly how she’d broken his anger and resolve. Her love sighed deeply, “You are right, you should go, help them. They are more important.”

“I will…” How exactly, Éowyn was unsure. She consoled, “Aragorn said he would help me.”

Hurt crossed Faramir’s face and he stared at her, asking in irritation, “You will let him help, but not me?” He paused, then burst out, “Why him, not me?”

Alarmed to hear a rare note of jealousy in his words, Éowyn sought to explain her heart. “You’ve helped…too much, you should not have had to come, to fight, to prove…anything! Do you understand? You’ve done enough, too much. Let me do the rest…come to the City, find your…” She swallowed, promising, “Wife waiting, your home planned, wedding readied, your people helped…”

His eyes had widened, perhaps seeing all that she promised. She felt his hope, his surge of pleasure in the vision and Faramir smiled as he agreed, “All right, if you wish it.” His smile became quieter, “Éomer will be very hurt…I will stay, if only for his sake…I feel how it hurt him to release me, how much it took…” He trailed off, glancing away. “I will be poor companionship to his mind, but better than none at all, I would guess.”

Grief burned in Éowyn’s chest, constraining her voice. “I will miss him.” She looked away as well, trying to hide the tears that rose in her eyes. “My brother.”

“We’ll come back this winter. I promise.” She nodded and his arm came around her waist, clasping tight. “Let us go and tell him, now, so that we can still be merry today.” Éowyn nodded again and he let her go. She remembered her brother playing a game with Arwen, laughing, cheering for Faramir at the tourney; it haunted her as watched Faramir approach the sprawled out horse, kneeling on the grass to stroke Thorn’s neck. The grey lifted his big head a little, as if in surprise, then stretched back out with a grumble. Faramir’s lips moved, but she could hear nothing. With one last pat to the gelding’s neck, he rose and finished clothing himself.

Her Prince offered his hand with a smile. Taking it, Éowyn returned his smile, feeling jittery. Soon, she would embark upon her quest. Her heart skipped, both nervous and joyous. I will be free…but not forever and that reassured her. You will come and everything will be as it should… Faramir turned and smiled, squeezing her hand in silent acknowledgment.

I cannot wait, my love…his dream flew through her mind in a series of images—lofty trees, vivid flowers, low pale walls, arches that opened into long, green fields, a rich house, herself smiling. Éowyn laughed and hugged his arm, all fears gone as only Faramir could make them.

Éomer almost didn’t notice his sister’s arrival. Arwen had gotten terribly good at the game, the same game he’d tried to play with Faramir not too long ago. The Queen was winning, herding him away from the corners and preventing him from reaching asylum and victory. She teased, “And I’ve never organized a field of battle…Éomer, you should be ashamed!”

He jested back at her, gingerly moving a wooden piece. “This is why I have Marshals.”

“Takes care of things…gives me accounts of my folk, sends claims…” He stared at the board. I’m going to lose…nevertheless, Éomer sent one more of his pieces to a valiant death, moving it into the open to free his King. If he made a dash and was lucky, he might win. Terribly lucky… “He rides and keeps order in the Mark, dealing with my folk for me.” So that I can sit and rot, grow soft in luxury! Éomer glanced around himself, feeling rebellion grow bright within his breast. Once his sister was gone, the notion of sitting in Edoras held no appeal. I will ride out…he looked down again, heart aching. There would be no one to protest and demand to ride out, too, no one to give another opinion or save him from a foolish decision. Sister…what would he do alone? Éomer stared at the roughly chiseled squares that made up the board. He would soon find out.

“I suppose…” He snorted, “If that is what Faramir does when he is not cooped into a room full of useless, weak men.”

Arwen slaughtered his warrior and rallied another of hers to come for him. “They are not useless to the City, though they would be within your country.” She smiled, “They command much power among the noble, swaying them to Estel’s side, are very wealthy and…” Her elven eyes twinkled, “Are very bothersome.” He laughed and she elaborated, “Faramir does more than that, Estel has told me his praises.”

“He helps with Estel’s accounts and books, tallies the profits from taxes and helps decide where the money will be spent. He is the head of the King's court in his absence.” Arwen glanced at him, “He would be now.” Éomer pretended not to hear. “He listens to claims like this Marshal of yours, goes out among the people for Estel…” She finished easily, “But he spent much time in hiding this summer, engulfed in his studies.”

Éomer knew what studies she spoke of and refused to feel guilt. Look how happy he is! How would he be now if I had not made it required that he learn our tongue, our ways? His teeth ground against each other. Happier…the Steward would be in the City with his sister now, wed, living as they should. I do not stand in their way any longer! When he glanced away from the board again, Éowyn had come, naturally with Faramir; their arms were linked and their hands clasped, only parting when they sat near to him.

His sister self-consciously touched her darkened hair and smiled. “We were at the river.”

Éomer tried to throw off his sad heart. He glowered sternly, jesting; “You’re both wet, must I insist on a guard again?” With a gesture, he complained, “This is a shameless display, at the least.”

Faramir smiled and stretched with a deep yawn. He chuckled, turning his face up to the warmth of the sun and sliding downward in his chair, slumping in a very relaxed fashion. Éomer doubted he’d seen him so relaxed in the Mark. “I vow it was no more than bathing my horse.”

“He splashed me.” Scolding without fire, Éowyn took her lover’s arm to hold.

He blinked, surprised that he believed the Steward so easily and even more so that he did not truly care. I trust him. Éomer was speechless, staring at the scarred wooden board in silence and pretending to think about his strategy.

“Éomer is right…you young things go about as though you were already wed.” The Queen shook her head, “If Estel and I had shown ourselves in such condition…”

“What nonsense is that?” His sister stared at him, slumping down into her chair in an unconscious mimicry of her lover.

Faramir watched their game, his normally piercing eyes half-lidded. “You are fortunate.” Arwen agreed with a nod, her bright elven gaze trained to the board and busily figuring out ways to defeat him. At his side, Éowyn’s eyes widened and she played with the hem of her shirt, suddenly fidgeting. The Steward reached over immediately to catch her hand, pressing it to his chest and soothingly stroking it. Éomer smiled, bolstered by how readily his sister relaxed again. Faramir would take excellent care of her. Cheered, he went on to inform,

“A Lord announces the intent to the people and if all agree, then it is done.” His sister knew that, she’d watched him wed many of their folk, those that bothered with it, this summer. At their puzzled expressions, Éomer couldn’t keep the grin from his face. “What did I do at Uncle’s feast, again?”

They both blinked at him and he looked back, innocently turning to the board again to move a piece into certain death. Arwen shook her head at them in slight disapproval. Her voice was very low, “Toying with those young ones, you should be ashamed.”

He laughed, trying to find a way to win and knowing already it was a mere show for his vanity. “I’ve more to be ashamed for, I’m sure.” Éomer glanced to the Steward and his jesting mood darkened. Many things… Forcibly, he renewed it, saying thoughtlessly, “It will have to wait.” Neither his sister, nor Faramir had spoken. He could see them thinking of it, their daze in the imaginations of it and Éomer smiled, “Of course, it is against custom to wed at a burial ceremony." His smile faded in a moment of grief, then reappeared. “Otherwise…”

“Yes.” Faramir recovered from the shock first. He sighed, “What did you say, announcing, then…” His eyes were closed once more, enjoying the sunlight, “A feast, perhaps?”

Éomer was quieter now; they were no longer within the realm of jest. “There would be a great celebration for my sister, all of our folk that could come, would. It would last for days, much like this festival.”

With the same touch of discomfort in her face, she managed to smile at him, leaning forward to tap a place on the board. “Move here.” Arwen exhaled in exasperation when he did so, quickly reorganizing her attack. Éomer stared at the board, uncertain of what he’d missed.

The Steward mulled for a few minutes, then sighed again. “Mmm…is there any chance I could wed in Rohan?”

Éowyn spoke before Éomer could even come up with a response. Relieved, he listened to her, noting her anxious frown. “What are…joinings like in the City?”

Faramir groaned. “Long-winded…and that is simply the rite itself.” He shook his head; “I witnessed several of the noble folk by Elessar. It was wearying.”

The Queen smiled, disagreeing. “It is a day of ceremony, celebration, parading about on each other’s arm to show the City your union.” She sighed, “Then speaking with the noble folk, the feast that lasts hours, the entertainment…all designed to make you wait. They see you to your marriage bed, then finally, you are left alone.” Arwen smiled again.

Éowyn looked horrified, but she held her tongue. After a moment or two, Faramir cleared his throat, speaking slowly, gently, “You can ask Aragorn about it when you go to the City.”

The Steward’s words seemed odd to him and Éowyn’s response had been tense. Éomer frowned. His sister glanced at him, then away, fidgeting again; this time, Faramir did not soothe her. He looked expectant, if not entirely pleased. She was plainly nervous and he wondered why, asking cautiously, “What is it?”

Her gaze was fixed upon the wooden board. “I’ve decided that…when Aragorn goes to the City, I shall, too.”

Éomer felt his heart wrench; he disguised it by nodding quietly to the Steward. “You took my offer.” For a moment he felt relief; he could release his guilt, no longer holding them back.

But Faramir shook his head slightly. His mouth tightened and his voice had returned to its perfect, practiced neutrality—a sure sign that he was displeased and striving to hide it. “No, I will stay a while.”

“Then…?” He was confused, looking to Arwen. But the Queen merely shook her head in equal confusion.

Éowyn clarified slowly, “I-I wish to go, to learn what my duties are, so that I will not be a burden.” His sister was staring at her lap. Faramir’s face grew even grimmer, his fingers drumming against the table before he stilled them and the emotion they revealed, but he did not speak out against her. “I want to learn my station before I must wed.”

“Oh.” She was leaving and he was left with the Steward to care for? Éomer felt a tiny bit of comfort…I will not be alone…amongst his terrible grief—a turbulent river rushing to numb his entire being with sorrow. My sister… “If that is what you wish and Faramir does not object, I see no reason not…to go…” He choked a little, then firmed, using all his strength to speak rationally, normally and unlike his heart was a burning spot of pain in his chest. “When do you think…Aragorn will return from Isengard?”

He turned away, pretending to focus upon his guards, who were seated nearby and playing a game of knucklebones, well out of his way, knowing his distaste in them. Éomer felt a strange emptiness in his breast; a lack of pain, a void he was afraid would fill with such grief that he could not stand it. Please…but the pain did not come, only emptiness, only a great void. There were many empty places in his heart, by his side, father, mother, uncle, cousin…sister. A week’s ride away, that is not so far…not so far… He bowed his head, trying to hold on, to not shame himself with pleas or weeping.

When he’d gathered himself to turn back, Faramir was gazing at him, his features growing steadily more saddened and crossed with deep, pained empathy. Did he feel his emotions? Thinking so, Éomer tried not to notice at first, but it was an impossible task…simply because he did not wish to ignore the man. The distress upon his face inspired gratitude and to a rare depth; because of Faramir’s gift, someone understood his pain. He smiled faintly at the Steward, feeling a strange sense of companionship, of rapport. It was not unpleasant. Perhaps this feeling was what allowed his sister to tolerate Faramir’s second sight.

His silence has stretched; Éowyn tapped her fingers to another place on the board, trying to resume their simple chatter. Her voice was hushed, a murmur, “Move here.”

Obediently, Éomer moved his piece. He no longer cared to play. “Will we have another day, at least?” He knew she could ride to Edoras and wait for the King.

Éowyn was gazing at him just as sadly as her lover was; Éomer was almost stirred to comfort them. “I will stay another day.”

All would happen as he’d thought it would, the only difference was that his sister would not be within Edoras when he and the Steward returned. Never again…Éomer bowed his head, nodding, barely able to speak above a rough whisper. “If that is what you want.”

Her voice quavered, thick with sadness, “It is.” She scooted closer to lean against his shoulder, “Émer…” He couldn’t help the tears that rose. Faramir looked sharply away, staring over the festival where all was merry still. The Queen leaned back from the board that no longer mattered.

Éowyn was hugging him tightly. Faramir sought to comfort her, to comfort him, murmuring gently to them both, “Winter is not long.” When Éomer looked to him, the Steward quickly glanced away as though ashamed of something. He is guilty? He was overcome with the desire to relieve the man, yet knew not how.

He answered bleakly, “I will be here.” Except for his sister’s tight embrace, there was nothing for a long moment. Éomer took a deep breath. He’d had long enough to cope with her absence. He glanced to the Queen and smiled a little, remembering her counsel to leave, to do as he liked. Who is Lord? Éomer wrapped his arm around his sister’s side, feeling how she was no longer thin, no longer rigid with nerves, but hale, healthy, saddened as he was, but healed. He smiled faintly. Who is Lord? I am. Éowyn hugged him tighter, the point of her chin digging briefly into the muscle of his shoulder. He heard her sniffle, felt his own urge to weep. It was only the way she felt that staved off his tears—healthy, her cheeks or collarbone not hollow at all, her skin glowing golden from the sun, her form restored to health, beauty; his sister was flourishing again, thriving in happiness. And who must I thank? Without an instant hesitation, he glanced to the Steward, who still faced away, his features lined, joyless and touched by guilt. Him. He could hold no more bitterness.

He closed his eyes for another brief second, shoring up his courage. Perhaps I will visit Mirkwood…the fool notion nearly sparked laughter. Éomer smiled a little. He was all right; he would be all right. Éowyn would be happy; he was quite assured that Faramir would keep her so. My heart…he glanced again to Arwen. Will heal as my sister has healed. He squeezed Éowyn’s shoulders and took a breath, saying with a sense of cheer that began as forced, “I will not allow such sadness…” Éomer felt his chest loosen, “Come.” He gestured at the board while they looked to him, one by one. Faramir’s gaze was particularly gentle, tinged by compassion, something he found that he appreciated far, far more than scorned. “A game before her new champion receives his reward?”

There were forced smiles from his sister and her Prince. With a quiet, cheerful nod, Arwen smoothly swept the pieces from the board, her nimble elven fingers easily separating them. Éomer met the Steward’s grey eyes again, finding them to be still full of empathy, even guilt. He thinks he causes my pain…he was touched by wonder and affection and at the last moment, instead of playing with his sister, he changed his mind. “Lads against the lasses?”

Arwen agreed instantly, beaming at him in such approval that he could not hide his pleasure in her pride and Éomer flushed, cursing his fair skin. Éowyn gave him one last, crushing hug, then rose to pull her chair to sit at Arwen’s side, facing her love. The Steward regarded him with part incredulity; the rest seemed a struggle, several emotions warring upon his features. He looked like he wished to be happy, to smile, but did not quite dare to assume anything was being offered.

Touched by the man, Éomer grinned and took on a tone of great, scheming wisdom, “Yes, Faramir will not be able to cheat me if he is my ally.” He grinned, not having to feign his scowl much, “As you did before.” He was easing, no longer so drawn with grief. His pain was a mere whisper of protest, my sister…and fading to a dull bruise, an ache that would ease…eventually.

The Steward replied merrily, even if his eyes did study him more carefully than his words warranted, “I assure you, I only cheated with the riddles…and that was because I was drunk.” He scooted his chair a bit closer, in reach of the board.

Éomer burst into hearty laughter, startling himself as he grinned. “I know you were.” Faramir glanced at him warily before he smiled back. I hold no grudge with you, Faramir… He could not speak the words in their company. His cowardice had returned and, frustratingly, closed his throat. Across the wide table, his sister was smiling at him, clearly pleased. Éomer nodded in reply, his heart still tender.

Éowyn plucked up the largest piece of all, holding it upon her palm. “Who is King?”

Éomer laughed and took it from her, “I am.” He glanced aside to the silent man who awaited him, “I trust your counsel will bring us victory…” Faramir’s eyes widened imperceptibly, then he smiled a little, still watchful. Éomer was trying his best to extend himself in friendship. “Especially with your unique talents, my friend…” He made himself grin, then added, “Another reason to have you upon my side.”

The Queen smiled and gazed at the Steward. “Do not worry, Éowyn. This youth of yours will glean no secrets from me.”

Éomer smiled, confiding, “I have faith in you. Did you not serve in,” He paused to remember the name of the green country, “Ithilien? Leading orcs about in circles to your darts? Or did I hear about some other great Captain?” Again the Steward’s eyes flicked to him, widening just the slightest bit.

“Then help me, kinsman, or this elf will win again!” Gesturing to the board with a laugh that did not hold as much effort as he would have imagined, Éomer found that, curiously, he took pleasure in the man’s astonishment, seeing within his sister’s paramour that satisfaction and merriment bloomed in the lack of any censure of his. I must take care…one carelessly hurtful word and their delicate camaraderie would be crushed. And, he found he did not want that at all. Odd…all the former pleasure he’d taken in needling the man had now shifted so that he took more enjoyment in honoring the Steward, in seeing Faramir’s guard lower and his face break into a smile that held no caution, no care.

“Yes, pit your skill against mine, dear Steward, and we shall see the experience that years give!” Arwen smiled. Éowyn was gazing at him, adoration in her gaze.

The open and occasionally vocal approval of both women was not lost upon Éomer, either. He smiled a little, is it witchery? “Faramir bears more than one advantage.” Éomer patiently included the man in his first movement, asking with a raised brow if he agreed upon the rough square as a fitting place to launch their attack. Faramir did, nodding almost imperceptibly.

“Sorcery…he is a witch, after all.” He watched the man flinch, then carefully, so carefully and timidly begin to realize that he was not insulting him in any way, but only jesting with them all. Éomer smiled at him, eager for him to realize this fact. What I used as a weapon, I do no longer…wedbroðer.

His sister knew him best and was quick to beam and ask in a lightly playful tone, to make his intentions clear, “Is that so?”

“Yes, if you believe it.” Faramir smiled, glancing downward, then laughing a little; he was plainly embarrassed with all the attention. The Steward reached to toy with his full cup, smiling at a servant as it was set before him.

Éomer smiled widely then hid it as he jested in a dour tone, frowning. “You need only to look at me to prove the skill of his witchery.” They did, confused. At once, knowing he had their attention, he pretended to scowl. “He has charmed me…I can speak nothing but praises.” Éomer stared at the Steward for a long beat, then deadpanned to their little group. “It is torture.”

They laughed at him and he felt a flush of warmth, of pride in himself. I have passed…something, he knew not what, a great difficulty…Éomer smiled, at peace, if only for the moment.

It was, he thought, possibly one of the best days of his life. Faramir laughed, reaching for his cup of wine, and pointing across the table, “Do not think you’re distracting me.” The game was well underway and the victor was still undecided, their competition growing fierce.

“With what?” Éowyn sounded innocent, but he felt her foot, slipped from its boot, touch his leg again—how she’d managed to unlace her boots undetected, he had no idea. Faramir smiled. Talent, no doubt. Her toes wiggled against his calf, nudging him, trying to provoke him. The curve of her insole nuzzled, then squeezed to his ankle, tickling and even arousing him just a bit. It was certainly a new type of contact.

Gazing at her fair face, Faramir noted the way her eyes were focused elsewhere, focused with her task. Éowyn blinked at him, smiling at once, her darkened hair slipping into her pale eyes. He smiled, waiting until she’d slid upwards into range of his hand. Her toes pinched his thigh and he jumped, looking at her in surprise. Éowyn giggled, her expression mischievously, youthfully, girlishly attractive, cheeks flushed with her efforts and biting her lip, smiling until he spoke.

“Do you know how wicked your sister is? Trying to distract me with this,” Faramir reached down and grasped her ankle in a firm hand. Éowyn yelped, slithering down in her seat. Her hands clutched desperately at the table, pulling the cloth that covered it forward until she got her bearings, then they disappeared to hold onto her chair for balance.

“No.” Faramir smiled. Got you… He held onto her despite her fitful yanking.

Éowyn gave him a narrow stare, then pulled again, bouncing in her chair with the effort. “Let go.” Her protests disappeared as he stroked his fingers over the arch of her foot, keeping his touch light, feathering, ticklish. She squirmed, giving bursts of laughter amid more breathless complaints, “Stop… Let me go!” Meanwhile, as though nothing important was happening, Éomer was moving one of his pieces again, carefully guarding his King. Faramir glanced at him, quickly scanning his mind, ascertaining his mood—untroubled. He does not care…is even amused? It was with wonder that he stared at the Lord of the Mark.

Across the table, the Queen moved her piece at once, seeking a chink within the guard, her pieces spread widely in what Faramir admitted was a good defense. He held onto Éowyn’s ankle and eyed the board, unable to see how Éomer could reach a corner.

Still undisturbed, Éomer nodded, chuckling as he finally agreed. “She is a beast, my sister. Not to be trusted. Used to cheat all the time, just to win.” He grinned. “A little orc, is what you are, sister.” Éowyn stuck her tongue out,

He jests, she does…Faramir smiled and felt his heart nearly melting in a burst of joy so powerful it hurt. I am…welcomed. No longer was he forced on the outside, made to struggle against the hard defense of anger, suspicion, fear…brother and sister both jested with him, treated him as though he’d always been here. In the wonderful Mark… He bantered back, just with the slightest of elated shakes in his voice, “Do you want me to let her go?”

Éomer laughed. “No, hold her, I remember being scratched, kicked or bitten for less.” He shook his head, “Disgraceful” and Faramir smiled, obediently holding fast. Éowyn tugged against him with a huff of impatience, but he caught her beaming smile, felt the rush of delight when she looked between them.

It was near enough to make him forget that after another day she would be leaving. Faramir reminded himself of her intentions—planning my house and our joining, learning what will ease her in being my wife… She did not run from him again in fear, but went to give him what he desired so that when he rode into his City, he would see her waiting, see everything he’d ever wished for since he’d first found her. Everything…

But not even this reassurance stopped his fervent wish…if only this day could last forever…

Seo lamb wille betst ge, Tondhere, ond eall seo com befer me—This lamb will best you, Tondhere, and all that come before me

Min cempa ealdorlang, min ceas mann, min Feramearh, ge wille ofercom seo—My champion forever, my chosen man, my Soul-Steed, you will overcome them

The victory was accompanied with many vain cries and laughter. Éomer slumped back in his chair, watching his sister down her wine in a single gulp and whoop in an entirely unmaiden-like fashion, slapping the table in glee. She sounded a bit slurred, laughing, “We eart sighbeorht!” The Queen, who’d drunk likewise, laughed as well but had more grace and did not point out their victory. Arwen simply plucked up his King and smiled with gratification as she added it to the pile of his warriors, all captured in nets of fine strategy.

He withheld his grin, instead mumbling sullenly. “Yes.” The farce only made Éowyn laugh more, the sound delighting him as it had all their childhood. She laughed more often with her Prince and he could see that her face was aglow. He felt a surge of contentment and kept his brow knitted as though in displeasure. It is good…

Éowyn’s eyes raked him at once with a haughty pride that, he was sure, did not come as much from pretense as she thought. He smiled inwardly.

Sighing, Faramir leaned back in his own chair and glanced at him, a smile curling his mouth irresistibly upwards as he tried to appear contrite and shamed rather than giving in to his own laughter at the women’s jubilation. “I am sorry I failed you,” The faintest of hesitations came, “My friend.”

“Do not trouble yourself.” Careful to reply with warm geniality, a thing that took less effort every day, he paused. “Men have lost to worse women than these crowing Ladies…though I cannot imagine a woman more vain than my sister.” The Steward laughed and his sister scoffed in the midst of her gloating, but Éowyn’s joy in victory paled to the smile that crossed her face now. Aye, it is better… Warming and well aware that he pleased her with every gentle statement directed to her Prince, Éomer added, “It is better to share my defeat with you…” He felt a grin touch his mouth, “As I doubt you will sulk the night long…” Éomer paused, delicately refraining from glancing to his sister. “Like some I know well would have.” Faramir laughed again, looking across the table to his love in badly hidden merriment.

She stared at them with narrowed eyes that nevertheless shone star-like and her voice rang with a joy barely disguised. “I never did that!”

“Aye.” Her glare darkened but he could see her delight and Éomer smiled to himself, satisfied.

The Steward took a swallow of wine, asking quietly, amiably, “When will you call for your champion? I’m sure he awaits your word.”

“Now, I think.” She rose and walked to lean against the arm of Faramir’s chair, her hand on his shoulder. “I will wear one of my gowns…” Éomer looked over, curiously wondering if the man would show jealousy. Her eyes sparkled with good humor as she finished, “To honor his efforts in achieving his prize.” Éowyn smoothed her rough men’s shirt and teased, “I’d hate for him to be dissatisfied and claim I’d not given full and generous reparations.”

“I don’t think Gaer would be dissatisfied.” Faramir showed naught but amusement, simply laughing softly and gazing upwards with affection. Éowyn leaned closer and he reached to pluck bits of grass seed from the legs of her trousers with light hands, asking, “And what shall I do?”

“Go on, you’ll have company in my fool brother there.” She gestured to him and Éomer asked, pretending amazement,

“Shameless, is she not?” He shook his head, “Disgraceful. Mother would have not stood for this, Éowyn.”

She answered with a light tug of her coarse garment and a impertinent laugh, “She wouldn’t have stood for this, either.”

“Yes, terribly shameless.” Faramir’s voice was full of adoration alone and Éomer almost laughed at him.

Fool. He felt a rush of fondness. I will come and see what all manner of things my sister gets away with in your lands…

“And what of me?” The Queen inquired archly, “Am I to be barred as well?” Her clever elven hands had ordered the game and a watchful servant had taken it away, other servants hovering, waiting to sweep any crumbs or mess from the tabletop, then lay the table with food and drink.

Éowyn was less emboldened, frowning. “I doubt you would find us good company.”

“I do not doubt as you, but I shall not stand in the way.” Her bright eyes were brighter, “He fought well, I enjoyed the spectacle.” Arwen glanced to Faramir and smiled at him, “Though I did take fright, dear Steward, to see you fall…mortals are so delicate, even those of the lines of Númenor.” She shuddered and he could see his sister’s features stilling before she chewed her lip in anxiety.

“I think I took the most fright, my Queen.” Faramir clasped Éowyn’s hand as he laughed and winced, “As well as the brunt of the fall.”

Éomer studied the man’s expression. It had been a hard fall, one he would have not liked to experience. “You are well, though?”

“Yes, yes.” The Queen moved away with her dog as Faramir smiled, rising from his chair and grimacing while he did. His first strides were stiff and hobbling, his mouth twisting with some pain as he straightened his back.

Éowyn watched, her brow lowering in concern, and asked, smiling gently, anxiously, “Would you like a draught, Faramir?”

His spirits still high, Éomer shook his head at once and declared loudly, “I would take the pain, kinsman.” Faramir glanced to him and he added vigorously, “Eorl himself would not have the courage to drink what she would give you!”

His sister’s smile widened; glancing to him in equal parts praise and annoyance, she scolded, “Eorl would be glad to drink my fine draught,” then Éowyn turned back to her lover, her words clearly holding some meaning beyond his grasp, “I promise it shall hold no pain.”

Their gazes locked and Éomer marveled at the tender emotion within Faramir’s response. “Aye, I would like it.”

As his sister moved away, calling for servants to attend her, he watched Faramir lean his arm against the table, using it as a prop, clearly in more discomfort than he would show to his love. But the Steward did not complain, simply hissing through his teeth while slowly stretching his sore muscles. Faramir smiled at him and Éomer returned it with no effort.

This man takes much for my fancy…he turned away, pretending to watch the White Horse run in the wind.

“Another man I might suspect of attempting to steal her away.” Faramir kept his arms crossed and his brow furrowed, struggling not to smile at Gaer. Weariness rose in a grey curtain that enfolded his bones, dragging at his limbs; momentarily giving in, he leaned his hip against the table, glancing occasionally at the dishes laid there.

The Rohir gazed at him with equal speculation between brushing off his shirt and carefully making sure his boots were not dusty—both movements spoke of the anxiousness of a suitor come to call and made Faramir’s struggle all the more impassioned and all the more hopeless. “Aye, another man.”

“The dancing…asking to be named her champion…” To keep his body from stiffening entirely, Faramir strode in a small circle around his friend, fighting with all his will to keep his cool tone. It was difficult, the muscles of his mouth pulling and striving to widen into a great smile or give voice to unruly laughter; Gaer’s mind was very eager. He glanced over at Éowyn’s tent, but the flaps were down and he could see nothing of her. “You’ve even managed to accompany us to my City.”

Gaer broke into a cocky grin, rocking on his heels, not intimidated in the least. “Aye, I’d watch me, too.” He rubbed the rust-colored stubble on his chin, then peered at his hands as though inspecting his fingernails. “She likes me, probably because I’m very handsome, clever, better on horse than you…”

“Yes.” Trying his best to remain forbidding, Faramir made his brows go up and down and then his face scrunch into a scowl as he clarified. “Last night? The unnamed reward?”

He began his circle again, each stride carefully measured and slow, stiff with formality and aching discomfort, his arms crossed, his stance as forbidding as his creased brow. Father, you would be proud… His inner smile faltered, outwardly he kept his coldness. “You will act with the purest of intent…”

The Rider turned to him and met his eyes for a beat, a beat in which Faramir, to his relief, nearly broke into laughter from seeing his own mirth reflected in Gaer’s pale irises—there was no fooling his friend—then nodded briskly, almost soldierly. He straightened. “Yes.” Faramir did not speak again, just stared levelly, focusing upon him to see if he could inspire even the slightest of alarm within Gaer.

There was no effect and after a minute or so, the Rohir smiled broadly, nearly boasting as he said softly, an increasingly self-satisfied grin rising to the surface. “Aren’t you angered. Did I not say so?”

As Gaer grinned, the cream-colored flap of Éowyn’s tent flew out and she slipped under it, ending their conversation. Faramir admired her, noting that the Rohir next to him did as well. A servant met her with a cup, which Éowyn tasted carefully and gestured for something else to be added. Faramir watched and his heart warmed as she fussed over the drink for a moment more, stirring it and sipping the liquid before nodding to the serving woman in a quiet declaration of satisfaction.

Éowyn began walking to meet them, smiling prettily; he felt Gaer’s silent devotion and growled, “Purest…”

The redheaded Rider snorted in laughter, then bowed as she’d come near to them, almost floating in the golden afternoon light. “Min Ides.”

Faramir watched his love approach, taking pleasure in it. While her hair had yet to lighten to its natural, glossy flaxen, she was beautiful to him in the gown, its folds molded to her body, the cloth pale as the moon, emphasizing her blooming, healthy color. He beamed, silently thinking she looked better each day. Ah…he noted with even more pleasure that she wore his ring, the three blue stones surrounded by tiny diamonds standing out against the snowy gown and bringing out her pale eyes. A wide blue ribbon was wound about her waist, further emphasizing the ring.

“Min cempa.” She smiled and shared a laughing glance with Faramir as Gaer bent his head. A sigh arose, she seemed very gladdened. Her cheeks were pinked, her eyes bright and liquid, her every movement swift and light with gladness…all as she’d never been in his City...

Oh, would that we could stay and never leave… He banished the dark thought quickly. He was not master here.

“Here, your draught.” He heard her inner voice…I adore him…and smiled.

Taking the cup, Faramir made a show of looking stern, which he could tell amused them both. If only his heart could be so easily buoyed… “I will take my leave.”

He responded instantly, every aching muscle within him endeavoring to keep his sternness and not to slump into delighted laughter. Where is this happy place? Am I in the Mark, still, truly? “And only the plighted may touch…keep that in thought, my friend.”

Éowyn glanced down with a laugh of derision at their fool behavior and shook her head. She gave a small, impatient gesture, the stones on her ring sparking into his eye. “Go on, go on!” Yet as he turned, she snagged his arm and leaned up to give him a kiss. Éowyn kept her hand on his forearm, pulling him so that she could stand upon tiptoe and murmur into his bent ear, “But don’t go far…”

Faramir did not try to conceal this smile; he wouldn’t have been able to. With a shallow and courtly bow, careful of his full cup, he replied, “As you will it, my Lady.” My dearest…

Her eyes shone; she liked that. Éowyn stepped back, taking the Rider’s arm to lead him to the laden table. “Come Gaer, I trust you have some witty conversation to keep me entertained…”

The Rider’s answer, voice just fading now by distance, was so maudlin that Faramir’s self-possession could not compete and he burst into a great round of laughter, bent over and gasping with it. “Ah, witless as long as I look upon you, my Lady.” He saw Éowyn turn slightly, her face crumpling in her own merriment, head shaking in near exasperation.

“Do not be foolish!” Faramir grinned at her and she waved at him fiercely. Go! Chuckling under his breath, he finally obeyed.

I could not leave her in better hands…he smiled as he drank from the cup, draining its flavorful contents before striding to rejoin Éomer and the Queen…save my own.

And yet he paused for a moment, feeling a twinge run through his heart. Head down, Faramir moved more quickly through the crowd that parted easily, some men calling to him with cheers. Deeply ingrained manners made him look up, smile and call back, but the words that fell from his lips had no place alongside those manners or the tutors who’d taught them to him.

A trio of lasses smiled, one laughing in a squeaky voice before pushing the other aside and out of his path.

He smiled faintly, but did not feel it. Faramir took a deep breath of the dry air of the Mark, tasting dust, smelling horse strongly and the harsh smoke of fire. His chest drew suddenly tight for reasons he could not fathom and a chill ran down his spine. I have had no visions of myself in the Steward’s chair…

“Faramir!” Mindset not quite as confident as his call, Éomer’s voice rose above the crowd’s soft roar. He turned, now light-headed, and nodded to show that he was coming.

Éomer wondered what they were to do as he strolled with Arwen at his side, her puppy trotting on his leash as always. Rusco’s tail wagged back and forth, his little black nose constantly on the ground, straining this way and that to follow some delicious smell.

The Queen looked from him to the Steward and smiled in a strangely enigmatic fashion. “I plead weariness, my Lords, it has been a long day even for my kind, and far hotter than fair Lórien or Imladris.” Her smile widened when she gazed at him and he understood—she was leaving them alone. Her bright elven eyes were steady, encouraging; he basked in them for the moment it took to gather himself.

Éomer nodded and bowed slightly, feeling his heart both warmed and saddened, “Good night, my Queen.”

Wishing her the same and looking much wearier, Faramir was soon walking at his side, gazing with curiosity at the vendors and their wares. Many called to him, hoping he would spend his money, but he shook his head, smiling in polite refusal that soon turned to embarrassment as the calls became more proud, citing his bravery and near victory as incentive to buy this weapon or that, or a present for the White Lady. They held up swords that glowed white as silver in the sun, shields of copper and wood, jingling mail and long spears along with brightly jeweled necklaces, peeled sticks that held golden rings and clothing of colorful or soft fabrics.

Éomer smiled, feeling oddly indulgent as the Steward flushed redly at the flood of praises. He glanced aside to Faramir, who caught his gaze and, surprisingly, ducked his head at once with an uneasy chuckle.

Ah…Éomer laughed aloud and Faramir’s face darkened. His sense of indulgence increased, a warm sort of brotherly fondness growing as he observed the man’s embarrassment and pleasure. Éomer’s smile widened and he felt himself walk a little easier beside the Steward.

Faramir was laughing and shaking his head to all overtures, protesting in slow and careful Rohirric that it was mere luck that he’d come so far in the tourney. But the man did pause, frowning about himself at all the various stalls and wares. “Tell me, what would she like…what do you think she would like, if I were to buy her something?” Faramir had spoken with unusual nervousness; Éomer answered just as uneasily.

“Éowyn can be difficult to guess…” Éomer laughed and the Steward relaxed a little, smiling, “And I’ve no experience in buying presents for women, Ladies or Shieldmaidens.”

And you think I have? Éomer clamped his jaw on an uproarious burst of laughter, muscles loosening with a wave of amusement. “Well…” The vendor’s cries quieted to eager respect as they slowed and neared the closest stall. It was crowded with a rough assortment of jewelry and other offerings, their owner standing in subdued deference, only moving to turn one thing or another to show a better angle or coax a brighter shine. He shook his head, dismissing the items almost immediately. “She wears what you’ve brought and seems happy with it, you should not worry.”

Éomer glanced at the sparkling things; he’d never seen his sister wear such before Faramir. He shook his head again and admitted, “I am no help.” The Steward sighed deeply.

He shifted his feet and spoke after a moment, striking conversation before the opportunity waned, “Luck, you say?”

“Aye, and a good horse.” Appearing far more at ease, Faramir grinned at him, “I want that horse.”

“That one?” Éomer was surprised, though not terribly. Many men became attached to their mounts; it was just…he is so coarse…of poor quality! Something in the Steward’s gaze told him not to mention the gelding’s obvious poor breeding. He shrugged inwardly, beginning to walk again. The grey was hardly a prize: knob-headed, heavy-limbed, long-eared and lame now. He wants what he wants…Éomer snorted in silent amusement. After my sister, I thought he had good taste!

“If you wish.” He shook his head and chuckled, feeling a bit of woe tinge his jest, “A horse, a man, my sister…” Éomer turned to him with a playful half-bow, “Is there anything else I can fetch you, my Lord?” He gestured to the Mark with a wide pass of his arm and hand and laughed ruefully, “Anything that catches your fancy?”

“You may fetch me dinner.” Faramir grinned at him and he saw the man’s grey eyes flicker, the faint sympathy that arose there, just a touch, just a glinting shine of reflected grief in depths the color of steel, wavering and deepening with emotion into the glare of a squall at sunset, clouds dark as cinders.

Looking down at his boots, Éomer smiled a little, glad for the compassion he could so easily read—it made him feel less alone, less downhearted to know that one person at least could understand and, if indirectly, share his sorrow. This is why my sister loves him, why she shall leave me and the Golden Hall for him, not wealth or power, but…heart, soul…he was near sure of it. After all, sweet words she had in plenteousness from Gaer; she could get wealth out of any man of nobility from here to the Sea; love and deference from most any male he’d ever seen look at her… What else is there? He laughed to himself and glanced at Faramir. Enchanter, I knew it. The man had only looked at her with his puppyish, understanding eyes and his sister had folded. That is his secret.

He’d answered smartly enough to make the Steward laugh, though he did so only cautiously.

But such caution was disappearing. Éomer could see it slipping from the Steward’s eyes and he found a sense of rest coming over him watching the man gaze about in eagerness, his step light, no longer drawn and wary of each word and gesture. The man I met is not the man I know…or perhaps this man lives only here, far from his City or his kin… He could not tell, looking quietly and carefully to the Steward. He takes less care… His observation was confirmed with the offhand command,

Faramir had turned, glancing at him with curiosity and impatience. A wide, crooked grin took any offense or authority from his words at once.

Grunting his reply, something which made the Steward grin anew in a flash of amusement, Éomer lengthened his strides. He was hungry too, remembering the lavish spread he’d left behind with his sister. Éomer eyed the rough tables set near open-air kitchens where ruddy-faced women toiled over sod ovens. Young boys and girls served, gathering pence in already full, jangling purses. His mouth watered at the rich scent of cooking.

There was a steady, flanking moment from his right, his left; Éomer started, then relaxed. He’d forgotten his guards shadowed them, the men seen just out of the corner of his eye, watching, waiting, hands near but not touching the golden hilts of their weapons. The crowd parted for them, creating a small empty area about him and Faramir, making it both easier and more conspicuous to walk or do anything. Éomer felt a rush of irritation and smothered it. This was part of his new existence as Lord; he ought to get used to it. He sighed and sat at a vacated table, nodding quietly at the folk that had quickly slipped away, offering the place to their King.

It would have been unbearable not to accept. The Steward sat across from him and neither spoke until, finally, Faramir leaned on his elbow, flicking a crumb off of the rough surface of the table. He made a show of frowning. “How long is a meal?”

The Steward was trying to cheer him. Éomer played along, shifting his weight on the hard wooden bench, “It depends on their mood.”

The man gave him a conspiratorial glance, grinning from the side of his mouth. “Should we storm it, give him a show like you gave me in the gardens? Terrify him right and properly?”

For a moment he was puzzled, then Éomer felt himself turn crimson; he dropped his eyes at once, face hot. The gardens! Recalling his boorish conduct, half prodded by brotherly rage and fear as well as arrogance, he was mortified, barely able to reply. He shook his head, words stilted with discomfort. “No…I think not.” Éomer could not even remember his justifications at the time. A test? Of what? He shook his head again, disgusted with himself.

“No? I thought that was fitting behavior for your folk!” Across the bare tabletop, Faramir grinned a touch too cheerfully; Éomer wondered if the man had picked up on his embarrassment and if his jesting was meant to relieve him. The Steward leaned forward, asking, “Tell me…was that just for me?”

He picked at a rough indention in the wood, stretching his legs and laughing a little tensely as Faramir added,

“Aragorn warned me not to think such the first day.” He chuckled, “Said you would treat any man the same…”

“No.” Éomer smiled as Faramir’s expression changed to surprise, then intrigue. Something of the Prince came back to him as his back straightened, his scraped fingers lacing and his features assuming an expression of genial interest. “It was all just for you, the others were easier to intimidate. They were all boys.” He chuckled and felt a chill, the prelude to a flash of buried rage. Save one, one whose head I would have on a pike at this moment if he but showed his face within my lands! His hand sought out, then tightened on Gûthwinë’s sun-warmed hilt, feeling regret that it had not been drawn long before.

“Was it?” The Steward’s face was full of curiosity, like he’d never guessed.

“Yes. Of all the men or lads unwise enough to look at my sister, you were still, one could say…” Éomer smiled, glancing at him to share his sarcasm with a grin, “Remarkably graced with my favors.” He called for food and drink then, saying the first thing that came to his mind, not adding what he wished—you bore me with patience, my friend, offering again and again the hand I slapped away. Éomer spoke to keep himself from crossing into shameful sentimentalism; he was entirely too sober for that. “Tell me how you made the arrow go so high, then fall just where you wanted it.”

Faramir’s eyes brightened. He laughed sheepishly, “It was luck, pure luck.”

“Truly?” His mouth fell open, remembering the Steward’s confident stance. “You looked…”

“I was like this,” His fingers interlaced and locked, white-knuckled, “Inside. Dying,” Faramir shook his head with a laugh, “Calling myself a proud fool, cursing myself to lose in such a fashion.”

“Then how…?” Maids came bearing bowls of stew and small loaves of bread, mugs of ale. There were no spoons and he drank from the bowl, relishing the decidedly unKingly act.

“I’ve done it before, but with practice shots to get the angle right, the resistance from the wind, the distance…” Faramir did not complain about the rough fare, dipping his bread and eating it in sopping chunks.

Éomer listened dutifully to talk of angles and wind speeds, of weights and pulls, soon lost in a world he could just barely understand, as he was not a fellow archer. He frowned, mildly frustrated at first; he did not work in words, and those flowed from the Steward like a fount. But as he paid heed, they began to take shape, forming with eerie clarity. “That is…incredible to learn all of that.”

“No more than to learn the art of the blade: the foot, the arm, the eye and the sword.” Éomer nodded, acknowledging the compliment. Faramir grinned boyishly, gesturing with his bit of bread, “In fair weather with clear sight and a straight bow, I can put a bolt where I please. It takes no more than hours upon hours of practice, years of honing one’s craft.”

Éomer glanced at him over the rim of his bowl and shook his head. “I have not the patience for the bow, my friend.”

“I could have guessed that.” Drinking the last of his stew and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Faramir laughed lightly, easily, with open enjoyment. It was, Éomer reflected with no small chagrin, a nice sound that he’d heard too little of.

He joined him before sighing, “You have grown too bold, I fear, or myself too tame.” A grin he couldn’t deny tugged at his mouth as he jested, “Where is the respect you gave me before?” As he pretended to think it over, Éomer managed to scowl in mock dismay, glowering blackly and rather hammishly. He puckered his brow and leaned forward, curling his lip in a mockery of his own temper; Faramir’s appreciation showed in his spreading grin. He snickered as though he could not help it as Éomer narrowed his eyes and growled thickly, “Tell me, where has the time you would have feared to laugh at me gone?”

“I don’t k-know…” Voice breaking, Faramir laughed delightedly at his theatrics and Éomer was startled by the warmth that arose in his own heart….Théodred…it was a pang of loss, a moment of shadowy grief that slipped by too quickly, eclipsed by this new and growing sense of camaraderie. The man before him was laughing, shaking his head with clear amusement as he declared, “My Lord, ‘tis gone, long gone, I’m afraid!”

Éomer smiled quietly, fingers nervously tapping at his leg, emotions he had no words for enveloping his heart. Gone indeed, and I am glad...it is quite good. When he looked over again, the Steward was grinning and his grey eyes held such indisputable affection and pleasure that Éomer coughed and looked down quickly. Faramir’s soft laugh was kind and good-naturedly chiding, embarrassing him further.

Glancing around himself and seeking to restore their more comfortably neutral mode of interaction, he could see the sun just hovering over the horizon like a ball of liquid copper. “Do you want to look again for a present? There are many other places, we could have better luck.”

“Aye, I would.” Faramir grinned in surprising enthusiasm, jumping up from their table with the alacrity of a man who’d not spent his day in contests or fallen with his mount to the unforgiving earth.

Gaer paused at the table; his face was filled with a self-disgusted sort of amusement while he admitted, “I fear to sit with you, my Lady.”

She sat in her brother’s place, ordering her skirts and getting comfortable in the great, wide chair. Éowyn smiled up at the waiting Rider, “Did you not contest so boldly and so well for this, Gaer?” She laughed, “Was it not your idea to have me alone?” Éowyn smiled again, feeling a little thrill as he glanced to her, features reddening.

“Aye, my Lady.” Gaer’s harmless admiration was pleasant, not at all alarming, and she relished this new sensation of being openly admired and adored by a man not Faramir…and yet still a man not feared.

He stared about himself again, then shook his head. “Aye, but I’d not imagined the act of it.” The Rohir laughed at himself and looked to the table, then the chair by her side. Éowyn tried to see it through the eyes of a common soldier, the fine cloth, cups and dishes, the dainty food, the mellow wines.

His eyes moved quicker than his feet and Éowyn smiled in more empathy, sharing, “You look like I felt to dine in the White Tower.”

“Is that so?” At once he was sliding into the chair, curiously looking to her and saying warmly. “I doubt my Lady knows the meaning of fear.”

She laughed fondly and shook her head at his foolishness, “I fear many things.”

“Nay.” He was beaming at her, affectionately teasing. “Not my Lady of the Shield Arm.”

Shaking her head more ruefully, she toyed with her wine. “Aye, I fear many things, too many.” Éowyn frowned.

Gaer smiled and it held no hint of ardency or exuberance, but was rather gentle, utterly simple. “Share them, my L—” He caught himself, “Éowyn?”

She looked down to the plate being laden with some sort of savory meat and sighed. “If it interests you.”

“It does.” The Rohir nodded once, briskly. Repeating himself, his voice quieted and she heard the love he felt for her again. “It does.”

Éowyn smiled a little. His love was nice, the chaste adoration of a Knight to his Lady. It put no pressure such as Faramir’s and she felt curiously at ease. “All right.”

“Hæl, min Hlaford, Hordere.” They were interrupted, if politely. Éomer lifted his head and smiled at once; obviously the men and lads had little interest in him—other than a mannerly greeting, they were barely looking his way.

“Hæl.” With a practiced, lordly nod, he acknowledged them and took a slight step back, allowing the freed men to crowd around the Steward. Éomer smiled as his sister’s paramour blinked, and then broke into a wide, flustered grin at the praise and questions that were immediately put to him. Most were praise for the Steward’s efforts in the tourney.

“Ic sæcge eow þancas.” Faramir gave a slight bow and thanks, inky hair swinging; his command of their tongue had never been so perfect.

Éomer was surprised to hear the men invite the Steward with them, only to quickly invite him as well, anxious not to insult their liege Lord. “Ná, ná.” He shook his head, declining quietly, trying not to smile as his sister’s lover became slightly alarmed.

Faramir looked even more flustered. “You are sure you will not come?” He was abruptly uncertain, gazing at the men around him with the open nervousness of a foreigner.

“Yes.” Warmed by the plea, he patted the man’s shoulder. Éomer did it in a brotherly fashion, though still very gingerly, unsure of how to go about the familiar gesture. The Steward looked surprised at the contact, but said nothing. It had been long since he’d had a man close to him. This time when he thought, Théodred, and was reminded of the idea of comparing the two, his sister’s lover and his cousin, it came with less repugnance and pain, and more comfort. He grinned, squeezing Faramir’s shoulder with more confidence. “You don’t need me, you know our tongue, enough of our ways,” He chuckled, “And I trust you can defend yourself.” Pausing to lower his voice, he added, “I hope you shall, it is not just your head she would have, my friend.” Éomer snorted, “I would be held in terrible fault for allowing you to wander off unguarded.”

“Aye, you would!” The Steward laughed in a great burst of shared amusement, then sighed. Faramir’s voice lowered, became more frank, “I would like your company.”

Éomer’s heart was warmed again, but he refused once more. I would not stand between him and them, not be a hindrance to their acceptance…he smiled more fondly. Faramir has tried too hard. “Go, enjoy yourself. This is why you are here.”

He blinked. “I meant the…” Éomer raised one hand to gesture to the crowd around them, the banners, the merriment.

“Aye, I know.” As he frowned, Faramir only smiled and nodded and went with the men that had surrounded him.

Éomer stood for a moment, silent, aware of his loneliness. His guards flanked him at a distance, ever alert, but were hardly company. His sister was busy with her new champion, Arwen retired…he had none to walk or speak with, none to relax with as equal.

Éomer sighed. It was with a downcast heart that he walked into the evening, not knowing what he would do next.

Éowyn felt a tickle in the back of her mind, the sensation of Faramir…he was…merry, quite merry and the corners of her mouth tugged in response. What are you doing? She frowned in concentration, but felt little more than…dizziness, amusement, the echo of his cursing at a few twinges of pain. He was coming closer from the feel of it and soon, from his seat at her right, Gaer’s eyes lifted. The Rider ceased his soft monologue, blinked and then laughed aloud, jerking his red-fuzzed chin in indication.

Faramir stumbled against the chair on her left, half-falling into it with a weary grunt and gesture, a rude complaint loud with his noticeable drunkenness. “Off with you!” A bit of her well-mannered Prince returned as he laughed in a less belligerent tone, “A meal the Lady granted, not a night!”

“Aye.” Gaer was grinning, yet his pale eyes were fixed to hers once more. “My Lady, with your word?”

They’d not finished, but she nodded and the Rider rose to move away into the evening.

“Good.” Faramir smiled at her, wide and loose and slightly asinine; it was a smile she’d never seen. She’d never seen him drunk at all. Éowyn returned it, amused and disgusted all at once.

She sighed and smoothed her gown, lying her knife down with careful precision before lifting her gaze. He was sprawled in the chair, long legs extended every which way, shoulders askew, hands limply hanging from the chair’s arms, a marked change from his normally erect posture. “I can tell.”

“Mmmm.” His senseless smile was still in place. Suddenly, he straightened and leaned closer to her as though to kiss, putting himself off balance, and she watched him catch himself with a hasty palm slapped to the table, jerking upright. Faramir blinked and then laughed and looked at her with more humility and more sobriety.

“Sit back before you fall on me.” With an impatient exhale, Éowyn pushed him back into the chair and her Prince slumped there, his face falling into more familiar lines of contemplation, a whimsical smile coming now and again as he chuckled.

He broke into high-pitched laughter, convulsing in the chair, gasping. “I—I don’t know. The words…all ran together and they spoke at once, congratulating me, asking questions, there were too many. All shoving drinks in my hand, shouting about this and that.” Leaning back, his long legs stretched before him, her Prince shook all over with his mirth.

“Aye.” Faramir giggled again, making her laugh in simultaneous indulgence and bother. He took a deep breath and waved a hand to the table, his arresting eyes only half-lidded. “What…what did you do?”

“We spoke of many things.” Gaer was a good listener, offering careful counsel, more careful still to not remark on things that he held no experience in, refraining from advice. Her mind wandered to a more purposeful path and she thought he would aid my brother well in matters of state… Éowyn glanced down the long tabletop still littered with full dishes. They’d not eaten much, preoccupied with talk of the City. Faramir’s brow had creased as though he was concentrating very hard either on her words or in attempting to read her thoughts. She gave him a glance of mock sternness. “We’d not finished.”

“Aye.” Éowyn tried not to laugh. “Meals in your Hall of Feasts lasted just as long.”

“We…we are not in the City…” His face clouded for a moment but when she looked to him again, it was gone.

She sighed and pushed away her plate. “No, we are not.” Faramir’s brow was still lined and his gaze was focused into the distance. Éowyn shook her head as she stood. “Come, it is late.”

She shook her head in new laughter. He must have drunk more than she’d guessed, he was usually more attentive. “You to your tent, me to mine.”

Her Prince was swaying a bit and getting to his feet with an effort, tugging on her so that she braced herself. “We could fetch a cloak and…”

“And?” He was drunk, or he’d been. Éowyn frowned a little, the slightest of wariness beginning to unfold within her stomach. She was unused to him being so relaxed, so uninhibited.

“And lie together…on the grass…” His voice was softer now, husky and pleading; it did not seem amorous, only needy. Faramir’s grey eyes were held to hers. “Before you are gone.”

His grin shone in the dimness and in his voice the rebirth of her mannered Prince came with shocking suddenness. “Your cloak will be cleaner, my Lady.”

He ached all over, but his pains had faded to a sort of warmth with the draught and the drink. Faramir sighed and watched the folk of the Mark move around him: Riders gambling in the light of fires, women talking in groups while children either slept in piles on blankets or ran back and forth in loud games. Their skin gleamed from the firelight, their flaxen hair shone in hues of gold and copper, their limbs were light and darting as they ran.

Faramir watched more closely, no longer aware of his surroundings, drawn by the children and their laughter. Their high, delighted voices and lighthearted minds were soothing, uplifting, making him feel like a great and terrible thing was at once stripped from his soul, a weight sliding from his shoulders, no longer heavy but light and whipping away on the dusty winds of the Wold. He bowed his head briefly, then lifted it, unable to look away.

All sights were foreign; none would have been those of his youth or of his adulthood save those seen in glimpses in the lower levels, the festivals outside the walls of the City. He’d had level-voiced tutors, soldiers and archers teaching him skills of war while scores of white-haired savants had raised him. Mithrandir taught him skills of the mind as best he’d could but none had told him the simple pleasure of a body wearied in rough games as had the men of the Mark.

Faramir lifted his eyes to the stars, exhaling in a great rush of contentment. All I have is all I have wished for…but that was untrue and he frowned, lowering his brow once more. Faint footsteps, the crunch of dried grasses heralded his love’s return.

He turned and wearily smiled. Her answering smile soon changed and faded. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Faramir managed to stand straighter, to take her arm and pull her with him into the darkness. Éowyn’s eyes gleamed with the light of the fires, the stars; they did not leave his face, searching it until he sighed deeply. “I will miss you.”

“I know.” Subdued, she shook out the cloak and spread it over the dry, crackling grass. He kneeled painfully and gestured her closer.

She came to lean against him, her chin pointed downward and he sighed again. Must you…the words welled up in his chest and it was only with great will power that he kept them bottled. Gently pulling her, he stretched out with Éowyn curled against his side. Faramir gazed at the stars but they only reminded him of the stars that he’d worn not long ago—and with such pride!—and he closed his eyes. I do not wish to return.

He felt himself tensing and took a great breath to release it. I do not wish to return…

Part of him rose up in outrage. Do I not love my country still? Would I forsake my duties, renounce my blood, my fathers and the oaths I took as a boy, then a man?

Faramir gripped the dry, hard dirt in his free hand, scratches burning as the long green hills of Ithilien replayed in his mind’s eye, the white stone walls of the house in his dreams, the bare land that he knew merely awaited kindling to be born into a princedom. Nay…

Then…he ground his teeth, unable to articulate his desires. Éowyn cuddled closer and Faramir tightened his arm about her shoulders, feeling lost.

“Shh.” They did not speak again. He took small comfort in her nearness, eventually feeling her relax and turn to him. Her skin warmed and rubbed softly against his as their hands clasped and Faramir thought that it would not be so long that he stayed, not so long before they were together again and in wedlock…not so long.

He licked his lips, tension coiling in his belly. I cower away from the thought of duties…I am less than Father imagined…his eyes burned briefly. Éowyn stirred, inhaling deeply. He heard her make a noise of distress.

Faramir shifted so he could stroke her hair, forcing his thoughts into stillness, his anxiety down. The bonfires had burned low by the time he rose and pulled her up as well. Few moved now, the stars had swung high into the sky; it was late. She did not smile, only gazing at him in silence. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, parting with a semblance of pleasure. I would lie so forever and not rise…

“Goodnight.” His smile flickered uncertainly. Her eyes finally leaving his, Éowyn moved away in the dark, her light gown softly glowing.

The next day was like the others save that he found less pleasure in competition. When Éowyn called for him, Faramir did not protest, nor correct her when she frowned, “You’re sore still…”

His aches were precious, proof of belonging and delight in his belonging, a brother to these North folk. Faramir rubbed his arms self-consciously. “Some.”

“No.” She frowned and he relented with a forced smile. “Aye, I might.” As she moved away, Faramir glanced up, feeling a weight. Éomer’s eyes lowered instantly and the Lord of the Mark feigned interest in the slow passing of high, light clouds.

He sighed in a long, drawn out breath, only his hand betraying him to fidget about the golden hilt of his sword. “Rain…”

“Aye, that it would.” His tone was too clipped. Faramir shifted his feet restlessly and stopped himself. What ails me…but cowardice? His jaw clamped tight.

He felt a touch again—Éomer had glanced to him, then away again just as swiftly, clearly too uncertain in their jocularity to question.

My apologies for such a short chapter but I have been suffering from writer's block...the next section of the story, I feel, will change the characters greatly and I've not quite been able to strike on the correct way to show this. I think I'd rather wait and figure it out than post something I feel is inadequate to the story. Thank you for all of your encouragement and, most of all, for not forgetting my story!

All for Her by SoundofHorns