Éomer pulled Firefoot to a halt as he reached the edge of the Pelennor. Minas Tirith had been in sight for quite some time by then, but now it rose like a pillar of white marble gleaming in the late afternoon sun at the other end of the field. Quite a difference from the last time I was here, he thought with more than a bit of sadness. The last time he had traveled this way, the fields had been overrun by the forces of Mordor; that had been the day when his uncle had died, and his sister… though months had passed since that day, the memory of that dreadful moment when he had seen her on the battlefield and believed her dead still pained him greatly.

“My lord?” Éomer turned to see Éothain, the captain of his guard and one of his most trusted friends. “Are you well?”

“Éothain, I have told you a thousand times that there is no need for you to be so formal with me,” Éomer complained.

“I know, but it is a little difficult sometimes, getting used to the idea of you being the king,” Éothain said, his green eyes sparkling with amusement. Éomer gave him a look of mock sternness, at which Éothain laughed. “I meant no offense, Éomer. It is just strange; that is all.”

Éomer laughed. “I am having a little trouble getting used to the idea myself.” Then his smile faded a bit. “And I am well—I just have a lot on my mind, with the funeral and the journey.”

“And I am certain that Éowyn has nothing to do with it.”

Éomer groaned. She had wanted to accompany them to Gondor, of course, but he had finally convinced her to stay behind to make all of the necessary preparations for their uncle’s funeral. His last conversation with her was still as clear in his mind as if it had just happened…

“Safe journey, brother. I will be watching for your return,” she had said with a smile as she handed him the cup of parting.

He had groaned a little. “Come now, Éowyn, we both know that I am not the one you will be looking for.”

Her face had colored a little, and a somewhat dreamy smile crossed her face. In the months since their return to Edoras, Éomer had seen that same look much more frequently than he cared for—the far-off look that clearly said she was thinking about the young Steward of Gondor. “Forgive me, Éomer,” she said. “It has been months since I last saw him.”

“I still cannot fathom what it is you see in him.” The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Éowyn’s smile faded, and a steely glint lit her eyes. “I still cannot fathom why you put him down so. Faramir has just as much courage and honor as you, or Uncle Théoden, or even Lord Aragorn!”

“I do not question his courage or his honor. I just find it hard to understand what is so fascinating about a man who would spend all his time buried in a stack of books.”

Éowyn rolled her eyes. “Not all of his time. And he enjoys learning. I see nothing wrong with that.”

“Maybe so, but you could probably outmatch him with a sword.” He was making pathetic excuses, and they both knew it.

“That means nothing. If I recall correctly, I have been able to outmatch you on several occasions,” Éowyn pointed out, a mischievous smile on her face.

Éomer could not come up with a good reply, and resorted to an exasperated glare. He simply could not understand his sister any more. Ever since he had left her in those Houses of Healing, she had been acting so differently. She had taken up learning the art of healing, and had spent a great deal of her time in Edoras determining uses for various plants. Either that or she was studying the books that she had brought back with her from the city. He could accept that; she was still a more-than-willing sparring partner when he asked her, and her love for riding was as strong as ever. And healing was a necessary skill, one that she had shown some interest in before the battle.

But then there was her infatuation with Faramir. He still could not understand how that had happened; the last he had known, she was in love with Aragorn, and merely weeks later she had completely changed her mind. It was not like her to be so flighty.

“Just promise me that you will try to be civil to him?” Éowyn pleaded.

Éomer sighed. “I will try.” It was not that he hated the Steward, exactly; had circumstances been otherwise, he might have even liked him in spite of their differences. But he was a man of action, and the last few years of Gríma’s influence in the court at Edoras had taught him not to trust men of words. Especially those who could so completely bewitch his sister…

“Éomer?” Éothain asked, jerking him out of his thoughts.

 And I still do not trust him. “Maybe a little.” He shook his head in frustration. “Why could she not have fallen in love with one of our people? It would have been so much simpler!”

“Though you must admit, she smiles more than she used to,” Éothain pointed out.

Éomer glared at him, even though he knew Éothain was right. He would even admit, though rather grudgingly, that perhaps Faramir did have something to do with it. But I do not have to like it.

He glanced back at the other Riders who had accompanied them. The horses and men alike were starting to act restless. “We should start moving again, if we want to reach the city before nightfall.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Éothain said, laughing at the dirty look that Éomer shot him over the formal title as he spurred Firefoot on once again.

-------

“I wish he would sit down,” Pippin whispered to Merry as they watched Faramir pacing back and forth across the marble floors of the great hall, deep in thought. “He’s making me dizzy.”

Merry rolled his eyes at his younger cousin in mock exasperation. “He’s just anxious to leave, that’s all. You would be too, if you had some pretty hobbit-lass waiting back in the Shire for you.”

Pippin shrugged noncommittally. “I don’t think that’s it.”

Frodo, who was sitting across the table from them, smiled faintly. “I would have to agree with Pippin, for once. I am not sure which is stronger; his desire to see the Lady Éowyn or his wish to avoid her brother.”

All of the remaining members of the Fellowship had gathered in the great hall of the Citadel to await the arrival of the newly-crowned King of Rohan, along with Faramir, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and his family, and Queen Arwen. The company from Rohan would remain in Minas Tirith for the night. Then they would all accompany Éomer back to Edoras for the burial of his uncle and the previous king, Théoden.

Most of the group was sitting around one of the long tables as they waited, except for Imrahil’s children and Faramir. Imrahil’s three sons were talking softly in the corner. His daughter Lothiríel was sitting by the window, occasionally glancing outside indifferently—Faramir knew that she would never admit that she was watching for Éomer’s arrival. As for Faramir, sitting had proved to be too great a task for him, and he had resorted to pacing the floors for a great deal of the afternoon.

Though he had not voiced his thoughts on the matter, it had escaped the notice of no one that as the day of Éomer’s arrival drew closer, Faramir had become increasingly agitated. “I don’t understand why he’s so nervous,” Sam said. “King Éomer wouldn’t stop him from marrying Lady Éowyn… would he?”

Aragorn smiled at the hobbits as he watched. “Oh, I believe that he will consent eventually. It seems to be in the nature of older brothers to be very protective of their sisters. When Elladan and Elrohir found out that I was in love with Arwen, I was certain that they would bring my head back to Lord Elrond on a mithril platter.”

“I doubt that, Estel,” Arwen said with a laugh. Aragorn smiled at her affectionate use of his childhood name.

“Even so, Éomer is the last of her male kinsmen, and therefore has the right to grant or deny Faramir his sister’s hand,” Legolas said.

“And from what I have seen, that stubborn horse-lord will not grant it without a fight,” Gimli added, trying to keep it under his breath and failing.

Imrahil laughed. “I think that you underestimate him, Gimli. Éomer is a little rough sometimes, but he has a good heart. He will not deny Éowyn the happiness she deserves.”

Lothiríel glanced over from her post by the window overlooking the entrance to the city. “And my cousin can be almost as stubborn, when he puts his mind to it.”

Up to this point, Faramir had been pointedly ignoring the others as they talked about him. But now he stopped pacing for a moment and looked over at Lothiríel, a hint of mischief in his grey-blue eyes. “It hardly seems fair for you to begin your next sparring match with Éomer without him being here to defend himself, Thirí.” Lothiríel’s face colored slightly, but she quickly masked it. It was plain to both Faramir and his uncle that in spite of the amount of time that Éomer and Lothiríel had spent arguing when the lord of the Rohirrim was last in Minas Tirith, Lothiríel was quite fond of Éomer. Maybe that is the answer, Faramir thought wryly. Éomer could be so preoccupied with my cousin that he will forget about Éowyn…

Highly unlikely, he realized. And if Lothiríel’s brothers knew what he was thinking, they would have his head quicker than Éomer ever could, though he was sure it would take a lot less to provoke Éomer to such action…

After the ceremonies surrounding Aragorn’s coronation had ended, the Rohirrim had grown increasingly restless. It had not taken long for Éomer to announce the date of their departure from Minas Tirith. The time had gone all too quickly for Faramir, and now it was the evening before Éowyn had to leave. He and Éowyn had spent much of the afternoon walking around the city and talking, trying to get a few more precious moments alone before their separation. But now night was falling, and as much as he hated to admit it, Faramir knew he needed to take Éowyn back to the Citadel.

After her brother’s return, Éowyn had moved into the guest quarters in the former Hall of the Stewards, now Aragorn’s palace. The situation had proved to be a mixed blessing for the Steward. Since both his living quarters and the study where he did most of his work were still in the Citadel until all the arrangements for the settlement at Emyn Arnen were made, he got to see her much more frequently than he had when Éowyn was still living in the Houses of Healing.

On the other hand, Éomer was also staying in the guest quarters.

Faramir did not dislike the soon-to-be-crowned King of Rohan; in a way, Éomer reminded him a bit of Boromir. Although he looked nothing like Faramir’s late brother, save maybe his tall, muscular build, it seemed that Éomer had a similar love of combat and sometimes brutally honest manner of speaking. In Éomer, however, these traits served as a bitter taste of how things might have been different between himself and Boromir if they had not been brothers. It was obvious to Faramir that Éomer neither liked nor approved of him. Éowyn had been no help; when he had asked her about it, she had simply said that Éomer was just being stubborn and would come around in time. It was a nice thought—Faramir could only hope she was right.

But he would not think about such things right now; his attention was completely taken by the golden-haired maiden who was lightly holding his arm as they entered the palace. They had an unspoken agreement not to speak of Éowyn’s departure for that evening, and so they were both silent for the moment. Faramir started to turn down the hallway that led to the guest quarters, but Éowyn pulled him to a halt. “I am not ready to return yet,” she said, grey eyes pleading with him. Faramir smiled as she took his hand and led him to the gardens. They quickly found a seat beneath a tree, and Faramir leaned his back against the trunk and wrapped his arm around Éowyn as she sat down close beside him, resting her head against his shoulder.

They sat in comfortable silence, watching the leaves rustle over their heads as the sky grew darker. After awhile, Éowyn lifted her eyes to his and murmured contentedly, “I could live like this.”

Faramir laughed. “Could you? I would think that this would be too dull for a wild shieldmaiden like you,” he teased gently.

Her grey eyes sparkled as she gave him a tantalizing smile. “I have not yet grown tired of it,” she said, straightening just enough that her soft lips could touch his. For a moment, he was unable to think, lost in the warmth of her kiss. Then the intensity of it deepened as he pulled her a little closer.

They abruptly pulled apart as he heard an indignant command, “Get your hands off of her!” Faramir sat back, startled to see Éomer standing a few feet away, his hand resting on his sword-hilt as he glared at them disapprovingly.

Éowyn’s shock was quickly replaced by annoyance. “Honestly, Éomer, it was just a kiss,” she said, brushing her hair away from her face as she glared back at her brother.

Éomer’s eyes narrowed dangerously as his gaze turned to Faramir. “It looked like a little more than just a kiss to me.”

“I can assure you that I would never do anything to bring your sister’s honor into question,” Faramir said coolly, though the way Éomer’s hand kept tightening on his sword-hilt was making him a little nervous.

Éowyn rattled off an additional retort in Rohirric, spoken much too quickly for Faramir to catch. Éomer’s face reddened slightly—whether from anger or embarrassment, Faramir could not tell. But his face softened as he looked at his sister and said, “You should get some rest; we will be getting an early start in the morning.”

“Very well,” she sighed, giving Éomer a look that clearly said this was not over yet as she got to her feet. She looked back at Faramir and added, “Will you walk me to my room?”

“As you wish, my lady,” he said, standing up and taking her hand. Éomer moved to her other side, still glaring suspiciously at Faramir as the three of them walked to the guest quarters. Once they had reached Éowyn’s door, she stood on her toes and whispered a good-night to Faramir, then kissed him lightly on the cheek. She also bid Éomer good night, kissing him on the cheek as well, and then entered her room after one last apologetic smile at Faramir.

The two men were left looking at each other warily as Éowyn closed the door behind her. Éomer’s mistrust was plainly written on his face as he motioned Faramir away from his sister’s door. Faramir complied, and once they were far enough away that Éowyn would not hear, Éomer whirled on him angrily. “What exactly do you want with her, Steward?”

Faramir was a little taken aback at the derision in Éomer’s voice, but managed to keep his gaze steady. Deciding a straightforward approach would be best, he said, “I want to marry her.”

“And what makes you think you deserve her?” Éomer asked, eyeing him critically. It reminded Faramir of the way his father used to silently measure his quality—and once again, he could tell he had come up short in the other’s eyes. Faramir fumbled for an answer that might possibly satisfy, but for once, words failed him. How can I convince him when I hardly believe it myself? he thought desperately. Éomer nodded curtly as if that had been the answer, then leaned in and said, “You will stay away from my sister.”

Faramir couldn’t miss the unspoken threat in Éomer’s voice. Nevertheless, he met Éomer’s firey gaze and said softly, “Do what you will, but I cannot do that.” Éomer opened his mouth to respond, but Faramir quickly added, “And what about Éowyn’s wishes? Have you considered that?”

Éomer stared at him for a moment. His hand clenched into a tight fist as a number of conflicting emotions passed across his face before his mouth finally tightened to a thin line. “I will be watching you, Steward.” Then he whirled and walked away…

Lost in his recollections, he was caught completely off-guard when the door to the hall opened and one of the guards of the Citadel walked in. “My lord?” he said, addressing the King. “The company from Rohan has arrived.”

“Good,” Aragorn said. “Send them my greetings, and give them time to take care of their horses and refresh themselves before sending them in.” The guard bowed and exited, and Aragorn stood up and walked over to Faramir.

Faramir looked back at him a little warily. He was still unsure how to act around the new king, since he was used to having to constantly guard himself around Denethor. But unlike his father, Aragorn seemed to actually value his opinion, and so he was finally beginning to let his guard down—most of the time.

Aragorn lowered his voice as he looked at Faramir with a twinkle in his clear grey eyes. “I could always order Éomer to give you Éowyn’s hand.” Faramir looked at him in surprise as the king continued, “Politically, it would be a very good match to have my second-in-command marry the sister of the king of Rohan. And since you already love her, I know that I would not have any argument from you.” He grinned to let Faramir know that he was joking, at least in part.

Faramir laughed. “That is very kind of you.” Then his smile faded a bit as he added, “But I would rather he consent freely. Éowyn would want it that way.”

Aragorn clapped the younger man on the shoulder. “I know; I would too. But I will gladly help in any way I can. It is not easy to have to wait for the hand of the woman you love,” he said, looking over at Arwen fondly.

“Thank you,” Faramir said in genuine appreciation as the guard returned and announced that Éomer was waiting to see him.

-------

Éomer was a little surprised at the size of the group that awaited him as he was ushered into the great hall. Aragorn and his new queen were there, of course, along with Faramir. He had expected that, and was a little more surprised to see the four hobbits, Legolas, Gimli and Gandalf. And, he had to admit, he was glad to see Lothiríel—though he was sure it was only a matter of time until she began attacking him again. True, he had started it with his comment about women outside of Rohan not knowing how to handle a horse, but Lothiríel had more than risen to the challenge. He had enjoyed the resulting verbal battles more than he cared to admit, and months later, Éowyn still took every opportunity to tease him about the princess of Dol Amroth. For now, he simply grinned at her in greeting. She smiled back sweetly, though he could almost see her plotting her next move behind the innocent look she gave him.

His attention was taken away from the dark-haired maiden as Aragorn turned towards him. “It is good to see you again, Éomer,” he said, clasping Éomer’s arm in greeting. “I trust you had a pleasant journey?”

“I cannot complain,” Éomer said, smiling. “It is good to see you too, Aragorn.”

Aragorn smiled and took the hand of the dark-haired elf standing slightly behind him. “I do not believe you have met my wife yet.”

Éomer then turned to Arwen and had to force himself not to stare—she was the most beautiful woman that he had ever seen. Aragorn, you are a lucky, lucky man, he could not help thinking as the queen bowed her head and gave a little curtsey. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Éomer,” she said politely, though her smile was warm. “I have heard much about you.”

“The pleasure is mine, my lady,” he replied, taking her hand and kissing it. He could not help feeling a little satisfaction when he saw a jealous look cross Lothiríel’s face out of the corner of his eye, though she quickly hid it. Faramir was standing near her, an amused grin on his face as he watched his cousin. Éomer felt a prick of irritation at the sight of him,, but quickly reminded himself that he had promised Éowyn that he would try to treat him well.

 I might as well get this over with, Éomer thought with a sigh as he walked over towards the Steward. Faramir’s face became an impassive mask, his raven-colored hair falling into his eyes a little as he nodded. “King Éomer,” he said politely.

Éomer could not help noticing the way that Faramir twisted his ring around his finger nervously. And it seemed to him that the Steward’s face had turned a little paler than usual, though it was hard to tell—the man already looked like it had been weeks since he had seen the sun. Probably because he spends all his time with those dusty old books, he thought before he was able to remind himself that he was being civil. “Lord Faramir,” he said, returning the nod. “My sister bade me give this to you,” he added, pulling a slightly crumpled letter out of a small pouch on his belt.

Faramir’s eyes lit up, and a bright smile flashed across his face. “Thank you,” he said, taking the folded parchment a little more eagerly than Éomer wished to see. “And how is she… the Lady Éowyn, I mean?” he added, belatedly trying to resume his formal tone as the smile faded.

“She is well, and sends her regrets that she was unable to accompany me on this journey as she is completing the preparations for King Théoden’s funeral.” Éomer turned slightly to address the entire company as he said this.

Aragorn spoke up then. “Which reminds me; Éomer, would you be able to meet with me later? I would like to make sure all the preparations on our part have been fulfilled to your satisfaction.” Éomer nodded his consent, and Faramir breathed a sigh of relief as the horse-lord’s attention was taken off of him. He could not help noticing that Éomer’s hand still never left his sword-hilt when the young king addressed him. Aragorn said, “Good. We have a room prepared for you; I am sure you would like to take some time to rest from your journey before the feast tonight.”

“Of course, thank you.” Aragorn asked one of the servants to show him to his room, and Éomer bowed as he exited. As he left, he glanced over at Faramir one more time. Faramir returned the look steadily. Éomer had the uncomfortable sense that Faramir was somehow trying to read his thoughts, and for a moment the tension held him there as easily as chains would have. Éomer looked away first, silently vowing that he would not let Faramir have the last word again, then walked out of the room. As soon as he had passed the doors, the tension vanished.

Faramir watched him go with more than a little relief. He had not missed the suspicious look that Éomer had given him, nor how uncomfortable the horse-lord seemed to be as he had returned the glance. Faramir also did not relax until Éomer’s back had vanished from sight. He looked back to see that everyone had been watching, and shifted his weight uncomfortably as he looked over at the King. “My lord,” he said, “I just might take you up on that offer after all.”

-------

Not long after, the company had dispersed to prepare for the feast that would be held that night. Merry and Pippin walked together towards their quarters. “Well, that didn’t go very well, did it?” Pippin said as he thought about the obvious tension in the exchange between Faramir and Éomer.

“Not at all,” Merry said. “It’s a shame, really. I like both of them. I wish they could just try to get along, if only for Éowyn’s sake. I would hate to see Éomer turn Faramir down; she’s so happy with him.”

“It’s too bad that there’s nothing we can do to help them,” Pippin said thoughtfully. “There must be something they have in common to get them talking, besides Éowyn.”

Merry stopped. “Pippin, that’s one of the most brilliant ideas you’ve ever had!”

“What?” Pippin asked, clearly confused.

“They’re both reasonable men. If we can just get them to sit down and talk it out, I’m sure that Éomer will see just how perfect Faramir is for Éowyn. Then he’ll have to let her marry him.” He grinned at Pippin. “Come on…we have some planning to do.” The two young hobbits quickly ran off.

Several paces behind them, Frodo shook his head as he turned to Sam, a bigger smile on his face than had been there in quite awhile. “I almost feel sorry for Faramir and Éomer. They have no idea what they just got themselves into.” Sam laughed as he and Frodo continued down the hall.

Once they were out of sight, a door that had stood slightly ajar opened, and Éomer glanced out, feeling a little foolish that he had resorted to eavesdropping. The hobbits obviously had not known they were passing his room or they would not have spoken so loudly, but still…

 Éomer shook his head, then smiled a little. In battle, even the best-laid plans would inevitably fail if the enemy knew your strategy. And even though they had not revealed the details of their plan, he had no doubt that he would be able to beat them at their own game.

By the fourth day of their journey to Edoras, Éomer was beginning to think that he had seriously underestimated the hobbits. Merry and Pippin were much better at keeping secrets than he had given them credit for, and he had been able to learn nothing of what their plan was. Merry had been given the task of riding by Théoden’s bier as his arms-bearer, and Pippin spent most of his time with his friend. So every day he had been forced to watch as the two of them conspired, speaking in whispers and occasionally glancing over at him with mischievous grins. Asking them outright what they were up to had done nothing, nor had riding a little closer to the hobbits in an attempt to overhear their conversation. He had even sent several of his lieutenants over in an attempt to see what they could learn, but that had not worked either. He favored a direct approach both in battle and in his everyday dealings, and all of this sneaking around had put him in a foul mood. Éomer could only hope that the two Halflings were grating on Faramir’s nerves just as much; as for himself, he was certain that if they had been riding further north, he would have thrown both of them into the Anduin by this time.

Only about ten more days of this, and I will be home, he reminded himself. If only he could be certain that Merry and Pippin would not drive him mad before that…

He had to try again. With a sigh, he rode towards Merry and Pippin, keeping Firefoot to a walk in order to minimize the noise. His pathetic attempt at stealth failed, as he knew it would; Pippin saw him first, waved, and Merry turned his head to see.

“Good day, my lord!” Merry called out with a grin. “I am glad you’re here; we need to talk to you.”

“You do?” Éomer carefully kept his voice even; perhaps he would finally be able to learn something useful if he did not seem too eager.

“More like deliver a message, actually,” Pippin said. “Aragorn wanted to know if you would be joining us for supper tonight after we make camp.”

Éomer was more caught off-guard by the question than he cared to admit. “Why?” he asked before he could think about it.

“Because you’re his friend would be my guess,” Merry said, his amber-brown eyes sparkling with mischief.

Éomer sighed; he knew that he should go. Although there was no animosity between the men of Gondor and those of Rohan, save perhaps between himself and the Steward, the two groups had stayed separate throughout the journey. Aragorn had expressed his wish before that the open friendship between Gondor and Rohan be renewed during his reign, and Éomer knew that avoiding the king’s party was a poor example to his own people. But he still had no wish to be anywhere near Faramir. The two men had not spoken at all since his arrival in Minas Tirith, and for his part, he was more than content to keep it that way.

He clenched his jaw in frustration, but knew that he had to keep the interests of his people in mind instead of his own. “When you speak to Aragorn again, tell him that I will be there,” he finally said.

“Great! I’ll see you tonight, then,” Pippin said. He and Merry turned their ponies and started to leave.

“Where are you going?” Éomer asked, a little surprised at their hasty retreat.

They gave him completely innocent looks. “I’m going to deliver your message, of course,” Pippin said.

“And I need to get back to my post,” Merry added. With that, the hobbits rode away before Éomer could reply, talking to each other in low tones. Éomer desperately wished he knew what they were planning; he was certain he could not handle another ten days of this without going completely mad. Maybe I can at least throw Merry and Pippin in one of the horses’ water troughs once we reach Edoras, he thought, clenching his hands around Firefoot’s reins.

  -------

Faramir generally considered himself to be a patient man; one had to be when serving in the company of the Rangers. He was certain that they had spent a significantly greater amount of time lying in wait for their enemy than actually fighting. But his patience was quickly running out. He had suspected from the time they left Minas Tirith that Merry and Pippin were planning something to attempt to get him to talk to Éomer; he rarely saw either of the hobbits, and when he did, they avoided him. He had said nothing of it in hopes that they would let their guard down and let something slip, but he was beginning to wonder if a more direct approach was necessary. And he was starting to get very irritated at not knowing what was going on.

Aragorn turned in his saddle a bit and looked at him, then slowed his horse slightly until he was riding evenly with Faramir. “Is something wrong, Faramir?” he asked.

“They are planning something. I am certain of it,” Faramir answered, inclining his head slightly towards Pippin. The hobbit had just returned from the front of the column, where the Rohirrim were. He had briefly spoken with Aragorn, but had fallen further back in the line by this point.

“I am certain that they mean well,” Aragorn said, laughing a little. “I think you may be right though.”

Faramir groaned silently. “I know that much.  If I could get within a few paces of either Merry or Pippin without scaring them off, I might be able to find out what it is.”

Faramir could hear Legolas’s light laugh as he pulled his horse up on the other side of Aragorn. “You are too perceptive for them to keep their secrets around, Faramir, and they know it.”

Every gift has its curse, I suppose, Faramir thought, though it often seemed to him that the ability he had inherited from his father to read men’s hearts caused more problems than it solved.  “I wish they were not so persistent in avoiding me. I would be more at ease if I knew what they are planning.”

 “Yes, those hobbits could rival even the Dwarves when it comes to stubbornness,” Legolas said. Faramir smiled as Gimli, who was sitting behind the Elf, grumbled something that sounded rather uncomplimentary under his breath in reply.

Aragorn laughed, then his face grew more serious again. “Éomer will be joining us tonight. I thought that you would wish to know.”

Faramir could feel himself tensing up, but kept his response as cool as he could.  “I see.”

The king looked at him sternly. “And I do expect you to try to enjoy the meal.” Faramir’s jaw tightened a bit, and Aragorn’s face softened. “You know I am not trying to upset you, Faramir. But avoiding Éomer will not solve anything.”

“I know,” Faramir said. “And I do mean to speak to him; I just need more time.”

Aragorn’s brow furrowed slightly. “I would just hate to see you run out of it. May I give you some advice?” Faramir hesitated, then nodded. “Stand your ground on this. I have noticed that you have a tendency to wait to act when you are uncertain what course to take, but I suspect that you will win more respect from Éomer if you do not back down.”

Faramir considered this for a moment, then decided Aragorn did have a point. After the war had ended, he had believed that his love for Éowyn would not be returned, and so he had stepped back and poured his energy into his duties as Steward. And as a result, he had almost lost her. It would make sense that her brother would react in a similar way; from what he had observed, the two of them were much alike.

 “Perhaps,” he said hesitantly. “I suppose I should see if I can get any information at all out of Pippin. If you will excuse me, Aragorn,” he said, nodding his head respectfully as he turned his horse, Wildfire, towards Pippin.

Pippin appeared to be deep in thought as Faramir approached him. He almost jumped out of his saddle in surprise as Faramir said, “Good afternoon, Pippin.”

Pippin jumped a little, then smiled—a little nervously, Faramir noted. “Good afternoon, Lord Faramir,” the hobbit squeaked.

Faramir smiled kindly. “I have told you before, Pippin, just Faramir.”

Pippin relaxed a little. “Can I help you, my lo—I mean, Faramir?” he asked.

Faramir quickly shook his head. “No, I simply wanted the pleasure of your company for awhile. I have not seen you very much on this journey.”

“Oh. I’ve been trying to keep Merry company—I think he gets a little lonely up there with the Riders sometimes,” Pippin said by way of explanation.

Faramir had to give him credit; it was a rather good excuse. “And how are the Rohirrim faring?” he asked cautiously, trying to keep the hobbit’s guard down.

“Oh, they’re enjoying this. It seems like they’re all having a great time except for Éo…” Pippin abruptly cut off, a guilty look passing over his face; he knew he had said too much.

“Except for Éomer,” Faramir finished. “Is he that upset with me?”

Pippin looked surprised, then he shrugged a little. “I haven’t spoken with him much.”

That surprised him. He had been sure that Merry and Pippin had been pestering Éomer. But, he reminded himself, Pippin could easily be hiding something.

“If you’re so concerned about it, why don’t you just talk to him?” Pippin asked, breaking into Faramir’s thoughts.

Faramir just stared at Pippin for a moment, then frowned.  “I am waiting for the right opportunity,” he said, feeling a little defensive. He hoped he did not appear to be a coward; he was not afraidof Éomer, though Éowyn’s stories of her brother’s temper when they were younger certainly had not helped. He was just biding his time until he was able to come up with an answer that the young king might accept.

Still, he mused, it was ironic that someone who so obviously favored a direct way of speaking would put him at such a loss for words, especially since words were usually one of his strengths. Perhaps it was because he suspected that words would not be very effective with Éomer; it would be easier to convince a stone to change its mind. And it did not help that he was still unsure how, exactly, he had offended Éomer, other than loving his sister. Perhaps that was the only offense.

Pippin just shrugged in response, then looked over as he heard his name called. Merry had left the Rohirrim and was now riding towards them. “Hello, Faramir!” Merry called out cheerfully.

“Good afternoon, Merry,” Faramir answered, giving the hobbit a smile.

“Pippin, I seem to have misplaced my pipe. Do you think that maybe it’s with your things?” Merry asked.

Pippin glanced back at Faramir for a moment, then shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’ll have to look,” the hobbit said slowly.

Faramir furrowed his brow. “You cannot smoke while you are riding, Merry,” he pointed out.

Merry paused for the briefest moment, as if he knew that he had been caught and was trying to recover. “Oh, I know. I just want to make sure that I know where it is for tonight,” he quickly said.

“Well, let’s go then. We’ll see you at supper tonight, Faramir!” Pippin said, then the two quickly rode off, talking in low voices.

Faramir just stared after them, shaking his head. Wildfire snorted and tossed his head impatiently after a moment, and Faramir patted the chestnut stallion’s neck to calm him. “Do you think they are acting strange too? I wish I knew what they are planning,” he said softly. Then he added with a laugh, “Look at me, talking to a horse. Éomer must be rubbing off on me after all.” Wildfire whickered his agreement as Faramir spurred him on in order to catch up with Aragorn.

  -------

Éomer slowed Firefoot to a walk as he approached the Gondorian encampment, suddenly reluctant to enter. In spite of this, he still felt a twinge of guilt over avoiding Aragorn and his other friends in the king’s party, especially because it was no secret that Faramir was the only reason he did so.

What is it about him that bothers me so much? Éomer wondered. It could not simply be that he was from Gondor. Éomer had developed a deep respect for many of the men of the South during their final campaign to Mordor, not least of all Prince Imrahil—Faramir’s uncle, ironically enough. He did not think it was that Faramir had not been present at that last battle, either. Several of his own men had also been too wounded to accompany them, so he could not judge based on that. He could easily guess that Faramir would be weak in combat skills, though; he knew that Faramir had been in the border patrol, and anyone could kill while hiding in the bushes at a safe distance. Surely that could not take the same amount of skill needed to stay alive in an all-out battle.

Still, he did not think it was that either; he just could not seem to determine what it was, though sometimes the answer seemed to almost be within his reach. But he did not care to deal with those thoughts long enough to figure it out.

It is not too late for me to go back, he thought. I could just say that something came up, and… his thoughts were interrupted by Aragorn’s greeting call. “Éomer!” he said as he walked up, his smile barely visible in the fading light. “I was afraid you had changed your mind.”

Éomer shrugged noncommittally and dismounted. “No, of course not,” he said as he picketed Firefoot. “How fares your company?”

“Fine,” Aragorn answered. “And yours?”

“The same.” Éomer frowned a bit as he followed Aragorn over to the camp; he did not like the awkwardness of this situation at all. It seemed that his grievance against Faramir was affecting his friendships with everyone on this journey, and that irritated him even further.

As he entered the circle around the cooking fire, where Sam was busy ladling some delicious-smelling stew into carved wooden bowls, Merry and Pippin looked up and grinned at him. Lothiríel gave him a small smile, which briefly lightened his spirits. He would have gone over to talk to her, but she was already sitting between her brothers Amrothos and Elphir, talking animatedly with her youngest brother; he had no wish to interrupt. Faramir was sitting between Imrahil and Gandalf. The two men caught each other’s eyes briefly and nodded politely but did not speak to each other.

He sat down on a log next to Gimli, who grunted a greeting. “Good evening to you too, Master Dwarf,” Éomer said with a grin.

“Would you like some ale, Lord Éomer, sir?” Sam asked as Faramir and Imrahil, who were sitting closest to Sam, began picking up the bowls of stew and passing them around.

“Yes, thank you,” Éomer said. Then Gimli began asking him some questions about the Glittering Caves near Helm’s Deep, and he was soon able to relax a little as the conversation continued. But he still kept an eye on Faramir.

 -------

 To his surprise, Faramir was actually able to relax and enjoy the meal. It seemed he and Éomer had an unspoken agreement to leave each other alone, and he quickly became engrossed in a conversation with Mithrandir and Imrahil over some of the more obscure points of Gondor’s history. He could see Éomer out of the corner of his eye, talking to Gimli and Legolas, occasionally gesturing with his ale mug to emphasize a point. It was the most relaxed Faramir had ever seen him.

Éomer laughed at some comment that Gimli made, and Faramir smiled in spite of himself. His laugh was much like his sister’s—loud and hearty. Imrahil noticed the look on Faramir’s face and asked, “What do you find so amusing about the Battle of Erui, nephew?”

Faramir smiled and lowered his voice. “Nothing… I was thinking about Éowyn.” His uncle nodded in understanding.

Apparently he had failed to lower his voice enough. Pippin and Merry had moved closer to him once the meal started in order to talk to Frodo, who was sitting on Mithrandir’s other side. Pippin looked up at him and said in his usual loud voice, “I bet you’re excited about seeing her again.”

Éomer’s head snapped up and the suspicious look returned to his eyes as he heard the Halfling speak. Faramir glanced over at the King of Rohan, then back at Pippin and cautiously said, “Yes, I have missed her greatly.”

“I am sure you have,” Éomer muttered. “You could hardly keep your hands off of her the last time I saw you.”

Not again… Faramir silently groaned as the various conversations around the fire died down. “I told you, nothing happened!”

“And nothing will happen,” Éomer snapped, his eyes burning with barely-suppressed anger. Faramir briefly wondered how much ale the man had consumed by this point before Éomer’s words registered.

“What do you mean?” he asked suspiciously.

“I am not going to release my sister into the hands of some Gondorian weakling,” Éomer said coldly.

“Éomer!” Aragorn exclaimed, disapproval clearly written on his face. The others silently watched as Faramir’s face hardened. He took a ragged breath, then slowly rose to his feet, his grey eyes flashing fire.

“Think what you will of me,” he said in a dangerously quiet voice. “I care not. But the only way I will agree not to marry her is if Éowyn’s wishes on the matter have changed.”

Éomer jumped up, his hand automatically reaching for his sword. Immediately Legolas and Aragorn were at his side, restraining him. Faramir looked over at Aragorn briefly. He knew that if he did not leave now, this would quickly disintegrate into a brawl, and he had no wish to fight with Éomer over this issue. Aragorn nodded in understanding as he quietly excused himself and left, his dark hair blending with the surrounding shadows as he disappeared from view.

It was not until Éomer moved his hand away from his sword that the holds on his arms were loosened. He shrugged off the man and the elf, glaring at both of them as he stepped back. Even as he did, his temper cooled, leaving him feeling rather stupid.

“Why do you hate him so much?” Merry asked after a long moment of awkward silence.

“I do not wish to talk about it,” Éomer said firmly. Everyone kept watching him, and he shifted his weight uncomfortably under their silent scrutiny. “I… it is that…” Éomer fumbled for words, feeling more and more awkward by the minute. “I cannot figure him out, and I do not like it,” he finally blurted out.

Aragorn looked at him steadily. “Éomer, have you given him a chance at all?” he asked gently.

Éomer knew that he had not; ever since he first saw Faramir standing next to Éowyn at Aragorn’s coronation, he had felt nothing but suspicion towards him. And it irritated him to no end that Aragorn was right about this. He could not deal with this any more tonight. “Good night,” he said abruptly, turning and walking towards Firefoot.

He didn’t realize he was being followed until he heard Merry’s call, “Éomer!”

“Go away, Merry,” he growled.

“Look, I just want to talk to you,” Merry said, hurrying to keep up with the man’s longer strides.

“Then talk,” Éomer said.

“I’m sorry,” Merry said. “I was not trying to embarrass you.”

“I am not embarrassed,” Éomer groaned.

“Why are you acting like this?” the hobbit pressed. “He is a good man. And despite what you may think, he really does love Éowyn.”

“I do not want to talk about it,” he said again.

“Well, maybe you should anyway,” Merry blurted out.

Éomer whirled around without thinking and grabbed him roughly by the front of his shirt, then realized what he was doing. He quickly released the Halfling, then stepped back. “Forgive me, Merry,” he said softly. “I just need some time alone right now.”

Merry nodded, eyes still wide, then quickly retreated. Éomer quickly mounted Firefoot and headed back to his camp, trying to clear his thoughts as he rode. What would Théoden have done? he wondered. It seemed he had asked himself that question all too often in recent months. This time, however, he had no answer. As he ran his fingers through his golden hair to push it away from his face, he wished yet again that he was still just the Third Marshall of the Mark. Then perhaps things would not be so complicated.

-------

Faramir could vaguely hear a sound like rain falling softly on the trees overhead as he walked through the forest, though the late afternoon sun filtered its golden light through the leaves. He knew this section of Ithilien well, but it still took all his effort to keep up with the golden-haired maiden who constantly stayed just out of reach. “Éowyn!” he finally called out.

Éowyn turned towards him, allowing him to catch up, and smiled. “Faramir, wake up,” she said softly.

He shook his head and took her in his arms to kiss her, but she drew back and shook his shoulders. “Wake up!” she said again, more urgently. Her voice was starting to change slightly too; it became a little deeper.

He blinked in confusion, and when he looked again, she was gone and his surroundings were fading. The voice was still there though, as insistent as ever. “Faramir, please, I need your help!” He reluctantly opened his eyes, and groaned a little. Judging by the amount of light filtering in to the tent, it was barely past dawn. Or perhaps a little later; he could still hear the rain as it fell on the canvas of his tent.

He shook his head a little to clear it, and his eyes focused on a small figure kneeling by him. “Pippin?” he asked groggily. “Why are you here?”

Pippin’s curls stuck to his forehead damply, as if he had run through the rain, and his eyes were wide with panic. “It’s Merry,” he said.

“What?” This had better be good, he thought crossly as he sat up a little. He hated being woken up in the middle of a good dream.

“Last night, after Éomer…well, you know… Merry disappeared. I spent half the night looking for him, and I just found him, but he’s trapped.”

Faramir was instantly awake. “Where? How?” he asked, reaching for a shirt and his boots as Pippin answered, his words tumbling out in a torrent.

“We found this old guard tower yesterday, and Merry went there…I think he was upset about something that happened with Éomer after you left…and there’s a hole in there because part of the floor rotted out, and he fell in. And I cannot get him out. I don’t know if he’s hurt, or…“ he finished, his voice catching on the last words.

By this time, Faramir had buckled on his sword belt, purely out of habit, and thrown his cloak over his shoulders. Even if it was summer, if Merry was injured it would be best to keep him warm. Before standing up, he clasped the hobbit’s shoulder. “We will get him out, Pippin. Take me to him.” Pippin nodded gratefully and led him out of the tent and into the rain.

As they walked, Pippin explained the situation further. Apparently after they had stopped to make camp the previous afternoon, the hobbits had gone exploring and found an abandoned guard station near the borders of the forest at the feet of the mountains which separated the western part of Gondor from Rohan. Pippin said it was far enough from the camp that no one would be able to hear Merry’s cries for help. Faramir tensed his jaw slightly, concerned; he had grown quite fond of the hobbit during his most recent stay in the Houses of Healing, and desperately hoped that Merry would be all right.

Pippin led him quietly through the trees, and Faramir followed just as silently; practice from years of hunting Gondor’s enemies in the forests of Ithilien enabled him to move through the undergrowth almost as stealthily as an elf. It was not long before he spotted a clearing not far within the lines of trees, and a tall but somewhat crumbling stone tower. Vines were starting to take hold within the cracks of the stones, and the wooden shutters hung crookedly outside the high window slits that would allow the archers inside to attack without becoming easy targets. The heavy wooden door was slightly ajar. Pippin hung back slightly as he stepped forward and pulled the door further open, causing it to squeak slightly from disuse.

“Merry?” he called out as he entered, unable to keep his anxiety out of his voice. The interior was very dim, even more so than the outside. The only light came from an uncovered small opening that served as an entrance onto the roof, and much of that was blocked by a high wooden platform running around the interior that the archers would stand on. He could barely make out the figure of someone who had been kneeling by a hole in the floor jumping to his feet. Someone much too tall to be a hobbit, he realized. It had to be a trap. His suspicions were confirmed when the man stepped a little further into the light, revealing his golden hair, and groaned, “What are you doing here?”

I should have known.  “Pippin said that Merry was trapped in here. Let me guess… Merry told you the same about Pippin?” Faramir said, somehow keeping his voice calm.

Understanding flashed across Éomer’s face.  “I should have known it was a trick,” he growled.

Faramir was about to respond when he felt a hard shove from behind. The unexpected attack made him lose his balance and he fell onto the dusty wooden floor of the tower. He quickly jumped back to his feet and whirled towards the door as Éomer rushed forward, but they were too late. The door slammed shut behind them, trapping them in the shadowy building.

Éomer grabbed for the latch of the door, but his hand came up empty. He furrowed his brow as he ran his hand over the weather-worn wood, searching for a way to open it. Then he turned back towards Faramir and said, “The latch is gone.”

“It can only be opened from the outside,” a familiar yet muffled voice said from the other side of the door. “We checked.”

Éomer narrowed his eyes. “Merry, open the door.”

“I am sorry, but we can’t,” Pippin chimed in.

Faramir stepped closer to the door. “Pippin, what are you doing?” he asked, feeling more than a little annoyed.

“This is something we do in the Shire, when two people just can’t seem to settle an argument and more…drastic measures need to be taken,” Merry said.

“What, lock them in a tower?” Éomer groaned.

“Well, no—we just shut them in a room together and make sure they don’t come out until they’ve worked out their differences. It usually works really well…of course, there was that one time where Reggy Proudfoot and Rory Boffin started hitting each other, and…” Pippin mused. Faramir glanced over at Éomer, hoping that the hobbit had not inadvertently given the man of Rohan any ideas.

“Pippin!” Merry exclaimed. There was a sound of a thud, and an “Ow! Stop it, Merry!” from Pippin before Merry continued. “Anyway, the point is, since you two are not even trying to get along, we figured you needed a little help.”

“I cannot believe this…” Faramir muttered.

“Oh, and don’t worry…Aragorn has decided to wait a few hours to see if the rain clears up before we start moving again, so we won’t leave without you.” Pippin’s voice was back to its usual cheerfulness.

Éomer and Faramir glanced at each other. “Does Aragorn know about this?” Éomer asked cautiously.

“No, just us. We’ll be back in a little while; maybe we will let you out then. Goodbye!” Merry called.

Éomer pounded on the door. “Merry, you are still sworn to Rohan’s service… open the door! That is an order!” But the only response was laughter. Éomer peered through the hole where the latch should have been just in time to see them dart out of sight. “Bloody Halflings!” he groaned.

Faramir just shook his head, for once almost relieved that his brother was not accompanying him on this journey. If Boromir knew that he had survived the defeat of Mordor only to be captured by two hobbits, he would never hear the end of it.

Éomer paced the squeaky wooden floor, his brow furrowed as he thought through the situation. He still could not believe the two Halflings had so completely outwitted him, and if there was one thing he hated, it was being made to look like a fool. His only consolation was that Faramir had fallen for it as well.

Oh, he had tried to leave. But throwing his weight against the door in an attempt to break it down had only succeeded in making his shoulder sore. And now he was still trapped in this accursed tower with the one man he least wanted to spend any significant amount of time with. Well, perhaps not  the  one man…he preferred Faramir’s company to, say, Wormtongue’s. But still…

This was definitely not turning out to be one of his better days.

The sound of a heavy creak followed by a crash and a muffled curse from somewhere overhead startled Éomer out of his gloomy reflection, and he glanced up to see Faramir pulling his foot out of a newly-made hole in the platform that encircled the interior. Faramir quickly backed away from the hole, scowling as he impatiently pushed his dark hair away from his eyes.

Éomer frowned. “What in Béma’s name are you doing?”

Faramir motioned for him to wait as he looked out of one of the window slits. After a moment, he moved to a different one, carefully testing each step before putting his full weight down. “If you break your neck up there, I will not take any responsibility for it,” Éomer called up, rolling his eyes.

Once again, Faramir motioned for him to be silent as he quickly moved away from the window, much to Éomer’s annoyance. He gritted his teeth slightly, feeling even more annoyed at how untroubled Faramir seemed by this situation.

He did not speak until he had climbed down and moved closer to Éomer, and then it was with a lowered voice. “Merry and Pippin are still out there,” he said.

“I saw them run off, Faramir,” Éomer said, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Yes, but only to the other side of the tower. When you spoke, they looked up; I saw them from the window.” Faramir motioned towards the ladder, and added with a hint of sarcasm, “If you do not believe me, you can go see for yourself.”

Éomer scowled. “No, I will take your word for it.” There was no way  he  was climbing up on that rickety platform. “So in other words, they can hear everything we say.”

“I believe so. At least, everything spoken at a normal volume, which means they would also hear any attempt to leave.” When Éomer gave him an odd look, Faramir added, “I am certainly not planning on staying here until they feel like letting us out.”

Faramir was surprised to see the slightest hint of a grin tugging at the corners of Éomer’s mouth. “Neither am I.” Just as quickly, the smile faded, and they fell into an awkward silence. After a moment, Éomer turned and resumed his pacing. Faramir shrugged and began silently studying the room.

  There must be  something  in this accursed tower that will help,  Éomer thought. He spotted a bunch of wooden crates stacked up against the far wall, and began opening them up in hopes of finding something that would help him to open the door. The first box was empty, as was the second. The third held only the rotted remains of some food, which Éomer quickly pushed aside in disgust.

Faramir, meanwhile, had finished his silent inspection of the room. The windows were too narrow for him to climb through. The hole in the roof could work, but only if he could find something to serve as a rope…and if the condition of the platform was any indication, he could not trust anything he found in this place to hold his weight.  It looks like the door is the only option,  he reluctantly admitted as he walked over to the door.

He knelt down, carefully studying the hole where the latch had been, then drew a knife from his belt. He attempted first to stick the blade in the latch-hole, but it was too wide. He then carefully began sliding it between the edge of the door and the frame, thinking that perhaps if he could find what was keeping the door shut, he could find a way to unlock it. He quickly realized that he had overestimated the width of the crack; the blade quickly wedged in the door, and his efforts to pull it out nearly landed him flat on his back.

Across the room, Éomer opened the last box in his pile. It was also empty. He groaned in frustration, then tossed the box behind him. It landed with a clatter, then fell onto its side. Faramir glanced over at him again. Then, both men turned as they heard Merry’s voice from the other side of the door. “What are you doing in there?”

“Nothing,” Faramir and Éomer said simultaneously.

“I haven’t heard any talking; you will get out of there a lot sooner if you at least try to work this out,” Pippin said.

“How fast can you run, Merry?” Éomer asked, ignoring Pippin. “Because as soon as I get out of here…”

He did not have a chance to finish his thought before Faramir interrupted, “Once they realize that all four of us are gone, you know they will suspect something and come looking for us. It will be much easier on everyone involved if you just let us go now.”

There was a pause on the other side of the door, as if the hobbits were having a hushed conference, then Merry answered, “You had better start talking then.”

“Merry!” Faramir groaned. The hobbits did not answer. He shook his head again. “This is ridiculous!”

Éomer turned and glared at him. “Why did you cut me off like that?”

“I did not think death threats would be the most effective way of changing their minds,” Faramir answered, glaring back.

“Your method did not have such great results either,” Éomer muttered, then kicked one of the boxes in frustration. It skidded across the floor and fell into the hole; he could not help feeling a grim satisfaction as he heard it crash against the stone foundation.

Faramir decided to take the chance of turning his back on Éomer. The man was positively infuriating at times, and Faramir was quickly losing his temper. He needed to stay calm if he was going to figure a way out of this. He quickly resheathed the knife, thought for a moment, then unclasped his cloak pin. A few fumbling attempts proved that the pin wasn’t quite long enough to reach the other side. He leaned forward as he reclasped his cloak and studied the door again.

A few minutes later, Éomer suddenly appeared beside him. He lowered his voice as he asked, “Now what are you doing?”

Faramir glanced up. Éomer looked curious, but for the first time that Faramir could remember, there was no open hostility in his eyes. He wondered at this, but said nothing about it. “If I can find something strong enough that is also thin enough to fit in this hole, I may be able to open the latch from this side,” he said.

Éomer looked at him skeptically. “Are you sure that will work?”

“No, but do you have any better ideas?” Faramir bit back the temptation to point out that Éomer’s escape attempt had not worked very well at all.

Éomer sighed in frustration, running a hand through his fair hair. “Not unless you are looking for about a hundred different ways to kill a hobbit,” he grudgingly admitted; he absolutely hated the thought that he might actually need the Gondorian’s help to get out of this. “What did you have in mind to use?”

“I will see if I can find anything,” Faramir said, feeling equally reluctant to admit any uncertainty in front of Éomer. He walked over to the base of the platform and began looking around. Éomer silently moved to the opposite side of the tower and began searching as well.

They worked in silence for quite some time; the only sounds were the small thuds as they shifted the empty boxes and the rain as it drummed on the roof and spilled onto the platform from the hole in the ceiling. Faramir had managed to move four of the boxes when he heard a crashing sound behind him. He looked around, and saw Éomer picking up one of the remnants of the crate he had just smashed against the wall. Even though it was obvious to him that Éomer was at least as frustrated as he was, it still took all his effort to stifle a laugh. But as long as he was going to be trapped in a confined space with the King of Rohan, it would definitely be in his best interest to avoid doing anything to arouse Éomer’s temper.

Éomer noticed Faramir watching him and trying not to laugh. He stiffened for a moment, then turned away. He was uncertain as to why he had thrown the box against the wall; he had not yet found anything that might possibly help, especially since every box he had looked in so far was empty, and his irritation had temporarily gotten the best of him. After a tense moment, Faramir stood up and walked back over to the door.

Éomer clenched his jaw as he watched.  How can he stay so calm all the time?  he wondered. It would be easier to provoke a rock. Although, he realized, as headstrong as his sister could be, perhaps that was a good thing… He shook his head.  Stop it,  he told himself firmly. He had more important things to think about right now, like how to get out of here. And perhaps another hundred ways to kill a hobbit.

He looked down at the remains of the crate he had smashed. The nails sticking out of it did not look like they would quite be long enough to reach the latch. But perhaps they did not need to be. An idea began to form in his mind as he used the flat edge of his knife blade to work one of the nails out of the board.  This had better work,  he thought crossly. The confinement was obviously starting to get to him.

After studying the door for a few more minutes, Faramir sat back against the wall and closed his eyes. He needed to think. There had to be  something  in this place that would work.

The sound of a heavy crash made him open his eyes just as something hit his arm lightly. Éomer was standing by the wall, a splintered piece of one of the boxes in his hand. Faramir flicked the fragment of wood caught on his sleeve aside, feeling annoyed. “What are you  doing  ?” he asked. This time, Éomer did not reply as he began sorting through the remains of the box.

Éomer could feel Faramir watching him intently as he picked up one of the longer splinters. Then he pulled a thread from the frayed edge of his cloak, and began tying the fragment to the nail to lengthen it. He glanced over at Faramir once, and almost grinned as he watched the other man’s eyes light up in understanding. When he was done, he walked over to Faramir and asked softly, “Will this work?”

Faramir took the contraption and looked at it. Though a little on the thick side where the thread bound the wood and metal together, it was plenty long enough to reach the other side of the door. “It might,” he said. After only a moment’s hesitation, he added, “Thank you.”

Éomer grunted noncommittally. “Just get us out of here, Steward.” This time, the derision that usually accompanied the other man’s use of the word was missing, to Faramir’s surprise. He nodded, and jumped to his feet.

It took a bit of maneuvering to get the contraption in the hole, and Faramir found it difficult to concentrate with Éomer pacing behind him, but the crude lock-pick was more than long enough. As Faramir fumbled around, blindly trying to find the latch, he realized that the lack of conversation would arouse the hobbits’ suspicion again. And, he thought with a wry grin, a little bit of intimidation probably would not hurt. Raising his voice to a level where he knew the hobbits would be sure to hear—but not so loud that Merry and Pippin would realize what he was doing—he asked, “What exactly were you planning on doing to Merry?”

Éomer stopped pacing and his head jerked up. “What?”

“You told Merry he had better run once you are free of this place,” Faramir said, glancing back at the young king. Éomer still looked confused, and Faramir jerked his head towards the part of the wall where the hobbits’ voices had come from.

Éomer just stared at him for a moment, then smiled a little as understanding dawned on him. A diversion. “I cannot let something like this go unpunished. He is a knight of the Mark now, and conspiring against his king could be considered grounds for treason.”

Faramir turned back towards the door, but kept his voice louder. “I believe that you are right. Pippin is sworn to the service of Gondor as well, and these actions hardly befit a guard of the Citadel. What would you propose as an appropriate punishment?”

Éomer’s grin grew wider in spite of himself; he might actually enjoy this conversation. “I was thinking that tying them behind Firefoot and letting him drag them around awhile might work.” Faramir snorted in a very undignified manner. “Why? What would you do?” Éomer asked.

“The punishment should fit the crime,” Faramir said. “Are there any half-rotted barns in Edoras that we could lock them in?”

“The dungeon might work better. I can say from personal experience that it is rather uncomfortable down there,” Éomer replied, scowling a little at the memory of his somewhat recent imprisonment by Gríma.

“I have heard hobbits live underground though. They might not mind that so much,” Faramir pointed out, after regarding him curiously for a moment.

Éomer opened his mouth to argue, then paused. He had a point. “Whatever we do should be completely humiliating for them. What would embarrass a hobbit?”

Faramir shrugged. “I do not know. Shave their feet, maybe,” he said without thinking as he focused on the latch.

  Perhaps he has a sense of humor after all,  Éomer thought wryly as he was suddenly struck by how absurd this entire situation was. The thought combined with the mental picture of Merry squirming in protest as he tried to shave the Halfling’s feet made him burst out laughing; his laughter grew louder as Faramir jumped at the sound and dropped the lock-pick. For a moment, grey-blue eyes stared at him warily. Then Faramir apparently decided Éomer had meant no ill will, relaxed and smiled a bit as he resumed his attempt to pick the lock.

Éomer thought for a moment about what else would bother a Halfling, then added, “Or we could swap their ale with water from the horse troughs.”

This time it was Faramir’s turn to laugh. “Or one of those horrible brews the healers come up with. Some of those are even the right color.”

“Or better yet, we could have Éowyn cook a special meal for them,” Éomer said.

A look of confusion crossed Faramir’s face. “What is so bad about that?”

Éomer grinned wickedly. “Obviously, you have never tasted my sister’s cooking.”

Faramir laughed, then caught himself, a guilty look crossing his face, followed by an awkward look. He still felt uncomfortable talking about Éowyn around her brother. Éomer also clenched his jaw slightly, suddenly remembering what had gotten him into this mess in the first place.

Faramir silently began working on the latch again, then his eyes widened slightly as he heard a soft click. He pushed a little on the door and felt it move. Instantly Éomer was at his side, looking at him quizzically. Faramir nodded and pushed a little more, wincing at the squeak. Éomer quickly spoke up loudly, saying, “Or perhaps we could just throw them in a river somewhere. Although, in this heat, they might actually enjoy that.”

Faramir grinned; Éomer had given him just enough time to push the heavy door open wide enough so that they should be able to squeeze through. “Or we could…” he dropped his voice low enough so that Merry and Pippin would think he was planning something truly awful, then added, “Go around from the other side. And try not to make noise out there. We don not want to alert them.” Éomer nodded, then followed Faramir out of the decrepit tower.

“Wait,” Éomer whispered as Faramir pulled up the hood of his cloak and began to move away. He turned, automatically pushing his raven hair away from his eyes as he looked at Éomer questioningly. “We tell no one of this morning. Agreed?” Éomer finished.

“Agreed,” Faramir said, noticeably relieved, and the two men quickly parted ways.

It took all of Éomer’s effort to move quietly as he crept around the side of the building. As it was, he had to move very slowly to avoid stepping on stray twigs. He arrived just in time to hear Pippin asking, “They wouldn’t really do any of those things… would they?” The two hobbits were standing with their ears pressed against the wall, their curls hanging limply and dripping from the rain. He almost stepped out from his hiding place among the bushes, but spotted Faramir, who shook his head almost imperceptibly. Éomer silently protested, but then reasoned that Faramir  did  have more experience with ambushes.

“How could they?” Merry asked confidently.

“We’ll have to let them out eventually,” Pippin pointed out.

Merry frowned; apparently he hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t think they would…” he said slowly.

Faramir glanced over at Éomer and nodded slightly, then a deadly serious look crossed his face as he stepped out from behind the bush he had been crouching behind. “No, of course we would not,” he said. Both hobbits visibly jumped at the sound, then looked over at Faramir, wide-eyed. Éomer took the opportunity to step out into view, resting his hand casually on his sword-hilt. Pippin slowly backed away from Faramir, jumping again as he backed right into the horse-lord. Merry turned, his face going pale at the dark look in Éomer’s eyes.

Faramir stepped a little closer, and the hobbits backed against the wall. “I think you have some explaining to do,” he said quietly.

Merry and Pippin looked from Faramir to Éomer and back nervously. Then they bolted. Éomer lunged forward and almost managed to get a hold of Merry, but slipped on the wet grass and stumbled to his knees as the hobbit broke free. Faramir had more success with blocking Pippin’s escape, but as he struggled to remove Faramir’s grip on his arm, he cried out, “You had better let me go, or else…”

“Or else what?” Éomer asked, glaring at Merry as he stood up again and brushed himself off.

“Or…” Pippin thought frantically for a moment. “I’ll tell Éowyn about this.” Faramir unconsciously loosened his grip a bit, and Pippin wrenched his arm free and followed Merry.

“Wonderful,” Faramir muttered sarcastically as he turned to Éomer. “Do you think they will talk?”

“Not if they want to live,” Éomer muttered darkly.

Faramir eyed him coolly. “It would cause a great deal of difficulty if either of them comes to harm at your hands,” he pointed out.

Éomer opened his mouth to argue, then realized Faramir was right; there was no way he could get revenge without the others wondering why. “So we are still trapped,” he groaned.

The morning improved little from there, nor did the days that followed. Though his men attributed Éomer’s foul mood to the visit with Aragorn and the other men of Gondor, his frustration slowly began to spread to the rest of the Rohirrim, leaving tempers very short between the men of the North.

Merry had attempted to approach him a few times, but a few murderous glares had been enough to send Merry scurrying off; he kept to his post during the day and fled to the relative safety of the Gondorian encampment in the evenings. He had not seen Pippin at all since it happened. And he had begun pushing the pace of the journey as much as he could and still show his uncle the proper respect—the way things were going, he could not reach Edoras soon enough.

It was not until the third day after the tower that Merry decided to take matters into his own hands again. Éomer was sitting around the cookfire with Éothain and some of his other friends, swapping battle stories in an attempt to lighten the mood while waiting for their supper to cook, when Éomer heard a tentative voice behind him ask, “My lord?”

Éomer turned to see Merry, looking obviously nervous. “What is it, Merry?” Éomer asked warily.

“I was hoping I could speak with you for a moment,” Merry said, a determined gleam in his eyes.

“Not now, Merry,” Éomer replied crossly.

“Yes, now.” Merry crossed his arms and returned Éomer’s glare as best as he could, though he was starting to look a little nervous. “It is important.”

Éomer started to argue with him again, but Merry gave him a look that clearly said that if he did not comply, he was going to regret it. Éomer clenched his jaw as he realized that Merry had the upper hand; somehow, none of his men had yet learned of the tower incident, and he knew he would never live it down if any of them found out.  I cannot  believe  that I am being blackmailed by a hobbit…  he silently complained as he nodded and followed Merry to the edge of the camp.

Once Merry stopped and turned to face him, Éomer crossed his arms and looked down at the hobbit, who looked very nervous now. “Talk,” he said. “What are you and Pippin up to now?”

“Pippin doesn’t know that I am here. I…I just wanted to apologize for the other day,” Merry blurted out. “We should not have done that, and I’m sorry.”

Éomer stared at him for a moment. He had been expecting an interrogation about why he and Faramir had failed to resolve their issues, not an apology, and he was a little caught off-guard. But it seemed that the hobbit was genuinely sorry. Éomer took a deep breath and sat down on the ground so that he was eye-to-eye with Merry. “Apology accepted,” he said. Merry gave an audible sigh of relief, which quickly ended as Éomer added, “But you still have some explaining to do.”

Merry sat down beside him. “It was my idea,” he confessed, still not really looking at Éomer. “But I really didn’t mean to embarrass you. I just thought that if the two of you were forced to sit down and talk it out, you would be able to solve whatever the problem is.”

“Merry, this is between myself and Faramir. Why is it so important to you and Pippin?”

His head jerked up, and the hobbit looked him square in the eyes again. “For Éowyn’s sake. Before you and Aragorn and everyone left for Mordor, you asked me to keep an eye on her, remember?” Éomer nodded; the hobbit had been the only one to remain in the city that Éomer thought his sister might be willing to confide in. “Well, I did. She was so sad when I was in the Houses of Healing with her…I tried everything I could think of to cheer her up. Sometimes it seemed like it worked for a little while, but it never lasted long,” he added. “But then after we returned to Minas Tirith, she was completely different. Didn’t you see how happy she was?” Éomer nodded reluctantly. He had noticed, and he had been glad to see that. “It was Faramir who did that,” Merry said softly. “Because he loves her. And that was what she needed.”

Éomer scowled as he looked down at the ground. He knew everything that Merry was saying was true. But there was still something about this that really bothered him, though he could not quite figure out what it was.

“Éomer?” Merry asked, a note of concern in his voice.

“I am fine, Merry. You have given me a lot to think about,” Éomer said. “If you will excuse me…” he stood up and walked off. He needed to get away from the camp for awhile.

Faramir had gladly volunteered for guard duty that evening. He had always been able to get some of his best thinking done while keeping watch. And over the past few days, Aragorn and Imrahil had been constantly attempting to draw him out; it seemed they believed that his sudden withdraw from the others’ company was the result of Éomer’s near-attack during his last visit to their camp. But now they were beginning to suspect that there was more to the story. He was glad to have a few moments away from their concerned questions. But the silence was broken when a familiar voice behind him said, “Lord Faramir?” He turned to see Pippin standing there, the setting sun adding a reddish-gold tinge to his brown curls.

Faramir was more than a little surprised to see him; an unspoken understanding had arisen that if Faramir left Pippin alone, Pippin would not breathe a word of what they had done to him and Éomer. As a result, they had been avoiding each other for the past several days—and the others were starting to notice. He motioned for the hobbit to sit down beside him as he set his bow aside, saying, “What is it, Pippin?”

“I’m sorry about the other day,” Pippin said. “Are you still angry with me and Merry?”

Faramir smiled sadly. “No, I am not angry with you.”

“Good,” Pippin said, looking relieved. “I hate it when people are mad at me. It seems to happen a lot though.”

Faramir could not help laughing. “And just how many times did you end up locked in a room with another hobbit, Pippin?” he asked.

“Just once,” Pippin said, his face reddening slightly, as he changed the subject. “You really should talk to Éomer, you know.”

“I know,” Faramir replied. He was going to add that he could not while he was on guard duty, but decided to leave it at that. Then he smiled. “What did you get locked up for?”

Pippin’s face reddened even more. “Fighting with one of my cousins,” he reluctantly admitted. “We never got along before that.”

“So what happened?” Faramir asked.

The hobbit looked up at him and grinned sheepishly. “He’s been my best friend ever since.”

  Merry.  Of course. Suddenly the Halflings’ actions made more sense. Faramir smiled gently. “I know that you and Merry meant well, Pippin, but it is not that simple between Éomer and I.” Pippin looked at him questioningly, and Faramir added, “For one thing, you are not hoping to marry Merry’s sister.”

Pippin opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, then reconsidered, and the two fell silent. Finally, he looked up at Faramir again and said seriously, “I hope you can work this out, Faramir.”

“So do I, Pippin. Thank you.” The hobbit stood up to leave, and Faramir added with a smile, “You will have to tell me more about what you and Merry did sometime.”

Pippin’s usual slightly-mischievous smile returned to his face. “I will. Goodbye!” Faramir could not help grinning; Pippin’s irrepressible cheerfulness was one of the things he liked best about the hobbit. Then he picked up his longbow, setting it across his knees as he concentrated on the darkening landscape once more.

Éomer wandered around aimlessly for awhile, trying to clear his thoughts. He was just getting more frustrated though, the more he thought about it.

It had been startling to realize that he was no longer angry with Faramir. If he was perfectly honest, he had not been since the tower incident. He was even ready to admit that perhaps he had not been  entirely  fair in his estimation of the Steward of Gondor. After all, all of his friends from Gondor and the Shire had a great deal of respect for Faramir. And surely Aragorn would not have given him lordship of Ithilien if he had not believed the man to be trustworthy.

Still, it was a heavy blow to his pride to realize that although it had not happened in the way they had thought, Merry and Pippin’s plan had worked after all. But not as heavy as the realization of what had been bothering him ever since the war had ended.

Though she had never said as much, he still could not help feeling that he was responsible for Éowyn’s actions by not seeing the despair she had fallen into. And then he had left her in Gondor to try to keep her safe, and still he had failed to help her. It had taken a complete stranger to do that. Perhaps, he realized, that was why he had resented Faramir for so long—it was easier than taking the blame himself. And, he had to admit, he could not help feeling a little jealous of Faramir, since the Steward had somehow managed to help her more within a few weeks than he had been able to in years.

He was startled from his thoughts as an all-too-familiar voice called out, “Who goes there?”

Éomer glanced around, trying to see his surroundings in the dim light offered by the crescent moon. He finally spotted Faramir, standing on a slope slightly above him, an arrow held to his bowstring and ready to fire.

Normally Éomer would have come up with some kind of sarcastic response, even if meant in jest, but he was not in the mood for it that night. “Éomer,” he finally answered.

The bow lowered, but Faramir still stood as if he was eyeing him warily. “What are you doing here?”

Éomer hesitated before answering. What was he doing there? He had not even realized that he had walked so far; he was closer to the far edge of the Gondorian encampment by this point. He quickly tried to come up with an excuse, but nothing came. Then he clenched his jaw in determination. This had gone on long enough. “I think we need to talk,” he said quietly.

Faramir’s hand tightened around his longbow slightly, but he set the end of it on the ground casually as he waited for the King of Rohan to continue. He was determined not to let Éomer intimidate him this time.

Éomer glanced around, feeling awkward. Now that he was here, he had no idea what to say to Faramir. “I…um…” he started, gritting his teeth in irritation. His eyes rested on Faramir’s longbow, which stood a bit taller than he did. How can anyone shoot that thing? he wondered, and without thinking, he said, “’Tis a pity we did not have that bow of yours the other day. We could have just used it to beat the door down.”

 That was not good, he realized as Faramir replied in an irritated tone, “And if we had one of those twigs that your people call bows, we could have used it to pick the lock. But if your reason for coming here was just to insult the weapons of Gondor, I would appreciate you saving this conversation for another time. I am on duty.”

“I am sorry, I did not mean it that way,” Éomer said quickly. By the Valar, he hated this! Facing down a whole army of orcs would be easier than this! he thought. Faramir’s only reply was to eye him stonily. Éomer felt increasingly more awkward, and what came out next surprised him as much as it did Faramir. “Do you ever wish things could have been different?”

“What do you mean?” Faramir asked cautiously. He had been certain that Éomer would be more direct.

“You never expected to be the Steward of Gondor, let alone Prince of Ithilien,” Éomer replied, shifting his feet nervously. Stop stalling, you coward! he thought, wishing that he could just figure out what he really wanted to say and get it over with.

To Éomer’s relief, Faramir relaxed a little. “No, I did not.” A sad half-smile crossed his face as he added, “Boromir and I had it all planned; when he was Steward, I would be his right-hand. That way I could handle all the diplomacy and leave him free to plan the borders’ defenses.”

“Théodred and I had a similar plan,” Éomer said. “When he was King, I would continue to have charge of the armies of the Eastfold. I never thought it would come to this,” he added, motioning to the signet ring that showed his position. He hesitantly looked over at Faramir and asked, “Do you ever wonder if you are the right person for this job?”

Faramir gazed out into the distance. “Every single day,” he said softly. “Boromir was the one trained for this, not I. I cannot help wondering sometimes if Aragorn’s confidence in me is misplaced.”

“At least you still have someone over you,” Éomer grumbled. “I thought at first that leading a nation would be like leading an éored, only on a larger scale, but it is so different.” He smiled wryly. “If not for Éowyn’s aid, I am sure that I would have led Rohan into ruin by now.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt a stab of bitterness as he remembered why he was there. And you are going to take her away.

Faramir could guess what Éomer was thinking as the younger man’s smile faded. “I am not trying to take her from you, Éomer,” he said quietly. Éomer glanced over, a steely glint in his eyes. “I know you do not believe that I deserve your sister,” he continued, looking down a bit. “I know that I do not; she deserves no less than the king of Gondor. But I love her nonetheless.”

Éomer’s frown faded, though he did not smile. “I know,” he said softly. If he was truly honest with himself, he had known all along. “And I think I…I owe you an apology,” he reluctantly added. Faramir looked up at him, clearly surprised, as Éomer continued. “I hate to say it, but Aragorn and Merry were right; I never did give you a chance. I thought it would be the best thing for Éowyn because I…” he abruptly stopped.

Faramir’s blue-grey eyes looked at him keenly. “Because you wanted to protect her?” he asked.

“How do you do that?” Éomer groaned.

“What?” Faramir said.

“Can you read minds?” Éomer asked.

Faramir abruptly laughed. “Not exactly,” he said, smiling. “But you are rather easy to read; your thoughts are practically written on your face.” Éomer narrowed his eyes slightly, and Faramir quickly elaborated, “It was not intended as an insult. I meant that you do not hide what you are thinking, and so it is easy to take you at your word.”

The young king nodded slightly as Faramir continued. “From what I have observed, you are very protective of Éowyn. She is fortunate to have a brother who cares for her so deeply.” His smile faded. “Truthfully, from what little she has told me about the last few years in Edoras, I would be suspicious too, if I were in your position.” Now it was Éomer’s turn to look surprised. “But I can assure you that I would never intentionally bring harm to your sister. Or do anything to bring her honor into question,” he added, giving Éomer a pointed look.

“All right, maybe I did overreact just a little ,” Éomer said. “This is just going to take some time to get used to. It is hard to think of her as a woman and not just my little sister sometimes.”

Faramir smiled a little, then paused for a moment before changing the topic slightly. “She does love you very much, Éomer. The thing she was most afraid of during her stay in the Houses of Healing was that she would never see you again. Or that if she did, you would not be able to forgive her for deceiving you.”

Éomer smiled wryly. “And the entire time I thought she would not forgive me for failing to protect her. After our mother died, I swore that I would watch out for her, but I still did not see how troubled she was until it was too late.” He looked up at the sky as he admitted, “I suppose I owe you more than an apology. I know not what would have happened to her if you had not been there with her.”

“I am just glad I could help her,” Faramir said softly. Éomer glanced over at him; there was no doubting the sincerity in his eyes. Perhaps Éowyn did not choose so badly after all, he decided.

Éomer fell silent for awhile, and Faramir let his gaze drift out over the rocky plains once more. Finally, Éomer said, “If you value your life, you should hire a cook. I love Éowyn, but I was not joking about her food preparation skills.”

Faramir could not quite stifle his laugh, but he recognized what Éomer was trying to say. “Thank you,” he replied.

“Of course, if you ever hurt her, I will still be forced to kill you,” Éomer added with a small smile, grateful that Faramir understood.

“I will do my best to treat her with all the love and respect she deserves,” Faramir said solemnly. Then he grinned. “Her cooking is not really that bad, is it?”

 “The last time I ate her cooking, I could barely stand for the rest of the day without feeling like I was going to be ill,” Éomer said with an exaggerated grimace.

Faramir laughed. “Perhaps I should just hire one of the hobbits to do it for her,” he teased. “Of course, he would probably eat half of it before anyone else got a single bite.”

“That reminds me,” Éomer said, giving Faramir a sidelong glance as he sat down. “We still have some…unfinished business with two particular hobbits.”

“Do you think so?” Faramir asked, sitting down beside him. “It seemed that Pippin, at least, was genuinely sorry when I spoke with him earlier this evening.” He seemed like he would be more than happy to forget it had ever happened.

“’Tis a matter of honor, Faramir,” Éomer retorted with a wicked grin. “We were wrongfully imprisoned, and I for one am not going to just let them get away with it. Besides, I am tired of being blackmailed.”

“That is true...and I think Aragorn, at least, is starting to suspect something. I would like to put a stop to this before he figure it out,” Faramir mused. “Do you have any ideas?”

Éomer thought about it for a moment. He did not want to risk injuring the hobbits, and what they had done had been more of a prank than anything else. So whatever vengeance they took would have to be relatively harmless…which eliminated most of the ideas that he had already had. “No,” he finally said. “Except for perhaps swapping their ale with something else, but they heard us speak of that already. Do you?”

“I have not been able to think of anything yet,” Faramir admitted. “But I think we can buy ourselves some time easily enough. It might actually work to our advantage.”

“How?”

“Were Merry and Pippin constantly acting like they were up to something?” Faramir asked.

“Yes, and I thought they would drive me mad, since I could not…” Éomer trailed off as he realized what Faramir was getting at. “So, in other words, we act like we are plotting something?”

“If they think that we are planning some sort of awful revenge, it just might be enough to keep them on their best behavior. Enough to keep them silent about the whole matter, at any rate. Especially if Éowyn’s around.”

Éomer nodded his agreement. If Éowyn found out, she would never let either of them hear the end of it. Especially him, after that little incident in the Houses of Healing…“I see your point.”

“Well, here is something I never expected to see on this journey,” a voice interrupted. Both men jumped, then relaxed as they realized it was not either of the hobbits. “The King of Rohan and the Prince of Ithilien having a civilized conversation of their own free will?”

“Good evening, my lord,” Faramir said as Aragorn sat down on his other side.

Éomer echoed his greeting, then asked, “What brings you out here?”

“I could not help noticing that you were both here, and I wanted to make sure that all was well,” Aragorn said, a hint of concern in his voice.

Éomer and Faramir looked at each other, and Éomer nodded slightly. Faramir returned the nod, then replied, “Yes, I believe that everything is fine.”

“Good!” Aragorn smiled. “I was beginning to think I would have to take drastic measures to make you talk this out.”

Faramir and Éomer glanced at each other skeptically. “No, I do not think that would be necessary,” Éomer said quickly.

Aragorn laughed. “I am glad to hear it.” Then he added in a more serious tone, “I consider both of you to be my friends, as do many here. And I think it will be much better for everyone involved if you are getting along. I know that my mind is more at ease now.”

Faramir looked slightly embarrassed now; Éomer felt much the same way. “It was not my intention to cause anyone else trouble,” he said.

“Nor mine,” Faramir echoed.

“I know. But I am still glad that you are speaking to one another now. And I think Éowyn will be too; I know that she cares deeply for both of you.” Aragorn grinned now. “I think this calls for a celebration! Will you both join me for some ale?”

“Only if there is some food involved too,” Éomer said, suddenly remembering he had not yet had supper that night.

“I would love to, but…” Faramir started.

“Do not be troubled, Faramir; we will find someone to cover the rest of your watch,” Aragorn said, clapping him on the shoulder. Faramir’s face colored slightly as he nodded his consent, and the three men stood up to head back to camp.

As they drew closer to the campfire, Faramir suddenly stopped. “Éomer, I do have one more question for you,” he said softly. Éomer paused. Faramir grinned; he could not resist. The mischief in his blue-grey eyes was unmistakable as he asked, “What exactly are your intentions with my cousin?”

Éomer groaned, but could not help laughing as they walked the rest of the way to the camp. I suppose I deserve that, he thought wryly.

The evening meal had been finished for quite some time, apparently; the members of the company were sitting in small groups around the cookfire, talking. They all looked up in surprise to see the three men returning. Éomer wondered if it was just his imagination, or if Merry and Pippin looked slightly nervous to see him and Faramir together. Good, he thought. “Sam!” Aragorn called out. “Is there any of that meat left?”

“A little, Mister Aragorn, sir,” Sam said. “And we’ve got some bread and cheese left too.”

“Wonderful,” Éomer said. He really was starting to feel quite hungry. Sam quickly loaded up a plate for him. “Thank you, Sam,” Éomer said, smiling at the hobbit. Sam blushed a little, then nodded as Éomer sat down. “What about some of that ale?” he asked.

“I will get it,” Faramir said innoculously. “Would anyone else like some? Merry? Pippin?”

The hobbits gave each other slightly panicked looks, then Merry quickly stammered, “N..no thank you.” Pippin echoed him, while Éomer nearly choked on his food in an effort not to laugh. Sam and Frodo looked at each other and shrugged, while Aragorn and Imrahil exchanged confused glances. Faramir just grinned as he began filling the mugs. Yes, this could turn out to be quite amusing after all.

“So when are we going to stop all this sneaking around, Steward?”

Faramir glanced back from tightening the girth on Wildfire’s saddle to see Éomer standing behind him, arms crossed and a stern look on his face. “I still do not think it necessary that we do anything, Éomer. Merry and Pippin have been on their best behavior,” he pointed out, pushing his dark hair away from his eyes and squinting slightly in the bright sunlight.

Éomer frowned, but could not deny it. Another two days had passed since he had first approached Faramir about avenging themselves, and he had to admit that so far the former Ranger’s idea was working; they had made certain that Merry and Pippin had seen them talking together several times since, and the sight had been enough to keep Merry and Pippin certain that the combined fury of the two men would come crashing down on them at any moment. And yet, Éomer found himself chafing at the inactivity. “So far, yes,” he argued. “But how much longer do you think it will last? Sooner or later, they are going to decide that we will not do anything. And then what?”

Faramir finished tacking up the horse, patting the stallion’s neck to calm him. “If they decide that, they will let their guard down,” he said with an almost-devious smile.

Éomer just stared at him for a moment, then shook his head slightly. He was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he had seriously underestimated Faramir before, and that it was much safer to have him as an ally than an opponent. “I had not thought of that,” he admitted. “But then what?”

Now Faramir frowned slightly. “I have not quite gotten that far yet,” he finally said.

“Good,” Éomer said. “I may have an idea.”

He quickly outlined his plan, and Faramir listened silently. He did not reply for a long moment, and seemed to be deep in thought. Finally, he asked, “It will not hurt them, right?”

“It should not,” Éomer quickly reassured him.

“All right,” Faramir finally conceded. “What do you wish me to do?”

  -------

Early the next evening, Merry and Pippin were sitting outside of the tent they were sharing, their sleeves rolled up to make the warm weather feel slightly more comfortable, when Faramir found them. Pippin looked up first, and seemed only slightly less relieved to see that Faramir was alone. “Hello, Faramir,” he said. Merry weakly echoed the greeting.

“Good evening,” Faramir answered cheerfully. “I was wondering if I could speak with both of you for a moment.”

“Of course,” Merry said as he and Pippin exchanged nervous glances.

“Could we go somewhere else? I do not wish to be overheard,” Faramir asked, glancing around as if looking for someone.

“I…guess so,” Pippin replied, and the two hobbits reluctantly accompanied him to the edge of the camp. Faramir smiled to himself as the hobbits kept giving each other worried looks and failing miserably at being inconspicuous about it. He had to choke back a laugh when he heard Merry whisper, “Do you think we should have told someone where we’re going?” Pippin shrugged, clearly nervous. Faramir could not resist giving them a stern look and motioning for them to hurry up.

Once he had passed the last group of tents, Faramir glanced around one more time to make sure they were alone, then sat down on a nearby rock and said, “I just wanted to thank both of you.”

“Thank us?” Pippin echoed, clearly surprised.

“For what?” Merry added.

“For helping me work things out with Éomer, of course. Your methods are a little…unusual, but I understand now why you did it.” He smiled at them reassuringly.

“It was nothing,” Merry said, looking more relaxed.

“We just want you and Éowyn to be happy,” Pippin chimed in.

“I know, and I do appreciate it,” Faramir replied.

“So…you’re not still upset with us about that little incident with the tower?” Pippin asked hopefully.

“No, I am not,” Faramir reassured him.

“Well, that’s a relief,” Merry blurted out. Faramir smiled, and looked down for a moment. As he glanced back up, he saw a slight movement back at the hobbits’ tent. The need for a distraction was past. He felt a slight pang of guilt as Merry added, “I’m glad I don’t have to watch my back around you all the time anymore,” but quickly squelched it. This will all be over soon, and then things can go back to normal, he reminded himself. I hope.

 -------

“What are you doing, Éomer?”

The young king could feel the heat rising in his face as he turned from leaving Merry and Pippin’s tent to face Aragorn, but quickly tried to hide his embarrassment at being caught. “I was just looking for something,” he quickly said.

“In the hobbits’ tent?” Aragorn eyed him suspiciously.

Éomer shrugged. “I let them borrow something, and I wanted to get it back.”

Aragorn was clearly unconvinced. “Éomer, I know that there is something going on with you, Faramir, Merry and Pippin. You have all been acting so strangely ever since that supper. And I do intend to find out what it is,” he added, looking at Éomer sternly. Éomer merely shifted his weight uncomfortably, unable to come up with a reply. After a moment of silence, Aragorn said, “I will be keeping an eye on you. All of you.” Then he turned and left, much to Éomer’s relief.

Once he was certain that Aragorn was no longer watching, he turned to see Faramir at the edge of the camp, talking to Merry and Pippin. Faramir glanced up briefly, and Éomer motioned that he had finished his end of it. Faramir nodded almost imperceptibly, and Éomer moved far enough away from the tent to avoid raising the hobbits’ suspicions. After a few more minutes, Merry and Pippin walked away, and Faramir stood up and walked over to where the horses were picketed. He bent down as if he were checking Wildfire’s feet for stones, then motioned Éomer over when he saw that he was watching.

Éomer bent over slightly to give the pretense that Faramir was asking his opinion on the horse. “Is it done?” Faramir asked softly.

“It is. But Aragorn suspects something,” Éomer replied.

“I am not surprised,” Faramir said, frowning to see that one of the shoes on the stallion had loosened. “Do you think this will hold until we arrive at Edoras? You are more familiar with the terrain here than I.”

Éomer thought for a moment. It was mostly plains and gently rolling hills between where they were now and the rugged hilltop that Edoras stood on, but he would not risk a horse unnecessarily. “Two more days,” he murmured. “Probably, but it would not hurt to nail it in more securely.”

Faramir nodded, setting the hoof down. “How long do you think it will take them to find it?” he asked, going back to the subject at hand.

“It is hard to say.” Éomer frowned. The Halflings were so unpredictable at times. “I am not entirely certain that this will work,” he admitted.

Faramir scratched the horse’s nose affectionately as he straightened. If nothing else, the man knew how to treat a horse, Éomer had to admit. “We should probably head back. If Aragorn sees us out here talking, he will get even more suspicious,” Faramir said. Éomer nodded his agreement, and the two men walked back to the camp.

Sure enough, Aragorn was waiting for them. “Is everything well with your horse, Faramir?” he asked. Imrahil stood nearby, obviously listening.

“Mostly,” Faramir said, grateful that he had a legitimate excuse. “One of his shoes is loose, and I wanted a second opinion on whether it would hold long enough to reach Edoras.” Aragorn looked at him for a long moment, then nodded, and Faramir quietly sighed in relief.

The four men looked up as they heard an indignant gasp, followed by coughing. Merry and Pippin were sitting by the fire, pipes in hand, looking as if they were choking.

“Are you all right?” Aragorn asked, concerned. The two hobbits continued coughing and sputtering.

“This… isn’t pipeweed,” Merry finally managed to gasp between coughing fits. Pippin mutely dumped out the leather pouch to reveal the dried leaves that Éomer had gathered from various weeds native to his lands and painstakingly dried by the fire the evening before.

Aragorn and Imrahil just looked at each other, unsure what to make of the situation. Faramir was having trouble suppressing a laugh, and risked a glance over at the King of Rohan. Éomer’s face was turning red from the effort of remaining silent. The hobbits finally noticed, and Merry’s face turned even redder. “You!” he blurted out.

Pippin looked up at the two men, wide-eyed. Éomer finally lost the battle with his mirth, and burst out laughing. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Faramir trying very unsuccessfully to choke back his own laughter. Pippin dropped his pipe and tackled Faramir, crying out, “For the Shire!” Faramir was caught off-guard and quickly lost his balance, falling to the ground. Éomer laughed even harder as the man of Gondor tried to get the irate hobbit off of him, which left him completely unprepared when Merry launched his own attack.

After a few moments, Faramir laughed breathlessly and held his hands up. “All right… truce?” he asked. Éomer pushed himself back to a sitting position, startled at the ferocity of Merry’s attack and making a mental note to never again try anything that would affect a Halfling’s ability to eat or smoke in peace.

“Truce,” Pippin quickly said with a grin. Faramir sat up and pulled the hobbit to his feet, then stood up and brushed himself off.

Aragorn looked frustrated. “What in Arda is going on?” he exclaimed.

Éomer could see that Merry knew it had been his idea as the hobbit eyed him for a long moment. Then he grinned, and Éomer relaxed, knowing it was finally over. “Just a little matter of honour, my friend,” Éomer said, smiling.

“Nothing for you to be concerned about,” Merry added with a grin of his own.

Aragorn gave up when he saw there was going to be no answers that night, throwing up his hands in exasperation as he left. He could not quite keep a smile off his face, however. Imrahil eyed his nephew for a moment, then shook his head with a smile and followed Aragorn. Éomer looked over at Merry. “So we are even then.”

“Yes, I suppose we are,” Merry said.

“Good,” Faramir and Pippin said simultaneously. Éomer just laughed, glad that the rest of the journey could go smoothly now.

  -------

Faramir smiled as he looked around the hall. The carved and painted wooden pillars and tapestries on the wall gave the room a warmth that the marble halls of the palace often seemed to lack. And despite the reason for this feast, to honor the late king Théoden, it was more relaxed and enjoyable than many feasts he had attended in the Citadel for happier reasons. Of course, he reflected with a smile, the company is much more pleasant too.

He suddenly realized that Éowyn was nowhere in sight. He felt the bench shift slightly as someone sat down beside him, and again on his other side. He glanced to each side to see Aragorn and Éomer. Though he was used to seeing Aragorn in his royal robes, it was still somewhat of a shock to see Éomer in the richly-embroidered velvet tunic and golden circlet he wore on his head instead of the armour he was more accustomed to seeing.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Faramir?” Aragorn asked with a smile.

“Of course,” Faramir said. “I was just wondering where Éowyn went.”

“Oh, she will be back shortly. She ran off with that unbearable cousin of yours,” Éomer replied nonchalantly. Aragorn and Faramir smirked at each other knowingly, but did not reply as Éomer added, “It is time. Are you ready?”

“Are you certain about this, Éomer? I do not wish to dishonour your uncle,” Faramir said, a note of concern in his voice.

“I told you already, it is fitting. He would have loved to be here for this,” Éomer said, his tone indicating that he would not be argued with. “Unless, of course,” he added with a wicked grin, “you have changed your mind?”

A horrified expression crossed Faramir’s face, causing both Aragorn and Éomer to laugh. “Of course not!” he protested.

Aragorn glanced towards the door. “There she is,” he said. Faramir followed his gaze to where Éowyn and Lothiríel were re-entering the hall. Éowyn had exchanged her dark funeral garb for the white she so often wore, and Lothiríel had arranged her hair around a thin golden circlet in such a way that half of it still tumbled down her back in golden waves that gleamed richly in the torchlight. She looked every inch the royalty she was, and Faramir’s breath caught in his throat to see her.

Éomer grinned to see the Steward struck speechless. “Come on then, before I change my mind,” he teased as he rose to take his sister’s arm.

He led her around to the front of the table, and she smiled brightly as she caught Faramir’s eye. Faramir was still unable to take his eyes off of Éowyn, and was only startled out of his near-stupor when Aragorn nudged him with his elbow. “Go on, Faramir,” he whispered. Faramir’s face reddened slightly as he quickly walked around the table to stand on Éomer’s other side. 

Éomer turned and picked up a golden goblet, raising it to signal that he was going to speak. He waited until the hall fell silent before he began in a loud voice, “Now this is the funeral feast of Théoden the King, but I will speak before we go of tidings of joy. He would not grudge that I do so, since he was ever a father to Éowyn, my sister.” He and Éowyn smiled at each other fondly, though with a touch of sadness at the memory as he continued. “Hear then all my guests, fair folk of many realms, such as have never before been gathered in this hall! 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.”

Éomer stepped back and lifted Faramir’s hand, setting Éowyn’s in it. He bowed his head slightly as he did so, and Éowyn reached out with her other hand to set it on her brother’s shoulder. “Thank you,” she said softly, understanding how hard this was for him. Éomer nodded silently as he stepped back.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Merry jump up on the wooden bench, an ale mug in his hand. “To Faramir and Éowyn!” he called out cheerfully. Pippin quickly followed suit, and the hall soon echoed with similar sentiments as cups were raised and the guests drank to the couple.

Éomer watched as Faramir lifted Éowyn’s hand and kissed it tenderly, a wide smile on his face. It had been strange seeing them together since their arrival in Edoras, as if Éomer was truly seeing them together for the first time. It was obvious to him that he loved her deeply, and she returned his affection with no less enthusiasm. Éomer was finally forced to admit that perhaps this was the best thing for her.

Even stranger, he was actually beginning to consider Faramir to be a friend, in spite of their differences and much to the relief of everyone else. Perhaps I can tolerate his presence in the family after all, he thought with a small grin as he stepped forward once more. “Thus is the friendship between the Mark and Gondor bound with a new bond,” he said, smiling at Éowyn before turning to Faramir and adding, “and the more do I rejoice.” He was surprised to realize that he meant every word of it, as he and Faramir clasped hands. However, he could not resist leaning forward and adding so that only the three of them could hear, “Of course, if you do not take good care of my sister, I will still be forced to kill you, Steward.” He smiled wickedly.

“Éomer!” Éowyn groaned. Faramir just laughed.

I forgot to mention that this story was for a fanfiction challenge at the now-defunct A'mael Taren, in which one of the options was to write a story about Éomer's reaction to Faramir's proposing to Éowyn. This is really the first attempt I've made at anything humorous, so I hope it works.

Also, thanks to my brilliant beta, make_it_stop. The story wouldn't have turned out nearly as well without her great suggestions.