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Vairë Was a Weaver, or, Real Men Wear Corsets  by Celeritas

Éomer had to congratulate his sister for devising, albeit by chance, such a fine test for her betrothed.  He was a fine judge of character; indeed, he had adjudged the Lord Aragorn perfectly when he first laid eyes upon him.  But the Renewer of Middle-Earth was one thing and Éowyn’s husband was another.  He had not seen anything he disliked in Faramir, mind, but their meetings thus far had always been at an equal footing, if not higher; for Éomer was a guest here and Faramir was not.  No, if you truly wished to learn what a man was like, see how he behaved in humiliation, if not actual defeat.  And Éomer could think of nothing more humiliating than that evil thing the Steward was wearing—unless it was going for a ride on the Pelennor in that ridiculous excuse for a saddle that only Gondor could spawn, and being forced to endure him.

Faramir was keeping up remarkably well, even though Éomer was certain he had had no experience with that method of riding; and his horse showed an astonishing amount of forbearance as well.  Most horses with such an inexperienced rider would balk, especially at the pace Éomer had picked.

“If you wish for a more accurate demonstration of the side-saddle,” wheezed Faramir, “you could go a little closer to a walk.  If the ladies of the City need to travel more quickly they go by coach.”

“Forgive me, Lord Faramir,” said Éomer.  “I could not hear you; you were lagging so far behind.”  This was, indeed, the truth, but he guessed by dint of Faramir’s quietness the nature of the complaint.  He reined in Firefoot and turned around just in time to see Faramir, in the midst of a valiant effort to catch up, slump over in the saddle in a dead faint.  Amazingly, he did not fall.  Instead his horse gently slowed, halting only when it was certain its burden would not tumble.  Éomer trotted over to look upon the Steward’s unconscious form.  After a few moments Faramir started up again.

“Forgive me,” he said, “I am not used to the constraints of this outfit, especially upon my breathing.”

“The bond between you and your horse is… startling,” said Éomer.  “I had not thought to find it among your folk.  How long have you had her?”

Faramir, slowly finding the energy to sit upright again, patted his mare’s neck.  “Less than three months; my old steed was slain during the retreat from the Pelennor.”

Éomer was impressed, but, rather than expressing such, found a way to bring the conversation to meatier matter.  “I would think that one with such an innate mastery over beasts would find a woman, even one such as my sister, not too difficult to control, or at least influence.”

Faramir turned to look at him, and the keenness of his gaze made Éomer wonder if he already knew where he was attempting to guide their talk.  “I think it hardly just to compare one such as the White Lady to any creature, even one so fair as a horse; but even if the analogy were apt I would still seek no control over her.”

“Indeed,” said Éomer, “given the current state of affairs I would say that she has gelded you, if you do not mind the expression of a horse-breeder.”  He coolly watched Faramir’s face to see his reaction, but if there were any he must have masked it.

“Let me remind you that I entered into this agreement of my own free will, and I may yet have bested the Lady Éowyn in swordplay had I allowed myself to strike her.”

“I thought that the purpose of honor among Gondorians was to raise their nobility, not to unman them.”

“You are deliberately trying to provoke me, Éomer, and I understand your reasons for doing so.  No doubt there is still some part of you that finds this entire affair worthy of laughter.  In that case, I say to you that I would not have let myself get entangled in this affair if I were not deathly serious about my intentions toward your sister.”

“Oh, I doubt you not, Faramir;” said Éomer, “I only doubt your ability to make her happy once the two of you are wed.”  There was still no visible reaction.  Curse these Gondorians and their ability to hide their feelings!

“Only time will tell in that matter,” said Faramir.  “She has been content up to the present.”

Éomer nodded, and came to a decision.  If Faramir remained aloof at attacks such as this, there was one more boundary he could cross.  “Only time will tell,” he assented, “and perhaps you both will be content.  Or perhaps you will prove to be more like your mother and fade away in the onset of her glory.”

Faramir’s face darkened, and Éomer saw that he had struck true.  Perhaps, he now thought, he should not have struck so hard, but if anything would get Faramir to retaliate, this would.  “If I believed that you made that statement for any reason other than to elicit a reaction from me, I would bid you fetch your sword,” Faramir said, and the ice in his voice startled Éomer.  “As it is, I will only rebuke you: speak not so hastily of those you do not know.  If one can find a single reason for my mother’s death, it would be that she was deprived of the home of her heart: the Sea.  As for me, the home of my heart is Ithilien, which shall also be my dwelling place, and that of Éowyn, if you indeed consent to our marriage.”

“Still, there is now a matter of honor between us,” said Éomer, “and words alone will not suffice to set it straight.”

“That may be,” said Faramir.  “And now I would fain have us return to the City; we have both been gone from our duties long enough.”





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