"And in between the moon and you/Angels get a better view/of the crumbling difference between wrong and right. . ." --The Counting Crows, Round Here

A light flashes and my eyes open, suddenly wakeful and forgetful of the exhaustion which forced them closed earlier this evening. Yet I am awake now, my heart beating heavily within my chest. Small hairs rise all over my body and my muscles tense, awaiting some unknown yet well perceived danger.

Another flash of lightning and its companion, a thunderclap what else, cause me to jump, and I spring from the bed ready for battle--then realize what I have done and place a hand over my racing heart and laugh at my own silliness. I am no longer a girl but a grown woman, have seen battle, and yet the weather may rouse me from my bed to a bath of fear-sweat?

"You are such a hare," I tell myself, a bit jumpy in spite of my revealed demon. Then I recall that this room is not solely mine, and I turn. There on the bed you lie, my Faramir, so peaceful in repose. Neither the storm nor my leaping about has woken you. My heart smiles.

But I am awake now in full, and sleep will not have me again. I sit on the edge of the bed, our bed, and look around the room. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness now, and I can make out the shapes of a chair, the curtains, only one closed over the window while the other is held back, and my sleeping love.

By my head I swear that it was my intention to close the curtains in full, supposing that there might shut out the light and grant me rest. Yet, when I came close to the window, I could not move for the curtain but rested my fingers lightly against the cold glass, then my palm. The violence of the rain is such that the glass is shaking beneath my flesh.

For a moment I pause and look over my shoulder at you once again. You are still asleep. My pause is extended as I observe you, half-covered by the linen sheets. You are sleeping on your right hand, Faramir, as I recall doing once as a young girl: discovering the fleshy, cold glove that was my left arm had been an unpleasant, if vaguely entertaining, experience. My poor Faramir. But then, you have your left hand above you, resting atop the sheets, and 'tis only a hand. The numbness passes quickly.

The sign I wish for and receive is your chest, rising and falling to betray your deep breathing. I can not say why I fear your waking, for you are slow to anger. Perhaps it is the prospect of your laughter that makes my heart flutter this way. If the storm has not woken you yet, may you sleep all the more deeply for the moment.

Drumming sounds of the rain increase tenfold as I fling open the window and, grasping the sill tightly with both my hands, throw myself through the gap, my head and shoulders exposed to the elements. I turn my face to the stars and feel peace with these liquid jewels, feel all my fears and angers, hates and scars washing from my soul. I feel free.

And the moon interrupts me. I realize that what am I doing, stripping naked my soul to be cleansed by rainfall, is not solely mine, I know the Lady Elbereth sees me, yet it is the moon, inanimate, whose round face drives the stake of guilt through my heart.

At once I slam closed the windows and draw the curtains harshly shut, and throw myself into the chair in the corner of the room with time enough to hear the swish of the curtain fabric. Again my heart is pounding with anger and fear. The moon, I feel, has judged me. I will suffer my wrongs.

What am I saying? My fear becomes a violent anger with myself. The moon is not animate, does not smear the inks of my fate! I march right back to that window, open it, and defiantly reassert my position of free by exposing my head to the elements. The negative anger and rebellion are washed away.

"Lady Eowyn?"

Retreating into the room again I see that you have awoken, such would my luck be, and you sit upon the bed, blinking through a half-sleep. You have invaded my privacy by interrupting this, my moment with the rain taking away the pain, and yet I am hardly a little angry. Only, I wish more time to myself. "Go back to sleep, love," I say, "you are yet tired."

You ignore me, but without disrespect, which is appreciated. "What are you doing, you silly girl?" Oh, so now you are teasing me, are you? Then I shall return with an equal blow.

"I am not silly, boy, I would wager money that the Queen is doing exactly the same thing at this very moment, in Minas Tirith."

Wakefulness comes slowly to you, for your heart never was that of a warrior. You mumble slightly as you speak. "It probably is not even raining in Minas Tirith. Why were you doing that?"

"It feels good," I tell you. "Come and see for yourself."

Your face looks as though it has been hit by a heavy rock. "You and Lady Arwen may be as strange as you like, but I am nice and dry." You roll over as though to return to sleep. I cannot deny that I was quite cold, but this is too good an opportunity to pass up. Whatever it is that drives me now, I feel young and unburdened.

"Live a little, bookworm," I say, returning to the bed only to kneel over you. "Come on!"

You regard me with a sleepy confusion. Your hair is so sweetly disheveled I know not whether to laugh or cry or simply kiss you. "Eowyn," you say, "please go back to sleep."

"I'll sleep as soon as you have been out in that rain." Unsure if I am teasing, threatening or flirting, I say, "If you don't, I'll beat you up."

Your eyes narrow further. "You cannot beat me up." I hope you are returning my emotion, for your voice betrays nothing: you may be amused and offended. I am torn between nestling beside you in the bed or making good my promise and forcing you over to the window. What you add makes the decision for me. "Besides, you are a woman."

In moments I am laying into you, one knee on either side of you to limit movement, showing no mercy. I am glad that you are ticklish and I am not. "Lady Eowyn!" you protest, laughing. Then you fight back, flailing to grab my wrists. When you are victorious I wait as you awkwardly slide yourself into something of a sitting position, then leaned towards me and kiss me, an experience somewhat different than usual due to your two-day stubble.

Mid-kiss you release my wrists, and I retake the advantage of the situation. After moments longer of a scuffle our positions have not changed, but you are lying on the floor giggling like mad. "Eowyn, stop!" The protest is only half-felt and you laugh throughout. "Eowyn, please! I cannot breathe!" But of course you can, you are laughing.

The night has a happy ending. We lie down in bed beside each other and look into each other's eyes until we both fall asleep. But not before you come with me to the window and we stand together, half-in and half out of the rain, washing away old scars. You look at me oddly and I know you are enjoying it. "Who cares what the King and queen are doing," you say, and we kiss there, in the rain, for all the world to see.

*****

The end!