“Your sword is queer.”  He gripped the hilt tighter, feeling the strange balance.  The strangeness in weight and feel did not surprise him since it was unfamiliar, but...  It feels unhappy to be in another’s hands… the shine has diminished and it does not sing for me.

“Why?”  A little defensive, Aragorn looked up at him; Éomer swung Andúril again just to make sure.  There was the usual faint swish, but no other noise, no telltale ring of steel that told of its presence and the destruction of whatever might be unfortunate enough to lie in the path of the swing.

“It has no song.”  The long blade glinted with curved, twisting runes dark against the polished metal.  It moved through the air, just the same as any sword, but there was no noise. 

“Yes it does.  Of course it does.”  The King took it back, cradling the big weapon protectively.  “Listen.”  Aragorn stepped back, moving Andúril in a great arc.  His own familiar Gúthwinë shone calmly in Éomer’s hands as he sheathed it.  At his expectant look, he lied,

“Yes.  I hear it now.”  My ears cannot, elven blade.  Éomer looked back towards Edoras, wondering where his sister had gone and when she would return.  Things have become odd here...men who read thoughts, swords that sing only for their masters ears…  What is the Ridder-mark host to?   

***

“Why did you think he was addled?” 

Arwen smiled, looking aside to her.  “He was talking to himself,” She chuckled, “and loudly.”  She giggled, “In a very, very deep voice.”

            Amused, Éowyn asked, “What was he saying?”  In the distance Shadowfax had turned, dust rose as he ran smoothly, carrying the hobbits in a wide circle.  The stallion slid to a halt, and then dirt flew under his hooves as he plunged forward.  What are they doing?

            “He was…” She sobered.  “Hold on, let me do it…I can still do it, I think.”  The Queen cleared her throat, making her voice deep and slow, “Gon-dor…I am the King of Gon-dor…Gon-dor…and Arn-or.”  Éowyn laughed immediately; Arwen had sounded eerily like her husband.  “I am Ara-gorn, son of Ara-thorn.”  Her voice became normal, “Took him minutes to get that out.”

            “Really?”  She stared at the road, astonished.  What a silly man he must have been.

            “Yes, he just found out.  I think he was practicing.”  Arwen laughed, “You’d think by the way he was saying it he was already at the gates.”  She giggled suddenly, “That wasn’t all he was saying, you know.  It was a great deal of stuff.  Very involved, actually.”

            Their road stretched into the distance; Éowyn gazed between the pony’s grey ears and then lifted her eyes.  Shadowfax was just a silvery speck, surging this way and that, bounding playfully, half in the air.  Merry and Pippin are not screaming…I suppose they are all right.  She smiled, looking sideways at Arwen.  “Go on, then.” 

***

            Faramir was stuck.  He couldn’t remember the words for anything; the lads gazed at him in expectation, but he just frowned, squinting fruitlessly up at the blue sky.  The clouds had drifted away and the afternoon had warmed, leaving him hot.  A thin line of dark thunderheads hovered at horizon; they foretold storms and plagued him with suggestions of Éomer’s memory.  Gríma…his hand tightened on his bow until Faramir forcibly unclenched it and tried to think.  What is it?  How do I tell them I want them to move into different groups without just pointing again and looking like a fool?  He had the idea of separating the ones who could shoot from the ones that couldn’t.  The latter would focus upon hitting the target, the former would learn more about their bows.  There is far more than aiming and shooting…they must learn to care for their weapons or they will have none and it is best to begin now.  He sighed.  What is it?  

            “Min Hlaford?”

            “Gea?”  He knew all the words except for the most important; the frustration was overwhelming.

            The lad looked uncertain, but seemed to gather nerve as Faramir smiled encouragingly.  After a second he said, very slowly and carefully, “I can speak for you, Master Faramir…” At his surprised silence, the boy added nervously, “If you want.”

            Gratitude overwhelmed him.  “Yes.  Thank you.”  The boy nodded and Faramir felt liberated.  The chains that had held his tongue were taken away and, suddenly galvanized he began.  “I want them in two groups—the ones that can shoot, there and the ones that cannot, there.”  Faramir pointed back to the targets.  “They know who they are.”

            The boy listened closely, then uttered Rohirric far swifter than any he’d heard before.  How did they stand my slowness?  The lads began moving and Faramir watched them, feeling he was finally getting somewhere.  It is too bad I only have them for today…he was surprised to realize how much he would enjoy teaching them the hundreds of little things he’d learned in the woods of Ithilien. The training field seemed very small all of the sudden and lacking of any real use to an archer.  They could learn so much in a forest, stalking, practicing on differently placed targets…it is a shame.  Faramir glanced up at the stables.  Though, I suppose most archers of Rohan are mounted…but, still, they must be able to shoot on foot first.  He sighed, watching the lads.  They were in groups already, waiting on his next command.  All right, I’ll make do…

***

            “Gon-dor…” Arwen giggled and then exclaimed in her impression of Aragorn, “Why yes…I am the King of Gondor.”  Éowyn laughed helplessly as she added, her hand to her breast, her eyes wide, “How’d you know?” 

The innocence in the question made her clap her hand over her mouth.  Oh… my…  Éowyn howled as the Queen changed her voice to one much higher pitched, “No, I don’t believe you!” Then in her deep voice, Arwen asked, furrowing her eyebrows, “You don’t believe me?”  She held up her fist, growling,  “Look at this!  This is the ring of Barahir!  How can you doubt me?”

            Éowyn managed to shake her head, “How…?”

            “He just went on and on!”  Arwen gasped out, “I couldn’t see him, but I could hear him…he sounded mad!  I thought, oh, some poor man has lost himself in the woods and bumped his head or something.”

            The pony’s ears were back, listening.  “What did you do?”

            “Well, I began walking towards him—I was concerned…all I’d ever heard of Estel had been so long ago before that I’d just forgotten about him completely —and that’s when he started singing the lay of Lúthien, not before.”  She laughed, “I think he got tired of playing fantasy king.”  The Queen smiled and her voice became wistful, “He was magnificent, you know—still is, but…then…” Her lovely face became soft.  “Truly splendid...very handsome, just glorious in the sunset, with the rays all fire around him…” She broke out in a grin, “Until he started shouting at me.”

            Splendid?  Glorious?  Is she talking about Aragorn I know or is she remembering someone else?  He’s hardly glorious.  Éowyn smiled and tried not to giggle at the thought, “Why was he shouting?”

            Arwen leaned back, resting on her elbows, “Oh, the fool thought I wasn’t real—I was in plain sight, in a well-lit wood on a wide path no more than a few hundred yards away and he was positively bellowing, “Tinúviel!  Tinúviel!”  The Queen shook her head, “I swear, frightened the poor birds out of the trees.”  She laughed, “He nearly lost me then, comparing me to Lúthien.  My beauty is not something I find very meaningful or a particularly great quality—I was born with it, I earned nothing, it gives me no skill except one of sitting, posing to show my best side.”  Arwen sighed deeply, “We talked for a moment and he told me his heritage…bragged, more like it.  He stuttered over his name; he leaves that out, too...” She shook her head again, “A-ar-ar-ar-Aragorn.  I told him who I was and he had the good grace to look embarrassed.  And then the fool complimented me again, comparing me to a lord’s treasure.”  The Queen rolled her eyes, “As if I had not been called such and many, many other things.

“But, he didn’t have me until he nearly tripped over his own feet…it was one step, he took one step and couldn’t even keep to his feet, he was looking at me so hard.”  She sighed again, “No suitor ever did that and I’ve had many.”

Éowyn blinked, curious.

  The Queen frowned, “They were all so…passionless, so unmoved when compared to the one brief meeting with Estel.”  She smiled at Éowyn, “Imagine, an eternity with one person, a real eternity, not to the end of your mortal life, but to the end of the world around you—you’d take your time.  It was so colorless, so bland…most of them did no more than kiss me and then rarely more than once.”

Most?  Éowyn bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself silent.  It was none of her business, but now she was incredibly curious.  She’d never had another woman to discuss such things with; the idea both embarrassed her and quickened her interest. 

  Arwen laughed, “There was fire in him, my Estel; a mortal fire that felt the presence of time and knew it had none to waste.  He was so eager.  It was too adorable…he was just too darling to resist fate.  And that’s why I’m here—make-believe, clumsiness and stuttering.”  There was a pause.

            “It snuck up on me, really.  Rascal that he was, he pretended to be so sweet and awkward… he stole my heart and then I had no choice…you can’t live without a heart.”  Arwen glanced sideways at her, “Now, you tell me…how did Faramir capture you?”

            Éowyn hesitated, her enthusiasm dying.  He hadn’t captured her in the same manner Aragorn had Arwen; he’d more or less coaxed her close with gentle speech and then grabbed hold of her and refused to let go.  Faramir had stalked her like a shy animal and does still with his each step slow and careful, a net in his hand composed of earnest love and affection.  Though I tried my best to beat him away, to hurt him enough to loosen his grip.  I was cruel.  It was a painful realization, now that she knew him so, how awful she’d been to lie.  To say that she did not love him and had lost interest in an attempt to wound him so deeply that he would want nothing to do with her and she could escape.  But…I didn’t want him to have to worry or suffer…as he does now.  Arwen’s story had been sweet and amusing.  Her own was not.  Though both have pain.  She does not speak of that, the pain I know must be there, to leave her people, her kin…to die in exchange for, what must seem to her, a handful of precious years.  But that is none of my business.  Oh, what do I say?  “Well…” She smiled, stalling.  “Give me a moment.”  In the distance there was a returning streak of silver and Shadowfax’s hoof beats rang loudly as he neared.  “I’ve never told it before.”

***

            “Ic þancie þe, Faramir Hlaford!”  He waved to the lads as they trotted off; Gaer stood next to him, watching as Faramir picked up the dozens of stray arrows around the first of the targets.  There were still more stuck fast in the other targets; many more than when he’d first begun to teach and he was proud.  They learned quickly.

            “So, how’d it go?”

            He smiled, “Very well.”

            “Good, good.”  Gaer leaned against the pole; idly flipping the differently colored fletches with his fingertips.  Faramir stooped to pick up another bolt; his arms were full of the simple training arrows.  “My cousin?”

            “Couldn’t shoot a tree from five paces.  Are you going to help?”

            “That’s what I thought.”  The Rohirrim grinned, “No, I think you’ve got it.”

            Faramir sighed, more amused than anything; he was in a wonderful mood.  “It’s nice to see that courtesy runs so deep in your people; truly considerate, you Rohirrim are.  Civil, gentle-tongued…”

            “Ah!”  Gaer pointed at him, grinning widely, “There!”

            He straightened, shifting his load, “What?”

            “That!  Why didn’t you do that before?” He frowned, “Well, that, only much, much more.”

            “Do what?”  Faramir began to pick up more arrows, moving down the line, saving the ones actually embedded in the targets for last.  “What’s that?”

            “Talk like you did.”

            Puzzled, he answered, “I don’t know.”

            There was a silence; they moved to another pole.  Gaer paced him, playfully teasing,  “Why do they dislike you so much anyway?”

            “You’re asking me?”  Astonished, he halted and stared at him, “Why are you asking me?”

            The Rohirrim shrugged, “I assumed you did something—no one would be that upset about you carting off our lady if she is full willing as King Éomer said.”  He paused, a smile breaking out;  “Did you insult their fathers, then?”

            “No.”

            “Brag about lying with their sisters?”

            “No!”  He shook his head, grimacing.

            Gaer grinned slyly, “Their mothers?”

            Faramir straightened, appalled.  “Absolutely not!” 

            Through a burst of laughter, he replied, “I suppose they just don’t like you.”

            “And you do?”  His arms were full; Faramir walked back to the shed with Gaer at his heels.

            “Well…you’re slow and you’re dull as dirt, but, yes.”  The Rohirrim glanced at him thoughtfully, “You should, you know.”

            Discarding the damaged ones, he dumped the arrows where he’d originally found them, in the wide leather sacks that stood upright against the walls.  “What?”

            “Brag about lying with their sisters or…”

            Faramir snorted, “Yes, I’m sure that will earn me their good favor.”

            “It might.”

            “Along with knocking one of them down?”

            Gaer nodded determinedly, “Yes.”

            “I highly doubt it.”

            There was a pause in which he could hear the Rohirrim kicking at the ground; he was thinking; though Faramir found Gaer’s thoughts to be too swift for him to make sense of.  Of course, they are in Rohirric.  “You aren’t in Mundburg.”

            They paced back to the targets.  Faramir began yanking out the arrows that had found their marks, dropping them to gather once he was finished.  Some were deeper and he had to strain.  Who shot these?  Two are mine, whose is the other?  “I’m aware of that.”

            “I don’t think you are.”  Gaer watched him, still doing nothing to help.  “Maybe they think you think you are too good to exchange insults with a common man, Prince Faramir.”

            “That’s absurd.”  Jerking his head at the scattered bolts, he ordered, “Pick those up.”

            “Come with me tonight.”

            It was tempting to escape for a while.  I can’t.  He doubted Aragorn would simply drop the subject of his and Éomer’s behavior.  Plus there is Éowyn; I don’t know how long I will be gone...  “I can’t—”

            Gaer rode right over him, “Yes you can.”  He picked up an arrow and then another,  “To a tavern.  We’re getting you into a fight—we’ll pick a nice fellow, not too big or too fierce—you want to keep that noble face for our lady—but enough to prove you’re no weakling.”

            “Our” lady, is it?  The pronoun was distinctly possessive.  Amused, he shook his head, “I can’t. I have a meeting with King Elessar and King Éomer.”

            “Well, we do it tomorrow night, then.”

            Jerking arrows out of the last target, he sighed, “I won’t be here.”  And, I assume, neither will you.

            “Those clouds say you will—look.  We can’t ride out in a storm like that.”

            Faramir turned; the thunderheads had built up, towering high like iron-grey towers and citadels in the heavens.  They were dark and the wind that gusted against his brow was chill, but the storm was still far off, moving slowly towards them.  “You’re right.” 

            “So tomorrow you’ll go?”

            “No.”  He began gathering the last of the arrows.

            Gaer made a face, “Your funeral mound, then, because when you do have to fight, it’s going to be with the biggest man about.”  He picked up another arrow, making a total of three to Faramir’s armload.  “Just you wait.  Let’s go and see your horse.”

***

            “You’ve never heard of Bandobras Took?  Bullroarer?”  Pippin gaped down from Shadowfax’s side.  Éowyn and Arwen shook their heads; her story had been interrupted before it was even begun by the hobbits’ return.  

            The spoke together, “No.”

            “He’s the most famous Took—well, was the most famous.”  The tall hobbit grinned; Merry chuckled, turning a little to tease.

            “Modest, that’s what my dear cousin is and I won’t hear otherwise.”

            “Hush, I have to tell them the story of Bullroarer.”

            “That’s an interesting name.”  She wasn’t poking fun; the name was interesting.  I can’t imagine a hobbit named that, it sounds…ferocious.  It is more like a man’s name.  A warrior’s.

The Queen glanced at her, “Mm-hmm.  He sounds quite fierce.”  Éowyn could tell by Arwen’s voice that she, too, had a difficult time imagining a savage hobbit.

            “He was, he was.  Killed an orc all by himself—knocked its head right off!” 

            “Oh, my.” Arwen smiled and put her hand to her breast, shooting Éowyn an amused look, “Did he?  With what?”

The Took sounded proud,  “A club.” 

Hobbit clubs…hmm, probably no more than a thick stick.  Completely admirable and undoubtedly just adorable.  Éowyn looked up at the two hobbits sitting easily astride Shadowfax and she sighed.  I will miss them.  “Killed it in a single blow, did he?”

“Yes, yes…” Pippin glanced away, modestly, Éowyn thought in amusement.  “I’m related to him, you know.”  Merry grinned down at them in the cart and rolled his eyes. 

Arwen looked astounded.  “Really?”  She smiled, “Tell us more about this...”

“Bullroarer.”  The Brandybuck supplied.

Arwen smiled over and Éowyn did not need Faramir to read the mirth and teasing in her.  “Bullroarer.  Yes.  Go on.” 

***

“I think he’s in…” There was a sudden wave of dust over the side of the corral along with thundering hoof beats and Gaer halted.  The red-haired man grinned at him,  “Here.”

Faramir couldn’t see through the thick wooden planks; they were higher than his head and set flush together, reinforced with iron strips.  The strength of the pen made him nervous.  “Why is he in here?”  He followed Gaer around to the only opening, a door cut out of the solid boards.  What kind of horse is this?  There were more sounds of running, then a shrill neigh.  The thick planks rattled as the horse inside hurled himself against them, hooves and hide scraping the wood.  What am I going to be riding?

“I’m sure it’s just to keep him from thinking about jumping out—sometimes they get upset about leaving the herd, plus there is the storm to rattle him…  Here, look.”  Next to the door was a sort of line of steps, hunks of wood nailed to one of the posts, allowing a person to climb up and peer inside the corral.  “Get up there and see.” 

Faramir clambered up, not sure what he was expecting.  His hands rested upon well-worn wood, clearly many had stood where he did.  From inside the corral came the restless thuds of hooves, low snorting breaths and long swishing flicks of a tail being lashed.  He could sense anger and unrest.  What kind of horse have they brought me?  Reaching the top, he gazed down. 

It was a grey gone almost entirely white, his flanks just barely dappled with a dark mane and tail; he had small, piggy eyes and a burly, powerful body.  The horse spotted him immediately and halted in the center of the pen.  Dust blew up around him in the cold wind.  Faramir was quiet, watching the animal.  Its heavy ears flattened as it raised its head to look back.  Its nostrils were reddened, blown-out with exertion and its sides shone with sweat; dirt stuck to his wet coat as he pawed wide hooves, the dry earth turning to mud that caked his light-colored flanks and belly.  He’s not very comely.  Faramir thought the horse in front of him was probably the least attractive he’d seen in Rohan so far. 

The gelding tossed his head, the whites of his small eyes showing as he began to trot in a slow circle.  There were old scars crisscrossing over the horse’s body; Faramir spotted a fresher one over the shoulder, the edges still pink, but despite the marks, there was no sign of lameness in the gait.  The horse moved slow and heavy, turning to look up at him often.  Its ears never pricked, instead staying flat against its head in anger. 

“What does he look like?”
            “See for yourself.”
            Faramir hopped down; Gaer climbed up.  “Oh, it’s Brémel—I recognize him by that big scar on his shoulder—he got cut by an orc blade and had to stay up for a while.  Lucky it wasn’t poisoned.”

            “Who’s he belong to?”  Brémel.  He was surprised and pleased to know the word.  Thorn, the name translates to Thorn.  What kind of name is that?  Somehow it fit the prickly demeanor and feel of the horse caged in the corral.

            “Nobody.  He’s a drudge horse; he works for anyone who catches him.  I never rode him, but I heard of a few men who did.  The last one never came back from the Dark Land.” 

That’s reassuring…  He couldn’t blame the animal, though.  “Drudge horse?”

At Faramir’s obviously questioning look, Gaer elaborated, “Lots of them like Brémel in the Wold; they don’t have men to claim them so we round them up when we need them.  He knows how to do everything from charging into battle to plowing a field.  Really, not a bad choice for you.”

The Rohirrim jumped down and Faramir climbed back up for one last look at his horse.  “Will he calm by tomorrow?”  The grey thundered around and around the corral, digging into the earth only to slide to a halt, neighing plaintively. Obeying an impulse, he called, “Thorn!”  At the name, the horse’s ears pricked for the first time and he stood still for a second before tossing his heavy head and resuming his pacing.  Faramir smiled, oddly cheered as he jumped to the ground. 

“’Course.  Probably just the storm.”  Gaer snorted at him, “You changing his name?”

He smiled again, “No, just giving it back to him in a proper language.”  This got him a puzzled look and Faramir grinned.  I miss my Éowyn…I hope she’s not mad at me any longer…  He wanted those lessons in Rohirric and he’d come up with a few ideas already on how to make them more interesting.

            “You sure you can’t come tonight?”

            “I’m sure.”

            “Well, in case we do ride tomorrow we’ll get your clothes now.”  Gaer led him up the road to Edoras, “I’m sure we can find something your size,” The red-haired man grinned sideways, teasing, “lytle Bregu.”

            “Watch it…you’re no bigger than I am, I might pick that fight with you.” 

            “Hmm…” The Rohirrim pretended to think, “Here’s a deal: I’ll let you knock me down in front of everyone if I get to kiss Lady Éowyn.”

            “No deal.”  Faramir growled it selfishly and Gaer laughed at him.

            “Just once?”  He opened his mouth to say no and the red-haired Rohirrim hastily added, “No tongue?  What if I promise no tongue?”  His voice grew thoughtful, on the verge of laughter.  “I cannot speak for her of course…”

            “No!  The answer is no.”  No tongue…yetch!  He shuddered.

            “Selfish.  I saw her first.”  He grinned. Faramir shook his head, somewhere between completely amused and completely disgusted. 

“Not on your life.”

            Shortly after Gaer had left him at the stairs of Meduseld, he stood in front of his mirror and stared at himself.  Faramir’s good mood was gone and now despair threatened as his brother’s beloved voice replayed itself in his head.  You’ll grow into it.

            He’d been a lad, dressed in his first uniform of the Citadel.  Will I?

            Course you will. It had felt too big, heavy with responsibility and he’d been a little afraid.  It must have shown, because Boromir had laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, then pulled him into a hearty hug.  His brother had looked natural in his sable and silver as he grinned, Come on, let’s go and show Father. 

            Faramir stared at himself.  I didn’t want to.  But he had, to please Boromir.  And what did my father say? The words still stung; it was foolish, after so long, but they did.  Denethor had glanced up from his seat; he’d been reading reports when Boromir came proudly in, Faramir trailing him nervously.  His brother’s voice had been strong, happy. 

Look, I’ve brought you a new warrior to defend our fair city. 

Denethor had taken a long moment to scrutinize his younger son before pronouncing his judgment and turning back to his papers.  He looks ridiculous.

            In his room, he spoke softly, looking at himself in the mirror; “I’m afraid I still do, Father.”  There’d been a flicker in Denethor’s eyes as he’d spoken, but it had been too swift and too well guarded to read; his father’s mind had been as strong and impenetrable as the walls of Minas Tirith.  The crowd at Théoden’s funeral wouldn’t have bothered him.  Why am I so weak?

Faramir stood before his mirror and stared at the white horse centered on his chest as it raced eternally; the over-tunic was new, he could easily make out the rich detail in the design.  The dark green and brown Rohirric gambeson and hauberk felt peculiar, the leather stiff and the metal weighing him down instead of supporting him.  Less advanced than his own smooth chain mail, the scales of iron seemed to flex opposite to his movements and the leather laces to catch and bind.  The helmet felt odd, though it fit; it seemed far too light.

Someone must have known he was an archer—they’d given him bracers, but instead of adding a familiar touch, the darkly tanned hide clung heavily to his forearms, disturbing him.  The clasp on the green cloak felt too tight, then too loose.  All of it was cut just differently enough to vex, to feel completely foreign.  Gazing at himself, he turned sideways; he seemed bigger, his shoulders broader and padded with more muscle.  It is the way it is cut, I think. 

He stepped back to see himself in full.  Faramir thought he looked unfamiliar… even to himself.  What, I wonder would my father say?  My brother?  I look like no son of the White City in this…  Faramir’s eyes turned up to his dark hair.  And yet no son of the Riddermark am I.  

This uniform, too, felt heavy, but he wasn’t sure it was with responsibility.  Before he began to change back out of it, Faramir wondered, what will Éowyn think of me in this?  Will she think I look ridiculous clothed in the livery of a Rider? 

***

            Finally.  Éowyn lunged out of the cart, tying the pony to its rail with no more than a quick pat of thanks.  She loved Merry and Pippin, but an entire half-hour of intense description and discussion of Bandobras Took and the best taverns in the Shire and Bree was too much, she needed something to drink and now.  Arwen was surprisingly swift in her heavy skirts, coming right at her heels.            

            “Éowyn!  Get us down!”  She glanced back; the two were still stranded upon the veritable small mountain of horseflesh that was Shadowfax.  Gesturing, she commanded,

“Sceadufax dun!”  It was silly, surely the intelligent Mearas knew by now to lower himself.  Fool thing, we’ve stopped.  The great horse folded to his knees and the women pushed through the door of the tavern, not bothering to wait. 

***

            “Here.”  They stopped in front of the stables.  Aragorn looked puzzled.

            “What?”

            “I’m solving your problems with your wife.”

            Skepticism rose with each word, “With what?”

            Éomer sighed, “Just follow.”  He walked down the aisle until he came to the last stall; he opened it and a moderate flood of wiggling, tan and brown spotted puppies immediately sprawled out.  “Here.”

            The King stared down, “Puppies?”

            Must I explain?  “Just pick one, it doesn’t matter which.  She’ll love it.”

            “I’m not giving her a puppy.  I was thinking more like…”

            “Why not?  Women love puppies—” at Aragorn’s amused glance he explained, “All women love baby animals, even my sister.”  Éomer smiled, “Really, you should get her a kitten, but I don’t think you would ever get it back to Minas Tirith.”

            “Oh, you’re going to make a fine husband—” Aragorn mocked him, “Here dear, here’s your puppy, don’t be mad at me anymore.”

            Husband?  Who’s getting married?  A little disconcerted, Éomer sighed and then growled forcefully, “She will adore it.”  The puppies were walking all around their feet, sniffing, fuzzy little things with floppy ears and floppy tails and pink tongues.  One pounced on his boot as he ordered, “Pick.”

            The King frowned down at the dogs; “I was going to get her jewelry.”

            “Jewelry?”  He stared at him in disgust.  “Jewelry?” 

            Aragorn mocked him again, “Why not?  All women love jewelry, even your sister.”

            Don’t go there, friend.  He attempted to explain, “You’re getting Arwen jewelry?” He folded his arms, “Tell me, how much jewelry does this woman have?”  She’s immortal and beautiful beyond compare, I’d imagine she’d have a great deal piled about…

            Now Aragorn looked slightly reticent.  “A lot…”

            Éomer bent and plucked up the nearest dog; it tried to lick his nose as he held it.  Whining, wiggling with joy, the warm little thing sniffed his neck and then tried to crawl up his shoulder.  “That’s what I thought.  Now, does she have any puppies?”  Expertly, he rolled the dog onto its belly and scratched, cradling it in his arms.  Théodred…  The dogs reminded him of his cousin’s hounds.  We bred them, trained them…I remember the first day we ran them…  He swallowed, suddenly struck with grief and fought to hide it.

            The King rolled his eyes.  “No. You know that.”

            “See?  Which gift is more meaningful?  Another shiny ornament or a nice, cuddly puppy that will adore her?”  Éomer held the dog up to the man’s chin; it tried to lick Aragorn, too.  The King leaned back and the dog stretched, stubby tail wagging as he asked, “She can’t cuddle jewelry while you’re away to Isengard, can she?”  Forcing a grin, he added, “And every time she does she’ll think of who gave it to her.”  If you’re lucky.

            There was a long moment of resigned silence before the Aragorn spoke.  “You’re impossible but you might have something.  Help me pick one.”

            Éomer frowned down at the fuzzy bundle that now lay content in his arms.  “What’s wrong with this one?  It’s well-behaved.”

            “It likes you.”  After a second Aragorn pointed down at one of the pups; it was gnawing determinedly and futilely at Éomer’s boot.  The milk teeth didn’t even make dents in the leather, but it turned this way and that, stubbornly chewing with little growls in its chest.  “That one looks better.”

            “Good choice.”  Idiot, see if you have any shoes left.  He picked up the dog, handing it to the King as it squirmed wildly.  The other had been passive; this pup was unruly, licking and flailing.  “She’ll love it, I assure you.”  Then, as Aragorn held onto the dog and they walked back through the barn, Éomer’s thoughts turned, as they so often did, to his sister.  He tried his best to ignore the tendril of unease that wormed its way through him.

***

            Éowyn leaned back against the chair, arching an eyebrow, “You think I should?”  Arwen made a face, sipping from her mug,

            “All I know is whenever I kiss Estel—”

            Pippin chimed in with her, “Ugh!”  Merry just laughed.

            The Queen giggled at the interruption.  “Afterwards he tastes horrible.”

            Eyeing the slender, carved pipe, she smiled, “I don’t know…”

            The Took groaned, “Come on!  Come on!  We made you an honorary hobbit—you have to try it!” 

“When did you do that?”  Arwen looked curious.

“When we sle—” he fell quiet at Merry’s sharp glare.  “In Minas Tirith.”

Not paying attention, Éowyn sniffed the sweet, familiar smoke; she put the pipe stem to her mouth, hesitating.  Arwen blurted, “Do it and tell me what it’s like.”

            All right, but…  She gripped the slim wood in her teeth, trying for nonchalant; “You’re next, you’ll see for yourself.” 

Arwen choked on her ale, looking horrified.  Éowyn inhaled slowly and gently, just as Merry and Pippin had instructed, trying to ignore her audience.  This isn’t so bad…then the sweet smoke abruptly turned acrid, betraying her and the half dozen men surrounding the four of them laughed as she coughed the lungful straight out.  As soon as they’d entered the men in the tavern had turned, incredulous to see two well-dressed ladies, much less ladies of nobility and had immediately enveloped them in a good-natured and respectful crowd.  Now they chuckled, as she gagged, none brave enough to join the conversation.

            “Blah!”  Éowyn grabbed at her mug, drinking swiftly.  “Horrible!  It’s horrible!”  She passed the pipe back to Merry, who shook his head at her as she coughed.

            Pippin smiled, holding his own pipe up, the stem between his forefinger and thumb, “Arwen?  My lady?  I believe it is your turn.”

            “Oh, no.  No.”  The Queen scooted back in her chair, her expression sly.  “You wouldn’t force a lady, would you?  A admirable hobbit like you, Master Peregrin…of such great and valiant blood?”  Merry snorted, grinning.

            The Took wavered and Éowyn gasped, “No,” She took another deep draught, “But I would.  Do it.”

            “OH, fine.”  Arwen grimaced horribly as she gingerly plucked the pipe from the hobbit’s small hand.  “I hate you all.”  She inhaled slowly, obviously trying to obey the lengthy directions, but the result was the same—wild hacking and coughing and an immediate grab at her ale.  “There is a reason elves don’t smoke!”  

            Éowyn giggled, struck with a sudden thought.  “Did it taste like Aragorn?  Is this what Aragorn tastes like?”  Wait…why did I ask that?  She burst out in laughter.  Why?

            The Queen frowned at her, then admitted, “Yes.  Sometimes.”

            Oh…  “Eww.”  I did not need to know that…

            Arwen stuck out her tongue, “That was the worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”

            Swirling the ale in her mouth, she shook her head.  “Not me.”

            “What’s worse?”

            Éowyn giggled her answer, “Horseballs.”  The men in the audience groaned, grimacing.  Arwen glanced at them before asking,

            “What?”

            “Yes, what?”  Pippin and Merry looked confused and disgusted, as well.

            Surely they know…  “What do you mean what?  Gelding time, you know…” She waved her hand to the crowd.  “They’ve all done it.  You have to eat them to prove you’re a man.  Éomer barely made it; I thought he would throw up.”  Snickering, she added, “He can be surprisingly finicky.”  Like a cat.  The thought made her chortle.

            Two hobbits and an elf shook their heads, equal expressions of revulsion on their faces, “No.”

            “No?”  Éowyn giggled, “Well, there’s not much to it.  After you’ve cut the horse’s balls out…really reached in and dragged all there is out and then cut it off,” There was a sudden uncomfortable shift in the all male audience; it made her giggle some more before she could finish her sentence.  “The big ones you save to fry…and eat.”

            “Eww!”  Arwen shuddered all over; Merry and Pippin’s mouths were open.  They got even more agape as the Queen asked, “What do you do with the little ones?”

            She must be drunk or close to it to ask that.  “You…” She forced herself sober long enough to answer, “You throw them in the fire and they pop everywhere.”  The hobbits wailed, turning away; the crowd of men did much the same and Éowyn laughed delightedly.

            Arwen had another question, an incredulously revolted expression on her face.  “What did they taste like?”

Oh, it’s been years…  She tried to remember the exact flavor.  It was more texture, really…  “Well…” 

            “I don’t want to know. I mean it.  Please.”  Pippin said this in a very small voice.

            “They’re not like…” Éowyn burst out in hysterics, speaking through her fingers, “men’s…hobbit’s…at least, I don’t think…” Hobbit’s would be hardly a mouthful, wouldn’t they?  She covered her mouth, tears leaking from the corner of her eyes.  But, then, I’ve never seen a hobbit’s…stop it!  Stop thinking about that!  She slapped the table, rocking back and forth in her laughter.

            Pushing away his ale, his little face still screwed up into a grimace, Merry moaned, “Nasty, this is nasty!”

            A memory rose in her mind and Éowyn laughed wildly before she could gasp, “Éomer still doesn’t know he liked it.”

            Arwen’s eyes lit up, “What?”

            “Théodred…he put some in his food…” 

            “Oh…!”

            “And…he kept saying how g-good it w-as…” That was all she could take; Éowyn collapsed onto the tabletop, giggling so hard her chest hurt.  I miss him, I miss Théodred; he was so proper until he got an idea in his head and then we had so much fun.

            Pippin stared at them.  “You’re disgusting, Éowyn.  I take it back.  You’re not an honorary hobbit anymore.”    

            “I’ve been disowned!”  Gradually sobering, she wiped her wet cheeks.  “Oh, this is wonderful.”  Éowyn leaned against the hard wooden back of her chair wiggling her shoulder blades to get comfortable.  The only thing that would make it perfect right now would be Faramir’s arm, just there, around my back, cushioning me.  She smiled secretly against the rim of her cup.  Maybe I’ll take him out before we go...  For the first time the thought of leaving didn’t depress her and Éowyn was surprised until Arwen’s voice interrupted her inner monologue.

            “Mmm-hmm.”  The Queen nodded, slumped down in her chair.  “I love this, why have I never been to one before?”  She rolled her eyes, her voice turning slightly bitter, “Oh, that’s right, my father and my brothers would have died out of pure dismay...” Arwen trailed off as Pippin lifted his mug, comparatively giant in his small hand. 

“The beer’s not bad.”

            “No Green Dragon, though,” Merry finished mournfully.

            Éowyn groaned, “Oh, enough, I can’t listen to anymore about taverns in the Shire.” 

            “You’ll be lucky we told you when you come to see us—you’ll know where to stop.”

            She sighed, “Like they’ll be the same?”

            There was a flicker in the Brandybuck’s eyes.  “Nothing changes in the Shire.”  For a few minutes none of them spoke, then Arwen asked,

            “What’s that?” She sat up in her chair, “What are they doing?”

            Some of the men had left them and were moving tables and chairs, clearing a large open space.  The door to the tavern opened, many more men came in.  There are a lot of them in here…she was slightly nervous now and cursed herself for being foolish.  “Oh, that?”  Éowyn peered across the gloomy room; “They’re going to wrestle or fight for money or something.”  She had no plans on staying since she was sure it was close to time to leave anyway.  Aragorn wanted…

            “Wrestling?”  Pippin lit up.  “Can you bet?”

            Merry’s eyes widened in alarm.  “Oh no.” 

            “Yes, of course…” What are they…? 

Arwen looked confused then interested, interrupting them.  “Wrestle?” 

            “You know…they strip to their breeches, roll around…” She stopped at the smile that spread across the Queen’s face.  “Surely you don’t want to…”

            “Why not?”

            “They get all sweaty…with their muscles,” Éowyn grimaced, gesturing slowly, “bulging and grunting like pigs…it’s not very attractive.”

            “And why would I not want to see that?  I did marry a man.”  Arwen huffed playfully; “We are staying for this.  I’m getting the full tavern experience in Rohan.”  She smirked, grinning sideways to tease,  “Squeamish.  And you ate horseballs.”

***

            “I told her.”  Aragorn stared into the close of the day; the sun was sinking into the thick storm clouds.  His face was stern, irritated.

            If I had a gold piece for every time I said that…he finished it in the traditional way—I’d be King and smiled.  Éomer sighed, walking away from the walls but being careful to keep from the edge; they stood just outside the doors of Meduseld, looking out over the empty road.  Faramir had appeared for the evening meal, quiet and calm.  They’d ignored each other, but now the Steward stood behind him and the muscles in Éomer’s back twitched.  I would feel better if I could see him.

            The King growled, “I said before sunset.  That road is empty.”

            Faramir didn’t speak; he just moved to stand nearer to the drop, apparently unconcerned about the fall.  Éomer shuddered.  Witch, he could probably just catch himself.  The Steward didn’t glance over.  He must not be reading my mind now…he hoped not, the very idea gave him chills, then left him hot with defensive anger.  He’d better not.

***

            But he was.  Catch myself?  Faramir snorted inwardly.  Suspicious, aren’t we?  Of all the idiotic things to think…  He sighed, “Where do you think they went?”
            Aragorn was silent and it was moments before Éomer screwed himself up to speak; his tone was reluctantly directed his way.  “A tavern.”

            “What?”  The King sounded horrified.

             “Well, where else would they go?  There is no where else.”

            “My Arwen…in a filthy, nasty tavern?  What if…?” 

            “What if what?”  Éomer asked in disgust.  “My sister’s there, too.  She used to run off and go to inns all the time—nothing ever happened to her except a headache in the morning.”  Faramir listened to the conversation.  A tavern?  He smiled slightly; in this marriage will I be the one nervously waiting up all night and scolding when she stumbles in?  He chuckled, amused.  I hope not.

            “Yes, but Éowyn is not as…” Aragorn seemed to catch himself.

            “Not as what?”  The words were growled; the sound of an older brother who took pride in his little sister.

            “Delicate.” Éomer stared at him, his eyes narrowed.  “Nothing, nothing.  Never mind.”  The King took a breath, “They’re not coming, so we’ll go ahead and do this.”

            Oh, no…  Faramir grimaced; the wave of unease and discomfort off of Éomer mirrored his own. 

            “Come on.  Where?  Any ideas?  It has to be private.”

***

            “You can’t be serious.”

            “I need them to bet.”  Pippin held out his little hand.  Merry shook his head, indicating that she should refuse. 

            Arwen smiled, “Just do it.”

            Swigging her ale, she asked a trifle petulantly, “Why can’t you take hers?”

            “They don’t want hers.”  The Took smiled, “They want yours, the Lady of the Shield Arm.  They were very specific.”

            That was a boost to her ego, but Éowyn still protested.  “But…”

            “Please?  I don’t have any money!”

            “Half of them, you can have half of them.”  Éowyn began unlacing the front of her gown.  “I can’t believe I’m doing this, I’m going to be hanging out everywhere.”  The image made her snicker and flush a little.  “All so you can wager!”

            Arwen giggled, “No, you’ve got enough still.”

            “Sure she does—I have three sisters, there’s plenty of lace left there.”  Pippin smiled sweetly, “You could even give me three fourths…”

            Her hands froze and Éowyn looked into his eyes, “Half, Master Peregrin.” 

            “All right.”  He nodded, curls flopping.  “Thank you.”  She was treated to a wide, mischievous grin.

            “You know…” The Queen chuckled, “He’s going to lose those and come back in a few minutes for something else.”

            Her hands froze again, “What else is there?”  My skirts, my…  Éowyn giggled and began rapidly relacing her gown.  Oh, I shouldn’t…but I shall.

            “I’m not going to lose!”  Pippin frowned.  “What are you doing?”

            Arwen peered into her mug, then back to her as she asked,  “Either of you have a knife?”  The elven woman’s face grew astonished.

            “What are you using it for?”

            “I’m giving him something worth far more than bits of string.”  She couldn’t stop breaking into a grin; Éowyn snickered out, “I’m cutting off a piece of my shift…” Gazing expectantly at the watching hobbits, she added, “that is, if I ever get a knife.”

            Their eyes grew large and Pippin blurted, “I’ll get one.”  He trotted away and the women stared at each other.  Merry hopped back into his chair, an amazed expression upon his face.

            Arwen smiled and lifted her mug, “I cannot wait until you come to Minas Tirith—we’re going to stand those fool ladies of the Court up on their righteous heads.”  She drank and Éowyn smiled.  “Snippety little things, not a drop of fun in them.”

            “Aye.”  She watched Pippin and Merry’s curly locks bob away; I suppose I will.  Anxious to restore her happy mood, she picked up her mug, forcing a wide smile.  “I can’t wait, either.”  Arwen’s eyes narrowed slightly.  Éowyn drank quickly, swallowing the sharp ale. 

***

            Aragorn cleared his throat, his voice both friendly and patient.  “Now, Faramir said some things last night…” The look of pure revulsion that came upon Éomer’s face was phenomenal.  He leaned back in his chair, eyes widening, face twisting in a grimace.  The King of Rohan looked nauseated.  Remarkable…  Faramir was impressed as Aragorn continued,  “And I think we need to discuss them.”

            Éomer’ s face was still stuck in that same expression of dismayed aversion.  “I just remembered I need to get Arwen a very, very nice gift.”

            The King scowled, chastising, “That’s off the subject.”

            Despite his own discomfort, Faramir actually laughed as he muttered, “Very nice.”  He stared into space; “I could have been related to you.”

            “Amusing, yes.”  Obviously annoyed, Aragorn shifted in his seat, “I’m trying to get something accomplished here, so if you don’t mind?”

            Not me, not me…

            “Faramir?”

            Dammit.  “Yes?”  He took pains not to sound aggravated.  Why am I always first?

            “Do you have anything to add to your…observations from last night?”

            They were in Aragorn’s rooms; Faramir lounged back on the thickly cushioned chair as he replied calmly.  “No.  I think I said enough.”  Now leave me alone.  He’s the one with the problems.

            The King nodded; he sat leaning far forward, his eyes moving back and forth between them, “All right, it’s your turn.”

            Éomer grimaced.  “What do you want?”

            “What do you have to say?”

            His voice was testy and uncooperative.  “What do you want me to say?”

            Aragorn’s hands tightened on each other as he asked patiently, “Was it all true?  Were the things he said true?”

            There was an oppressive silence as the King of Rohan stared at the carpeted floor.  His jaw moved and his fingers twitched on the arms of his chair before he finally muttered, “Yes.”

            “So, what do you want to say about it?”

            “Nothing.”

            Aragorn smiled though it looked forced.  “What do you want, then?”

            Éomer took a moment to think, and then he spoke quick and firm, jerking his chin in Faramir’s direction.  “I want him to leave and never come within my sight again.”

The King blinked, apparently unprepared for the swift, harsh answer.  “Well…”

 “But I know he won’t.”  He sighed deeply, “So…I want him to stay out of my head.”  He paused, “And I want to know what he did to Éowyn…” His mouth curled in repugnance, “How she can stand his witchcraft…she says she likes it.”  There was distrust and disbelief in Éomer’s eyes as he turned.  “You changed her.”

            “Maybe you don’t know her as well as you thought.”  He could sense that same cold fury from last night rising, so Faramir added, more quietly as he cursed himself for speaking without thinking, “People change.”

            The attempt to defuse Éomer hadn’t worked; his voice was brimming with anger.  “Not my sister.”

            The sheer possessiveness made Faramir bristle.  Éowyn was not his betrothed, soon to be wife, but Éomer’s sister.  To him she is not mine at all, she is his little sister…who he loves wholeheartedly and who I am stealing.  Faramir felt weary with guilt.  Aragorn spoke up quickly, cheerfully, “Why don’t we work on the first thing?”  They both turned and he said, “Éomer doesn’t want you to…again.”  The King gestured and Faramir nodded.  “And I think that’s a very reasonable request.”

            Éomer immediately complained, interrupting them.  “It is not a request.” 

He made himself relax, even almost smiling at the strain in Aragorn’s voice; reason indeed, I think that’s low on Éomer’s priorities at the moment.  Faramir nodded, agreeing willingly.  I have little desire to see into his mind. 

            Aragorn arched an eyebrow.  “So?”

            Oh, so he wants me to swear aloud or something, then.  How silly…but he could feel the depth of the wariness coming from his right and he gave in.  “I promise I shall…refrain from prying into your thoughts.”  Careful to keep his tone level, he added, “If you promise something to me.”
            The King of Rohan gazed at him doubtfully.  “What?”

            “To keep your eyes open…you say I changed Éowyn—what does it matter?  She’s content, can’t you see?  I would not hold her to me if she wasn’t.”  Faramir took more care in choosing his words, anxious to keep Éomer listening and even-tempered.  “I’ve shown you I can read your thoughts and obviously you’ve spoken to her…she can’t hide unhappiness from me.  You should not worry.”  A chuckle breaking from his lips, he added, “If I ever doubted I’d send for you.”  Please, let us bury this…I have enough to deal with already.

            The reply was strange, forcibly uttered.  “What is she going to do in that city?”

            Aragorn kept quiet as Faramir asked, “What do you mean?”

            “She has no one but you.”  Éomer spoke slowly now, “You—I saw you, Faramir—you sit in your worthless Council all day, deciding nothing, doing nothing but wasting time.”  His voice became disgusted, “And what else?  You must build your new city…you’ll be gone doing that and there must be other duties,” He gestured to Aragorn, “to your Lord.  What will my sister do?  Sit?  She needs action, something to occupy her.  Éowyn is not a broodmare to stand in the pasture or a lady to gossip in the Court.  She’s a warrior at heart.”  Éomer looked as though he’d decided something, “Offer to let her plan your house in Ithilien if she wants…it will give her a important action to occupy her time and an excuse to ride out often.  She’ll be happier.”  He added after a second, the words hesitant in their sadness, “You must think of these things now so that you will not have to send for me.”  The King of Rohan bowed his head, falling quiet. 

            He’s right.  Faramir leaned further back in his comfortable chair, his knuckles to his mouth, already thinking.  “That’s a very good idea.”  He’s right…that would be perfect for Éowyn, if she wants—Faramir smiled thinly, he does know her best.  I would not have thought to ask her.

            Aragorn was still silent, but he appeared pleased with their communication as Éomer looked up and continued, “Let her plan your house and let her order the men who build it.  With the horses that will give her plenty.  She won’t feel useless…” His eyes dropped again and his voice lowered, “and that is what torments her.”

            He was quiet for a moment, then his curiosity bade him break the silence.  “Horses?”

            A rare glint of amusement appeared in the King of Rohan’s eyes.  Rare in my presence, anyway...  Faramir watched him; sensing Éomer was gradually relaxing with the threat of his “witchcraft” removed.  “What did you think I was giving you?”

Faramir hadn’t given it any real thought.  “How many?”  Where would I keep them?  Minas Tirith has few lodgings for large herds of horses. 

“I haven’t decided yet; it depends upon how many mares we have bred for next spring as to how many I can afford to spare.”

He nodded to show he understood.  Aragorn stirred with a smile on his lips, waiting for them to go on, but neither spoke.  They’d come to a standstill and neither wanted to try to break it yet.  Finally the King urged, “Éomer?”

            He shifted, uncomfortable, but finally blurted, “What did you do to her so that she tolerates your…gift?”  The last word was indecisively uttered but there was a clear attempt at respect.

            I opened my mind to hers, allowed her to see me as I was and am so she could understand that I loved her completely, that I was no threat.  Rubbing his forehead, Faramir tried to convert that into something the man to his right would fully accept and understand.  “I let Éowyn read my mind.  And she realized I loved her and she could trust me.  And…”

            “Just like that?”  Skepticism dripped from Éomer’s voice.  “You changed her just like that?”

            “I suppose so, yes.”  Patience, patience will win this, naught else.  He will counter the slightest force with force.  Faramir added carefully, “I wouldn’t call it…change…more like the lessening of fear—there was nothing to fear from my gift or from me.”  He smiled, trying to lighten the mood, “Believe me, she did not even take to it as well as you did since I told her before I touched her mind.”He didn’t mention he’d lost control and had no alternative but to reveal himself.  I am grateful I did, though.

            He’d said something wrong somewhere.  Éomer’s face was again unreadable, devoid of the tiny trust they’d managed to cultivate; his emotions were flickering, dim and hard to sense, but still predominantly doubt and unease.  “If you are wise you would never do what you did with me to the men in my service.  They would not tolerate it as you have taught Éowyn to.” 

            In spite of his efforts, exasperation leaked through, “I did not teach…”

            There was a marked warning in the words, “And if you use it again on me, witch may be the last word you hear.  Understand?”

              “I didn’t teach her to tolerate it—she chose to, it’s between us…” Faramir faltered, unable to explain.  He didn’t think Éomer was listening anyway.

            “Do you understand?”

            He clenched his teeth to avoid baring them in frustration.  I understand, it is you who doesn’t.  “Yes.”  Aragorn no longer looked quite as pleased as they fell silent again.  Faramir sighed, slumping in his seat and covering his face with his hand.  Can I not win with him?  Even once?

***

            “Let me tell you something about Estel.”  Éowyn giggled, unable to stop and not sure why.  Arwen spoke slower than normal; “He’s a Ranger.”  She smiled wickedly.

            “I know that.”  It was obviously a jest and she didn’t get it.  “So is Faramir.”

            “Rangers…haven’t you heard?  They…” The Queen snickered, then said rapidly, “can’t find anything in the dark.”

            She wiped ale off of her chin, frowning; in the background men were placing wagers on the first wrestling match.  From their spot in the corner the women had an excellent view of the cleared area.  “What?”

            “Rangers have good memories, but they have to go over and over it.”  The Queen snickered, “That’s how they are trained.” She gasped,  “Repetition.”

            Laughing louder, she asked again, “What?  What are you talking about?”

            “Ooh.”  Arwen was distracted; two men separated from the group and began stripping to their breeches.  “Look. Men.”

            Éowyn propped her feet on Merry’s empty chair.  “What about them?”  She giggled, “They’ve been here the whole time.”

            “They were clothed.  Now…they are nicer.”

            “Nicer?”  Her brow furrowing, she tried to figure out what was so appealing; the half-nude men stretched, rolling their necks, getting ready. All around others were setting their wagers; Éowyn fancied she could hear Pippin’s high voice.  “They’re all bulgy.  Blah.”

            “Muscles are nice.”

            Wrinkling her nose, she insisted, “Bulgy. Ugh.”

            Arwen sighed, “Nice, you’re just picky.”

            “Coarse, bulgy—they look like bulls.”

            Arwen shook her head, murmuring, “Not.”

            Éowyn eyed the men as they circled, beginning the contest.  They were thick chested and hairy with heavy muscles that stood out as they grasped each other.  Straining, they moved back and forth, hard muscle twisting under sweat-slick skin.  She made a face.  Faramir is far more attractive…very handsome, just right...  At length she spoke, “They are built for the sprint, the short exertion—all big muscle.”

            The Queen tore her gaze away for a moment.  “What?”

            She sighed, wrapping her fingers around her mug; “Faramir is built for the chase.”  He’s long-limbed with lean, rangy muscles, not bulgy ones that pop out.  He’s of far finer blood—a noble stud to these…she made a face at the wrestling men…plow horses.  Éowyn became aware of her thoughts and laughed out loud in embarrassment.  I am drunk and sound close to swooning like a maiden—noble stud!  Ha!

            “The chase—the long exertion.”  Arwen snickered.

            “Yes...” Éowyn supposed one could call it that.

            She snickered again, clearly delighted.  “Tell me more.”

            “What?”

            “Tell me more about Faramir.”  The Queen laughed, “He was so quiet in Minas Tirith, hiding himself away all the time…he didn’t seem the thrilling type.”  Snickering, she said, “Long exertion indeed…he must have a few thrills in him.  Tell me about that.”

            Éowyn blinked, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            “All right, I’ll go first.  We’ll take turns, this will be fun.”  Arwen took a drink; “Estel has a birthmark shaped like a squash on its side, just sitting right above his…”

            “Ah!  No!”  She squealed and covered her eyes, “I don’t want to know!”

            “Manhood.”  The Queen finished triumphantly and Éowyn realized she should have covered her ears.  I am drunk.  Why did I cover my eyes?

            Giggling at her fool self, she managed to get out, “I said I didn’t want to know!”

            “Too late.  Your turn.”

            “I don’t have anything to tell.  I’m not playing.”

            “Come on.”  The Queen urged.

            “I can’t tell, I haven’t seen anything.”  Well, that’s not true…she’s seen Faramir shirtless, but that was it.

            “Spoilsport and a liar.”  Arwen sighed, a mischievous light coming into her eyes, “All right.  Which hobbit, then?”

            Éowyn tried to keep up.  “What?”

            “What do you mean what?  They told us about Bree—you think the women there don’t sometimes take a hobbit on a whim?”

            “What? No!  I don’t know!”

            “You mortal children are so prudish.”  The Queen rolled her eyes.  “I think they do.  Which one?”

            “Oh…Merry.”  Immediately Éowyn began to laugh.  What are we talking about?

            “Really?  I like Frodo—he’s so sad, it just makes me want to show him my bosom, see if it makes him smile again for a moment, you know?”

            For a second Éowyn thought about that and then she burst into wild laughter.  “No…no!”  Sobering just slightly, she gasped, “Pippin looked down my shirt…I don’t remember if he smiled or not, but,” Giggling hard, she didn’t think, “Aragorn sure did.”

            Arwen had been laughing, but now she wasn’t.  “What?”

            “Oh, damn.”  Éowyn lost it, lying her head on the table.  The Queen’s face stayed immobile while she laughed until her sides ached.  “Dammit!  Horseballs!”  But he did…!

***

            Neither of them had spoken in a while.  Aragorn looked supremely irritated.  “It’s getting late.  I don’t want to be at this all night.”
            “You’re not going to be doing anything else.”  Faramir didn’t quite understand the amused tone of Éomer’s voice.  He’d changed, flipping emotions neatly and unpredictably.  “And we certainly won’t disturbed Arwen.  She’s gone out.”

            The King scowled, then sighed, “If I fetch some brandy, will you talk?”

            Faramir didn’t particularly want any—he needed to be as clear headed as possible.  It seemed he’d come close to learning precisely how to tread about Éomer’s temper without triggering it and he was loath to cloud his thoughts or meddle with his judgement.  He shrugged.  “It doesn’t matter to me.”

            The King of Rohan stirred in his chair.  “You’re attempting to bribe me into speaking with my own liquor, stocked by my own servants?”

            Aragorn cocked his head, a tight smile on his lips.  “Yes.”

            “All right.”  Éomer grinned in reply. He was abruptly much easier in tone and manner, leaning back in his chair, body relaxed.  Faramir observed him discretely, trying to determine why.  Aragorn rose and left the room; they were alone and it was completely silent.  Oh, I know why.  We’ll be alone.  It was with wary doubt that he watched Éomer glance at the door; even Aragorn’s footsteps had become quieter as he’d moved to some farther room.  There were little muffled sounds to indicate his actions, but nothing else.

            The King of Rohan turned cool eyes his way—gone was the easiness, gone was the warm manner.  In their place was diamond hard suspicion.  It appears Lord Éomer is better at deceiving others than I.  Faramir tried not to react, even as Éomer stood.  He watched, bracing himself for anything, but the man only smiled, a thin thing that recognized his ready posture in the comfortable seat and laughed at it.  Harmlessly, Éomer moved across the room, peering out the window into the cool evening; Aragorn had been awarded the honor of the best quarters—rooms with a small, partial view of the mounds of the Lords of the Mark.  “When do you think they will return?”

            It had the air of a question spoken by one of his teachers long ago, a test, perhaps.  “I don’t know.”  Faramir answered it honestly; he’d not turned to watch Éomer before, but now he did and in the gloom of the room’s corner, the man’s eyes gleamed.  Then, impossibly, the King of Rohan began to make small talk.

            “Did you like what you did today?”

             “Yes.”  That, too, was true.  He’d enjoyed teaching the boys, far more than he would have thought. 

            “Good.  I’m glad.”  There was satisfaction now, but Faramir was too weary to try and weasel it out to its origins.  Éomer’s mood indicated he knew more than he was telling, far more.  It is hopeless to try and understand him.

            “It will storm tomorrow, we will not ride out.”  He sighed deeply, “We need rain.”  Faramir was uncertain of a response, the comment seemed not to need one, so he just nodded and made an agreeing noise.  Éomer’s back was to him.  He noted the man’s hand tracing the embellished hilt of his sword—it looked more of a nervous habit than a threat.  “You don’t understand, do you, that we need rain?”  The King of Rohan turned slightly, “It was green in the South, still.  Here it is beginning to dry up and if there is no rain…” His voice grew grim.  “The fields will burn easily in the lightning.  This summer has been dry; my sister spoke of two fires already.”

             Burn?  Fires?  Faramir’s face must have betrayed his slight alarm, something inside him twisting a little at the thought, for Éomer smiled again, still that hard, chill thing. 

            “Oh, we cannot be reached here, the river and the winds off the mountains keep us safe, but…” He trailed off and when he spoke again it was bitter.  “Some of the horses and my people will die, and the homes and fields will be reduced to ashes.”  After a moment he added, “It is good for the grass to burn.  If it does the next year it will be plentiful.”

            Grass, Faramir thought.  Death by grass…what kind of place is this?

            Éomer was quiet for a long moment; in the other room they could hear Aragorn making more noise, preparing to return.  “I hope she does not stay out late.  What do you think?”  Reading the man standing at the window easily, he knew the question really meant, “What do you think about that?”
            This was the test.  Faramir answered as easily as he could, “I don’t know.”  He tried to convey his composure, his acceptance that Éowyn had run off to a tavern, presumably for the entire night…but that wasn’t exactly true, was it?  Am I as undisturbed by that as I’m striving to appear?  Suddenly he wasn’t sure. Éomer’s eyes were flinty in the dimness by the window, impassive and searching, as though he was the mind reader. 

            In all things, her well being is in his thoughts, remember that, dammit…this is a trap, don’t fall into it…  Despite his mind’s warning, he couldn’t stop from speaking, nor halt the deepening tinge of worry and irritation in his voice, “You don’t think she’ll be out all night?”

            “Probably.”  Quiet victory glowed in Éomer’s stance though he’d still not moved from the window.  There was a distance between them and the danger was just becoming clear —the King of Rohan’s hand had ceased moving on his sword hilt and just rested there.  Wait, wait, wait, Faramir’s more sensible part was trying to get his attention, but he ignored it.  Restless, he thrummed his fingers on his leg, staring at the floor.  Éomer had turned to watch him now, no longer making any pretense of looking out the window.  “Does that bother you?”

            Faramir looked up quickly, forcing an amicable expression on his face.  “No.”

            The echo was neutral.  “No?” 

            His reply held a hint of a protest that ashamed and troubled him.  “She can do what she likes.”

            Éomer wore a small smile, almost obliging, as though he was placating a fool.  “Of course.”

            He gritted his teeth, unsure.  “Yes.”

            The King of Rohan glanced back out the window, apparently unperturbed.  His words, uttered in a nonchalant fashion, stung.  “It is good to know she’s got your permission.”

            What are we talking about? Stop this.  Again Faramir’s mind tried to make itself heard, tried to stave off the slowly growing tones of animosity in the room, but again he ignored it.  They weren’t fighting over Éowyn, really; they were fighting over each other’s way of thought, their very natures.  Or are we?  This is absurd, I won’t continue this…  “She doesn’t need my permission.”  Who was he trying to convince?

            “No?  That’s…” Aragorn returned and Éomer finished, “good.”  His voice and his stance had become much more relaxed with his hand dropping from his sword hilt, almost guiltily. 

Faramir felt himself relax in response, only then aware of how tense he’d gotten.  It seemed Éomer was not just good with a swift, brutal attack, but a subtle one, too, to unnerve and confuse.  He is more than he appears.  A disturbing thought occurred—he’s changed his approach, he’s adapting to me.  Too well.  Faramir gazed warily at the man standing at the window.  It was as though Éomer were waging a small scale battle…like in Ithilien, weaving in and out of the trees, using them as cover, as shields, constantly changing positions and methods of attack…  He smiled, because this, at least, at last, he understood.

***

            Every time Éowyn’s giggles dried up, she would look at Arwen’s fixed face and they would start again.  Her cheeks hurt and so did her sides; taking deep breaths, she tried to stop.  Don’t look at her, don’t look…  Pippin saved her then, the hobbit walked to their table, his arms heavily laden with his winnings.  Merry followed more slowly, weaving a bit as he did.

            “I won, you said I wouldn’t but I did.  I know wrestling and I know how to bet.”  Arwen turned to look up at him and if the hobbit saw anything forbidding in her expression it didn’t faze him in the slightest.  “Look!”  He pushed his burden onto the table: bits of gold in coins, cloak clasps and buttons; two daggers, their hilts bejeweled; a beautifully cured red fox pelt; and a few other small items. 

            “T-t-that’s v-very n-nice…Pippin.”  Éowyn could feel her giggles coming again and she dug her nails into her palm, trying to fight it.  Arwen hadn’t budged an inch.  I don’t think she’s blinking…  Turning away, she clenched her teeth, refusing to give in.  I can’t, I’ll throw up…

            “Can we go?”  Merry put his mug down very carefully.  His face was flushed. 

            Arwen did not speak.  Finally, Éowyn said, “Yes.”  Pippin began to scoop his winnings back up.  She snickered, thinking all that from a corner of my slip…somewhere tonight there’s going to be a man sleeping all curled around it.  Hysterical giggles rose and Éowyn barely kept them to wild, little bubbly gasps.  The Queen stood and they walked slowly to the door with Merry weaving erratically and Pippin trying not to drop anything.  Oh, oh, is she angry?  Éowyn had no idea, as the elven woman’s face was completely blank.  Maybe I should explain it was all accidental…but leave out the grabbing me part…he…  She giggled again; he probably got quite the feel of me.  Stumbling, they were outside.  The grey pony blinked sleepy eyes at her as Éowyn shuffled to its side and unknotted its reins.  Shadowfax was nowhere in sight.

            “Shadowfax!”  Pippin bellowed.  His short arms were full to overflowing with his hoard.  Smaug, Éowyn thought in both amusement and an emotion close to longing; she’d been told the story only once, in a much darker time, on the road to Minas Tirith.  Dernhelm, she’d been, then.  I would like to hear it once more.

            “H’re he comes.”  Merry clung to the pony’s harness for support; it appeared that while his cousin had been cheering and bidding on the men wrestling, he’d been drinking.  The silvery stallion galloped swiftly from the night, neighing his arrival—his mane and tail were studded with burrs and his legs were splashed with muck.  “He’s dir’ty.”

            “You can’t ride him, Merry.”  Éowyn frowned.  The hobbit was far too drunk to stay astride even the smooth-gaited mearas.

            “Can, too, so.  Can so.”

            Shadowfax came to a halt and stood, his ears flicking back and forth.  Suddenly the horse reached out and gave Merry a gentle push with his nose.  The hobbit went over immediately, just like a felled tree with his arms at his sides and his expression mildly astonished.  If horses could laugh, the stallion would have been guffawing, Éowyn thought.  She herself was snickering.  Arwen was completely silent, her fair brow furrowed. 

            “Get up and get in the cart, Merry.”

            There was no response.  He’d passed out.  Pippin realized this and quickly stripped his cousin’s cloak from him, using it to carry his winnings.  The Took slung his burden over his shoulder; Éowyn was still frowning as the hobbit ordered Shadowfax, “Down, dun!”

            “Wait, wait, oh, dammit.”  She’d just somehow get Merry into the cart herself.  But she wasn’t by herself, was she?  “Arwen…could you…help me?”  It was so dark…how had it gotten this late?  I can’t see a thing.

            The Queen finally spoke, “How?”  It was furious.

            “How what?  Just get out here and lift him, like a sack of potatoes…”

            “Gaffer’s potatoes.”  Pippin sighed deeply from his perch; the fact he’d gotten the mearas to lie down for him, then mounted and retained all his treasure had gone uncommented upon.  Shadowfax and his passenger moved off, the stallion not waiting.

            Gaffer?  What’s a gaffer?  Éowyn burst out laughing, utterly confused.  Maybe it’s a who.  That makes more sense.  Merry was still lying on the ground and the pony gazed at the women and hobbit in puzzlement, no doubt wishing for his warm, comfortably bedded stall.  Arwen clarified in a chilly tone, “How did he see you?”

            “What?”  She grabbed his hairy feet, aiming for the ankles, and dropped them in surprise when her fingers closed on furry, grimy toes.  Eww… oh.  “He didn’t mean to.”

            “Didn’t mean to?”  It was icily incredulous.

            Éowyn giggled, helpless.  Everything was suddenly funny.  “He broke in my rooms for pipe-weed, how was he to know I was naked?”

            The Queen growled savagely, “Naked?” At her astonished expression Éowyn could only howl with laughter.  I tried to make things better but she’ll probably go back to Edoras and kill him… 

***

            Éomer watched Faramir closely.  His scrutiny seemed to unnerve the Steward just a little, not much, but it was enough to make him feel more secure.  Heart still troubled, he didn’t speak, even as the frown on Aragorn’s face grew deeper.  Soon, the King would urge one of them to begin and he knew they would have to start again.  Until it is finished, he says…but I do not think this will be finished for a long time.  He felt much wearier than the hour should account for.  Where is my sister?  It is late.  Faramir knew nothing about what he’d done, though the man’s eyes had become more suspicious.  Éomer could not read minds, but he felt that the Steward was far tenser than when he’d come in.  Good, let him be confused, let him be uncertain.  I am, so why should he be at ease?  Let him realize all I’ve done to lessen the difficulty of this ride later.  Let him be grateful.       

            Aragorn cleared his throat expectantly.  “Well?”  Faramir alone had refused the offer of brandy; Éomer swirled his, enjoying the glints of light through the liquid.  He sipped it; the stuff was good enough.

            “Well what?”  The Steward’s tone startled him into spilling a drop of the liquor onto his shirt; it gleamed there, proof that he’d heard correct.  Faramir had sounded distinctly surly, even…scornful.  Besides, I was going to say that.  What is he doing?  Even Aragorn appeared disconcerted.

            “Well…I wanted you two to…start talking again.  Like you were.  Before.”

            “What more is there to say?  If you think there’s more, you say it.”  Faramir shifted back in his seat, his posture rebellious, and his grey eyes inscrutable.  What is this?  Éomer was confused.  And yet, was that a smile hiding at the corners of the Steward’s mouth?  Perplexed, he stared down into his glass.  What is with him? 

            “Ah…Éomer?”  The King seemed to be reaching for help of some kind.

            They were both thrown off balance.  “Yes?”

            “Do you have anything else?  Is everything worked out?”  His eyes were stern, as he asked, “No more fights?” 

            No, I don’t think so.  I did promise.  But worked out?  Not at all, my friend, and soon we will be beyond your aid.  Whatever happens, whatever words spoken, will.  Out loud, he said, “Yes, I suppose.”

            “Well, good.”  Aragorn paused, “So.”  Faramir said nothing and Éomer brooded.  A witch and far more unpredictable than I guessed.  The Steward glanced sideways at him even as he thought and Éomer’s heart jumped in his chest, a rush of alarm and fear-induced rage flooding his body.  Get out of my head! 

            There was no response, either physical or mental, so he relaxed a little.  A coincidence, no more.  Nervously, he traced Gúthwinë’s grip, finding small comfort in the hilt’s familiar design.  No more.  He promised not to.  But can I trust him?  He can do it without my knowledge…  Pushing away the anxiously spiraling thoughts was harder than he’d anticipated.  I do not trust him. 

            They soon retired, going to their separate rooms.  In the hall Éomer thought to stop and speak to the door-wards and inform them the Ladies Éowyn and Arwen were expected.  I hope she doesn’t sleep too late.  His time was short, and therefore precious.  He hoped to spend the extra day with her.  Glancing at Faramir’s back, his heart turned bitter.  If I can get to her first.   He walked down the halls, intent upon visiting the doors then his quarters.  There was no point in staying up, though, if she’d gone alone he would have remained awake to make sure she returned.  She’s fine.  Éowyn was accompanied by two hobbits, Knights in their respective services, and the Queen.  She will be home soon.  

At least that’s what Éomer told himself, because without it he wouldn’t have been able to sleep.    

***

            Faramir undressed, weary and confused, but he was still satisfied with rattling Éomer so.  He thinks I am forbearing and that I will suffer his games.  I am not, I prefer peace, but I will fight.  Blowing out all the candles and climbing into his bed, he was soon asleep. 

            There were footsteps, small and slow.  Faramir was conscious of furs against his skin, of a bed softer than the one he’d gone to sleep in, of the sunlight shining at an odd angle.  This is not Rohan…  The thought made him open his eyes a little and there was a fierce war cry in response.  He jerked, coming fully awake as the boy yelled.  A flash of brown—the wooden sword slammed into the bed, perilously close to Faramir’s head.  He felt the impact and heard the thwack! against the bed sheets.  Snapping up and scooting back, palms braced, he saw he was in a room he’d never been before.  Panting, his blood racing with alarm, he stared about, confused.  Besides his bed furs, there was Éowyn’s bearskin on the floor; these were the only objects Faramir’s shocked mind could recognize as familiar.

            His heart pounded, and rudely awakened, he did nothing but stare.  It was a boy, about six years, with pale, corn silk hair and vivid blue eyes.  He smiled mischievously, skinny arms raising the wooden sword to point.  The blunt tip came to rest about an inch from Faramir’s nose as the lad solemnly intoned,  “Mum says you have to get up now and help her.” 

            “Mum?”  Unsurprisingly Faramir stuttered over it, it wasn’t like he used the name much as a child.  The word lay on his tongue, unfamiliar and heavy with dawning awareness.  This is…

            The boy nodded and his hair hung in his eyes as he lowered the little sword.  In a child’s normal lilt, he added, “She wants you.” 

            “Oh.”  Bizarrely, he found himself adding, “Tell her I’ll be there.”  Unable to think of anything else, he watched the boy grin one last time and turn away.  He lifted his wooden sword, his face alighting with impishness and went barreling out of the bedroom, outer rooms and into the hallway, yelling as he did so.

            “Muuuuuummmmmmm!  Dad’s up!”

            That was my son.  The knowledge made his heart swell with both pride and terror.  My son.

            The dream changed.  He was in the same room, but it was much earlier in the morning, dawn’s light barely illuminating.  Faramir lay still and drowsy, listening as someone undressed.  Who?  He wondered sleepily, who would be just undressing at this hour? The answer was on the tip of his tongue, just eluding him. 

But…Éowyn…he sensed she was close and suddenly far closer.  She slipped beneath the furs, and her naked body pressed to his back, instantly arousing him.  Her hand slid along his side, stroking, moving up his chest and then down his belly.

            “Wake up, Faramir.”  It was a faint whisper as her breath caressed his ear.  Her fingers played, sending tingles over his flesh and a growing heat in his stomach.  “Wake up, I want you.”

            “What’re you…?”  He turned and she kissed him.  Arms wrapping around his neck, he could feel her entire body.  Éowyn’s skin was cool; she smelled like rain and wind, earth and grass.  She smells of Rohan, he thought and wondered. 

            “You should have come…” Her breath against his mouth, surprisingly hot.  “He went so fast…not even the birds could keep up.”

            This is a dream; he thought and felt his excitement roaring through him.  It was a dream and he could do as he liked without fear.  Faramir bent to her breasts, kissing and nipping her flesh.  His hands found her hips, and slid up her hot thighs.  Éowyn squirmed, laughing womanishly at his eagerness, but Faramir was suddenly so aroused that he could barely stand it.  Must…must have…  He kissed everywhere he could reach, caressing her inner thighs, feeling them heat at his touch and feeling her wetness.  

Suddenly there was a pounding on the door and he jerked into wakefulness, his blood still racing.  An uncharacteristic bolt of rage flashed through his mind that he should be disturbed, but it quickly faded.

            It was dark in his rooms and the window showed nothing but starlight.  Faramir took a deep breath, trying to calm himself and wake up as he swung his legs over the bed.  There were breeches nearby on the floor; he shoved them on, bewildered and still half-aflame.  Who is that? 

***

            Éomer stalked into his sister’s room the next morning, bent upon revenge.  He moved slowly, his steps carefully quiet.  Finally, he thought in triumph, finally I will repay her.  He could well remember the last time he’d come home drunk—she’d flung the windows open, letting the sun hit him straight in the eyes while sweetly telling him good morning.  Now, it is your turn, sister.     He slipped into her bedroom, moving silently.  Éowyn was sprawled out on the bed, still in her dress from last night.  Her hair hid her face; he would have to move it and carefully, so as not to wake her.  His boots made no noise, so softly did Éomer walk across her room.  He reached her windows; the shutters were closed, as he’d known they would be. 

            Leaning over Éowyn, he carefully pushed away strands of her flaxen hair, his fingers delicate.  Grinning in anticipation, he stepped back, raising his voice, “Éowyn!” as he flung open the window.  Morning light poured, poor through the thick clouds, but bright in her dark room, at the exact moment she opened her eyes and his sister screeched in fury and pain.  She rolled away, curling inward to protect herself.

            His desire for revenge appeased, Éomer smiled and said the same thing she’d done every time.  Manner perfectly innocent, he greeted,  “Good morning.”  Unexpectedly she grabbed up her pillow, and eyes still closed, swung it.  The soft weapon came within inches of slamming into his stomach.  Astonished, Éomer yelped, “Hey!”  Hangover or no, his sister still had deadly aim.  Not feeling the pillow connect, she kicked out and again, came close.  Too close.  “Watch it!”

Voice muffled, she screamed, “Get out!”  He ducked back, surprised, retreating along the edge of the bed and stopped rather abruptly as his foot hit something. 

            Clunk!  Éomer frowned, looking down.  He moved his boot again, unable to see the object.  Clunk!  “What’s that?”  Grinning, he teased, “Hiding armor under the bed again?  I thought you were over that.”

            To his surprise Éowyn’s eyes flew open and she looked startled as she raised herself.  “No.  No.”

            “Then what is…?”  He never finished his question because, having sat up, she was closer and Éowyn’s pillow hit him square in the face. 

            She snatched up another, hefting it and warning him, “I said, get out!”

            Éomer withdrew again, this time to her outer rooms.  “Hurry up, I’m hungry!  I waited for you!” 

***

Her heart, which had been pounding with alarm, warmed at his words, but she snapped back, “No one told you to do that.”

There was a creak as her brother sprawled into one of the chairs.  His voice floated back.  “I wanted to.”

“All right, wait a moment.”  Of all the coincidences…it was absurd, she’d moved all of Faramir’s clothes under her bed so that Éomer would not find them and, incredibly, he’d come within seconds of doing so.  Unbelievable.  Éowyn scooted up and leaned over, her head throbbing as she shoved the pauldron Éomer had hit his foot on further beneath the bed. 

Sitting up, her dress crumpled and pooled around her, she rubbed her sore eyes and pounding forehead.  What an ass he is…  True, she’d done it, but still, she thought childishly, that hurt.

“Come on!”  He bellowed it and she screamed back,

“Give me a minute, damn you!”  Climbing slowly out of her bed, Éowyn began to take off her dress when she stopped.  She touched her neck; there were marks there, like the ones Faramir made with his mouth, but…  He hasn’t done that so recently…has he?  Something tickled the back of her mind, but she couldn’t concentrate over her low headache.  Mildly confused, she pushed the thought aside. 

Dressing didn’t take long; Éowyn splashed water on her face, not bothering to brush her hair, but simply tying it back.  Lastly, she picked out some of her men’s clothes and pushed her feet into a pair of boots. Obviously she was going to be spending at least part of the day with her brother and a gown would be useless.  Her jade bracelet was still around her wrist; Éowyn took it off and set it on her dresser.  The crack in the mirror caught her eye. 

Silly, you’re silly. 

Éomer called restlessly, “Sometime today!”

Distracted she replied, “I’m coming.”  Éowyn touched her neck again, then put it aside. 

As she walked out the door, Éomer immediately bounced up out of his chair; “I’m starving.”

Pretending to be annoyed with him, she commanded, “Well, come on, then.”  But, as they left her room, Éowyn took his arm, squeezing it.  Her brother squeezed back.  I love you, I will miss you so…  She put her hand to her temple, feigning pain and brushed away a tear.  I’m sorry, more than you will ever know.

***

Arwen sat quietly eating at the high table, almost as though she was waiting for them.  Eomer glanced at her, thinking something was odd, then he noticed the tiny black nose peeking out from beneath the Queen’s skirts.  The puppy.  He smiled widely as she picked a piece of bacon off of her plate and lowered her hand.  A little brown muzzle poked out and accepted the treat.  I knew it.  Delighted, he settled himself across from her.  Éowyn plopped down beside him as servants scrambled to serve them.  He was starving; he’d not lied.  It was midmorning and already Éomer had been about, feeding Blâcfÿren a few handfuls of grain, holding the bucket close so that the stallion had been forced to stand near him and tolerate his presence.  It was just one small step in the training.

“Good morning.”  There were circles beneath Arwen’s eyes, just like the ones beneath Éowyn’s. 

“Good morning to you, too.”  It is now—Éomer took a giant bite of his eggs.  They were delicious.  Chewing, he asked, “When did you two get in?”

His sister didn’t answer she just frowned.  The Queen gave the puppy another bit of her breakfast, “I don’t know, do you, Éowyn?”

“I can’t remember anything past…” Her brow furrowed, “Did we get Merry in the cart?”

Arwen laughed, “Yes.  You don’t remember?”

“No.”

“We did and then we hauled him up those thrice-damned stairs—” She turned to him, “What fool built those?”

The answer was automatic, as fully ingrained as his lineage.  “Brego built this hall.”

“Who told him to build so many stairs?”

Éomer smiled, “I don’t think he was picturing drunkards like you two ladies having to haul an unconscious halfling up them in the middle of the night.”

Arwen pouted, “Well, he should have thought ahead.”

Éowyn was still frowning.  Voice cautious, she asked, “Are you…still angry with Aragorn?”

“Oh, no, you explained everything.  It really wasn’t any idea of his.”

What are they talking about?  Éomer glanced back and forth, but he had the impression neither would tell if he asked.  He’d learned from experience that the fewer questions he asked the more likely Éowyn would be to just tell him.  Arwen frowned herself, then chuckled,

 “There is something I don’t remember.”

“What?”  He was amused and curious and then he was deeply disgusted.

“I can’t remember if I slept with my husband last night—” She picked up the puppy to cuddle it in her lap, “I woke up with this darling creature, so I’m sure I went to see him,” She rolled her eyes, “for some reason, but…I don’t know.”

Éomer grimaced, biting into a piece of sausage.  It was unbelievably good.  “I don’t want to know, I’m trying to eat.”

His sister frowned, “How could you not know?”  She was picking at her food.

“You see, I’m pretty sure I did…but I hope not, though.”

“Why not?”

Éomer stopped chewing long enough to growl, “Eating.  Stop it.”  The women ignored him.

Arwen made her puppy’s ears flop.  “Because, he’ll think he’s forgiven.”  She laughed suddenly; “We’ll know when we see him.”

“Why?”

“I’d imagine he’d be in a good mood.”  Against his will, Éomer smiled at this. 

Éowyn sighed, “I can’t remember anything.”  Suddenly she made an odd noise, almost a squeak and her eyes went wide.  He frowned, then looked up, following her gaze.

Faramir had come around the corner.  He was in simple clothes: dark breeches, a loose cream-colored shirt with the first few buttons undone.  No uniform, neither Gondorian nor Rohirric; it was appropriate, Éomer thought, as the man was literally between worlds today.  Outside the dark clouds covered the sky from horizon to horizon, threatening to rain or assail them with lightning, keeping the Riders home.  The Steward had surrendered his title and yet, hadn’t picked up his new one. 

Not seeing any reason for her reaction, he looked back down at his food and then his gaze jerked to his sister.  She’d gone red, her cheeks flushed a deep crimson and she stared at her plate.  Éowyn didn’t lift her head, even as the Steward greeted them in a cheerful voice, “Good morning.”  Faramir sat opposite of her and he was grinning easily and almost gleefully.  Éomer’s eyes narrowed as he looked back and forth between them.  Arwen’s met his across the table; she arched an eyebrow, echoing his own silent question.  What is going on? 

The puppy barked, standing up in Arwen’s lap.  They heard a cheerful whistling that the Queen apparently recognized, because she whispered, “Oh, damn.”  Éomer couldn’t help laughing; but as he did so he noticed Éowyn did not look up and Faramir was still grinning at her.  What, oh what is going on here?  He stirred his food, wary as Aragorn entered.