She’s embarrassed.  Faramir smiled, looking at Éowyn’s bent head.  As for himself, he was close to laughter.  My darling, don’t be embarrassed, you could hardly help yourself…  Her head lowered just a little and her blush deepened; she’d heard him.  I’m flattered.  I’ve never had a woman approach me like that before…  He clamped his jaw together to keep from howling with mirth.  Éomer’s eyes were upon them, moving back in forth; there was a growing sense of suspicion in them.  Ah, but if he only knew.  Faramir didn’t think the man would believe it.  I hardly believed it. 

Suddenly Arwen’s puppy leaped from her lap, landing gracelessly and yipping high and excited as it waddled towards the hall and Aragorn.  A cute little dog, it was mostly brown with generous splotches of white and black.  The long, floppy tail wagged furiously, big ears flapping like wings as it jumped and ran towards the whistling.  The Queen sighed affectionately, “Traitorous little darling.”  She smiled, “I’ve named him Rusco.”

Éomer chuckled, his suspicion fading to amusement.  Faramir watched curiously as the man scooted his small bowl of what looked like oatmeal close to Éowyn’s plate.  She had her own, still untouched, so he observed further.  What’s he doing?  The motion had the air of expectancy.  Her blue eyes flickered to the bowl, but she didn’t do anything.  Éomer picked up his last piece of toast and began spreading some sort of jam over it.  He placed it on her plate, almost hopefully, Faramir thought.  The entire thing had a feel of routine, of ritual.  What is he doing?  Or, he felt, a more exact question, what does he expect her to do?

“Good morning…isn’t it, my dearest?”  It was Aragorn himself now, scooping the little dog up as it leaped awkwardly around his ankles and favoring them all with a sunny smile as he sat on her other side.  Servants bustled anxiously, serving him and Aragorn their late breakfasts.  Faramir frowned, poking at his plate; Arwen had scooted closer to him when Aragorn kissed her cheek.  He slid down a few inches, giving her room again.  The puppy clambered clumsily back into the lap of its mistress and sat panting, its pink tongue lolling.  Faramir made a face at it and the dog cocked its head, ears pricked.  Cute.  Feeling his hunger, he dug into his breakfast.

 Across the table, Éowyn’s head was still bent, but her deep, scarlet blush had faded.  Too bad, it was pretty.  He looked at her, waiting for her to raise her eyes, but she didn’t.  Éomer was smiling a little at the royal couple, but his gaze kept coming back to Faramir.  He wonders why she blushes. 

The Queen answered after a moment.  “Yes, that is if you ignore the storm hanging overhead.”  She kept it curt, her face down-turned, too.  For the first time Aragorn’s good cheer wavered.  Faramir sensed the instant unease in the room and shared it.

The King replied hesitantly, “Yes…” Over the broad table Éomer looked at his sister, still awaiting something, and slid one of his sausages onto her plate.  Éowyn moved at last, spooning out some of the sugar and stirring it into her brother’s steaming bowl of oatmeal, porridge, what is that?  Faramir watched curiously.  She put in a little butter, too, and then reached across to a small bowl of berries, mixing in several spoonfuls.  Éomer looked pleased as, obviously through some known agreement, she pushed the finished concoction towards him and he immediately began wolfing it. 

Éowyn picked up the toast he’d made for her, holding it daintily between the forefingers and thumbs her of her hands.  Drops of the thickly applied jam slid down her fingers and Faramir watched as she licked it off.  One by one, she put her fingertips into her mouth, sucking at the sweet jelly.  He knew he was staring, but was helpless not to.  Her lips were very soft looking and pink.  But it was her tongue that held his eyes.  It slid along her skin, leaving moisture behind, a deep rosy color, it looked pliant and…it looks wet and hot.  Faramir felt the room grow warmer and tried to look away.  He could barely keep her offer of last night from his mind.

Then, to his surprise her eyes met his and Éowyn’s blush was gone.  She looked…like she did last night…almost.  She looked partly amused, but mostly a frank sort of wantonness filled her blue eyes as they locked with his own.  Deliberately, Éowyn raised her thumb to her lips and sucked on it.  He tensed, willing himself not to think.  Yet, her hot gaze quickly faded to reveal a deep anger.  Again, like last night.  Discomfited, he dropped his own gaze.  Faramir felt guilty, though he knew he shouldn’t.  I did what was right, the right thing.  Why is she angry with me?  It exasperated him.

The King hesitated, then said, his words soft and spoken into the Queen’s ear,  “I hoped we could move your things back today—”

 His puzzlement made him look up again, hoping to catch her eye, but Éowyn had turned to look at Arwen as she spoke, cutting her husband off.

“What are you doing today?”  The question was deliberately aimed at Éowyn, and disregarded Aragorn entirely.  He looked hurt and Faramir wondered why, it wasn’t as though she’d not been acting this way for a while.   Or has she?  He had the sudden feeling he was missing something.

“Umm, I don’t know.”  She glanced at Éomer, who gazed darkly at Faramir.   He wants her to himself this day.  He didn’t know whether to dispute that or not.  I, too, would like to spend a little time with Éowyn before you lead me off to Valar knows where.

“Vanimelda…” Aragorn sounded pleading, speaking low into her ear, though his voice was just audible to the rest of them.  “Mani naa ta...?  Mani marte?”

The table was suddenly awkward as Arwen ignored her husband again, her fair face strained with the effort.  “I thought we could do something fun.”

Éomer teased, though obviously laboring to sound natural, “Another tavern?  Didn’t you get enough?”

“No, something else.”

“Like what?”  Éowyn appeared curious.  She’d finished her toast, to Faramir’s relief, but now was slowly licking her spoon as she ate her porridge mixed with strawberries.  This breakfast has been specifically designed to torture me.  Her tongue held his gaze again until he wrenched it free only to notice Éomer’s glower.  Oh, what?  I’m not a gelding, you know.  The man’s hard stare answered, but you could be.

“We can finish some of what we started last night…” Arwen smiled, “You know, I’ve got some dresses you would look fantastic in and you can tell me what you started to before Merry and Pippin interrupted us.”  Éowyn looked as if she didn’t know if she should be intrigued or not.  There was a pause as she turned to her brother, her face questioning. 

It was filled with Aragorn’s murmur, “Vanimelda?  Arwen?”  She did not respond.  Now the King’s voice had turned irritated and louder, “Mani naa lle umien?”  He paused, then spat, “Lie lakwnien?”

Her eyes flashing, Arwen finally snapped back, “No!”  The puppy whined low in its throat and squirmed over into Faramir’s lap.  The table had gone silent with everyone staring at their plate.  She blew out an angry breath, “No, I’m not joking, Estel.”

Hush.  He winced at the sour emotions and patted Rusco gently, feeling his distress in the way he cowered, nose buried in his shirt.  The animal didn’t even know him and it preferred his company to its angry master and mistress.  I don’t blame you.  Éowyn was watching him, her eyes sympathetic as he stroked the puppy’s back.  Faramir dared to send to her, He’s all right.

She nodded, just the slightest motion of her head.  However, there was a thin tracing of anger in her reply, good. 

He decided there was little he could lose in asking.  Why are you angry?

The tracing had spread, sending lines of vexation throughout her entire mental voice.  Don’t you know?

Faramir reviewed his actions carefully.  She’d come to his door late last night, pushing into his rooms and staring at him, eyes half-lidded and full of a passion he’d never seen in them.  As he’d blearily closed the door, Éowyn had looked at him in a way no woman had before, turning his blood to fire, coming close to stripping his inhibitions away and destroying his control in that first moment.  Her blue eyes had lingered over his bare chest, moving downward to where the makeup of his dream was still outlined in his breeches.  His arousal hadn’t gone away, only become deeper when he’d opened the door to find her there. 

Éowyn had stepped close, then; so close he could feel her body heat.  Her fingers had traced the lines of the muscles in his arms, his chest.  She’d threaded them through the hair on his upper body and leaned upwards, her tongue flicking out to taste his skin.  Faramir had been frozen in surprise as Éowyn had kissed his neck, her body pushing against him, unafraid of his erection.  In fact, she’d been all but rubbing against it as he’d stood there stunned.  Whenever she’d paused, those eyes had raked up and down him almost greedily, shocking and exciting him. 

Faramir felt goose bumps prickle his arms briefly just in the remembering.  Her hand had slipped down his belly, much like his dream, but it had gone further.  Éowyn’s cool fingers had snuck between the waist of his breeches and his skin and slid around to grip him in a loose fist.  She’d whispered then, “You’ll have to tell me how…I’ve never done it.”  Even now he shivered, remembering Éowyn’s voice, husky and low, “Tell me how you like it, Faramir.”  As she’d spoken her thumb had spiraled over the tip of him, circling before her hand had slipped down, stroking his length gently.

 Abruptly he’d understood she was offering him her hands, maybe even her mouth, and that had been all he could withstand.  Éowyn had tasted of ale when Faramir had taken her into his arms and kissed her hard; half-thinking her arrival was some strange turning of his dream.  And as she’d stroked him while kissing back, he’d struggled with his own…lust, it was lust…momentarily…it was longer than a moment…before sending her away.  Of course, once his head had cleared and he’d realized that this was not a continuation of his dream and that she was drunk and not in her right mind, the decision had been far easier. 

But Éowyn had protested, rather irrationally, reinforcing his conclusion and she’d left, furious at him.  And I don’t know why.  He’d spent half the night awake with his body afire and slept late.  Still unable to see the reason for her anger, he admitted, No, I don’t.

Idiot. Dysig mann.  Irritation was bright in her now, puzzling him. 

But…I did the right thing.  You were drunk; I couldn’t let you do that.  It would be wrong; I’d be taking advantage of you.  He didn’t mention the thought of her pleasuring him with that soft, warm and undoubtedly innocent mouth made him shudder with desire and oddly, unease.  Inwardly, he thought, I’m not sure I want her to yet.

There was surprise and then a deeper contempt in Éowyn’s inner voice.  She stabbed the sausage Éomer had given her.  You really don’t understand, do you?  It’s not about that at all.  Faramir’s brow creased.  He really didn’t understand—he’d done the right thing, the chivalrous, fair act.  What was wrong with that?  What else was there for her to be angry about?  Well, upsetting Éomer, I suppose…  Faramir stared down at his plate, feeling overwhelmed.  I just want us to be happy.

And you think I don’t?  Éowyn’s eyes examined him, their blueness hard.

Aragorn saying tensely, “We need to talk” interrupted them.

Arwen replied just as tensely and the puppy wiggled in agitation, barking once.  “I don’t think we do.”  Faramir patted it, sighing.  He wished they would talk and preferably somewhere where he could neither hear them, nor feel the violently fluctuating emotions of anger and guilt—it was making his head ache a little.  Eyes raising to Éowyn across from him and Éomer at her side, he thought, I have enough to deal with right here.

“What did you say to her?”  It was directed at Éowyn, who blinked and swallowed her mouthful.  The King looked half-desperate.

“Nothing.”  She smiled nervously, “We didn’t get to it.”

“No, we didn’t, did we?”  The Queen smiled, too, hers a trifle more bitter.  “Just a story about a lad named Estel.  Long, long ago.”

“Oh, you didn’t tell that again, did you?”  Aragorn grimaced; the mood becoming less troubled. 

“It’s the truth.” 

Éowyn laughed, “It was adorable.”

The King protested, “She made it up and I am not adorable.”  Éomer chuckled, sounding forced.  Faramir glanced at the man—he’d been quiet for a while now, long finished with his morning meal, but his gaze met only distrust colored over with brief tolerance and amusement.  I’m watching you, witch, said those eyes, so like to Éowyn’s.  Odd, he’d never noticed that before.  Faramir deliberately glared back and Éomer’s face grew wary and he looked away.

“No, you’re the King of Gondor.”

“And Arnor…don’t forget.”  Arwen was laughing now and the tension was draining out of the room, making Faramir grateful.  The women shared a look; obviously they’d become friends or close to it.  He wondered what all they’d done.

“So…?”  Arwen raised an eyebrow hopefully at Éowyn.  She glanced at Éomer, who nodded, telling her silently to go on.  Only Faramir could feel and share the man’s deep disappointment. 

“All right.”  The women left quickly, Arwen collecting her puppy as she went, ignoring Aragorn and Éowyn pausing to hug Éomer from behind, her arm wrapping around his neck.  His hand covered hers for a moment, then released her.  Faramir felt saddened; her eyes met his and Éowyn gave him a quick smile before leaving.  As usual the partings she offered him were brief and terribly restrained, almost indifferent.  Will I ever get a hug goodbye?  His mind became slightly resentful, or a kiss?  Éomer gave him a look of satisfaction, as though their standings in his sister’s heart had been confirmed once more.  You are second that look said, forever.  Faramir ground his teeth and began to eat again.  His breakfast was cold. 

***

Éowyn wondered if she should try now, for Aragorn’s sake, or wait until later.  I don’t know. 

The Queen glanced sideways, putting the dog on the floor.  It trailed at their heels, pouncing at its mistress’ skirts with little growls no matter how forcefully she shooed it.  “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“You blushed when Faramir came in.”  Arwen smiled, almost wicked, “Why?”

“Oh…” She planned to brush it off, but was quickly interrupted.

“Don’t lie.  Who am I going to tell?”  She shooed the puppy again, but Rusco only stretched out his forepaws, bowing low to yap in a playful invitation.  His tail wagged as he bounced energetically.

“Fine.  I blushed because I remembered.”  Éowyn sighed deeply, her fingers finding the dolphin pendant around her neck, “Last night…I went…to see Faramir and…”

“Really?  Harlot.”  The Queen rolled her eyes when she fell silent.  “I’m jesting with you, go on.”

“And…” She couldn’t say it out loud.  “I can’t say.”

The admonition was recited in a friendly tone.  “Prim, prudish mortal.”

“Oh, fine!  I went, with the idea of…” Éowyn laughed, suddenly embarrassed again, “Of…” She glanced around.  Where are we?  They were going to Galadriel and Celeborn’s quarters, of course, that was why she didn’t really recognize this hall.  The rooms were out of the way, but still very richly furnished. 

“What?”

“Giving him…of doing…” There was no way she could say this out loud.  It was far too embarrassing.

Arwen looked at her and then laughed delightedly, “Oh, you mean…?”  She formed her hand into a tube and moved it rapidly up and down. 

Éowyn could feel her face heating.  “Yes.”  The Queen slapped her arm, her eyes still sparkling with mirth,

“Good for you.  What was it like?  Tell me everything.”

She sighed, suddenly angry again.  “He didn’t let me.”  He won’t let me do anything and I’ve just really begun to notice it.  Of course, her mind was no longer muddled with ale, but the night before Éowyn had realized that Faramir almost seemed to dislike it when she touched him—he didn’t seem to want her to explore his body in same way he was doing so eagerly to hers.  It’s unfair…damn him, I want to touch him.  Is that so wrong?  For the first time she wondered if it was.  He’d refused her at first when she’d wanted to touch and see his bare chest in Minas Tirith and here, in the corral, he’d all but pushed her away when she’d kissed his neck.  All the while she’d been only doing the same things he did or eventually did to her.  What is his problem?

The Queen snorted in an unladylike fashion and the puppy dashed on ahead, nose to the floor.  “No?  What an idiot.”

“That’s what I thought.”  She smiled, biting her lip, aware that her tone was slightly boastful and helpless to stop it.  “I did touch it.”

Arwen glanced sideways at her, her voice filled with curious mischief as her nose wrinkled.  “What did it look like?”

“I don’t know, I only held it a moment…or two.  I didn’t see it.”

“Well, what did it feel like?”  They were at the doors, so she answered quickly, blurting the words with a snicker,

“Hard.  Big.”  The Queen’s loud laughter bore them into Galadriel’s quarters, the dog snatching at the laces on Éowyn’s boots.

The first elf she saw was Lord Celeborn, himself.  He was standing by the open window, and when they entered, he glanced over.  His voice was quiet, gently amused.  It was a kind voice, a mulling one that reminded her of someone she couldn’t quite place.  “Good morning Lady Éowyn.” 

Surprised, she stammered, “G-good morning, my Lord.”  Deeply aware that she was clad in old, stained men’s clothes, Éowyn fidgeted, feeling nervous.  The puppy didn’t help as it growled and clamped its small jaws onto the end of her boot.  She tried to shake it off without being conspicuous.  Little monster, shoo!

Fortunately, Celeborn’s gaze turned to Arwen.  “My dear, still?  What are you going to do when we’re gone?  You know we leave the day after tomorrow?  Galadriel and her maidens are packing now.”  Two days, Éowyn thought.  She’d not known it was so soon.  No wonder Aragorn was so desperate.  I’ll just have to try a little harder for him.    

Arwen’s impatient reply made it sound as though she’d heard this question before.  “Forgive him.”

The elven lord’s face grew sad.  “And today would be inopportune?”

“Yes.”  She punctuated this by half-dragging Éowyn through several rooms into a large bedroom.  Rusco hung onto her boot as though determined to trip her, his back legs braced and teeth jerking repetitively.  You are quite the little scoundrel, she thought, towing him good-naturedly.

He called after them, sounding even sadder.  “You should not waste days.”

Arwen’s face was taut as she answered, “I know” and Éowyn began to suspect Aragorn had set quite a task in front of her.  What did he do?

***

“Yes, the puppy solved everything, didn’t it?”  Éomer tried not to roll his eyes in irritation and failed.  Aragorn was slumped onto the table, looking despondent.  Faramir had scooted back and seemed content to watch quietly as he picked at the last of his breakfast.

“I didn’t say that was the end of it.”

“Oh, what else, wise King of Rohan…tell me, have you ever even been with a woman for longer than a night?”

“Yes.”  It was four nights, when he’d been snowed in at a small town in the foothills with an exceptionally sympathetic farmer’s daughter, but Éomer left that out.  His particulars weren’t going to help Aragorn any.  I, at least, left on friendly terms…and with some very nice roast meat.  For a moment his mind wandered, then he continued, “Now, what you did was to automatically expect that she forgave you.” 

The King opened his mouth and Éomer cut him off, “Of course you thought that, but who knows why women do what they do?”  Throughout this Faramir looked a bit lost, but Éomer wasn’t about to fill him in. Witch, read his mind if you’re curious...but you’d better not mine… 

“Now, what you have to do is get her some flowers.”  If this did not work he was at the end of his experience.  He smiled slightly.  I’ve never had a woman angry with me for more than a day. Éowyn didn’t count.  Of course, I am better looking…and more charming.  His smile widened.  “And…well, we know poetry is out and songs are the same thing…so…you’re going to have to grovel.”  He paused, fighting another smile.  “Can you grovel?  It’s not difficult, but I’d say at this point that you may have to cry to make certain she knows you’re serious.”  Across the table the Steward chuckled softly.  For the man’s sake Éomer hoped he was paying attention—he was not about to give advise on how to deal with his sister.  He shuddered, repulsed.

Aragorn had put his head in his hands and now his voice was muffled.  “Where are the flowers?”

“My sister has a rose garden in her rooms—it was our mother’s.  She won’t miss a few blooms.”  Faramir glanced at him curiously.  Éomer tried his best to ignore it. 

“All right.  It sounds good enough to try to me.”  Aragorn sighed deeply and raised himself.  “Show me where.”  Éomer stood, too, and they left Faramir behind.

***

He watched them go and stood himself, unperturbed.  He had business of his own and Faramir doubted he could be any use to Aragorn, anyway.  I cannot even figure out why Éowyn is angry.  Tomorrow he was riding out and he planned upon finding his saddle today.  Éowyn had mentioned a tack room right before he’d been rudely soaked with water.  Odd, the incident was only a few days ago but it felt like an eternity.  The barn, that’s where to look, of course. 

Moving quickly to the stairs, he stared out at a black, forbidding sky.  The door-wards stirred nervously at their posts as clouds swirled.  The sky was low and threatening with a chill wind that pushed the cover slowly onwards.  There was no sign or smell of rain, though there was an occasional, disturbing rumble of thunder and Éomer’s words came back to him—the fields will burn easily in the lightning.  Thankfully there was no lightning in sight, only a sullen threat hanging overhead.  His steps quick and mindful that the dark clouds could break, he was soon at the barns and entered them; Faramir’s eyes gradually adjusted to the deep gloom.  Several horses poked out their heads, nickers fluttering their nostrils.  He patted a few, walking down the broad, well-swept aisle.  If nothing else he could see that the barns were meticulously neat with no dirt or straw lying about.  Faramir looked up; just as he’d thought there was the loft, brimming with fresh hay.  Two wooden ladders led up to it; each placed at opposite ends of the barn, providing access to either side of the loft.  He walked further inside, absently stroking the nose of a nearby horse. Where, oh where…ah.  It turned its head, hoping he would scratch behind its ears, but Faramir spotted something.  A wide door stood half-ajar in the center of the barn. 

He pushed it further open, peered into the shadows and groaned.  There must have been a hundred saddles, all neatly stacked to the ceiling, each sitting on short horizontal posts to hold them level.  Another, smaller, room held blankets, bridles and a multitude of other tack items.  The air smelled strongly of leather and oil, dirt and horse sweat.  Faramir sighed and began looking.  His had to be here somewhere.

It was not long before he sensed a presence at his back.  Turning, he jumped.  Gandalf leaned upon his staff, watching him.  In the dim room the wizard’s eyes appeared to glow.  Faramir felt himself flush like a boy, suddenly guilty as he remembered Gandalf had wished to speak with him.  And that was a day ago.  “Mithrandir.”  He nodded respectfully, but the wizard did not speak at first.  The relief that had bloomed in his heart began to wilt a little. 

After a moment in which Gandalf’s eyes roamed the tack room, he said, “Hello, lad.”

Is he angered?  Faramir moved away from the saddles, self-conscious.  “I’m very sorry…I forgot you wished to speak with me.”

Gandalf stood, almost hunched over the staff, before he smiled suddenly, a cheerful old man’s smile and Faramir’s anxiety melted a little.  “No trouble, lad, no trouble.”  His eyes were bright, though the brightness appeared odd, “Though, I expect you won’t be finding what you want here.  They wouldn’t want you to leave now.”

What?  Long used to trusting the wizard’s words, he asked, “Where else could it be?”

“No, no…” Gandalf began moving outside, his staff thumping softly on the ground, “Not here.  We’d best look elsewhere.  You’ll find nothing of use to you that’s under four walls, Faramir, not in Rohan.”

“What…?”  Confused, Faramir followed the wizard until they stood outside once more.  He hesitated, “Mithrandir?”  A lesson, is that what this is?  A riddle? 

Gandalf’s tone was gentle.  “Nothing you want is in there, my dear boy.”  His arm swept out, a gesture indicating the wide, now dark, sky and the endless horizon of waving and yellowing grass before resting palm over hand on the top of his staff.  “Look.  That’s what you want to—nay, need to turn your gaze to now.  Forget your saddle.  You won’t need it yet—” His voice was kind, “That’s for when you return.  They know that.  It’s begun.”

Faramir cast his eyes obediently over what he could see of Rohan. Grass and storm.  What answer is that?  What’s begun?  “What do you mean?”

Sighing, Gandalf asked now, “How long have you asked me questions, Faramir?”

Perplexed, he answered, “Since the day you came to…my…the city and found me in the libraries.”  A frown passed over his face and Faramir wondered what was I doing there?  He couldn’t remember—neither what he’d been reading, nor why exactly he’d gone to the libraries that day.  Was I waiting?

Gandalf laughed heartily at his answer, but didn’t explain anything.  “Come along, Faramir.”

“All right.”  Blindly trusting, he followed the wizard. 

***

“…and he wouldn’t let her!  Can you believe that foolishness?”  Éowyn closed her eyes, wishing she could just melt into the earth.  There, at least, she believed she could live without being humiliated all the time.  Galadriel held up another dress and Arwen lit up, “That would be perfect for Éowyn.  Toss it over.” 

She opened her eyes, asking, “Does everyone have to know?”

The Queen made an exasperated face, “I didn’t tell Celeborn.”  Neither had spoken a word about Aragorn.  I don’t know if I should in front of others…but still, it has been near an hour.

Skeptically studying the delicate, cream-colored dress in the mirror as Arwen held it to her front, Éowyn laughed in desperation, “And I’m just beginning to be grateful for that.”  Galadriel’s maidens were packing, carefully folding all the gowns and such; their lyrical voices soothed her, though they spoke entirely in elvish.  They were a cheerful group of elven women, their eyes bright with mirth, only darkening when they gazed at their mistresses.  Galadriel herself was supervising.  The puppy pounced on anything that moved, and often barked, making the handmaids laugh in a sweet, musical fashion.  The dog went around the room, getting patted; Rusco looked well full of himself as he jumped upon the women’s knees, tongue lapping at their hands.

“I don’t know…really…” Éowyn felt crude, a thing raw and unfinished, just standing in the room with them.  They are so graceful, so delicate…she shrank inside her worn men’s boots. 

“How about this one?  Really make Faramir feel like a fool for refusing you.  Look how low it comes down—ooh, it clings so well to the hips, too.”  Arwen smiled wickedly and held up another gown, this one a very soft, elegant sapphire.  Both dresses were elaborate looking in comparison to her simple ones.  Arwen turned it, frowning,  “Just not my color, but it brings out your eyes.”

Éowyn shifted, uncomfortable and feeling this was all going a bit fast—she’d hardly ever spent any time with women and suddenly she found herself stuffed into a very feminine situation.  It made her more nervous than when she’d stood before the Witchking.  “Umm…”

“Here, take that off and put this on so we can see what you look like in it.”  The Queen rolled her eyes when she opened her mouth, “What?  I have more gowns than I could ever wear.”  Her tone turned exasperated, “The first that happened in Minas Tirith was those women leaped upon me and…I have handmaidens!  Six!  …They insisted upon helping me with the wedding dress…it was a nightmare, I couldn’t get away and that clothier kept pricking me with pins.” 

That…that sounds like torture, Éowyn thought apprehensively.  What shall happen when I come to wed the Steward?  She had no idea what she would do with handmaidens.  She didn’t even know what she would do with herself.

“What happened to the dress?  I thought it was lovely.”  Galadriel glanced over.

Arwen smiled then, a very satisfied and contented smile.  “He ripped it getting it off.”

There was a flicker of amusement in Galadriel’s serene face.  “How unfortunate.”

“Yes.”  The Queen frowned and waved a hand, “Quick, take that off…” Her smile became eager, “I’ve got an idea, too, to talk about.”

Éowyn clutched the blue gown, dying with mortification as she prepared to strip.  What have I gotten myself into?  Why didn’t I just go with Éomer?  Her fingers moved slowly on the shirt’s buttons.  “What idea?”

“Oh, it’s nothing drastic…you have such lovely hair and,” Arwen smiled, “I’ve had a thought…you know all the men will be gone.  We could change it back before they’ve returned.”

“Change what?”  They would be gone, she’d not really realized that—Éomer and Faramir would leave at the same time and Aragorn would be riding to Isengard…tomorrow and the day after tomorrow.  Éowyn unlaced her boots, still feeling horribly self-conscious.  “What’s your idea?” 

Some of the elves had left the room, including Galadriel.  “I’ll tell you later.  Here.”  The Queen gestured for one of the remaining handmaidens to help.  “This dress is complicated, but worth it, I promise.”

Éowyn prepared to allow herself to be bundled into the blue gown, feeling like a giant, none too attractive doll.  At least their voices are kind.  Galadriel’s maidens’ voices were indeed kind; they laughed softly and talked with one another in between petting the puppy.   The material of the dress was soft, sliding like water over her skin as she held it.  Arwen raised some sort of under garment with the usual linen shift.  “This first.”

“What is that?”  It looked uncomfortable.  All she’d ever worn beneath her dresses was a simple shift.  This thing was stiffer and became tight as the handmaidens laced it.  Ow…it didn’t hurt, really, but it was annoying.

Arwen jerked the strings.  “A bodice.  You’ll hate it and you’ll love it.”

***

“You cannot use your eyes, that’s tradition.” 

“All right.”  Faramir closed them.  He was still baffled. 

“Not now, lad.”  Gandalf began to laugh loudly and he felt like a fool.  The wizard chuckled,  “A good boy, is what you were.  And now a good man.”  He smiled as they stood on the walls of Edoras.  Soldiers had moved aside, none daring to question Gandalf.  “But you’ve become a man of the city, of stone and the great river.  You cannot help that.”  The wizard spoke again, slowly, “It is the undoing that will be difficult.”

“What do you mean?”  The wall was pitiful to him, thin and low, scarcely a defense at all.  Faramir peered over the edge and decided he would easily survive the drop.

“Eorð folde ond lyft.  Ægðer se eoh geaff for me.  Se Rídend in se lyft weop.”  The words were chanted softly and while Faramir understood them, he didn’t understand them.  Gandalf smiled at his near frantic stare, “So said men of the Ridder-mark in days of old, but that is of little help to you yet, Faramir.  There will be little help but that you make yourself.”  His eyes fixed upon him, “You’ll be the student but for only a while longer, lad.”

“What…do you see?”  He was uncomfortable asking.  What will help?  The question he kept bottled, disturbed by its wild quality.

“See?”  The wizard shook his head quickly, “My old eyes don’t see much anymore.”  Gandalf leaned heavily on his staff as they moved back to the stairs, descending the walls of Edoras.  “You had best go nowhere tonight, or Master Samwise’s feet will ache indeed.”  Faramir nodded, feeling it was expected of him, not because he knew what they were talking about.  “Frodo wants to check his notes before he leaves.  Tonight will be the best time, he thinks, and young Samwise will gather us since his master wills.”  Gandalf sighed then, sounding weary and sad.  “He will speak of…some things that have been left alone.  It would be cruel to let you go into it untold.  Too cruel for me to stand, though this account is not one I wish to tell.”

“What is it of?”  He wondered at the melancholy darkness that passed over the wizard’s brow.  The staff clattered on the steps and then stumped softly over the dirt as they walked, but they did not go into Edoras, but out.  It was only when they stood alone in the open air that Gandalf answered, his voice slow and old.   

“The pyre of Denethor.” 

“What?”  Faramir was suddenly afraid.  Thunder rolled gently overhead and he became aware that all light had faded, leaving the midday wrapped in a deep, gloomy haze.  Horses neighed nervously and there were shouts and snatches of cheerful songs despite the vile weather.  I want to go home, he thought irrationally.   “What are you talking about?” 

The wizard’s eyes were gentle.  “You don’t remember at all?”

“No, I don’t.”  Faramir answered stiffly, feeling his heart pound.  I don’t remember anything.  I don’t!  I don’t remember anything between the pain of the arrow and falling into darkness…I don’t remember anything until when Aragorn woke me!  His mental voice sounded too harsh, too determined.  Another part of him shied at the word pyre and whispered doubtfully, do you?

“Not all things he said were true.  He loved you, Faramir and that’s what you must remember.”  Gandalf sighed, “I will tell you the tale for your sake, so that it should not catch you unaware someday and hurt you, but keep in your heart that Denethor did love you in his own fashion.”

“His own fashion…” The words struck cruelly, freeing a dam of pent up rage.  Why not like he did my brother?  With words of praise and attention and gifts and remembering his birthdays, and making sure he was clothed in the best and not sitting in some dark room full of books thinking he was going mad because the voices wouldn’t stop?  Why not love me like that?  Why was I ridiculous, slow and stupid?  Why were my suggestions laughed at and then when I asked my brother to say them later acclaimed as genius?  Why?  Why, why, why?  Why did he not love me and now why am I all alone?  Faramir became aware that his fists were tightly balled and that his frame shook with the depths of his anger.  Voice a croak, he demanded while hearing his own fury with a sort of amazement, “Tell me.”

It didn’t take long and when Gandalf ceased speaking, Faramir began to walk away, his head bent.  His heart was cold, neither grieving nor raging, just cold. 

***

“Oh.”

“See?”  Arwen smiled.  “I knew it would look good on you.”

“Worth it, hmm?”  Éowyn was still deciding on that, though the dress was truly fantastic.  It clung soft to her curves, dipping low to show the valley between her breasts.  The blue fabric glowed gently as she turned, flaring slightly to make her waist look slimmer.  But the real reason she was staring was that the uncomfortable bodice, a thing that left her feeling squeezed…like a damn girth…lifted her bosom while smoothing her flat stomach flatter and actually made it appear that she had hips.  Amazed, she stared in the mirror.  I don’t look like a boy.  “I think so.”  But…  In this gown she could do nothing but sit and stand—the tightly drawn bodice forbade any real movement.  I hate it…and I love it.

“You have to have the dress.  I insist, I look horrible in it.”  Éowyn doubted this, but she smiled.

“Thank you.”

Arwen smiled triumphantly.  “And when I get done with your hair Faramir won’t recognize you.” 

Éowyn smoothed her sides, liking the silky fabric.  She spoke without even knowing what she was going to say, “Why are you still angry with Aragorn?”

There was a long silence and she was afraid she’d gone too far, but eventually the Queen spoke, “Your story first, then mine.”

“All right.”  An attempt at a deep breath left her feeling momentarily claustrophobic.  It was an apt enough feeling for her story.  “I met Faramir because I wanted to follow my brother and Aragorn to the Black Gates.  I wanted to die in battle.”

“Why?”  Arwen held up another dress, this one a rosy pink.

“Umm…I don’t know about that color.”  Éowyn sighed as she answered, “I wanted to die because…there was nothing left for me.”  Her eyes stung.  I had no hopes.  She remembered Gríma’s words and shuddered, feeling cold.  I did not believe we would win and the fate I’d been promised was more than enough to make me seek death.  He’d leered at her towards the end, vowing that when the Ridder-mark fell to Saruman he would make her his wife.  And I would have been dead, if not in battle, then by my own hand long before.

Wisely, Arwen did not press her, though her expression became quiet and careful. 

“He was supposed to be in charge of the City and the healers would not release me.  So I went to him in hopes of going off to die with honor as I’d been denied earlier on the Pelennor.”  Galadriel’s maidens faces were cheerful as they helped her out of the gown and into the pink one.  Arwen was flipping through a mass of clothing, presumably looking for something else, but her gaze lifted often.  “He said he couldn’t help, as he was in the keeping of the warden, too, and I…” I cried and he took pity—no, no that’s not right.  She licked her lips.  I don’t know why he looked at me so, with his face softening as though if we’d stood alone he would have stepped close and wiped the tear from my cheek.  “I mentioned my room didn’t face east…he arranged that it did.  He called me beautiful, fairer than any flower or maiden he’d seen in Gondor.”  And I panicked.  “He wanted me to accompany him in the gardens, saying that to look upon me was healing, that it would ease his heart.”

The Queen glanced up and her eyes were keen as she remarked, “That was romantic.  Very sweet.”  She laughed, “Very, very sweet.  I’m jealous.”

“Yes.”  Éowyn continued, “I walked in the gardens often, looking out while I waited…” Waited for news of my brother’s death, waited for the armies of the Dark Lord to overwhelm us.  “He sometimes walked with me.  Merry told me he asked about me and...”

“And?”

“I don’t know what he told him.  I walked with him and sat with him under the trees.  Faramir was very pleasant, very kind and not too questioning or forward.”  She smiled, thinking, then.  “I was standing at the walls looking east with Faramir when everything changed—when the darkness fell.  He’d wrapped a mantle around me,” Another slight smile appeared on her lips, “He didn’t want me to catch a chill standing in that wind for so long like I did.”

“The winds are strong on the upper levels.” 

 She wasn’t listening—she still remembered moving closer to him, seeking shelter in his taller frame and his male strength as the darkness in the east had grown.  Faramir’s eyes had been almost afraid, but then he’d straightened, standing tall and firm.  As though he were being brave for my sake, showing no fear of doom.  “He spoke of Númenor and of hope.”  Éowyn laughed suddenly and loudly, “He talked a great deal, actually.  All the time, but nice things, so it was tolerable.”

“Really?  I’ve hardly heard him string ten words together.  I thought he was very quiet, almost dull.”

“I think it was nerves.  He said he would not have the world end because he’d found me and kissed my forehead.”  She sighed, not mentioning all her uneasy protests.  Arwen had left gaps in her story, so could she.  “Later, when my brother called for me to come to Cormallen, I wouldn’t.  Faramir gave a lengthy speech about loving me no matter what and guessing why I wouldn’t go…I think he was nervous again…and then he asked me if I loved him.”  Éowyn examined the pink gown in the mirror, still skeptical.  Rusco had stretched flat out on the bed, exhausted with his head pillowed on a bag.  Galadriel’s handmaidens sat around the dog, speaking softly in their flowing language.

Arwen waited for her to continue, but after a few seconds she asked impatiently, “Well?”

“I said a lot about not riding to war and the Shadow departing and no longer desiring to be a…” She caught herself, “Rider, but...” 

“But…?”  The word was surprised.

“No, I didn’t say I loved him.  He assumed that much and began talking about wedding me.” 

            “Eager.”

            “Yes.  He was a good man, a kind one.  The best I could hope for.”  Éowyn turned, her torso still held tight by the bodice as she looked at the rose-colored dress.  She was beginning to ache where the garment put the most pressure.  “Anyhow, Éomer came upon us in the garden and he saw Faramir kiss me—he’d found out about him shortly before and assumed why I’d not come.”  The dress fit well, but color was odd and Éowyn disliked it.  “He made a horrible scene just to scare me—shouting, threatening, being an ass—and then decided he hated Faramir and that’s why we’re here.”  She did not say how, as the reality of the Dark Lord’s demise had grown in her heart, that the world was safe and that she could live to marry, how she’d become terrified of the commitment and what it might mean.  I’ve improved, now only the thought of leaving makes my chest tighten and my stomach sour…that’s better, isn’t it?

            After a moment the Queen laughed, “Well, that’s a story.  Do you love him now?  Say yes or I shall weep and stand overwhelmed—I’ve seen you with him and such acting would be beyond belief.”

            Éowyn felt her face smile, though her heart didn’t.  “Yes, oh yes.  I grew to love him very quickly.”  Adding to change the subject, she said, “I still don’t like this color.  It’s…too pink.”  I love Faramir, very much.  I love his smile; his laugh; his kiss; his touch; the way his eyes brighten when he looks at me sometimes; and I love his heart.  I love the way he can let me inside.  I love his tolerance, the way he touches my mind or speaks, checking to make sure I’m not afraid.  I love that he waits for me, that he doesn’t care when I’m nervous.  I love that he wanted to kill Gríma, purely for my sake.

 I love the way he forgave me my lies, my wounding words.  I love him, oh, yes.  He’s too good for me, too wonderful.  I love that he’s settled for a wild shieldmaiden of the North who must be tamed and taught civility.  She closed her eyes tightly, feeling tears gather behind her lids.  When Éowyn opened them Arwen was gazing at her, but her fair face was expressionless.

            “Here.”  There were three more dresses to try on, the cream-colored from the beginning, a dark green and a deep red.  “It will look better later, the pink.”

            “Why?”

            Arwen smiled, her face alight with mischief though her eyes were almost sad.  “You’ll see.”

            The Queen did not speak again, so she prompted as the handmaidens got ready to help her out of the gown, “Your story.”

            “All right.  I’m angry because…”

            Suddenly there was a word at the door.  One of the elven women opened it.  Elrond stood there, making Éowyn glad she was still dressed, though I expect an elven lord would have about as much interest as the dog.  She smiled a little, but it faded as she glanced at the Queen. Arwen had tensed.

            “I apologize Lady Éowyn, but I must speak with my daughter.”  His voice was dignified, if terribly strained and sad.  “Arwen?”

            “Yes, just give us a moment.”  Elrond inclined his head in acceptance and stepped back outside their room.

            “I’m sorry.  Here, let me help you out of this.”

            “It’s all right.”  Éowyn stood still, looking in the mirror.  Over her shoulder, Arwen’s face was pale.  What is wrong?  She sighed, frustrated.  I was so close.

***

            At length, Faramir opened his eyes.  His heart beat steady now and he felt nothing but the slow sway of the tree he sat in and his own peace.  It was odd this calmness, this all but apathy.  Faramir sensed that just below it his mind roiled with anger and grief, a wild and chaotic emotional stew that he shrank from.  I’m not ready for that.  Maybe ever.  The dark clouds moved overhead, but did not send down bolts of lightning to fry him where he sat.  I wouldn’t mind so much, he thought.  It might even be fitting.  This thought made him chuckle, a short sound that abruptly faded.

            Faramir had walked away from Edoras and into the foothills.  Rohan’s vastness looked bleak and for the first time inviting.  He could get lost easily in the winding paths that led through the irregular and sparsely forested slopes.  Hanging just over his head, the mountains loomed, snow icing their peaks—the benumbed pinnacles mirrored his heart. 

            Numb, that’s what I am.  The bark was rough and gnarled, digging into his hands as he’d climbed and now his legs and back as he sat but Faramir welcomed it.  The tree was alive and responsive to him, softly creaking as it moved in the chill wind.  Four words, the same four that had driven him here, came back.

            He had a choice.

            Gandalf had implied it, though not come out and directly said so.  The wizard’s face had been deeply saddened, his eyes regretful and his tone soft as he’d spoken.  It was a tale of delusion and pain.  They told me he’d gone mad, they told me the Dark Lord had captured him through the palantír…they did not tell me he tried to murder me.  Tried to burn me and take me with him, hostage to his madness.  Two sacrifices burned on a pyre…like an offering of the heathen kings.  He’d read about them, strange, wild cultures. 

The frowning sky didn’t change with this mean revelation, or the wind cease, or the ground shake.  It was nothing, really.  He shifted position in the tree, adding scrapes to his already scraped hands.  He wanted to climb higher, but was unsure about the branches.  They were much more slender up there and rattled in the wind, leaves scuffing together.

I don’t remember calling for my father.  Faramir shuddered, feeling his throat close tight.  He wouldn’t, couldn’t cry while his father was on his mind—it made him feel that weeping was disgracefully weak, even if he were alone.  I don’t remember the feel of oil or the confined, dry smell of the tombs, nor the cries and clashings of swords as Beregond fought to preserve my life.  I owe him greatly, I suppose.  His mind refused to be sidetracked, coming back to the thought that had nearly made him scream with fury and anguish.

            My father had a choice. 

Another part of him said nervously, he was old, he couldn’t change…couldn’t accept Aragorn, couldn’t relinquish his place as sovereign of the City.  But he didn’t know if that were true or not and the first thing that had occurred to him still rang harshly through his head and twisted his heart.  Faramir stared at the mountains, thinking,

            No…  His hands hurt and a thin mist moistened his hair and clothes, the only moisture the heavy clouds saw fit to let fall.  The ground darkened and swiftly dried as the mist departed but the tree became slippery.  He had a choice and he chose Boromir.  He chose death.  Swallowing, he closed his eyes again, seeking his heartbeat.  He’d lost his peace.

            When he next opened them Faramir was momentarily confused.  The light had darkened; it was late in the afternoon.  I…I must have slept.  It was a miracle he’d not tumbled out of the tree.  His joints creaked when he stood, careful on the branches.  Faramir began to descend, deliberately concentrating on the task, trying to avoid thinking about his father.  Another hazy drizzle must have come by; the tree’s skin was just slickened.  He took care, moving slowly, eyes down.  Suddenly a branch that had appeared solid snapped under his boot.  Luckily, he was near the ground when he fell, the other foot slipping and then his hands, his palms and the pads of his fingers burning as they were rubbed raw from the craggy bark and dried moss. 

            Crying out with more surprise than pain, he hit the dirt and rolled onto his side.  Faramir stared up at the leafy branches in weary irritation and then slowly climbed to his feet.  His hands were hurting as he began walking back to Edoras. 

***

            Éowyn was close to real worry.  There had been a funny tickle in the back of her mind, a twisty little sensation that put her on edge all afternoon.  She’d carried the gowns Arwen had gifted her with back to her rooms and surprised her brother and Aragorn there.  They’d been leaving with a small basket full of flowers, a basket they’d obviously fussed over because it was beautifully arranged.  Almost too beautifully.  She’d been amused by their quick exit and muttered excuses.  After hanging up the gowns, Éowyn had wandered around Meduseld, looking for Faramir. 

            She’d been unable to find him, and there was a vague sense of unrest in her mind, a dark feeling that worried her.  Now she stood outside the barns, scratching her colt’s withers and wondering where he was.  The storm was growing worse, the sky blackening and the wind blowing harder.  The door-wards had spoken in hushed tones of a funnel of black wind that destroyed everything in its path; they thought the weather might bring it.  She shivered and rubbed the colt’s coat. Most of the horses stood rumps to the wind, their heads down, patiently waiting for the bad weather to cease.  The colt leaned into her fingers, pleased at the attention.  You’re getting your winter hair.  Éowyn licked her lips, feeling sad.  She would not get to have snowball fights with Éomer this winter, or ride in the deep drifts with the wind so cold the tears felt like they froze on her cheeks.  She liked her winter clothes, the fur-trimmed coats, and the thick boots.  She liked fishing on the partially iced over Snowbourn and riding in sleighs from place to place when the snow fell especially heavily.  Does it snow much in Gondor?  They are so far south… 

The tickle in her head intensified.  Faramir?  Hopefully, Éowyn listened.  There had been no reply before, so she was relieved when he answered.

            Here.

            Where?  Her anger was forgotten.

            Right…here.  He was close, he’d been passing the barns and now he’d turned into them, coming to her. Éowyn remembered her anger and it seemed stupid to her.  Why should I be mad that he is uncomfortable with me touching him when I am the same?  She felt ashamed.  He waits and is patient, I shouldn’t be angry about that.  Faramir’s shape came toward her through the gloomy stable aisle.  She stepped away from the corral, walking slowly towards him.  But still…she wanted to run her hands over his body, to touch and appreciate.  It was a strong, new urge that Éowyn wasn’t sure how to deal or what to do with.  I’ll forget it, she thought nervously. 

            Faramir stepped into sight and she did forget—forgot her new resolve.  He was so handsome, everything about him.  His shirt buttons undone at the top so that warm, glowing skin and a few strands of dark hair showed.  The way he walked, the way he moved, so easy and light.  His hair loose on his shoulders, his grey eyes…so sad.  Why is he sad? 

            He came closer and she looked closer and Éowyn frowned, moving quick to his side to gently grasp his wrists and turn his palms upward.  “What did you do to your hands?”

            “My hands?  Oh, I fell out of a tree.”  Faramir’s voice sounded odd—too slow, too beaten.  He sounded almost bruised. 

What’s wrong, she wondered uneasily.  His hands were scraped raw in places; slightly swollen and battered with what looked like grit ground into the skin.  Dried blood crusted to his palms.  Two of his fingernails were ripped away to the quick.  “Are you all right?”  Now that she was next to him she could see dirt on his sides, bits of moss on his sleeves.

            His voice was still had the same listless undertone.  “Yes.” 

            Éowyn doubted that.  “Stay here, let me get something to wash this.”  In the stable there would be clean rags and fresh water.  Faramir followed her instructions with complete obedience—it didn’t look like he’d moved an inch when she returned.  There were several bales of hay near the back of the barn, gotten down for the corralled horses and not yet thrown.  Éowyn sat on one and Faramir sat beside her, quietly offering his abraded hands.  Folding the wet cloth, she asked, “You didn’t fall far, did you?”

            “No.”  His voice was usually rich and mild, sonorous with his odd, but pleasant, to her ears at least, Southern accent—now it was dull and flat.   

            “Remind me to get some salve for you.  It will help heal and keep away infection.”  Éowyn examined his hands, careful not to touch the superficial wounds.  Most were jagged, not deep at all, but ugly.  His left felt curious, the places were he had…Éomer had… broken the bones slightly larger.  “Faramir?”

            “Yes?”

            She was hesitant, uncertain.  He made no noise as she swabbed at the dried blood, relieved that most of it was just caked over unbroken skin.  The darkened streaks and specks made her feel tense.  He could have fallen and seriously hurt himself.  “Can I ask what’s wrong?  You…you look like something’s wrong.”

            “My father tried to kill me and then when he couldn’t he killed himself.  He burned himself to death in the Hallows.  He would have burned me, too.”

            Éowyn stared at him, but Faramir’s eyes were far away, his face smooth and blank.  Awkward, she said, “…oh.” 

            “Gandalf saw fit to tell me today.”  He paused, still speaking in the same monotone, “I wish he hadn’t.”

            “I’m…sorry.”  She folded the rag again and began dabbing very gently at the crumbly bits of bark that had been imbedded in his skin.  Most came out as she patted it, wiping away dirt and grit.  Faramir’s hands looked like they stung, the flesh red and inflamed.  Watching as the cleaned scratches began to bleed again, welling up with bright crimson blood, Éowyn saved two rags back to wrap around his palms as temporary bandages.

            “What for?”

            Confused, she murmured.  “That that happened to you.”

            “I’m all right.”  Éowyn didn’t speak again for some time, taking care not to be rough as she wiped the last of the grit and blood away.  After a while Faramir said softly, watching her.  “I thought you said your hand was ungentle. You haven’t hurt me yet.”

            I have.  “You gentled it.”

            “Then it is the only thing I’ve ever done right.”

             “Don’t say that.”  Her heart felt heavy.

            He laughed strangely, “You know, it’s funny, if my father had succeeded in burning us both alive…it would have been the first thing he’d ever willingly done with me.”

            Éowyn didn’t think it was funny.  She thought it was awful.  The nightmare Faramir had had came back to her, the smoke, and the place of the dead…had he said the Hallows?  She felt a chill.  He’d been a weeping, naked boy crying for help and insisting it was all his due, all his fault.  It’s not, oh, it’s not.  Carefully, she asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

            Faramir took his time answering.  His voice became more normal, almost relieved.  “Maybe.”

            Éowyn wound the last, clean rags around his raw palms, carefully knotting them at the sides.  He would be fine until she could put some ointment on his scrapes and bandaged him properly.  On the ride tomorrow he might be awkward, but his hands would heal completely in a few days.  “Can you climb a ladder?”

            His breath stirred her hair as she checked the knots and smoothed the cloth one last time.  “If you want me to.”

            “Then come.”  She knew of a place nearby that would be private and peaceful.  Éowyn led him back into the barn.

***

            Faramir climbed slowly.  His hands throbbed a little, but the pain was trifling.  Éowyn was a shadow in the barn’s gloomy loft as he walked, boots rustling through sweet-smelling hay.  She led him around a corner and into a deep recess before she settled into the hay, her back against a bale and sitting cross-legged.  Éowyn’s eyes were worried and he could feel her anxiety.  It’s all right, I’m fine, he wanted to reassure her, but he didn’t think she would accept it.  They couldn’t lie to each other.  He wasn’t fine at all.

            “Sit.  Tell me…anything.”  He did as he was told, which was what he was good at.  Faramir lowered himself, stretching out on his back and lying his head in her lap.  Éowyn’s gentle fingers touched his brow, fluttering there, surprised, before stroking his hair back.  They felt nice; he touched her wrist with his own abraded fingers and she took one of his hands.  Her thumb caressed his knuckles.  Faramir sighed deeply, feeling more peaceful with her than the summation of his efforts all afternoon.  His heartbeat was within reach and his mind was uncluttered, no longer chaotic.  He turned his head, resting against her thigh.  Éowyn stroked his cheek, her fingertips light on the thickening stubble.  He hadn’t shaved since he’d come to Rohan.

            “I don’t know where to start.”

            Her voice was soft, “Whatever you want, say whatever you want.  I’ll listen.”

            Faramir nuzzled the body-warm fabric of her trousers.  “I love you.”

            He heard her smile, but she felt sorrowful.  “And I love you.”

             Taking a deep breath, Faramir began.  “He didn’t love me, no matter what Gandalf says, he never loved me.  My father…I don’t think he ever even wanted me.” 

            Éowyn did not speak, just kept touching him, her hands very pleasant on his brow.  Faramir closed his eyes, relaxing.  It was not so hard.  His words were just under his skin, bottled and acid, begging to be freed.

            “I don’t know why.  I never had the courage to ask him—what would he have said?  I was afraid he had a list…a great list of things that were wrong with me and if I asked he’d answer just like that—right away, like it was so obvious, how could I not see?  Maybe he loved my brother more because Boromir looked like our mother.  Maybe my father didn’t have enough love for two sons.  If so, then he’d choose the older, of course.”  Faramir was conscious of the bitterness in his voice; “I was like a dog that appeared on his doorstep, unwanted and only barely tolerated because I had some use.  Catching rats, slaying orcs; getting kicked, insulted for his amusement…not much of a difference, really, in the end.”

            He could sense her distress, but Éowyn kept quiet.  Her only movement was to keep stroking his hair.

            “I loved my mother.  I remember her singing, her holding me tight and showing me shells of different colors and shapes.  There was one that was very big and if you put your ear to it you could hear the sea roaring, like it was angry to be trapped inside.  She had tiny fish that swam in a great bowl.  They were very bright and fast.”  Faramir felt his chest tighten.  “I loved her.  I was her favorite.  Boromir told me so.  I suppose that if she’d lived things would have been all right.

             “It’s odd…when I was very little I don’t remember my father at all.  Just my mother and Boromir.  When she died he hugged my brother...” Faramir choked, his throat and chest aching, “He hugged him and told him it would be fine, that she was at peace…he didn’t even look at me.”

            A warm drop fell on his neck.  Éowyn was crying slow tears.

            “Everything I said, everything I did was wrong.  I tried to be like Boromir and that was wrong.  Stars help me, I even tried to be like him and that was wrong.  I just wanted some sign of affection, some clue he might lament if I fell in battle—Gandalf said he wept when I called for him.”  His jaw clenched as a sudden wave of fury swept through him, burning away his grief; “Too bad I was unconscious.  I don’t even remember doing it.  Gandalf said he spoke rationally then, fought his madness, but lost…said that the Dark Lord’s hold was too great.  I don’t think so.  I don’t believe that.”

            She whispered, “What do you believe?”

            “My father stood there and thought.  He wasn’t a fool.  He could live; he could be Steward and serve Aragorn with honor.  He could have his son—curse me, but I would go to him now…and I would gladly receive his praise or scorn.”  Faramir raised himself a little, turning to look up at her, to make sure she understood, “I’m thirty-five.  Thirty years I’ve been all but spat upon and I would give my life to hear one real word of approval.”  She gazed back, eyes sorrowful, but said nothing.

Resting back on her leg, he continued, “He chose my brother, just as he’s always done.  My father chose death—do you understand?  He would rather die, would rather soak himself with oil and set flames to his flesh—rather boil his blood, char his skin and blacken his bones than live with me.  I was not even second choice.  I was no choice at all.”

“You’re wrong, then.  He was a fool.”  Éowyn’s voice trembled, though he was unsure whether with rage or anguish.

It was kind of her.  He kissed her palm.  “He didn’t like that Gandalf taught me…my father taunted me often, even openly before the Court; said I was a wizard’s pupil—like I was being taught magic!  All Mithrandir ever taught me was to think.  To pity first and to try and see both sides.  To choose mercy over cruelty!  He taught me history, more than any tutor did.  What was wrong with that?  Oh, my father also didn’t like that I spent time in the libraries, that I wanted to learn instead of battling endlessly, fighting the skirmishes, never improving my mind but only my arm.  Like I said, everything I did was wrong.”

Faramir’s voice fell to a whisper and his heart grew uneasy, cold with despairing humiliation.  “But none of that was the worst.  I could live with my father’s dislike.”

              Éowyn’s face, seen upside down, was still fair and miserable.  He reached up to touch it, feeling her wet cheek.  “It was when…sometimes, I heard his voice in Boromir’s.  I loved my brother, but the thought that my father would live in him after he was dead, that his echoes would strike with the voice, the face and the eyes of my brother, who I loved and admired—I wanted to die. 

“I loved my brother and he loved me, but he couldn’t help it…I might be late because I got caught up reading some old account of…something and there would be this look, this feel in his face…a shadow of my father.  He couldn’t help it, he didn’t even know he was doing it—he would have been appalled to know he hurt me just with a flippant remark about having my nose in a book.”  He sighed, muttering, “Flippant to him.”

            She bit her lip, teeth worrying it as she stared down. Faramir felt strangely lightened, strangely contented.  He was near the last.  He swallowed, “I just wish Boromir was alive now…I would gladly step down, surrender my Stewardship.  I would do anything.”

            He hesitated, warring.  Part of him was horrified he would even think his next sentence, never mind it was true, much less say it aloud.  You don’t…you don’t mean it?  You can’t!  You can’t!  He could hear that part and he despised its fawning quality.  That part of him trotted at his father’s heels forever, begging for a scrap of affection.  Faramir stared at the timbers that made up the barn’s roof and confessed his darkest secret: the first emotion that had filled him when he’d been told in his room in the Houses of Healing had been not grief, but a fierce kind of joy.  A joy he’d immediately been ashamed of.  “But I’m glad my father’s dead.” 

Éowyn was silent, so he said slowly, telling what he’d never revealed, “I thought about killing him when I was a boy…harmless thoughts born of a child’s anger, but I did.”

His voice quaked with rage now.  “He killed my mother.  He kept her there, kept her imprisoned.  She hated his precious City.  I hated him and I’m glad he’s dead, I’m glad he died in pain.”

The anger seemed to leave him all at once and when he spoke again it was laced with tears that felt hot in his eyes, choking his throat.  “I just wish I knew if he…he ever loved me and just didn’t show it…ever thought I was anything worth…worth anything…why would he weep if he didn’t…?”

She shushed him gently as his words wavered off into incoherence and he sobbed brokenly, tears wet against her trousers.

***

At last Faramir fell still and Éowyn stroked his hair again.  His brow was damp with sweat and he’d shook at times while he’d spoken as though dragging words from some deep place inside himself.  Yet his shoulders and his face had relaxed.  He looked at peace.  She licked her lips, still horrified at his words and pushed up gently on his head.  Faramir raised obediently and Éowyn slid down a little, wrapping her arms around him to hold him close.  Faramir’s tear-damp cheek rested on her breasts and he kissed one through her shirt, not a gesture of ardor. 

Or so she thought.  He kissed her breasts again, one and then the other, deliberate.  Her neck was next, moving up, propping himself on his elbow as he lay on his side, body pressed to hers.  The hay was warm and soft beneath her, Faramir warm and firm with muscle, flesh, and bone, alive next to her.  Their mouths met, moving so slowly, making the kiss into a dozen.  He gazed down at her, his grey eyes dark in the gloom as he asked hesitantly, “Do you still think I’m a good man?”

“Yes.” Faramir smiled faintly at her immediate, strong answer.  Éowyn touched his chin, feeling the dense stubble and moved her hand down his neck to the first, undone buttons of his shirt.  There were three loose from their holes and she fingered them.  The buttons were smooth and round, the thread tight.

He was still gazing down at her, the gloom illuminating the wet tracks his tears had made down his face.  Faramir had not seemed ashamed of his weeping, so unlike the men she knew.  “You’re sure?”

Éowyn nodded.  “Yes.” 

“I’m glad.  You can’t even guess.”  Suddenly Faramir leaned forward; his lips pressing hers at the same time his mind touched her.  She inhaled sharply, breaking the kiss, lost for an instant in him, in all the emotions, memories and pain. 

Oh, Faramir…

            You love me for me, don’t you?  It was half-desperate. 

            Yes.

            You’ll love me always…there was hesitation again and a struggling plea…no matter what? 

            Yes, forever.

            Say it.  Now, please, please.

            “I love you, for being you, for being Faramir.  I will love you, forever, beyond my life and into the houses of my forefathers.”  Éowyn’s eyes filled with salty tears, “I love you, I trust you, I would die if you died.  Without you…” I would have been a shell, scared and empty of this love. 

            He touched his mind to hers again and this time she was lost in the depths of him, swimming in his love for her and his sorrow for his brother, his grudging and yet deep grief for his father and his joy that he was free.  The joy was tempered with a fury born of numberless insults, moments when he’d done well that went unnoticed, the feeling that he was nothing.  Oh, Faramir, you can’t think that…  There were dark places, but she sensed there were fewer today.  Faramir kissed her once more, because he felt if she would accept his kisses, then she would accept him. 

            Éowyn hugged him tight, wishing she could make everything better.  Under his shirt and her fingers she could feel the scar from the arrow that had felled him and she shuddered with the depth of her gratitude that it had not been poisoned as she’d heard the healers had thought.

***

            He kissed her neck, feeling warm skin beneath his lips.  He wanted to make love to her, if only to do something that affirmed he was alive, he was all right, that he would be all right and she would embrace him as he was.  As though she was mindful of his thoughts, Éowyn held him, her arms somehow feeling stronger than any shield.  They lay side by side, pressed close.  Her warmth was comforting and Faramir could have stayed there a long time, but there was a rattle of wood on wood—the ladder shaking.  “Someone’s coming.  We’d better go.”

            “All right.”  She rose first, brushing loose hay from her clothes.  Some of it was stuck in her hair and he picked it out.  Éowyn smiled and did the same for him, the tip of her tongue sticking out as she did so, standing on tiptoe.  Faramir gazed at it, feeling his desire stir a little.  They waited in the gloom as a boy climbed up and threw down more hay before going back down.  The lad’s mind was preoccupied, so Faramir led her to the ladder and they descended.  Standing in the aisle, he looked at her and was suddenly aware that he was starving.  Éowyn’s lips curved, “Come, then.”  She led him under the black sky and into Meduseld and then shooed him down the hall.  “Go, go on.  I’ll bring you something.”

             “All right.”  This was new and he liked it.  Faramir walked to his quarters, lifting his hands to gaze at the cloths wrapped so carefully around them.  Éowyn was taking care of him.  He smiled.

            In his rooms he kicked the worst of the piled clothes into a corner and dragged his drawing supplies out from under his bed.  If she was coming here he wanted to do that.  Faramir flexed a hand—it hurt just a little but the discomfort was perfectly tolerable.  Standing in the silence, he reflected only on how oddly buoyant he felt, oddly content.  Undoubtedly he should be still upset, still disturbed by Gandalf’s words, but he didn’t feel that way.  I’m…happy.   

            There was impatience at the door and he moved to open it; Éowyn brought him a tray full of food and set it on the table.  Her hand hovered over his bow, her eyes curious.  “You may touch it.”

“Him.”  She corrected with a smile.  “What’s his name?” 

“Tarwatirno.  It means “keeper of garden”.”  Éowyn lifted the bow, her hands smoothing down its length, tracing the decorations: delicately carved spiraling leaves, vines and stars that descended from each point.  At and around the grip the design was worn to shining wood.  Her fingers touched it, fondling and Faramir watched them with interest, envying the bow her caresses.  “He’s beautiful.”  She laid the weapon down again, respectfully gentle.  “And the sword?”

“Cólo.  It means burden,” At her glance, he added, “I prefer the bow…and I’m not a good liar.”  

Éowyn smiled at him, lifting the sword still in its sheath.  Her hands traced the stitching, the faded leather with her fingers curling.  He stared, wondering when her every action had becoming sensual.  “Let’s see him.”  She unsheathed it slowly and held the long blade up.  Éowyn passed a hand up it, careful to keep away from the edge.  “He’s gorgeous, you should be ashamed.”  She stepped back to swing the sword, her head cocked to hear the song.  Her bosom moved and her body when she swung the weapon.

With a laugh, he replied, “Thank you.”  You’re gorgeous.  Faramir watched her hands, her eyes.  When she licked her lips, he sighed. 

Resheathing the sword, she motioned to the food.  “Go on, I had tea.”  Her word choice puzzled him a little until she clarified.  “With Merry and Pippin.  Post-tea, actually, since they slept so late.”

Faramir stepped close to her, glancing at the tray.  His stomach rumbled and he sat in the chair; Éowyn took the other.  Remembering his manners, he said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”  She watched him eat, quiet.  She was still concerned about him, but not terribly.  He was acting normally, not angry or troubled. 

I’m all right.

You’re sure?

Mostly.  Faramir held up a plump berry.  Have some?  Éowyn smiled and leaned in, her warm mouth touching the tips of his finger and thumb as she took the little fruit.  He felt his desire stir again, stronger this time.  Watching her mouth, he fed her another.

Éowyn’s blue eyes were amused as she ate it.  This is for you.

So?

So… this time she fed him, and let her fingers linger on his lips.  Faramir kissed them, hungry but not for food this time.

You’re so beautiful.

Wait till you see my new dresses.

I’d rather see you out of them.  Éowyn’s lips parted in a silent laugh and he commanded.  Come here.

She rose; meaning to sit sideways in his lap but Faramir pulled her so that she straddled him with her palms on his shoulders.  Éowyn’s mouth was very close to his and she held still, only her bosom moving faster when her breathing deepened as he placed his hands on her thighs.  Faramir felt her excitement, her arousal just from the light weight of his fingers and he moved them a little inward and then back, caressing.  Her pupils widened as he slid his thumbs down, well between her parted legs but still short of where she might retreat.  Faramir rubbed her inner thighs in slow circles, feeling her heat and, he imagined, smooth skin through the trousers.  All right?  Éowyn gave a tiny nod.  And then her expression clouded.  What? 

She smiled, relieving him.  This time I want to leave my mark on you.

Go ahead, then.  Faramir lifted his chin in mock bravado, brand me, my lady.  She leaned forward, her breath hot on his skin just before her lips touched.  Lips parting, she kissed gently, making him wait.  He felt teeth, then tongue, and shivered.  Éowyn’s hands were on his shoulder, the other side of his neck.  She began to suck, her mouth making him want to squirm.  Éowyn took her time, and aroused, he stroked her inner legs, quickly learning that the farther inward he teased, the harder she suckled his skin.

At length she pulled away, panting.  Éowyn smoothed her thumb over his neck, looking satisfied.  “There. Now they’ll know you’re mine.”  Blue eyes half-lidded with appetite, a look that made Faramir shiver; she kissed him before he could speak with her hands moving to his chest.  Sliding his own hands around her, he cupped her buttocks, suddenly delighted that Éowyn wore men’s clothes rather than gowns all the time.  Trousers and a shirt offered far easier access.  She squeaked as he pulled her closer, almost making her grind into his growing erection.  All right?  Faramir squeezed her bottom again, liking its roundness. 

Éowyn didn’t reply, only kissed his neck and then licked her tongue in a slender trail of fire all the way from the first button of his shirt to his ear.  Suddenly, shockingly, her breath was panting hot against his earlobe, and he felt her giddy boldness.  “I want to touch you here…” She rocked into him, her legs tightening and her belly pressing to his.  Faramir couldn’t breathe.  “I want to see you, I want to kiss you and I want to see how much of you I can take in my mouth.” 

His only response was to make a groaning noise and pull her tighter by the hips, rising upward forcefully.  Her blue eyes widened and she licked her lips, moistening them as though in an attempt to drive him mad. All at once feeling her heat through her clothes and the friction of fabric on fabric was not enough.  Groaning again in frustration, he slid his hands beneath her loose shirt to find her breasts.  Éowyn’s nipples were hard even before he touched them.  She tightened her legs around him as he cupped them, squeezing and then circled the stiff nubs, pulling gently.  Éowyn teased, a little shakily now, “But…you don’t want me to, do you?  You sent me away.”

“I…I n-never said t-that.  Never…never said that I didn’t want.”  Faramir wasn’t surprised he couldn’t remember how to talk.  She was rubbing herself into him, her hands roaming his chest while she kissed his collarbone, his neck. 

“No?”  Éowyn’s lips met his and as he kissed her deeply, she sucked on his tongue while rocking her hips into him.  Wild heat shot through his belly and Faramir was half-afraid that if she kept on he would simply burst out of his breeches.   

His voice was a croak.  “No.”  

“Hmm.”  She sounded mischievous, not quite as aroused as he was and Faramir was suddenly determined to change that.  He wanted her to moan like she’d done by the river, but over and over this time.  He wanted her to want him as badly as he wanted her.

Do you…?  He glanced towards the bedroom.   Éowyn’s gaze followed his and her brow creased.  Faramir stared at her, serious and trying to calm himself; I’ll stop when you say to…I swear.  He lowered his hands to her waist, smothering his desire to caress her. 

What if I didn’t know if I wanted you to?  Her eyes were wide.

Too wide.  He mistrusted that; she was obviously worried.  I’ll stop.  I won’t.

Éowyn nodded then, rising slowly, trusting him completely.  Faramir was even slower; she turned as she walked, her arms going around his neck and their steps were awkwardly joined as she kissed him.  When she hit the bed’s edge, she dropped bonelessly onto her back.  Scooting backwards, her hands rose to pull him down as he kneeled on the bed and propped himself on his wrapped hands.  The feel of her warm body beneath his was almost too much as Faramir climbed on top of her.  He kissed her neck in a line up her chin, finding her mouth and pulling himself upward, positioning.  Éowyn’s legs squeezed his sides while her arms went around his shoulders; her hips moved up in a welcoming motion, pelvis against his and at that she made him so hard he hurt. 

She put her hands under his shirt, caressing his chest and sides, her fingers briefly flirting with his trousers and slipping coolly around his waist, making him suppress a moan of desire.  Eyes smoky, Éowyn laughed and made an appreciative noise as her hands slid firmly up, fingers spread, all the way up to his collarbone once more before withdrawing and undoing the buttons of his shirt.  Good, good…Faramir did the same, his fingers stumbling in their eagerness.  The sudden urge to press their skin together was almost undeniable but the thought of her naked under him was enough to make him nearly lose control then and there.   Going to mess my breeches…the thought made him bark a short laugh.  He didn’t care a bit.

Yes, oh, yes.  Éowyn gasped when he rubbed his chest against her bared breasts, her nipples hard, her stomach shrinking and cool against his and she whimpered when he slid down and a little inward, settling himself exactly where he longed to be.   

Faramir kissed her, tongue in her hot mouth.  Oh, I want…

***

For a moment she felt him sliding back and forth against the mound between her legs—it felt good, exquisitely good.  Éowyn’s eyes went wide and her fingers clenched against the back of his opened shirt, twisting the cloth.  Don’t stop!  Faramir had already, but he did it again, each thrust sending little sparks of red-hot pleasure through her legs.  Wrapping them loosely around his waist, she pulled him close, seeking contact.

His bared chest was slightly more tanned than when she’d seen it in Minas Tirith—he must have gone without a shirt a few times during the summer.  There was more flesh over his ribs, too, and the slim lines of muscle looked more defined.  Éowyn stared at his body greedily; wishing she could move on top of him to explore it but he was pinning her with his weight and the feel was too good.  Had she ever been scared of this? 

So…handsome…so…  She was filled with the desire to taste his skin, to lick and kiss and press her teeth to his belly to see if it would quiver.  The dark curls of hair on his upper chest were soft when she moved her hand through them and tangled her fingers, giving a tug that made Faramir rub harder against her.  His shoulders were broad, curved inward as he braced himself above her.  Éowyn touched his stomach, feeling the way it jumped, the way his pelvis moved up and a little away from hers, practically begging her to move her hand further down.  Not yet, going to make you wait...she thought, giddy with desire.

He almost growled as he kissed her neck, his rough cheek touching hers, then, propped on his elbows, Faramir moved rhythmically.  He was hard and hot there, easy to feel even through his and her clothes, making it effortless for her to imagine what it would be like if he were inside her…to want it, even.  The feeling was wonderfully incomparable and a little frightening. 

All right…it’s…  He was paying attention even though she would have never guessed he was and she relaxed again, trusting him.  Of course it was all right, this was Faramir, not some other.

Don’t stop…  Éowyn felt her breath grow shallow as her heart raced.  The long muscles in his shoulders and his back flexed beneath her palms as she touched him.  Her hands spread wide, holding on tight.  Faramir kissed her everywhere he could reach, mouth moving hungrily. 

  Over and over he moved, pressing the tip of himself against her, teasing right where she was most sensitive, seeming to judge by her breathy gasps, but mostly rubbing his length.  Faramir panted, his mouth hot on her ear, as he leaned his forehead against the pillow and thrust hard and fast enough to make Éowyn stop breathing before reluctantly slowing and kissing her again.  Tongue gliding in uneven and wet trails around her nipples, he sucked them with his mouth tight, making her squirm with added pleasure.  It was all Éowyn could do not to cry out as he hit an especially sensitive spot.  Her head back against the bedspread, staring unseeing at the ceiling, she moaned while scorching ecstasy flew up and down her legs and filled her belly, making her toes curl.  She felt hot all over, burning exquisitely and the heat of him as he rubbed himself against her just made her hotter.  This, this was unimaginable, wonderful.  And yet, something…she wanted something, needed it.  Her body was moving faster and faster of its own volition, rising to meet each thrust; she felt him match her eagerly.

Don’t stop, don’t stop…  She was unsure who thought it; eyes closed now, her chin was tight against the junction of his shoulder, holding on.

But in response, Faramir groaned against her neck and his mind touched hers and this time she would have made a noise near to a scream, if she’d had any breath that was.  The feel of his pleasure combined with hers was so much she thought she would explode or die.  Éowyn tightened her hold on his shirt and her legs around him, feeling Faramir speed up suddenly.  Almost rough, now, as her whole body burned, heart pounding faster and faster, he kept moving, back and forth, perfectly against her most sensitive spot, making flashing pleasure move between them like lightning strikes.  Then, just as her breath was catching and the heat built almost beyond her ability to handle it, some gigantic force just swelling to its peak, he froze and gasped, his muscles tensing and then he went lax, his long body flattening against hers. 

After a moment she relaxed, too, but yearning and disappointed.  The fire in her body abated slowly, the building wave of pleasure falling back uncrested and leaving her wanting as he breathed, chest rising and falling with the deep draughts of air he took.  His voice was hesitant next to her ear, almost sheepish as he mumbled; “I couldn’t…”

Éowyn stared at the ceiling, feeling Faramir’s heart and her own thudding as he lay on her.  She unclenched her hands from his shirt, smoothing the wrinkles.  He was still, only finally kissing her bare shoulder in a lazy movement.  After a minute or two he said slowly, almost nervously, like her silence unsettled him,  “I suppose I’m heavy.” 

She didn’t think so, but she closed her eyes, not replying as he finally moved off of her and sprawled onto his back, still panting.  Stretching out her legs, she took a deep breath, then turned to lay her head on his chest.  Faramir was warm with his exertions and she hugged him.  Opening her mouth to say it had felt good, she stopped.  Somehow she thought good did not cover it, did not begin to touch the fiery feeling that had enveloped her.  “It was…  Min freond hit wæs begeondan min ge-leafa.”

Well, I recognize most of those words and all of them are good.  Good.  His eyes were closed; she didn’t have to see him to know it.  Squirming languidly, he wiggled around next to her so that he lay on his side, facing her with one of his arms draped possessively across her front.  Chin against the top of her head, Faramir’s mental voice was a vague murmur.  Good. 

It was good, and though she felt dissatisfied, Éowyn sensed his contentment.  She placed her hand over his arm, marveling at his maleness—the muscle, heat and contained power.  Faramir had been so desirable somehow and when he’d said it was all right, she’d trusted him without even thinking about it.  Éowyn was glad as he sighed and his arm tightened.  This was partially what she’d wanted, coming to his door last night, to give him something in return for all he’d given her—something she knew he wanted and would like. 

Suddenly she bit her lip, smothering a giggle.  He certainly did…hardly took him more than two minutes…  Éowyn scrunched up her face, trying not to laugh wildly.  So far Faramir didn’t seem to be a man that was easily embarrassed of his actions in the bedroom, but still, she didn’t want to upset him with her silly, girlish amusement.  Shh!  Shh!  Stop it!  She tried to silence herself before she made noise, and just barely succeeded.  Her fight intensified when she realized she finally had something to tell Arwen.  Tell her everything…not much is there?  A mad giggle bubbled in her throat. Hush!  He’ll hear! 

Fortunately unaware, Faramir shifted a little, getting his leg closer to hers.  His long body was still again as he drowsed next to her and she fell asleep trying not to laugh.

***

After he’d changed, he tried it and like he’d thought, he could do it still, even with the bindings.  Faramir’s eyes raised to her face, just barely lit from the window as the sun set, and then lowered to the paper.  Soft scratches of charcoal were the only sounds.  Éowyn lay on her back; her face was turned slightly, one cheek on a pillow.  The opened shirt showed one bare breast and part of the other with the dolphin pendant lying between them.  Wrinkles in her trousers and the shirt gave him depth, while her skin gave him contrast—pale against the dark of her clothing.   

Lovely, so lovely.  Faramir worked quick, anxious she might awake and move.  He sketched everything in a swift hand, regardless of the scrapes and bound cloth.  He could fill in later.  Her hair was mainly suggestions of strands against the pillow, both so light he couldn’t do much; her face was quick, he knew her features well enough to draw her from memory and her bosom and the dolphin pendant was easy; he knew them as well.  The clothing he would take the most time on.  Sketching the shapes of the shadows, he colored them just a little, lost in the comfortingly familiar world of paper and pencil.  Black, grey and white, it was predictable and simple. 

Don’t wake yet, my love.  He was filling the small canvas, making sure he got details—details made the drawing.  The tiny parting of her lips; the way her fingers were positioned; some curled gently, some flat on her stomach where his arm had rested.  Her hands looked small and delicate; he wouldn’t have guessed they could wield a sword.  Éowyn’s features, smoothed by sleep, were perfectly serene, equally unhelpful in predicting her often headstrong moods.  Staring at her flat belly and the loosely fitting belt of her breeches, he wondered what she would look like with her stomach rounded with his child.  I’ll have to draw her now…and then…  He smiled; he’d willingly draw her until his fingers couldn’t move.

She stirred just a little on the bed, her feet sliding down.  Hmm?

Shh, go back to sleep.  It was too late; Éowyn opened her eyes and blinked at him.  She sat up and he sighed. 

“What are you doing?”  Rubbing her eyes, she didn’t seem aware of her half-nakedness, though looking at her bosom, the soft skin and rosy nipples, made him stir again with desire.  Though it had been amazing, she’d really only given him a taste and he wanted far more. 

“Drawing you.”

Her voice was half bemused, half scandalized.  “Like this?  All hanging out?”

He smiled and rose to put away the drawing.  “Yes.”

“Well, let me see.”

Holding it, he protested, “It’s not finished.  It looks rough.”

She scooted to the edge of the bed, slowly buttoning her shirt.  Regrettably, Faramir thought.  “So?”

“All right.”  He handed it to her and Éowyn studied her sketch, one eyebrow raising. 

“I think it’s very good.”

“You do?”  Feeling himself break out in a silly grin, he leaned down to kiss her as he took the paper back.  “Good.”  There was a sudden knock on his door and Éowyn hastily finished buttoning her shirt.  Laying aside his drawing, Faramir moved to answer it, his mind already searching the identity of the person on the other side—it was Aragorn.  He opened it, curious.  “Yes?”

The King’s eyes moved past his shoulder and he saw Éowyn had followed him into the room.  After a beat, he said, voice slow with deep amusement, “You know there was a time when I worried about heirs to the Stewardship…but not anymore.”  Aragorn was nearly grinning with delight as he stared at her.  “Now I’m only worried about how much land I’m going to have to give all of them.”

Staring back, her shoulders straight and eyes narrowed, Éowyn asked, “What are you talking about?”

The King all but cackled with his mirth as he jerked his chin at her shirt.  “It’s buttoned wrong, you may want to fix that before we all get together.”

“Oh!”  She turned her back to them, but not before Faramir saw her flush a little high on her cheekbones. 

He smiled, amused himself, but wishing they’d been uninterrupted.  “Can I help you?”

“Frodo wants us, it’s about his account of the quest…do you need help over there?”  Éowyn was cursing at her shirt.

She turned her head to fix him with an icy glare and chill tone that was only marred by her still present flush.  “None from you.”

Aragorn smiled.  “Anyway, he wants us to meet in my rooms, they’re the largest, really…so…”

I thought Gandalf mentioned Sam was running about collecting everyone.  He shrugged mentally.  The hobbit couldn’t be everywhere at once.  “When?”

“Soon, I’d say in less than an hour everyone will be there.”  He added, “You might want to move fast if you want the couch—” Aragorn looked sly, “Of course I could save it for the two of you…”

“All right.  Thank you.” Embarrassed and bemused, Faramir smiled politely and began closing the door; he was immediately blocked by the King’s boot. 

Aragorn poked his head back in, “Éowyn…you didn’t happen to speak to Arwen about me today?”  He looked hopeful, “Did she say anything…?”

“Lord Elrond interrupted us.  I’m sorry.”  She was facing them now, her shirt fixed.  Éowyn’s expression was apologetic.  “If I see her I’ll try again.”

The King’s face fell.  “Oh.  All right, thank you, very much.”  This time Faramir succeeded in closing the door, leaving them alone.

***

He was looking at her closely.  “What?  Did I drool on myself while I slept?”  Self-consciously, Éowyn rubbed her chin; relieved when he shook his head and smiled.

“No.”

“Then what?”

Faramir gazed at her, face intense.  “He mentioned heirs.  I was just wondering what you would look like…you know,” His arms moved out in front of his abdomen, gesturing.  “Big with child.”

Her stomach fluttered nervously.  Éowyn didn’t want to talk about that; she wasn’t ready for the idea of children, much less the reality of motherhood.  He didn’t say anything, so she stammered, “Oh…well, go out and look at one of those broodmares and you’ll get an idea.”  Trying not to wring her hands, she added, “Fat, I’d imagine.”

A darkness passed over his brow and his voice was almost a whisper now, “Do you think I’ll be a good father?”  Faramir’s soft grey eyes were unfocused, “Or do you think I’ll…I’ll be…” He sounded haunted.

“No, oh no.”  Éowyn moved quickly across the room to cup his face in her hands, pulling it down so that he was looking only at her.  “No.”  She stroked his stubbled cheek with her thumbs.  “You’re kind and loving…you’ll be wonderful.”

There was a terrible sadness in his words, “I won’t take favorites?”

Suddenly she was angry.  “Faramir!”  His eyes widened at her sharp tone, “Do you think I would let you sire my children if I thought you wouldn’t be good to us?  Do you?”  There was deep chagrin in his gaze as she thought of Gríma and he sensed it, but before he could speak she snapped,  “I would never wed you, never mind allow you to touch me if I did not think you were a good man.  And you could not make me—a word and you’d be escorted out of the Ridder-mark at spear-point.”  Éowyn softened her voice, soothing, “But I do think you’d be wonderful.  You’re good-hearted and caring.  Of course you’ll be a good father.  I love you and any child of mine will love you.”

She rose on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his forehead before releasing him.  He smiled.  Then Faramir’s face once more became darkly morose.  “When I dream about them they look happy…but those are just dreams.”

Again she was borderline furious.  “Did you listen to me at all just now?”

He looked tense.  “Yes…”

Éowyn’s eyes narrowed, ire and a kind of alarm filling her heart.  “I don’t think you did.”  He didn’t, he didn’t at all…there was a wondrous fear within her.  How in the world could she comfort him and ease his worries if he didn’t hear it?

“I did.”

“Then why are you still worrying?”

“Because I can’t help it!”  Faramir shouted it at her, shocking Éowyn into silence.  He’d never yelled like that.  Moving away, he sank heavily into a chair and muttered, “I’m sorry.”  Abruptly, he rubbed his face and rose, “Let’s just go…” 

She thought for a moment and then deliberately folded her arms and stood tall.  Let the Ringbearer wait, we’re hardly the most important people anyhow.  Éowyn cut him off; he wasn’t getting out of this. You will listen to me.  “No, no.  I want to know why you think you won’t be a good father.  I want an explanation.” 

She sensed these things had been left to fester within Faramir’s peaceful heart for too long, unfought because of their painful nature.  Arguments she understood and if he wanted to bellow, he could all he wanted.  But you’re not going to win, my darling.  In fact, you have no chance at all.  I can throw a fit, I am a master at it.  You’re only a poor amateur.

He looked frustrated.  “Why?  Why not?”  Faramir’s every move, every syllable of his words, screamed at her to let it go.  She refused.

“Because.  Why?  Don’t you think I should know?  I’m the mother, these will be my children who’s hearts you think you’ll be breaking.  I want to know why you think that.”  Éowyn lowered her voice, hardening it, “Before I’m considering killing you in your sleep because you’ve destroyed their joy in life.” 

Faramir had flinched at her words, now he looked at a loss and did not answer. 

She moved in for the kill, triumphant in his silence, “Tell me, tell me, my husband to be…” Taking a breath of mock relief, she smiled, “Why, you could save me the trouble of even marrying you.”  Éowyn continued harshly, “There must be dozens of men that would make better fathers for my children.  So go ahead, tell me why I should leave you in the dust for another, why you’re so wrong and bad and worthless.”

He licked his lips, shifting nervously on his feet. 

            Keeping her tone, her very stance combative, Éowyn arched her eyebrows, “Well?  You seemed so sure, what’s stopping you?”  She waved her hand, “Come on, I’m waiting…I’m not getting any younger or any prettier and prospects might be slim now for me to get a good husband.”

            “I…” Faramir looked confused and slightly panicked at all her talk of new husbands.

            “I?  I?”  Éowyn echoed him mercilessly.  “That’s not an answer.”

            “I don’t know!”  Frustration crackled in his voice, the only emotion he seemed able to express.

            She stepped forward with hands clenched into fists and he retreated at her cold, caustic, “But you seemed so sure!”  Demanding loudly, she snapped, “Tell me!  Tell me why you wouldn’t make a good father!” 

He was completely quiet only shifting his feet a little in anxiety. 

Éowyn crossed her arms and waited.  Faramir didn’t speak; he looked afraid to.  Her hold on her temper broke suddenly and raising her voice to its utmost, she screamed at him, “TELL ME WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU!”

            Faramir was against the wall now, his eyes anguished, but he didn’t speak this time either.  His face worked, trying to answer, but he remained silent.

            The fear back in her heart, Éowyn took a deep breath and said very softly, her hands coming up to rest gently on his upper arms.  “You can’t and do you know why?”  She licked her lips, feeling tears rise at the way he stared, so like a lost child, “Because there’s nothing wrong with you, Faramir.  Nothing at all.”  Squeezing his shoulders, she whispered, “Nothing.”

            There was desperate refusal in his voice.  “But…”

            “And, if I have to keep saying it every hour on the hour to get it through your thick,” She smiled through blurring eyes, “and stupid head…I will.”

            Faramir appeared dazed.  “But my father…”

            Cupping his face and looking into his eyes, Éowyn said, “Was a cruel man who, if his forefathers had any hearts, wanders the other world cold and lonely and suffering for how you say he made you feel.”  She gave him a smile that was both brave and hopeful.  “For-geat him, min lêof, Ic âcsige ge… hê is a-gǽn ond Ic eom fægen for ðÿ.”

            A tiny, despairing chuckle rumbled in his chest, but then Faramir swallowed, “Just like that?”

            “Yes.”  Éowyn hugged him, her arms tight around his torso.  “He’s dead.  Let him go.”  Teasing through her tightening throat, she added, “You’d better listen to me.”

            There was still darkness in him, stubbornly hanging on, but he asked, a frail ghost of his usual jesting, “Or what?”

            “Or I’ll…” Leaning against him and standing on her tiptoes, she kissed his mouth and smiled widely, hoping with all her heart.  “Take some handsome man as a lover.”  Éowyn looked back and forth, then directly up into his eyes, “Hmm, here’s one now.”

            This time when Faramir chuckled it was natural and she relaxed, almost limp with relief.  I expected more resistance…but then he’s not much of a fighter.  There was a tiny bit of unease swirling in her gut, but she squashed it.  He sounded normal as he teased, “That so?”

            “Mm-hmm.  Unfortunately I have to go with my betrothed to see a hobbit or I’d,” She kissed him again, lingeringly, “show you how handsome I think you are, sir.”

            “Are you going to come to my rooms again, trying to have your way with me like I was a common soldier?”

            “A gentlemen goes to a lady’s bed—” Éowyn said primly.  “It wouldn’t be seemly for me to be stalking around at night.”

            Faramir leaned close, his nose rubbing hers, lips brushing in a not quite kiss.  “Is that an invitation?”

            “Only if my betrothed doesn’t catch you…he’s quite fierce.”  She snickered, almost uncontrollably, as she said, “Growls like a bear when he ravishes me.”

            Faramir burst out laughing, obviously delighted with her fancy.  He made a ferocious face, fingers spreading on her sides and pressing in just a little like claws.  “Gr.”

            Gasping in mock terror, Éowyn tried not to giggle at his pitifully tame impression.  “Oh!  No!  A bear!”

            Faramir laughed again and then sobered with his expression so warm and tender that her heart ached.  “I love you.”

            “I love you.”  She turned her head and pressed her cheek to his chest.  “Always.”

            They stood that way for a while before he stirred, “We’d better go.”

            “I want that couch with you.”

            He smiled, offering his arm, “What my lady wants, she gets.”

            “Or you die trying?”  Faramir shook his head.

            “Nope, I just go back to her and beg forgiveness with the prettiest, most expensive present I can find.”

            Éowyn felt herself smile.  “How intelligent of you.”  Speaking slyly, she glanced up, “You know, I still want that fancy tart you promised me.  Cherry, if I remember rightly.”

            “I don’t know about that, but I’ve got you something pretty if you can wait for it.”  She laughed and hugged his arm tight, hoping with an almost savage desperation that he was truly going to be all right and she would hear no more talk of his worthlessness. 

As they walked down the hall she thought, I can’t hold you up, Faramir and you cannot be expected to hold me…I have old, stupid doubts and fears, too…but unless we help each other we’ll both be useless to anyone.

            He answered strongly but wearily as they walked together, arm in arm.  I know.

Translations:

Rusco—fox in Q.  (because it’s cute and I’ll give a real reason later)

Vanimelda—(Q) beloved

 Mani naa ta?  Mani marte?-- (Q)   What is it?  What happened?

Mani naa lle umien? (Q) What are you doing?

Lie lakwnien?—(Q) Are you joking?

Dysig mann—Foolish man.

Eorð folde ond lyft.  Ægðer se eoh geaff for me.  Se Rídend in se lyft weop—Earth and sky.  These the horse sacrifices for me.  The Rider in the sky weeps.

Min freond hit wæs begeondan min ge-leafa—My lover it was beyond my belief.

For-geat him, min lêof, Ic âcsige ge… hê is a-gǽn ond Ic eom fægenfor ðÿ —Forget about him, my beloved, I ask you…he is gone and I am glad for this.