Éomer watched them enter with his eyes narrowed.  She is late.  And, undoubtedly, the blame for that strolled through the door right behind her.  Their hands were clasped; Faramir’s palms wrapped in cloth, which made him curious, but his sister released the hold immediately.  She glanced around and faltered for a second when their gazes met, a moment so quick he almost thought he imagined it, before Éowyn moved to where he was sitting.  Faramir followed and as he walked closer, the Steward gave him a broad, irrelevantly cheerful smile.  Disturbed, Éomer just stared back, losing his edged glare in his startled uneasiness.  The man’s smile didn’t fade as Faramir neared and he fought the urge to leap off the couch and retreat in a manner that was certainly undignified, namely, running away like a devil was after him.  Strange…why is he so strange?  His sister gave him another type of smile altogether—natural, familiar and sane.  Struggling to give one in return, Éomer highly doubted the sanity of the expression floating merrily on Faramir’s face.  How can she love him?  He’s clearly mad. 

            Arwen’s puppy squirmed in her lap with tail wagging. Arwen herself was pale and worn in the corner, oddly mortal looking, he’d thought.  The Queen murmured something to the animal, her fair face drawn as she hugged the frantically wiggling dog.  Earlier, Éomer had been rather concerned about her, but right now he was more concerned about the crazily jovial Steward bearing down on him.  He is almost fearsome looking…what’s wrong with him?  The couch was wide, fortunately, and also fortunately, Éowyn stepped forward to sit between them.  Faramir’s expression of wild cheer did not diminish and Éomer got chills even as his sister greeted him, “Hello.”

            “Hello.”  Summoning his anger to use as a shield to that wide, beaming smile, he glowered back, but Faramir’s grin only broadened and Éomer was spooked enough to quickly turn to Éowyn.  He wanted nothing to do with the man and a goal arose in his mind—to distance himself as swiftly as possible.  Of course I will be riding with him for a good week or two starting tomorrow…  Cursing inwardly, he drummed his fingers on the end of the couch as his sister asked furtively, leaning close to whisper, “How did she like the flowers?”

            Suddenly another thought occurred and he smiled slowly back at Faramir, cheering.  There was slight puzzlement and surprise in the Steward’s gaze, but they quickly faded, leaving the merriment firmly in place.  Keep grinning…we’ll see who’s grinning in the morning, fool.  You do not wish to aggravate me…or this will be the longest, worst week of your life, Steward…I planned to make it fairly easy, but if you wish to play a game, then we will do so.  Faramir must have been true to his word of not reading his mind because there was no further reaction, only that bizarrely alarming grin.  Éomer looked at Éowyn, answering equally quietly, “I don’t know.”

She looked past him, her brow furrowed.  Aragorn sprawled nearby in one of the chairs Éomer had occupied earlier; the King spoke inaudibly with Sam as the hobbit set up several inkpots and pens for his master.  Frodo got the lavishly cushioned chair in the center of the room; the tabletop before him was all but completely covered with papers that were jumbled and messed, some wrinkled, and some torn and stained with blotches.  The eldest hobbit’s disfigured hand moved slowly, gently touching the piles, almost caressing.  Glancing to the left and over Éowyn’s head, Éomer bared his teeth in an unnaturally cheerful grin.  For the second time Faramir’s expression flickered, only to settle once more.  Like deep water when a stone is tossed into it, the emotions beneath swirled briefly, and then subsided under the mask of good spirits.  Encouraged, he thought, don’t know what I’m doing, do you?  Thought you could confuse me…let’s see who’s confused.  Éomer’s grin widened and he said softly, “Hello Faramir…what did you do today?”  He made sure to perk up his voice, to make himself sound interested.  Silently triumphant, he leaned back to hear the answer; barely noticing Éowyn’s expression of surprised hope and wariness.  Make sense of that, witch.

The Steward blinked, thinking, and his sister turned her head to give him a dubious and somehow nervous look.  They had arrived late, indeed—already the room was full of members of the Fellowship.  Besides Arwen and Legolas there were no elves.  Éomer had wondered at this but decided it was none of his business how the Ringbearer chose to conduct his own affairs, if he wanted to speak with the elves separately, he could.  Faramir finally answered.  “I spent most of it looking for my saddle…  Oddly, I couldn’t find it.”  His face was still artificially cheery, despite his obvious care in selecting his words.

Waving his hand casually, he replied with false ease.  “Don’t worry about that.”  Éomer felt his grin widen so far he thought the corners would meet and the top half of his head would simply topple off and roll about the floor, spinning like a bowl.  “We’ll give you anything you need and I’ll make sure it gets found for you before we return,” He gritted his teeth, still, with an act of iron will managing to smile through the false convivial tone and added, “friend.”

Éowyn was looking back and forth, her hands twisting in her lap.  Her eyes were both worried and puzzled now.  “That’s very kind of you, Éomer.”  Faramir’s voice was filled with cordiality, so much so that he sounded strained.

“Oh, it’s no problem!”  Aragorn had turned and was staring.  Sensing the King’s growing suspicions and anger and not caring, Éomer added, “Are you eager about tomorrow?”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep.”

Their smiles were more wolfish now, with steely edges to the geniality as they played this new game.  Éowyn’s hands had been getting tighter and tighter, now white-knuckled and knotted together; she hissed in a whisper, “…stop it!  What are you doing?  Why can’t you just…?”

Neither really heard, each too focused on the other.  Éomer nodded to the Steward, asking, “What happened to your hands?”

“Clumsiness, I’m afraid.”  A forced chuckled upped their contest.  Éomer met the challenge and chuckled with him.  They sounded like an odd mix of gentility and dementia, their labored laughter mingling poorly.  “I fell out of a tree.”  Faramir held up his hands; they were wrapped around with white cloth, the naked fingers roughened with just-skinned places and a few shallow scratches.  Two nails were ripped to the quick. 

What was he doing in a tree?  “I’m sorry to hear that—you weren’t hurt otherwise, were you?”  Éomer painted a concerned expression on his face and a grievously alarmed note in his words.  Match that.

Faramir easily met him, shaking his head with a buoyantly reassuring, “Not at all, not at all, my friend.”  There was a hard glint to his eyes, “So kind of you to worry for my safety...”

Éomer cut him off, “Well, I certainly wouldn’t want anything to happen to you...”

“Stop it!”  This time she came close to shouting, slapping her hands on her knees, the sound breaking through to them.  Éomer tore his gaze away from Faramir’s and became aware of Aragorn’s furious stare.  His sister’s posture was tense and her eyes begged him; suddenly ashamed, he swallowed and looked at the floor.

“Merry, Pippin, why don’t you sit with Éowyn?”  The hobbits looked briefly confused and with good reason—there was no room for them.  “I’m sure Faramir and Éomer won’t mind…I need to speak with them in the hall.” Now it was the King’s voice that contained the false geniality; beneath it was icy rage.  Gandalf was gazing at them, silent and impatient; under the wizard’s eyes Éomer watched Faramir flush scarlet like a scolded boy and was astonished.  Arwen stoked her puppy’s coat, her head bent; Legolas and Gimli were staring into space.  Sam and Frodo were looking at the papers.  All were making a concentrated effort to act as if all were normal while deliberately ignoring them. 

Faramir sounded subdued and contrite, “No, I don’t mind.”

Éomer nodded, but was silent.  Though he was looking downwards, he could tell by long experience that his sister was gazing at him; she was very upset.  My fault again.  Guiltily, he wondered how they’d so quickly progressed to snapping at each other when all he’d really had in mind was grinning back to confuse Faramir a little.  Now the Steward was gazing beseechingly at Éowyn, who ignored him.  Éomer would rather have been ignored than receiving the betrayed and horribly disappointed look she was giving him.  I’m sorry…really…I didn’t mean to do that…not this time…  He raised his eyes in supplication and winced as she folded her arms tightly across herself and turned away, showing only her profile. 

Rising, the King waved a hand at Frodo, “Start if you want…I’m sure this won’t take long.”

The eldest hobbit nodded quietly and Éomer followed Faramir and Aragorn into the hallway.  I’m going to get a scolding…  Glancing at his sister’s strained face, he thought further I probably need one…in fact, perhaps I’m long overdue.

***

Merry scrambled up next to her with Pippin right behind him and Éowyn found herself in a comforting hobbit pile on one end of the couch.  She hugged the Brandybuck, barely resisting the urge to bury her face in his soft curls and weep with frustration.  He allowed this cuddling while Pippin wrapped an arm around her elbow.  Buoyed by their silent support, she listened as Frodo began, “I have most everything written already that was witnessed by myself and Sam.  I do need,” the eldest hobbit’s eyes turned to her for a moment, “Éowyn and Merry’s account of the Witchking and King Éomer’s of the battle of Pelennor and,” He pawed the papers, “various accounts of Faramir and Pippin about the Steward and Osgiliath and…”            

On her right, she felt the Took give a tiny shiver and Éowyn took his small hand to hold.  As far as she was concerned, they were better support than either her brother or Faramir at the moment and the two men could just stay in the hall.  Curse them.  Children, fool children.  She wanted to reach out and give Faramir and Éomer both a hard shaking.  Éowyn smiled tautly, too bad they are not the size of hobbits, or I would give them both such a whipping that they would never forget!

“I think I have all of Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli’s journey to Rohan,” Frodo pawed more papers with Sam helpfully scooting them around to unearth others.

“I believe we spoke of it in the City.”  Legolas spoke at the same time Sam held up a thin sheaf of papers, looking victorious as Frodo smiled.

“Yes.  Good, Sam, thank you.”  The eldest hobbit sighed, “Simply put, I have the events themselves, but very few,” And here she first glimpsed a light in those deep eyes of his, a particularly driven and forceful shine that she didn’t associate with lighthearted hobbits.  “Personal thoughts and feelings of you folk that I can’t ask again…for a long time.”  He added the last four words with an odd combination of absentmindedness and cautious quickness.

Frodo glanced at the door and then her.  Éowyn realized that, with the three men gone, she and Merry were first.  Oh, no…  “Lady Éowyn, Merry, would you mind telling us about the ride to Minas Tirith and your parts in the battle?”  She opened her mouth to speak and he said with surprising kindness, “It is a request only, speak of whatever you wish.”

Trying to gather her memories, she murmured, “All right.”

Merry was looking at her, his brown eyes calm, though, as her arm was still around him, she could feel his heart beating fast.  The room was well lit and Éowyn was grateful for that as she thought about the end of her and Merry’s ride.  Pippin scooted forward on the wide couch, his sharp little face intent upon them and before she could find words, he whispered in her ear, “There’s only room for one of them, now.”

Éowyn was afraid she knew what he was talking about.  “What?”

“When they come back in.”  The Took was solemn; beside her Merry made a tight, regretful face.  “You will have to choose.”  He smiled feebly, “They fight just like my sisters except they don’t pull hair.”

Merry added, “Or scream.”

Yet, she thought.

The other hobbits chuckled at this and Gandalf smiled around his pipe, but Éowyn gnawed her lip, muttering, “I can’t.  You.”

Both hobbits glanced at the other, yet the answer came surprisingly quick, making her wonder.  “Faramir.”  Pippin stared straight back at her, almost like he’s daring me to say no, Éowyn thought in surprise.

She nodded her approval and took a deep breath, conscious that all their gazes were upon her, elf, wizard, dwarf and hobbit, “I couldn’t use my own armor because I might be recognized…”

Frodo began to scribble, then stopped.  “Wait…I want something else first…” The hobbit frowned, “or maybe it would be inappropriate…”

“I think it should be in the story.”  Merry obviously knew what his elder was speaking of, even if Éowyn didn’t.  He sounded querulous and determined.

“What is it?”  She looked down at the Brandybuck’s curly head.  He smiled up at her in a distinctly mischievous way and she gave her arm a little shake over his shoulders, cheering a little.  “What, Master Merry?  What should be in the story?”

***

“Would either of you like to tell me what that was?”  Aragorn’s voice was tight.  Not listening, Faramir cocked his head as a spike of unease ran through Éowyn in the next room.  His own skin prickled with sympathetic anxiety and he half-reached out to touch her mind in reassurance before remembering she was undoubtedly less than happy with him at the moment.

Éomer answered with only a small tinge of his usual impertinence in his voice.  “Ask him.  He started it.”  He trailed off, also peculiarly.  “Came in grinning at me like a madman…”

“I am asking the both of you!”  Close to a roar, the words made them both jump, and Faramir began paying attention again.  “I expected this from you, “Aragorn directed a hard glare to the King of Rohan, “But not you, Faramir.  You’re the civilized, reasonable one.”  The King said it almost desperately.

He smiled suddenly; thinking Aragorn sounded eerily parental.  “No, that would have been Boromir.  I was the wayward son—uncouth and insolent to my elders and kin.”

Éomer’s brooding face broke into a smile he’d never seen before.  After a second he decided it was empathizing, close to identifying with him, actually, and was amazed until the man spoke.  “So was I.”

Faramir gazed at him, contemptuous anger growing in his heart.  From Éowyn’s brief accounts of Théoden and her own true sire, he doubted the men had been any trials as fathers.  Feeling his bitterness rise to choke him, he barely kept from snarling, “You should have been grateful…”

The King of Rohan went rigid, eyes narrowing, but underneath there was sincere bafflement.  “Do not speak of…”

Aragorn interrupted in a hopeless voice.  “Could not one minute go by without you two doing this?”  He moaned, “I thought we were done.”

Faramir strangled his hand’s impulse to fly out and strike Éomer in the man’s fool mouth.  It was none of his fault his own father had been so callous and others so kind.  Ah, but Denethor wasn’t callous to…  He strangled that thought, too.

They stood in awkward silence before Éomer asked, “How did the flowers work for you?”

Aragorn leaned against the wall, his hand over his eyes.  “She took them…but it felt like she would have rather thrown them on the ground and screamed until I left the room.” 

Éomer grimaced.  “Well, she took them at least.” 

“The dog…Rusco tried to bite me.”  This time the King of Rohan’s lips twisted in a suppressed smile and Faramir felt his own trying to do the same.  “Any more ideas?”

“No.”

“Faramir?”

He sighed deeply.  “Do not look to me.” 

“Well, are we calmed now?  Can you act your age or do you two need another time out?  Will you behave in there?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”  Faramir answered dutifully. He was older, he should know better.  But still, I am not so old for my people… 

Aragorn rubbed his face and gestured at him.  “All right, then after you.” 

***

The door opened and Pippin perked up immediately, “Faramir, come sit!”  Merry clambered over her and, amused, Éowyn found herself in the middle of the couch.  Now Merry was on her right, then Pippin against the arm with a vacant, man-sized spot to her left. 

She wanted to lean back in his arms while she spoke, to take comfort.  And why can’t I?  OH, yes…that’s why.  My brother is an idiot.  Éowyn watched them approach with mixed relief and irritation; Éomer gave up his position gracefully, at least, moving aside without any sign.  Her love was slower; there was a cautious light in his eyes and she felt a feathery, ghosting touch to her mind as he tried to ascertain her mood without being bold enough to provoke her.

Faramir glanced at the empty seat, then up, eyes searching her face.  Can I?

I don’t know, can you?  He hesitated and she softened her tone, get over here.  I need you.  I can’t remember everything.

Remember what?

Éowyn spoke awkwardly.  She was well aware of her brother sitting nearby, taking what had been Merry’s chair.  He was looking at her, his face set in an expression she couldn’t read.  Her voice was low, nervous under two sets of scrutiny.  “Umm…Frodo wants to hear about when we met first…he wants to know what we said.”

Merry said quickly, “You can’t leave it out, it’s a good story and happy.”

“There aren’t many happy stories preserved.”  This time Gandalf spoke with his voice slow and deep and somehow amused, though she couldn’t tell if by her or the hobbit. 

 Éowyn smiled uneasily at Faramir; “I can’t remember it all.”

“Oh, that.”  He smiled back at her; it was a loving and, to her delight, a slightly foolish smile that made him look far more idiotic than she knew he was.  Éowyn put her hand to her mouth to keep in the sudden, half-nervous giggles.  He looks like a simpleton when he smiles like that…

He turned to sit sideways on the couch, giving her a curious look.  Shaking her head slightly, she turned a little, too, as he smiled again.  One arm thrown casually over the back, his eyes roaming the room, voice plenty loud enough for everyone to hear, Éowyn still felt herself warm—Faramir’s words were really directed only to her.  “I remember that very well…since it was only the most meaningful day of my life so far.”  Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw Éomer cross his arms, listening with interest.

“Go ahead.”  Frodo was poised over a blank paper, pen gripped tightly.  Sam was nearby, ready with more paper for his master.  “Talk slowly and tell me everything you can remember that was important.”

Faramir’s grey eyes focused on her and they were gentle as he proceeded to do just that—tell everything.  Éowyn listened with growing amazement.  He really did remember and not just the first and last conversations, but in between, all the silly little things they’d spoken about under the trees—mainly the weather, as she’d been nervous, but lots of nothing that she’d long forgotten.  With a slow smile, he gazed at her, sprawled out only a few inches away.  His fingers wiggled along the couch’s top, as though he were sending a message.

“And I said…

“What did you think of him?”  Frodo interrupted.

Éowyn hesitated, “I don’t know…I thought he was…handsome and tall and…” She closed her eyes, to better think, to better picture him as he’d looked then—the quietly affectionate, perfectly virtuous and mannered Steward.  “He looked a warrior, strong as any I’d ever seen of my own people and a man of blood noble and true.”  I like this better, he looks real and touchable…her eyes rose to the disheveled, almost scruffy male, with his thick stubble, messy hair (still with a bit of hay she’d missed in it) and cloth-wrapped palms; this strange, indifferently attired man at her side.   Faramir was sitting loosely on the couch, one knee up on the cushions, his other leg stretched.  He faced her, his arm along the back, fingers just beside her shoulder.  He is scruffy.  She smiled, remembering the smoothly shaven, immaculately groomed man of the White City who had spoken so properly to her.  He’d changed already, though Éowyn wondered if he’d seen it yet.  To spend her life with this version of Faramir was less intimidating in some odd way and she frowned, trying to isolate the feeling. 

Frodo snatched another sheet of paper from Sam as Faramir smiled at her, expression curiously intrigued.  “Go on, please.”

He cocked his head, fingers inching to just touch her shoulder, to capture a few strands of her tied-back hair between them.  “I said she was beautiful…do you want all of it?”

The eldest hobbit glanced up, looking impatient.  “Yes.”

“I said,” Faramir smiled again as he spoke, “that there were flowers fair and bright and maidens fairer still; but neither flower nor lady have I seen till now in Gondor so lovely and so sorrowful.”

By her side, Pippin sounded surprised.  “That’s good.  Can I borrow that?”  Merry laughed.

“Who would you use it on, cousin?”

The Took sighed deeply, “Rosie Cotton.”  He sighed again, as though love-struck.  Sam’s head jerked up from looking over Frodo’s shoulder but he didn’t speak.  The eldest hobbit chuckled while he wrote.  Éowyn didn’t get the obvious jest but Legolas and Aragorn smiled.

“Too good.  I’m suspicious.”  Aragorn grinned from his spot near Frodo; “Did you just think that up, Faramir, or was it something you’ve used before?”  They all laughed, then, even her brother.

            Faramir shook his head, a long-suffering smile on his lips.  “It came to me—I was inspired.”  His eyes found hers as he added warmly, “Every word was true.”  Aragorn snorted.

            “Sweet words.”

            Arwen spoke for the first time.  “Sweet words are pleasing to a woman’s ears.”

            The King railed back; “Ceaselessly do I say such pleasing things to you!”

            She just raised a cool eyebrow in response and Aragorn exhaled loudly in exasperation.

            After a moment, Faramir went on, barely seeming to have to think about it.  Éowyn grew more and more amazed.  “…and she asked, “Darkness Unescapable?  And I said…”

He was near to the finish and he hesitated.  Faramir looked to her, then Aragorn, who shrugged his shoulders.  Éowyn winced and braced herself.  It had happened, she could only hide her former devotion for so long.  His voice slow, Faramir finished their conversations.  “…I said, “But now, were you sorrowless, without fear or any lack, were you the blissful Queen of Gondor, still I would love you.  Éowyn, do you not love me?”  Pausing for breath, he was interrupted.

Arwen threw back her head and laughed, startling them all, including the puppy, which jerked awake.  “Here is a story I’ve been waiting upon.”  Her eyes raked them three, bright and sharp.  “Mortals—you are all so foolish and fearful.”  She laughed again, “And ignorant.”

Faramir turned to her, and then back.  Éowyn sighed; feeling as uncomfortable as Aragorn looked.  “If you want, I will tell you it later.”

The Queen answered, “Oh, yes, I want.”

Frodo sounded fiercely anxious, driven.  “Go on, go on.”

He did; there was not much more and then, in the quiet, as Frodo wrote, Faramir gazed at her.

Why are you so surprised?  I told you that you were all I thought about.

But still…

Are you still angry with me?

She glanced sideways to where Éomer sat.  Yes…  Looking back at him, she thought, and no.

Pick—his smile, a more intelligent one,flashed hopefully at her—and make it the last.

 Éowyn smiled and slid imperceptibly closer; Faramir gazed down at her, making no moves.  He was letting her come to him this time, apparently.  I can’t believe you…

I’d lie in bed or sit in my study or…he smiled, or walk down the halls, or eat my meals and replay those conversations over and over in my mind, searching for some sign you felt the same way I did…he shrugged.  You were too good for me to figure out, so I eventually had to ask.

***

She felt honestly surprised.  Along the back of the wide couch, Faramir let his fingers walk forward to touch her shoulder; Éowyn turned her head a little, blue eyes pleased as she looked at him completely.  Talking about her had been more difficult than he’d let on, actually, as he was aware of Éomer’s hard gaze on him the entire time.  He looks at me still…  The King of Rohan’s face was detached and yet attentive.  It made him curious.  Did she not speak of our meeting at all?  Again he felt the shadow of resentment from earlier in the morning.  Why must we hold back?  Why would she pull away if I tried to kiss her as I wish to now?  The answer was not far.  Éomer was silent, staring at him relentlessly, though no longer playing games.  He curbs her actions, though I’m not sure he knows just how much.  Suddenly angry, he stared over her head; Éomer gazed back levelly.  Leave us be, damn you. 

Frodo scribbled, crossed out, muttered to himself and scribbled some more while Sam aided him—moving papers and softly whispering bits of phrases.  The two hobbits murmured together.  Arwen was gazing at Aragorn, who looked back.  Neither spoke; the puppy was asleep again with his legs hanging over the edge of the Queen’s lap.  The white-tipped paws jerked and moved; the tail wagged once when Arwen petted him.  Gandalf appeared thoughtful, still puffing a little on his pipe.  It looked like Gimli had gone to sleep as well; Legolas was smiling, just the corners of his mouth turned up as he nudged the dwarf. 

Faramir tugged her shirt between his fingertips, watching it slide a few inches to expose her lovely neck and the rawhide thong of the necklace he’d given her.  I want to kiss you right there.  He lifted his eyes to hers, promising, for starters.

Éowyn smiled, but ducked her head, her hands twisting in her lap.  Frowning, he asked, why can’t I?

…just wait.
            He could feel her discomfort.  But deeper was her wonderment that he’d been able to recite all their words together.  Even my teachers would have been amazed…certainly I did not pay half the attentions to my studies as I did to our conversations, my love…you were hard to guess.

She smiled, relaxing.  On purpose, sometimes, when I felt you were getting too close…too curious and asking too much.

Ah…you shouldn’t have bothered.  I was too close the first day I saw you.  She was more beautiful still, than any flower or maid he’d seen; flaxen hair shining and soft, warm, peach-colored skin glowing in the candlelight of Aragorn’s room, her sapphire eyes on his…andFaramir decided to do it anyway.  He felt he’d earned it after all he’d remembered.  He leaned forward and Éowyn leaned back the same distance, wary.  The motion hurt him with its cautious rejection, but he concealed it.  Her face was mildly troubled.  …wait.

Why?

As he asked, her brow creased immediately, but her response was slow in coming.  …um…

That’s not an answer, my beloved.  Quick, Faramir captured her chin in his fingertips and kissed her lips once, lightly.  She didn’t resist, but neither did she respond; her warm mouth was still under his, pliant, but not passionate in the least.  Sliding back to his former spot with his arm stretched out, he made the effort to smile at her.  Not so bad, was it?

***

No.  He felt a little hurt and a little annoyed and she bit her lips, wishing they could be alone or that she could just talk, for once.  Both, really, would be best.  Angry with herself, she tightened her hands; short nails digging into her palms.  It was her turn, now, to finish her tale.  Merry stirred at her side and Éowyn glanced at him in empathy.  She really didn’t want to relive it, either.  Suddenly her hand was in Faramir’s, making her look back up.  Lowering his arm, he had reached to squeeze her clenched fist.  Ragged, warmed cloth rubbed her skin, along with roughened calluses.

 It’s all right.  Éowyn relaxed her hand and he laced their fingers together, thumb sliding over her knuckles in a constant, soothing motion.  Look at me and tell me like I did you.

            It’s a little different.

            Faramir just gave her another squeeze.  You can do it; you’re brave and strong.  I’m right here, feel?  His fingers moved and he touched her mind, sending a rush of supportive love and strength across the few inches that separated them.

            Éowyn felt suddenly powerful, alive and vibrantly quickened with light flowing through her veins.  She took a deep breath, head briefly swimmy, and gave him an impish gaze.  Her inner words were more than half-serious.  I might need someone to keep the bad dreams away…

            He smiled; if it means staying in your bed, I’m volunteering.  Faramir leaned forward to plant a fleeting kiss on her forehead, his lips pressing to her skin in a motion too quick for her to escape.  I’ll stay with you, if you wish.  I, too, might need protection from bad dreams after this evening.

            She swallowed, turning to look at the hobbit sitting at the table.  “Are you ready?”

            “A moment.”  Frodo rubbed his hand, grimacing, but the light she’d seen hadn’t diminished; it shone harsh and brilliant through his eyes.  Sam frowned at his master’s hand—it was reddened from use—but did not speak.  “All right.”

            Dernhelm…broken down to its simplest form, the name meant secret and protection in her people’s language.  Not that Merry would have known that...  She glanced at his wholesome, open face.  He’d accepted her swiftly and it had warmed her cold and bitter heart some, to be so easily titled as a warrior.  The name had suited her purpose, or at least her outward one—to go with Théoden, to guard her uncle and not be left behind to wander the empty house in shame and fear.  “I saw Merry and I thought it was unfair that we two should stay behind when we were willing.”  Éomer made a pained noise of protest and she paused before continuing, “So, I took armor, gave myself a man’s name and stole a horse…”

***

Faramir listened closely.  He’d heard tiny bits of this story from her, weaseled out in the gardens, but never so much.  Merry spoke a great deal, too, and between them they were soon at Pelennor.  Éowyn’s grip grew painful, but he endured it, trying not to wince.  Her voice was strained, “It had no mouth, but it breathed, it spoke…it was a thing that should not have been.”

A littler voice spoke hushed with shame.  “I was a coward…my very heart shouted at me to stand, but I could not.”

“No.”  Éowyn contested the hobbit’s anguished words immediately and furiously.  Merry flushed at her praise, “You were loyal and brave, Merry, to come forward and aid me…others might have run in terror, but you did not.  You did as you could to help…and you were victorious.”  She smiled at him, “Without you I would have fallen.”

“And for that, to reward you your courage to stand by my sister, I, my friend, would strip the very gold from my forefathers’ esteemed hall.”  Éomer’s voice was deep, startling them.  He’d not spoken in a long time.

Merry looked embarrassed.  “I want no rewards, please.”

“As you wish—but you have my friendship and that of my people for as long as our two houses exist.”  The King of Rohan bowed his head, “That, I swear.”

 “Thank you.”  The hobbit sighed, “I…I couldn’t stand with that…foul thing so near…I was so afraid he’d see me.”  Pippin had moved close to his cousin, jamming the four of them into a tight pile on the couch.  Faramir didn’t mind so much, as Éowyn was far closer, her golden head just under his chin with her legs folded under her and her arms folded across her waist.  She was curled into a tense ball, half-pressed to his side.  He draped his arm around her shoulders, squeezing gently, hoping he gave her some small comfort.

“It wasn’t alive and yet it was.  I drew my sword as it warned me not to come between it and its prey...prey.  Théoden, King of the Mark, my kin, beloved uncle…was prey, carrion.”  Éowyn spat the last word and her voice became harder and colder than Faramir had ever heard.  “He threatened to not kill me, to take me to the Lidless eye…to devour my flesh and shrivel my mind…” She laughed suddenly and he jumped because it sounded savage.  Oddly, Éomer’s eyes met his.  They, too, looked disturbed.  “Fool thing—he knew not that his words gave me comfort and that he offered the very things I’d ridden to seek: death and valor in battle.

“I told him to do what he will, but I would hinder it if I could…vengeance was all I thought about…he said no living man could hinder him.”  This time Éowyn smiled, her eyes glittering like chips of ice, but Merry interrupted. 

“When I knew it was her, I couldn’t let her fight it alone.”  The hobbit’s tone was admiring, adoring as he turned.  “I had to help.”

Éomer’s face was tense.  He looked terribly pained to simply hear the account of his sister’s battle.  “I thank you, again, Master Meriadoc.”

Faramir hugged her tighter as she went on, “I said, “But no living man am I!  You look upon a woman.  Éowyn I am, Éomund’s daughter.  You stand between me and my lord and kin.  Begone if you be not deathless!  For living or dark undead, I will smite you if you touch him.

“The winged creature screamed, then, and rushed me and I killed it.  I wasn’t afraid—it was too quick.  I cut its head off; it stank of death, long rotted meat that got worse every time it beat its wings…”
            Merry added, his face slightly grey.  “It made me sick, the smell.”

“The…other swung his mace and caught my shield, my arm and broke them both.”  Her voice wavered and he kissed her hair, willing his support through the gentle, brief touch of his lips.  She didn’t seem to feel it.  Her hand held his tightly; smoothing his other one over hers didn’t work; she was actually hurting him.  Her knuckles were white; her hand stiffened around his.  The room was quiet, the listeners intent; the only noises were Merry and Éowyn’s voices, the scritch-scratch of Frodo’s pen, the shuffle of paper and the clinks when he hastily got more ink.  Éomer was gazing at his sister; disquiet and horror awake in his eyes.  Faramir could easily sympathize—the mere thought of her in such danger made him shudder.  I remember those things…those wraiths screaming and the icy waves of fear…he remembered too well the way his men, brave and staunch souls, had scattered to the four winds like birds.  It had taken all his strength of will, thrown like a net, to hold the few to his side.

“And Merry,” Éowyn smiled gratefully at the hobbit, “rose up behind…it….”

“I stabbed as high as I could reach…only the knee, I think, beneath all those robes and mail and darkness.” 

“He shouted my name—by then he knew—and I thrust my sword into the space between the crown and the mantle…it was a guess, only…there was no face, no head.  It was a horrible creature.”

She finally loosened her hand and Faramir flexed his, grimacing, before relacing their fingers.  “That is all I remember…the thing vanished, leaving its clothing and I fell senseless.” 

“Théoden awoke, then, and we spoke.”  Merry hesitated, “He asked for Éomer, and wished for Éowyn.  I tried to tell him she was there, but...he did not hear.”  The hobbit bowed his head, tears in his eyes.  Faramir slipped his arm off of her shoulder as Éowyn leaned to hug Merry close.  Pippin’s gaze met his—the Took’s face was sad.

“That was when I came.”  Éomer stared straight ahead.  “He called me King and wished me victory.”  There was a weary aching in his voice, which deepened to grief, “I thought you were dead.”  He’d turned, face softening as he looked upon his sister, “And I understood that whether I rode to victory or defeat, all would be for naught…I would be alone, all my loved ones gone.

Éomer paused before speaking more quietly, “So I cried for death to take me, to reunite me with those I cared for most.  Victory even over the Dark Lord himself would have been hollow and all my valor meaningless if there was no one dear to me to share it with.  Not all the corpses of the orcs and men could bring back to me my sister, my uncle.” 

He closed his eyes and Faramir felt his skin prickle—Death!  Death!  The remembered cries rang loud enough in Éomer’s mind to reach him.  “I wished for my death, I rode singing to it in desire that my end would hear me crying and come all the more swiftly in pity for my grief.”  He sang softly, a good voice full of anguish that made Faramir’s heart twist.  Éowyn trembled against his side. “Death!  Death, ride, ride to ruin and the world’s ending!”  Rubbing his face, he admitted, “I lost hope, all hope, as I have never done before.”

“Brother…” This time she left him entirely, but he didn’t begrudge it.  Alone, watching her standing to wrap her arms around Éomer and embracing him tightly, Faramir was silent.   Feeling the depth of the man’s emotions pain him, make him grind his teeth, he lowered his eyes to the floor.  He could not have imagined coming upon her, loving Éowyn as he did now, spying her still and crumpled cold on the field of battle, all the while thinking she was safe at home.  How horrible…there are no words…no wonder he rode calling for his own destruction.  When Éowyn returned to the couch, he scooted close, kissing her temple, her warm and alive cheek, glad to his very bones that there was no more war.   

Merry shook his head.  “For my part that is all I remember.  You can ask Pippin for the rest—I wandered in a dark dream, somehow up to the City and around the streets until he found me.”

“There is little else that I can say.”  Éomer added quietly, his voice roughened. 

“Thank you.”  Frodo said simply, shaking his reddened hand, wincing as though it cramped him.  Sam looked concerned as he spread the papers so the ink could dry, but the eldest hobbit ignored him as he asked softly,

“Mr. Frodo…shouldn’t we stop a minute?  Your poor hand…doesn’t it need a rest?”

  It was Gandalf who got Frodo’s attention, the wizard’s voice indisputable.  “A fine idea, Samwise, I think we should take a moment.”

Faramir was uneasy at the sharpness of Frodo’s gaze; there was almost rage in his eyes.  “I want to finish.  I’m fine.”  Aragorn, too, appeared disturbed. 

“You may be fine, but I think I could use a breath of fresh air…and a bite to eat.”  Gandalf stood.

“That sounds good.”  Pippin was already off the couch.  He looked at Merry, “Want me to fetch you something, cousin?”  There was an endearingly affectionate expression on his face. 

“Come.”  Faramir turned to her as Éowyn whispered it.  She brushed stray strands of hair from her face; her blue eyes were reddened and yet she was very pale.  Her hand did not release his as she stood, instead gripping tightly as though she was afraid to let go.  He stood slowly, worried by her pinched appearance.  “We’ll help you, Pippin.”  Éomer gazed at her, but said nothing.

“Excellent.”  The wizard stood and led them from the room. 

***

In the hall, Éowyn halted, unable to go on for the moment.  Faramir stopped; he had no choice as her hand gripped his still, the cloth pressed softly to her palm. His voice was tender, concerned.  “What is it?”

“Please give…me a...” She wrapped her arms tightly around Faramir’s torso and buried her face against his shirt, the top buttons pressing cool to her forehead.  Éowyn took deep, ragged breaths, trying not to cry.  Dernhelm would not have wept, but Dernhelm was dead.  He served his purpose.  She laughed and it turned into a jagged sob.  Gandalf’s footsteps never slowed, even as she choked with warm, bitter tears on her face, but of Pippin’s there was no sound.  Faramir’s hands rubbed her back gently, smoothing the wrinkled men’s shirt.

 “Shh…” She felt him kiss her cheek, her damp face.  Stubble rubbed her skin; his words were low in her ear, for her alone.  “It’s all right.”  He was a good man to provide comfort over and over and again without seeming to tire of it.

He is seldom rewarded and then it is but a pleasant word or kiss of mine…he is too good, she thought and hugged his firm, strong body.  “Did you hear…?  How can…?”  She hugged him tighter still, misery threading through her soul, unable to say what she wished. 

He held her, sounding puzzled and worried.  “What?  What is it?  You can tell me.” 

She couldn’t say it.  He would try and comfort her, of course, but it would surely injure Faramir’s kind heart to say why she cried even these few, burning tears.  Oh, I mustn’t even think it…

Why not?

Because…  Éowyn closed her eyes, who could she tell?  Aragorn, perhaps.  Abruptly she laughed.  No doubt Arwen would think that odd, my seeking her husband to weep in his arms.  But he would understand enough, at least, and it would not bother him.  He heard some before.  The idea Arwen herself might understand didn’t yet cross her mind; she’d been too long in the presence of men.

You don’t have to go to another.  Faramir sounded slightly hurt already, bending his knees to look into her face.  His was upset, focused, forehead furrowed with concern, lips pressed together.  I could understand…if you’d tell me.

She couldn’t risk it; he’d been too wretched already today for her to lay another wound or burden upon him.  No. 

He pulled back, holding her arms, and then sliding his hands down to intertwine his fingers with hers.  The cloth bindings felt strange against her flesh, irregular with muted warmth.  “Why not, Éowyn?”  Faramir attempted a smile, “I am not so delicate that I will shatter under mere words.  I told you that you could tell me anything and I meant it.”  His inner voice was deeply bruised.  I shared myself with you…please, darling.  I don’t wish you grief.

Flinching with guilt, she protested, “No…I don’t…” She stared up as he took a deep breath, chest expanding.  His hands loosened and the fingers grew lax.  Faramir was no longer really looking at her.  Seeing his eyes turn inward with the grey irises deepening, the pupils contracting and his face smoothing, Éowyn jerked out of his arms—he was trying to discover her troubles by touching her mind, his own gently searching for the source of her anxieties.  “Stop!”

Faramir’s head cocked, eyes narrowing even as they returned to normal.  He’d seen something, then.  What…?  Éomer, what?  His expression hardened.  Why is he always in the way?  His next thought was sour.  I cannot wait until we are gone from here, from him.

For just a moment, on the wake of her brother’s tearful words, Éowyn almost slapped him.  Faramir jerked instinctively, his arm half coming up to block her, but she didn’t raise her hand any higher than his chest. Fighting her temper, she unseized her fingers from the claws they so desperately wanted to be and ground them into a painful fist.  Striking him would make her feel better, but she did not want to do it.  I don’t want to hit him…well, she did.  No matter Éomer’s fool and obnoxious behavior towards him, from literally the first moment they’d met, the comment made her boil with rage.

Instead, raising her voice to protect herself from his somehow wounded, bewildered and accusing gaze, Éowyn shouted, “Do I not get a single thought to myself?  Can you keep from prying for a moment?”  Inwardly she shook with churning anger.  How dare he say such a thing…?

He frowned, looking suddenly confused and contrite.  “Wait…”

Hissing her reply, enraged, she slapped at his hands when he reached for her.  They were swift, stinging blows that turned her flesh red and made him wrench back.  “No, Faramir!” 

***

Éowyn wheeled and rushed down the hall, long, tawny hair flying behind her.  Faramir watched her go, abashed and irritated.  He shouldn’t have done that or said that, perhaps…no, you know damn well you shouldn’t have…but she should have told him.  She comes to me for comfort, cries on my shoulder…but when I try to give it she rejects me.  Why must everything be so difficult with her?  Unable to understand, he closed his eyes in frustration, resisting the desire to slam his fist into the wall.  There was a little movement to his right.  Pippin twisted his arms around his back, looking doleful enough to irritate him anew; he’d been there the whole time. 

            For the moment, the remarkable rudeness of certain hobbits did not cross his mind.  Instead, Faramir dropped to one knee and snatched a handful of the Took’s shirt.  Pippin squeaked, eyes going wide as he growled, “If you have any notions of what she was talking about, Master Peregrin, please share them.”

“She’s sad!”

Repressed sarcasm boiled under his voice.  “Was it the weeping that gave it away?”

He shook his head.  “No.” 

“Then what?”  Faramir barely stayed the urge to give the hobbit a shake. 

“Ask Merry!”

He sighed, sensing his defeat already.  “I’m asking you.” 

“Ask Merry!”  Only repeating himself, Pippin twisted easily away from his loosened grip and bolted after the wizard and Éowyn.  Faramir sighed deeply, rose and began walking down the hall.  So hard…why is she so damn hard to deal with?

***

She caught up with Gandalf, rubbing her eyes and cheeks.  The wizard glanced sideways at her, but did not speak.  His steps were surprisingly quick for all that he appeared to be a man old and slow; the staff thumped gently, rhythmically.  Suddenly he did speak and it startled her, “I met another great Lady of the Mark once, though she was far less decorated in battle.”

“Who?”

“Morwen Steelsheen.”

Éowyn was uncertain as to where this was going, but she was curious now.  “Oh?  What was she like?” 

“A beautiful, strong-willed woman, able and decisive…you have a long path to walk, girl.”

Is that an insult?  It had the feel of one, but intrigued her, either way.  She looked up and sideways, past the bushy eyebrows and thick beard into the wizard’s face.  “You used to teach Faramir?”

“Aye.”  Now Gandalf looked at her.  Their gazes met and Éowyn jerked her eyes away—there was something impossibly venerable and wise and so terribly stern beneath the mask of a kindly, elderly man.  He was still turned in her direction, even though her head was bent.  “Worrying never helped anyone, girl.”

“What do you mean?”  Something in him reminded her of Théoden.  But Uncle never spoke in riddles, nor sounded so quick-tempered.

“Those lads will work it out between them soon enough.  You would do best to look after yourself,” He halted, forcing her to halt, too, or be inexcusably rude.  Gandalf leaned on his staff, his eyes on hers.  “My Lady of Ithilien.”

The name made her blood run wintry cold, which was ridiculous because wasn’t that what she was…minus a short ceremony and Faramir claiming her body, of course?  No doubt he thought of her in that respect already…or does he?  Faramir didn’t seem to think much about his princedom or his own titles.  But then he has other worries, doesn’t he?  Not much time for other things, so busy is he in taming me.  That’s one…dealing with my brother is another…  Éowyn wavered, her heart beating fast in a panic; she was unable to find any answer.  The three words of her future title seemed to ring over and over, proclaiming an eternity in some place that would not resound with the beat of horses’ hooves, the bawling of hounds, the boldly lifted songs or the deep-voiced horns of her people—Lady of Ithilien.  “Don’t call me that.”
            “Why not?”

Éowyn was aware she sounded much like the girl he’d twice called her.  Maybe too much.  “I don’t like it.”

“What we don’t like often happens…you should find peace with your decisions or your fate might be akin to another Lady of the City.”  She sensed anger behind his tolerant, old man’s face; a great, yet restrained anger, “Such a thing would break him entirely—you’d do best to avoid it and start considering a lengthy discussion.  This one will listen, unlike some Lords.  Faramir learned that without my help.”  The wizard’s face softened, “His heart is kindly, not harsh.  Do not fear for him, Faramir is stronger than he knows yet.”

Éowyn stared at him, frightened and more so as she asked in a breathless voice, “What other Lady?”

Gandalf didn’t answer, only gazed back at her as though the answer was painfully evident and she was a great fool.  Or a little girl asking absurd questions to one who has no time for them.  That felt closer to the truth.  Before she could open her mouth again, Pippin’s fluttering footsteps rounded the small corner and the hobbit ran puffing to her side, his curls wildly disheveled.  A moment later she heard and felt Faramir coming; his frustration grated upon her skin like the rough, spiny surface of a burr.  The wizard began walking again and Éowyn fell into step, her mind a jumble of emotions and his words.  She stared at Gandalf’s back, slightly bent over the staff she greatly doubted he needed.  I hate riddles.

***

Éomer sat silently in his misery.  His heart was heavy, a burden he longed to put down again.  I used to laugh and jest…  His reason tried to reassert itself and failed.  Oh, come, fool, this is not the end of the world…he sighed.  His world had ended and then begun again.  My heart withered when I thought she was dead…will it survive this?  He stared at the door, feeling ill.  I am useless; a remnant of her childhood, just as worthless to her now as the little toy soldiers father carved for me…  Éomer smiled faintly.  Éowyn had stolen them the moment she’d laid eyes on them—a chubby little girl crawling across the floor, her hair the palest of gold, her blue eyes giant.  She’d reached and grabbed up the wooden men in plump hands, mouth trembling and falling open to scream when he’d greedily snatched back his playthings.

“No!  Mine!”

His father hadn’t smiled—only cuffed him, gently, a blow barely felt, but cuffed him still and said shortly, “Give her what she wants.” 

I did, didn’t I?  That had been near the last, when his father had come in weary from battle with his eyes bleak instead of smiling and merry.  He’d been quick to shout at Éomer, but just as quick to apologize.  As a lad he’d been frightened by his father’s growing and erratic temper, as a man he knew the reason for it.  Father was fighting what he couldn’t win and knew it too well.

For a second he couldn’t remember if he’d given up the soldiers.  Of course he had.  He remembered Éowyn hugging the simple toys and smiling a gummy smile up at their father, who picked her up and held her in his lap.  He remembered both his parents voices, “Éomer, watch your sister…”

“Éomer, how many times do I have to tell you?  Mind your sister instead of playing with those lads!  You’re bigger and stronger and you know better, son…it’s your job to look after her!”

His mother turning around, her face only mildly alarmed, “Éomer, where’s Éowyn?”

She didn’t remember that day, she’d been far too young, but he did…the memory was enough to make his skin twitch with guilt and fear and the pain when his father had strapped him.  It was the only time he’d been whipped and it had been bad.  “This way, lad, you’ll never forget…I’m sorry, but you’ve brought it upon yourself.”

He had, he’d not done what he’d been told—he’d almost let her…  Éomer jerked in his chair, thrusting away the memory.  I never did forget, Father.

He felt like looking at Faramir, grabbing him by the front of his shirt, he felt like screaming at the man—“Why her?  Why not the hundreds of beautiful women?  Why my sister?”

Éomer’s hands tightened on the arms of the chair.  I used to laugh and jest…and I used to run with Éowyn through the fields before we came to Meduseld, letting her win every time.  I used to follow any lad who so much as smiled at her and threaten him with a beating because none would ever be good enough.  I rode with her, pretending to be raiders, or warriors or…he clamped his jaw, King.  We’d stay out long after Father/Mother/Théoden had said we should and I always took the blame.  I used to put spiders in her bed to make her scream, I rubbed gravy in her hair once and she stabbed me with a fork, then cried when I bled…he raised his hand—there was the stippled scar even now, barely noticeable. 

Théodred had only added one more to their games, giving them new, inventive pastimes along with another playmate…cousin, where are you now that I need you to clout me upside the head and make me see that everything will be all right?  Where are you when I need you?   There was a smile on his face; it must have looked more like a sob than a smile, though, because Merry was gazing at him in concern.  Éomer dropped his eyes, seeking isolation again in his pain. 

 The Brandybuck’s little voice found him, “My lord?”
            Rubbing his forehead, he corrected tiredly, “Éomer, always, friend.  Please.”

The hobbit nodded as though his words were irrelevant and paused before saying softly, so quietly that none of the others even looked their way, “I lied.  I knew.”

“Knew what?”  Éomer couldn’t imagine what vexation marred Merry’s usually cheerful face. 

“That it was her all along.”

“Did you?”  The urge to strangle the hobbit rose so fiercely that his hands actually tightened on the arms of the chair.  Forcing it down, he asked, “Why did you not speak before the battle?”  Why did you let her go into such danger?  Perhaps he’d read wrongly, that Merry did not look upon Éowyn with the adoring eyes of so many lads before him.

“You couldn’t have stopped her.”  He’d not read wrongly—the endearment was there, mixed with deep admiration.  However, if the hobbit thought that, then he was gravely mistaken.  Within seconds of her discovery Éowyn would have been as far away as possible, bound hand and foot if need be…and it would be needed…before he’d have allowed her to fight.  “She was supposed to.”

His wrath towered high and then slumped down to nothing again, billowing flame to cold ashes when confronted by the hobbit’s kindhearted, earnest face.  Defeated, he asked, “Supposed to?”

Merry scooted forward, legs and hairy, grubby feet swinging.  “If you think about it.”

Is this the madness that goes on behind his eyes when I think he is not thinking at all?  For a moment Éomer was more bemused than anguished.  “Tell me your belief, Master Holbytla.”  Merry opened his mouth and he interrupted, “But first, tell me how you knew it was my sister you rode with.”

The hobbit blushed and looked down, “She may not be a hobbit lass, but Éowyn…I was under her cloak…very close…and,” He smiled sheepishly, “warriors don’t smell that nice or…” The hobbit got more red-faced, “have bosoms.”

To his surprise Éomer roared with laughter, the delight he felt unburdening his heart and easing his guilt-ridden innards.  “Was that the way of it?”

Brandybuck accent thickened with embarrassment, he answered, “Yes.”  Merry swung his feet, staring down, “I was quite comfortable.” 

He was still amused as he asked, “Tell me, then, your notion.”

“All right…” Merry hopped off the couch and laboriously scaled the chair beside him, the same seat Pippin had been occupying before his and Faramir’s little game.  A game I should not have escalated…he remembered Éowyn’s strained face and felt a twinge of guilt stab him, making his stomach tense again.  I will not let him provoke me… but he wondered, in the middle of his new resolution, is that what he wants?  Is he trying to turn her against me? It sounded unlikely, but the mere thought enraged him almost beyond his ability to control it, so he concentrated upon the innocent hobbit instead.

Watching him climb up the comparatively lofty chair, Éomer was half inclined to give him a hand, but thought better of it—Merry was only small, not helpless.  Situated with his legs swinging, the hobbit began in a low voice, “I think it’s like this…”

***

“Do not do that, I hate that, my brother does the same…damn…thing.”  Éowyn shoved cups in the bag with each of her words.  Behind her, Faramir frowned,

“What?” 

“You’re hovering!”  She turned and brushed strands of hair away from her face, glaring up at him.  “Stop it.”

“You are.”  Pippin chimed in from nearby; the hobbit was too short to reach the counters, but he’d proved an adequate pack pony so far, already laden with a large basket of food items.  Gandalf had disappeared.

“See?”  She arched her eyebrows and all but hurled the sack into his arms.

He had been, so Faramir was entirely willing to let it go and, since she was talking, move on to his real purpose.  “Why are you angry?”

Blue eyes widened and then narrowed to slits.  “Are you daft?”

“I’m sorry for what I said about Éomer.  I did not mean it.”  He was lying a little and Faramir was afraid she’d find out, so he added reluctantly, “Well, only partially.”

Éowyn’s anger did not lessen in the slightest.  “How kind of you.”

He’d calmed again, finding his patience.  If he endured her silence, she would speak.  But still…it infuriated him and not just her refusal to tell him her troubles, but the fact that she thought Aragorn was more suitable.  I am your betrothed, I am the man you love…what’s wrong with me?  He took a deep breath, cleansing any traces of irritation or impatience from his voice, “I’m sorry I did not wait for you to tell me what was wrong.”

For a moment her coldly furious face thawed and Éowyn licked her lips, her eyes falling.  She looked like a lost girl, much the way she’d looked when he’d first met her and she’d whispered that her window did not look eastward.  Faramir stepped forward, still just as drawn by her fragile quality, her disheartenment.  “It’s all right…you can tell me, I can handle it.”  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pippin hoist his load and slip away, giving them privacy. 

            Éowyn sighed deeply, looking up at him as she murmured, “He said you were stronger than you knew.  I think he meant I should.”  Her next words puzzled him; “I hate riddles, though.”

            “Who said that?”

            “Gandalf.”

            “Oh.”  Faramir came just a little closer.  He was well within range if he misspoke and she changed moods now.  There were plenty of knives in this part of the kitchens.  Might not be able to have children after all...  The thought made him smile a little.  “Will you tell me, then, what troubles you?”

            She dropped so suddenly that he blinked in astonishment, thinking she’d vanished.  Éowyn hugged her knees to her chest, chin braced on them.  “All right.”  Faramir crouched down to listen but she didn’t speak for what felt like a long time. 

He touched her hand, “Go on.  You’ll feel better.”

It came out slowly, halting and accompanied with tears.  “I don’t want to go.  I can’t go.”  Éowyn looked up at him and then put her head down, shoulders shaking.  “I don’t want to go, I don’t, I can’t, I’m sorry.  I can’t leave him-m a-a-alone…” She began to weep.

Faramir didn’t know what to say and he bowed his head, horribly weary.  I can’t do it, I can’t do everything…juggle her, Éomer, myself...  He was not one of his pureblooded forefathers of Númenor, but only a mongrel, half-witted and inadequate to the challenge.  I cannot deal with everything.  He was right, she will be unhappy…I would be heartless to hold her there… 

You don’t have to.  He lifted his head, actually startled.  A new part of him spoke up in a clear and decisive voice he welcomed, why don’t you just do what you know would solve everything?

Faramir gazed sorrowfully down as Éowyn took deep breaths, her tears subsiding.  She was afraid to look at him; afraid he was angry with her.  He might have been, but he wasn’t.  The fact that Éowyn thought he should be, or was, hurt.  I am not so cruel, my darling.  Sighing inwardly, he asked the voice.  What’s that?  What could I do to solve everything?

The voice didn’t hesitate.  Leave Rohan.  Go back to where you belong.

Echoing in his mind, the words made him uncomfortable.  I can’t do that.  No, I could never leave her.  Faramir waited, but from the other part of him there was no answer, only a cool sense of cynicism that frightened him.  It felt like his father.

A new thought occurred from the comparison and he grew cold.  Éowyn sniffled, breathing easier now.  Suddenly, he, too, felt like weeping.  The chance alone…

***

“Gandalf told us the prophecy that Glorfindel said about the Witchking.”

Éomer listened tolerantly.  He had little faith in the words of seers even if he’d met them and found them to be respectable elves.  The prophecy…it was vaguely familiar.  “Which was?” 

They spoke in whispers, his own rough and bass despite his best efforts, the hobbit’s light and easy.  “No living man could kill it.”

A small chill went down his spine.  “And you think…?”

“Don’t you?  Éowyn isn’t a man, of course,” Merry looked down at himself with a curious brand of irritation and pride, “and I’m not a man…it makes sense.”

“I suppose,” Éomer allowed.  He felt uneasy in this line of discussion—it was out of his grasp.

The hobbit frowned, “You don’t believe me.”

He sighed.  “I don’t believe in sorcery.”

“It’s not.  It’s true.”

A thought struck, “Did you know this before you allowed my little sister into battle?”

“Yes.”

Éomer’s eyes narrowed.  Merry hadn’t hesitated, but he was uncertain.  I shall believe him, he decided.  It’s far better than the alternative, the alternative that might involve a dead hobbit.  “So, you think it was fated?”

“Yes.”  Curls flopped as Merry nodded.  He frowned, “You Men are strange…you don’t seem to want to put things behind you and be merry again…why not?”

Confused, Éomer asked, “Why do you say that?”  What does that mean, little one?

“Look how sad you are.”  A small hand waved at him, “Why don’t you just do what you know will make everything easy?”  Merry’s face was confused, “Why do you keep arguing with Faramir?  Pippin and I don’t understand.  He has sisters, he wouldn’t be so sad to see them go…” Here the hobbit grinned, “Of course, Éowyn is far more pleasant.”

How can I explain?  Before he could do more than open his mouth, Merry went on, grimy feet swinging in rhythm.  “We like Faramir…but, is it because he’s so…” He wrinkled his nose, “boring sometimes?  He’s not much fun if you want to go and lift something or play a prank…  Pippin doesn’t even know why Éowyn’s marrying him—she’s far more fun.  We’d like her to come and visit the Shire.”  After a moment, Merry added cheerfully, “You, too.”

Strangely, Éomer found himself smiling.  “No, Master Holdwine.  I’m afraid I’d be too big for your little country.”

“Rubbish.”  The hobbit scooted forward, intrigued.  “What does that name mean, exactly?”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“Hold means in our tongue, faithful, friendly or loyal.  Wine means friend.”

“Oh.”  Merry looked pleased.  “I like your language…it’s got a good sound and the words seem familiar.”  He sighed, “So, why do you argue with Faramir so much?”

Éomer stared at the hobbit, trying to best phrase his answer.  Why don’t I like Faramir?  Oh, let me count the ways...  “Faramir, he…he’s just…he’s taking…” Frustrated, he eventually spat, “I don’t know.”  There was no reason, like Aragorn had said the night of the funeral feast, no reason he couldn’t get along with the man.  Perhaps it was the fact that, while his sister was happy, there really was no concrete reason, that he was angered so.  Maybe it is because I can do nothing at all.

“If you don’t know then why do you do it?”

He rubbed his forehead; he was starting to get a headache.  Half jesting, he threw out an answer, unable to stand a moment more of the hobbit’s bewildered, sincere stare.  “I don’t know.  Habit.”

“It makes her sad and that makes me angry.”  This time Merry was stern, so stern he surprised Éomer.  The hobbit was unyielding; his eyes steady as he spoke.  His voice was strong and forceful.  “Pippin and I think you should stop before she can’t run crying to our rooms.” 

Did Aragorn put him up to this?  Staring at the hobbit, he couldn’t think of a satisfactory protest.  Run crying to their rooms? He stirred uneasily on his chair.  Maybe it’s time I grew up…and let Éowyn grow up, too.

His heart stuttered in fear.  No…no…  Éomer just looked at Merry beside him.  He didn’t know what to do.

***

She wiped her nose on her sleeve and dried her tears on the end of her shirt.  Faramir didn’t speak, just waited.  He was crouched down on one knee, the bag of cups and things dangling in his hand, watching her.  Finally, she looked up and broke the silence with a muttered, “I’m sorry.”  Really, Éowyn was beginning to be astonished by the amount of weeping she’d done since she’d met him.  After all my objections I suppose I am a woman after all…it made her smile a tiny bit. 

He smiled gently in reply, yet his eyes were distant, peculiarly so, like he were contemplating something far beyond her.  Éowyn found it unsettling, especially when he spoke.  “You listened to me, it’s my turn.”  Abruptly, Faramir stretched his legs out, sitting at her side as though he were prepared to stay there for quite a while.

It was preposterous, them both on the kitchen floor.  He didn’t say anything, his shoulder warm against hers; Faramir was half-turned to face her.  His grey eyes were still remote and she tugged nervously at the dolphin pendant.  Éowyn sighed, “Don’t worry, I didn’t mean it.”

“Yes you did.”

Is he angry?  He didn’t feel angered.  “I won’t…keep to it.”  She struggled, “It was just…what he said…” Suddenly trying to make him understand, she said rapidly, “He didn’t mean it to do…this…I’m sorry, I’ll go with you, it’s just when I heard him say those things…he’s my brother.”

“I know.”  Faramir’s arm went around her shoulders, heavy and squeezing.  “I had a brother, too.”

Éowyn felt ashamed.  She still had Éomer, after all.  “I’m sorry, I’m…selfish to speak of this to you...” She’d wanted Aragorn for a reason; her words would not have opened any wounds with him.

“It was no fault of yours that Boromir was lost.”  Faramir glanced at her, an unfamiliar smile on his lips, like he was trying to be comforting, but he was falling far short.  He was making her feel shy, strangely unsteady, an emotion she found vaguely frightening to experience in his trusted presence.  Very suddenly she wanted some distance between them.  “It will be all right.”

What’s wrong?  Does he think…that I’m lying?  Éowyn looked into his eyes, searching, refusing to scoot away.  She was being foolish; this was Faramir, after all.  He was safest of all she knew—his arms meant comfort, a refuge.  But still, her insides felt queasy with apprehension.  “I’m not trying to get rid of you again, I’ll go to Gondor.  It was just the moment; I’m not trying to back out again on you…on us...” She trailed off, nervous and conscious she was repeating herself.

“I know.”  That queer smile widened and then disappeared.  “I’m not worried about that.”

“Oh.”  Awkward, she leaned her head against his shoulder, wondering what was wrong with her that she felt so anxious.  He didn’t feel unmoved, Faramir even kissed the top of her head, but he felt off somehow in every gesture and every word he uttered.  Screwing up her courage, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”  He gave her a squeeze, sounding completely sure.  “Everything will be fine.”

Faramir’s normally comforting voice, though she could find nothing false in it, just made Éowyn tenser.  Her hands tightened over the dolphin and against her will she slid an inch or two away from his light embrace.  Faramir didn’t seem to notice, which discomfited her more than anything did—he always noticed when she pulled away.  Éowyn tucked her legs tighter, trying to decide whether to confront him now, where they might be interrupted or elsewhere.  Later, oh later where we can take our time…she didn’t admit to herself that the real reason was that she was actively afraid to confront him.  I’m not sure I know this man…  Éowyn turned to look at him; Faramir looked back and it was like gazing into a mirror dulled with time so as to be virtually opaque — dispassionately unaffected eyes straight on hers.  There was no warmth in his stare and she jerked away, alarmed.

  At length, she stood with mind whirling, and he did, too.  She avoided his gaze, his touch.  They walked into the hall where Gandalf and Pippin were waiting.  The wizard’s eyes were on her; she looked down, taking some of the hobbit’s burden.  I don’t know what’s wrong…  Faramir followed with his steps slow.  He didn’t feel angry.  He didn’t feel anything.

***

            Éomer stood when his sister entered.  Her waxen face showed she was upset; he took the small basket from her arms, giving her a warm smile.  I love you, sister of mine.  To his surprise she hugged him mightily, arms very, very tight, before slipping away to the couch.  Faramir was right behind her and when their eyes met Éomer felt a chill—there was something deeply off in them.  The Steward’s voice was unpleasantly frosty.  “We need to speak later.  It won’t take long.”

“All right.”  He answered courteously, trying desperately to stick to his new resolution.  I will behave…I will accept him…  He had to, to some degree—none of the men in the company would put up with Faramir if he did not.  I must treat him with respect and…even affection.  His lips twisted in a disparaging smile.  Perhaps that is going too far.  Polite, simple respect… that is plenty.  “If you desire to.”

“I do.” Faramir nodded slightly and sat beside Éowyn.  Éomer stood a second longer, perturbed.  Was it his imagination or did his sister move away from the Steward, opening several inches of light between them on the couch?  Before she’d been all but in his lap, the difference, along with the aloofness of Faramir’s gaze, made him curious.  

It is none of your business, either way, is it?  No, I didn’t think so.  Curbing his instinct to at least question Éowyn with a glance, he turned to Aragorn and Legolas began helping them pass about the various foods and drink.  Merry, too, was helping Pippin.   It wasn’t much; just bits of meat, bread, cheese and other easily cartable things, but it would hold them.  Neither he, Merry or Éowyn had taken long; surely the rest would be just as quickly done.

Despite himself, Éomer kept looking at her, noticing the way she kept a certain space between herself and Faramir.  The Steward paid no attention.  He glanced at Merry, who smiled through a mouthful of something smooshed together; he smiled back, unable to help himself.  The hobbit had wrung a promise out of him—Éomer would visit the Shire one day.  I would be afraid to step on them…he imagined hobbit children, looked down at his boots, and shuddered.  Even children of his own kind seemed impossibly small and delicate.  I could never be a father; I would be too frightened to hold my child.

Frodo wolfed his food, his face intensely impatient, but Sam ate very slowly.  So slowly in fact, the Ringbearer was tapping his fingers in a discordant rhythm by the time the gardener finished. Sam gathered more sheets of blank paper and the eldest hobbit was once more poised, pen gripped awkwardly but forcibly, “Faramir, would you mind…?”

“I’m afraid I’m not a very important person.”  He paused; Éomer watched his sister, noting the way she sat scrunched up, far closer to Pippin than Faramir.  What is wrong?  The Took noticed, too, for his face grew worried and then oddly determined.

***

Éowyn listened; Faramir spoke in an unemotional, terse voice.  Beside her, Pippin chimed in often, his words surprisingly light in comparison to the man by her side.  She twisted her hands, chafing them in anxiety.  Did I do this?  What is wrong?  Having only herself to blame, she cursed inwardly for speaking to him.  But he wanted me to…  You should have done as you thought and let him alone. 

Glancing over to her left, she licked dry lips.  Even if he’d not been in such a strange mood, Faramir’s description of the flight from Osgiliath would have disturbed her.  “It was luck alone that I managed to keep to my horse and my courage.”  Her brother looked bemused and very slightly commending at the modest words.  His eyes had been on her ever since she’d come back into the room; Éowyn avoided looking up—if he sensed trouble he’d take her side and there might be another argument. 

“I shouted with the soldiers.” Pippin sounded admiring.  “Beregond and I were watching you from the wall…I couldn’t have ridden back, I’d have been too frightened that those things would have scooped me up and carried me off to the Dark Lord, but he said you could master man and beast.” 

For a second Faramir’s icy demeanor cracked and he smiled. “I don’t know about that.”  Éowyn gazed up hopefully, but the break had been only a tantalizing suggestion of his normalcy.  When he continued, his voice was just as stiff, “I returned to my men and together,” Faramir nodded to the wizard, “with Mithrandir’s help, we were able to enter the City.”

Frodo looked about to ask something, but Pippin cut him off, “Gandalf made light somehow, it frightened them away.” 

Finally the Ringbearer questioned, slowly and very kindly, “Do you mind speaking about Denethor or Boromir, Faramir?”

Éowyn felt the two males on the couch with her stiffen.  Faramir’s voice did not betray him, “Ask anything you feel you must.” He added oddly, “I owe too much to not yield you the right.”  Gandalf was watching closely, as well as Aragorn.  Pippin shifted and she gave him a supporting smile.  She was afraid to do the same to Faramir though she badly wished to.  Éowyn wanted to link her arm with his, to hug him and murmur that it would be all right, that she was there and loving him —in short, she wished to provide the comfort he so often and willingly did for her.  But she was afraid his arm would feel as unyielding as wood and his grey eyes, usually so warm, would be chill and distant, asking her why she bothered.  What right do I have to ask or give comfort?  My family is broken, but still stands…his is gone, so much ash scattered to the winds.   So instead, she curled her knees tight to her chest, wrapped one hand around the dappled blue-green dolphin pendant and scooted closer to Pippin, who eagerly accepted her presence.  He folded his own legs under him, sitting up on his knees to be almost level with her face.  At the table Frodo tapped his fingers, carefully choosing his first query.

A Tookish accent tickled her ear, “What’s wrong?”

Éowyn just shook her head.

“We’ll make it better, Merry and me.”  He appeared confident.

She frowned, murmuring back, “How?”

Unexpectedly reflective and thoughtful eyes looked into hers.  “We have a plan.”

“No, no plans, Pippin.”  He scowled and she hissed, “No.”

“But you don’t even know what it is.”

“Please?”

“All right.”  Pippin stared over at Merry and shook his head.  The Brandybuck frowned, wagging his eyebrows in askance.

Éowyn mouthed ‘no’ and pretended not to see her brother staring at her in curiosity.  She’d missed Frodo’s question, so gently was it asked, but Faramir answered,

“He ruled well, but did not accept any questioning of his will.  My brother had the most luck in swaying him; it was widely known my father favored Boromir above all others and for good reason—he was the best at whatever he tried...”

Pippin interrupted, dropping back to his seat with a thump, “He said that about you.”

Faramir appeared shocked, his head snapping to the side to fix a wide-eyed stare upon the Took.  “What?”

“Boromir said you were the best son, that his father just could not see it.”  The hobbit only looked slightly uncomfortable.  “He talked about you mostly,” Pippin smiled, “When I could get him to talk.”  Merry smiled, too.  “He said you were smarter, that Denethor had been wrong, that you should have been sent because you knew more about times gone by.”  He smiled a little, “Of course, he took it back every time we got chased by something and said he was thankful you were far away and, he hoped, safe.”

Éowyn desperately wished to put her arm around his shoulder, to lean her head against his neck and hug Faramir, he looked so pale and wretched as Pippin added finally, “Everywhere we were—Rivendell, Hollin, the gates of Moria with the way they shone in the moonlight and how big and great the halls were, fair Lórien—especially there because of the elves,” Sam sighed as Pippin continued, “and the Ar-argon…” He frowned.

“The Argonath.”  Aragorn said softly, sadly.

“Right,” The Took smiled briefly and thankfully.  “He said he wished you were there to see it.”  Faramir swallowed beside her; she heard his throat click.  His eyes were damp, reddened and his jaw worked; he looked down, dark hair falling forward.  Pippin poked her side impatiently and, feeling a weak inner smile at his impertinence mingle with the sense of Faramir’s grief, she couldn’t resist any longer, no matter his reaction.  Éowyn moved close and hugged his side.

What had felt so wrong about him before was now right—Faramir turned into her immediately, his chest shuddering with quavering breaths as he tried not to weep in front of an audience.  His sorrow made her ache; his tears, trembling unfallen on his eyelashes, burned her eyes.  “Shh.”  Éowyn slid forward, folding her legs to lean against him; he rested his head on her shoulder and took a deep breath to steady himself.  Around them everyone had looked away, giving Faramir his privacy.

***

Except Éomer, though, he, too, dropped his eyes after a moment.  He’d looked on purpose, watching how his sister’s face had stilled and then crumpled in slightly.  Her heart was plain—the Steward’s grief was her own, his pain hers, too.  And, his joy, should one day I cease my hardheadedness.   Gazing at the floor, he waited as patiently as the others for Faramir to regain his composure. 

       All the talk of Boromir had jogged his memory—he’d met the man, once and but momentarily in the hall outside the throne room.  Inside, Éowyn had been standing near to Théoden, her pale gown and hair alight from the sun that slanted inward into the room.  She’d been speaking to their Uncle; just visible from where they’d stood but inaudible.   Boromir had halted, his attention obviously caught by the brightness of her hair and gown in the otherwise dim room where Théoden crouched in his great chair. 

“Who is s that?”  Théodred’s glance had met his; Éomer had been on his way back to his rooms, Théodred had been courteously showing the Steward’s eldest son about.    “Who is that woman…?”  His sister had looked up, undoubtedly from hearing an unfamiliar voice in the strangely measured and thick accent of the South men.  A voice that grew more interested with every word, “with the blue eyes that stands by the King?”

His cousin’s reply had been quick.  “No one important, a maid only.”  Boromir’s face had been rather doubtful, but he’d followed Théodred away without further questions and Éomer, too, had continued to his rooms. 

Coming out of his small memory, he looked over at where Éowyn still comforted Faramir—he’d pulled away just slightly and she used the pads of her thumbs to tenderly wipe his damp cheeks.  Their eyes were locked; they were clearly oblivious to the others in the room.

And we got rid of him as swiftly and as civilly as possible. 

The coincidental irony was not lost upon him.  He smiled a thin smile to himself and resumed staring at the floor.

***

She touched his face gently, feeling the wetness of the few tears he’d allowed spill.  His eyes were on hers and they were warm again, though painfully anguished.  Are you all right?

For a second she felt him draw away mentally and Éowyn dreaded the revival of the puzzling lack of feeling that had been there, but he answered, yes, as well as I can be.  Faramir straightened back on the couch, but he pulled her close now, one arm over her shoulder, the other around her side with his hand lying in her lap, their fingers entangled. 

Frodo gazed at him.  “We don’t have to go on.”

He struggled silently and she squeezed his hand.  Faramir took a deep breath, looking away before admitting.  “I would appreciate that.” 

“All right.”  The hobbit did not so much as pause before turning to the elf in the corner.  “Legolas…”

***

He felt ashamed because he’d been unable to speak further.  He gazed at the floor; his heart sunk low with grief and remorse.  My brother would have praised me all night had our positions been exchanged…  Faramir’s eyes turned to the golden head at his shoulder and a tiny smile broke through his iron-grey mood.  They would not have made a good match; Boromir had been as strong-willed as their father had and doubly as prideful.  He would not have suffered Éomer’s demands for a moment.  His smile widened just a fraction.  My brother would not have suffered me suffering through his demands.  Rohan and Gondor would be at war, or close to it—my brother would have bid me to steal her within the walls and close the gate.  He shuddered a little to imagine Éomer’s reaction.  He could not have touched her mind, my brother was deaf that way…Faramir blessed his gift.  Without it he would have probably been still begging for a mutually responsive kiss.

Frodo was speaking, asking Legolas about Fangorn and although he was interested in the Ents, Faramir wished to leave.  It wasn’t late, he wasn’t tired, but he was almost desperate with the need for stillness…and I need to talk to her.  Again he turned his eyes to Éowyn’s head resting just on his shoulder.  Her confusion and distress had only made it harder for him to think, to puzzle out the fears that had arisen from her tearful confession in the kitchens. 

I know now what I need to say.  The words, he felt, would be terrible and would probably upset her.  But I must say them or risk suffering for my selfishness.  Faramir licked his lips and took his hand from hers.  He touched her mind gently, do you wish to go?

Éowyn looked up, wary.  Where?

Her quarters were nicer and neater.  Your rooms?  Please? 

Will you tell me what I did wrong?

You didn’t…she didn’t believe that.  Yes.

All right.

Before either of them could move or speak, Arwen did.  “I apologize, Frodo.”  The Queen stood, cradling the sleepy-eyed and limp puppy.  “Write what you wish about me, for my part I did little worthy of your remembrance save create a banner for my lord and love.”  Aragorn gazed up at her, his expression melancholy.  Rusco yawned wide, paws and tail dangling as she smiled, “I trust you will do right by me.”  She bowed her head in respect, “I’m afraid I must take my leave, Master Baggins.”

The eldest hobbit almost appeared to be blushing, “Good night, Lady Arwen.”

“Good night.”  The Queen slipped out; Faramir watched, curious as to where she was going—these were Aragorn’s quarters, after all.  Arwen walked out the door without hesitating and the King sighed and slumped low in his chair.

“I, too, will be going.”  A second later Faramir spoke up; none looked particularly surprised.  Pippin and Merry frowned at each other.  Éomer alone gazed askance at him and he remembered he’d asked to speak with the King of Rohan.  Odd, it had seemed far more important earlier.  Tomorrow, I suppose.

Éowyn’s voice was smaller.  “Me, too.” 

Now there was suspicion in Éomer’s eyes, but a muted sort.  “Can I walk you to your rooms, sister?”  He glanced at Frodo.  “I’m afraid I have no more to add.”  The hobbit nodded; he only looked impatient to begin again.  Éowyn hesitated, and then nodded her acquiescence.  Faramir cursed inwardly.

They left the room and he paused, awkward.  Éomer’s voice was perfectly neutral.  “You wished a word with me?”

“Yes.”  It would be better alone.  Nearby, she crossed her arms and bowed her head, waiting. 

Obviously Éomer felt whatever he said; he could speak it in front of his sister.  “Well?”

Faramir tried to recapture his sense of urgency and failed.  Pippin’s words about his brother had rattled him too much, wildly distracting his thoughts.  “I wanted only to ask…tell me truthfully if what I begin tomorrow is a fair trial and not a pretense of one—that you do not already know the outcome.”  He felt his voice firming and his resolve coming back, “Éomer, am I just wasting time running about your lands…tell me, is this but a ruse to keep her here as long as possible?  If so, denying that I’ve proven myself at the end would extend this further and be nothing but beneficial to you.  Tell me, will my stint as a man in your service be genuine or no more than a diversion to prolong her time with you?   I cannot stay forever,” He met the man’s eyes, “I will not wait forever, I will take her if I must.” Faramir added the last, coolly and calmly, “If you won’t let go.”  Éowyn had looked up, her face shocked.  Her brother, too, was astonished.  The two exchanged swift glances that, for all Faramir’s ability, he could not read.

There was more bewilderment than offense in the reply.  “Of course it will be fair.”

That is not the answer I wanted and you know it.  Not by half.  The King of Rohan’s eyes were firm on his and yet they hid something, flickers of…panic…?  Faramir was moved to pity.  Perhaps it was the answer he’d wanted, just not the one he’d wished to hear.  He inclined his head, “That’s all I desired to know.  Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”  Gratitude shone out for the briefest moments that he’d not pursued his question. 

Faramir turned to her, when can I come?

Soon…I think.  She smiled at him and, then, to his surprise moved very close.  Éowyn stood on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, her fingertips touching his face.  It was altogether too swift, but Faramir smiled, unutterably pleased.  Stepping back to her brother’s side, she linked her arm with his; Éomer was staring at the wall, eyes averted.  “Good night.”

“Good night.”  The King of Rohan granted him a nod and they moved away.

***

  He left her at the door with a forced smile and a fierce hug.  Faramir had come perilously close with his questioning, making him nervous.  He guesses, is all.  He does not read my thoughts and get such ideas.  His chest tight with anxiety, Éomer repeated this to himself as he began to pack his few, small bags for the ride.  Gradually, the simple rhythms of this task soothed him and he found his mind wandering.

Glancing at the door, he wondered would they do what should be done?  Will Faramir be treated as what he is—one who comes to be a soldier of the Mark, unknowing in our ways— a battle-tried man in the guise of a untrained boy?  Or will they reject him from the very beginning and leave him alone tonight when the other lads will be finding their way home by starlight?  He would find out in the morning.  Éomer smiled a little.  I wonder, will he beat me?   

***

Éowyn was brushing her hair and cursing the snarls when he walked back into her rooms.  Faramir gazed at her; she was already clad in nothing but a long nightgown.  It clung enough to stir his interest, the thin material easily showing her curves, but he wasn’t half composed enough to begin any seduction yet.  She was aware he was there, but she wasn’t turning.  He looked at her bare feet, small and dear, and sat on her bed, beginning to unlace his boots. 

She pulled her brush through her thick, flaxen mane, still murmuring curses whenever the bristles caught.  Éowyn half turned her face, presenting her cheek and the smooth line of her brow, “Your armor and cloak are under the bed.”

  “All right.”

“You’ll have to take them when you leave tonight.”

Faramir yanked his socks off.  “I can’t stay?”  This was unexpected.

“You shouldn’t…in case.”

“In case what?”  He slid back on the bed, watching her brush her hair.   

“I can’t tell you.”

Éowyn’s shy mood had lifted for a moment; there’d been amusement in her voice.  Faramir stared at her slim back, asking, “No?”

She was done now, just brushing slowly and running her fingers through the neatened waves of golden hair.  Delaying, he perceived and was saddened.  “No.  It’s a secret.  A tradition.”

Gandalf’s words came back…he said I can’t use my eyes?  He frowned but Faramir was too aggrieved and weary to mull over any riddles.  There were a few candles in the room, but no other illumination.  The sun had long since disappeared and there were stars outside her window—the storm had disbanded and scattered clouds were all that marred the bright star field.  The soft light flickered, making her eyes shine and then grow dim like stars themselves.  He couldn’t decide which was illusion and which was true—the light or the dark.     

On the bed, Faramir moved further back, propping himself on his elbow with a pillow.  She’d laid down her brush.  Patting the turned up blankets, he invited, “Come here, lie beside me.”  Éowyn looked strangely hesitant, yet she came to him and climbed onto the bed, making the nightgown ride up her thigh as she lifted herself upwards.  His gaze was naturally drawn to the bared length of her leg and when he met her eyes again, she looked nervous.  She came close, though, sliding near and under the piled covers with him.  He looked at her, lying on her side, fingers playing with a loose thread in the blankets.  “What’s wrong?”

“That’s my question.”

There had been a flare of annoyance in her tone.  This wasn’t right, he wasn’t comfortable.  Faramir sighed, “You’re not close enough.”  He went to her, slipping his arm over her waist; the nightgown was slightly cool, but underneath he could feel her warmth.  Éowyn looked vulnerable, small, so close was he.  Her eyes were turned away but one of her hands crept forward to rest on his chest, then slid up and across his ribs, fingers dragging his shirt, and dangled over his side.  A moment later, she hugged him, palm flat to his back, moving closer still.  Their legs touched and tangled as she relaxed and Faramir sighed again, this time in contentment. 

She murmured in the shadowy room, finally meeting his gaze, “I’m sorry I upset you.”

“It wasn’t just you, I upset myself.”

“You weren’t angry with me?”

“I was sad.”  Their mouths were close; her breath warmed him.  The candles flickered softly and he searched her eyes in the dimming and improving light. “And a little scared.”

Éowyn appeared slightly disbelieving but her voice was low, encouraging.  “Tell me.”

“You said you didn’t want to leave…” Faramir took a deep breath, “that hurt…”

“I’m sorry, I meant it, but I didn’t...I don’t know how to say it.”

“I know.”  He leaned forward, brushing his lips against hers in a twinkling kiss, no more than a second’s warm contact.  “I know, I understand.”  Her fingers moved on the small of his back as he continued, “But I’d rather be hurt than hurt you.”  I’m used to it, you see…

She frowned, “What do you mean?”

“I told you about my mother.”  This was harder than he’d anticipated.  “I’m afraid you won’t be happy in the City, either.  I’m afraid you won’t be happy away from your brother.”  Faramir touched her face, trying to express how serious he was, “Come back anytime you want…don’t ask, just go.  But try not to stay too long.  I’ll miss you.”  He tried to make the last sound like a jest and failed miserably.  “I want us to be happy…if it makes you happier to come back here then do so every year if you wish.”

Éowyn frowned and shifted her legs.  In her silence he pressed onwards.

“I want you to tell me what you want to say…I don’t want to have to guess when you’re already upset.  Just tell me…please.”  Waiting for her reply was an eternity.

It came in a sudden, bruising kiss.  “Ic lufie ge, ge eart min leofestan.”  Éowyn laughed softly, sadly, “But for all you think about me, you are the most dimwitted man alive.”

“Why?”

“I can’t come back anytime I wish…” She hesitated, speaking nervously, “What about when we have children?”  Éowyn answered her own question, worrying her lip between her teeth, “I’ll have to stay for a while, until they are grown enough, but then I will come back and they will come with me to visit and to learn about my people.”  The words were coolly determined, if still uncomfortable.  Faramir sensed she would fight him on this, and viciously, if he did not yield. 

He nodded, silently approving.  “That’s fine, I don’t mind.  You should, though I will be terribly lonely.”  Faramir smiled and chuckled.  “They will meet their uncle and he will teach them to hate me—you know in my last dream my son swung a wooden sword at my head?”  He teased her, “I think your brother is going to turn them against me.”

“No.”  She laughed tensely, “He wouldn’t do that, he’d know it would upset me.”  Then her voice grew saddened and Éowyn shifted closer, her eyes on his in the faint light, “I will miss Edoras and Éomer very much,” He watched her close her eyes tightly and then reopen them; they shone bright with tears until she blinked them away.  Éowyn placed her hand on the side of his face, her palm cradling his cheek as she finished very softly and very seriously, “but I won’t die, Faramir.”

The starkly plain way she said it made him jolt up a little, nastily shocked.

“I will be all right…I love you, I would be just as unhappy without you.  You’re a part of me.”  She smiled a small smile, fingertips brushing his forehead, then his resting over his heart, “In here, and here.”

“You’re sure?”  Faramir could barely breathe asking it; he’d not realized the depth of this fear.  It froze his guts and paralyzed him where he lay, still half-propped on his elbow.  It was a stupid fear, an old one and irrational, but it held him in a tight grip.

“Yes.” 

He moved close, holding her fast to his body.  Within the circle of his arms she felt good, no longer nervous.  Relishing her nearness and sliding down so that they lay nearer still, facing each other, he wanted to kiss her and far more, to express his deep love and, he felt, the reaffirmation of their bond.  Under the blankets they were warm together, the simple heat of their bodies combining.  In the dimly flickering light, Faramir clasped her hand in his, and brought it to his lips. 

***

He kissed her fingers and Éowyn smiled.  She was still waiting for him to try; she’d seen his eyes when she’d climbed into the bed.  He didn’t disappoint.  Faramir’s voice was low and husky; “Will you miss me?”
            Shaking her head, she answered lightly, “No, you’re awfully bothersome.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”  Éowyn stroked her fingertips along his jaw, tracing the scratchy line of his whiskers upwards and along his face.  His lips were soft in comparison and right away he licked her fingers with a wet tongue, seeking to capture them.  She laughed a little, admonishing, “Stop that!”

Faramir rose up, leaning over her, making her roll onto her back.  His arms had been around her in a lover’s embrace, but he now placed them against the bed, palms propping him up as he shifted position.  His eyes were a clear, brilliant grey in the candlelight as he kissed her, his dark hair falling to touch her face with feathery movements of the dusky, night-colored strands.  Unsurprised, Éowyn kissed him back.  They were slow, miniature kisses with mouth closed; he was taking his time.  He traveled over her lips; tracing the corners, planting tiny touches to her chin, jaw before wandering to press the fullness of her mouth.  Gradually, he sought entrance, his tongue gently probing.  She allowed it, relishing his milder passion.             

Éowyn slid her hands downward to get under his shirt; Faramir’s back was warm as she folded her arms up and spread her fingers, embracing his long body.  He kissed a little faster, but still gently, still wandering in the kisses.  It was far more agreeable and easing on her part to have him so slowly exploring—it was as though he was mapping and thoroughly memorizing her mouth. 

Then he stopped.  Faramir slid over to cover her fully, lowering himself down to his elbows.  His body pressed hers to the bed, heavy with male muscle and mass, one of his legs settling between hers as he moved.  It felt deliberate, his knee, as it was nudging her calves and then thighs apart.  All at once she was just a little uncertain, pulling her face back from his.  Expression solemn, intent, he kissed her jawline down to her earlobe, his cheek rasping against hers.  Lovely Southern accent thickened, Faramir whispered in her ear, “I want to make love to you, Éowyn.  Will you not let me?”

She wasn’t surprised at this, either.  He was leaving tomorrow, so his asking made sense.  In fact, the only thing that surprised her was the way his words and voice had sent tingles down her spine and through her limbs.  The timbre of it had been altered, every syllable charged with a craving desire.  Unnerved, Éowyn took a breath, shaking her head, “No.”

He didn’t sound disappointed, just patient, and almost like her refusal was a challenge.  “Not even when I do this will you consider it?”  Faramir kissed her neck, his mouth suddenly very wet and hot.  On purpose, she wondered and closed her eyes as he kissed, tongue dragging, teeth touching. Her skin was on fire from the slick kisses that extended from nibbling and licking her earlobes to her collarbone.  Of course it is on purpose. His hand ran up and down her side, caressing through the thin nightgown, squeezing her thigh and encouraging her to lift her legs, to spread them, to wrap them around him. She refused, growing slightly nervous when his fingers flirted with the hem of her nightgown, tips stroking her bare skin.  He suckled both sides of her neck, no doubt leaving marks, and she resisted the urge to hold his head there, to prolong the pleasure.  Éowyn didn’t want to encourage him, to make him think he had a chance that she would allow him to take her.

Keeping her voice low to steady it, she answered, “No.” 

Faramir’s eyes were on hers, the grey in them just a little stormy with passion.  “This?”

He slid downward to nuzzle her breasts through the nightgown.  The thin material barely muffled the heat of his mouth and she licked her lips, feeling him kiss her, roaming generously, using his hands to cup and caress.  But still, the act was hardly enough to make her sway.  Éowyn smiled slightly.  If this was all he had, she could easily refuse.  “No.”  With a soft chuckle she added, running her hands over his back under his shirt, “Not even close, my love.”

“Hmm...”  He sounded playful, easing her mind.  “What about this?”  Faramir took one of her nipples between his teeth at the same time he propped himself up again and surprisingly, shockingly, his knee began to rub between her legs. 

Éowyn gasped, digging her fingers into his shoulders.  The feeling was delightful, very slow but firm friction teasing her.  Gently back and forth he stroked, each movement arousing her more.  His mouth was hot and eager, the thin fabric doing nothing whatsoever now to muffle the feeling as he plundered her bosom with trailing kisses and nipping teeth, only to bury his face into her neck.  Faramir’s teeth fastened on her earlobe, nibbling, sucking.  But it was his knee that made her breath catch—rubbing in a slow, controlled rhythm, deliberately pleasuring her.  Just resisting the urge to tilt upwards and part her thighs to give him better access, she thought he would go slow…he would be gentle…he would try his best to give me enjoyment…  Alarmed at herself, Éowyn said tightly, “Stop it, no.”  Jerking her hands out from beneath his shirt, she pressed them to his chest.  “No. Stop, please.”

 Faramir stopped at once, drawing back to look at her.  He was breathing just a little faster.  “Do you still fear me, then?”  Before she could reply, he murmured, brow furrowed, “Tell me it is a maiden’s dread only that makes you refuse, not any lingering fear of me, Éowyn.”

“I don’t know…”

He was asking her when now, when he could have what he desired.  “Do you wish to wait until we are wed?”

The questions confused her; she wished he’d only kissed her and not started this purposeful approach, no matter how gentle he’d been or how quickly he’d ceased it when she’d asked.  If he hadn’t said it, then maybe…  “I don’t know.”

Faramir sighed as he slid to lie back beside her.  She turned to face him as he murmured, “Do not think badly of me.”  His chuckle was soft, somewhat disappointed; “I had to try.”  She relaxed; he was finished, then.  She relaxed too soon.  His gaze unwavering, he asked, “But please, will you answer?  It would ease my mind to know you no longer fear me.”

Éowyn frowned; this was making her more and more apprehensive.  She didn’t know why the thought of his making love to her tugged her in such different directions—from excitement and desire to doubt and panic.  The only thing that frightened her more was the thought of bearing his children and the endless future that would be bought with his taking her.  The unknown of it terrified.

Faramir was murmuring softly now, he’d moved close to hold her in his arms.  Presumably to comfort her.  “I would never hurt you; I will go as slowly as you wish.”  He added hastily, “Whenever you wish, that is.”

It was almost with irritation that she replied.  “I know.”  Éowyn closed her eyes so as not to see his questioning face.  She should have pushed him away when he’d moved on top of her.  She’d half known he would try.  Turning over, she faced the other direction, lying with her back to him. 

He sounded puzzled.  “Why do you still retreat, then?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to leave?”  Asking it was difficult; he obviously did not want to go.

“No.”  She bit her lip, staring at the wall.  Shadows swayed on it with endless varied patterns of shade and light.  I don’t want him to go.  “No.”

Faramir moved close again, pressing his front to her back and curling his arm around her waist.  “Is this all right?”

Éowyn folded her hand over his as it lay on her waist, feeling the ragged cloth and his warm skin.  She stroked his fingers.  “Yes, it’s nice.”

Now Faramir’s voice came just beside her ear, his breath stirring her hair and tickling her neck.  “Are you angry with me?”

He was full of questions, apparently, and all she wanted was quiet.  “No.”

“Then why did you turn away?  Why aren’t you talking to me…?”

“Shh.” 

His chest rose against her back as he sighed.  They lay together for a long time; each lost in their own thoughts.  For her part Éowyn tried not to think, she tried to lie still and watch the shadows dip and swoop on the wall.  His body was warm, comfortingly close, just like the sense of his presence in the back of her mind.  Both soothed her.  The candles had burned low, and were guttering now, drowning in their own pale wax before Faramir spoke again.  His words were deliberate.  “It is not lust that makes me ask for your maidenhead…I want you, to make us one, to make what we only say in words alive in action…I would have it an act of love, not of beastly desire.”  He licked his lips, continuing softly, “I am not an animal in rut, I am a man and I wish for you out of passion, appreciation for your body, yes, but also out of love and the need for closeness.  I hunger for your heart just as much as your flesh.”  Faramir sounded hesitant now, “Do you not share that need, that wish to feel me with you, inside you, closer than this covered skin?  Do you not feel the need to join our fealty, our love, in deed?”
            “I don’t know.”  It was all she could say now.  The absurdity of it was enough to make her laugh.  He was too good a man by far, but what he desired scared her.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”  Éowyn laughed as she said it, despairing laughter, near tears.  He wanted too much, far too much, always too much.  She wasn’t sure she could give it.  Ever.

  “All right.”  He sighed again and leaned against her, “Will you tell me when you know?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”  Faramir kissed the nape of her neck and was still.  They spoke no more.

***

He juggled his armor, the cloak resting on top.  Éowyn smiled at him, but she was distant still.  He could feel her hesitance and fought his annoyance.  My love, please…I will not leap upon you like a randy stallion…was all her words of trusting him a lie?  Faramir couldn’t tell. She sat on the bed, her arms wrapped around herself, body language screaming discomfort at him.  What is wrong?  Frustrated, he shifted under his load, reluctant to leave.  What was so wrong with him asking?  It was not as if he’d pushed her for it or tried to take her by force.  They’d done far more this afternoon and she’d been fine, even enjoyed his actions.  What is wrong?  Éowyn tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, murmuring, “You’d better leave.”

“All right.”  I don’t want to leave like this.  Faramir didn’t move.  He touched her mind, disturbed at the confused swirl he found within.  I don’t want to leave with you like this.

“You have to go.”

He sighed, shifting his heavy burden again.  “I’m not arguing.  I just don’t want to leave with you upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

Faramir closed his eyes, warring with his exasperation.  I’m trying…  “Why won’t you talk to me?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?  It is easy…just say what you think, what you feel.”

Éowyn glanced at him from the bed; “Maybe it is easy for you.”

She was not being difficult on purpose; the knowledge eased his mind only a little.  Faramir gave up and walked to the door.  He paused, “I love you.”

Éowyn had not moved from her bed.  She sounded weary, forlorn.  “I love you.”  The only thing that allowed him to walk out was the truth in the words.

***

As soon as he was gone she wrapped her robe around herself and snuck into the hall.  Leaning against her brother’s door, shivering a little from the drafty corridor, Éowyn knocked, “Éomer?”

There was no response, so she knocked louder.  After a few minutes of leaning against the old wood and listening to her heartbeat, she heard slowly thudding footsteps.  Oh, thank you…

***

            Faramir strode down the murky halls, arms aching under the pounds of steel.  By the time he made it to his darkened quarters he was sweating and only too eager to lay down his burden.  Later, he would blame his blindness upon the pangs in his muscles and his muddled thoughts about Éowyn—Faramir had entered his rooms, dumped the armor and cloak upon a chair and stretched, groaning with relief, before he’d noticed he wasn’t alone. 

            There were four men.  They stood in a rough circle, definitely between him and the door.  A sword scraped as it was partially drawn from its sheath, the metal glinting.  An unfamiliar voice spoke, “You’re coming with us.”

            “Am I?”  Tired and irritated, he was in no mood for games or jests.

            “Aye, you are.” 

            Straightening, he put all of the weight of his authority in his words.  These were mere soldiers while he was a man of noble blood, their superior.  “Where?”

            The tone of the voice grew darker, more threatening, “You’ll find out.”

            Faramir gazed at them; four heavily built men armed with swords, and grimaced.  He was outnumbered; therefore, he must yield the battle.  For the moment.  “All right.”

They led him outside Meduseld, down the stairs and in front of the stable.  One of the men kept very close to him the entire time, intent in case he should fight for escape.  In front of the barns were five saddled horses.  The fifth was the light grey gelding he’d been given, Thorn.  The burly war-horse was a vague cloudy shape in the night; it turned its head to look their way, ears pinned with a sour expression.  Faramir smiled because, at least, no matter what the outcome, he might get to know the animal.  “Where are we going?”  None answered.  Instead, one held up a long cloth.  “What’s that?”  He recognized it immediately for what it was and became slightly alarmed. 

“Hold still, be silent.”  They bound his eyes, tying the cloth tight, rendering him completely blind in the dark night.  I cannot even see the stars to guess our direction…where were they going?  One of the men put his hand on his shoulder and that way Faramir was led the last few feet to his horse.  What they wanted of him was plain enough here.  He touched the scarred shoulder, feeling the raised, rough flesh, coarse mane and warm hair of the animal and then reached for the saddle, mounting clumsily.  Thorn stood still beneath him.  The men around him were already aboard their mounts; his reins were taken and with clucks and low breathed urges, the five horses cantered away.  Well, Mithrandir said I couldn’t use my eyes…  Faramir laughed softly and felt their puzzlement.  Thorn moved heavily into the dark, the big-boned, muscular gelding slow to smooth as he found his gait.  He felt clumsy being so blind and wrapped one hand in the mane for security.  The minds of the men around him were serene, efficient—there was no threat, only a sense of duty and Faramir could do nothing save wonder and sit his horse as they sped up, galloping into the night.

***

She pleaded bad dreams and Éomer waved her in, clad only in worn trousers he’d pulled on.  Her eyes followed the map of scars on his body, familiar and disturbing, luckily none had been remotely fatal.  He stumbled back to the bed and dropped into it, yanking the blankets, and then tossing them towards her.  Éowyn followed and curled on her side, soothed by her brother’s presence.  His quarters, even at night, were familiar.  Neat like hers and similarly bare, there were few places for shadows to hide.  Here she was safe, perfectly so.  No one would dare trespass into her brother’s rooms—when Gríma had come she’d retreated here often, finding refuge.  Now she hid from Faramir and all the things he made her think and feel, a girl again sleeping next to her older brother whose mere presence would keep danger away.  Thinking about his messy rooms in the Citadel, she shivered.  Horrific monsters could be drawn from the murky shapes of all those books and clothes piled about. 

“What?”  He’d felt her shudder. She’d thought he was already asleep.

“Nothing.”

Éomer rolled over onto his back, his voice thick.  “What was the dream about?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Hmh.”  He made a noise and gathered her close.  Her brother hugged her sleepily, reassuring, “If he comes I’ll kill him.”  Moving back to his side of the bed, he yawned. 

“I know.”  Does he speak of Gríma…or Faramir?  She didn’t know, but lying near him, she felt better, more secure under the thick quilts and yet deeply saddened.  How can I ever leave? How?

***

They rode for what felt like hours.  He was nodding in the saddle by the time the horses, their necks damp with sweat, were pulled to a halt.  The men conferred in mutters while Faramir sat patiently.  Quick hands whipped off his blindfold, revealing night in a large field.  Surprised, he found that of the four that had accompanied him, there were only two left.  Looking in all directions, he couldn’t tell if the horizon was dark with trees or not; nor could he tell where the mountains stood.  Thorn was still, cocking one hind leg, sides moving beneath his legs as the gelding breathed deeply.  Faramir patted the horse, surprised at the wet heat of its neck.  How far have we gone?  The route had been strenuous at times, with one or two of the Riders calling sharply to him to duck or brace for a jump.  Though they’d been curt, they had been decent guides, riding close over the rough ground. 

Now one man attached a small bag to his saddle and grinned, his words thick with the Rohirric accent, “In case you don’t make it back for breakfast, lytle Bregu.  Our Lady would be displeased if we let you starve.”

He answered dryly, unamused. “Thank you.” 

The other chuckled and Faramir looked at him in shock, recognizing the voice—it was Halorl.  The Rohirrim grinned wide, teeth gleaming in the starlight, “Ná gebregdnes, min freónd.  Ge wille be eall right, Ic wæs.” Then, without looking at him again, they turned their horses in opposite directions and rode off, soon lost in the dark night.  Faramir sat on his quiet mount, no more than a grey, nebulous blob beneath him.  All right, now what am I supposed to do?   He looked up—the stars told him nothing.  He couldn’t use them if he didn’t know which direction to go, he might wander all night only to discover that he’d gone the wrong way.

This is ridiculous.  Faramir sighed, stretching in the saddle.  Thorn was a still as a fallen log beneath him, waiting for a command.  “Come on.” Picking up the reins, he nudged the horse with his heel.  There was no response, only the lifting of Thorn’s head.  “Come on,” Faramir clucked and squeezed his legs.  The gelding shook his head, ears flattening to his skull as he turned in an agitated circle, balking.  “What?”  He sighed.  “What?  Come on, we have to find a way back.”  Reasoning that his guides had probably returned to Edoras, he pulled the reins in the direction Halorl had gone.  Thorn tossed his head, hooves planted, refusing to move.  Faramir kicked him impatiently and the gelding came off the ground, rearing a few inches in angry defiance.  The sensation of the broad back rising beneath him was mildly alarming—alone as he was there was no way he would be found if he was thrown and injured.

“Fine!”  Annoyed with the animal, the entire situation, Faramir dismounted, leaving the reins over the saddle.  He didn’t notice the gelding’s ears pricking or the light that grew in his eyes.  Boots growing wet from the dewy grass, he walked forward, eyeing the land around him.  Hopeful, he stared at the horizon, squinting in vain as he turned around and around.  Did the land behind him look just a little higher?  Mountains?  I don’t know. 

Thorn neighed loudly.  “What, do you have a suggestion?”  Faramir turned in time to see that his horse had gotten a good distance away and was still going—the gelding was walking through the knee-high grass.  Traveling in a straight line, the grey was rapidly blending with the darkness.  Oh, unbelievable…  “Hey!”  He whistled but as far as he could tell there was no response.

Trotting through the grass and cursing with each stride, he soon caught up, but was not close enough to grab the reins.  Thorn kept moving and Faramir was forced to follow, asking in increasingly placating tones, “Whoa…whoa, whoa…easy, come on, lad…”

The animal ignored him, never ceasing its pace.   “Whoa, damn you!”  He jumped into a run, intending to snatch the reins, but the animal matched his increase in speed.  Faramir stopped at once, hoping the horse would not just keep trotting away, its heavy hooves thumping on the earth.  To his surprise Thorn halted, half-turning to face him.  The reins and stirrups swung, making gentle noises.

“Hey, whoa…” Holding his hands out, he took a slow step forward.  The horse eyed him warily, shining a dull cream in the night. “Easy…just stand still…” Inch by inch, step by tiny step, Faramir crept closer to the animal.  The gelding backed a stride, raising its head and he stopped.  “Whoa…”

Faramir continued after a moment and was rewarded—he grabbed the reins and held them tight, the cool leather feeling good in his hand.  “What was that?”  Thorn kept one ear on him, but stood still; he felt wary, unsure and Faramir rubbed his shoulder.  A thought occurred to him.  Maybe…  “Do you know the way home, hmm?”  Faramir spoke gently, as he would to a child, scratching his fingers through the sweat-stiff hair of the gelding’s neck.  “Was that where you were going?”  Without me.  “Let’s see.”  He remounted and this time made no effort to guide the horse.  Thorn began moving immediately, legs swishing through the wet grass.  Faramir patted his neck and hoped the animal knew where it was going.  “Good, good...”

They made slow time at first, the horse stopping often to neigh or just stand, nose lifted to sniff.  Faramir made no moves to hinder the animal and soon the gelding was trotting over the open ground, picking its way through a few small woods, and then cantering when they hit a broad field.  After what felt like an hour he broke open the sack and ate the dried fruit, dried meat and bread inside.  At the bottom was a carrot, making him smile.  “This, I think, is for you.”  Leaning forward, he held it out; balancing at the slowly lurching walk while the horse carefully navigated a dry streambed.  Thorn halted, bending his neck and accepted the treat, crunching loudly.  When the horse began moving again, Faramir felt a subtle lightening of its strides. 

They were traveling swiftly now, the gelding often galloping, but he was growing tired, unused to long rides.  The most he’d ever ridden at speed was back and forth from Osgiliath.  Mounted men were of little use in Ithilien, so Faramir had spent much of his adult life on foot and most of his time in a saddle for recreation.  Swaying, he fought to keep his eyes open, mouth falling open in a yawn.  Twinkling stars revealed that dawn was still hours away. 

Just as his head had fallen and his chin drooped to touch his chest, Thorn jumped into a small brook and landed heavily in the chilly water, splashing Faramir’s legs and sides as he went.  The coolness woke him and he stood in the saddle, peering around with bleary eyes.  Mountains loomed in the night, no more than dim shapes of their daylight grandeur.  Far, far in the distance, he thought he saw a tiny metallic glint.  Meduseld?  He thought so.  Pleased, Faramir slapped the horse’s neck, scratching it.  Thorn’s ears flicked back as he murmured, “Good, good…” He would be back before daybreak.  Now, I wonder, is my time good or bad?  Faramir smiled wearily.  I don’t care. 

Translations: 

Ic lufie ge, ge eart min leofestan—I love you, you are my dearest

Lytle Bregu—little Prince

Ná gebregdnes, min freónd.  Ge wille be eall right, Ic wæs.—No dread, my friend.  You will be all right, I was