Faramir rode slowly along the winding road that led to Edoras.  Above him, perched upon the hill, Meduseld gleamed brilliantly among plain thatched roofs like a jewel tossed casually onto the ground.  Fitful glints of gold sparked like fire; he was unable to look away, briefly dazzled.  The sun was just rising, a burning ball poised upon the horizon, sky rosy and streaked with golden clouds that darkened into indigo dappled with diamond-like stars. The high mounds of the Lords of the Mark were on either side, white flowers still dewy; in the early morning light they gleamed like pale tears.  Further still were the fields, grass wetted to a green-grey pocked with spider webs frosted by the night's moisture.  His only boundaries, the mountains, were shining with shadows.  Innumerable pinnacles and glittery snow-caps delved into the dimmer canyons and valleys, great hoary seams in the rocky face of the White Mountains, and then dropped into the gently green, woody foothills.  Thorn’s hooves left soft prints in the dirt of the road; their rhythmical sound was the only other he was aware of in the serene dawn.  Not even the birds spoke.  All in all it was a beautiful and peaceful vision and one he was glad to see, no matter the cost of sleep.  It is so lovely…

Thorn walked beneath him, strides swaying Faramir gently back and forth in the saddle as they moved along the incline.  Their breath came in small puffing clouds, quick to vanish; it was chilly and surprisingly so.  It is the north...undoubtedly it became colder earlier here.  “Good lad.”  Rubbing the horse’s withers, he watched the sun rise slowly, appreciating the glorious, sweeping view.  The fact that there was no one to share it with was his only regret.  Éowyn…  Faramir sighed and just enjoyed it.  It had been a long time since he’d been able to watch a dawning at his leisure. 

Gradually the low walls approached.  Wards guarded the gates; they seemed astonished to see him.  Consternation, surprise and curiosity milled in their minds as they called down, “Hwa eart ge?”

They knew who he was; he’d felt their expectation but it was the same custom in Gondor to announce one’s self to the guards.  Looking up, he answered, “Ic eom Faramir.”  His horse tossed its nose impatiently and he smiled, rubbing the gelding’s neck. 

There was a brief word between the men and then the wood barrier, made up of thick, tall timbers bound with metal and yet still ineffectual and poor to his mind, swung open and Faramir continued through the gates.  He rode through Edoras, glancing at the simple houses and shops as he passed them.  The grey gelding never hesitated, hooves thudding as he followed the hill higher and higher; the gorgeous vista around the city widened with each step of the horse beneath him.  Reaching the courtyard below Meduseld, he saw it was empty except for a black cat that sat licking its paws.  Yellow eyes considered him as he dismounted, then the animal slunk away, the tip of its tail flicking.  Faramir lifted the horse’s reins over its head, leading the grey into the barn; his legs feeling drained from a night in the saddle.

Yet his weariness left him for the moment, his heart was so buoyed by the lovely dawn, and he walked faster.  There was an empty stall just inside.  In it he unsaddled Thorn and unbridled him, laying the tack in the aisle.  The freed gelding yawned wide, shaking his body and nosed the full bucket of water.  Lifting his wet muzzle, he yawned again, eyes closed and exhaled in a long snort, flapping his mane.    

Bemused, Faramir murmured, “Tired?  Me, too.”  Feeling grateful to the animal for finding the way back for him, he wandered through the silent barn until he located the tack room again.  Sleepy-eyed horses peered over stall doors or rustled in their straw beds, snoring as he hefted his tack down the aisle, bridle hanging off his shoulder and saddle perched upon his arm.  Depositing the burdens, he began digging into the box of brushes he’d found earlier while looking for his own saddle.  Soon, to his satisfaction, he discovered a nice stiff brush and a large curry.  Returning to the stall, Faramir spent a long time grooming the horse, scrubbing the dirt and sweat from its coat.  Thorn stood still, eyes half-closed and ears limp under his labors.   Dust was flying, clouding the air.  Faramir was unsure if the horse was enjoying the rub down, as the gelding didn’t move, but he kept at it until the entire, burly grey body was clean again.  Now I’m the filthy one.  Glancing downward, he was amused.  With one last pat, he left the stall and was startled to hear a low, blowing sound. 

Faramir turned, his clothes dirty, feeling his weariness catch up with him again.  Thorn stood at the door, grey chest pressed to the wood, head outstretched.  Small brown eyes fixed upon him while the horse’s heavy ears pricked.  Then as he looked on, to his pleasure, the horse’s nostrils fluttered again in a nearly inaudible nicker.  He shook his head, answering.  “I’ll be back. Too soon for either of us, I’m sure.”

The gelding’s hoof struck the door and he bobbed his head, upper lip quivering.  “No, I don’t have another carrot.”  Faramir rubbed Thorn’s damp, velvety nose, pleased at the animal’s friendly behavior.  “You’d better rest.”  He yawned as he replaced the brush and curry, his limbs heavy with fatigue.  All Faramir wished for now was his bed and a few hours sleep.  Let them think me still out there.  He smiled and began to climb the stairs of Meduseld. 

***

Éomer stared blearily into space as he swung his legs over the bed.  Behind him, Éowyn was curled into a small ball; she’d stolen his blankets and they were mounded over her.  All he could really see was the top of her head and a few wild strands of hair.  He rubbed his eyes and stood, stumbling over to his clothes.  Two small leather bags, the size to sit easily tied to the back of a saddle, rested on the floor, ready to go.  They held clothes, various spare items.  He traveled light.

Stripping swiftly in the chill dawn air, he soon dressed in dark trousers, tall boots and a slight linen shirt.  Buttoning his simple, brown padded doublet, fingers sleepily slow; he stared out the window, watching the sky lighten.   Yawning while pulling on his hauberk, he didn’t begrudge the weight; he would have felt nude without the reassuring heft of the bright metal links.  They jingled softly around his upper legs and he tried not to move very much, glancing at the still form of his sister.  His long tunic was next and Éomer paused, running a hand down the rich fabric, his mouth twisting into a grimace.  Not the stiffly molded leather and hard metal of his armor, it was light, flexible wool.  Dark greenish and stitched with silver and gold threads in tiny spiraling designs along the seams, split at the waist, it came well past his thighs and felt like no defense at all.  The only real use the garment could have was to shelter his mail. Of course, there is no longer need for real defense…we aren’t going to be fighting anything…  He reminded himself of this, careful to keep silent so as not to wake his sister.  Still, touching the fine cloth, he was disgusted.  It was altogether too rich for his tastes, but he was a King now and safeguarded.  His thin and luxurious clothing showed his wealth and trust in his men’s abilities to shield him; he couldn’t very well run about in roughly tanned hides and heavy armor like he was used to.  A shame. 

His defiance to this foolishness was his cuirass over his chest and back; only two light plates etched with the running horse, instead of the thick, heavy armor he’d worn to battle.  It was accompianied with simple pauldrons upon his shoulders and leather vambraces over his lower arms.  Swinging his dark greenish and similarily rich cloak onto his shoulders and clasping the gold brooch, Éomer smiled to himself, I look like a fool and I feel naked.  He’d never ridden out so lightly armored, his legs were entirely vulnerable.  Finally, yanking his troublesome mane back into something that would not infuriate him, he was ready.  Moving confidently in the quiet, dim room, he strapped Gúthwinë to his side, caressing the night-cool hilt, and stuffed his leather gloves under his belt.  Soon, friend, soon we ride and put this mess behind us with only the grass and the sky to watch…

Éowyn moved on the bed, startling him, but she was asleep still.  She pushed at the blankets, revealing a creased brow and anxious face.  “…am…no.”

He made sure to only speak in an undertone, very low.  “Sister?”

“But…” She took a breath, stirring again, her voice thick and upset.  “…no.”

“It’s all right.”  Éomer moved to her side, sitting himself on the edge of the bed.  He whispered softly, “It’s all right…shh, go back to sleep” and smoothed his fingers over her brow, knuckles gently brushing her skin.  Fretful, he wondered what nightmares plagued her so.  She frowned again, turning her face away.  He touched her cheek, sliding locks of flaxen her hair back.

The wrinkles in her forehead disappeared immediately and he smiled, pleased until she spoke.  Éowyn asked the room, “Faramir?”  It was clear and glad.  A soft smile curved her lips and he jerked his hand back as though she’d burned him.

Composing himself, Éomer swallowed and stood, vaguely surprised at the depth of his sorrow.  It was foolish—naturally she would think her lover comforted her.  Any woman would.  But it was just another bit of proof that she no longer needed him, even in her dreams.  Feeling his eyes burn, he moved away from the bed, bending to pick up his bags.  When he returned he would wake her, they had things to discuss.  Éomer walked out of his rooms, a sadness he would not admit to filling his heart. 

***

Faramir strode slowly into the dimmed halls, his clothes dusty, legs and boots still damp.  He was tired and didn’t notice the man in front of him until he almost ran into him.  Éomer just stared at him, his expression astonished, his eyes widened.  Ah…so he had made good time after all.  Pleased, he didn’t stop, just brushed past the King of Rohan, suppressing a smile at the way he could feel the man’s perplexity and disbelief.  There were questions on his face, but Éomer did not call after him. 

Finally pushing open his door, his whole body weary, he halted at once.  Where are…?  The floor was bare; all his scattered clothes disappeared, including his armor.  On the table sat his bow, quiver and sword undisturbed, but as Faramir moved to his bedroom, he could find no trace of his bag.  On the small dresser was his Rohirric uniform, also untouched, but nothing else.  Dropping to one knee, he felt beneath the bed and almost fainted with relief—his drawing supplies, Éowyn’s half-nude sketch and her last presents were still there.  They’d been pushed too far back, apparently, to be noticed.  Dragging them out, he looked around the rooms.  Nothing.  All his clothes were gone.  Why would…?  Mystified, he sat the bag on the table.  Faramir gave the rooms one last glance.  He could stay and sleep a bit, but he was too confused now, he would have difficulties quieting his thoughts enough to slumber. 

Perhaps that’s how they want me to feel—tired and confused, an easy target.  He squared his shoulders and pushed aside his weariness.  He would not make it easy upon them.  Unbuttoning his shirt, he moved back to the bedroom, staring at the piled garments in determination.  They’d not expected him back so soon; they would not expect him to be dressed and ready.  Or so Faramir hoped.

***

Someone was poking her shoulder.  Éowyn frowned and burrowed a little deeper into the blankets. “Sister.”  Her brother’s voice was lucid; he’d been awake a long while, then.  She tried to judge the time by the brightness that shone on her eyelids when she turned her face to the window.  Hmm…early.  No.  He poked her again, finger inordinately pointed and going straight into the muscle of her arm.  “Get up.”  It hurt and annoyed and she curled tighter, refusing to acknowledge him. “Get. Up.” 

Exasperated, she kicked in the direction of his voice, mumbling, “No.”  She’d missed and lost the cover over her ankle.  Damn him, I’m tired, I don’t have to go anywhere...  Withdrawing her foot to the warm air beneath the blankets, she shivered.  It was chilly.  She wondered if it was going to be a bad winter.  Look on the horses, see if they’re getting a lot of hair yet…her thoughts wandered, going deeper, seeking sleep again. 

“Yes. Get up.”  Éomer’s heavy footsteps let her know he was at the end of the bed.  Suddenly there was tension in the quilts.  He’d grabbed the ends.  “Do it.”

Éowyn took two determined fistfuls of blanket, herself.  “No.”  He jerked powerfully and she was pulled up, too, screaming into the cold dawn air, skin shrinking and prickling into goose bumps at the same time.  “Stop it!  I’m awake!”  Scooting back, she took the blankets with her, sitting upright and curling into a ball, glaring at him.

Éomer looked pleased with himself.  Frowning, rubbing her face and shaking her messy hair back, she thought she saw strange shadows in his eyes, but they were gone when she looked again.  He was dressed rather oddly, but, she supposed, not so for a King.  I’m not used to that. “Good.” 

Licking her lips, she asked, “Why?”  He usually did no more than murmur a goodbye and ruffle her hair.  This rude awakening was more of something her brother had practiced when they were children.

“I need to talk to you.”

Yawning, she asked, “About what?”

“You know that they are having harvest time early in the Westemnet?  One of the bigger settlements about two days ride away?  Lots of villages and families are gathering…I heard about it when I greeted the men who’d come to pay their respects to Uncle.”

“No.”  She didn’t; it sounded interesting, but Éowyn still didn’t know what he was getting at.

Éomer looked half-nervous now.  “I want you to go.  Take Arwen—it will be my present to her.”  He paused to give her an incredibly sweet, boyish smile. “Have a good time, on me.  Anything you want, just tell them I’m responsible.”

Delighted, she braved the morning chill to jump off the bed to give him a hug. “Thank you.”  Éowyn beamed up at him; she loved the giant harvest festivals; it had been years and years since she’d gone to one.  And then under close supervision…it was well-known that some women went into the harvested fields at night, though Éowyn highly suspected the fields were more likely to be full of drunk, searching men.  Éomer and Théodred had stayed on her like hawks.  “What about you?  Don’t you want to go?”

Her brother smiled that same tiny, happy smile. It was one she hadn’t seen in a long time. “Maybe I’ll meet you there.”

“Where are you going?”

“In the mountains first to get salt, then…we might stop back here for a day or two, then probably to the edge of the Wold to check on things there.”

They would be gone well over a week.  She folded her legs, scrunching back up in the blankets.  “Oh.”

He fiddled with the gold brooch on his dark green cloak, yanking it as though it felt tight, “You hungry?  Want to have breakfast with me?”

Éowyn smiled, “All right.  Let me go put something on.”

***

 He’d pretended not to notice the many, reddish marks on her neck, but they’d thrown him for a second when Éowyn had sat up.  Now Éomer waited and tried not to pace.  She’d been happy with his idea, as he’d assumed, and it took care of his debt to Arwen as well.  Perhaps the women would become close friends…give her someone else she knows and likes in Minas Tirith, a woman to share with.  It irritated him some, to be constantly doing Faramir’s thinking for him, but the man knew nothing.

His sister did not take long, emerging from her bedroom in a pretty dark blue gown that had high, embroidered collar.  Éomer approved—it hid the marks her lover had put on her, if being slightly too form-fitting for him to truly like.  She was still braiding her hair as she moved, pausing to cover her mouth as she yawned.  He felt slightly guilty for waking her, but really, it wasn’t that early.  “Ready?”

“Did they take him…Faramir, do you know?”

Staring ahead as they entered the hall together, he muttered, “Yes.  He’s back already.”         

“What?”  There was surprise and then pride in his sister’s eyes.  The surprise gratified him, the pride discomfited him.

“I said,” He sighed, “He’s back already.”

She asked after a few steps, “Did he beat you?”

“No.”  But Faramir had come uncomfortably close and Éomer wondered how the man had done it, being so unfamiliar with the land. 

“Did he come close?”

Surly, he answered, “Yes.”  Éowyn smiled, but then linked their arms. 

“I’m sure it was a stroke of luck, no more.”  He could hear the light laugh beneath her words and growled bad-naturedly, making her laugh aloud.  I’m sure it was, too.

***

Faramir wandered into the dining hall, his stomach rumbling through the omnipresent fatigue in his body.  He looked about with weary eyes, seeing none but Rohirric soldiers at first.  Abruptly, a familiar voice piped up, “Faramir!”  It was Pippin.  The hobbit waved him over to where he and Frodo sat.  Sam and Merry were absent, getting breakfast or asleep still, he assumed. 

“Good morning.”  The Ringbearer’s eyes contained a bit of concern; Faramir supposed he looked somewhat ragged.

“Good morning.”

  “We’re having pre-breakfast.”  The young hour apparently did not affect Tooks, Pippin was cheery.  

“Are you?  I confess I’ve never had pre-breakfast.”  He sat gratefully, trying not to feel the pulling weariness.  I haven’t stayed up all night…well; it’s been months now, hasn’t it?  Ever since the end of the war he’d been loafing about the City.  Faramir smiled, he was mildly surprised he hadn’t gotten fat over the summer.  No wonder his legs were so tired.

“You look funnier than Merry did.”  Pippin had finally deigned to comment upon his Rohirric garb. 

“Pippin.”  Frodo scolded.

“What?  He does.”

“Didn’t we discuss this when you were beginning your tweens?  Rudeness and why it is inappropriate, especially to those older than us?”

Pippin rolled his eyes to the ceiling, looking put upon, and Faramir laughed, soothing, “He means no offense, I feel like I look funny.”  He was sure he did; there had been murmurs and bursts of laughter when he’d entered the hall.  Resisting all urges to adjust the foreign clothing, he tried to relax.  At the sight of Frodo Faramir had remembered something he’d wished to say.  But should I ask for a private moment?  He was unsure.

The Took scrutinized him.  “It’s your hair…and your eyes…and, nothing matches up.”

He was correct; Faramir did look off, and he’d noticed it right away.  “The green, it is made to go with a flaxen mane.”   Touching his own raven-colored locks, he smiled and shook them.  “I cannot help it, I’m afraid.”

They fell quiet.  Finally, anxious, he began.  “Frodo…I apologize in advance if my words offend, but there is a favor I must ask...”

The Ringbearer gazed at him with curious, kindly eyes.  Pippin’s were slightly bolder in their inquisitive sheen.  “Go ahead.”

“My brother…”  It was painful, this.  “I can only plead for his pardon and wish you’d met him under other circumstances…he was a good man, trained from birth to use whatever means to save our people as he would a beautiful woman from a noose.”  Faramir tried to put it in a way that might be clearer, “Our City, this woman, her time was short, the rope closing tight and he grew desperate.”

The hobbits were silent; Pippin more perturbed.

“I do not presume to speak of…that thing…” He laced his hands, setting them on the table in front of him. “I ask only that you, when you write your story that shall certainly be heard and read by many who know little to nothing about the good deeds of Boromir, valiant Captain of my City…that you write with an impartial heart.  I can do nothing to repay his debt, save offer my services to you and your kin whenever you might call…but,” Faramir strove not to beg and failed, “please, do not portray him in an unfriendly light as you might be just in doing.  He was my brother and his heart and thoughts were kind, if prideful and overbold in this unfortunate matter that came between you.  In other times, I’m certain he would have honored his cause before all judges of manhood, be they foul or fair…”

“Frodo won’t do that.”  Pippin, apparently, could be silent no longer; he sounded bewildered, full of faith in his cousin’s objectivity.

But the Ringbearer was quiet and Faramir finished haltingly, “I’m sorry if I offend, but I do not know your mind in this…and it grieves me to think he might be called a villain for one grave mistake.  I do not belittle the mistake in any way, but…”  He faltered.

“Faramir…”  Frodo sighed, but was interrupted again and whatever shadows of what he might have said—Faramir watched them evaporate as the Took beside him spoke.

“Boromir saved Merry and my life.  He saved us all on Caradhras.  We would have frozen to death without him.”  Pippin sounded proud.  “I loved him as a friend; you do not have to worry, Faramir.  My own debt will not allow me to let Frodo write bad things.  I will hang over his shoulder night and day if I must.”

A small smile appeared on Frodo’s face, and then disappeared as he said seriously, “I don’t blame your brother…”  He raised his hand, looking at the smooth, shiny stump of his finger.  “In the end, it would have taken even the strongest and the most pure of heart…and I myself did not withstand the test.” 

Faramir was quiet, anxious.

“I hold no hard feelings.  There is nothing you owe me in his stead.”  Frodo smiled wanly, “I shall write what I saw—a great warrior, noble and stanch, who did his best and failed, like myself.”  His voice softened, saddened, “Like myself, in vain, he struggled.  But the power was too strong…no, there is no blame for Boromir in my heart.” 

Faramir bowed his head, feeling a heavy burden rise off of his shoulders.  There was truth in the eldest hobbit’s words. “Thank you, dearly.”  He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

“You’re welcome.”  The Ringbearer smiled at him, a more natural expression, “Will you stay, then, Faramir, now that you’ve spoken?”

But, at that moment, a voice shouted his name, “Faramir!”  He turned, curious.  It was Gaer, gesturing impatiently.  Was it time to leave already?  “I’m sorry, it appears I cannot.”

“Then farewell, Faramir.”

Through the crowd, Merry and Sam had appeared.  Pippin leaped up at once to help them with the trays of food.

“Farewell, Frodo Baggins, and if I do not see you again, I wish you all the wellness in the world.”  Rising and bowing low to the hobbit that sat before him, he strode away. 

  Gaer was reseated by the time Faramir had pushed his way to his side; none of the crowd gave way before him, forcing him to elbow himself a path.  He was at the end of a long table; another man sat opposite of him, eating.  “Good morning, we didn’t expect to see you for hours.”  A wide grin greeted him.

“No?”  It seemed that they were not leaving.  Faramir seated himself next to Gaer.

“Nope, good thing I didn’t bet upon it.”  Nodding across the table, he introduced the other Rohirrim, a typically burly, fair-haired man with the distinguishing feature of a very crooked nose.  Broken and badly healed in some fight, Faramir guessed.  “This is Nier.”

Polite, he smiled, “Hello.”

The Rohirrim eyed him speculatively, and then spoke around a mouthful of food, “This is him?  This is the man?  He’s not what I would have imagined.”

Gaer nodded earnestly, “That’s what I thought, too.”

They were discussing him, right in front of him.  Faramir wondered if this was a bad sign.  At least their voices were not hostile.  Nier continued, shaking his head, “Just when you think you know our Lady’s likes, she surprises you.”

“Aye.”  There was a sappy grin on Gaer’s face.  “She’s wonderful like that…which is why I can’t even look at you.”  The last was finally directed to Faramir who had no idea how to reply.

Nier glanced at him, deadpanning, “I loathed you, Faramir; sight unseen, all summer I hoped you would die.”

Beside him, Gaer said solemnly, “I wished you terrible harm.”

“I hoped you would die a dishonorable death and get spat upon.”

There was a pause and Gaer snickered suddenly, “Look at him.”

Nier shook his head, “No sense of humor.”

“None…he’s left it at Mundburg…now we’re going to have to muster and get it.”  The two Rohirrim laughed.  Faramir tried to understand as Gaer smiled. 

“Come, we jest, friend. Laugh, too, go on, I’ve heard you do it.” 

The other man grimaced, “We’re going to have to do something, because I can’t take this.  He’s like a man made of ice.”

Gaer sounded certain, slapping Faramir on the shoulder and giving him a grin.  “He’ll warm up, don’t worry, he was fairly normal the other day.”

“Hmmph.”  Suddenly Nier’s eyes lit up, “There she is, there she is.”

Gaer whirled on the bench, “Where?”

“There…damn it, where is that dress?”

“She looks lovely, you’re obsessed.”

Faramir finally spoke, “With what?”

“I think it’s more of a winter dress…” Gaer glanced at him as Faramir turned, too.  Like he’d suspected, Éowyn had entered.  Éomer moved at her side, looking strangely royal and dignified.  Not words I would associate with him…more like irrational and tempermental…  “Lady Éowyn has a most beautiful dress, perfect upon her in every way…”  Gaer grinned lecherously, “Every way, though I’m sure you know more about that than we...”

“Which she hasn’t worn in five months.”

They argued while Faramir watched her.  She looked happier today, her eyes alight as she spoke to her brother.  “That’s because it’s a winter dress.”

Nier snorted, “I’ve seen her wear it in summer.”

“When?”

“Summer…time…I can’t remember dates!”

“Then you haven’t…”

“It was summer when she first wore it.”

“Well, I can’t tell you why she hasn’t worn it; I don’t have access to her closet…”  Gaer grinned, giving him a sideways glance, “But you do.”

Puzzled, not really listening, Faramir asked, “What?”  Éowyn’s eyes roamed the crowd; he wondered if she was looking for him.  Gaer’s voice broke through his hopeful musings.

“Listen, it will put his mind at ease.” He rolled his eyes, “The fool, you’d think it was his dress.  Just look for it, it’s a really finely woven cloth in a deep cherry color with gold thread and …”

Staring at him in disbelief, Faramir shook his head.  “I am not doing that.”

The red-headed Rohirrim’s grin widened, “And I’ll bet you won’t tell us anything, either, will you?”

After half a moment he comprehended—they wished to know about his and Éowyn’s more passionate doings.  Not that there is much to tell…  Nonetheless, Faramir was outraged, “No, I will certainly not.”

Nier stared at him, and then grimaced at Gaer.  “He is horrible.”

“At least he is loyal, unlike some.”  He finished archly, “And at least, I assume, he has all his toes.”

Faramir was baffled.  Was Gaer defending him or just spouting gibberish?

Nier’s eyes narrowed, “And that makes him better?”

“Oh, yes.”

The Rohirrim both fell silent and Faramir returned to taking in Éowyn from afar.  The cobalt-colored dress she wore at the moment was rather appealing, clinging to her curves, yet covering her fully, leaving him guessing at the smooth skin below.  Or rather remembering, since he’d been fortunate enough to see her in all her glorious nakedness.  Just the memory made him hunger for her.

 She’d seated herself opposite the hobbits; Éomer had too, of course.  Pippin’s arm pointed, short finger just raised above the crowd—he must be standing on the bench, he thought in amusement.  She was looking for him.  But Éowyn did not rise.

“Faramir.”

He ignored Gaer.  Neir sighed deeply,

“Wonderful.  He’s deaf and humorless.”

“Of course he’s deaf.  It’s from the delicate tones of our Lady’s voice, constantly whispered into his ear…to him we sound like the idiot grunting of pigs.”

“I hate pigs.  Don’t talk about pigs.”  Nier groaned, “Don’t make me hate him; I’m trying to like him.  You said I would like him.”

“Faramir…Faramir…”

Finally exasperated, Faramir turned, “What?”  He’d thought he’d just seen her rise from the table.

“Are you always this rude to your friends?”

Nier protested, “I just met him.  I’m not sure if I’m his friend yet.”

“Well, I’m his friend.”

The fair-haired Rohirrim frowned, “I’m not even sure we’re friends.”

Gaer put his hand to his chest, mouth agape, “You wound me.”  And there she was, the crowd parting before her like grass did the wind.  Éowyn wandered in his direction and Faramir listened to the two men’s bickering with half an ear.  Ah, she is so beautiful…  “Quiet, quiet!”  As she came to a stop before them, Gaer gave him a wide, mischievous grin.  “My Lady, please!”  He threw one arm up to shield his eyes.

***

“I beg you, come no closer!”  Éowyn smiled a little, mainly at Faramir’s expression of deep annoyance as the soldier beside him spoke.

She raised an eyebrow, “Why not?”

“Your magnificence, it is a light too great …tell me, friend Faramir, does the sun shine today?  Our Lady has outdone it both in brilliance and warmth; surely the flowers turn to her alone.”  The red-haired man peeked over his arm, “If she has any mercy she would wear a veil, for she blinds us.  Oh, it is a lucky thing Faramir takes you, my Lady, otherwise your land would be defenseless—we, your loyal, lowly servants, too dazzled by your radiance to see to protect it.”

She laughed, amused.   “Don’t say such fool things.”

He gasped, “Fool?  I speak the truth.”  The other man chuckled.

Faramir was gazing at her, hopeful; they’d not parted on the best of terms the night before.  “Sit with us?”  He patted the bench beside him.  She wanted to ask him when he’d made friends, and why he’d chosen such silly men. 

“All right.”  Éowyn gathered her skirts and sat.  Turning sideways, she didn’t speak, just looked him up and down.  Faramir looked unspeakably strange clothed in the dress of her people.  The clothes fit, but they simply appeared to belong to someone else entirely.  Green cloak clasped snugly at his throat, the darker green and brown leather surcoat with ivory horse galloping in the center over his torso, with the scale mail beneath it hanging to his upper thighs and split to accommodate his needs as a Rider, the dark trousers and worn boots…all looked strange.  The two men he sat with were garbed similarly, slight differences, perhaps, but their clothes fit them in a way they did not her love.  She could not express it.

“Did you sleep well?”  There was a light smile on his face; his eyes were reddened from weariness and yet they shone at her, begging for her to smile back.

She did.  “Yes.”

“What do you think?”  He passed a hand down his chest, stroking the slightly raised horse.   Was it her imagination or did Faramir sound vulnerable?

Éowyn licked her lips, nervous.  She didn’t want to hurt his feelings.  “I don’t know yet.”

“Pippin said I looked funny.”  He was searching her face now.

She swallowed, “Not at all.”

The red-haired soldier spoke boldly, “He looks like a proper man, today, none of that tree nonsense.”  The other man chuckled.

Faramir frowned immediately.  “It is not nons…”

“No wonder your enemies are unafraid…who fears a tree?”  Éowyn smiled, unable to help herself—she’d thought much the same thing at first.  “What can it do?  Fall upon you?”

“It is not nonsense.”  Faramir spoke through gritted teeth and the red-haired man raised his hands, palms up.

“Aye, aye…”  He shook his head, looking vaguely familiar, “Humorless, hmm, my Lady?”

The man across the table, agreed.  “Humorless, like a tree himself.”

“No.”  She smiled again, her words soothing, directed at her beloved, “It is important to them in Mundburg.”

“Ah, her gentle speech will civilize us better than friend Faramir’s angered face.”

“It is always so.”

The two Rohirrim grinned at her.  Éowyn laughed, unsure, not knowing their names.  They seemed friendly enough, if a bit forward in their jests.  Looking uncomfortable, Faramir stared at the tabletop and she wanted to lead him away.  Fixing her eyes on the man across the table, she asked, “Tell me, when will you ride today?”

“Not sure, my Lady…not all the lads have returned.”

Faramir raised his head, expression curious.  The red-haired man grinned at him, “We’ve lumped you in with the lads, Faramir…I hope you don’t mind.”

He frowned, “No…no.  Though I didn’t quite get the point of it.”

The fair-haired man sighed, “He’s hopeless; turn this one back out to the fields, my Lady.”

A cautious frown passed over Faramir’s face; he seemed unsure if he was being mocked or not and had no reply.   She’d had enough.   “I’m afraid I must take him for a moment.”  Éowyn stood, straightening her skirts, and they inclined their heads as one. 

The red-haired soldier spoke again, “I doubt he will miss us, when invited to enjoy your fine company, my Lady.” 

Faramir smiled, rising, too.  “I do not doubt, Gaer.  Not even for an instant.”

So that is he…she remembered now and smiled, “Did you receive the rabbits?”

He smiled back, a jaunty thing, teeth gleaming. His tone was almost rakish in its brazen quality, making her fight a burst of laughter.  He’d spoken the same way before. “Yes… they were most delicious, though undoubtedly if you’d presented them I’d have enjoyed them even more.”

“I told you I could not cook.”

Gaer smiled, “And I said I would eat it anyway.”

“Then I’m not sure you’d still be alive to thank me.”  Éowyn jested back and Gaer laughed at her, teasing lightly,

“A death at your hands, with your beautiful face my last sight, would have been a death worth dying my Lady.”

Faramir looked back and forth as they spoke, his gaze wary, jealous even.  That was silly though, what reason did he have to be jealous that she trades smiles and words with another man?  I love you; do not act like my brother.  Éowyn paid him little attention, saying, “I’m glad you liked them anyhow.”  She nodded in farewell to the two men and led him away.

Faramir followed closely, his eyes on her, searching.  “What was that about?”

“What?”  She feigned ignorance, curious on how he would go about this.

“The rabbits?”

“I went hunting…I gave him them, I didn’t need them.”

Still looking at her, he asked, “Do you know Gaer?”

Fighting a smile, she replied, “I met him that day.”

“And you…just gifted him with some rabbits?”

“Yes.”  Éowyn glanced at him, noting his frown.  “He was nice; what’s wrong with that?”

“Do you do this often?”

“No.”

Faramir gave a small grunt of comprehension, and then asked, “Where are we going?”

“Someplace we can talk alone.”

“So you know, then…about what I asked you?  You have an answer for me?” 

All her light-heartedness vanished.  Éowyn swallowed, shaking her head.  “No.”

“Oh.”  He sounded disappointed.

***

He looked at her, admiring the gown’s fit and yet noting the high, embroidered collar.  There was a tiny reddish mark above it, just under her jaw, one of many he’d almost certainly left upon her fair skin.  She hides my ownership…  Faramir bore her brand proudly, even adjusting the clasp on his cloak to reveal it.  His eyes on her neck, he wondered. Does she not wish all to know I am privledged enough to put my mouth there?  That I am her lover…oh, but not much of one, really, truly.  His thoughts turned embittered and the curious pride he’d felt at seeing the shameless stamp of his status as her paramour curdled into something closer to angry remorse—it was an unwanted brand.  She does not wish to be completely mine. 

Abruptly another part of him spoke, that is unfair.  You know what she went through…

No, I don’t, she spoke of all but nothing…

You heard enough.  Perhaps she is ashamed…

There is no reason for her to be so…he is the guilty one and if I ever hear of his presence within the range of my power …

Faramir stared at his boots as they moved in a slow rhythm, matching her shorter legs.  What happened to patience?

She said she trusts me…obviously that was a lie.

Perhaps it was only a lie when you lobbied for her maidenhead…she is afraid, what’s wrong with that?

It’s been months, what has she to fear still?  I gave her my reasons…they were not base or lustful…I do not care for the lovemaking so much, it is the way she acted when I asked…

Frustrated, he spoke aloud, ending his inner argument.  “Where are we going?”  They were outside now, standing along the wall of Meduseld, but not in front of the stairs, she’d led him around the side.  Both were completely exposed against the bare wall, and yet their place was still private, sitting as it was so high off the earth.  Are we hiding?  Faramir did not know.  The view was still pretty, though the sun had risen enough to illuminate the sky into its usual azure and the grassy fields the plain greens and ambers of late summer.  Under the partial shade of the building, she turned back to face him.

“Here.” Éowyn halted, looking up; her eyes very blue, reflecting the sky.  Their hair blew in the wind, or rather his did, as hers was done in a sensible, heavy braid; the gust caught his cloak and made it catch at his throat.  Faramir grimaced and stuck his fingers between his neck and the tight clasp, yanking futilely.  She frowned, “What?”

“It’s…uncomfortable.”  Summoning a smile, he added, “I’m not used to it yet.”

She stepped close, running her light hand along his collar.  He looked down at her as she laughed, “Of course it’s uncomfortable, you’ve twisted it here…see?”

Faramir tucked his chin inward, but naturally couldn’t see it.  “Fix it for me?”

“Hold still.”  Éowyn wore an amused smile as she unfastened the sturdy, simple pin.  A crease appeared on her brow and then another, then she laughed up at him in exasperation.  “Oh, did you do this in the dark?”  Stepping back, she looked him up and down.

“No.”  Refusing to fidget at the indignity of having his clothes checked over like he was a child, he stared at her.  He could feel her warmth, skirts touching his front, breasts brushing his chest as she leaned up and against him again.  Her teeth indented her lower lip as she concentrated; he inhaled and smelled her good warm smell.  Wanting to bury his face in her neck, he held still instead.  

It took her a moment before she was finished, and Éowyn smoothed her fingers over the clasp.  “There.  Better?”

Faramir cocked his jaw, tilting it, moving his head from side to side.  It was far better.  “Yes.”  He gave her a smile, “Thank you.”  Éowyn hadn’t stepped away.  There was another line on her brow and he felt her fingertips touch his neck, exactly where she’d marked him.  Yes, see?  I’m yours…and I’m comfortable with that…why aren’t you?  It puzzled him terribly—instead of continuing her steady improvement in trust and opening up to him, Éowyn was backsliding, growing more nervous and more edgy.  What is wrong?

She smiled up as nervously as though she was sensing the annoyed and pleading tone of his thoughts.  Faramir eyed her and since she was so close and he could tell she was about to move away, he leaned forward and down to kiss her mouth; one hand lifting to touch her chin.  He’d watched it too long to resist.

She leaned back, leaving his fingers cupping empty air.

Immediately battling with his disgruntlement and confusion, he asked, probably sharper than he should have, “What?”

Her eyes widened, then flicked away as she affected innocence, “Nothing…you surprised me is all.”

Down by his side again, his hands snapped together in fists of pure frustration.  Faramir loosened them only with a powerful concentration of his will.  “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not…”

He ground his teeth, “All right, you’re not but you’re also not telling me the entire truth.  I can tell, remember?  Why…?”

Éowyn’s eyes narrowed and then, to his astonishment, she stood on her tiptoes, placed one hand quick on each side of his face, tilting him further downward and gave him a rough kiss.  Their lips mashed and he felt her fingers tightening on his jaw before she released him just as suddenly.  Dropping back, she stared up in open defiance, “Are you happy?”

“No.”

Her tone was just as rebellious and angered, “Then what do…?”  Éowyn took a step away; her eyes glanced backward; she was planning her escape.

Losing his patience entirely, this time he cut her off, stepping forward and pressing her to the wall, one hand firmly grasping her wrist and folding it across her body, leaving her with little leverage to push against him.  The other Faramir set securely under her chin, cupping it to turn her face up. Locking their gazes, he poured his frustration and irritation into her mind by his thought, you’re not getting away from me this time…I want to know, I have a right to know.

  Éowyn’s eyes had gone wide, uncertainty swimming in their blue water depths.  He froze there, asking, “Why do you fear me?  Why?”  It was in a whisper; he was well aware of the contrasts between his rough actions and his nearly inaudible words.  Body tense, he was alert, waiting to release her at the slightest sign of panic.

Éowyn didn’t panic.  She took a deep breath and relaxed, slumping against the wall and whispering back, “I don’t know.”  Her next sentence held misery.  “I don’t want to…it’s just...”

“What?”

She shook her head.  He softened his grips, fingers and thumbs caressing her cheek, the inside of her wrist.  “This was all I wanted…”  Bending, he touched his lips to hers, finding them yielding and trembly.  Faramir kissed her very, very gently, asking her to part them.  When she did, he touched his tongue to hers, a fleeting, warm, wet contact.  The kiss lingered for another moment, not deepening, but hanging on and she allowed it.  Desire accomplished, he withdrew entirely, releasing her wrist and chin and stepping back two steps.  “No more.”  Why did you make it hard?  Why did you give me that cold mockery of a lover’s kiss?

He sent it to her, asking in as true a voice of imploration as he’d ever known.  Éowyn just folded her arms across herself and looked away over the plain. 

Faramir pleaded with weary frustration, “Let me listen…speak it in your tongue…even one understood word in ten would be better to my mind.”  She didn’t answer and he nearly groaned, “What, then?  What could I possibly do to show you I am harmless and fully worth your trust?”  What that I haven’t done or shown already?

Her eyes searched the fields, restless; abruptly they turned to him.  Éowyn smiled tinily, her mood lightening.  “You haven’t shown me something.”

And Faramir grew wary.  “What?”

“I’m sure you can guess.”

Flabbergasted, he stared at her.  “That? Why?”

“You show, I talk.”  She crossed her arms in determination. “We’ll both feel ridiculous.” 

It was his turn to look over the wide fields and delay answering.  “All right.”  If this was how she would crack her silence, he was willing.  “Let’s go, then.”  Faramir glanced at her, amused and wondering if she would understand, “You know I won’t be at my best, don’t you?”

She did; an unruly smile fought for possession of her lips.  “I’m sure there will be something to see nonetheless.”  Éowyn laughed aloud and they walked back into Meduseld.

He sighed. She was laughing at him already and he hadn’t so much as shed a single stitch of his peculiar Rohirric garb.  Oh, wonderful …

***

Éowyn took him all the way to her rooms; she knew they would be undisturbed.  Faramir had followed her and now stood in the middle of her bedroom, looking rather uncomfortable.  She closed the door and leaned back against it, feeling curious.  He just shifted his feet.  Raising an eyebrow, she asked, “What are you waiting for?”

“All right.”  He lifted his hands to undo the clasp to his cloak and then stopped. Faramir’s voice was solemn.  He was teasing her.  “There are rules to this.”

Archly, she challenged, “Such as?”

“No laughing, no pointing…”  Éowyn laughed and a petulant expression came over his face.  “See, we can’t do this, you broke the first one already.”

“I’m sorry.”  She moved to the bed, sitting on the side rather than the end and crossed her legs, propping one hand up to cover her mouth.  Through her fingers she ordered, “Go on.”

Faramir unfastened his cloak and then stopped again.  “Do I get a question with each thing?”

Éowyn felt a smile floating up and suppressed it.  He was adorable; why did she fear so?  “All right.”

He tossed the pine-green cloak onto the end of her bed. His voice was straightforward, “Why won’t you let me make love to you?”

She blinked, startled.  That is a bottom layer question …you work up to that!  Éowyn took a breath, trying to frame an answer that would be rational and not some mumbled mishmash of words.  Faramir waited patiently, still clothed in many garments, and she began to think that perhaps he’d gotten the better end of this bargain.  A grin spread across his face.  “Me, too, my beloved, but it was your idea.”

Staring at the floor, she felt her guts twist with anxiety.  “Ic…”  The grin disappeared as he realized she was taking him up on his earlier offer and phrasing her answer in her language.  Faramir looked alarmed.  “Ic eom ondræde.”

“Ondræde…ondrædan…” His fumbling accent made her smile through her intense discomfort.  Squinting up at the ceiling, he finally said, “Afraid?”  He sounded hesitant.  She nodded weakly and his tone became more exasperated than anything.  “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I didn’t want to hurt your…”

Too late.  Faramir’s face was saddened, making her feel ashamed.  He unfastened the sides of his leather surcoat and took it off, tossing it to the bed as well.  Éowyn stared at the white horse, seen upside down from her point of view, and waited nervously.  “Why do you withdraw every time I try to get closer to you…body and mind?  Why do you listen when I talk, but don’t want to talk to me?  Why are you afraid?”

Stalling, she whispered, “That’s three questions.”  He dropped to one knee, unlaced his boots and kicked them off without comment. Éowyn cursed inwardly.  “Ic nat.”

“And that’s not an answer.”

“Ic lufie ge…ge eart ungelic þe…Ic cann treow ge…ac ná þaet lungre.  Ge scealt aætst me whil.”

Faramir stared at her, his brow furrowed, for several minutes.  His mouth moved as he spoke phrases to himself.  Suddenly he looked away, out the window, and a slight smile came over his face; unlacing the strings that held his mail on, he took it off and laid it on the bed, the metal scales scraping softly against each other.  She watched, puzzled.  Did he have no remarks on her words?  Stepping back, he sighed, “What did you just say?”

Éowyn burst out laughing, her nervousness momentarily broken by his question.  Taking pity she translated, “I said, I love you, you are unlike him…”  The him was understood; Faramir nodded. “I can trust you…but not so soon.”  She looked away, “You must give me time.”

“That’s it?”  He frowned, “That doesn’t tell me anything, Éowyn.”

That is all I have.  Growing frustrated, she said, “I’m not a problem to be solved, a battle to be won…you can’t just do something and make it all better, I need time…years, years, he…”  Falling silent, she looked back down. 

Faramir sighed deeply and unbuttoned his dark wool doublet, fingers slow.  When he spoke his voice was very soft, very gentle.  “What did Gríma do?”

Not much at all, really.  She had no ruthless tales of rape or brutality, no scars but ones in her mind.  He’d stalked her and bragged in soft, slimy whispers on how she would be his; he’d spoken on how he would have Éomer killed if she told; how her pride in her land was foolish, because even the poorest sighted could see they were led by a dumb old man; he’d touched her whenever he could—a hand on her arm disguised as aid or a gesture to gain her attention.  Gríma had been relentless, but had never truly hurt her, drawn he’d said, by her beauty.   

Éowyn folded into herself, shivering a little; Faramir took a step closer, obviously wishing to hug her, to provide comfort.  He’d done that enough.  Perhaps too much…she could not rely upon the refuge within his gentle arms for the rest of her life.  Deep inside, the remnants of her icy, steel core awoke and Éowyn lifted her head, sitting with her back straight.  “He said he would kill Éomer if I told anyone he followed me.”  There was clear relief on Faramir’s face that she chose to speak in the Common Tongue.  “He said that I would be his and that his men would hold me down if I did not cooperate, that I could not escape my fate.  He said that I would be Queen and him, my husband, King.  He said it was my fault, that I was too beautiful…”  She laughed harshly, “as if it were a compliment…surely I must be ugly indeed to attract such a worm.” 

Faramir gave a tiny shake of his head.  He was gazing at her; open anguish was in his eyes.

“He shadowed me and the men that served him did, too.  Most followed him out of loyalty to the crown…they could not, did not think of rebellion until late; they saw little treachery because he did not let them see it.  He was careful not to appear too forward; he touched me, my hands,” She held them up, looking.  “My arms, anytime he could.  He captured me in the hallway once, pressed me to the wall, put his hand on my breast, telling me how the orcs would torture Éomer...”

Faramir stirred, his voice pained, “You don’t have to say more...”

Éowyn lifted her eyes to his, “He never raped me, never hurt me.  When Théodred died I realized it could happen—I could be his.”  She sighed, folding her hands in her lap, “Éomer rode out and killed the orcs that had captured Merry and Pippin…he wasn’t supposed to be out there so Gríma had him imprisoned for disobedience even though what he did was right and good for our lands, our people.  I was alone and the men loyal to my brother were outcasts, called rebels.  Théodred…he challenged Gríma in the end, that was why he had him killed…not just to get him out of the way.”  She remembered her rage, “That worm, filth, called him greedy for the throne.  Said he wanted his father to die when he protested Gríma being Théoden’s sole healer and that he was bloodthirsty and uncaring of his people’s lives when he questioned his decisions.

  “When Éomer was imprisoned and Théoden just allowed it, would not hear reason…I was so scared that my brother was next, that he wouldn’t leave that cell unless they drug him out, limp and dead—he could be poisoned or they could say he was trying to escape…”  She swallowed hard, “If they put a sword in his hand, if they challenged him and made him fight to defend himself…he would kill one and they would kill him and there would be no blame.  There would be nothing to stop it…I couldn’t stop it.”  Éowyn fell silent and finally said, “Except that I began to think that maybe I could.”  

He spoke softly, “How?”

“I was going to murder Théoden in the swiftest, most painless way possible and set my brother free.”  She smiled, “And then slay myself so he would not have to sentence me—it would have killed him to sentence me to death.  Éomer would have been King and slain or banished Gríma immediately.”  With a laugh she finished, “It is a good thing Aragorn came, is it not?  Do you see why I thought I loved him?  He saved me from treachery, from having my kin and king’s blood on my hands.”

“My love…my poor darling…”  It was a terribly saddened whisper and Faramir came to her.  He sat close, strong, good arms embracing her, chin on the top of her head.  Éowyn leaned against his shoulder, feeling tears burn her eyes.  His body felt warm and solid, a stout foundation to hold and support her.  She took slow breaths, trying to ease the twisting tension in her middle.  Éowyn had never wanted him to hear that, he was supposed to be new, to be part of a life clean of such foul things.  She felt dirty just speaking of Gríma and shuddered.

They stayed like that for several minutes, hugging tight, before Faramir leaned back, his eyes and voice very serious.  “Do you want to go on?”

“Yes.”  She might as well.  Taking a deep breath, she embraced him again and held his face between her hands.  Faramir met her kiss, very soft and brief, no more than a comforting touch of lips.  Éowyn pulled him down, pressing her forehead to his.  He touched her mind, reassuring, loving and fiercely devoted.  She sighed, blinking away tears before releasing him. 

He stood; looking so concerned it made her chest tighten.  “You’re sure I won’t upset you?”
            “No, but I want you to go on.  I…”  She looked down, ashamed, and then held his eyes.  “You’ve been very patient…I’ve been awful to keep so silent.” 

  The smallest of smiles passed over his lips; it was an expression of admiration.  “It’s all right, I’ll live.”  Faramir took off his socks.  He was running out of clothes—only his shirt and breeches remained.  “Do you want to be close to me like I asked you last night, closer than this…?”  Running his hand down the front of his shirt, he continued, “Covered skin?  Is it the habit of fear alone that holds you back?”

  “Yes.”  Éowyn swallowed.  I think so.  “I want…I want to be close to you, to let you…I know you will be good to me…but it’s too much.”  She hesitated, then blurted, “I’m scared, Faramir, scared of…”  Falling silent, she looked away.

“What?”

She didn’t make him take off something else.  “Being your wife, having your children…what if I’m not good enough to be the Lady of Ithilien…the only man who wanted me was…that thing, that worm…”

“No, no.”  Faramir laughed suddenly and loudly, making her raise her head.  “The men I sat with today would gladly push me out of the way, my love…I think even Merry, were he a bit taller, would be my eager rival.”

That made her laugh some, too.  “But…”

“You’ll be fine…I don’t know how to be a husband or a father and I haven’t had much practice yet at being Steward, much less Lord of Ithilien.”  There was a shadow in his eyes, but he finished, “I’m lost, just like you.  We can help each other if you trust me to be good to you.”

That was the one thing she did, unequivocably, trust.  “I do.” 

Faramir seemed to debate with himself and then he gave her a warm smile and stripped off his shirt.  His movements were slower, more deliberate as he lifted it over his head, tossing it aside.  “Tell me, now, do you find me attractive as I find you?  You’ve never truly said.” 

Startled, Éowyn blinked, and then she relaxed for what felt like the first time since she’d seen him this morning.  This was a surprisingly easy question. Leaning back on the bed, propped on her palms, she deliberately waited, gazing at his bared skin.  It was a light gold that went well with the dark hair that covered his upper chest and lower arms.  He really was quite hairy, very mannish.  She let her gaze wander, conscious of his eyes and slow, almost suggestive smile. 

He was broad through the shoulders, tapering down to a narrower waist.  His chest was well defined, the muscles clean cut; not bulging like the men she and Arwen had seen wrestling in the tavern, but neat; powerful, but not overpowering.  The outlines of his ribs were just barely visible; he was still thin.  There was one scar, the twisted, indented thing where the arrow had struck him but otherwise Faramir’s body was surprisingly clean of any traces of wounds.  He must be lucky in battle… 

Éowyn let her eyes drop a little, trying not to flush.  She’d never stared at a man for so long, nor examined one like this.  He was just looking back at her, lips curled in a smile that was definitely growing more sensual as she took her time.  His trousers hung loose and low, the leather belt undone, exposing the lines of his pelvis and the slight trail of dark hair…the end of which she would soon see.  Biting her lip, she said softly and mischieviously. 

“I’m not sure…”

Faramir’s smile widened, becoming somehow playful and somehow even hotter; a leisurely passion in his eyes.  “You want to see, then, some of what you’re getting?”

Éowyn remembered a saying of her people and laughed, “Gea, hit is gleaw tó canst æror ge bycgan.”  His brow furrowed and she smiled, refusing to translate.  If he could not understand that, perhaps Gaer’s friend was right—Faramir was hopeless, at least as a Rohirric soldier. 

He turned in a slow circle for her, raising his arms to show her the play of his muscles over his entire upper body. Chuckling, Faramir even flexed a few times, which made her laugh in pure delight as he growled roughly and bent his arms up and then down in front of himself.  His muscles stood out, strong and distinct.  She looked down, trying to compose herself and the second she looked back up he leaned low and flexed hard, erupting with a deep, muted roar that made her burst back into laughter, closing her eyes.

Eowyn smiled, “You are so foolish…”

He chuckled again, “Watch this. You’ll like this.”

“Wh—” Faramir turned sideways, put his hands on his sides and made his stomach roll.  It went up and down in perfect waves and Éowyn laughed until her own stomach hurt, both disgusted and delighted.

“Eww…that’s…stop that!”  Finally her mirth trickled to a few isolated giggles and he grinned as she gasped for air. 

Apparently satisfied, he turned around in a circle again.  His back was a long expanse of smooth skin, the line of his spine bracketed on both sides with muscle, his long, dark hair hanging like a stallion’s thick mane.  She felt the urge to tangle her hands in it and wondered if he would carry her on his back.  The thought of gripping his bare skin with her legs was oddly exciting.  He ran a hand up and down his chest, caressing himself while leering at her and Éowyn clamped her hand to her mouth to keep from giggling helplessly.  This was fun, an unexpected fun and a strange, sad thought came why doesn’t he do this more before she laughed again.   With one last flex, the muscles in his chest and arms standing out, Faramir faced her.   He just stared with heated eyes, his lips in a wide smile, until she composed herself enough to say, “Yes, yes.” 

“Good.”  His fingers were on the front of his trousers.  “Now, remember the rules…”

“No laughing and no pointing.”  She giggled once, unable to help it.

His hands froze in the act of unlacing his breeches.  “Stop that.”

“S-sorry.”  Éowyn giggled again.

Faramir raised a stern eyebrow.  “I mean it.”

She nodded, taking a deep breath.  “Go on.”

He looked suspicious now.  “Question first.”

“All right.” 

  “What do you think of the name Elboron for our first son?”

Totally thrown off guard, miles off guard, she could only ask, “What?”  Foreign-knife-buckler…?  Éowyn frowned, “What kind of name is that?  It doesn’t make any sense.”

He snorted at her in amusement.  “Not everyone is going to translate it to Rohirric my dear, dear beloved.  It means something like ‘enduring star’ in elvish.”

Still bewildered and a little unnerved now, she said.  “I suppose that’s fine.”

Faramir jiggled his trousers.  “Ready?” 

She forgot her tension and scooted back on the bed, clamping her jaw so she wouldn’t laugh. “Yes.”

However, he didn’t strip.  Instead, he asked, “Have you ever seen a naked man before?”

Is he delaying? Éowyn found that deliciously amusing.  She’d been quicker.  Maybe it…looks funny.  Maybe…it’s crooked.  She’d seen one like that before and asked her brother about it—Éomer had all but died of embarrassment trying to explain to his fourteen-year old sister that there could be differences in manhoods.  Éowyn bit the inside of her cheek hard to keep a straight face as she answered.  “’Course I have.  I’ve seen Éomer and Théodred and others.”

He frowned, that hint of jealousy back.  “What others?”

“Men in summer, at the river.”  I bet it’s crooked…oh, I bet.  She dug her fingers into her palms, struggling to remain sober.  What would I do with it?  How would it fit? 

Faramir jiggled his pants again, thinking.  “Hmm.”

Unable to resist, she added, “It’s nothing special.”

“No?”  He looked bemused.

She shook her head.  “Not at all.”

“Well…”  Faramir lowered his trousers and stepped out of them and, immediately, even though her hands sprang up to cover her mouth, she began to giggle wildly. 

***

He’d known it.  Trying to be simultaneously nude and stern, he asked, “What did I say?”

Éowyn flopped back on the bed, shaking with her laughter.  After a moment she sat up on her elbows, staring right at him, or rather, right at his groin.  Her eyes were alight with mischief as they moved slowly up to meet his.  He shifted on his feet, terribly uncomfortable at the confident womanishness of her gaze, so different from how she normally looked at him.  “Oh, Faramir…”

“What?”

“You took so long, I was worried.”  She was red-faced, snickering.  “It doesn’t look funny at all.  It’s not all bent or at least as far as I can tell it’s not.”

Bent?  What?  He glanced down at himself and then back up.  “Then why are you laughing?”  Faramir frowned at her, scolding, “I didn’t laugh at you.”

Éowyn smiled and met his gaze before eyeing his groin again. “Can I touch it?”

Alarmed, he shook his head, “No!”

She was smiling; there was a teasing note to her voice, a vast improvement over the tense way she’d spoken a few minutes ago. “What was it you said…oh, that if I didn’t like it I could step back?”  Éowyn snickered.  The improvement was almost worth her laughter.  Almost, he thought.

Frank, he said, “If you got ahold of me there is no way I ever would step back.”

“So, come here for a moment…”  Éowyn sat up further, “Or do you want me to come over there?”

“NO, you’re not going anywhere.  I didn’t get to touch, you don’t get to touch.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said so.”

“But I want to touch it…”  She lifted her hand, rubbing her fingers against each other.  Faramir felt a jolt of excitement in his belly.  “Please?  I want to see what it feels like...I want to feel it grow and see how big it can get.”

He shook his head, trying to disregard her words and the memory that went with them of the other night when she’d actually done those things…her soft, cool hands warming against his skin and the way they’d seemed made to fit around him...  Stop it…stop!   It didn’t work.  Oh, damn… “No.”

Éowyn’s sudden smile let him know she’d noticed.  “I think you want me to touch it, you’re just shy…or at least most of you is shy.  Come on, I want to see.”

“No.”  He stared at her, “It’s not some…sort of plaything.”  Unnerved, Faramir bent to pick up his trousers and suddenly she was off the bed and right beside him.  He froze, straightening with his pants gripped in one tense hand. 

She licked her lips in a way he hoped was merely unconscious.  “Please?  For just a moment?  I let you touch my…playthings.”

“What?”  Éowyn smiled and he felt a thrill go through his body as she cupped one breast, her fingers caressing it in a lazy motion.  He suddenly found it difficult to look away, completely aroused.  Unbelievably, she didn’t seem to detract anything from her own touch.  His pulse was throbbing in his throat, choking him as he gasped, “No.”  What Faramir wanted more than anything was to tell her to do it again, to watch her fingers slide across the dark blue fabric that covered her bosom, squeezing the tender, sensitive flesh.  Suddenly the lyrics of Éomer’s song were making far more sense and he wondered just what exactly she knew about that song.  Though I think the knowledge would kill me…  He shifted, slightly embarrassed; it appeared she wouldn’t have to touch him after all, he was doing it on his own quite well.

“Please…?”  Teasing, Éowyn put her hand on his chest, sliding her fingertips down to rest, to indent in light little points against his stomach.  Faramir swallowed hard, flailing inside as he tried to keep control.  She was eyeing him and was it his imagination or was she breathing faster?  Slightly flushed?  Her fingers moved, tracing up and then down just a little on his abdomen.  He fought his arousal and lost; Éowyn was too near.  I could let her…

No.  If she started something he was fairly certain he would be unable to gather enough will power to make her stop and…I don’t want to…she scares too easily, still.  What she wanted to do would be more likely to just torment him further, anyhow.  With an effort he forced the negative out.  “No.  Don’t.”

“Why not?”  She glanced downwards, “You want me to, I can tell.  Look, you’re practically begging…”

“Because,” He groaned in frustration; her nearness and the way she was looking down at him, a frighteningly speculative gleam in her eyes, was not helping his attempts to calm himself.  “I’m not a gelding to play with…I’m a man and you’re torturing me.”

“Why can’t we play?”  Éowyn’s voice was smaller, her gaze almost pleading as it finally lifted to meet his.  After a belated moment, he understood or thought he did.  Playing at intimacy would be less frightening with no stakes involved and…does she want to be close to me just as much as I do to her except that she cannot express it?  Dares not in case I might take it too far?  Does she not trust me to stop whenever she commands?   The sight of her naked body had filled him with the urgent desire to make love to her; the sight of his seemed to only inspire curiosity and amusement.  Faramir was almost hurt.  He’d seen no ardor in her eyes or heard it in her voice.   She’d said she found him attractive and yet…  Not in the same way?  How, then?  He stared down, nervous, and answered honestly.

“I don’t want to be a game, Éowyn.”

“But…I liked it…I thought you did, too.”

He was confused. “What?”

She bit her lip, looking away but not before he saw perplexity and disappointment in her face.  “When…remember?  In the City, your room, with your questions…and then by the river, with the flowers?”

“That’s not what I meant…”  Wasn’t it?  Faramir was confused again.  What was wrong if she just wanted to play with him for a while, why was he unsatisfied with anything less than the intimate territory he’d already covered with her?  Why am I pushing her?  Unease stirred in his heart and Faramir wondered suddenly if she would be half as nervous and tense if he would simply lie quiet and let her play with him.  The garden…he remembered when he’d closed his eyes.  It had been torment but she’d laughed and been confident.  Perhaps…

He was silent and she spoke, filling the hush.  “Oh.  All right.”  Taking a deep breath she added, “We’d better get back, anyway…or my brother will leave without you.”

They’d not been gone that long, but he sensed the wisdom in her words.  Nodding, Faramir put his trousers back on, and then he looked at her, still desiring and wondering.  “What would you like me to do?”

“What?”

He stepped forward, almost against her body, teasing and hoping for a smile.  “To compensate for not getting to touch me.”

She understood and smiled, to his relief.  “Kiss me.”  Complying, he bent, wrapping one arm around her waist.  Éowyn’s hands slid up his chest, fingers firm and then linking together as she put her arms around his neck.   One kiss turned to many; he was pleased to find he’d aroused her some, as her mouth was very eager and her hands roamed his skin.  She wasn’t tense now; but he was only kissing her and not touching anywhere but her waist—he was letting her do the touching.  Perhaps…maybe a brief time apart will be good…

Faramir dressed slowly with Éowyn handing him articles of clothing; they traded kisses, soft breaths, touching each others’ faces in small caresses.  She buttoned the doublet and laced the mail, sparing his scabbed, rough hands.  “Thank you.”

She smiled, kissing him in reply.  He loved this, loved feeling close to her; she was entirely confident.  She’d progressed to this level of intimacy and for now Faramir was fully content with that, or at least that’s what he told himself, very firmly.  Stop pushing.  That’s what’s wrong…it’s you.

He used his index finger to tug down the collar of her gown and planted a soft, closed-mouth kiss there.  She shivered and clasped her hand to the back of his neck.  Mumuring in her ear, he asked again, “Will you miss me?”

This time she gave him no little jest.  Her eyes were very, very blue, pupils large.  “Yes.”

“Oh, good.”  He pretended to slump with relief.

Éowyn laughed, asking softly.  “Will you miss me?”

Faramir thought of, or rather tried to imagine, the ordeal he was almost certain to endure and couldn’t.  Would he be mocked and tormented?  Would Éomer allow it?  I think he would enjoy it…  Looking down at the love in her eyes, he answered, “Terribly.”

She smiled. “Good.” 

He was clothed again and she clasped his cloak for him.  “Will you try to stay out of trouble?”

Faramir attempted to look innocent.  “Trouble?”

Éowyn was serious now. “You know what I mean.”  He did.  She asked about her brother.  Who is she concerned about? Him or me?  Feeling bad, he thought, both of us, no doubt.

“I won’t bother him, I swear.”  Will she make him swear the same?

“Thank you.”  One last press of lips and she took a step away.  “Let’s go.”

***

Éomer was going to smash his fist into the wall—true, it would hurt, but it would make him feel much better.  “What did you say?”

The messenger looked slightly ill at ease, shifting on his feet.  They stood at the doors of Meduseld; the wards avoided looking at him, sensing his fury.  “Elfhelm wishes to speak to you.  He will be here by tomorrow.” 

He ground his fingers together, staring into the air as the question burned his mind —if he stayed, should he send the men out?  Oh, if he wasn’t here…  Éomer would have sent his company out; it was not dangerous anymore, there were no orcs, no wargs, no bands of rogue men.  The only danger was…Faramir.  What will he do?  Will I be able to control them…will they hound him like a dog after a rabbit if I am not there?  He was unsure and that worried him.  Éomer didn’t want the man injured; his goal was simply time.  So, logically, he should be delighted and delay the entire company…which would be noted and they would assume I thought he was weak…or am I just thinking too much?  He rubbed his forehead, sighing. 

“All right.  I will stay.” The messenger looked relieved.  He bowed low and ran back down the stairs to his fresh horse.  For the moment the puzzling action of Elfhelm outweighed the question of Faramir.  The Marshal was independent-minded, a fully accredited warrior, possessing years of experience in command and not a man to come running to his King with any little problem.

So what do I do about…?  Éomer looked down at the courtyard full of men and youths in various stages of saddling their horses.  He didn’t see Faramir yet, but he was sure to arrive soon.  Undoubtedly with his sister in tow…they might let him alone with her, but as soon as he is out of range…what then?  Perturbed, Éomer scowled.  Why, oh, why…  His scowl darkened and he began descending the stairs.  His own horse needed to be unsaddled.  I wanted to get away…what could be so important?

***

“Wait.”  Faramir halted and Éowyn turned to look up at him. 

“What?”

He smiled at her, slightly crooked and very delighted.  “I almost forgot.”

She smiled back up.  “What?”

“Come on.”  He took her hand and led her to his quarters, completely refusing to answer any questions. 

Inside, she frowned as she looked around.  It was oddly neat; there was nothing for her to trip over on the floor or any clothes piled in the corners.  Faramir yanked a bag from under his bed and held it up, “Can you keep this for me?”

Éowyn nodded, wondering.  “All right.”

“Good.”  He gave her another brilliant smile, making her smile back.

“What?”

“I’m going to give this to you now so you won’t think badly of me.”  He glanced at the daylight pouring in from the window and moved closer to the bedroom door.  “You’ll like it.”  Faramir grinned at her, obviously teasing.  “It’s elven magic.”

Why would I think badly of him?  Mystified, she shook her head, “There’s no such thing as magic.”

“Wait until you see.”  Opening the bag, he lifted out something well-wrapped in thick cloth.  Éowyn took a step closer, curious as he unwrapped it.  It was a bracelet.  On slender, twisting little copper wires were set a multitude of small, pear shaped stones; glittering, the many facets sent out bright light ranging from sapphire blue into a deep wine.  Faramir stood carefully, his back to the sunny window.  “Here.”

She held it for a moment, and then clasped it on. “It’s lovely.”  The indigo, bluish-purple jewels set on the copper wires put her in mind of plums ripe off the tree, or the intense, tiny purple wildflowers that hid in the grass in the fields.  As a child she’d lain on her belly to appreciate them, getting herself filthy in the process.

“You like it?”  He was still grinning at her.

“Yes, very much.”  Smiling back at his infectious grin, Éowyn tilted her arm to watch it sparkle; it was cool against her wrist.

“Then close your eyes.”  Curious, she did so and he led her to the window.  Feeling the weak, early sunlight, she asked,

“What…?”

“Open them.”  Éowyn gasped, completely astonished.  In the morning light the blue violet stones were now a brilliant green; again the glints deepened and changed from bright apple to a darker mossy, forest color.  Instead of plums or flowers they looked more like leaves hanging off branches, moving in the wind.  Faramir wrapped an arm around her waist, murmuring, “Magic.  I told you it exists.”

She turned to him, “How does it…?”

He shrugged.  Faramir smiled at her again, “Look at it tonight in the candlelight.”

“It changes again?”
            “So I’m told.”

“What color?”

He shook his head, “You’ll have to tell me.  I bought it in daylight and I forgot to try it and see.”

“Thank you.”  Turning, she placed a hand on his cheek, kissing him.  “It’s so beautiful…”  The bracelet was gorgeous, the stones sparkling.  While she looked at it, marveling at the color change, he strapped on his sword and quiver, carrying his bow.   He handed her the bag, which she held absentmindedly.  Every present he’d given her had been better than the last and as they left, Éowyn wondered what else he could possibly have.   What do I do to deserve this?  The stones turned purplish again as they walked down the hall.  She was eager for nightfall, for the third color, and yet dreaded it.  I will miss him…

***

Faramir was pleased to see the grey head poke out of the stall as soon as he whistled and called, “Thorn!”  The heavy ears flicked forward, then back as the horse yawned. 

“Oh, he’s handsome.  Very rough, scruffy just like you with that beard.”  Éowyn held her hand out for the gelding to sniff. 

He rubbed his jaw, scraping his fingers through the coarse stubble, “It’s not a beard yet.” 

“Close enough.”  She gave him a smile as he strapped his bow on and went to fetch his tack.  Down the aisle he could hear her voice sweetly saying, “Hello, my darling.  Isn’t he a good horse to carry my Faramir about everywhere?”  There was a pause and she murmured, glancing back at him with her braid swinging, “You’d better not drop him.”  Faramir smiled.

When he came back, toting his saddle and blanket against his side with the bridle over his shoulder, she’d already haltered the horse for him and led Thorn from the barn.  He found her in the sunlight in a corner of the crowded courtyard, admiring her bracelet while the grey stood blinking and yawning.  Faramir, not as tired and having gotten his second wind, was full of sympathy—the poor beast would have to carry him again.  Éowyn took the bridle from him helpfully and he saddled the gelding, tightening the girth and noticing a few things while he did so.  The scuffed, leather saddlebags were oddly full looking and when Faramir peered into them he found a few sets of clothes.  Not his missing garments, but others of a rougher make.  For a second he was confused, but he’d gotten the correct saddle, left sitting just where he’d put it.  These must be mine…  Tied across the back of the saddle was a bedroll and full water skin.  There were also a set of padded leather hobbles, four spare horseshoes and two small tied packages.  Opening them, he discovered salt in one and oats in the other.  Éomer was right; they did give me everything I need.  Faramir was surprised, he’d expected more difficulties.  Perhaps this would not be the ordeal he’d dreaded.   

He lifted the reins over Thorn’s head, and slid the bit between his teeth, bridling him quickly.  Done tacking up, he turned to Éowyn, who was fiddling with her bracelet.  “Do you know when we’re going?”

She shook her head; she’d been holding the grey’s lead, now she tied it to the saddle.  Thorn stood quietly, ears flopped, eyes half-closed.  Faramir looked around.  Most were saddled already; there were, to his surprise, many of his archery students in the group.  Some noticed his glance and gave him shy smiles.  Gaer had said he was lumped in with the lads; maybe this was some sort of simple expedition for the youths to begin their careers as Riders on.  His jaw tightened… if this is only a practice run with younger soldiers then maybe Éomer will say it does not count…he could think up countless ways, I’m sure, to prolong my stay… 

“Soon, I think.  There’s my brother.”  Éowyn interrupted the increasingly angry and bitter turn of his thoughts.

“Good.”  He gave her a forcefully cheerful smile, determined not to seem less than enthusiastic.  Éomer could not fault him for lack of zeal—he was eager to go, to quit this ludicrous stay as a Rohirrim and take Éowyn away.    The King of Rohan moved to their side, a dark expression on his face.

***

His sister smiled at him.  Éomer spared a curious glance at what was obviously her latest gift, and then met her eyes.  His words were clipped; he was still trying to decide what to do and he felt that it would be best to give Faramir a choice in the matter.  At least, then, the consequences could not be blamed upon me alone if he chose to go on… “Elfhelm wants to meet me tomorrow, so I’m not going.  The company will ride, though, as planned.”

Éowyn’s face grew worried.  Faramir frowned, leaning one arm over his saddle in a casual stance.

Éomer took a step closer so their words would not be overheard, reluctantly looking the man in the face.  “Do you want to go still, Faramir, or…?”   He didn’t even get to finish.

“I’m going.”  It was in a caustic voice; there was suspicion in the Steward’s grey eyes as he gave a chilly smile.  Éomer was baffled, stepping back.  Did the man not understand?  Surely his question was seen as what it was—mere concern and an attempt at giving him a choice to make things easier than as an insult to his capabilities. 

He shrugged, capitulating.  “If you wish.”  An already mounted Rider had drawn his horse close, but none paid attention in the crowded courtyard.

As Éomer moved away, his sister came to his aid, “Are you certain?  It will be easy to catch up; they won’t be riding hard…”  He paused, half-turning.

“I’m certain.”  It was coolly dismissive and he saw Éowyn stepping back, about to follow him and perhaps persuade him to go.  She’d gotten a few steps away, several feet from the Steward when the Rider steered his horse closer, almost between them and Faramir.

Suddenly a new voice intruded, laughing, “I don’t know about that, my Lady…I rode hard last night…on this one’s mother, that is.”  The man made an obscene noise, high-pitched and squeally like a horse.  “Hey, Faramir?  Did you know that your dam liked it like that?” 

Éomer was appalled, turning back in time to see the emotion drain from Faramir’s face.  Éowyn’s eyes had gone wide, just as taken aback as he was.  The man leered down from the saddle.  The courtyard grew quiet in seconds, men and youths processing that something important and possibly entertaining was happening.  Heads turned, men swiveling in the saddle or stepping aside to look.  Horses stirred, uneasy at the silence, their shod hooves stomping at flies the only real sounds.  Faramir was still, his face looking hard, chiseled from cold rock; he did not reply.  Nearby, Éomer saw several men frown and mutter to each other—it was a grave insult, but if the Steward took it, he would be known an open target.  The man in the saddle still grinned down, waiting.  His grin widened as heartbeats mounted and there was no reply.

***

Faramir was outwardly very still, very tense.  Inwardly he was awash with fury.  How dare…?  No one, no one would have thought to speak ill of the Lady Finduilas in his City.  My mother?  He disgraces the reputation of my mother…my parent whom I know loved me unconditionally?   The Rider’s almost certain ignorance was no excuse.  An insult was an insult and this was one that must be met swiftly. 

Still, he was immobile, not quite able to make the necessary move, a lifetime of unanimity keeping him still.  His gift was suddenly heightened—he could feel Éowyn’s nervousness, Éomer’s surprise and then growing tension, the Rider who’d insulted him’s glee and the emotions of their audience.  Oddly, the Riders around him were more uneasy than anything.  Their faces were watchful, but not supportive of their own.  There was a sense of going too far, that their comrade has overstepped some silent boundary.  They were watching to see what would happen, taking no sides.  Gaer was near; his usually cheerful face was angered.  The rage made him feel surprisingly good; I have one friend, at least... 

Faramir looked up, straight into the man’s eyes, taking a small, single step away from Thorn.  He knew this man—this was the same big, flaxen bearded Rohirrim who’d laughed at him and led others into surrounding and mocking him right before Gaer had come to his rescue.  He didn’t speak; glancing away for a moment, trying to find some response while fighting his rage.

 The Rider smiled and turned away, chuckling confident and boastful as he lifted his reins and touched his horse’s flanks with his heel, ready to move off.  Faramir’s head snapped back up, feeling the man’s triumph.  “Hal wes þu, lytle Bregu…”  The use of the insolent pet name the Rohirrim had seen fit to give him was the last tiny push that crumpled his resistance.  His temper rose and overwhelmed him in a wave of black fury.

***

Do something!  Éomer shouted it mentally, frustrated and alarmed at the lack of action.  The gathered men’s murmurs had grown louder, more dissonant.  Then, as though prodded from his thought, Faramir did.   The Steward stepped forward and grasped the leg of the man who’d insulted him and in one powerful motion, jerked him from the saddle.  The Rider crashed to the ground, too surprised to curse or even try to catch himself, landing hard on his side, breath bursting out in an explosive grunt as he rolled face-down.  There was a collective breath of surprise from the crowd; Faramir and the Rider’s horses shied away, leaving a wide, open arena. 

For a second he felt only the same surprise as the spectators, but then Éomer came close to grinning, an astonishing surge of intense approval rolling through his mind.  When he’d finally acted, Faramir had acted well—swift and brutal, taking his opponent off guard and putting him at a disadvantage.  Perhaps he has merit…perhaps all my worries are for naught…  It was surprising—in their fight Faramir had been relatively ineffective.  However, Éomer did admit he’d caught the man off guard, charging him so.  He’d caught himself off guard, too.

As the stunned Rider lifted his head, one leg coming up under himself, the Steward walked the two strides that put him almost directly over the man, his face expressionless.  The space around them was empty, horses and men retreated.  Éomer found himself and Éowyn to be the only ones close and he stepped quickly forward, grasping her arm and pulling his frozen sister backwards with him.  He knew from long experience that brawls, once started, rarely stayed in one spot and the last thing he wished was for her to get accidentally struck.  Halting at the edge of the natural ring the men had formed, he made sure he could see; Éomer did not want to miss this.  She didn’t resist, even when he thrust her behind his arm; Éowyn’s only movement was to push back just enough to see around him.  Éomer allowed it since any sudden movements in their direction that resulted in stray punches would still land upon him, not her.

“Get up.”   Faramir spoke in a voice unlike any he’d heard from the Steward’s throat—this was cold as ice, adamant and acidly scornful. 

The Rider gathered himself, there was astonishement in his eyes, but he quickly hid it; his face became mocking again as he raised to one knee, hands balling into fists, ready to strike once he rose.  “Gea, lytle…” 

Faramir punched him in the forehead and the man went straight backwards, limbs outstretched, flopping belly up in the dust, breath knocked out again.  It was very impressive; Éomer fought another wide, delighted grin.  Yes…oh, good, good!

 The Rider’s face was dazed; his legs moved and he grasped his head, sputtering.   Again, Faramir spoke, again scornful and cold.  “Get up.” 

The crowd’s silence broke—there was a whoop from nearby, tone joyous and approving.  Men stirred, their voices in low murmurs, but this time they sounded far more well-disposed; there were even a few smiles.  Éomer jumped, surprised at the outburst, but he was more surprised by his instanteous and fortunately passing urge to yell, too.  The Steward’s action had been perfect, delightfully so.  And yet…he felt a thread of unease curl through his heart.  Faramir’s face was entirely cold; there was not even the slightlest pride or enjoyment in it.   Surely the man felt good in this, felt justified in ridiculing the Rider by defeating him so far without effort.  Surely… unconsciously Éomer pulled Éowyn a little closer to his side.  There was nothing but dark anger on Faramir’s face and that disturbed him.

The Rider thrust himself backwards with his heels and elbows, digging them into the dirt and grass, trying to gain a little distance.  He looked enraged and mortified to be retreating so, like a dog, scraping himself along the ground, belly to the sky.  Faramir followed coolly, steps slow and deliberate, not allowing it.  He repeated himself, louder. “Get up.”  There was scorn in his voice as he said loudly, in a Rohirric accent far, far better than any Éomer had heard him use, “Ástanda, ge áléwed, áscamelic gúðfreca.”

Éomer wanted to cheer and forcefully suppressed the urge.  There was a laugh in the crowd and he felt his mouth curve up in a grin.  What is wrong with me?  Behind him, he felt Éowyn twist his sleeve, her face pale.  He squeezed her arm reassuringly though it seemed to have no effect.  Éomer sobered looking at her.  This was not amusing to Éowyn.

His expression half-angry, half-uncertain, the Rider tried to rise again, but this time swifter.  He was kneeling, one foot flat on the ground, eyes wary and almost fully upright when Faramir hit him in the nose.  It was a single strike, hard enough to knock the man’s head back.  There was a burst of blood and the Rider staggered to his knees, nearly falling again with one hand coming up to his face as he voiced a short cry of pain.

Éomer became aware of many men’s eyes on him—they were watching to see his reaction.  This was not a typical fight, but quickly becoming more of an exercise in humiliation.  They were wondering when he would put a stop to it.  He was quiet, watching the Steward stand patiently over the Rider.  One more strike for Faramir…I will give him one more if he pleases.  It could not hurt and might serve a lesson for the watchers.

“…ge cifesboren…”  The Rider cursed in a thick voice, blood on his hands, staining his flaxen beard.

“Hlyston tó him! He hæg he cann â-cweðan bæc tó me!"  This time there was a thick coat of mockery on his words, and though Éomer did not truly understand the context, the Rider’s face reddened.  Faramir allowed the Rider to get to his feet, staggering a little; there was trepidation in his eyes and open confusion.  The Steward was resolute, a tiny smile now on his lips—the expression only made Éomer’s unease deepen.  This was not how men he knew acted.  This was strange, no swift contest of brute strength, but a beating and open mockery.  Faramir’s smile widened into a peculiar grin.  “I don’t think I need her skirts to hide behind anymore, do I?”

    The Rider’s face flushed; he looked furious and humiliated, but not quite ready to move on the Steward.

A gloating note was in his words now, still coupled with scorn and that strange, twisted smile.  “Do I?”

The Rider was silent, blood drying on his lips and chin, nose swelling.  Faramir appeared waiting for an answer.  When it didn’t come, the Steward raised his fists, looking pleased as he began to close the gap between them.

Face twisting with fury and a grudging anxiety, the Rider spat, “No.”  He withdrew a step and suddenly the fight was over.  Men’s voices rushed to fill the silent void as the fair-haired Rider retreated through the crowd.  Faramir was expressionless watching him.  There was no triumph, no nothing in his eyes and Éomer was reluctant to loosen his grip on Éowyn’s arm.  She pulled, though, and he did.  But he still felt that unease.  This man is not like us...  What Faramir was like he didn’t know, so he did the only thing he could and followed his sister.

***

She’d been horrified the entire time, her breath caught in her throat—he’d been so bestial and at the same time so matter-of-fact and altogether unlike the gentle man she knew or think I know that Éowyn could hardly watch.  Now, she crossed the ground between herself and Faramir.  He was flexing his hand, eyeing the bruised, reddened knuckles.  Luckily he hadn’t scraped himself anymore.  It was stupid, she thought, to be worrying about him.  Faramir hadn’t taken a single blow, he’d only given them. 

Stopping just short, she asked hesitantly, “Are…you all right?” 

“Fine.”  He gave her a sunny smile.  Behind her she could sense Éomer; coming through the milling crowd was Gaer.  He was the one who’d yelled when Faramir had hit the man the first time and laughed, too, later. 

Éowyn’s stomach twisted at his cheery voice.  She played with her bracelet. “Oh.”

“Are we ready to go?”  Faramir asked Gaer; he seemed utterly tranquil.  She felt queasy. 

“In a moment.”  The Rohirrim grinned, “You have to give me time to boast—I’m so proud.”  Éomer stirred, a slight smile on his lips, but said nothing.  He looked at her and his brow furrowed.  “In fact, my Lady,” Gaer inclined his head, “I was going to promise to watch over friend Faramir and guarantee his safe return—it is good to know my labors will not be needed.”  He grinned widely.

Faramir chuckled softly. “Whenever you’re ready.”  He whistled, moving away to collect his horse.  Éowyn just felt sick watching him.  What will they do to him and what have they done to him already?  The man she’d agreed to marry would not have fought like that, would not have taunted or struck the soldier down over and over.  She hugged herself and her brother bent to whisper in her ear,

“What is it?”

Shaking her head, she murmured back, “Nothing.”   

“He did the right thing,” He paused, “the right way.”  Éowyn turned to look at him, frowning.  “They will let him alone now, you shouldn’t be upset.”

“You’re sure?”

Éomer did not hesitate, though she felt he wished to. “Yes.”  She relaxed minutely; still, it was disturbing and she watched his dark hair for as long as she could see him in the crowd.  Was that my Faramir?  Somehow, Éowyn thought not.

***

Faramir found his horse beside the barn, grazing.  Luckily he’d set his reins over the saddle; Thorn hadn’t stepped upon them.  The gelding raised his head, chewing while he took a hold of the lead.  “Come on.”

A voice made him stop short.  “That was an interesting display.”  Mithrandir stepped out of the shadow of the stable. 

He felt himself stiffen.  “I had to.”

The wizard raised one eyebrow.  “Indeed.  Well, I’m sure you have made quite an impression.”

Faramir felt irritated.  “What was I supposed to do?”

“I’m not condemning you, lad.”  It was reassuring.  “You’ve got them at bay for the moment…just long enough, I’m sure.”

“Long enough for what, Gandalf?”  He leaned against the saddle, curious, his own voice and words made him feel much like the student again, frowning over dusty ledgers.

A gentle smile showed the wizard felt the same.  “No more lessons, I’m afraid.  This is the end, my dear boy.  You’re finished.  The only lessons you’ll learn are the ones at hand—it’s up to you to discover the answers.”

“What?”  Faramir felt alarm. 

“Don’t worry.  You’re grown up enough by far, Faramir.  It is time to ride out, to be on your own.”  Gandalf chuckled, “A man of the Mark at the moment.  I confess, I did not see this coming—” He winked, “I told you these old eyes see very little these days.”

Faramir’s alarm was rapidly crystallizing into worry as he parroted.  “On my own?” 

“Aye.”  When he opened his mouth, Gandalf said, “You’ve passed the first test and well…if done a bit overmuch.” He chuckled, “You did not really hurt the man, but you put a great deal of respect back into him.  It was done well enough, in truth.”

Thorn shifted under his arm, head stretching back down to graze again as he asked, coming back to the one thing that had struck him, “What do you mean on my own?”

“There is no place for wizards in this new age.”

“But…”

Gandalf sighed deeply, “Many things that have been for years untold are growing dim, fading away.”  He rubbed his hands together, looking at them briefly, “The very gift you carry, Faramir, will fade in your line.  Only one more that I see shall bear the burden of other’s hearts.”

“What?”  He could not keep up.

“I’m leaving, lad.  Leaving this free world to you.  I have no purpose, no enemy to balance or justify my existence.  I would not be a curious old man, a wizard to tell stories and do tricks at court for the laughter of those who know nothing.”

Faramir could understand some, now.  “Where are you going?”

“Home.”  Gandalf smiled and came close, putting his hand on his shoulder.  “Fair willing, we shall meet again.”

“But it will not be in this world.”  He understood and was deeply saddened.

“I have no parting words of wisdom prepared, no counsel.”  Gandalf’s voice grew almost mischievous, amused, “But one—the headstrong Éomer…he shall be your best of friends if you can overcome this, a true ally to the end of your years.”  The mischief died and he grew grave, “Save him and you save yourself.”

Save him?  “From what?”

“The Mark is wide, fraught with danger.  It shall certainly come to you though I cannot see the depth of it—perhaps very little but that which would bind one man’s friendship to another.”

Faramir was of the opinion that nothing short of near death would cause him and Éomer to be the “best of friends”.  He swallowed, sad and remorseful.  “I wish you’d spoken…I would have spent less time…”

“You don’t need a teacher anymore; you don’t need to waste time with an old man nor mourn the lack.  Headstrong Éomer and fearful Éowyn…they are worth more attention than I.  Those two shall keep you busy I’m afraid.”  The wizard glanced up as there was a shout,

“Faramir!  Let’s go!  We ride!”  It was Gaer.  The men and youths in the courtyard were mounted now.  They waited upon him.

“Go on, lad.”  His face crinkled in a smile.  “I have great confidence in you.”

 Faramir nodded with his heart melancholy; he was near tears at the warm, fatherly tone of the wizard’s voice.  “Goodbye, Mithrandir.”

“Goodbye, Faramir.” 

He turned and put his foot in the stirrup, swinging aboard Thorn.  The gelding lifted his head, still chewing a mouthful of grass as Faramir rode back.  Éowyn was standing at the side; Merry and Pippin were near her.  He smiled down at them, still saddened.

“Goodbye Faramir.”

“Goodbye, Faramir, I’ll watch over Frodo.”  Pippin promised this, his face solemn. 

“Thank you.”  Faramir nodded back and the two hobbits scrambled away, leaving him and Éowyn alone.  He leaned down a little in the saddle, “Come closer.”

She did, but warily.  “What?”

He smiled, sad, and said the first of the lines he’d repeated countless times over the summer.  He’d actually rehearsed them enough times under Halorl’s supervision that his accent was passable.  “Ic þe axige, æfneð bisgu ná, min frendscipe…”  Éowyn’s eyes lit up, she looked delighted.  “Ic þe axige, ná cearo. Efne a coss.”  He leaned down, one hand tangled firmly in the gelding’s mane.  Standing on her tiptoes, she met him for the kiss.  It was short, his position was awkward.  She rested her hand on his knee, looking up as he straightened a little and said the rest, “Min langoð ac eower geférscipe, genǽged sweoloð me hwænne Ic eftsið.  Giet, a coss tó habban me.”

Éowyn’s hand clasped the back of his neck and she gave him a much deeper, much warmer kiss.  When it was over she released him and said softly, “Be careful.”

It touched him.  “I will.”

“I’ll miss you.”  She smiled, swallowing, “Thank you for that.”

Answering jauntily, he said, “All part of the job.”  He softened, murmuring.  “You’re welcome, I love you.”

“I love you.”  Faramir smiled back at her and turned his horse away.  A few men shouted and they left at a canter, exiting Edoras in a cloud of dust, flickers of shod hooves and tossed up earth. 

***

            To her surprise her brother put his arm around her shoulder, squeezing in a reassuring fashion.  He didn’t speak, just left her alone with the swift hug.  After a few minutes of looking at the fading dust as the men rode away, she turned and began mounting the stairs back into Meduseld.  It will not be so long. 

It was sixteen days.

Translations:

Ic nat.—I don’t know.

Gea, hit is gleaw tó canst æror ge bycgan.—Yes, it is wise to try before you buy

Hal wes þu, lytle Bregu—Farewell, Little Prince

ge cifesboren…--you bastard

Hlyston tó him! He hæg he cann â-cweðan bæc tó me!—Listen to him!  He thinks he can talk back to me!

Ástanda, ge áléwed, áscamelic gúðfreca.—Stand up, you pitiful, shameful warrior.

Ic þe axige, æfneð bisgu ná, min frendscipe—I ask you, don’t worry my love

Ic þe axige, ná cearo. Efne a coss—I ask you, no sorrow.  Only a kiss.

Min langoð ac eower geférscipe, genǽged sweoloð me hwænne Ic eftsið.  Giet, a coss tó habban me-- My desire for your companionship will warm me until I return. Still, a kiss to hold me.