Éomer walked away from his sister to give her some privacy, only to be almost immediately stopped.  Despite her melancholy face, his heart was upbeat.  Éowyn would be fine in another day; Faramir would not be gone long.  Good, I will not have to think about him for two days…the promise was delightful because not even Faramir’s surprisingly satisfying fighting skills could evoke more than a quick burst of comradeship.   He was actually humming when a familiar voice spoke up.

“I think it’s time we really talked about this.”  Aragorn had fallen into step with him.  “I want to know exactly what he’s going to be doing and where you’re going to take him.”

Too bad.  “I don’t know exactly what he’s going to be doing.”  Or where we’re going.  He glanced sideways.  Things do not work like that here, there are no councils, we do as we wish, go where we are needed…

The King halted, forcing Éomer to halt, too.  “I like him; I don’t want a new Steward.”

Irritated, he snapped, “I’m not going to kill him.” 

“Then what are your plans?”  Aragorn raised an eyebrow, “Do you have plans or are you just going to work him like a dog until he both breaks and revolts or you decide you’ve had enough entertainment?  Because I won’t tolerate either of those approaches—if this is serious, it is serious.  If it is not, then frankly I don’t see the point.”  He smiled slightly, darkly, “I don’t see the point anyhow…or rather I do and I think it’s foolish.”

Staring into the air in front of him, he answered, “We’ll be gone two weeks.”  At least.  With Elfhelm’s request and its unknown room for delay, the two could easily extend to three before he was back in Edoras for good.

“Where?”  The King’s tone brooked no arguments and no condescending attitude.   He was wholly serious. 

Éomer took a breath and puffed it out; all his earlier delight was gone as he finally turned to fully face the man.  “The mountains first, for about four days and then we return and then go to the Wold for a day or two and then back here.  And probably a day in the Westemnet.”

Aragorn was still serious, still focused; his face was intent.  “You’ll be riding fast to get that done in just two weeks.  It’s a good journey to the Wold.”

He shifted his feet, refusing to roll his eyes.  “And?”

“What if he cannot handle that speed?  Men in Gondor do not spend their lives on horseback.”

Then we leave him behind.  Fool, do you think I really would?  Come, he is the man my sister loves and despite the fact that other than for a brief, shining two minutes I can’t stand the sight of him, I would not abandon him.  If only to avoid her grief.  His annoyance grew but he fought it, trying to answer the question with the tone it deserved to be answered with—equanimity and calm regard.  “I will deal with it.”

The King folded his arms, gaze narrowing.  “How?”

Éomer ground his teeth, a slight edge escaping his control and leaking into his voice.  “I don’t know yet.”

“I think you should begin thinking about it.”

I think you should leave me alone.  This is between Faramir and myself, not you.  “I assure you, I will.”

He’d turned away, rather pointedly he’d thought, but Aragorn spoke up again, “I don’t think you will.”

This time Éomer took a deep breath, pushing his irritation into the back of his mind.  He is concerned, he has a right to be, Faramir is an important part of Minas Tirith’s rule and there is no reason for me to act boorishly.  I am not a boor.   “All right.”  He spoke slowly, forcing tolerance and encouragement into his voice as he turned back to face the King.  “Do you have a suggestion on how I should deal with that situation?”

Aragorn looked surprised, very surprised, and then he faltered.  “No, not at hand.”

            Then why do you expect me to?  “Would it put your mind at ease to discuss it and…” Here Éomer literally had to push the words up his throat, “other potential situations later?” 

            “Yes, it would.”  Aragorn’s expression had risen to outright astonishment and then a suspicious pleasure.  Happily, he began moving again.  His voice was almost hesitant, as though he wasn’t exactly sure on how to speak to him.  “Do you expect more incidents like this morning?”

            “The fight?”  Éomer grinned at the memory, trying to ignore the tendril of unease that went with it.  He hadn’t expected such a fine show from the stiff-laced and courteous Steward.  It was occasionally good to be proven wrong about a man’s character…and yet, if you were wrong about that, then what else might you have judged wrongly about him...?  Perturbed, he thrust the thought away, focusing again on Aragorn.

            “Yes.”  The King frowned.

            Shrugging, he answered, “Probably.”

            “And what will you —”

            Éomer cut him off impatiently.  “Let him defend himself—he did a fine job of it.”  Why do you worry?  Did you not watch?  He couldn’t remember seeing Aragorn in the crowd.  But then I wasn’t paying attention…

            “What if he loses?”  Aragorn added, halting once more at the foot of the stairs to Meduseld, “Not just loses, but what if it goes badly for him?  Not all men fight honorably.”

            What if he does?  What if it does?  Are you implying I would allow him to be beaten senseless and possibly badly injured and look on with delight?  Éomer was outraged, not so much for himself, but for the lack of care for his sister’s heart that the question implied.  His voice a snarl, he spat out, “If that occurs I will defend him myself.” 

            Furious, he began walking again, climbing the stairs to Meduseld with jerky, furious strides.  The King was silent and did not follow. 

***

            Éowyn watered her mother’s flowers, watching the cool liquid roll in brilliant little drops over the petals, shining, and illuminating the already vibrant colors.  She didn’t think about who would take care of them when she departed because she didn’t want to.  Instead, she touched the soil, feeling it damp and gritty on her fingertips, making sure she wasn’t drowning the roots.   The death of these flowers would be horrible.  Sweet and strong, the smell of roses filled her nostrils; as she looked at them it was almost too strong, cloying.  Éowyn opened the window quickly.

The morning breeze that blew through the open window felt good; it blew stray hairs out of her eyes.  She looked out, gazing at the foothills.  Yellowish green grass and brush rose into isolated trees and then thickets; looming overhead the mountains were still and remote, their peaks cold looking.  Éowyn wondered what the Gap of Rohan looked like, what it would be like to cross those between boundaries, to gaze up and up and see the fences of ancient rock and a final break in their endless wall, a clear view to the West—she’d never done so, never done more than venture into the hills behind Edoras with her brother or Théodred.  I, she thought with sudden clarity, I would like to go to Isengard…  It made her smile and forget her sadness for a moment—I could, why couldn’t I?  But she wouldn’t.  She would stay right here, where she belonged.  A strange bitter current ran through her mind, the thought falling like silt and settling to her very feet, where I’ve always been.

    Éowyn glanced at the table—the damned dagger still lay there.  She hadn’t yet found either a place to dispose of it or the desire to touch it.  Likely, it would lie there for a long time.  Faramir could have it back if he wanted to; it was an expensive, beautifully made thing, very fine…just not to her taste at all.  Her muddy fingers hovered over the bracelet, but didn’t touch.  Raising her hand, she looked at the stones—they were green again, shifting immediately darker, an instant change to violet blue, when she stepped into the shade of the wall.  It was amusing and diverting to stick her wrist into the sunlight, then the shadow, cool, and then the warmth.  Green, indigo, green, indigo…Éowyn laughed and stopped herself.  She was being silly.

I miss him… cupping her wrist, she felt saddened.  If Faramir were still here there would be a good chance he’d be right beside her, perhaps…asking me more questions…  Shaking her head imperceptibly, she thought, no, he asked enough earlier to satisfy…or did he?  He’d stopped, she’d felt it, and changed his mind, distracting her with his silly actions.  Éowyn closed her eyes and thought fiercely, it doesn’t matter.  She missed him regardless, missed the wordless and gentle touch in the back of her mind.  He wasn’t so gentle when…again she thought, it doesn’t matter, be silent!  Her disturbance had not faded, simply relocated itself, waiting patiently to burst upon her and Éowyn moved faster, watering again, determined not to think.  Of course she immediately failed.

Faramir had fought, he’d had to and if he’d done so in an odd, perturbing manner, that was that, no more.  He’d spoken of his mother enough and in such loving tones that she should have been far more worried if he’d not fought.  It was nothing she had to fear anyhow, he had himself laughed at the very thought of raising a hand to her when she’d been attacking him over leaving her alone in the garden.  There is no reason to feel like this…Éomer was right.  But he was different then, he’s changed…into what?  She didn’t want him to be just like a man of her people, nor did she want him to be just like a man of Gondor…I want him to be Faramir, naught and no one else.  The fact that he’d changed from that man already was mildly troubling and yet…don’t you like him still?  Isn’t he still good and virtuous and loving?

  Yes.  She thought about his arms around her the night before, his hand in hers, and other times.  It was not so much his attitude towards her that was changing, but a darkening of the one towards everyone else that bothered her.  He seemed quicker to anger, quicker to question and react with force.  Stop, stop thinking about it.  You’re doing no good.  This time she managed to keep her mind quiet.

The sun had risen faintly, shedding new sunlight on more of the floor.  She was just finishing watering and plucking the dead blooms and about to leave when there was a voice, “Éowyn?”

It was Arwen’s voice, surprising her.  “Come in, I’m in here.” 

“Oh, this is a lovely place.”   The Queen walked in fully, turning around to appreciate the small room.  The tri-colored puppy trotted in, floppy tail wagging and immediately pounced upon a small drift of rose petals, burying its black nose in them.  Rusco rolled and played under their amused eyes.  “And here I thought your folk had no gardens for leisure.”

“This was my mother’s.”  For the first time Éowyn looked at the walls, the built-in stone boxes that held the flowers, the small pegs that let the vines grow up and into intricate patterns and the carefully tiled floor and wondered just when and how the idea had come for this room to be.  It reminded her more of Gondor.   She wondered if her mother had traveled there or if the room had been before even her.

“What are you doing today?”  Arwen appeared curious.

“Nothing I know of.”

“Oh, good, neither am I.”

Éowyn smiled some.  “Do you have any ideas?”

“No.”  They walked back into her bedroom.   A moment later Rusco bolted after them, panting.  His coat was dusted with soil and his snout was crusted with it; Éowyn frowned at him, he’d been nosing in the flowerbeds.  Arwen seemed to be searching for things to say, so different from her usual offhand manner.  Éowyn wondered if everyone was going to act oddly today.  Perhaps it is me…she was aware of her despondency, a listless tint to her mood, making her quieter.  Faramir…what are you doing right now?  Striking another man?  Arwen stroked the bed’s headboard, tracing the roses and vine design up the posts.  “This is lovely furniture.”

“It was my mother’s, too.  These were her rooms.”

“Very nice, I love the carvings, so natural, almost elvish—what’s that?”  She nodded to the great wooden trunk sitting in the corner.

“Old clothes and jewelry of my mother’s.”

Arwen spoke hesitantly, “Can I see them?”

“Go ahead, I don’t mind.”  Éowyn found herself slightly curious.  She hadn’t looked in the trunk but this morning, to snatch out the high-collared gown and before that?  Years, oh, years...   The Queen knelt on the floor; she, too, wore a dark blue gown; they looked like some strange twins, one tall and lithe, the other shorter and shapelier.  Hers is better…Éowyn touched the simple, soft fabric of her dress, kneeling beside her as the Queen opened the trunk.  Inside was a small wooden box set upon many folded clothes.  The puppy waddled to them and she patted him absently, feeling his warm tongue lick her hands.

“These are beautiful.  Why don’t you wear them?”  Arwen held up a literal handful of necklaces drawn from the box; each was suspended from a finger, turning them this way and that. 

“No use, they’d just get lost or ruined.”

She admired them, touching the gold, the silver, and the various glittering stones.  “You’re bringing all this aren’t you?”

 “I suppose I am.”  She’d not thought about it before and Éowyn leaned forward, looking into the neatly folded clothes.  “I don’t even know what all is in here.”

Arwen gave her a smile, “Well, let’s see then, since we have nothing better to do.”

“All right.”  And something occurred to her as she watched the Queen carefully replace the necklaces, straightening them so they would not tangle.  “You began to tell me about Aragorn…”

“Yes, I did.”  She sighed deeply and her hands faltered.

“Well?”  Éowyn watched Rusco sniff about her room, hoping the Queen had taken him outside recently.

“All right.”  Arwen looked at the ceiling, “You will tell him that…” She took a deep breath and said tiredly, “He kept asking and I didn’t want to travel any further and it irritated me.  And I was upset about my father and it all accumulated and I’m heartily sorry and I forgive him.”

He really didn’t do anything.  Smothering her amusement, she asked, “That’s it?”   Éowyn could suppose she could understand that.  It wasn’t so hard.  Really, were her own problems less petty?  No, I don’t think so and I’ve been harsher upon Faramir…tender to him one moment and the next fearful…she, at least, has been evenly distant.

“No.”

She sat fully, curling her legs beneath her and wiping her dirty fingers on her gown with a flash of amusement—she’d hardly been able to keep one clean, ever—and picking up one of the necklaces to touch.  The metal was icy from being shut up, making goose bumps rise on her arms.  “Oh.”

The Queen selected a ring, turning it to make the stone gleam in the morning light.  It looked to be an emerald, set in gold.  Éowyn didn’t push her, she’d been pushed enough herself.  Now, if Faramir would simply learn some patience…  “My brothers will not speak and it troubles him…” She must have seen the confusion on her face, because she explained, “My brothers and I have a choice—we can choose to take the ship across the sea or forsake it and die as mortals.  They have not spoken.  They refuse to discuss it with my father.   He could, I think, accept losing me to Estel—he knows well I love him, but since Elladan and Elrohir do not speak…” She replaced the ring and chose another, a simple band, turning it over and over, running her fingers along the smooth gold.  “He fears to lose us all, until the end of time.”

Again, Éowyn could understand and she nodded slightly.  She gazed at the different colors of gowns in the trunk, wondering what they looked like, when her mother had worn them.  None were familiar.  There was the soft warmth of velvet, the gleam of silk; gold threads, silver and beautiful, intricately intertwined patterns.  Éomer might know…

“He does not speak to Estel of such things,” Arwen smiled a crumpled, sad smile, “He do not wish to hurt him; my father loves him like a son, he is very proud.  And yet…” With a sigh, she continued, “yet he asks me to reconsider, tells me my people would not reproach me for turning away from love in the face of death.  Tells me things…he’s seen a great deal of mortals die in his life and he reminds me of them…how weak and fragile.  It makes me fear for Estel and myself.”

            Éowyn thought of her brother, asking her if she was sure about wedding Faramir, saying he would support her no matter her decisions.  How terrible for her…she has far more to lose.  The smallness of her own heartbreak made her ill while facing Arwen’s calm composure.

            “You don’t know what it is like…you know you’re going to die, you’ve always known.  I have not.  I must deal with it now.  And Estel…” Her voice grew grim, underscored with a dark, burning anger, “He speaks to me about war, and about the battles he expects to fight to make his kingdom forever safe.”  Her fingers drummed on the side of the trunk. 

Éowyn jumped when Arwen hissed, her fair voice ablaze with fury, “He speaks to me about war!  As if he was the immortal!  He could die so easily, a stumble on the wrong patch of ground, an infected scratch, a fall from a horse…anything!  How…it is impossible, great man that he is and still he is so fragile!”  The Queen’s eyes were almost wild, “And if he did, if he did not live to his full years I, too, would die—a tree struck down by lightning, a sheer chance of fate.  I couldn’t live without him.”

            Éowyn didn’t speak; she had no words that she felt would help and the depth of the elven woman’s anger was alarming.  The puppy cocked its ears at his mistress’s voice, wagged its tail nervously, and then went back to investigating.

            “And he speaks to me of children...in the same sentence almost.  He does not think of death, only victory and heirs.  Only happiness since the shadow has fallen away from the land.”  She fell silent and they did not talk for some time, simply pushing around the jewelry, uncovering bracelets and armbands and a finely made circlet of gold.

            Finally, Éowyn said, hoping to add some levity, “Faramir has named at least one of ours already.”

            Arwen laughed, but it sounded despairing.  “Is that so?”

            “Yes.”

            “You poor dear, and you’re not even wed.”  She smiled, “Estel has a list, but then he’s had longer to think on it.”

            A list!  Éowyn marveled at this, horrified.  And she’d thought Faramir odd.

            “I meant it, I was angry he would not drop the subject of Isengard…as if I wished to sleep upon the hard ground for another two weeks when I did not have to.  The entire place is naught but a giant, phallic shaped stone, surrounded by water and rubbish to hear the hobbits tell it—and who would care to see that?  Why should I care to look upon the foul, traitor Saruman and hear his lies?”  Arwen shook her head, “He will assume I’m simply upset about leaving my father and I am, I am.”  With a watery sigh, she whispered, “Oh, how I am.  I will lose my father, my grandmother and any chance to see my mother again.”  She looked down and Éowyn fancied she could see tears glimmering in the elven woman’s beautiful eyes, drops of dew on her eyelashes.  “He will understand that.  But do not speak of anything else.  It is a woman’s foolishness that I worry about Estel, he can care for himself, he’s done it long enough.  It would only anger him, he’d think I saw him as a child—” Arwen laughed softly, “As the child he is.”  She dropped the ring back into the box; it clinked amongst the other jewelry.  “He is a child, a silly lad not even to his hundredth year.  I’m wiser, older, more experienced…” Her eyebrows raised, a smile quirking her lips, “Wiser.”  Arwen laughed again.  Éowyn smiled.  “But I got over that more quickly than you might believe.”  She sighed, “You won’t tell him any more than I wish?”

            She shook her head, sincere.  “I won’t.”  She wondered if that was all.

            As though answer, the Queen said quietly, “Tell him what I wanted, the rest is between us or myself alone.”

            They sat for a silent moment.  “Well, let’s see what some of these gowns look like—we’ve been pawing this gold for too long.”  Arwen stood with her voice full of false cheer.

            Éowyn smiled, not feeling like smiling at all, “All right.”  She placed the box of jewelry onto the bed and lifted out the first of the dresses, holding it up.

            “Oh, this is gorgeous!  You’ve got to wear it.”

            What for?  It is too fine for everyday.  She wondered, but smiled anyway.  The little dog lay on its belly, perfectly in the center of the doorway to the flower room, chewing on a small twig.  He rolled over onto his back, shaking his big ears and snapping at his bit of wood when he dropped it.  Glancing at Rusco, they laughed together, making him cock his head to the side adorably.

            “Best present I ever received,” The Queen’s eyes shined, “Thank your brother, will you?”  She chuckled and called the puppy, leaving Éowyn wondering.

***

There was no obvious leader to the small company—Faramir noticed this immediately.   Riding in a loose formation around him was ten men and five boys.  Several long-legged and gangling dogs followed in their wake with pink tongues flapping and feathered tails aloft.  They panted, surging this way and that and bawling in excitement.  Thorn did not pull on his bit as some of the geldings did, their necks arched and hooves striking out with desire to run, but seemed content to follow the slow canter.  Again Faramir felt a little sorry for the animal. 

 He and the younger Rohirrim were nearer to the back of the company; in the front two men he did not know rode side by side and gestured, talking to each other over the sounds of the horses’ hooves.  The man he’d fought sat his mount several places up; he never looked back.  Faramir watched the two men leading and assumed they were arguing.  What about?  The route, the pace or even something I can’t fathom?  How do they make decisions if there is no foremost ranking man?  Do they discuss it?  Is that what they’re doing?  He wondered this while moving to the rhythm of Thorn’s choppy strides, one hand holding his slack reins, the other at ease on his thigh.  His ride was occasionally uncomfortable; the burly gelding was not the smoothest and getting used to the rough, lurching gait took time.  Gripping the dark mane, he concentrated for a while on finding a rhythm, matching their movements.  As he rode, feeling his soreness and weariness from the night before, Faramir half-hoped the men in front would simply stop to argue.  But they didn’t and now three men cantered abreast, gesturing and shouting over the beats of shod hooves as they traveled further and further from Edoras. 

            In fact, they did not stop at all.  The Riders let the horses choose the pace and the animals slowed often as they entered the foothills, picking their way around depressions and rock-strewn parts of the path.  It was a good enough road, wide, fairly clear and obviously used by carts or wagons.  Faramir allowed Thorn to decide on his own course, reasoning that the horse knew better than he did where to put its feet.  Small, rushing streams were splashed through as they rode steadily deeper into the foothills of the White Mountains, rewetting Faramir’s boots even though he pulled his feet from the stirrups.  The terrain became arduous with the horses leaping up short, steep hills in methodical bursts of effort, heads bobbing, tails streaming out behind and then going down them carefully, hindquarters gathered under themselves, blowing snorts of exertion.  Horseshoes clinked and scraped off rocks, saddles creaked rhythmically and Faramir, despite the roughening landscape, was falling asleep. 

            He looked about, trying to keep his eyes open.  By mid-morning light Rohan was still beautiful and even more rugged appearing—the farther away they got, the more the land seemed to grow.  What had been a striking view earlier now filled his entire vision.  Turning his head to peer back, Faramir was astonished to see that Edoras, a good sized city, was really no more than a fitfully glimmering pebble tossed onto a gigantic green-gold tabletop of swaying grasses.  Green and gold…the colors of the Mark made perfect sense with the sight. He looked at the mountains, seeing the same burnished russet of the leather he wore reflected in the seams of dark rock and thickets of rough-trunked trees. Some leaves were turning already, adding more gold to the landscape.  White, too, capped the peaks in ethereal, blinding snow.  Sunlight reached out in long streaks, making the snow spark like ghostly fire.  The Rohirrim bear their land upon their backs and proudly upon their chests.  Faramir touched the still strange outline of the horse upon his surcoat and wondered if that the familiarly etched White Tree with its delicate limbs, broad trunk and angular stars might feel much the same way by the time he wore it again.  No, no.  He was vaguely disturbed by that and resumed looking about himself.  

They had ridden higher than he’d thought and he could see the Snowbourn and its wooded banks gleaming like a long, curved mithril wire, sides set with dull green beads, against the buff plains.  Leading off into the distance and out of sight, the river gave off dazzling glints as the sunlight touched it.  He remembered the icy water and shivered.  Beyond the Snowbourn, the horizon had no end, no boundaries of any kind to steady him and he felt briefly dizzy and very small looking out over so much space.  Gondor was well bracketed, safely enclosed in mountains and the shores of the Anduin.  It is so small…Faramir had never thought of his homeland as being tiny, but it was in comparison.  Ithilien, his princedom itself, was a mere fingernail of land between the Great River and Mordor, full of bumpy, gnat-bite like hills compared to this pan-flat skyline that led straight up into the snowy pinnacles where he was currently headed.  It was a rustic beauty, definitely, but still beauty.

 Returning his eyes to their path, he saw that the lightly forested slopes were full of game.  Surprised deer sprang out of thickets, white tails aloft and wagging; birds exploded from clumps of brush or flew from tree to tree squawking and rabbits scurried, zigzagging back and forth, daring death by shod hooves before disappearing.  Gazing into the trees he spotted various animals that stayed hidden while the Riders jogged or cantered by—a flash of red fur, a fox; grey and black lines, a raccoon and yellow eyes, a crouching, big-eared coyote.  Many, many birds hopped or set to wing, feathers bright in the sun; unfortunately they rode too fast and too loudly for him to hear any song other than a hawk’s sharp cry.  Under him Thorn paid no attention to these distractions, continuing on his plodding way, keeping Faramir’s position in the midst of the Riders.  The hounds dashed into the brush, yelping, only to come back with only burrs and barb-scratched muzzles for their pains.

            He rubbed the horse’s neck, patting it, feeling the warm life of the animal that served him.  Thorn’s ears flicked back in reply and Faramir smiled a little.  Time passed with the sun climbing in the cloudless sky, but a strong wind kept it from becoming hot.  The Riders’ voices began lifting in song now, sometimes more than one tune at the same time, making the men around him laugh and compete by sheer volume and enthusiasm as to which song would be sung at the moment.   Faramir, not entirely able to understand the quick lyrics, or sing in a manner remotely considered pleasant by anyone he’d ever performed in front of, confined himself to humming along whenever he could.

            Gaer noticed and rode close on a chestnut gelding, half-turned to ask, “Why don’t you sing with us?  The words aren’t hard, come, you’ve learned them by now.  Don’t be shy, Faramir.”  He grinned over, eyes glinting, “Come, brother, join us.”

            The use of the word brother touched him; it was freely given, there was an easy smile on the man’s face, acknowledging the friendship offered.  Looking at him, then back ahead at the green cloaks of the Riders in front of him, Faramir answered with embarrassment and longing, “I can’t sing.”  He wished to fit in as the young, red-haired Rider seemed to be asking but this route was closed to him.

            Gaer stared at him for a moment and then burst out laughing.  “Ná, ná, ge eart ná Rídend, Faramir…” He shook his head, smiling, “Ge ná canst cantic,” Gaer looked at him again and snickered good-naturedly, “ge ná canst árídan…” He held up a hand, raising his eyebrows, then wagging them, “Ac, ge canst níðplega ond gearwe!”  The Rohirrim laughed again and leaned over to give Faramir a friendly slap on the shoulder.  “Good thing, too, eh?”  He chuckled and urged his horse forward.  By the time his words were translated he was already too far away to answer and Faramir rode alone, humming in a melancholy fashion.  The songs were fairly simple, tunes fitting with the strides and speed of the animals surging beneath them; the Rohirrim’s voices were good, all untrained and sometimes a bit rough, but far, far exceeding his own. 

    Eventually, Faramir decided, guessing that if one judged by the pace and time spent, he would have been riding into Osgiliath before now.  That’s roughly thirty miles?  It’s been over three hours, but I can’t be sure with the speed.  Squinting at the sun, he estimated it was just barely noon.  The boys looked just as tired as he felt, grainy-eyed and sagging in their saddles, but there was no end in sight.  The wheel ruts just kept going with dust rising around the horses’ flanks as they traveled; the grass between the ruts was browned and parched from the lack of rain.  In front of them the White Mountains rose, indomitable, unassailable.  How did my brother fare in the Gap under the wizard’s eye?  Looking at the peaks, he wondered and was pained by the knowledge that unless he questioned one of the Fellowship and they chanced to remember if Boromir had spoken, he would never know.  Thorn stumbled and he steadied him with a murmur and a hand on the reins.  What happened to his horse that my brother walked into Imladris?  What…? 

  Under him the grey was sweating, lather stinging the creases in his scabbed hands when he patted his neck.  Faramir rubbed them on his trousers, smelling salt and horse and tried not to feel his weariness and increasing soreness.  With a wry smile, he thought, thirsty, tired, aching and surrounded by lustily singing Rohirrim, why, oh why didn’t I just laugh in Éomer’s face when I had the chance?  He gave me plenty of chances.

They rode for another hour along the woody hills, climbing steadily higher before the trail curved sharply right and downwards, entering a small, narrow valley.  Faramir could have cheered.  Itself fairly flat and filled with tall, dry grass, there were on both sides of this little dale an upgrade that rose steeply, slick-looking surface of short, yellowed brush marred with rocky outcroppings, while above the vast sky above was cut into a tiny, very vivid slice of blue.  Inside the valley was a very basic and obvious camp—a small thatched roof lean-to, a large blackened fire-pit ringed with stones and many hunks of logs to sit upon.  To his surprise there were men there already.  Horses grazed in the valley; there were three large wagons sheltered under the lean-to.  Thorn and every other gelding’s strides lengthening with anticipation, the company galloped hard and rough, fanning out as they did so.  Several of the Riders whooped a greeting while the hounds bawled eagerly.

Smoke rose in a grey thread and as he rode up to the camp Faramir was suddenly starving.  But the animal beneath him came first—he did not need anyone to tell him that in this land of the horse-lords.  He stood in the saddle, gauging the weakness of his legs as Thorn galloped and hoped he would be able to walk without looking drunk.  I should have spent more time on a horse this summer…

They slowed in a flurry of dust and dismounted.  Men shouted back and forth; he heard his pet name and another man’s coupled and then laughter and exclamations.  Faramir didn’t waste the energy on translating.  He stamped his feet, striving to rid himself of the odd limp feeling of his taxed muscles.  Thorn tried to rub his heavy, sweat-damp head on him, but he gently pressed the horse away, saying softly, “You’d push me over.”  The last thing he wanted was to appear weak or foolish in front of so many potential adversaries.  Faramir scratched around and under the bridle to placate the horse, his fingers stinging again, then began to unknot the girth.  Around him men did the same, though considerably faster.

 “You need a new name.”  Near the lean-to, which seemed to be used exclusively to shelter tack, Faramir lifted the saddle from Thorn’s sweaty back; it felt much heavier than it had in Edoras.  Setting it upright, as was proper, and laying the blankets over it to air, he turned.  Behind him the gelding chewed his bit and nosed his side, impatient to be untacked.

“What?”

Gaer was looking at him very seriously, though if he tried, Faramir could still see the twinkle in the man’s eyes.  “I’ve been thinking about it.  It has to be a good one, meaning two things—those are nobler.”

“Well, what do you want me to do?  I don’t know any names.”  I can barely speak the language.  He took off the bridle and halter, unbuckling one of the saddlebags to retrieve the padded hobbles.  Dropping to one knee with a grimace—his joints were all aching, his muscles protesting the prolonged ride, he began to carefully fasten them on.  Thorn yawned, dark tail slapping his dappled flanks and then stood with his head lowered, hind leg cocked, eyes half-closed and lower lip drooping comically.  Faramir felt much the same way, only his day was but half over. 

“We’re going to have to come up with one.”

“We?”

“A proper name for a man of the Mark.”  Gaer squinted, apparently not having heard him, “Faramir isn’t good.  The closest is Forthere and that doesn’t make sense.”

“What does it mean?”  Done with the hobbles, he patted Thorn’s side and watched the gelding walk slowly away.  Gaer began striding towards the center of camp and he felt into stride with him, trying not to grimace.

“Peace-army.  Roughly, of course.”  He sighed, “We’re trying to make you a proper man—you need a name to terrify the men and loosen the thighs of the women.”

Faramir looked at him, briefly startled and then amused.  To his own surprise he laughed a deep, unforced guffaw of delight.  “What kind of name would that be?” 

Gaer chuckled, “Naturally the last wouldn’t interest you out here…but it might interest our Lady.”

Again with the “our”.  It amused him; too, this possessiveness that seemed to manifest only in flowery statements and silly looks and Faramir was glad the red-haired Rohirrim had latched onto him.  However, it is none of his business what interests Éowyn in that way.  No one but mine.  “I don’t think you should be talking about…”

Gaer grinned, cutting him off, “So we’re aiming for terror.”  His grin widened, “You’ve got a good start on a fearsome reputation already.”  Sobering inwardly and feeling a cold trickle of his earlier fury go down his spine; Faramir smiled at this only because he felt it was expected of him.  “We could keep Faramir, but…it’s going to be harder.  Actually…” He fell quiet, looking thoughtful.

He sighed, feeling his cloak flap in the wind that blew fiercely through the narrow valley; “Do I get any say in…?”

Gaer appeared horrified.  “Yes.” 

He sensed himself tensing a little; there were many Rohirrim surrounding them, some seated on the stumps, some with their midday meals already.  They were a loud people, much laughter, much shouting over distances; there was still no social structure in sight, men sat as they would and none treated each other with any respect.  It was incredibly odd and chaotic looking to him.  He felt encircled and watched and forced himself to relax and sound natural.  Faramir reached out mentally and gently probed the company’s mood—good cheer, efficacy, but no hostility as he walked among them.  He regained his presence of mind, “Well, all right, then.  I’ll have a Rohirric name.  What does yours mean?”

“Spear-wolf.”

At his curious look, Gaer paused, “It’s actually Gaerwulf.  It’s not the best, I’ll admit, but I can do much better with you than my sire did with me.”

“It’s fine, very…” Faramir smiled a little, “frightening.”

“Do not jest about a man’s name, it’s very serious, it is who he is.  It proclaims him, his nature long before you meet him.”  Gaer gave him a stern look, and then began thoughtfully, “What about…” They were near the line for food now, many soldiers surrounded them, “Well, we have to think of two things first, two qualities you possess.”

He could smell and see the food—bread and some sort of meat stew and he was salivating.  The sack of foodstuffs he’d eaten during the night had had to carry him for hours.  Faramir swallowed and said, “You have to.  I don’t even know what could be a name.”

Gaer said something that sounded like, “Ricsig?”

He shook his head; “I can’t even pronounce that.”  Not to mention spell it.  Not that spelling would matter much in this land.  Perhaps that is why their words are so odd, they do not have to write them…  Faramir smiled.

“It means “powerful victory.”  I think it’s good considering the show you gave us this morning.”  There was a half-teasing, half-admiring note in his voice.

Faramir did not like the idea of basing his new name on the brief skirmish he’d had—it meant he had to remember it, would be reminded of it every day.  I do not wish to be known in Rohan for humiliating and bloodying a man…no matter how well and fully he deserved it.  My mother…why my beloved mother?  He answered firmly.  “No.”

“All right…then…”

They moved up in the line; he shifted impatiently and asked, “What does my name, my real name, mean to you that you don’t like it?”

“Nothing…unless you say it like this: Færamar or Fahamierr.  Faramir would be a simpler rendering.”

“So, then what?  Why do I need another if you can make sense of my own?”  Faramir glanced at him.  “Tell me what it means.”  There was a moment of silence.

Gaer smiled a trifle uneasily, “A mix of small words, but “terrible sight-fear-destruction” is one.”  He glanced away, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Well, isn’t that terrifying enough for you?”  He smiled.  I’m not sure about loosening Éowyn’s thighs…  Faramir laughed to himself, bemused.  “Tell me the others.”

“Outlaw, enemy-deceiver.”  The Rohirrim’s normally cheerful voice was low, nervous.

Still amused, he smiled, “Well, I’d consider my name very terrifying indeed.”

 “It is, but it’s also not a good name—it’s too strong.”  He frowned, “It promises bad luck, not only to your enemies but you.  It is an evil name, too powerful for a man to carry without something to counter it.”  Gaer glanced sideways again, his brow furrowed, “A man’s name tells others who he is and yours tells nothing good.”

Ah, I should have known.  All these years it was my name.  Faramir smiled.  And all I had to do was go to Rohan.  “Well, then, tell me another you think is better.”  They moved up in the line.  Beside him, the Rohirrim was quiet, thinking and muttering under his breath. 

Meanwhile Faramir reflected upon the real meaning of his name.  He’d never thought of it as powerful or strong, “adequate jewel”.  Jewels are not powerful.  They are pretty trinkets, useful to trade or sell, at most passed from generation to generation as heirlooms but no more.  They are naught but glittery pebbles, housed in fine metal, of little purpose but to catch the eye.  Wondering why his father had chosen such relatively trivial names, he frowned.  Boromir had been slightly better with “faithful jewel”, but neither of them had titles to inspire unease or the label of power. 

It was a strange thing to think such thoughts and they led him further.  They don’t know…Faramir glanced at Gaer’s furrowed brow.  He doesn’t know my name is second best, that I’m not even faithful…that even as an inoffensive, innocent babe I was not as good, only adequate.  Why did my mother allow it? This thought caused him unease, so he pushed it away, concentrating on the other.

 Bitterness swelled in his throat, choking him with its helpless quality, helpless because he could not question his father as he longed to, to cry out and appeal for answers as he’d never done.  Begging on my knees or the point of my sword to his throat, I swear he would answer me…  Faramir felt a dark smile tug his lips.  Pity, he’d found his courage and it was far too late.

But…they don’t know.  The festering anger in his chest receded, replaced with a queer feeling that took Faramir a few moments to identify: hope, pure dizzying hope.  He looked around himself at the many green-cloaked men, flaxen or red-haired men, their voices rumbling in a different language with a different sound and felt it grow.  Thinking of the snow-feathered mountains, the narrow sky above him…and coupled with the remembrance of the endless horizon that lay just beyond the valley, he felt the hope threaten to overwhelm him.  They don’t know.  I can…I can start over…I can be powerful…on my own.  There could be no judging of past deeds because here he had no past; here he was no feckless son, no merely adequate brother.

It was another minute before Gaer frowned at him, and then asked, “Mervin?”

Faramir laughed out loud, his heart carefree.  “That’s the worst name I’ve ever heard.”  He grinned and stepped up in line, no longer paying any attention to the Riders around him, “Tell me another.”

Chuckling, Gaer offered in a sly tone, “Liliwin?”

He narrowed his eyes, “What?  That’s a woman’s name and it’s even worse.”

The Rohirrim frowned at him, “No it’s not.”

“Well, it should be.”

Gaer shook his head, asking, “Kenelm?”

“No.  No.”  Faramir stepped up, reaching to get his bowl of stew and bread.  The man looked at him solemnly, handed him the food and immediately leaped backwards, an exaggerated expression of terror on his face.

“Warað min cáf gebróðru!  Hé bít!”  The Rohirrim roared with laughter around him, obviously having anticipated the jest, making Faramir extremely self-conscious.  They were watching him.  “Se Hordere is líðe ná má!” 

He smiled slightly, unsure, and moved aside for Gaer.  The red-haired young man was chuckling, too.  With a jerk of his chin he directed him away.  Finding himself a seat on one of the stumps, Faramir began eating hungrily, uncaring for the moment about anything else; the food was filling and hot and he ate it almost without tasting.

As he slowed, partially sated and chewing his bread, Faramir noticed that many of the men were gone already, vanished from the camp.  Some task perhaps…  It was only noon, there were many hours left in the day.  He frowned to himself, wondering what he was expected to do.  Did they think he knew? 

Done and simply letting his emptied bowl dangle from his hand, he asked hesitantly, “What am I doing today?”

“Ask him.”  Gaer, seated on a stump nearby, loudly slurped up some stew and nodded to an older man who stood in a group.  He was fairly typical looking, broadly built, flaxen-maned and, oddly, not dressed as a soldier.  Faramir doubted he could have picked the man from the crowd if not for the simple garb.  “Ask Aldfrith, he will know.”

So there is a leader in Éomer’s stead…yet why is he not clad as a Rider?  It was just another mystery in this strange culture.  Faramir sighed, “All right.”  He truly did not want to approach the Rohirrim.  Stop being a coward, the sooner I’m done the sooner I can go back home with Éowyn.  The thought washed away his hesitancy.  Thumping his bowl on his leg nervously, he finally stood.     

“I’ll take that, go on.”  Gaer reached for the bowl, a grin lighting his face.

“Thank you.”  He smiled back, surprised and grateful, and then crossed the distance between himself and the group of men.  There were four and they all turned to face him; curiosity showed on their faces.

Faramir ignored their scrutiny the best he could, straightening his shoulders and standing tall.  “I don’t know what to…”

“Fetch your horse back.  He’s thrown a shoe.”  The man’s voice was shockingly quiet, his words simple.  The short sentences might have been taken for bad-temper or spitefulness but for his mild-mannered expression.  “Do you know how to shoe a horse?”

“No.”  He wondered how he’d failed to see Thorn missing a shoe.  Damn it.  Faramir was certain no Rohirrim would do so.  This man he didn’t know and couldn’t remember seeing had noticed.  Damn, dammit…  Will I always fail?

“All right.”  Aldfrith smiled, “I’ll show you.”  He nodded down the valley, “Just go and fetch him.”

“Aye.”  Faramir, uncertain of etiquette in this, gave the man a slight downward inclination of his head.  His dark hair dipped forward, swinging off his shoulders and touching his cheeks as he lowered his eyes.  In the City he would have expected a bow, no more than a short tilt of the upper body, but an acknowledgment of his Lordship, still.  He really couldn’t remember seeing any of the Rohirrim bow, even to Éomer, so Faramir simply gave a passing nod just low enough to not be mistaken.  One of the Riders smiled but none corrected him.   

Walking back to his saddle, he collected his halter and lead and began down the dale.  Thorn was a fair distance away; he didn’t bother to whistle.  It felt good to be walking through the grass, though the stuff was really dry, standing hay.  It had yellowed and was brittle to the touch, crunching softly under his boots.  Faramir gazed up at the walls of the valley—the brush there was tawny, too, evidence of the lack of rainfall.  He hummed to himself, unconsciously repeating the tune of one of the songs the Riders had sung as he walked.  He’d not known a place to put down his weapons so his sword and bow weighed on him, making the entire exercise feel oddly reminiscent of home—walking alone with weapons.  If I were in a wood…he sighed, missing the bright greens, browns and shadowy greys of Ithilien. 

There were many horses in the valley and their coats shone in the morning sun, chestnuts, greys, bays, both a light tan and dark blood, and a solitary gold.  They lifted their heads as he walked past them, warm, coffee-colored eyes curious and ears pricking.  All were finely made, all less bulky and thick-boned than Thorn.  Far enough down the valley to blot the Riders’ camp out with the pad of his thumb, Faramir stopped, eyeing the next horse.  It was gigantic, far larger than any horse he’d ever seen, making substantial Thorn look like a pony.  It appeared to be a draft, yet no draft in Gondor was near this large.

The withers were well over the crown of his head and he took a step towards the animal, fascinated.  Its lower legs were feathered in long hair; it was a brown bay with a long shaggy mane.  It raised its large, angular head, looking at him long enough to determine he was not going to demand anything of it and then the huge gelding resumed grazing.  Giant teeth chopped the grass in regular bites.  The animal could have put his head in its mouth with a fair amount of ease.  Faramir remembered the wagons—they’d looked awfully sizeable and now he presumed it was this animal that drew them.  Looking at the other horses he saw he was right.  There were two more of the giants, another bay and a grey.  In size they looked more like the carcasses of the mûmakil than horses and he wondered how they acted in the harness.  Surely they could easily overthrow any man’s will.  I, for one, would not like to test them.

Thorn did not raise his head as Faramir approached.  He was shifting the rope halter in his hands, preparing to put it on when the grey lifted his nose and began walking away, not sparing him a glance.  Frowning, he said softly, soothingly, “Whoa, whoa.”

The gelding walked many lengths and began grazing again.  Faramir strode towards him and the same thing happened—Thorn ignored him and then, when pressed, retreated a safe distance.  

“Whoa,” He used the grey’s Rohirric name in hopes, “Brémel, whoa.”  It had no effect and he was forced to trail the horse further away from camp.  Over and over they repeated the pattern—he would advance and the gelding would withdraw enough to graze some more.  No amount of “Whoas” or soft whistling had any effect.  Faramir, rope halter clutched in increasingly tightening hands, followed in determination.

Thorn finally halted, ears pinned, a sour expression on his long face.  “Good lad.”  Faramir spoke cheerfully, tramping down his annoyance.  He stood still, gazing at the horse and then took a step forward.  Immediately Thorn leaned back, his hooves not moving, but his body leaning as far back as he could without budging.  Faramir stopped.  “Whoa, lad, stand still…” He murmured encouragingly, taking another step, “Whoa…” 

Thorn tossed his head, small eyes flashing anger.  His heavy ears pinned and he pawed the ground.  Faramir took one more cautious step.  The horse lowered his head, shaking his neck and flipping his nose, obviously annoyed.  He blew through it, loud and huffing.  Easy…he could feel the animal’s irritation and waited before taking another stride.  Unfortunately he didn’t wait long enough.

His tail popped loudly against his hindquarters and with a snort the grey gelding threw himself forward into a gallop, his hooves throwing chunks of earth into the air.  Under his dappled hide muscles worked furiously, bulging with effort.  Up and down the dale the other horses looked up and some trotted about, tails lifted, before settling again.  Faramir watched Thorn run straight back down the valley, leaving a long swath of bent grass behind him.  He groaned, frustrated, and slapped his leg hard with the halter.  At least he is going where I want him to…  He sighed deeply and began walking back to camp.  A flashing thought of amusement rose, and I thought horses couldn’t run like that with hobbles…  Thorn’s experience as a drudge horse had evidently taught the animal much.

He soon realized that experience had taught the horse not to run with hobbles, but to rid himself of them—the next time Faramir approached close enough he saw the thick rope that connected the loops of padded leather had been chewed through.  Dismayed, he stared at the gelding’s handiwork, obviously accomplished in less than a half hour.  Now with just messy tufts of twine hanging from his legs, the horse was free to run or go as he liked, once again possessing the advantage of speed.  Thorn moved easily away, grazing nonchalantly while Faramir, feeling much like a pestering, yet insignificant fly, kept after him.

It took him another two trips back and forth from the camp to the end of the dale, walking with increasing irritation after the fleeing grey, before Thorn finally allowed Faramir close.  He stood, only a few feet from the sweating gelding’s side and waited to see if the horse would bolt again.  “Stand,” Faramir touched his withers, his hand light, not daring to raise the halter. 

The grey lowered his head, sighing.  Taking this as a signal of submission, he quickly wrapped the lead around Thorn’s neck and haltered the horse.  When he began walking back to the camp, the gelding followed peaceably.  The Riders had disappeared, even Gaer, by the time he returned.  Only the boys remained, looking out of place as they sat murmuring amongst themselves.  The wagons, too, were gone, presumably hitched to the giant drafts.  Faramir didn’t remember seeing the horses gathered, but he shrugged, unconcerned.

“Finally got ‘em?”  Aldfrith stood next to an array of tools.  He wore thick, scuffed leather chaps to protect his legs and gloves on his hands.

“Yes.”  Faramir answered shortly, weary.  His horse stood still while they began, removing the hobbles and the Rider patiently showing him how to trim the hoof, careful to show Faramir the natural angle and how much to take. 

“See?  This ridge here?”  They were bent over Thorn’s foreleg, which the Rider held between his knees.  Faramir thought his back had never hurt this much in his life—he dreaded straightening and yet longed to do so.  All his muscles would be tested today, apparently.

“Yes.”  Nodding, he watched closely and then rasped the hoof a little himself, careful to keep away from the sensitive frog.  Slipping, he came close to rasping away the skin on his fingers and Aldfrith’s gloves made sense.  More cautious, he went little by little.  The hard stuff grated off into shavings under the rough metal rasp, easily molding into the proper, cupped shape.  He’d fetched one of the spare shoes and now they fitted it, Aldfrith holding the nails in his teeth.

“Hammer it in, like this…” The Rider did two for example, holding the shoe on.   Faramir did so very slowly, not wanting to lame his mount.  That itself would be cause for mocking in this land of the horse-lords and more mocking he did not need.  “Good, good, not bad for the first time.”  Aldfrith grinned at him and, after rasping it again to further shape the hoof, he let the leg down.  Thorn didn’t move and Faramir looked at the shiny nails sticking out of the dark hoof as the Rider bent them downwards to help keep the shoe in place.  I helped do that.  It was a good feeling.  He smiled, oddly cheered despite his aching back and throbbing finger where he’d missed with the hammer.  

 Aldfrith gathered his tools and moved away, leaving him alone with Thorn.  The gelding raised his head and their eyes met.  “What’s wrong with you, hmm?”  Faramir scratched his side, “Why’d you make me chase you?”  The horse did not respond, of course, and he sighed and rehobbled and unhaltered the animal, releasing it once more.

Wondering what else he was to do, he waited until Aldfrith came back, dusting his hands off.  Faramir gazed at him pointedly. 

“You want something else to do?”

Not really.  “That’s what I’m here for.”  Catching and shoeing Thorn had taken well over an hour, probably closer to two, but still leaving him a while until sunset and there was no point in lying about.  Wouldn’t want it to get back to Éomer that I’m lazy…  Faramir smiled inwardly.

The man smiled again, still not the slightest hint of any attitude but forbearance.  Perhaps he’d found the sole mild-mannered Rohirrim in existence.  “You were teaching the lads archery?”
            “Yes.”  His spirit lifted in hope.

“Teach them some more for today—they have bows.”  Aldfrith chuckled, “It would be nice to have something besides stew for supper and I’m sure they could learn something about stealth.”  He chuckled again, “Not that they’ll need it on a horse on the Wold, but it might come in handy.”

“Aye.”  The prospect of hunting, even with five bumbling youngsters on his heels, was enough to fully cheer Faramir.  He inclined his head respectfully, still unsure of the etiquette, and moved towards the quietly sitting lads.  Unbuckling his sword, he laid it next to his saddle, hands already itching to wrap around the slender bow.  I haven’t hunted in months.   The lads were quickly gathered.

“Master Faramir?”  One of the boys who could speak the Common Tongue had a question; in fact, they all looked puzzled.

“Yes?”  He was leading them back out of the valley, intending to scout the woods around the path they’d traveled earlier for game.

“Why are we walking?”  The lad hesitated, “Léof?”

Faramir glanced back and over at him; he strode slightly in front of the boys.  They clutched their bows, walking behind him in a way he was desperately trying not to compare to ducklings.  If he allowed himself Faramir was afraid he might begin to laugh and never stop.  Feeling an involuntary smile stretch his mouth, he asked, “Why would we take the horses?”  As if I could catch mine, he added to himself, still mystified and peeved over Thorn’s display of rebellion. 

“So we wouldn’t have to walk.”  At his gaze, the lad said further, “We would leave the horses and hunt, then ride back.”

That did make sense, but he frowned.  Surely the Rohirrim didn’t ride everywhere.  It was not far to the wooded glens he had in mind, less than a mile.  Plus wandering in search of game and returning was still no more than a handful of miles.  Faramir was used to walking far more in a day.  “Don’t you walk places?”

Another boy chimed in, bolder, “Not unless you don’t have a horse.” 

There was a questioning murmur from the back and Faramir listened to muttered Rohirric.  He frowned; he would learn nothing if they interpreted for him.  “What’s your name, lad?”

The boy blinked in surprise and stuttered, “S-Scef.”

“Thank you for translating,” He smiled to show he was not angered in the slightest, the lad looked rather flighty and owl-eyed, “but not unless I misspeak.  I must learn your language.”  Faramir sighed deeply, “Gǽð for hit isná feor.”

None corrected him.  He smiled to himself and strode faster.  Fresh meat was definitely more appealing than stew of a dubious age and content.  The next question came soon, though.  “Master Faramir?”

“Gea?”

They had walked for half an hour after leaving the path, well away from the scent of man.  Now he stood beneath a tree in a small, natural clearing.  It was a good tree with low, thick limbs and was perfectly made for climbing.  Faramir had gestured that two climb it but the boys had just stared at him in confusion.  “Hwa?”
            “Tó geseo se…” It took him a while to remember the word, “neat.”

 The lads frowned at each other, but the two he’d chosen climbed up obediently, perching themselves like reluctant birds.  Faramir turned to the other three and gestured in a wide arc, “Gæst ond néosian ond...” He ran out of words and brought his hand back to him.  They nodded their comprehension. 

He’d seen them shoot, he had no intention of being on the ground and getting shot, in fact, Faramir had only the intention of doing any practicing after they’d finished the hunt.  Anything else would be far too dangerous with the amateur archers. 

The three lads “Aye”’d  respectfully him and trotted off.  Not a one of them bowed.  Faramir grasped one of the branches and easily swung himself into the tree.  The Rohirrim made room for him, looking nervous—one was Scef, the other’s name he did not know. 

“What is your name?”  He spoke deliberately in the Common Tongue and was relieved when the lad answered.
            “Leodthain.” 

Faramir wondered what these names meant but he was afraid it would be impolite to ask; Gaer had seemed reluctant and often uneasy about the entire matter.  “You will watch me, not shoot.  Understand?”

The boys nodded quickly, looking hugely relieved.  They waited in silence.

***

Éowyn listened to the music and smiled, pretending to be interested, pretending she wasn’t saddened and missing some essential part of her—he was gone, the mild little sense in the back of her mind that said Faramir was there had vanished and she felt alone, which was so silly, she was in a room crammed with men, elves and hobbits and one dwarf that she couldn’t see but assumed attended.  She listened to the harp, its sound so pretty, lilting and haunting with the strings humming soft in the air.  I wonder…Faramir had admitted to being able to play the harp.  I wonder if he’s forgotten it all…Éowyn smiled.  She’d get him to do it for her eventually, if she could remember.

 For the third time Éomer leaned over and said his voice low and so full of nervousness that it made her weary, “I didn’t know they were doing this.”

She sighed, not looking at him.  “I know.”

He still didn’t sound like he believed her.  Her brother’s brawny frame shifted in the great chair; he rested on his elbow, leaning closer to insist, “Really, I—”

“I know,” Éowyn softened her tone.  “I know you didn’t.”  Before them Arwen’s brothers were singing something in elvish, their voices beautiful.  Nearby there were Théoden’s… no, no Éomer’s now…musicians; the long tables had been pushed far back to clear a floor and the Golden Hall was alight with laughter and song and dance as it hadn’t been in a long time.  Where is Faramir?  Not here to teach me to dance like he said he would, but somewhere else, winning my hand in the preposterous way given to him.  She felt sad.

    This perhaps was why Aragorn swooped down upon her like a bird of prey, so suddenly that, while Éowyn glanced down to look at her bracelet, and then looked back up he was already standing on top of her.  “You’re it.”

It had another color—a gorgeous, luscious red that shifted from a light rose or magenta to a deep, abiding garnet.  The jewels had flickered in the light of the sunset and they did so now in the candle and firelight, returning to violet or plum in the shade.  She had admired it several times as the sun had gone down.  “What?”

“My wife won’t dance with me and it would be unseemly for the High King to dance with a kitchen maid.”

Éomer smiled, shifting his long legs, “Unfortunately.  I, too, feel that pain.”

Éowyn didn’t smile, wondering if Aragorn had even asked Arwen or simply assumed.  “I don’t know how to dance.  Go ask someone else.”

Aragorn grinned.  “Good, then you’ve no bad habits.”  And he pulled her up by the wrists, refusing to listen to any protests. 

He was patient, chuckling good-naturedly as she cursed under her breath and fumbled.  As if in pity, Elladan and Elrohir sang a slower song and Éowyn concentrated on matching her movements to his, keeping her entire attention focused upon this unreasonable task.  Eventually, with Aragorn’s hands feather-light on her lower back and gently clasped in hers and his steps exaggeratedly slow and careful, she got close to rhythm, to symmetry in their appearance.  “Good, good.”  He spoke into her ear, making it easy to hear him as they moved nearer to the elves’ and musicians’ voices.  Éowyn did not think at all how it might look, Aragorn whispering intimately, dancing with her alone and not his wife; she was far too busy trying not to step on his feet.

“You do this for fun?”  She frowned, looking at his boots as they paced steadily.

“Head up.”  His fingers poked her chin.  “Come on, it’s like riding a horse, just go with me…”

“This is not like riding a horse.”

“Yes it is, find the rhythm.”  It was easy for him, he knew what he was doing as he steered her around the cleared floor.

“There’s music…and I’m standing up…” Éowyn growled in frustration and tried to pay attention.  He towered over her, she was staring just under his stubble-peppered jaw; Aragorn twirled her slowly, laughing as she faltered and then gathered her back.  The song ended with a flourish and clapping and Arwen’s brothers bowed low, eyes bright.  Another began, a slightly more challenging tune before he asked,

“What will you miss most?”

“What?”  Suddenly more nervous, she stammered, “W-what are you talking about?”

He twirled her again and she did better; neither moved to the music, really.  They were just dancing.  “When you leave.”

“I don’t know.  Éomer, the most, of course.  We’ve never really been parted.”  Éowyn thought for a moment, “Then my mother’s rooms…and waking up to the smell of roses…the horses, the foals every year…” Her chest was tight and she stared at the front of his simple shirt.

Aragorn leaned lower, saying softly into her ear, “Ge canst æfre sægst tó me mid þam þe cwiðan se ansund æf eower geþiode.” 

She looked up, startled, and his eyes shone at her, full of sincerity.  Éowyn smiled a little and answered with a small laugh.  “Ic þancie þe. Ic…Ic þancie þe, Aragorn.”

He grinned, then twirled her and bent her over backwards with ease, nearly making her cry out with surprise, clutching at him with white-knuckles.  “Now, let’s try something a little harder…”

“Oh, no.”  She moaned as he grinned over at Elladan and Elrohir and the elves’ voices grew fast and merry and the musicians followed.  “No, no, no…” Éowyn felt her eyes grow wide.  She shook her head wildly.

“Come on,” He laughed light and boyish in her ear and Aragorn leaped forward, hand tight on hers, palm firm against her side.  “Just follow me.”

Éowyn screeched as he began to whirl her, faster and faster, her feet stumbling, hair flying.  “Stop!”  She laughed, heart pounding, shocked right out of her melancholy mood—there was no room for it, shed in the swift, desperate movements of her feet.  “Stop it!”  Her plum-colored skirts swirled tight, her necklace bouncing off her collarbone.

Aragorn just laughed down at her and went faster.  Dizzy and sure she was going to trip herself and fall; Éowyn began to shriek as he spun her, her laughter and cries of dread mingling.  She gave herself up to his lead and they went in wild paths, cutting back and forth.  By the time the song ended Éowyn was crying tears of gaiety and grasping at him to stay up.  They were both laughing like children as he slowed and stopped.  Giggling and very dizzy, her sense of balance reeling, she buried her face onto his shoulder, hugging him with no thought but that she didn’t want to go sliding to the floor in an undignified heap.  Aragorn’s broad, warm side rose and fell with his fast breathing; she felt it on her ear as he asked, “Wasn’t that fun?”  Over the people Éowyn could hear the smile in his words.

Reluctant to admit he’d been right, she answered grudgingly, “I suppose.” 

“Look.”  He chuckled and wagged his shoulder under her face.  When she lifted her head and noticed her brother being drug onto the floor by Arwen, his face reluctant and dreading, she laughed again.  Éomer was terrible, couldn’t dance a step.

***

Éomer had sat alone, nursing a cup of wine and watching his sister being spun about, when Arwen had seated herself beside him.  She was lovely, as always, bearing herself erect and cool in a dark blue gown.  He smiled a welcome, “Good evening.”

“And to you.”  She watched the King and Éowyn dance for a moment, her eyes narrowed.  “It seems Estel has found a way to amuse himself.”  He chuckled, amused as his sister squealed again, the high sound coupling with Aragorn’s deeper laughter.  Arwen’s eyes grew less narrow as Éowyn screeched and clutched at the King as they whirled in fast, sloppy circles around the floor and she smiled.  “Poor girl.  He knows better than to try that with me.”

Éomer had no reply, so he just watched some more.  Eventually Arwen turned to him, “I assume you’re shy.”

Genuinely puzzled, he asked, “What?”

“About asking me to dance,” The lovely elven woman laughed at him, her eyes like stars with her inky hair as black as the night between them and part of him shied away as her slim, delicate hand extended expectantly.  “Come, I haven’t danced in a long time and,” Arwen’s voice grew mischievous, “Never with another man but Estel.”  She looked him up and down, “I think you’d be quite interesting as great big as you are—broader, really.”

Éomer quailed inside, just managing a gruff reply.  “I don’t dance.”

Frowning, she sounded disappointed.  “Oh, why not?”

He answered with mock-flippancy.  “It would ruin my mystery.”

Arwen laughed at him and he relaxed a little until she smiled, “Too bad.”

She started to rise and he said quickly, “No.  I don’t dance.”

Arwen sighed and sat again.  “I think you don’t know how.”

“I do.”  He didn’t mention he was rather dreadful at it.  “I just don’t.”

 “How do you get women, then?”

Éomer leered at her, lowering his voice in a suggestive manner, “They come to me.” 

Arwen laughed.  “I suppose they do—I did; but then you gave me no choice.”  Her determination hadn’t faded, though.  “Come, we’ll do something.”  She smiled suddenly and put her arm up on the table.  “Wrestle me?  If I win we dance, if you win we don’t.”

“I don’t think that’s going to be fair…”

“Come, are you too cowardly to wrestle a woman?”

He snorted and shifted in his seat.  “No, I’m just saying you’re not going to win.  It is a waste of time.”

There was a secret, amused smile on her lips.  “We’ll see.”

Éomer sighed, “All right.”  He put his arm up, bracing himself.  Arwen’s hand was very petite and delicate feeling in his own.  Éomer’s hand, paw, really, if compared, swallowed hers; it was much darker with sun, almost swarthy, and far larger—fascinated, he stared for a moment.  His knuckles looked knotty and thick; the top of his hand was furred with normally flaxen hair bleached lighter from the sun, his fingers looked blunt and solid, roughly callused.  He’d never seen her hands up close; they were pale and soft and dainty, pearl-colored without the slightest hint of a callus.  Nervous, he cautioned himself, gripping it and awkwardly trying to make his cumbersome fingers fit between her slender ones—not too hard, careful…  Her smile hadn’t faded; she scooted closer, her luminous eyes boring into his with a gleeful sort of amusement.  Looking down at their hands, dark and large and ungainly, small and pale and graceful, he asked, “Ready?”  He could feel the warmth of her glowing, creamy skin and it unnerved him; she was very beautiful.

“Oh, yes.”

Cautioning himself again, he gauged what his resistance should be, eyeing her slender arms and curved, womanish frame, and took a deep breath.  Éomer shifted, planting himself more firmly.  This was ridiculous.  “All rig—”

She slammed his fist to the table so hard his knuckles popped and his cup of wine came near to overturning.  Éomer was stunned speechless.  The cup rattled, contents sloshing in crimson waves.  Arwen burst into laughter, leaning backward in her chair and withdrawing her hand.  “You should see your face, Éomer, really, you’d think a trifling lass less than half your size beat you!”  She shook her fair head, hair swinging, and stood.  “Come, you owe me a dance.”

He was still dumb with surprise.  Elven males supposedly had great strength but he never would have guessed the same for her looking at her unmistakably feminine body—generous curves, slim legs and arms; Arwen was small all over and thus, to him, ineffectual, frail.  But despite her smallness the elf was not weak at all.  He frowned, looking at his hand.  The knuckles were slightly reddened from impact.  I’d almost forgotten to think of her as an elf…  When he lifted his head, her eyes glowed far brighter than any mortals did and she shone, eyes, hair and skin, somehow more there than other women.  And yet…  Éomer still had the feeling he could have put his hands right through her.  Arwen was not real, only a vision, defying her petite stature to overthrow him effortlessly.  “Wait…”

“No, you lost.  Dance.”  Reluctantly, fearfully, he allowed her to drag him onto the floor where he would most assuredly make an idiot out of himself.

She didn’t lead him to the center yet, but rather the edge.  Éomer stepped near, hand hovering over her waist.  Arwen smiled up and grabbed him close; she was completely comfortable, he was anxious.  “Don’t worry,” Her smile widened as she gazed up; it was hard to believe she was so small—simply standing next to her, several feet of space between them, did not give him this perspective.  “I will make you look splendid—look at Estel…he looks like a fool jumping about over there with poor Éowyn.” The Queen chuckled, “She’s good to put up with it.”

Éomer glanced at his sister who was laughing hard, her cheeks pink; Aragorn spun them in relentless, decidedly uneven circles.  She was groaning, protesting dizziness even while giggling.  Neither seemed to be paying attention to the lovely, buoyant voices of Elladan and Elrohir…he cocked his head, the music growing louder as he became really aware of it.  In fact it filled his ears, the elvish flowing around and around, the words separating, sounds dissolving then gathering again into… 

He could understand it.  Éomer stood still, struck, the song filling his being.  It was about a maiden, about dancing in the moonlight, singing to the stars…activities he found to be ludicrous.  For a single second he could almost see her, fair and lithe, a shapely maid in a pale gown, hair and hands fluttering, her feet leaping on dull, dewed grass while her eyes flashed up to the heavens…  Then Arwen laughed softly and the sound of her fitted the music entirely, became a new melody, the light bubbly cadence of her laughter.  Looking down, he saw they were already dancing, moving lightly together in perfect rhythm, and his feet stumbled.  A chill raced up and down his spine and Éomer halted, breathing fast, heart racing.  He felt disoriented; they were halfway across the room from where he’d last known himself to be.  “What…?”
            She touched his face, soothing.  “It’s all right, don’t fret.  Isn’t it a pleasant song?” 

Éomer frowned, “But…” She tugged and he allowed himself to be led back, moving to the melody and floating voices he was trying hard to ignore.  Éomer had felt uncomfortable just dancing, not to mention with Arwen—now the elvish music, its tune stealthily trying to wrap itself around him again, was too much for him to tolerate.  “No, stop.”

The Queen released him with a sigh.  “All right.”  She clucked her tongue, “And you were doing so well.”

Aragorn took the moment to wheel Éowyn next to them, stopping so suddenly that her skirts flew out in a purple wave.  “Good, my turn.”  He sounded cheerful and swept up his wife, leaving brother and sister standing there.  After a moment they returned to the table, Éowyn slumping into her chair and taking his wine to drain it.  She fanned herself with one hand and gave him a smile.

“That was fun.”

He struggled to find something to say, still a little nonplussed by the way the music had overtaken him and the vision of the maiden had filled his mind.  Éomer looked at his empty wine; a moment later a servant came swiftly and refilled it.  He smiled thanks and drank some, trying to reestablish his equilibrium.  “I didn’t think you liked dancing.”

“I don’t think that was dancing, really.  He was just spinning about to make me dizzy and to hear me scream.”  Éowyn laughed, sounding far happier, which should have made him happy.  But looking at her just made him feel uncertain, something that was becoming a common occurrence.  She was wearing one of their mother’s gowns, a form-fitting thing in a warm plum color, well embroidered in flower patterns with tiny darker violet beads across the bodice.  This dress had no high collar and he could see every single mark Faramir had left, every last sign of the man’s claim, every blaze that staked out his territory.  The purplish-red brands extended almost down into her bosom, disturbing him.  It was one thing to guess such intimacy probably occurred in private, quite another to see evidence of it.  He touches my little sister in such a fashion…old, rabid protectiveness surfaced and he quelled it with effort.  Undoubtedly she enjoyed it.  Éomer wrinkled his nose, disgusted though he knew well that he himself had left the same marks upon women.  But this is my sister…my pure sister...my little sister…

 Struggling, he gazed at the gold necklace around her neck; it was studded with long, cylindrical amber beads that contrasted neatly with the reddish-violet dress, the metal and rare stones and dark, uncommon color proclaiming lavishness and wealth in a way he was deeply unaccustomed to seeing on her.  Where are the men’s clothes?  The muddy wool and the leathers?  He felt sad and disjointed, as though nothing around him was quite real.  I suppose when she is the Steward’s wife in the City…the day his sister no longer kept torn trousers, dirty, scuffed boots and button-up, ripped and patched shirts in her closet would be the day he no longer knew her at all.  He shifted in his chair; feeling snakes of anxiety filling his chest and snuck another look at Éowyn.

 Her golden hair hung over her shoulders, still kinked from the braids—seeing her now and seeing her this morning was comparable to looking at two different women, sisters perhaps, but still terribly different.  Éomer’s sense of disorientation increased.  He’d never seen her in any of their mother’s clothing, clothing he could recognize at least, and he wondered what had brought this about.  Leaning forward in his seat, he said, voice low to conceal his nervousness, “You never seemed interested before.”  It was a question, a begging question hidden in a quiet statement.  Why this change?  What is happening?  He couldn’t stop it.  Only delay her going.  Tell me.  Talk to me.  For the first time he really wanted to know what was in her heart, wanted to speak to her about leaving, about what his sister wanted for herself.  It made him bold and panicky all at once.

***

Rebellion sparked in her breast, a strange swift little fire.  “I’m interested in a lot of things I wasn’t before.”

A small, irked smile twisted his lips, but his voice was slightly odd, far too quick and stumbling for as little as he said.  “I…I can tell, sister.”

Éowyn shook her hair back, defiant and knowing just what she did to expose her marked flesh.  Her brother frowned and fell silent, eyes looking down.  His words and reactions rankled her.  She was not a child, but a woman grown, close to marriage.  No matter my fears, does he not see that?  Tone haughty, she answered, “You should get used to it, brother.”

He did not respond and they sat in silence for a while.  Finally, Éomer spoke again, more normal this time.  “When will you and Arwen go to the Westemnet?”

“Why?”

He hesitated, “So I can meet you there.”

Wrong.  Éowyn stared at him, amazed, something dawning upon her.  He didn’t want to know so that he could meet them, no, he wanted to know to know, to know everything she did…so you can approve, brother…isn’t that why?  The spark of rebellion, resting so innocently and even cooling, found tinder in his words and a mutinous blaze arose in her chest.  Her eyes narrowed.  “I don’t know yet.”

“I need to know.”  He looked at her, determined and slightly puzzled.  Of course he was puzzled, any other time she would have answered unthinkingly.

“Don’t worry, I will meet you.”

“You can’t—I mean, but you don’t know when.  I don’t want to waste time or miss you.”  Éomer appeared slightly alarmed now that he perceived he was not going to get his answer. 

Éowyn took pleasure in it.  How many times had he left when she had no idea of when he would return? Or at all…  “I can count, dear brother.  I can figure up the days to meet you—you said you will be returning to Edoras and then to the Wold…the Westemnet is on the way, sensibly you’ll go there first.”

“Yes.”  He brightened.  “I could accompany you and Arwen as you go.  We can ride together.”

A flash of light burst in her brain and as she looked at her brother, the thought was like a fire roaring up into a darkened room, illuminating many things she’d never seen before.  Who says I will be in Edoras, brother of mine?  He would never, ever, in all the immeasurable years of an elf, if they were awarded to him, think of her not being where he’d left her.  And why not?  I could go, I could go…where?  It burst upon her in a second flash of brilliance.  Nowhere, that’s where, that’s what he thinks.  After the festival he would go on to the Wold and she, she the obedient sister, would trot on back to safe Edoras where she belonged.  In my cage I’ve lived in so long as to not notice the bars.

Beside her, he was smiling, pleased at the thought of spending more time with her; under the table she was white-knuckled with fury.  Gondor.  I could go with Aragorn and Arwen.  That would show you, wouldn’t it?  Rip the bottom out of your fool scheme with Faramir…  Éowyn blinked, shocked at herself and feeling chill.

 What am I thinking?  Going to Gondor?  That was the last thing she wished to do, enter the City without Faramir’s steadying presence.  So why was the idea so appealing, why did it cause not paralyzing fear in her heart, but a sense of…adventure, of boldness and even of desire?  Uneasy, she swallowed hard and loosened her fists.  She’d not answered and his smile had faded, so she said, “Yes that would be nice.”

“Good.”  Éomer relaxed.

“Good.”  She echoed it.  They sat and watched the King and Queen glide by.  I am happy for them, she thought absently.  They were not exactly untroubled looking, but they were not fighting.  Éowyn glanced to her side, at her beloved brother, her last close relation and realized that a certain small part of her truly felt contempt.  Gondor…that would show you indeed, wouldn’t it? That I was a grown woman and not your little sister to watch?  A pity she would never do it.  Yet that spark of rebellion burned under her skin, a silent goad, and Éowyn began to think as she’d never done before. 

Gandalf had told her to look after herself.  That Faramir and Éomer would work it out on their own, that she needed to make peace with her decisions.  Can I do that here?  How can I change if I do not change anything?  For a moment she was afraid and angry.  Damn that wizard, who is he to tell me what to do?  But her fear faded in the overpowering sense of rightness, that he was right, that what had burst into her head in a wave of light was right; she needed to become decisive about her future and the first step was making a decision.  Leaving with Faramir as planned was not a decision and sitting in Edoras while her brother and lover rode about and fought out things between themselves was undeniably not a decision.  I have made desperately few decisions in my life…the last had led her to Faramir, what would this lead her to?   A chance, perhaps, a chance to figure out her new role for herself, without Faramir hovering over her…to be on my own for once, just once to escape.  She had no doubt he would help.  She suspected he would help overmuch; Faramir would extend his aid in every way possible to help her adjust to the City.  She’d thought before that she’d spent too much time in the comfort of his arms—now Éowyn knew without a doubt that she had, because the thought of walking into Gondor without him to back her was very frightening.  It is just a strange City…I know Aragorn and Arwen…I won’t be alone.

But...but…

But what?  Do you want to be minded like a child all your life?

No, I don’t.

Éowyn turned to her brother, looking at him, really looking at him, and her eyes pricked with tears.  I can’t.  Never mind her spiteful fury, it would crush him and that would crush her.  I don’t want to leave him alone…not alone.  Her fingers tightened on each other.  But…he started this; he made it…not me.  None of this is my decision.  Faramir…my brother…all this foolishness is about me and what have I done?  Naught but ask them to be civil.  Éowyn swallowed hard, her throat dry at the plans that formed in her mind.  I am between them.  I don’t like it…so I shall remove myself and let them do what they might.  It is about me and yet…it does not concern me in the slightest.  Why should I stay for my attentions to be fought over? 

But what will Faramir do?  What will my brother?  Éowyn thought Faramir would stay, simply out of his agreement, and that his honor would not allow him to leave until he’d served it in full.  Her brother however…I don’t know.  She glanced at him.  It would truly crush him.  But what they did after she left didn’t matter because that was between them and without her Éomer might have a chance.  Without her to break them apart with her very presence they might learn friendship.  Gandalf seemed to think it was possible.  Of course with his riddles she had no real way of knowing.  Again she cursed the wizard.

  But if I don’t go, if I do nothing…then I will never, ever be able to kill the fear because I would have never had to face it without Faramir or Éomer to shore me up when I grew timid.    

He smiled over, unknowing, completely oblivious to her anger, her unrest, everything about her.  He doesn’t know.  He won’t ever know unless I make him know.  She felt horribly saddened and, for the first time, like the elder.  Éomer did his best, but he only did what he’d done always—look out for her.  He hadn’t changed, she had.  And somehow her age, her developed, womanish body, all these things had escaped him or he chose to ignore them.  He doesn’t mean to be this way…yet…  Her brother watched the dancing, cheerfully unaware and secure in the knowledge he could escort her to the Westemnet and keep her under his eye…virtually up until the very moment he released her to Faramir.  Oh, I can’t…

And a new part of herself spoke up.  It sounded cold and brisk.  Lady of Ithilien, you will, or you won’t ever be anything more than what you are now.  A new dawning horror was upon her and she could hardly breathe with it resting heavily on her breast.  I will go from brother to husband and I will learn nothing about myself but that which is reflected in their eyes.  I will be every woman in that City with a nice husband and children and a house and I will have not been alone, not had to think for myself ever.  She touched her bracelet.  Jewelry, look at this…  Oh…how long will it be before I break and either join the snippety, stony hearted women or avoid them out of fear?  How long before I do things out of others’ desire and not my own free choice and cannot discern the difference?  I must go. 

Éowyn looked out onto the cleared floor, finding Aragorn as he danced with Arwen, displaying far more dignity in these few minutes than every second he’d danced with her.  There is but one man I need now and with his help I will be set free.  One last time she would ride out at his heels…but it would be different.  Then she’d ridden to death, now she rode to a new life, for better or worse.  Gandalf’s word choice reoccurred to her.  Steward’s wife, he didn’t call me that…no, he gave me my title alone, my name as a woman not necessarily bound to anyone’s will.  Her betrothal granted her the name in anticipation of the future.  It did not guarantee Faramir’s presence.  I will go and I will see what being a Lady of Ithilien is about before I must deal with marriage, before I return under the eyes and care of any man.  She smiled, her heart, her mind steadying.  I will hold this course because it is mine alone.  Her fury flashed one more time as Éowyn glanced at her brother, a searing wave that crested with the thought, and they will never, ever expect it because I am a woman, meant to be tied to house and home.  I am not meant for action.  She felt the anger rise.  I will show them not to limit what they think a woman can do.

Aragorn went by again and she looked at him, calming.  Later tonight she would ask when he expected to return.  Éowyn planned to be fully ready to ride when he was.  She didn’t plan on telling either her brother or her lover.  We shall have a fine time at the Westemnet, and then let them come home from the Wold to discover I am not a plaything to be set down or moved at will, an object with no will of my own.  Let it be a harsh lesson.

She smiled, tight and satisfied.  I must thank Gandalf.

***

            The boys he’d sent to scrounge game took a long time.  Rabbits and birds moved in the brush, but nothing worth the waste of an arrow.  The sun was setting, sending crimson and ochre rays through the trees and deepening the shadows to indefinite patches of grey before Faramir sensed something was coming.  Finally, soundless steps brought a round-rumped doe into the woods nearby, not exactly the perfect shot as he would have to lean over a tree limb and balance himself on another, but near enough.  Faramir stood silently, the lads scooting out of his way, their eyes fixed on him.  He shifted his feet, careful to keep his balance as the thick limb swayed gently.  Further away he could hear crunching of leaves and branches as the three Rohirrim approached.  The doe was wary, big ears flicking, her eyes wide, but she was confident she could hear and locate the danger and that the strange predators were slow and loud.   She nibbled on a bit of forage, pausing to listen to the lads.  Faramir could not believe the amount of noise they were making even though they were supposed to be noisy.  Stealth indeed!  They stomp about worse than their own horses!  He made a mental note to add some instruction in that area, too, in addition to the archery.  An archer needed to be quiet; a bow was a hunting weapon that worked best at close range, something accomplished only with stealth.

            He gripped the arrow loosely, waiting.  Another step forward would make give him a better chance of neatly felling the deer.  She took it and dropped her head again, black-tipped ears swiveling back to listen to the footsteps of her pursuers, not knowing her real danger was far closer.  Faramir leaned over the branch, trying not to hit it as he aimed.  Interference would mess his shot.  Leaves tickled his brow; the balls of his feet and his knees ached from holding himself at such an odd angle, stretched out and over partially open space.  He didn’t look down, focused on the deer.

            Familiar tension burnt in his arms and shoulders as he inhaled; exhaling, he released the dart.  The string twanged softly and, as always, he felt a wonderful sense of rightness as the shaft flew straight through the air.  To Faramir it felt as though he’d aimed and released not with his hands and eyes, but his mind alone, that he and the arrow—no more than a straight stick with a bit of metal at one end and feathers on another—were briefly united in a common goal.  The bow thrummed an instant more in his hand, feeling alive, too.  No sword could have given him this; it was pleasure to shoot, pleasure to feel connected to his weapons, no matter what he felled.  The arrow buried itself exactly where he’d planned and the doe collapsed a moment later, smartly and quickly killed.  Delighted, he began climbing down.

            The three lads joined them soon, after some brief shouting back and forth to locate each other, all of which, he marveled, undoubtedly alerted every animal in all of Rohan to their presence.  Wiping his hands and the blade of his knife on the dry, crinkly grass, Faramir bade them carry the dressed and quartered body of the doe.  He, after all, was the elder and there were some privileges to being teacher, not student.  Hefting only his bow, he supervised.  They did not protest, simply obeying as though his words were expected.  The stars were out now and as he led the boys slowly down the path, he looked up at them, mentally naming the constellations he knew.

            Well, archery practice, I suppose, is a lost cause…he glanced back up at the night sky.  The stars were bright and not all of the times a man must use a bow were in perfect light.  And there were other things, too, to consider.  He doubted they knew how to string their weapons or to check their arrows for any damage.  If I’m going to teach, I’m going to teach.  Luckily it was a subject he favored.  When they’d returned and after the meal, he would set some target up in the valley and let them try to hit it by starlight.  Facing away from camp…well away.  He smiled.  Stray bolts could be collected by light of day.  Something shiny perhaps…bright like the glint of an eye or a sword or a buckle of some such bit of metal, something to stand out in the dark…  It would be a reasonable target; there were many times he’d just detected something, orc or passing Southron, by the light of its eyes or a shine of metal in the night.  Feeling a simple, pleasant sense of challenge in his new teaching position and full of eagerness to meet it, Faramir led his five pupils back into the valley. 

Translations:

Ná, ná, ge eart ná  Rídend, Faramir…--No, no, you are no Rider, Faramir…

Ge ná canst cantic—You cannot sing

ge ná canst árídan…--you cannot ride…

Ac, ge canst níðplega ond gearwe! But, you can fight and well!

Ge canst æfre sægst tó me mid þam þe cwiðan se ansund æf eower geþiode.—You can always speak to me when you miss the sound of your language.

Ic þancie þe—I thank you

Warað min cáf gebróðru!  Hé bít!—Beware my brave brothers!  He bites! 

Se Hordere is líðe ná má!—The Steward is soft no more!

Léof--sir

Gǽð for hit is ná feor—We walk because it is not far.

Hwa?—why?

Tó geseo se…neat.--  To see the…animal

Gæst ond néosian…—Go and search out…

 Names Gaer Suggested

Ricsig—powerful victory

Mervin—famous friend

Liliwin—little friend (joke off of Lytle Bregu that Faramir did not get of course)

Kenelm—bold, royal friend

Well, I would have been a cheap hobbit—this is my 20th birthday gift to you all.  I hope you liked it because there’s no receipt ;)