Something was very wrong here, he thought.  They sat like two strangers did, neither truly facing, nor facing away; bodies angled, heads turned; neither spoke nor did their eyes meet.  Amiable strangers, maybe, yet strangers still.  Bygone days of bickering, flung food, or in one memorable occasion, drink, stories, songs, laughing at witty jests and mocking of less witty moved through his mind in a strange procession.  His sister sat not two feet away and Éomer was already mourning her absence.  Ten years ago he would have leant over and tweaked her ear to gain her attention, never minding any irritated slaps thrown his way, acknowledging his deserving them with a laugh.  Now he did not dare to.  Éowyn’s expression was unsettled; her eyes were strained, lips firmly pressed together and she sat tensely, occasionally moving in sudden starts as though a powerful thought occurred.  Her hands were not as dainty as Arwen’s, but her slim fingers tapped restlessly on the arm of her chair as he peeked at her.   What has happened to us?  Things had not been this way over the summer.  They’d had fun, shared duties.  What is different?  What is wrong…what is it…?

            “What is it?”  Her voice startled him just as much as her face turning to his.

            Éomer backpedaled mentally, wondering in a burst of paranoia if mind reading was infectious.  “Nothing.”  Other elves had taken the place of Arwen’s brothers and they sang airily.  Some of his people had retired already; it was getting late but the elves showed no signs of slowing.  

            “You looked like you wanted to say something.”  She wasn’t snapping at him; her tone wasn’t angry or acid to cut or burn.  Éowyn just sounded quiet and curious, distantly poised and controlled.  Mild, even, for all her tenseness a moment before and he frowned.  It was bordering Faramir-ish behavior, and thus... 

            Frightening.  Where is my sister?  He tried to come up with a response, thoughts blankly scrambling before he said, “They want me to take a wife.”  Éomer wondered where in all the wide, blessed Mark that had come from.  It had certainly been a topic Elfhelm and many of the other higher-ranking men of the Mark had brought up, but nothing he’d given much thought.  No doubt since Elfhelm was arriving tomorrow he would only be pestered again about his Kingly duties of providing an inheritor to the throne.  I do not have the time, he thought in irritation.

            His sister quirked an eyebrow, her only indication of surprise or any emotion, really, beyond serene blandness and he fidgeted in the chair as she asked, “So?”
            Éomer wished he’d said something else, anything else.  “I don’t know.”

            “It is customary for Kings to have heirs.”

            He contemplated on if she was mocking him.  It was impossible to tell, what with her voice so calm and matter of fact.  “Where would I find one?”

            “An heir?”  Now she smirked and became slightly more normal with the glint of mischief in her eyes.  Éowyn smiled, “I’m sure you know how to get one of those.  I’ve heard enough maids squealing in this hall about your handsomeness or whatnot.  The whatnot was rather disgusting in detail—that girl should have had her mouth washed out.”

            Éomer clarified, his tone slightly embarrassed as he did so.  He’d been careful not to bed any women in Edoras, not wishing attachments or hurt feelings if he did not remember them after a night of drink.  Perhaps he’d slipped somewhere.  “A wife.”

            Éowyn picked at her fingernails, looking less at ease.  They were short, ragged and bitten.  He watched her.  “If you want a noble woman I’m sure Arwen knows many in Gondor she could have march past for you to see.”

            The idea was repulsive—those stiffly pretty women posing for him, letting him judge upon appearance alone.  Like broodmares for sale.  For such and such price I shall receive the highest bloodline to bear the finest foals for the Lord of the Mark.  Colts to groom and train into an heir; I’d rather die childless.  He grimaced; sickened by imagery and shocked she would suggest it.  “I don’t want that.”

            “Then what do you want?”  She was still picking at her fingers.  While he watched she tore off a strip of skin with her teeth and sucked at the blood that welled.

            “I don’t—stop that!”  Éomer wondered if she was nervous or something to be doing such things to herself.  It was almost like punishment; whatever, it made him tense.

            “Fine.”  Éowyn laid her hands in her lap, the bracelet sparkling on her wrist.  They were silent once more.   It was awkward and just as he was about to resort to tweaking her ear, she spoke again, “Do you want children?”  She looked up questioningly, “Or is it talk of heirs that makes you think about it?”  This was an odd topic they’d never touched and both were aware of that.  The future had never been discussed; they’d spoken of tomorrow and next week, but never years and years ahead, never their lives.  Éomer shifted, uneasy.  Everything was changing and at such a rapid pace it was dizzying.

            “I don’t know.”  He was old enough to have sired a mass of children.  Éomer smiled faintly, for all I know I have.  Yet no maid had ever approached him with any claim of bearing his child, though he’d taken no pains to hide his identity, even boasting of it at times.  The rank of Third Marshal was not trivial or of no great concern, but highly warranted and esteemed.  For all he knew he couldn’t sire any at all.  It was a new worry to lay itself upon his shoulders.  What kind of King would I be in this new Age?  It would be considered a bad omen for our people that I could not father a child…a sign that our land would wither.  He fretted, tapping his fingers nervously.

            Éowyn smiled sideways; her eyes were almost sad, “How alike we are, brother.  Neither of us knows what we want when it comes to that.”

            He blurted, surprised, “I thought you did.”  Éomer frowned, “I mean, I assumed…”

            She faced away, speaking quietly.  “It’s not the great, abiding goal of my life.”

            Her words took him back years and years and all his awkwardness vanished with a sudden laugh and remembrance of his sister covered in mud, her eyes narrowed with determination.  She’d been all of thirteen and skinny as a reed.  “You’d still rather ride standing over a jump?”

            Éowyn looked back at him in surprise, true, delighted surprise.  “Yes, I would.”

            Éomer smiled, leaning on the arm of his chair, “You never did, did you?”
            “No, I always fell off—” She gestured with a smile, “One horse would go one way, the other would go to the opposite…or one would refuse and they’d tangle.”  She didn’t look distant anymore.  “They were always so confused that I wasn’t sitting.”

            It was trick riding to stand with each bare foot on the back of a horse, precariously suspended over hard ground and eight churning hooves.  Few could master the art and of those even fewer could fly over the jumps.  Éomer remembered seeing a demonstration long ago by men who got paid well to perform such feats for a giant crowd—he’d thought it impossible and briefly he felt his open-mouthed wonder again.  Some very talented had straddled two horses and driven four over jumps, the horses flying by with the single rider upright, shoulders squared tall above his mounts.  His sister had been inspired, to Éomer’s remembered horror, and eventually Éowyn could walk and occasionally canter with her feet on the back of a separate horse, straddling open air, but her every attempt at the jumps had failed.  He’d been glad she’d lost interest at last; it meant he did not have to worry any longer about her falling between the horses and getting hurt.

“I could take that up again.”  She smiled weakly.

He shuddered.  “Please don’t.”  Éowyn didn’t reply for a moment, and then she turned rather suddenly, opening her mouth as though to speak.  Éomer waited, but she closed it again, looking troubled.  Leaning closer, he asked softly, “What?”

            “Do you…do you have any of Mother and Father’s things…?”  She met his eyes and then glanced away, “I thought you did.”

            Thoroughly dumbfounded, he just frowned, and then replied; “I think so.  Yes.”

            Éowyn appeared nervous, stammering, “Can we…can we look through them tonight?  Please?” 

            Perplexed and unable to fathom the reason behind this desire, he nodded obligingly.  “All right.  Of course, if you want.” 

“Thank you.”  His sister tapped her fingers fretfully a few moments more, and then stood abruptly.  “I think I’ll go.  Come whenever you tire, I won’t be asleep.”  She gave him a swift smile and walked away, leaving Éomer alone to watch the dwindling dancers and brood.

            ***

As Éowyn moved through the halls she thought quickly, barely noting her rapid strides.  She had to go about this carefully.  Éomer must not suspect or guess a thing if she was to escape his watchful eye.  As she’d sat by him thoughts had been occurring to her faster and faster, revealing the depth of what her plan needed.  Everything, everything must be taken care of from retrieving Liég from the fields to packing her possessions in secret from even the household servants.  The servants would speak to the soldiers, for many were married or related to them, and all would quickly get back to her brother.  And, too, she had tasks to manage, to ready Edoras for the winter.  A winter she wouldn’t see, of course.

 I want Mother’s things…and yet, if her brother wished to keep any of it Éowyn would not begrudge him a single item.  She could not simply ask tonight, as they went through whatever he had, what he wanted to keep for himself, no she had to be shrewd.  And I will mention the trunk in my room…anything he fancies he can hold, no matter what it is.  She would have to ask for stories, tales to unearth what mattered to him most.  She was not so cruel as to demand all of it for those were his memories far more than hers and links to their parents whom he remembered and she really did not.  

Éowyn was in her quarters, about to take off the rich dress and replace it with a nightgown and robe, when she looked back into her mother’s flower room.  I wonder…the roses?   She’d not thought about it before, but as she walked into the thick smell, sweet and familiar, she wondered if they could be moved.  The plants were old, strong and healthy with deep, intricate root systems; surely they would survive a few cuttings for transplant.  Every year they were pruned back, kept into manageability in the small room, but she was uncertain how to get a living plant all the way to Gondor.  It is a long ride…

 The night painted the colorful blooms in shades of still-damp silver, white and black, making her think of Faramir’s surcoat: a deep, flawless sable while the tree and the stars shone out boldly opaline.  Éowyn looked up at the skies, wrapping her arms around herself as a cool wind blew and wishing he were with her, to nuzzle into her neck with his warm mouth.  But then he would know what she was doing, would catch her thoughts…and it would upset him terribly. 

Yes and it will upset Éomer, too.

She winced.  Éowyn knew that, could imagine her brother’s face too well, could see the hurt and confusion when he rode back to Edoras and was informed she was no longer there.  Perhaps I should not...this is desertion…again…  She winced.

No, no, I will not back out on this, I will not allow my cowardice to rule me!  Éowyn was no longer so angry as she was purely nervous.  It was a great thing she was contemplating, to leave without Faramir to help her adjust.  But he would help overmuch, he would do it all for me and I know it.  He would exhaust himself trying to make it easy, to make me happy.  Faramir should not have to do that.  He should come home from this grand, preposterous test my brother concocted to find a woman strong and worthy of him.  Worthy and appreciative of his sacrifice—how can I truly be that if I do no sacrifice in my stead?  She sighed; dreading and trying not imagine twin expressions of unhappiness and bewilderment on the features of the two men she loved best.  I want to tell.  But I don’t think they would let me go if I approached them…not forbid me so much as by their very faces make me stay out of pity.  They would be hurt when they discovered her absence but by then there was nothing they could do.  Perhaps I’ll write something, explain.  Though she doubted her skill with words, no word at all would be far too harsh.    

Pushing these thoughts away for another time, she had plenty of time since Éomer had not so much as left yet, Éowyn turned back to the flowers.   I wouldn’t know how…I’d be afraid to come to the City with a wilted mess.  Who might…?  For a moment she stood frowning, and then Éowyn could have slapped herself.  She knew a gardener, didn’t she?  Sam might give her an idea at least of what to do, or tell her flat out whether taking cuttings of her mother’s roses to Gondor was impossible or not. 

Unable to remember if she’d seen the hobbits in the hall, Éowyn backtracked, returning and peeking into the great, cleared expanse, one hand on the cool wall.  She cast her eyes low, searching for a curly head or furry foot—where she found one hobbit Éowyn was certain she could locate the others.  Music and light made the Golden Hall very beautiful and very merry looking and made her nostalgic for her childhood when all nights had been like this, when Théoden had been younger and strong and Théodred and her brother had taught her songs.  As she watched from the shadows, the peoples laughed and mingled, elves’ voices light and lilting while her own folk spoke rough and coarse.  Dogs lay sprawled in corners; tails thumping at the occasional, absent pat or gnawing generously tossed bones.  Ale flowed freely from great barrels, with wine, too, for the higher folk.  The musicians were making much more tonight than their usual board and meat—the floor before them sparkled with thrown coins. The great fires in the hearths roared, competing with numberless candles and lanterns, casting orange-red light that reddened every cheek.  She leaned against the cool wall, almost invisible in the shadows, clothed in her plum gown, still searching.

There were many elves and people but no hobbits that she could spy.  Éomer was still seated in his great chair and now joined by Aragorn and Arwen.  Glancing at them, Éowyn frowned to herself, trying to remember where the hobbits might have been roomed.  Certainly somewhere nice and luxurious, as was properly befitting their great status.  And where would that be?  They had so many renowned guests in Meduseld at the moment that the minutiae of ranking them according to room size and depth of luxuriousness were beyond her.   Wait.  Éowyn perked up, watching Aragorn stand and bow to her brother and Arwen, his face cheerful as he spoke a farewell and then came her way.  Undoubtedly he could tell her and she could ask him when he planned to return, too.  In the shadows, she waited.

“Aragorn?”

He must be part cat, she thought in amusement, to have spied her in the gloom.  The King had not shown the slightest alarm when she’d stepped forward and called his name.  Turning to face her, he looked pleased and curious.  “Yes?”

Éowyn licked her lips, hesitating, and then asked, “When do you plan to return from Isengard?”

“Why?”  He smiled at her and leaned against the wall, casually teasing, “Will you miss me?  I’ve not even left, Éowyn.”
            Not in the mood, she shook her head.  “No.”  She shifted her feet, and curled a lock of her hair around her finger, looking at it to put off answering.  “So I can be ready.  I’m going with you.” Pausing for breath, chest tight, she added, “To Gondor.”

“What?”  Éowyn frowned hearing the sharp tone.  Aragorn laughed shortly, straightening.  He no longer looked quite so relaxed, but wary, concerned.  His voice was Kingly and stern.  “What do you mean?  Explain this.”

She fiddled with her hair, not meeting his eyes.  They were flashing darkly in the dim entranceway.  With the light of the Hall in her face, Aragorn was a towering and mildly ominous man-shaped silhouette; his familiar features were partly-hidden, making him seem even more threatening.  “When you come back…I’m going with you and Arwen to the City.”

Now he sounded more incredulous than irritated and she relaxed.  “Why?”

“Because.  I need to.”  It wasn’t a very good answer and she winced, knowing she sounded like a child.

“But…” He squinted at her in the dimness, running a hand over and through his dark hair.  “But…then what is Faramir doing out there?”  Aragorn’s last sentence was charged with a deep exasperation bordering onto anger.  When he shifted, his shadow loomed over her.

She bristled back, unable to help it.  “I don’t know.  I didn’t send him.”  Éowyn added truthfully, “I didn’t want him to go.”  I am not responsible for this foolishness and I refuse to play into it anymore!

“So…it’s off, then?”  He looked back out into the Hall, at her brother.  “I don’t understand...he hasn’t spoken…” Aragorn sounded half-searching, like he was reaching for a reasonable answer.

“No, I’m sure as far as my brother is concerned, it’s not.”  Éowyn paused, cringing inwardly, child, child, child, as she added.  “He doesn’t know I’m going with you.”

Eyeing her—though it was only just possible to read his rising disbelief and vexation in the gloom, he said slowly, “If you’re not going to be here…then why is Faramir?  I don’t understand.”

“I don’t know.  That’s between them.”

There was a long pause.  As it extended she recoiled silently, feeling herself shrinking.  For some reason Aragorn’s anger was less tolerable than others Éowyn could imagine; she felt it contained disappointment, a deep and almost parental disappointment that was hard to bear.  Finally his stillness broke with a hiss,

“Between them?”  Aragorn looked furious and almost like he was growing angrier by the second.  “Are you serious?”  He turned away only to wheel back and explode, “Do you have any idea of all the things we’re behind on in Minas Tirith?  Do you have any idea?”

Éowyn jumped a little as he threw his hand out in a wide gesture of enragement.  His shadow leaped like an incensed giant threatening her.  

“This…this little outing is wasting valuable time!  And you…there’s no point if you go…what?”  He stared out into the Hall again, “It’s pointless!  It’s squandering weeks…Faramir could be returning, resuming his duties while I leave…duties which have been suspended until who knows when because of this…” Éowyn kept wisely silent, letting him work off his temper.  She understood completely and felt guilty, but it wasn’t about her.  And I’m sorry I just realized that.  Amazed at his anger, something she’d not really seen before, she waited while he trailed off, finally asking,  “Did you just think of this…this nonsense to add to an already insane excursion?”  He added with a high, frustrated chuckle, “After Faramir left, no less!”

She tried not to smile; he looked so frazzled and his voice was so weighed down with dismay.  “Yes.”

“And you haven’t told him, them?”

Now she fidgeted again, twisting her hair between her fingers and shifting her feet while looking away.  “No…”

Aragorn’s eyes narrowed and this time he definitely sounded parental, “Is that a no you haven’t had the time or a no you’re not going to?”   His voice lowered with annoyance on the last choice.

Opening her mouth, Éowyn began, “Well…”

He interrupted her, aggressively pointing one finger at her chest. “No…no, no, no, absolutely not!  You’re telling them, both of them, or I’m not taking you anywhere and I’m telling them about this.  Do you understand me, Éowyn?”

Surprised and cowed by the fury in his voice, she nodded and murmured, “Yes.”

 Aragorn stared at her and then raised his head to the ceiling, moaning, “This is ridiculous!”  After a minute of her silence, he spat, “A few weeks.  Is there anything else?”

Still intimidated, she said quickly, “Arwen forgives you. Do you know where Samwise is?”

The King jerked his hand down the hall dismissively, “That way.”  He glared darkly and Éowyn moved away in the direction he’d pointed.  A second later Aragorn fell into step.  She kept her gaze straight ahead, knowing he was staring at her.  Finally, he asked in a rough and clearly exasperated voice, “Why?”

The simple answer would be Gandalf, to link his words to her thoughts.  But that would, she felt, discredit the bone-deep and bafflingly evasive way she felt.  “I just have to.”

“You know it ruins everything…every point of this entire exercise.”  He growled, “The only point it had.”

“I know.”  Her words were guilty.  In one fell stroke she would be ripping away all of her brother’s power to influence Faramir’s actions.  What would become of it…well, Éowyn was completely uncertain as to that.  “I just…I don’t want to be between them anymore and this is the only way.”

He grunted his reply but sounded less annoyed.

Encouraged, she spoke again.  “I want to…match Faramir in this.  I want to be…to do what he’s doing for me.”  She winced and murmured, “I know it’s untimely…”

Aragorn made another derisive noise as he led her but his eyes were more or less even-tempered.

In an anxious rush she said, “And I’m sorry about that, really.  But,” Éowyn took a deep breath, trying to fully express herself.  It was easier with Aragorn; he wasn’t pushing her at all…like Faramir.  She blinked, missing a stride in her thoughts.  Like Faramir did and shouldn’t have to...  “It shouldn’t be him alone that gives effort to this…to us.”

Aragorn was gazing at her now, as they walked, listening silently but without any forbiddance in his manner, so Éowyn went on.

 I’m not a prize to be won or a bit of chattel to be bought with a month’s service…I’m; I will be his partner.  Equal in all things.”  She glanced sideways; unnerved at the depth she was revealing and growing angry again with her brother.  Ruse to keep her close or not, how dare he?  “It’s not right, how it is now.  Do you understand?”

The King heaved a sigh and to her surprise, smiled at her.  “I suppose.”  His smile turned slightly crooked with amusement.  “But you’re pitching in, my Lady.”  He chuckled, “Oh, yes, I’m going to expect help for putting up with this.”

Éowyn was briefly confused.  “What kind of help?”

“You’ve had experience here?”

“Yes…” Somehow, she felt helping Théodred and Éomer manage the Mark as Théoden slowly fell into a stupor and Gríma gained alarming control was rather different than whatever Faramir did in Minas Tirith.  The idea of being responsible for even a portion of the massive Southern city was overwhelming and yet, it challenged her, made her feel like she was facing some desperately difficult but still scalable peak.  It was a challenge that raised her blood and made it strain for the undertaking.

“I’m guessing Éomer and Faramir haven’t mentioned Ithilien and their plans, have they?”

Éowyn was still puzzled.  “No.  What about it?”

Aragorn smiled with a stern edge coming to his lips.  “It’s not my place.  When you tell them, ask them.”

“All right.”   She nodded quickly.  This would not be disputed.  He’d meant it fully when he’d said he would tell.

The King came to a stop and rapped on the wide door for her, “Here.”  Turning on his heel, he left her as just as thudding footsteps were heard and Pippin whipped it open. 

“Éowyn!”  The hobbit beamed upwards.  “Come in!”  His mouth was red, smeared with something before he wiped it with a sleeve.  “I’ve got a pie.”

She smiled, unable to keep up her melancholy mood in the face of such eager good cheer.  “Hello, Pippin.”

Inside, the rooms were just as nice as she’d thought they would be—fully furnished with the warm wood that was rare in her land, velvet, pillows, thick rugs on the floor.  There was a man-sized desk and there Frodo perched on a chair and several cushions, writing.  Pippin trotted past him, cheerful while she lingered. 

In the candlelight, the eldest hobbit’s skin was palely glowing.  Focused, he didn’t look up as she paused.  He was going back and forth from the scribbled notes to other blank leaves of paper.  Frodo’s hand was beautiful now, not at all scrawling, but flowing and neat as he wrote, though the pen was still clumsily gripped.  Éowyn was deeply envious; her own was awkward and halting from lack of use.  On the far end of the desk was a small dish and fork—Frodo, too, had had pie but had managed not to get it all over his face.  Unlike some, she thought and smiled.

She followed the youngest hobbit into the next room, where he climbed onto the, naturally, man-sized bed.  The pie plate tilted precariously with his weight, but didn’t slide.  It looked to be a berry pie.  Pippin had no plate, only a fork, which he used to shovel a bite into his mouth.  On the other bed, Merry and Sam were companionably packing clothes, folding garments and placing them in their packs, sometimes exchanging items.  Éowyn, at Pippin’s wave, seated herself on the bed, too.  She politely refused an offer of a forkful of pie, bemused. 

Merry grinned at her with his pipe held in his teeth, sweet smoke filling the air.  “Hello.”

“Hello, Lady Éowyn.”  Samwise, too, greeted her, though with far less familiarity.

Trying to remember if she’d ever spoken to him, really approached him alone, Éowyn frowned.  She doubted it—Sam tended to be the shyest of the four, rarely addressing her unless it was clearly proper to do so.  “Um…”

“Did you come to get us to dance?”  Pippin grinned redly, tiny seeds sticking to the corners of his mouth, “We could teach you the Springle Ring.”  She felt like taking a cloth to him and scrubbing his little face clean.

“Um, no.  I came to ask Sam a question.”

He glanced up, obviously startled, his rough hands pausing on the soft, folded cloth.  “What is it, Lady Éowyn?”

She felt the urge to tell him to call her Éowyn alone, but felt it would be useless.  “Well,” Éowyn shifted on the bed, “In my room there are roses and…I want to take cuttings of them with me when I leave for Minas Tirith.  Do you think you might be able to advise…” She trailed off as a sudden brilliancy seemed to come into Sam’s quiet eyes and a joyful, keen quality sprang to his normally peaceable and wholesome face.  His callused hands dropped the half-folded clothing without another glance as they flopped onto the bedspread.  He looked elated, enraptured at her words and very abruptly alive in a way she’d never seen him.

“I’d have to see them.”  Sam was stepping away from the packs even as he spoke, no longer quite so formally, she noted.  His expression was intensely eager.  Merry looked from the packs to her and stepped away, too. 

“I’m not doing this alone,” He announced around his pipe stem.  Pippin looked alarmed as his cousin eyed him, and then swallowed another mouthful and nodded quickly as he slid from the bed. 

“I’ll come, too.”

Éowyn stood and gestured to the door.  It was blatantly obvious that Sam was agreeing to her request.  “If you want, then…” The gardener was moving in an instant, his strides hurried, hairy feet almost springing with enthusiasm, the first of the hobbits to actually force her to walk quickly instead of shortening her steps to match theirs.  Frodo barely glanced at them as they left; his attention was entirely focused upon the papers.

***

Gaer squinted in the firelight.  “You look like…” He grinned over at Nier, “what’s the word?”
            “Horse-thief.”

“Ah, yes.”

Faramir ignored them and ate his roast meat with relish.  It was good with crispy fat, hot and dripping grease into the dust at his feet.  The hounds that had accompanied them to the camp crouched on the edges of the ring of stumps, licking their chops and whining softly as they waited for their share.  They wagged long tails at the slightest sign that their hunger was heeded, rising preemptively from their crouch.  Thrown fat or gristle was swiftly fought over, breaking the Rider’s conversations with the snarling and snapping of dogs. 

He licked his greasy fingers, glancing longingly at his bedroll, still attached to his saddle.  Faramir was getting very weary, feeling his lack of sleep as he chewed—it was a warm grey blanket spreading across the back of his mind.  Across and beside him his friend and acquaintance; he supposed Nier was still deciding; were companionably offering names to each other.  Without translations he quickly tired of it.  They hadn’t been up all night and were in good spirits.   Swallowing his mouthful, he asked, “Why?”

“Hmm…Wictred?”

“No, that’s awful.”

Faramir repeated himself patiently, looking back and forth between the younger men.  “Why?”  He was thirsty.  Wine, nice and cool, just the right flavor …he contented himself with a cracked mug full of tepid water gathered from a river or stream he had yet to come across.

“Why what?”  Finally, Gaer deigned to answer him.

“Why do I look like a horse-thief?”

 “Look at you!”

Obediently, he glanced down.  He was seated on a stump just like them, eating with his hands just like them and Faramir could see no especially thieving qualities in his manner, and…he looked again…he even was dressed like them.  These people are all mad.  Well…he glanced over to where his students huddled.  They weren’t mad.  Yet…Faramir smiled.  Perhaps he could catch them before they became peculiar, give the lads a chance. Suspiciously swirling some more of the luke-warm water around in his mouth, he wondered if it might be in the rivers.  “Would you just tell me?”  He sighed, “Where did you go, anyway?”

“Brynhorn?”

Gaer was apparently so horrified he almost choked before answering strongly, “No.”  Nier looked properly abashed, offering after a moment,

“Æðelwalh?”

“Not bad.”

He spoke up again, feeling the effects of a venison-stuffed stomach on little sleep.  “What does it mean?”  To Faramir the name sounded no more than a bunch of mumbled syllables.  Meaningless and something one said with one’s mouth full.  He yawned deeply, wincing when he felt his jaw pop.

“Noble stranger.”  Gaer was licking his palm with pleasure.  Odd, none had thanked him for the fresh meat, the Rohirrim simply taking his effort as their due.  Luckily he had enjoyed it and wasn’t insulted.  Not that my taking insult would be noticed…bemused, he looked at them as he considered it and shrugged.  At least it’s “noble” and not something offensive.  But how was he to know if it was good or not if they didn’t translate all the names?  It lacks…what?  I don’t know, but it does. 

“No.”  Faramir asked again, firmly, “Where did you go today?”

This time he was promptly replied, though through a mouthful of venison. “Get salt for Edoras.”

“Where?”

Gaer jerked his chin back up the trail into the mountains.  “Up there.”

“Up there where?”  He felt like he was conversing with a child.  An annoying child.  Faramir almost snorted laughter, looking at Gaer.  I bet he was.  He eyed the redheaded man.  I wonder how old he is.  He appeared no older than Éomer, in fact, quite younger.  Éowyn’s age?  This led him to the surprising fact that he didn’t know exactly how old Éowyn was.  Pondering this, he listened until he was answered.

“Up the trail.”

Like “Up there” that told him exactly nothing.  “Am I going to be doing this?”  If so he wanted some information.  In Gondor salt was traded from Dol Amroth or other places conveniently near the Sea.  Rohan was a long way from the Sea and he wondered how they got it.  Salt licks?  That seemed ludicrous.

“You’re already doing things.”

This time Faramir just frowned.  “Like what?”

Gaer and Nier looked at each other, just as puzzled with him as he was with them.  Nier held up the hunk of venison in his hand and then nodded to the five lads.  “This and them.” 

Astonished, Faramir said the first thing that came to his head, “That’s not work.”

“Yes, it is.”  The two Rohirrim were staring at him.  Redheaded Gaer answered him slowly, “You’re going to be getting us food and teaching them.  That’s plenty.”  He chuckled, “Leave us something to do, Faramir.  You can’t impress our Lord if you collapse from exhaustion.”

Still not work.  He frowned, “Wait, I’m getting food?”  Faramir looked around himself.  For everyone?  Every day?  That might be considered work, he thought.  But barely and only if he considered the walk and carrying his weapons, which he did not at all; such an easy charge, he thought in amazement, if all he was expected to do was roam the woods teaching the basics of woodcraft and archery while leaving just enough time to stalk game to feed roughly two dozen men.  He smiled; Faramir was delighted for the first time Éomer had proposed this madness.  Such duties might tempt him to stay as a soldier of Rohan forever—they far exceeded the dubious pleasure of sitting in Council or the mammoth task of ordering Ithilien into a self-reliant, established and prosperous land free from shadow.
            Nier answered him, “You volunteered.”

“I was asked to.”

Gaer grinned around a mouthful, “And you agreed.”

“I could have said…no?”  Faramir was baffled by the command structure or complete lack thereof.  The idea of refusing a higher-ranking man’s request that he go and hunt for fresh meat was preposterous.  There was no reason to refuse, nothing to support the minor insubordination.  Glancing around himself again, he noted anew the way soldiers mingled freely, though surely there was some sort of rank among them, some way of differentiating experienced men from green, and senior from unproven.  And yet it was invisible to him if there was—no bowing, no “sirs” and no special bit of rainment such as an insignia or token; nothing that gave him any indication that any man ranked above another.  Even Aldfrith hadn’t been served his meal first.  The unruliness disturbed him after the strictly classed service Faramir had grown up in, where the disrespect he saw practiced daily in Rohan would have been punished.

“That’s all…then?”  He was hesitant, disbelieving.

“Unless we need you for something else.”

Faramir took another drink of his water and, as he sat, felt a wide, irresistible grin spreading itself across his face.  I thought this was supposed to be difficult…instead, it was turning out to be a holiday.

***

Éowyn wasn’t sure what she’d expected but it wasn’t this.  Maybe she’d thought Sam would poke around a bit in the flowerbeds and then speak a little.  Looking down at the papers in her hand, she smiled, still awed by the knowledge that had flowed like a fount from the simple hobbit.  He’d written, on paper Pippin had raced back to beg from Frodo, lengthy instructions and even drawn diagrams in a surprisingly quick, keen hand.  Essentially, there was now no way she could arrive in Gondor with dead plants unless she was an utter fool.

“Thank you very much, Sam.”

He smiled brilliantly up at her.  “Thank you, Lady Éowyn.”  The gardener’s voice was no longer shy but quick and happy, “These are beautiful flowers,” His hand caressed one of the blooms, so light the delicate petal scarcely dipped, “It was a pleasure.”

It had obviously been—he’d ordered, manner immediately far, far more authoritative, candles to see with and spent a long while muttering to himself over the plants.  Éowyn had been forced to linger in the doorway, torn between watching Sam with the roses and watching Pippin and Merry poke into her things.  They’d pounced upon the bearskin immediately, shouting questions over two rooms and seemed duly impressed at her answers—yes, she’d killed it, yes, she’d hunted it and yes, it was very big, indeed. 

Merry had been interested in her new sword, “Aragorn had them make me another…” He frowned, “It’s not like this—” His small hand touched the horsehead design on the pommel.  Her blade was too long for him to hold comfortably; Éowyn tactfully held it herself while sitting on her chair, so that it was just below eye level for him.

“That’s the design of our people and we alone use it.”  Éowyn felt for him, he was carrying naught back but the surcoat and shield to identify him as a Knight of the Mark.  She frowned down at the hobbit.  There was little he could carry with his small stature.  Perhaps she’d find or think of something to grant him as a gift.  Merry deserved all the gifts she could think to present—his bravery had saved her and allowed her to meet Faramir and that alone, other multiple acts of courage notwithstanding, was a deed that left her deep within his debt.  She resisted the impulse to hug him tightly and whisper her gratitude into one pointed ear.

 Pippin had admired the carved furniture, exclaiming its realness and shouting to Sam about it so that the gardener eventually peeked back in long enough to nod.  Then both younger hobbits had laboriously climbed upon her bed to leap up and down and whine at its softness because it spoiled the jumping.  “Man-sized beds are the best because you can’t hardly fall off.  I wish I could have one in Tuckborough.”  Pippin had explained, each word punctuated by a furry-footed bounce.  Éowyn watched indulgently as they took her smooth and neatly tucked bedspread into wrinkled, hanging oblivion, laughing light-heartedly all the while and calling for her to join them. 

“I don’t think so.”  Leaning against the doorway, she watched Sam smell the flowers, his eyes half-closed with pleasure.  She was happy that he was enjoying himself.

The gardener caught her glance, “How old are these?  The roots go very deep.”

“Come, we’re older than you are!”  Merry grinned at her; teasing and letting himself fall onto his rump.  “We won’t tell.”

She shook her head, smiling.  “No.”  Answering Sam, “I don’t know.”  In the midst of this, her brother had wandered in and now stood with a bemused smile on his face as the three hobbits filed out while calling goodnights in varying degrees of boisterousness.  Their eyes met and she laughed behind her hand.  Éomer smiled again; his expression turned slightly inquisitive as he looked at the trunk.  Éowyn called after the three, “Goodnight, thank you Sam” and turned back to her brother.

He gestured towards the door, now looking just as awkward as she felt.  “Do you want to help me get the…” She nodded quietly, setting down Sam’s instructions on her dresser, her eye catching on the crack in the mirror, and followed him into his rooms.  Éomer moved hesitantly, as though he would have rather not and Éowyn wondered nervously if this was cruel of her, making him relive memories of their parents.  After all, he’d never suggested it before.  Looking at his broad back and half of his face, expression impassive, it was impossible to tell.  She hoped not, dearly, not wishing to hurt him any more than she would.

There, under his bed and in the far corner of his bedroom, were several large wooden chests—the wood was scuffed, greying with age, the metal locks were broken and tarnished.  They were surprisingly heavy; Éowyn took one end and he took the other, Éomer doing most of the actual hoisting as they dragged the trunks back into her rooms.  She mainly steadied the chests as they moved, her brother backing in slow strides; his eyes he kept turned away.  She bit her lip hard, worrying. 

Once inside with their prizes, five chests in all placed between the stuffed chairs in her room, they hesitated.  Éomer put his hand out, touching the dust on the wood and almost drew it back before opening the trunk in one swift movement.  Éowyn leaned forward, her gaze darting between his face and the contents.  Her brother’s eyes narrowed a little then widened and he laughed, delighted.  “Look!”

Inside were obviously possessions of their father’s—a sword in a dusty, cracked leather scabbard, multiple other small weapons, tools and clothes.  “What?”  She felt oddly left out and wanting, utterly bereft of the joy that lit his features as he recognized different things and set them out for her to see.  Éowyn was suddenly dispirited and a tendril of loneliness moved through her heart.  All at once she wished for Faramir, but knew his presence would have been inappropriate.

Éomer drew the sword gently from the fragile scabbard, his hands delicate, “This was Father’s…I remember watching him clean it, sharpen it.”  His eyes softened and he smiled at her before handing the blade over and digging deeper into the chest.  “Hold it.”

The wrapped leather grip was chill, the metal far more so and she shivered as goose bumps arose on her arms.  Éowyn peered at the sword, wondering if some trace of blood remained upon it; she’d always heard it had been in their father’s hand still, when he fell.  She touched some of the dust that had penetrated the cracked scabbard and then replaced the blade in its brittle sheath.  Éomer already had more for her to look at.  He didn’t appear sad at all; Éowyn silently reflected that she was the sad one and returned her brother’s wide smile.    

 They moved quickly through that chest, Éomer looking happier and happier at each newly rediscovered item.  He gave her stories, telling bits of memories that Éowyn listened to hungrily, feeling her own memory stir, but never divulge anything more concrete than twinkling impressions of color, sound, scent.  Mother singing; swinging her legs in her chair, waiting for breakfast; Éomer pulling her hair and making faces like a goblin; Father lifting her high onto the back of his horse, walking it slowly and keeping beside her with his hand on the small of her back, careful in case she fell…

Éowyn touched cold metal, dried leather, rough wool and dulled, pitted armor, remembering nothing more profound than her father’s smile, his deep voice loud and laughing as he held her close.  Across from her she realized that Éomer looked much like him—big and broad, his voice rich and warm, hands quick and oddly clever as they replaced the sword.  Her throat felt tight and her heart ached with isolation and Éowyn was glad when they closed that chest and moved onto another.

The next trunk held possessions of both their parents, mainly small items—a silver hand mirror and hairbrush; tools to straighten spears; a large packet of sewing needles with innumerable types of thread; spare leather and cloth for patching; a bridle with a rusted bit and another piece of their father’s armor.  Éowyn felt herself tremble at the sight of it, felt her eyes burn; the breastplate was near broken, deeply dented.  It was obviously old, not, of course, the one he’d worn when he’d fallen, but still, the sight shocked her.  Éomer’s breath caught for a moment and she thought he would choke before he lifted the aged breastplate out of the wooden chest.  The leather that would have held it on was dried and the buckles were badly tarnished.  She reached out, unthinking, and touched it.  The etched metal was cold, rough with corrosion and Éowyn jerked back her hand.  She wondered why the thing had been kept—it might be repairable, but still, the reason escaped her.

 Éomund and almost all of his small company had never returned from Emyn Muil.  She’d not heard until she was almost twelve that their father’s body and those of his fallen men had been horribly mutilated by the victorious orcs, and then arrayed for all to see on the bald, bloody ground, a crumpled, mangled message of the Dark Lord’s power.  Éomer had not wanted her to hear and been enraged to find her crying to herself, completely furious at the soldiers who’d spoken.  They didn’t know I was there. 

She remembered him trying to comfort her, hugging her tightly, breaking voice stumbling as he swore their father had been dead long before the orcs could do what they’d done.  He said it didn’t hurt; it had been quick and the rest…afterwards, the orcs…that had happened when he was gone already.  He’d said that Father was in the other world, safe, happy with Mother and waiting for us…  Tears burned her eyes; they met Éomer’s across the wooden chest and his, too, were damp.  He’d tried to tell her there was no fear in death, that it came swift…like a rabbit, it’s eyes shutting down before the dog even sprang...but that wasn’t true any longer.  She feared it, feared separation…from Faramir.  Would it always be a choice between him and her family? 

A sudden new memory did arise and she immediately wished it hadn’t—fear, darkness, strange men’s speech and the sound of her mother’s weeping and cries of grief.  She looked down so he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes.

Éomer did not speak, very gently setting the broken metal plate aside; his face was forcibly detached.  At the bottom of the trunk was a dress carefully wrapped in cloth; her brother immediately stood and unwrapped it, his features intent with a surprised and relieved pleasure.  Gazing up at him, she had the odd feeling he’d been searching for it.  The gown was indescribably rich and despite its age, still well preserved.  It was made of a soft and warm ivory with a light azure-colored velvet down the center, flowers, of course, outlined in the white lace that covered the blue.  Its sides were held together with ivory strings; it seemed heavy with velvet and elegant lace as he held it up for her to see.  The neckline came up in two soft curves, emphasizing the bosom beneath it.  The sleeves were long, billowing gently past the elbow and the hem trailed; Éowyn couldn’t imagine walking in it.  She’d trip and land on her face for sure.   Her brother’s eyes met hers.  “You have to take this.”  It was her mother’s wedding dress.  He glanced at it again, and then added quietly and gently, “Even if you don’t wear it, it has to go with you.”

Éowyn nodded, surprised and moved; she’d not guessed he would offer her these things so freely.  As the elder he had first claim, and doubly because he alone could remember them.  I haven’t even yet given thought to a wedding dress…  She swallowed; thinking that showed how very unprepared she was.  If she did not make herself prepare, she never would.  And that is the point of this, my escape.  Éomer carefully refolded the gown and moved to set it on her bed; just before he carried it away, she touched the folds, marveling at the sumptuousness of the material and wondering where it had been gotten.  

The other two trunks they’d carried into her rooms held more clothing, mainly their mother’s and, unexpectedly, some clothing from their childhoods.  Éomer pointed out different gowns he could remember seeing their mother wear and he laughingly held up several miniature, stained and ripped dresses that Éowyn couldn’t for the life of her remember.  “Look at these.”  He grinned, “Not fit for rags.”

She smiled, feeling her sadness fade, too.  “I’m sure I didn’t mean to…”

“I’m sure you did.  I watched you do it half the time…and with a perfectly trollish expression on your face.”

Éowyn smiled again, “Never.  I was a darling child, Uncle said so.”

“No, you weren’t; he lied to you, sister.  You were a little goblin.”  Her brother smiled back and laughed, holding the little garment up.  His smile widened, “I wanted a brother, you know.”  She frowned a little, nonplussed, but he went on, amused, “Imagine my surprise when I found I’d gotten one.”  He grinned, “You stole my things as soon as you could crawl, dulling my wood spears by stabbing them in dirt and breaking my bowstrings.”

She defended herself, “Because they were better.  Who wants to play with a silly doll?”

***

Éomer looked back at the tiny dress, sobering.  It was no more than a scrap of red cloth and lace; his hands dwarfed it.  He remembered that argument and the hundreds of them that repeated over the years—she wasn’t going to sew, she was going to practice throwing a spear; then with increasing vehemence, she wasn’t going to cook, she was going to go hunt and he could cook, Éomer...just because she was the girl didn’t mean anything… 

And I got kicked a few times for forgetting it.  No wonder I haven’t sired any children.  He smiled a little.

 Abruptly his eyes met hers and his voice became very subdued, “Imagine my surprise again when I found I hadn’t gotten a brother after all…instead you grew up a beautiful woman.”  Faramir had been right, all of it.  Damn him, he thought irrationally and took small pleasure that the Steward was spending the night on the hard ground, hopefully with a great, sharp rock right in his back.  I hate him. 

It irritated him to no end to know he was lying to himself.  When did that happen?  Éomer looked at the scrap of red dress and gritted his teeth, fiercely certain his natural dislike would reassert itself soon.  It had better.  What would he do if he didn’t dislike Faramir?  Make friends?  Bah.

“Éomer…my poor brother.”  His heart aching, he let her lean over to hug him tightly, feeling the tension in his muscles; she kissed his rough cheek before pulling away.  As she sat back in the chair, Éomer replaced the little dresses with his fingers careful, folding them neatly and making himself want to weep because it was useless care.  These things would just go back to the shadows, back to obscurity and forgetfulness.  There was no need and would never be again, he could not go back.  Who kept these?  Théoden?  Oh, why, why?  There was naught but pain in these trunks.

He spoke suddenly, softly, not looking up.  “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

He’d surprised himself and didn’t immediately have an answer.  Smoothing the tiny clothes, he muttered, “This.” 

“What?”  Her voice was nervous.  He lifted his face and gave a tiny movement of his hand, a gesture that managed to encompass everything.  She looked away as though feeling guilt, and murmured, “It will be all right, don’t worry.”  For a moment he was skeptical, gazing at her closely, but then he sighed,

“I suppose you’re right.”  I hope so…oh, how I hope.

Éowyn smiled, looking anxious to recapture the joyful mood.  “Are you hungry?”

“Why?”

“Because I heard there’s pie.”

Éomer’s morose expression broke into a smile; he leaned back, hands on his thighs, trying to sound jovial.  “What kind?”

“I don’t know.”  She laughed and he did, too.  They snuck into the kitchens, shushing each other and laughing a kind of desperate laughter that neither acknowledged, though both felt, for to do so would doom them to tears.  Distantly the musicians and elves were still singing; Éowyn hummed along until he elbowed her.  She swung her arm, contacting back and they slapped at one another until he hit the wall and yelped in pain.  Éowyn laughed silently, more naturally, as she listened to him curse under his breath.  It was silly, beyond silly—these were his kitchens, Éomer could do whatever he wanted but it was much more fun to bump into each other in the dark and try to locate pastries in the partial blackness.

He found the counter and ran his fingers over it.  “…what’s…”

***

She halted; she was sensibly keeping her hands in front of her.  Under the door was a thin beam of light from the coals still alive in the great hearths.  In it, Éowyn could just see the gleam of her brother’s flaxen mane.  He was farther away than she’d thought.  “You got it?”

“No.”  Éomer sounded disgusted.  “I put my hand in something.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t want to know.  Squishy.”

She giggled, “Lick your fingers and see.”

“No!”

“Coward.”

“You’re not getting to me with that.”  Éowyn found a cupboard, and was slinking her fingers slowly across the shelf when she felt something too small, light and quick to be a mouse scurry over her knuckles.  She squealed and leapt back, swaying, unbalanced in the darkness.  Her brother’s voice came from her left, slightly concerned, “What is it?”

Éowyn shook her hand violently, shivering.  “A spider.”  How Sam had ever faced the gigantic spider she’d heard about she would never know.  I’d have fainted dead away…

Her brother’s voice broke her thoughts, now far slyer than concerned.  “Hmm…I’ll bet there are lots of them in here at night…with the candles out they can move about just as they please…”

“Be quiet!”  Éowyn froze, wondering if she really felt something climbing up her calf and she stomped her foot just to be sure.  The sensation came again and she slapped at her leg, gaze darting in the darkness as her skin prickled.

Éomer sounded gleeful.  “Wee little creepy-crawlies…tickling up your arms…”

She rubbed the tops of her forearms fiercely as they tingled.  “Stop it!”  He loved this, had always tormented her with spiders and bugs, relishing her girlishness when it came to insects.  Mice and snakes Éowyn could handle, but not spiders.

“…On your face, the top of your head…” His voice got lower and deeper, whispering, “running up and down your neck, all those little legs…”

She felt it, then, felt something light and ticklish on her shoulder, like tiny feet running up her neck and Éowyn shrieked at the top of her lungs, jumping up and turning to slap wildly at her neck and the shadowy air.  Her hand hit warm flesh that was most assuredly not a spider.

Her brother’s deep voice went high with pain, “Ow!”

“Éomer!”  He’d snuck up on her in the dark.  She cursed him, shivering and rubbing at her prickly skin; the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up.  Her brother burst out laughing and ducked away as she smacked him again.  There was a crash of metal pans and he swore as they heard trotting footsteps and then the door to the kitchens swung open. 

A serving woman peered at them in honest confusion.  “Do you need something, m’Lord?”

“No, thank you.  I can manage.” Éomer was trying not to laugh, red-faced with his lips pursed.  Éowyn glared at him, rubbing her neck. The woman frowned, but left.  In the light from the doorway, her brother snatched up a tin of something and sniffed it gingerly, pronouncing it a cake.  “This will do.  Get something to drink.”

With illumination, she easily found the door into the pantry and entered, smelling earth and feeling the cooler air.  There was a small jug of leftover milk, chill and still good. Éowyn grabbed it, suddenly hungry.  Éomer was waiting and she waved at him, ordering, “Go.”

They pushed the trunks aside and ate while sitting cross-legged on the bearskin; some kind servant had started a small fire in her hearth and Éowyn enjoyed the way the flames reflected off the dark fur and warmed it.  Her brother eyed the giant pelt and sighed, “Did you have a good time doing it?”

“Yes.”  There was little point in lying anymore.

He looked more envious than furious, surprising her, poking at the bear’s worn teeth and rubbing the chipped points with his thumb.  “Was it a good hunt?” 

“Oh, yes.”

“You won’t do it again?”  She just smiled and he glared.  “Promise me.”

“I can’t.”

They sat in silence for a moment before he shifted almost uncomfortably; his eyes met hers, and then flicked away.  “What did he say when he saw it?”  He took a quick bite.

Faramir?  He wants to know about Faramir?  This new interest stunned her into admitting, “He didn’t like it, either.  It upset him.”  She waited nervously to see what he would say.

Éomer harrumphed and then, to Éowyn’s incredulity, smiled.  “He’s got some sense, then.”

She frowned, replying, “He’s got a lot.”

He grinned, “I wouldn’t go that far.  He’s out there, isn’t he?”  Éowyn smiled despite herself.  “Now, what’s in that one?”  Éomer nodded at the last trunk.

“Clothes and jewelry.”  She ran her hand over the amber bead necklace; Faramir’s dolphin pendant was wrapped around her wrist once more, unseen under the sleeve.  She felt it bump her skin.  “Like this.”

Speaking around a mouthful, he said, “It’s pretty on you. You’re taking these things?”  He seemed quite interested, willing to talk in the way she’d thought she’d have to coerce him into doing. 

Sooner than you think, sweet brother of mine.  Éowyn looked down at the mostly empty cake tin and jug of milk.  “Yes.”

“Good.”  Her brother wore a white mustache; she covered her mouth to keep from giggling at him and asked carefully,

“You don’t…”

“No, I’m not sure I would get the use out of them you would.” He teased her, reaching out to pluck at the hem of her gown.  “Not my color.”

She felt a mischievous smile threatening, pulling hard at the corners of her mouth.  “I remember one time you let me dress you in…”

Éomer glowered immediately.  “We said we’d never speak of it again.  It never happened.”

She burst into laughter, “But Éomer…it did and you looked—”

“No, never.”  Her brother rose, sticking his hand out for her.

Éowyn was snickering to herself as he pulled her up without effort.  “At least I wouldn’t let Théodred do what he wanted to.”

“What was that?”

“Drag you outside so everyone could see.”  She laughed, “You thought it was a fine idea, too, you were so very drunk.”  Éowyn burst into giggles, “You sang in such a high voice…dancing and swinging that skirt…” 

Éomer shuddered, “Thank you for sparing me” and then smiled gently, sadly.  “I miss him…them.”  It was a tired whisper, a frail ghost of his hearty voice.

Soon you’ll miss me, as well, she thought and felt her heart twist with guilt.  “Me, too.”  Moving into his side, she hugged her brother very tightly, feeling his familiar mass.  Tears arose in her eyes and she made sure to blink them away before she pulled back.  He looked just as cheerless, as though he’d guessed her thought. 

Then, surprising her just as much as when he’d asked about Faramir, he nodded to the trunks, “Let’s decide what you’re taking now while we’ve got these out.”

Éowyn smiled with an effort.  “All right, but...” she thought about Merry.  “Only if you come and see what we can find for Merry.”

“Like what?”  He looked curious.

“I don’t know yet.”

Her brother shrugged and they made quick work of the trunks, separating her mother’s things.  He pressed them upon her, urging her to take it all and Éowyn could not think of a reason to refuse him.  So what if she didn’t sew?  She might have time to take up such things in Gondor…who knew?  I don’t wish to, but…but, she did wish to please her brother and her having these things seemed to please him.  Finally, they were done and she helped him drag the lighter chests back.  Éowyn kept two—the one she’d had all along and another. 

She made him carry the cake tin and the jug, replacing them in the kitchens.  Éowyn held the candles, shielding the little flames from breezes; the halls were unlit, unlike Minas Tirith’s, which blazed with torches.  Meduseld contained more wood and would burn far easier than the stone City.  Though, she reflected silently, it had burned well enough.  Their footsteps echoed in the quiet halls; she led him to the armory, remembering the hobbit’s face when he’d admired her sword.  Not that it will get any more use than his…

“What do you have in mind?”  He whispered; it was lonely and dark, forbidding any louder speech.  She shook her head and they prowled the various weapons and spare armor.  The big room was far emptier than normal, slowly being refilled by the metal smiths as they replaced all the armor and weapons used in the war.   The unoccupied hooks, pegs, and discolored spots kept catching her eye and Éowyn wondered how many of the men who’d held or been clad in those things hadn’t returned.

It was when she looked up on the wall that she found the horn.  “Look.  Get that for me.”  Éomer was taller, so he reached up and took it down for her—it wasn’t very big but it was nicely made, silver with a long green baldric to strap the horn around oneself.  The little instrument was engraved with protective runes and decorated with horsemen riding in a long line winding from the mouth to the tip.  He held it up and put it to his lips, mischief in his eyes.  She slapped it, her fingertips contacting with cool metal, “Don’t you dare!  You’ll wake all of Edoras!”

He hissed back, “I was going to do it quietly, just so we could hear it.”

Éowyn rolled her eyes and took it away.  “You can’t blow a horn quietly.”  The silver was a little tarnished, but she thought she could polish it back to a more proper shine.  “What do you think?”  The horn was small enough for the hobbit to bear with ease and it was a great gift—rich and honorable.  Only certain men blew horns when they rode into battle, usually close servants of the King.  It was fitting.  She traced the runes, trying to read them.  It was old, very old.  Perhaps something from some battle or raid.  Maybe after she’d cleaned it she could decipher the runes.

“I think I’d give him whatever he asked for…or pointed at, either one.”  Éomer shrugged and smiled in the shadows.  

His words came back to her and she smiled back, “Strip the gold from the Hall, would you?”

He glanced at her, eyes dark.  “I meant it.”

“I’m sure it would please Brego for you to lay the wood bare—he’d have a word or two for you brother, in the next world and I doubt they’d be soft.”  She was teasing but he was serious,

“I meant it.”  Éomer nodded upwards.  “I’d do it in a moment, sister.”

It just made her sadder.  “I know.  Come, it’s late.”  Éowyn looped the horn’s baldric around herself and led him out into the halls again.  “I’m tired.” 

***

The next morning Faramir arose sleepy and bleary-eyed to a surprise—one of the hounds was tucked into his side, black nose curled tightly into its spotted flank for warmth.  He blinked at the sleeping dog and yawned as it turned more firmly into a ball and, other than one brown and disapproving eye peeking up as he stood, ignored him.  His legs and muscles were stiff, both from the day’s exertion and the chill ground, but he managed to find and stagger to the stream to wash his face in.  The cold little brook was cheery with clear water leaping and splashing over dark mossy rocks.  It tasted far better drunk straight from his hand than the cracked mug and he watched drops of water spoil his reflection, noting with amusement that Éowyn and Gaer had been right—he looked rather rough with his growing beard and hair disordered and entirely unkept.  Horse-thief, indeed.  Smiling to himself, Faramir tried to do something about it, combing his dampened fingers through his sable locks while thinking, I wonder if she’s missing me yet.  He’d certainly missed her warmth against him in her soft bed while lying in his thin bedroll on the unyielding and definitely unwelcoming ground.  A week seemed like a long time to wait before he saw or held her again.

Fish darted in the stream, catching his attention, but none were large enough to bother hooking for supper.  It was too bad since he’d not fished in a long time and the prospect of teaching the lads to make nets out of boughs and vines and twisted grasses was pleasing.  Casting his eye over the banks, he found the perfect little pool, too, to keep the excess fish for later use.  It only needed a small, makeshift dam to be perfectly serviceable.  Hmm…he eyed the swimming fish, hoping for a sign of a large one or two but it was hopeless and he soon gave up.  It was a shame there was naught in the stream but minnows.

Back in camp, Faramir retied his bedroll to his saddle and dug into the saddlebags for clothing.  He changed his shirt and socks, bare chest, arms and ankles soon covered with goose bumps in the morning air.  He slid the cool linen shirt over his head, since there was a stream nearby to wash in he could wear fresh clothing daily and was glad, and buttoned up his quilted gambeson.  He left the mail in the saddlebags where he’d stowed it last night, not expecting any need for it.  Faramir almost did the same with the surcoat, but it was cool in the dawn so he kept it as insulation, lacing it swiftly with one hand absently moving to touch the white horse.  Next, he wrapped his green cloak around himself in the early chill, marveling.  In Gondor it would still be warm in the mornings, not nippy with the first hints of autumn already.  Looking around, he noted that a few leaves in the trees were already yellowing.  Finally, he put his bracers on his lower arms to protect himself from accidental strikes from the bowstring. 

Around the camp, his students were rising slowly from their bedrolls and he made eye contact with each, silently impressing the fact that he wanted to get going.  Pleased, he watched them nod wordlessly in reply and move a little faster.  Fetching his gloves, fastening his knife to his side, gathering the rope halter and lead and a generous handful of grain, Faramir set off on what he considered his most daunting task of the day—catching Thorn.  He planned on riding well into the woods and, if possible, setting a target on a tree and giving the lads a feel of shooting from horseback after they practiced on foot.

The grey was sleeping on the damp earth as he quietly approached, careful to keep silent, hoping to get close before he woke the animal.  Under him the grass still glittering with dew and Thorn’s entire right side was damp—his whiskered muzzle had dewdrops on it and his hooves were wet.  The outstretched forelegs were free of any trace of the hobbles and Faramir laughed out loud, startling the grey into raising his coarse head and body halfway up and blinking at him.  He chuckled, asking, “You’re clever, aren’t you?”

Apparently, if he gave Thorn an hour the gelding could chew through his hobbles and if he gave him a night the horse could unbuckle them with his teeth and sensitive lips, ridding Faramir of even the option he’d used earlier—retying the chewed strands of rope into a crude knot.  Somehow, he was beginning to suspect he was grossly outmatched in this horse.  Holding out the handful of grain as a peace offering, he said as winsomely as possible, “Get up, let’s go.”  He’d approached close enough to hope the gelding would simply surrender.

Thorn lay still for a moment more, as though thinking.  Finally, he struck his legs out and heaved his graceless body upright.  Shaking, his ears flapped comically; he yawned wide, showing Faramir a set of giant teeth.  Encouraged, he extended his hand, sounding silly to himself, “It’s good.  You’ll like it.”  Under his breath he added, “Please?”

To his surprise Thorn eyed his handful of grain and reluctantly approached for it, whiffing the oats before nibbling them daintily from the glove.  His ears weren’t pinned yet, and the animal’s disposition seemed to improve a little as he ate.  Faramir used his other hand to wrap the rope around Thorn’s neck, not wanting the horse to bolt as soon as he was done.  His mount haltered in a surprisingly short time, Faramir looked at the broad white back and then at the distant camp.  “Good lad, stand still…” He murmured gently, gripping the dark mane.  Thorn lifted his heavy, angular head, turning it slightly to stare at him.  “Stand still.”

Faramir bounced on his heels then threw himself up and over the wide back; Thorn didn’t help, moving forward immediately and knocking him off balance so that he scrambled for the mane, gripping with his knees.  “Whoa!”  Faramir pulled back on the lead and settled himself before ordering the gelding onward.  Thorn complied with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, ears sinking to their normal flattened position.  He didn’t bother to ask for a trot, the gelding was far too rough for bareback, so they ambled easily.

Returning to camp, he dismounted and brushed ineffectually at the white hair on his green cloak and dark trousers.  His students were in various stages of saddling or catching their mounts, so Faramir moved leisurely.  Lifting the blankets, he placed them upon Thorn’s back and then he hefted the saddle.  Loosely cinching the girth, Faramir dug into the saddlebags a bit, making sure he’d relaced the grain pouch.  With the spare shoe gone and some of his clothes moved, the saddle was not as balanced as before, so he opened both bags and shifted the mail.  Holding his bow and laying his quiver over the saddle, he strapped his sword to it, careful to yank to make sure it would stay—Boromir’s frequent admonitions to keep his weapons with him and safely secured ringing in his head—and then Faramir checked the saddle again.  When it finally appeared to be balanced enough to rest steadily on Thorn’s back, he glanced away, planning on grabbing something for breakfast rather than having to forage for it in the woods.  Faramir, head turned, didn’t notice the gelding perking up. 

Thorn had appeared to be dozing, head down, eyes half-closed and he’d taken it for admission of defeat and obedience and Faramir had relaxed his guard.  Now the grey watched him and took a small, careful step back; the faint scrape of shod hoof across dirt went unnoticed.  Faramir looked at the small fire and the men around it, wondering if there was anything besides venison or stew for the morning meal.  He’d just started towards the blackened circle of rocks when a Rider facing him shouted, “Ai!  Careful!”

He turned at the sudden sound of hooves and heaving indrawn breath, just in time to watch Thorn pretend to spook.  The gelding snorted, shying violently, muscled legs carrying him powerfully to the right, making the loosely girthed saddle sway and then, as the stirrups slapped his sides hard enough to make loud thwacking noises, Thorn bucked, leaping back to the left.  Faramir’s mouth dropped open in astonishment and then horror as the open saddlebags threatened to discharge their contents; his hand went loose on his bow as he stared.  Thorn bucked forcefully, hind legs easily going higher than Faramir’s head.  The gelding thrust himself forwards with his head low, broad back kinking over and over, flinging the saddle’s stirrups high to slap down on his muscled haunches.   

Suddenly all of his possessions that were not either on his body or four hours northeast in Edoras were flopping loose, hanging over Thorn’s flanks and spurring him to higher and higher efforts before eventually flying to crumple in the dirt.  Shirts, trousers and his mail shining as it landed in a jangling heap and then his quiver, whose strap had been looped casually over the front of the saddle, spewed arrows everywhere before falling, too.  They plummeted to the ground like strange leaves, point down, thumping immediately to the dust while his lighter clothing flew a bit, billowing and surging like birds out of control.  His sword flopped wildly, but the scabbard was well attached, and didn’t come off.

In a cleared circle of spectators, Thorn bucked formidably, coming down with grunts of effort; his ears, incredibly, were pricked as though he enjoying himself.  The saddle was very canted now, sliding sideways and down his light-colored belly as the gelding whirled, dust flying.  As though aware his fun would soon be over, Thorn abandoned the outskirts and ran forward through the camp with tail high and head up, an almost cheerful expression on his face, scattering men and horses alike, still bucking as he did so.  Some of Faramir’s arrows fell into the fire and were barely saved by quick-fingered men.  He could do nothing but stare in amazement as his horse all but exploded in a defiant display of glee in the chaos.  As Thorn galloped by, sliding to a stop in a furrow of flying dirt before bucking and wheeling again, Faramir reflected with awe that he was most definitely outmatched.

His shod hooves sparking in the sun as he flung them this way and that, tail and mane lashing, sweat darkening his dappled flanks, Thorn was moving too fast for any of the Riders to snatch his lead, so they just fell back, waiting until the gelding snorted and pranced to a stop before the silent, shocked men and horses.  Faramir made no move, still astonished.  His saddle was completely upside down; scabbard dragging the ground, open, empty saddlebags gaping, and stirrups hanging awkwardly.  As they all watched, the slackly fastened girth buckle finally gave way and the saddle dropped with a loud thudding noise.  Thorn stepped away from it, disdainfully flicking his ears and showing no sign of a spook.

The old grey raised his cumbersome head high and blew through his nostrils as though taunting them all before allowing one of the lads, Scef, he thought, to pluck his lead from the ground and gingerly guide him back to Faramir. 

Gripping the filthy lead, he said quietly, “Thank you, Scef.” 

The boy stared up at him and mumbled a reply before scuttling off to rejoin the other lads.  Around the camp men were gathering his clothing, their faces amused but surprisingly sympathetic as they handed them back.  Gaer gave him a quick and supportive grimace, his mouth twitching with concealed laughter.  Thorn looked innocent and pleased with himself as Faramir picked up the dirt smeared saddle, wiped it off and began repacking his saddlebags.  The gelding stood docile, his point apparently made, while he tacked him up again, this time moving fast and bridling the horse, too.  Looking at him and the singed feathers on several of his returned arrows, most of which were bent and unable to be used, he thought, I hate this horse.  But it did give him an opportunity—thanks to the ruination of a good portion of his arrows, today he would teach the lads to make simple darts with just the tips.  It was a useful skill if cadging arrows from a field of battle and most were broken or bent.  Faramir eyed his handful of useless arrows.  The points were still good and feathers could be gathered or salvaged.  Angered despite the teaching opportunity he’d just been given, Faramir jerked the girth tight, keeping a hold on Thorn’s lead the entire time and not planning to release it again.  I truly dislike this horse.

“Where you going?”  Gaer popped up beside him again, chewing something with gusto.

He gave the young Rider a taste of his own medicine.  “Up there.”

“Up there where?”  It was unperturbed.

“The trail.”  Faramir smiled and glanced around; his students were ready.

Gaer frowned; he could sense the Rohir’s anxiety and hear it in his voice.  “You’re not going alone are you?”

Puzzled, Faramir answered, “No, I’m taking the lads.”  Why is he so alarmed at that?  Did none of them think him competent enough to fend for himself?  No, that wasn’t right…it didn’t feel like that.  Confused, he stood for a moment, trying to decipher the foreign mind of the man that stood companionably before him.

“Oh, all right.  Good.”  To his surprise, Gaer handed him an apple and grinned.  “Here, we can’t have you fainting from hunger.”  It was a little soft, but smelled delicious and his stomach growled.

“Thanks.”  Again, Gaer grinned good-naturedly and then moved away.  Heaving a sigh and tucking the apple into his saddlebag, he checked the girth one last time.  Thorn stood quietly, appearing to be dozing again but he’d learned his lesson—Faramir kept hold of the lead even as he strapped his quiver and bow to his back.  He nodded to the waiting lads, swinging into the saddle, “Ready?”   Under him, Thorn raised his head, fully awake as he’d suspected; the gelding pulled at the bit, shifting his legs restlessly.

“Aye.”  They traded glances and one spoke for the rest.  He didn’t know the boy’s name and made sure to ask.  Frowning, he thought, I should know their names.  They nodded and mounted up. 

“Let’s go, then.”  Faramir turned the grey’s nose to the trail back out of the valley.  He would ride it again but this time head in the opposite direction.  His heart lifted at the prospect of a day under the shade of the trees and Faramir clucked to Thorn, urging the horse out.  To his relief, the gelding was responsive, jogging easily and they left at a good pace.

***

Éowyn awoke to a room filled with sunshine.  She frowned and flopped back down, about to go back to sleep.  But she couldn’t.  Her bed felt large and empty, which was silly since Faramir had only shared it for a time or two.  She rolled to her side and placed her hand flat on her stomach where he usually rested it; it didn’t feel the same.  Too small.  I miss him. 

Éowyn sighed, irritated with herself, and twisted onto her back.  Her nightgown tangled around her legs and she kicked it free.  Likely, in a year from now she’d be wishing for a bed alone like this, to stretch out so freely and laze.  I miss him…  She closed her eyes, feeling with all her inner strength…but nothing, not so much as a brush of mental warmth, no contact whatsoever.  He was too far away.  I wonder what he’s doing…

Again she sighed.  It didn’t matter if she missed him or not.  She had the remainder of her life with Faramir; she had significantly less time to spend here with her brother.  Looking at her mother’s wedding dress, the ivory and light blue velvet gleaming mutedly in the sun, Éowyn vowed that until she left, she would do her best to make Éomer happy, to not argue with him and when they met Faramir again, she would not allow them to fight.  These were her last days and she would make sure they were good ones.  

Will they fight?  She wondered this, staring at the ceiling.  Éomer hadn’t seemed so bitter last night or yesterday morning.  It will be better without me, though, I’m sure.

Rising and eyeing her messy bedroom, the wooden trunk half-open, contents scattered over her dresser, and noticing that in the outer room she could see the other trunk sitting right in her way, with yet another sigh, she decided to leave it.  Surely, Aragorn wanted an early start and she wanted to say goodbye. 

The horn.  Merry.  Éowyn stood, ignoring the impulse to lie in bed for a while longer.  She had work to do if she wanted to leave Edoras behind.

***

Faramir dismounted in a grove some three miles from camp and waved the boys from their saddles.  They tied their horses to the trees, following his example.  He gripped Thorn’s lead tightly and stared into the grey’s eyes and spoke slowly, intensely.  “Don’t. You. Move.” 

The horse blinked at him vacuously, fuzzy ears pricking to listen as he chomped his bit, teeth clanking.  He looked harmless, idiot, but inside Faramir sensed that a great and deep cunning waited for him to turn his back.  There were many ways Thorn could get loose—chew the lead, untie the knot, he’d already proven himself adapt with buckles, surely a knot couldn’t be so hard, or slip the halter and bridle entirely, rubbing them on the tree.  Faramir couldn’t think of another, but he didn’t doubt the animal in front of him could and be back in camp in no time at all.

This horse was intelligent, he knew that well.  Yet, so far, he didn’t know how to turn that intelligence to aid him, not hinder him as it had been doing.  How could he make friends?  Having an inkling, he reached into the saddlebag and pulled out the apple, “Stay here.”  Thorn reached for it, a sudden brightness in his eyes belying his former stupid expression.  He took a big bite and gave the rest to the horse—it wouldn’t be the first time he’d gone without breakfast.  The gelding chewed it messily, slobbering over Faramir’s sleeve and then nosing his arm in search of more.  He growled in reply, giving the rope a little shake.  “I mean it.”  Then, wary, he turned to face the lads.  They held their bows, quivers on their backs; their faces were intent, giving him their full attention.  Faramir took a breath, thinking back to when he’d been a boy, learning the woodcraft of all good Rangers.

“Today we’re going to start with...” He caught himself, “Héodæg wille ástellan æt…” The word stealth halted him completely. 

“Bestealcian, Láréow?”  

At the same time another lad offered, “Lutian?”

Faramir inclined his head, thankful as the words jogged his memory.  “Ic þancie þe…” He let it trail, hoping they would offer their names. What is that word, Láréow?  He’d never heard it before.  It sounded like a title.

The boy nodded, “Wurth.”  He was the tallest of the five, typically flaxen haired and would carry the characteristically stout Rohirric build.

The other answered after a moment, glancing at Wurth as though for verification, “Feohtan.”  This lad was obviously his friend; Faramir suspected he could understand little of the Common Tongue.

A moment later, before he could speak again, Wurth added, “Ic sæcge eow þancas… æt eahtian min Láréow.”  He grinned cockily and with a heavy accent said, “When there are two or more, not just one to thank, you say, Ic sæcge eow þancas…” He paused, “min Láréow.”  Some of the other boys smiled discreetly and not so discretely at the correction.

“Thank you.”  Amused himself, Faramir began to explain the plan he’d come up with, trying not to smile.  Their willingness and good-naturedness pleased him; even Wurth’s spirit pleased him.  How in the world Gaer and Nier thought what he was doing was work he would never know.

A half hour later, he was sitting with his back to a tree, all alone and waiting. He’d ordered them to remain in the clearing and then begin tracking him.  Faramir took out his knife, whittling a bit of a fallen limb to pass the time, watching the curls of wood fall to the ground, trying not to imagine his horse trotting back to camp or worse, all over the Mark with his sword.  It was a good blade, lesser in lineage than his brother’s, but still, too good to be drug over Rohan by a runaway horse. 

A twig snapped and he looked up, expectant, but it was only a squirrel.  He’d left an easy trail for this first attempt, the kind an orc might—heedlessly broken branches, crushed mushrooms or weeds, obvious prints in a wandering line.  It was really no more than an exercise to see how good they were, to find out where he needed to start in their education.  So far, he could hear nothing but then it hadn’t been very long.  The woodland around him was thicker than it had been around Edoras, less underbrush and more tall trees.  Sunlight slid down to touch his forearms in long beams, making the leather bracers glow a rich chestnut and gain his attention.  Faramir lifted his knife and began tracing the White Tree on the left, slow and careful, keeping one ear and eye out for any of his students.  The rich leather scratched fairly easily under the sharp blade, leaving a paler line.  The design was so familiar to him he could have done it blind and soon Faramir had sketched both the Tree and the Seven Stars.  After a moment he added a sea bird.  He left the right bracer untouched, tapping his knife on his leg.

That done he was bored.  Arrows.  Looking around himself, he discovered an elm tree—a wood good for arrow making—nearby and after a few more minutes, he found a few suitably thick and long branches.  Stripping them of little knobby growths, he cut them to the appropriate length, leaving the bark in place.  They would need to dry and cure a few days—much longer would be ideal, but he wanted to go ahead and do it.  I’m not in battle, he eyed the rough darts, they don’t have to save my life, just fly straight enough to get a deer or let the lads practice. 

Faramir was able to make six of the crude arrow shafts and then, that done, he eyed the surrounding forest.  Nothing.  Sinking back against the tree, he closed his eyes to better hear.  Still nothing, no sound of boots crunching branches or leaves, no voices; debatably the lads could be that quiet but he didn’t think so yet.  Letting the dart shafts rest in his lap, he rested his head against the rough bark and allowed his mind to wander.  They would find him soon enough, no one could miss the trail he’d left. 

Éowyn…Faramir pictured her, concentrating.  He put her in men’s clothing, simple wool shirt and trousers.  She smiled at him, hair hanging loose over her shoulders and he smiled back.  Hello, beautiful…oh, what’s wrong?

She’d frowned and now she smiled again, coyly, biting her lip.  I’m hot.

Well, why don’t you take something off, then?

Her hands touched the rough buttons of her woolen shirt, playing with them, rolling them around and around like he’d like to do to her nipples until she moaned.  I don’t know if I should…

Don’t be shy.  Nobody’s watching.  She giggled, fluttering her eyelashes, and undid them, baring her flawless flesh an inch at a time.  Faramir sat up against the tree with his eyes still shut, and was amused at himself— he was pathetically captivated.  In his mind Éowyn stopped, teasing him, her fingers holding the shirt closed.

Sometimes she needed to be prodded.  Quit teasing.

She dropped the shirt but held her hands over her breasts, covering them and smiling naughtily.  He stared at the slightly darker flesh of her fingers spread over the pale as milk skin of her bosom, noting that even in his fantasies she kept the dolphin pendant.  It was dark, nestled in the warm valley of her delightful breasts, a place he’d enjoy putting his face, hands…and which he still hadn’t fully seen—his Éowyn could be a wonderful tease.  Take those away.

No.  She shook her head, golden hair flowing.  Her bosom moved, pleasantly swinging with her body.

Yes.   Faramir grinned at her, or do you want me to come over there and get you?  But just as she giggled again, he heard a snap of a branch and soft voices.  The fantasy vanished at once and he opened his eyes.  Damn it.  So close.  The admittedly silly visualizations had given him some entertainment over the summer, easing his longing.  With a soft sigh, Faramir stood and waited.  It wasn’t long before they spotted him and gathered around in an expectant circle.

“God, god…” He smiled cheerfully and tried not to laugh at himself.  The boys were looking at the rough arrow shafts in his hands and Faramir held them up, concentrating upon his speech, “Hwa wudu is cyst ac…” Stopped again, he ground his teeth together.  Arrow, he thought in exasperation.  I know this word. 

Fortunately, a moment later three of the lads, Wurth, Leodthain and…not Scef, not Feohtan…dammit, what is his name…chimed in, offering, “Píl, min Láréow?”    

“Arwe, Láréow?”

“Herestrǽl?”

Faramir smiled; let’s keep this simple.  “Hwa word is…þu híe notast?”

Wurth squinted at him, “Arwe.”

To remember it, he doggedly repeated, “Hwa wudu is cyst ac arwe?”  When they just looked at him, he held up one of the darts, “Elm ond æsc.”  He sent them around the wood; pleased when they located the elm tree and the three ash trees he’d spotted as well.  The most difficult of this was judging correct length for their arrows.

Taking the as still unnamed lad’s bow, Faramir drew back slowly and carefully; if he overdrew he could crack or break the weapon.  Just as he’d guessed, it had a low draw weight, roughly, he estimated, 35 to 40 pounds; this was 15 less than his own short bow and less than half the draw weight of his long bow.  However, glancing at the boys, it was about right for them—not too heavy but strong enough for practice or small game.  Two feet, he guessed, tugging gently on the string.  Passing it back, he held out his hands, positioning them several inches more than two feet.  They would make mistakes in their first attempts; he had when he was a youth. 

“Arwe langférnes.”  He was provided with the words instantly; they seemed to enjoy it, taking his ignorance as a game, trying to out-speak each other in offering what he needed; Faramir was unbothered by their smiles.

Grinning back to show he was unmoved, he said, correctly this time, “Ic þancie þe, Wurth.” Turning a bit sterner, he ordered, “Nu, gá.”  The lads moved off obediently, searching the trees and calling to one another.  Faramir watched and felt oddly content.  They were still terrifically loud.  Suddenly there was a yelp of alarm and one of the lads jumped back.  “Wh—Hwa?”

Leodthain glanced back, “Nǽdre.” 

Unfamiliar with the term, he moved to where they’d stopped and gathered.  There was a long, slender snake lying at the base of one of the ash trees.  Faramir gazed at it, noting the small, round pupil in the yellow eye.  It was non-poisonous, harmless.  He looked up at the tree; it bore many promising branches that would likely make good rough darts; dropping to one knee, he looked at the snake again.  Slightly coiled at the tree’s base, the beast lay quiet, well aware of the multiple creatures around it and wary.  If provoked it might strike, giving a nontoxic but nasty wound.  “Láréow…?”  Scef gestured towards another tree.

“No.  Ná, Ic wille gán hit.”  Faramir cleared his mind, thinking greetings, friend.  The small eye moved to look at him alone; the slender tongue flicked out.  He felt no aggression or fearfulness from the snake, only caution.  Unaware the young Rohirrim were staring, he asked it as simply as possible, unconsciously echoing his projected thoughts with softly audible words, “…may I move you?  I need the tree.”

The snake, naturally, did not respond, but after a moment, it did uncoil and lie in a more relaxed posture.  Taking the calm movement as a sign of agreement, he leaned forward, trying not to make any sudden, energetic actions that might make the creature think he was deceitful and about to attack it.  Reaching out, he gently and respectfully lifted it and carried the creature a short distance away, very careful to keep it supported in his gloved hands.  Setting it back down upon the leaves, he said, “Thank you, friend.”  The snake slithered slowly away and he turned back to his students.  They were watching him in awe and incomprehension.  Faramir was puzzled.

“Hwa is…?”

Too impatient with his vocal stumbling, Wurth asked in an accented but perfectly clear and confused voice, “Why did you not kill it?”  Scef translated softly and considerately for his friends.

Faramir was amazed.  “It was harmless, I would not hurt a innocent creature.”

The boy blinked at him, frowned and challenged.  His light eyes were narrowed.  “How’d you know that?”

 “The eye.  It was round, like yours or mine.  When they are harmful, it is like a cat’s.”  Perhaps he had far more teaching to do than he thought.  Do they have no woodcraft?  Rohan was not thickly wooded so perhaps they did not.

Wurth was not finished.  His fair-haired brow furrowed suspiciously, “How did you make it understand you?”  The boys gazed at him, their faces wearing varying degrees of misgiving and bafflement.

That he could not answer with any truth and he hesitated.  Éomer and Éowyn’s reactions were too vivid in his memory and he did not want to alienate his students.  For a moment, Faramir felt a deep anger against his own blood and mind.  His difference was a shield held between himself and all that lived in the Ridder-Mark.  Gandalf’s capabilities had intrigued him as a child, not frightened or threatened…there are no witches in Gondor, though…remember the name Éomer gave you…others would be just as quick.  You might frighten them. 

He sighed, “I did not.”  The boys glanced at each other; he sensed their suspicion and wary sort of puzzlement.  Oh, don’t, he thought wearily and entirely reflexively, not even knowing he was doing it.  Don’t reject me, I cannot help it.  “It was passive; it would not have struck.”

They looked at each other again, warily comparing expressions.  The snake had been coiled and ready, all had seen.  But they chose to accept his explanation, given as an adult and one they should respect and trust, and nodded before disbanding once more.  Faramir watched them, feeling strange.  I don’t want to be Faramir any more.  Not here, not where I am Faramir the Witch.  He vowed to push Gaer on the naming.

He stood quietly, watching them cut down sticks, mainly getting the wood to the correct length and thickness—excess could be trimmed.  Once the lads had as many each as would fit in their quivers, he found they did not know the proper way to get the darts back into the shoulder quivers without occasionally dropping them or looking.  Faramir showed his students, demonstrating patiently.  He held his arm straight and up, not bending his elbow and lightly dropped the crude arrow shaft back into the hole in the leather; then, he had them practice that a bit before he ordered them to stay in the glade. 

Again, they would track him.  Faramir moved quicker this time, slipping between branches and through undergrowth without harming it and generally leaving less sign.  A great tree with low limbs caught his eye and he smiled.  They looked at me as though I were mad the last time I sat in a tree…would his students think to search up one or would they keep to what they’d known—flat grasslands?  It was as a good test as any.

  Translations:

Gaer's Name Suggestions:

Wictred—war-counsel

Brynhorn—fire-pinnacle...kind of like blaze of fire, notably inappropriate

Æðelwalh —Noble-stranger

Héodæg wille ástellan æt…--Today we will start with…

Bestealcian, Láréow?—Stalk, Teacher?

Lutian?—Skulk

Ic þancie þe—I thank you

Ic sæcge eow þancas…min Láréow —I thank you (plural)…my Teacher

Hwa wudu is cyst ac…--What wood is best for…

Píl, Arwe, Herestrǽl—arrow

Hwa word is…þu híe notast?—What word is…you use them?

Langférnes--Length

Ic þancie þe, Wurth.  Nu, gá.—I thank you, Wurth.  Now, go.

Ná, Ic wille gán hit—No, I will move it.