Faramir listened to the birds very carefully.  They chirped and whistled, hopping about, some in the trees and some on the ground, pecking enthusiastically.  Feathered in different shades of brown and grey, there were several types.  His students half-watched him and half-watched their lines, still catching the fish.  There was quite a pile on the bank now; it was about what Faramir considered would be enough.  He glanced at it and told them so, then returned his attention to the birds.

        Ranger training emphasized survival.  A dead Ranger could not help his people or defend his country so as a lad he had been taught to use everything and anything possible to live.  If he was separated from his company and unable to seek refuge in one of the many secret hiding places, survival might become a great task in the unpredictable hills and thickets of Ithilien.  Separation was taught as an eventual occurrence, not a rarity—often his men were overwhelmed by orc forces and had to scatter.  Faramir’s face became slightly grim; being outnumbered was what he’d come to expect.  Often men, honest men, good men and not deserters, were seen fleeing unhurt but then they vanished, were simply gone, never to regroup at any of the secret places or appear again in the City.  He looked at the birds and put those thoughts away. 

As per his example, if all he had was a knife to hunt, it limited his selections to small, easily catchable creatures unless he was extremely blessed and got within throwing distance of a deer.  However, to his knowledge that had never happened to anyone and indeed, it would have been a marvel.  In fact, for what he was looking at as a possible food source, Faramir knew he did not even necessitate a knife unless he planned to be finicky.  The shiny blade made a good lure, though, to the curious little birds.  His students were sloshing out of the pool now and he gestured for them to stand and wait.  “Watch and do not speak.”  Faramir returned to looking at his prey; he shifted his feet and then stood very still on the bank.  Glancing at his curious pupils, he withdrew his blade and held it so it shone towards the birds.  He’d said he’d use his knife, after all, and he would.

        The birds had paid them little attention, going about their morning business of singing and fighting and eating while the large, noisy animals splashed in the water.  Faramir gazed at them, thinking.  He had never actually attempted this, but it had been presented to him as one alternative.  Deciding he’d listened long enough, he whistled suddenly, breaking their intricate and deeply involved calls with one of his own.  The birds paused, and then some chirped in reply, questioning this new and simple song from something that was most definitely not a bird.  He whistled back, not moving an inch.  A few nervously fluttered away, but those that had answered called again.  They cocked petite heads, peering at him with tiny black eyes.  Faramir whistled, making a more complicated call, trying his best to mimic the birds.  Most of their trilling notes were far beyond him so he picked a fairly simple whistle and kept doing it.

        A few minutes of back and forth and several of the little creatures had either hopped or flown closer.  They were excited, listening avidly as he mimicked them; it was like they’d found a new friend.  He was getting tired of keeping his lips pursed.  His students watched in astonishment and deep curiosity.  They wanted to know what he was going to do next.  Faramir tilted the knife in slow, careful movements.  The shiny blade flickered and the birds looked at it with an inquisitive shine in every eye.  Continuing to mimic and mesmerize the tiny fowl, he managed to coax them to his feet but that wasn’t at all close enough to catch the swift little things.

        He still held the knife in one hand, but the other was open and palm upwards.  There were four of the birds that he’d seduced closer and they were sitting at his feet, craning their little necks way up and turning their heads to gaze at him as they either answered or waited for his next whistling call.  One hopped boldly onto his bare foot, tiny-clawed feet tickling his arch.  It barely weighed enough to register.  Faramir waited and whistled again, knowing he was close to demonstrating his point.

        It took another few minutes but two of the birds did as he’d hoped—they flew to his empty hand in a flutter of small wings.  Perching there, they looked energized and cheerful, always moving their eyes or heads, and fluttering their tails.  His students gaped in pleased surprise.

        “Now, I’ve got them close,” He tilted the knife and the tiny birds eyed it with no thought of danger; feeling out their infinitesimally small minds, he was happy to find they considered it as no more than a curious shiny object and himself no more than a new and interesting creature.  “I could shut my hand on one and gut it very quickly with my knife, make the kill swift and merciful.  There would not be much meat but I could use the corpse to bait a larger predator into a noose which I could make from vines.”  A fox would be poor meat but food anyway.  His students looked less than pleased as they watched one of the other birds hop to his bare shoulder.  Faramir winced, yesterday’s sunburn stinging a little under the scaly feet of the bird.   Three were sitting on him now, cocking their heads and eyeing every part of him with intense curiosity.  The birds looked very tame and very personable, cheeping or whistling softly. 

Faramir smiled at the lads in empathy, “I know.  They are very innocent and friendly.  They don’t deserve such but if I was desperate I would and it might save me.  In winter these little ones would be easier to kill, moving from thicket to thicket, than trying to hunt out and chase down rabbits and I would draw less attention with these little friends.”  He very slowly sheathed the knife and raised his hand to stroke the back of one of the birds.  It peeped faintly but didn’t move away, quite comfortable on his fingers.  They weren’t frightened of him at all and were somewhat intrigued by his noises.  In fact, as he waved his arm gently, trying to get them to move off, the birds stayed put, only swaying with his movement like he was a tree in the wind.  Faramir clucked and shook his head, amused.  “These are overbold, I think.  They might deserve to get eaten by a hungry Ranger.”  He had to shake his arm again, “Shoo!”  In a ripple of alarm accompanied by surprisingly strong drafts from such little wings, they returned to their trees and from there stared at him with their beady eyes full of betrayal. 

While he finished washing his bedroll and his students gutted the fish and strung them on the lines by their gills, he quizzed the lads on the plants he’d mentioned the day before—their appearance, where to locate them, their optimal seasons and uses for either food or medicine.  Faramir was pleased to find they’d paid attention and remembered most if not all of his instruction.  He also was even more pleased when the boys began offering him the plant names and such in Rohirric, and then quizzing him.

“Salfie, Láréow?  Hwa is word?”  The boy sounded quite authoritive, making Faramir try not to laugh out loud, only allowing himself a downward grin and then a thoughtful look.

He rubbed the soapwort into the coarse cloth and tried to think.  Luckily, most were similar sounding but this particular herb eluded him.  “Ic nat, hwa is word?”

More amusingly, they seemed pleased by knowing something he did not.  Leodthain grinned, all but gloating, “Sage, Láréow.”

Scef asked immediately, “Hwa is wurmille, Láréow?”

“Ic nat.”  He smiled at their eagerness to test him.  Who is the Teacher here now?  I suppose I will play the student a bit longer, indeed.

“Marjoram.”

“Ah.”  Faramir glanced at them. “But tell me its uses in both tongues.”  To make the test more difficult, he added quickly, “Besides just as a food.”  He had them stumped there for none answered.  “It is used in spiced wines, in brewing beer, and in medicines to comfort the stomach.”  He grinned and scrubbed harder, rubbing his knuckles into the rough cloth.  “Sage leaves are used in salads and green sauces and as a spring tonic.”

They were quiet for a few seconds, and then Wurth translated his words for him, obligingly slowly and challenged, “Porr?  Hwa is word?”

He rinsed the cloth, sloshing it in the cold water while trying not to get too wet himself and admitted easily, “Ic nat.”

Again there was triumph among the young Rohirrim.  “Leek.”

“Use?”  Faramir hefted his soaked bedroll and took it to the dry rocks on the other side of the pool, spreading the cloth to dry in the sun.  His shirt he patted, pleased to find it halfway dry already.  

“Um…” The tallest lad looked clueless, “Food?  ǽt?”

“And it drives infection out of wounds.”

“Oh.” 

        He smiled, “Give me another; I’m sure I’ll know this one.”  Naturally, he didn’t and when they laughed at his ignorance, Faramir did, too.  Plucking up a line of the glistening, dripping fish, he swung it over his bare shoulders.  “Come, let’s go back.”

***

        Éowyn felt like everyone was staring at them as she and Arwen walked down the street in Edoras.  Ordinarily they might have attracted some mild attention, but today was an exception—the people gawked, some laughing softly behind their hands.  Keeping her head high and reminding herself that none were paying much mind to her, she kept on.  The Queen had seemed less melancholy today, devoting most of her time to cooing over her dog and stroking his ears, making Éowyn wonder if she was concentrating her attentions upon the puppy in Aragorn’s absence.  Either way, the Queen did seem less downhearted and that was good.  Rusco was limp and unconscious with the deep sleep of overfed youngsters; stuffed full, his white rounded belly was almost as big as he was…but he wasn’t in Arwen’s arms.  Instead, a young serving man in the clothes of the City, bearing the dog in a fashion as fully dignified as though he was transporting the King’s scepter, was carrying him.  Éowyn kept biting her lip hard not to laugh at the utterly sober expression on his face as he walked behind the Queen, bearing the sleeping puppy in his cradled arms.  That poor man.  She ignored the folk around them’s amusement the best she could, feeling sorry for the man and emphasizing with the staring public—it was a dog and it could walk.  No one carried a dog in Edoras.  She thought Arwen’s elaborate gown, layered in shades of green, and the servant’s fine clothing, better than some of the richer merchants’, didn’t help either.  Éowyn herself would have been fairly becoming and familiar to their eyes in her simple white under gown with a sky blue outer gown; both of which were plain and unadorned wool.  The only decoration was a trim that followed the sleeves and collar of the outer gown, sewn with cobalt thread in a pretty, looped shape; it was slit at the sides and sleeveless to show her white undergown, which was fashionably tight sleeved till the elbow where they billowed annoyingly and threatened her patience.

 However, she was dreadfully simply garbed next to the Queen.  Arwen was swathed in multi-shaded green silks with a jeweled necklace clasped at her throat; she showed her wealth and status in three ways—abundance of costly material, equally costly dyes and the casually worn gems.  Not to mention the man who’s carrying her dog...sheer ridiculousness, that is.  Glancing at her, Éowyn fingered the humble, ever-present dolphin pendant; she was silently pleased to find she considered it more valuable simply because it was Faramir’s and it was important to him.  In addition to its mottled little shape riding on her bosom, she’d worn the blue triple-stone and diamond ring Faramir had given her.  Although the ring itself was worth a great deal more than the dolphin and undoubtedly so was everything else he’d presented to her, she cherished it beyond all other gifts, often rubbing the familiar token to busy her hands. 

At her waist was a belt with keys on it—she was planning on an evaluation of the treasury this afternoon.  They jangled, bumping her side, but she couldn’t wait to do this task.  It was important Éomer know the full extent of his holdings before she left or took a small portion of it with her as her birthright in independent wealth.  How much?  Not much, she thought, but some.  Éowyn wondered if she would be allowed to keep it in Gondor…here in Edoras she kept her wealth and none could tell her what to do with it.  As a wife she would be beholden.  Faramir is not like that, he would not care…he’d not shown any sign of a desire to control her in any way.  Éowyn frowned, playing with the pendant.  He’d shown her little sign of anything he expected when she became his wife…only the fact that he expected her to be his wife and after that?  No more, he says.  No more than I can give.  She was finding it troublesome as the time drew slowly nearer to their union and as she and Arwen walked, Éowyn pondered.

 Give…give…oh, I can give him my every effort, my attention turned to him alone…be a proper wife to take off his boots at night, dress him in his finery, mend his shirts, weave his cloaks and see to his every need in and out of our rooms…  Or I can give my love and reverence, my attentiveness if he has any desires and yet still leave the task of keeping his clothing up to clothiers and seeing to his every need to servants.  If he abided that I could have other pleasures to occupy me such as the Houses of Healing, tending Mother’s roses when I plant them—she would like to do so herself, she knew that already—and other things I’m sure I will discover in the City… 

But what does that mean to him, no more than I can give?  It was frustrating not being able to ask right now, as she’d like.  Éowyn could not wait until she saw him again, and not just for that reason alone, but to hug his strong body, feel his eyes upon her, his mind touching hers...just to see Faramir would be deeply enjoyable.  I want to kiss him, to ask him what he’s done and if it was terrible or if he enjoyed it some, if my brother kept his manners or not and if he’s happy to see me, too.  And then, once I’ve heard all he has to say, I will ask him what he desires of me when I come to his City.  And after that…before I leave them, I will tell all.

“I like what you’ve done.  Those braids?”

Arwen’s voice startled her.  “Oh, thank you.”  Touching her hair, she smiled.  She’d done a new type of braid for it, twisting in a thick circle and pinned up at the back, and then letting long, threadlike braids hang in loops that swung against her neck.  Smiling wryly, she thought, all this and I still look like a peasant.  Ah well.  No one cannot say I’m not at least attempting to dress like a Lady…just not an extremely rich one.

        They were on a mission this morning:  Arwen wanted to school Rusco to the leash and, logically, a leatherworker must be first found to make a proper leash and a collar.  Proper…inwardly she scoffed, remembering her own puppy gifted by Théodred and Éomer.  She’d never used more than a length of rope knotted around his neck to keep him in line in the few times it had been necessary.  But Arwen wanted a leash and collar, so Éowyn found herself right back in the same leathersmith’s shop she’d gone to yesterday to have the baldric on Merry’s horn adjusted.  He was an older man who greeted her with a low bow and a kindly, “A fine morning, my Lady, how may I serve you again?”

        “The Queen,” She coughed into her hand, trying not to laugh or break her impeccably mannered Lady’s voice when she glanced back at the patiently waiting Arwen and serving man.  The completely solemn and sincere expressions upon their faces combined with the drooping and fast asleep Rusco nearly did her in it was so silly.  “The Queen wishes a collar and leash made for,” Gesturing at the unconscious puppy, she finished, “her dog.”

        To his credit, the leathersmith did not so much as chortle at the bizarre notion.  Dogs were terribly plentiful; especially hounds like Rusco was and few were renowned as darling pets.  Most dogs wore thick, coarse leather collars if at all and not the finely made stuff the man sold.  When it came to it, horses were far more useful and deserving of a fine harness.  Instead of laughing as Éowyn might have excused, he was seriously respectful, “Aye, aye…  My Queen, if I could measure his neck?”

        Arwen waved her hand for her servant to carry the dog inside the small room, which was filled with cutting implements, types of thread and leather and yet other tools of the man’s trade.  In the center was a large, scarred table. Éowyn gritted her teeth to keep her face appropriately reflective and calm, amused as the young man hefted the flop-eared Rusco onto the tabletop and then had to force the lazy little creature to stand up.  The puppy blinked and stretched, sitting with half-lidded eyes while Arwen’s man kept one hand on his tan and black flank to hold him still.  Rusco soon woke up a little, yawning and then blinking excitedly at his new surroundings.  His tail wagged furiously.  The leathersmith was swift and gentle, unperturbed that the puppy was nosing him with interest and trying to turn and zealously gnaw and snap at the piece of string that he used to measure.  Éowyn felt ridiculous, standing with her arms crossed, watching them.  The man of the City’s expression was still as solemn as though such events were parts of his normal service.  And as far as I know they are.

        “Hold still, dear.”  Arwen scratched behind the floppy ears, scolding, “Be still for the good man.”

        “Which do you desire me to use, my Queen?”  The smith had a small range of differently tanned leathers and buckles.  Éowyn put her hand tightly over her mouth as Arwen glanced at her,

        “Come help me decide, Éowyn.”

        “Al-ll right.”  She was going to laugh and laugh.  This was utterly mad, next thing the creature would be wearing jewels on his collar and sleeping on silk pillows.  It was a dog and not just a dog, but of the same blood as those who slept outside in their kennels or on the ground in various parts of her land or in the Hall.  She’d had the beasts inside Meduseld shooed out constantly but somehow they were still whelping in the corners and getting fat from tossed scraps or stolen meals.  It was the Knights’ fault for feeding the dogs and not reprimanding them when they stole, indulgently patting the tame and useless hounds and encouraging the things to stay so that she was left with a hall full of flea-ridden and filthy dogs to do something about.  Éowyn sighed.  I cannot imagine what it will be like when I am gone…chaos, perhaps.  She hoped not but her brother had never seemed to care one way or another.

Arwen fingered the leather, choosing the darker dyed style, a rich chocolate color.  She wanted a gold buckle, which made Éowyn stare at her before dutifully pretending to look at the varieties of pattern and shape.  This is so ridiculous.  The puppy wiggling on the table before them was no different from any of the others either in marking or behavior.  His only saving grace was to be presented to the Queen…and, she did crack a smile now, probably it was an act of concern for the welfare of our country by my brother—there were too many of the cursed things already and one to Arwen is one less.  Rusco’s fate was at least a kind one, excessive pampering or no.  If their numbers rose too high or supplies were short, she knew for a fact that the puppies and older dogs in and around the Hall were rounded up, butchered and fed to the hogs.  She looked at Rusco, who Arwen’s manservant was petting and also preventing from jumping off of the table as the puppy squirmed, fully awake and becoming unruly.  When the man did not allow him to jump down to his mistress’s heels, the little dog flailed, whined and gnawed on his arm in rebellion.  This creature will be spoiled beyond reckoning.

        “Hush!”  She admonished her pet before speaking, “I want this.”  Arwen held up a small, simple gold buckle and the dark dyed leather.  “I want it large enough so that it lasts some…” She looked at Éowyn.  “How big do you think he will be?”

        “I don’t know, I don’t know how big the bitch was.”

        The Queen turned back to the patiently waiting leathersmith.  “Just leave room in it so it can stand him growing for a short while at least, please.”

        “Yes, my Queen.”  The man was picking the chosen color of leather out of a great array of tanned hides and selecting an equally dark thread to sew it with.  He took out his knife to cut, gazing up with an apologetic expression.  “This will take time.”

        “Very well.”  Arwen gestured for her servant to pluck up Rusco. 

        Éowyn took an opportunity to get something done.  “Do you want to accompany me?”  She was buying more grain today for the use of man and horse.  It was an important thing as the grain had to be enough to both last until the harvest was brought in and ground to flour or stored whole and be a goodly amount to supplement the shares of the individual harvests given by the people.  Also, she was visiting the herbalist to make sure there were no shortages in medicinal plants before they were desperately required and that none needed to be searched out from the countryside.  Suddenly she was cheerful, remembering her diversion in the Houses of Healing.  It was a shame her own people’s healing skills were so inferior in comparison to the luxury, depth of history and knowledge available in Gondor or she would have spent time studying this summer.

        “All right.”  Arwen and her servant fell in behind her, the man carrying the dog once more and Éowyn could not resist asking,

        “Why don’t you let him walk?  I’m sure he’d follow.”  There were many folk out but very few horses except those pulling carts; she didn’t think there was a possibility he would get trampled.
        “On this?”  The Queen gestured to the hard-packed dirt of the street, wrinkling her nose in disdain.  “He’d get filthy and he just had a bath…and in rose scented water, no less, to keep him smelling nice.”  She paused, patting Rusco’s head and prattling, “We must keep you smelling and looking nice if you keep the company of ladies, isn’t that right dear?”  The puppy lapped and chewed frantically at her fingers while the manservant kept a sober face.  Éowyn was just barely able to turn her head back before she rolled her eyes in disbelief.  She did not even bathe in rose water and she had roses within her rooms.  Arwen pointed to some grass in the center of the market.  “He could walk there; I suppose he wouldn’t get too dirty.”

        This is the most preposterous thing I’ve ever been a part of.  “All right, but later.”  Éowyn quickened her step.  “Come on.”

        “Where are we going?”

        “The herbalist.”

        “Oh, good.  That’s perfect!”  Arwen sounded excited.

        She glanced back, not understanding all the enthusiasm for what was essentially a bunch of smelly storage rooms.  “What for?”

        “For the wonderful thing I’m doing to your hair tonight now that all the men have left us to our own devices.  Really, they should have known better.”  The Queen beamed, refusing to answer any more questions and they walked onwards.  At the herbalist’s shop, Arwen also refused to let her see what she purchased and Éowyn began to feel a bit nervous.  What can she be planning?  She ran her hand over her flaxen braids and wondered.  Her only consolation was that Arwen did not seem as dispirited as she’d been all the day before, so if allowing the elven woman to do something mysterious to her hair would help, Éowyn was willing to surrender.  I could always have Éomer cut if off again.  She smiled.  And wear a wig.  Her smile went wide and she laughed into her hand, one for each day of the week…I’m quite sure Faramir could afford it.  I’d even have different colors.

 Her smile faded.  No doubt my future husband would be sincerely displeased and we’d find out right then and there just how much he plans to control me.

***

        The Riders were all awake by the time he and his students hauled the fish back to camp.  He dropped his load by the small, struggling fire and the three Rohirrim standing there squinted in unison.  One asked, “Fish?  That’s it?”

        Faramir stared at him and then something that rarely happened, fortunate when one considered his father’s dislike for any cheek, did again—his mouth opened and ran away with him.  Voice dripping with sarcasm, he asked, “What?  Would you like it topped with a sauce of almond milk and rose petals, perhaps thickened with rice flour?  Or just a salad beforehand?  I think I saw some herbs down by the stream and in the wood.  How does onion and parsley with garlic sound?  That goes well with fish.  Ah, but we don’t have any red wine vinegar!  A shame—” He fell silent, surprised at himself

One of the Riders made a revolted face, repeating through a grimace, “Rose petals?”  He moved away, leaving them.

The man in the middle gave him an incredulous look and chuckled, “Did you find your balls in that stream, Faramir?”  The last Rider laughed out loud and began stoking the fire as the first returned with more wood. 

Faramir was taken aback by the way he was so casually addressed by name.  He’d thought himself still at or slightly above the status of ‘Lytle Bregu’.  Maybe I am mistaken.  Then he considered his fouled bedroll, still drying with his shirt on the rocks surrounding the secluded pool.  I doubt it.  Yet none of these three seemed to show him the slightest animosity and he felt himself relax his guard.

 The Rohir snorted in amusement and picked up one of the fish, “Perhaps we should send Oswyn there to find his.  He’s been sulking ever since you knocked them out of him.”

Oswyn?  Is that his name?  Faramir decided to help the men and give his students a short break until after they ate.  They’d done well this morning.  “What do you need done?”

The Rider gazed back at him, and then shoved a giant iron pot into his hands.  “Get water first.”  He looked at the pile of gleaming fish.  “Too many to cook otherwise.  Need herbs, though.”

Given a charge, Faramir turned to his students, eyeing Feohtan.  “Get some water, not much, only so full.”  The Rohir chuckled again, amused as he passed on tasks. “And you,” He pointed to Leodthain, Wurth and the nameless lad.  (He really had to ask.)  “Get some parsley, thyme and rosemary.  Remember those?  Remember where you can find them?”   He’d changed his mind, it was an impromptu test and then they would be granted a break.  His pupils nodded and scuttled off, leaving Scef to look at him apprehensively as he ordered, “You help them while I fetch some mint.”

 Faramir faced the two Rohirrim.  They wanted something other than just fish, he was going to give them the best he could on short notice—well-seasoned fish.  Faramir did not plan on Éomer being informed of anything but his intent and willing service, even beyond his assigned duties.  Not that he fully knew his formal assigned duties since he hadn’t been necessarily assigned anything beyond the first day and that, he’d been informed, was voluntary.  Bastards, lets see you try and say I’ve not done my part.  He fixed his gaze on the men.  “Is there any of that ale left over?”

“Aye.  What do you want with it?”  The fire was sufficiently built and Feohtan was coming back with the pot, the boy’s arms straining under the weight. 

        “We’re poaching the fish with herbs in some of it.  What about the bread?”  Earlier, he’d noted a large section of a safe type of mushroom in the wood but was unsure if there would be enough, so he didn’t mention it.  The mint he needed for the fish was back down the trail.  It was not too far and the fish would take time.  Faramir eyed the men, daring them to speak against him.

“ Aye, we’ve a little bread.  Enough, I suppose, and some of the salt pork.” 

        “Well, there’s your breakfast.”  And the fish for later, he added to himself.  There was enough fish that made into the soup he planned and put with bread, the meal would feed the camp for the day or at least until the late evening.  Perhaps I can show the lads to find rabbit runs and track the rabbit to its den and set snares nearby.  Or we can flush them and I can shoot them...or birds, there must be some larger foul in these hills.  Surely there are ducks somewhere in the stream.  Faramir wondered if the hounds would bring back prey on command and then allow him to take it from them without snapping.  Duck sounded delicious.

        The Rohirrim just seemed mildly surprised at all his effort, and then they both shrugged.  They began to cut the heads from the fish, tossing them to the drooling dogs that wolfed the delicacies down in messy, crunchy bites. His quest fixed in his mind, Faramir moved away.  He reached into his saddlebags and retrieved a shirt, sliding it over his head and tangled hair in swift movement and then shoved his boots on, lacing them swiftly.  Briefly, he considered catching Thorn, but decided against it.  He moved more quickly on foot.  Forgetting Gaer had warned him about going off alone, he strode down the trail.  

          It didn’t take him long to realize he was being followed—and badly if the person was trying to be at all subtle.  Faramir halted, head cocked, listening closely.  Scarcely, he heard the soft rattle of misplaced stones in a regular rhythm, along with the snap of an occasional twig and the musty crunch of dried dirt.  The steadiness of the sounds was a sure giveaway that some proud creature followed—prey animals were more wary and often paused to investigate noises.  This thing was confident, even increasing its pace and the weighty thuds of the steps indicated it was heavy enough to be a man.  Faramir ducked off the path, slipping silently into the brush and crouched there in the shadows.  He scanned the mind of the man at his heels and relaxed.  It was Gaer.  Suddenly he was irritated.  Why was Gaer following him?  To protect him?  Nonsense.

He waited until Gaer went passed and then Faramir paced the Rohir, moving softly and easily through the dappled, morning light.  His linen shirt was ash-colored, but he was far enough into the wood and the sunlight pouring through the trees was great enough so that he did not stick out too terribly.  Either way Gaer never looked off the path, so it hardly mattered.  The Rohir could have had two companies of Rangers sticking to his track and would never have noticed he was so intent. 

Why is he so concerned?  Do I appear that foolish and incapable?  He was on a quest for a few sprigs of fresh mint, not a charge through orc-infested territory.  Feeling himself become angered and defensive, he breathed out in a low rush and tried to find the rational angle.  No doubt Gaer has reasons.  He didn’t want me going alone…obviously he’s coming along to prevent that.  Maybe he thinks I will be ambushed by more than one man…he calls himself my friend, naturally he does not wish me hurt.  As he thought, twigs pulled at Faramir’s hair and he brushed them gently aside, unconsciously not breaking them, his training demanding he left no sign to trace.  Gaer still had no idea he was pacing him, which was obvious as he kept peering ahead.  Equally obvious was the man’s anxiety that he’d not been seen yet.  This was mad, certainly he couldn’t be ambushed; unless they possessed qualities he’d not seen, Faramir knew he could shadow circles around these deaf and blind men of the Mark.  His annoyance broke sharply through the slow, reasonable progression of his thoughts.  I can handle myself...Rohan is not dangerous.  Why is he following me?

But didn’t Gandalf say it was so?   That made him pause but he shook his head, irritation rising again.  I think I can handle the dangers of finding mint in the forest without Gaer holding my hand.  Faramir followed for another minute, and then stepped from the forest directly behind Gaer.  He permitted his footfalls to become audible and spoke quietly, very carefully restraining his temper.  “Why are you following me?”

His friend jumped into the air with a sharp gasp and spun in place, shock flaring in his light eyes before he relaxed.  Indeed, he nearly slumped with the relief that radiated from his frame.  “There you are.”  Faramir said nothing in reply.  He didn’t want another quarrel; he simply wanted an answer.  Gaer didn’t speak either, apparently expecting him to begin.  They stood silent, gazing at each other until the younger, redheaded man finally said, voice a mixture of hesitancy and unease, “What?  Faramir…what?”  He looked unsettled, shifting his feet and making only fleeting eye contact.  “You’re spooking me, stop it.  What’s wrong with you…jumping out behind me and then not saying anything when I talk to you...?”

He cut through the Rider’s trailing words.  “Why did you follow me?”

 “Because…” Now Gaer appeared cautious as well as uneasy.

Faramir kept his patience.  “Why?”

There was a new note of irritation in Gaer’s voice.  “Because something might happen.”

It made Faramir irritated, too, because the only one here that should be angered was he.  “Like what?”

“You might be followed.”

He laughed out loud, disgusted.  “And what?  Like you followed me?  I think I can handle that.  I don’t need your concern.”

The Rohir looked exasperated.  “Faramir…you don’t understand…”

“Tell me and I will try.”  Faramir began walking ahead, scouting for the plant he sought.  He was out here for a reason.  Gaer paced him, stepping on the other dirt track.

It took a moment.  Hesitantly, the redheaded man began, “You humiliated him…it’s natural he’d want to…want vengeance.  His mood’s been dark, I’ve seen it…you beat him before an audience of his peers and his lord…some men cannot take that.  Perhaps he wants to…” 

He flicked a hard glance across the grassy middle of the trail, interrupting.  “Get beaten again?”  Faramir found he was rather in the mood for it.

Gaer finished determinedly.  “If you’re out alone things might go differently and it would not be good if you got hurt.”

“Not good for who?  Me?  Or our Lady?”  He couldn’t block the scorn from his voice, though he tried.  “Or you?  Are you responsible for me, Gaer?  Is that why you’re always around?  Am I your charge; is it your duty to look after me?  Is that why you care so damn much?”

Now Gaer’s eyes shone with hurt and he stopped, halting both his feet and his caustic tongue.  Dammit, I didn’t want to argue…  The Rohir spoke slowly, wearily.  “I volunteered to Lord Éomer.  I liked you when we met in the City.”  He paused, “At first it was partly to see the man my…” He gave a small, self-deprecating smile, “Your Lady would marry, but I liked you still, so I kept on.  I’m your friend, aren’t I?”  He frowned, “Why wouldn’t I be concerned if a man wanted revenge?  Why would I want you to find yourself alone in such a plight?”

Faramir bowed his head, feeling like the great ass he knew he was.  When did I get so brutish?  I was bred to act better than this.  “I’m sorry.”  He gazed straight at Gaer.  “If you can understand…if you can find it within you to understand, I feel much like I am a great jest in your land, to your people…that my experience, my worth is belittled.  I am insulted, mocked daily.”  He sighed, “It is difficult not to be guarding against…not to turn kindly words to cutting ones.  I am sorry.  You are right, we are friends, it is…” Faramir offered a smile, hoping it would be returned, “Good of you to worry and I thank you.”  He swallowed, “I am sorry, too, that I offended you yesterday.  I did not mean to and I regret it greatly.”

Gaer returned his smile after a beat, looking more relaxed, and nodded.  Just when Faramir had relaxed, too, the Rohir said quietly and coolly, his light eyes fixed on Faramir’s grey ones, “I can understand, but strike at me no longer, I am not your enemy but your friend and my words are not cutting.” 

Sudden anger flushed through his veins, overpowering his guilt, “Aye and we men of Mundburg can’t do anything on our own?  What about that?  “They will believe that”?  You do not help, friend Gaer, with such words.”

“You cry over so little?”  The Rohir snorted, clearly disdainful.  “You should hear the things I keep them from speaking in your presence, the great jests they tell.”

Surprised out of all anger, he asked, “Like what?”

“Nothing.  Do not worry, I will not say such to you again, you have my oath.”  Gaer seemed irritable, though when he spoke again it was in a brisk voice indicating their troubles were over.  “What are you looking for?” 

Faramir felt a weight fall from his shoulders, though his guilt tightened his stomach.  He did strike out at Gaer and unfairly.  Subdued, he answered, “Mint.”  They walked in a reasonably companionable silence which was broken shortly thereafter by Gaer asking slowly,

“Why don’t you talk to them like you talk to me?  I’ve seen you with my people, you don’t speak to them.  Perhaps they think you are cowardly that you do not make an effort at defense and that makes them mock you all the more.”  He’d spoken very carefully and calmly, not looking up from the trail.

Faramir thought about that and shrugged.  “I do not know.  It is my feeling that if I leave them be, they will leave me.  But that is not true and I don’t understand their dislike.”  Now he felt a weary sort of pain, “I did nothing.  I do not seek to quarrel or brawl.  I only aspire to serve Lord Éomer’s wish in full and then have peace.”  I did nothing to my father, either…

“Well, I like you…so I cannot answer truly for others.”  Gaer hesitated, “My people…such things are common.  Our jests are strong and we pride strength and man’s hardness to all wounds, I think, more than your folk.  We are not nobles, Faramir,” He looked saddened, “You must learn not to think like what you are.  You are in the dirt with us, the low levels with the common folk, not reading your books and sleeping in your high tower where one must know the password to even approach.”

The feel of his friend’s mind startled Faramir.  It was a strange mix of longing and aversion. 

The redheaded man went on in a lighter tone, “Not all of my people hate you.”  He grinned sideways, “Some of them don’t care.”  Gaer smiled, his voice turning softer.  “She is ours, you know.”  When Faramir looked over, he clarified, “Oh, not in the ways that matter, she is yours in her heart and the core of her being…but she was mine in my dreams and the dreams, too, of most men in my land.  Lady Éowyn we hold above other women, the perfect woman, made of steel like a sword, valor unbreakable yet as to voice and touch soft as the petals of a spring flower.”  This time Gaer grinned, “So I’ve guessed.  I was thirteen when I first saw her and thought her the most beautiful creature that ever was.”

“What were you doing?”  Thirteen?  Faramir wondered again how old Gaer was and felt jealousy stirring.  “How long ago was that?”

“That was…” Pausing, he looked up at the blue sky and squinted, “Eight years ago, before times grew dark.  Formation practice.”  He clarified, “Riding in patterns, keeping the horses in them.  She came riding while Lord Éomer was instructing us, all golden hair shining in the sun, wide smile and sweet bosom bouncing under that shirt.  I was too scared to even look at her.”

Faramir laughed while thinking incredulously, twenty-one?  He’s naught but twenty-one?  Gaer was far younger than he’d thought.  Brave to cross the Pelennor…then jest about it to me.  He’d not seen the battle, only the field of carnage and knew he, himself at twenty-and-one, might have been shaking in the saddle to face such a great and bleak combat.

Gaer snorted at his laughter, looking up and across at him.  He shook his head.  “You laugh but the line of Éomund is known for its rash temper and Lord Éomer is no exception.  The man had a sword and I was just a puny lad of thirteen who was just discovering he couldn’t shoot a bow.  He could have killed me with a flick of his wrist and the way he looked at us made it seem like he might if we so much as smiled at her.”

Faramir smiled.  Known for its rash temper?  Ah, now things begin to make a lot of sense.  “I’m jealous of you.  I only wish I’d come here sooner.”  He sighed, “It is not so far from my land to yours and I cannot believe I never crossed the distance and saw what awaited me.” 

“Jealous of a few moments over the years?”  Gaer laughed at him.  “You are a fool, friend Faramir and a daunting one at that.”  With a sideways look, he said sternly, “Never jump out of the bushes like that at me again, would you kindly?  I thought my heart would stop and the next thing I would see was the candlelit halls of my forefathers and my sire scolding me for suffering such a disgraceful death.”

Faramir laughed, striding easily in the warm day now they were no longer quarreling.  It felt to get hot again soon.  “You could have seen me had you made any effort to look.  I followed you for a long time.”

“How did you do it…I didn’t hear or see anything.”  He was curious.

They’d neared the little glade where he’d smelled the mint as the horses had passed by.  “Practice day and night for many years.  It is a skill taught to Rangers.”

“Rangers?”  Gaer sounded slightly confused, and then he brightened, “Wait, those men?”  He laughed delightedly.  “I’d forgotten they mentioned you as their Captain.”

“What’s amusing with that?”

The redheaded man was close to snickering.  “Nothing.  Very, ah, nice men they are.”

Faramir glanced at him and cracked a smile, “What does that mean?”

“It means they’re old-maidish .”

“Are not.”  He shook his head, smiling in amusement.

“The ones I met were all so.”  Here Gaer’s voice went high, “We stand and face the West before our meals…we don’t drink ale when we have service in the morning…” He rolled his eyes, “Full of themselves they were, thought us barbarous men.”  Speaking normally, he said, “I cannot believe I forgot. ”

Faramir had laughed at the impression, now he sighed and smiled, making sure his words came out as inoffensively as they were meant to be.  “You wouldn’t know anything about being a Ranger, really.  Most of it is secret.  If they were full of themselves they deserve to be.  It is difficult and thankless labor.  Standing at meals is our practice and you shouldn’t drink yourself into a stupor if you have service early.”  He laughed, “It is not old-maidish, it is respectful and common sense.”

“Ahh, you have no heart if you can’t get up and ride with an aching head.”  Gaer glanced over, “Why don’t I come and see what’s it like?  Like you with this.”  He frowned, “’Course there’s not a beautiful woman waiting for me but…”

“You want to serve as a Ranger?  In Ithilien?”  Faramir stared at him, a little horrified at the notion.

“Why not?  I’m not sure about “serve” but what else am I doing?  There are too many of us soldiers as there are.  There is nothing more to fight and we will go back to farming or some such thing.  I cannot afford to stay and be at Edoras, guarding the King.  I cannot even shoot—so I can’t aspire for even a duty as a guard on the walls or over the gate.  My family is not wealthy, and I have as little skill in pushing a plow as I have in drawing a bow.”

“All right.”  He sniggered, unable to even imagine this venture.  Suddenly Faramir thought, it might be good for Éowyn to have someone from the Mark around for a while...she might be happier.  He couldn’t deny that he would miss Gaer’s friendship.  When he next spoke, he was more serious, “We’ll see if we can do so, if you truly want to come.  I would enjoy showing you my City—” Faramir grinned, “All of it, to the very top.”

Gaer looked flabbergasted and pleased.  The rapid sound of hoof beats broke their conversation.  Moving as one, they stepped from the path and stood beside it, out of the way of trampling hooves.  Gaer could only look curiously up the trail, but Faramir let his mind fly ahead and give a fluttering touch to the travelers’.  Éomer…the man’s psyche was a bright spot among four others, easily perceived and known.  He waited to see what would happen, feeling a little nervous.  Here was his test, his time to make an impression and cut short this fool exercise.

It flew through his mind in a flurry of deep and almost painful longing.  I want my bed, my books, my Éowyn as wife, my life…our life.

***

Éomer rode swifter than most men and he made his small party keep the pace.  He liked it, the concussion of hooves, and the horse moving beneath him, stretched to its utmost.  He loved the wind on his face, the rush of grass and the smooth speed far beyond anything he could achieve on his own.  At the moment he was in the middle of the group, not heading them.  His guards rode with one hand on the hilts of their swords, eyes keen on the wood enclosed trail. 

As if I would be ensnared by orcs at any second …shaking his head, he tried to ignore the annoying flap of his standard.  One of his guards carried it at his side, the gold-tipped pole firmly braced where the butt of his spear would be.  It made a horrible racket, irritating Éomer incredibly.  Just in the corner of his eye, the White Horse ran endlessly on its field of green, the flag’s gold trim fluttering wildly in the wind of their passage.  The noise was constant, flap, flap, flap, flap...and so on, driving him mad.  Standard, my standard.  Next they would ride with horns to announce his mighty presence.  Foolishness.  It was enough to make him long for the days of being a lowly Third Marshal.

The trail curved and they swept up it.  His horse, a bald faced chestnut stallion, was sweating heavily but still galloping hard.  Experimentally picking up the reins, he was pleased when the stud tossed his nose and fought to keep going.  He wasn’t tiring the beast too much, then or endangering its soundness.  Éomer let himself move with the gait, riding easily, his back straight with one hand loose on the reins and the other resting on his thigh.  His green cloak fluttered softly.  It was like all the other men’s except in its thickly embroidered edges and complete lack of any wear.  As a King he had to appear perfectly cared for, not so much as an unraveled thread should be tolerated. 

In fact, he’d worn, in response to his ludicrous guard, the most defenseless garb in which he’d ever ridden out—boots, trousers, linen shirt, jingling hauberk, over-tunic showing again the White Horse and his rich cloak.  He was vulnerable to even long barbs off of brush in this but if they insisted upon guarding him then there was no need for armor.  Éomer twitched under his light burden.  It was odd feeling not to be riding encumbered by pounds of metal, his every movement aware of the restrictions made by weight and thickness of his body armor.  His hauberk was light and short, split at the waist to ease time in the saddle.  Éomer barely felt it.

  Every horse’s ear unexpectedly pricked and in response, the men around him straightened, coming alert to the signal given by their four-legged brothers.  There were two men on the trail ahead, standing well out of their path.  One was familiar, a Rider, and the other was…  Well, the other could only be one man because only one man within all the Mark had hair that shade and stood so tall and lank.  He blinked; surprised at his first sight of Faramir in two days—the man looked like a villain instead of a Prince.  He was unkempt and stood in a defiant pose, shoulders square, head high, his mouth slightly curled as though in rebelliousness.  His trousers were marked with burs and stains.  His long, ink-colored hair was full and tangled on his shoulders, bits of leaf shining green within the mass while his dark beard had thickened along his face and throat, making him a strange sight even in a land full of bearded men.  He wore simple clothes, slightly above peasant’s gear—a grayish shirt, dark trousers and a hunter’s calf-high boots.  A long knife was sheathed at his side.  Faramir’s iron-grey eyes, piercing still, seemed the only unchanged thing.  They rose to his readily and intensely, trying to hold him, projecting an almost alarming glitter so that when their gazes met it was like steel striking flint.

Éomer resisted immediately.  He looked at the man; his sister’s betrothed, absorbed this new appearance so it would not affect him later, and then turned his head away.  His small party galloped onto the salt camp without delaying.   

***

He didn’t even look at me.   Faramir was amazed.  Surely he’d deserved a sneering remark or at least a harsh glare.  Who had tamed Éomer in his absence?  Mystified, he watched the five men ride out of sight. 

“Come, he’ll be wanting some of that soup for later and we need to get that mint if you think it needs it.”  Gaer prodded him and they went on. 

***

Arwen had bought a brush for her puppy and now she used it to smooth his short, tri-colored coat, admonishing him when Rusco tried to chew it, which was often.  They were seated on her bed while Éowyn watered her roses; Sam had told her to water them as much as they could bear. 

“No…no…stop that…be good!  You…dear please…” It was a steady stream of good-natured scolding.

Éowyn turned her head, glancing at the open door between the rooms and said lightly, “Oh let him come play.  He’ll be happier and then you can brush him once he’s tired himself out.”  She was in a buoyant mood looking down at the bright colors of her mother’s flowers.  The Queen must have taken her advice for a moment later the puppy burst into the smaller room, sliding into a drift of multi-colored petals and rolling wildly.  He shook his little head, ears flapping, and bit the debris before bouncing around the floor. 

Arwen came and sat on one of the chairs, her arms hung loose on the rests while one dainty foot tapped the air.  “A fine little monster he is.”  Éowyn laughed and moved with her waterer, enjoying the way the deep, warm brown of the dirt turn darker as the moisture soaked through.  “We elves don’t keep many pets…” Her face turned subdued yet she smiled still while watching Rusco.  “They come and go too swiftly.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, so she hummed under her breath and kept watering. 

“Celeborn bade me find the brighter side and I think I have…” Arwen glanced at her and then gestured languidly at the puppy sniffing around the floor, “My little darling right here is a part.  I’ll be able to enjoy him properly, it won’t feel as though I’ve blinked and his muzzle has gone grey with age and his joints too stiff to bound any longer.”  The Queen laughed suddenly, “And I won’t have time to get weary of my Estel, either.  I chose him swiftly…if he were of my own kind I’d have expected a great deal more courting before I bothered to plan my enduring and never fading life around him.”

Éowyn smiled at this, still rather at a loss as what to say.  Such things were not beyond her comprehension really, but she didn’t think she should speak on what was obviously none of her experience for fear to offend or sound foolish.  She settled upon nodding to show she was paying heed to the elven woman’s words.

“There will be time for regret, I imagine, but not much.  It is a strange thing now…” Arwen trailed off and then spoke up suddenly, her voice startling Éowyn.  “There is a book in my father’s house, a great and ancient book said to be full of wisdom.  It has beautiful art within and few words in the highest of our tongues.  I’ve only begun it…  I turned the pages only once in a day, a decade…whenever I was home and it moved me to do so.  I thought to see that book finished.”  She sounded wistful.  “But I won’t and I dare not return to Imladris for fear some argument of my amassed kin should move me from my course.” 

She nodded to make sure it was known she was paying attention, glancing at her, and then moving to another patch of flowers. 

“Weary of my Estel…” Arwen swallowed loudly in the quiet room.  “You are lucky; barring tricks of fate…you will not have to watch your husband and the man you love above all die.  I wish I were you.”

Éowyn stared at the wall, the waterer heavy in her hand.  She would not have to watch Faramir die, would she?  In all likelihood he would still be hale and strong when she grew grey and feeble.  Oh, it is unfair…  Sadly, she resumed humming in the weighty silence that followed.  Petals were under her feet; she needed to sweep them out soon.  Rusco chewed on a vine and she hissed at him and lightly swatted his little rump, making him hide beneath Arwen’s chair until he forgot and romped in the small room again.  The Queen was gazing out the windows.  Finally, she spoke again and was once more light-hearted.  “What is that song you’re humming?  The tune is nice.”

“It is a harvest song.  The women sing it to their men, usually beneath the stars.  It is…a traditional song to some, said to bring life to the new fields and to the wombs of the women who lie with their men on the fertile earth.”  She spoke softly, thinking of Faramir and herself—they would be at the festival together but that song was not for her.  I am not so bold to do such a thing...  It was the woman who led her chosen male to the fields and allowed him to claim her.  Feeling a tingle of nervousness rise up her spine, Éowyn shook her head faintly.  No, that was not for her.  Knowing she was finished watering, she eyed her hands, slightly pleased to see she’d managed not to dirty herself this time.  “Interesting.”  Arwen stood, then bent and gathered Rusco up.  “Are you ready?”

“For what?”

“Your hair.”

“Oh…all right…” Éowyn glanced around.  She had nothing more she could imagine doing before sitting to the evening meal.  I will be at the head of the table tonight…  She’d accomplished all her set tasks for the day and, therefore, had no excuses.  “Yes.”

“Good.  It takes time.  Can we get someone to build a fire in here?  I need heat.”  Arwen carried her dog out of the room and Éowyn followed, apprehensive but trusting.  It might be worth the look on her brother’s face before he chopped it off.  She smiled, imagining his laughter if her locks turned out particularly hideous.  Hopefully, Gúthwinë is sharp…

***

Faramir ignored the impulse to look over his shoulder at where Éomer sat.  Every time he thought he was being stared at, he would break and look, only discover the King of Rohan was not even turned in his direction.  But…he could feel the attention being thrown his way and the discord between his inner senses and what he saw was maddening.  He’d fetched the mint and eaten his morning meal of whatever leftover bread and salt pork, drug his dried bedroll and shirt back to camp and helped Gaer stuff the deer hide with grass to make a soft target for the crude spears.  Now he hefted one, feeling foolish.  One glance to the faces of his students proved they felt the same and Faramir straightened under the sun.

“I haven’t done this in a long time.”  He spoke confidentially to them, hoping to distract them from the fact they were practicing before their King. 

Leodthain took the bait and it worked.  “How long, Láréow?”

Faramir thought back to when he was in the uniform of the Citadel guards.  He’d carried a spear then though the bow had always been where his true talent lay.  “Fifteen years...about…more, I think but I cannot be sure since I carried one regularly.”  Leodthain made a face; in fact, many of them did.  He cocked his head, bemused.  “What?”

        “You are old, Láréow.”  Faramir burst out laughing at the amazement and disgust in the lad’s voice.  He wasn’t used to being called old.

Wurth stared up at him, adding to his young kinsman’s sense of consternation, “I am not even five and ten.”  He brightened proudly, “I will by the ending of this year.”

Faramir smiled down, “I am thirty and five.”  He chuckled, “Older than the hills, I’m afraid.”

“You are.”

Leodthain jested with him, “You’re going to die soon, aren’t you, Ealdre?”

“What does that name mean?”  He thought he could guess but that wouldn’t be as amusing as hearing the answer.

        The boy answered with impudence, “Elder, ancient one.”

It made him laugh again and yet grow a little sad—he would not, in fact, die anytime soon.  I shall outlive them quite some time if my years are any match to my forefathers.  He forced another smile, and then turned his attention to the simple spear in his grasp.  “Well, let’s see if I can remember how to do this…” Glancing back at them, Faramir teased, naturally this time, “Since I am so very old perhaps it has slipped my ancient mind.”

He shifted his grip on the long wood pole.  It was terribly crude, not weighted with a point or a butt to counter it; it wasn’t sharp, the thing would certainly just bounce off the target.  It was odd; he’d carried a spear as a younger man, like his students had said, though not in so many words, a long time ago, but the feel came back quickly.  Pulling his arm back, he scrutinized the distance.   

 Then, noticing the lads eyeing him and realizing they might be thinking themselves comparable to him since he was considered one of them in this strange service, he threw and missed, completely on purpose.  His spear bounced and slid on the grass, point digging a little furrow in the grass several feet to the side of the rough target.  He pretended to be greatly dismayed, frowning and drawing back a little to eye his spear lying well off-course.  “It seems I need some practice.”   Faramir tried not to smile when they relaxed and grew proud again. 

Scef smiled at him, “Watch, Láréow.  We practiced in Edoras before you came to teach us.”  The boy threw with a quick motion.  The throw was not the straightest but he succeeded in striking the target and Faramir made impressed noises.

He acted as if to raise his spear, and then lowered it, saying, “Show me again, I want to make sure I have it before I try to compete with the likes of you.”

The five boys grinned, two once Scef had translated, and all began to fire instructions at him in both languages so that Faramir laughed loudly and bade them with his hands raised, “Slower!  Slower!  Ic nat!  Ic bidde ge, ná hrædwyrd!”  Across the camp, Gaer caught his eye and the younger man grinned, and then rolled his in an exaggerated motion.  Faramir laughed and turned his attention back to the five boys competing for it.  “Now, slowly!  Nu, lætlíce!”

***

Éomer listened and wondered if this was what he’d wanted to accomplish.  I don’t think so.  He let his eyes wander over, drawn by the sound of the Steward’s voice rising in what was a shockingly good Rohirric accent when compared to all his earlier attempts.  His Southern inflection seemed to have faded very slightly, just enough to make it easier for the man to pronounce their words.  He sounded amused, happy even, and his stance confirmed it—he stood tall and easy, no tensions held in his lanky frame.  Éomer glanced away, then back, drawn by the unusual sight of a perfectly peaceful and cheerful Faramir.  He didn’t think he’d ever seen him like this but for a few, rare moments at a time.

Across the camp, a little into the valley, Faramir towered over his students like none of their people would.  He was laughing and watching them closely, nodding at their instruction and then following it so patiently Éomer was amazed.  He knew the Steward was a mild man, even detested him for it at the same time he was grateful for it when it came to his beloved sister, but this was unthinkable to tolerate such loudness and unruliness.  He was fascinated and appalled for how was Faramir controlling them if he let them act so disrespectfully?

He’d raised his spear again, but the boys were shouting different things at once so the Steward pretended confusion and had them start all over.  Each tried to out-shout the others and he kept shaking his head, grinning and pleading in that surprisingly decent though limited Rohirric.  There was much merriment and much laughter in the early afternoon heat and not a lot of diligent practice.  At first glance, it even seemed more like recreation than actual effort but the boys soon began throwing again while Faramir watched closely.  He tried once more, missed again and pleaded guidance, which the lads were only too happy to give.  They demonstrated proper technique, even positioning Faramir’s hands correctly and urging him on while he threw.  When the Steward finally struck the target, they cheered.

Éomer frowned, able to tell that the man was missing on purpose.  He could see no reason why.  No, not what I desired…I think.  He’d not really had a plan, something Aragorn had been thoroughly right about, damn him, but simply an idea to give himself time.  Faramir’s enjoyment of this task had not even registered as a possibility…until now.  In truth, Éomer’s strategy of having the Steward instruct the lads and at the same time be categorized with them, so to have someone to relate with, seemed to have backfired on him…if enjoyment hadn’t been a part of it.  He felt his brow crease.  Was it?  Unable to answer himself, he leaned his elbows on his thighs and watched, curious despite his dislike.  This was a strange way of teaching to allow such disorder and to pretend ignorance.  He wondered if it was an acceptable practice in the City or just Faramir himself who allowed this oddness.

Spear practice went on well into the day when the Riders began coming back to camp.  He had little to do but watch and remain mystified until the Riders’ arrival took his attention.  The heavy horses’ carts were well loaded, Éomer noted with satisfaction.  Men unharnessed the beasts and unloaded the bags of salt, adding them to the large pile beneath the lean-to.  Soon they would have enough to supply Edoras and trade or sell to various small villages and simple settlements around the Mark.  Horses that were stabled or stock grazing far from known salt licks needed the salt as well as the people who cared for them, making the mining of it a profitable excursion for the King with a surplus of mostly idle soldiers lying about his country.  The ending of the war had left him with a problem:  what to do with all the Knights of the Mark.  Some had already or would go back to being farmers or herders or join guilds and learn trades.  Others, wealthier men who could afford armor, housing and good horses, would keep on.  No doubt there would be plenty to guard him in Edoras, serve as juries to his court, and collect his dues as well as ride out and keep order over the Mark by showing the presence of the King’s men.  It was a simple thing to deter any ruffians and well practiced.  Elfhelm, too, would have a great company of soldiers in the east to keep order there.  Perhaps some would become runners, sending messages from Elfhelm to him since most Knights of the Mark were familiar with the land and the swiftest ways to cross it.

I certainly don’t need them all…the war was over and the Mark was reasonably safe despite the presence of a few weak, sickly orcs.  A single and impressively outfitted éored roaming the countryside, he guessed, would be plenty to retain order.  Experienced soldiers would train youths as were needed and it would all take care of itself with no more than necessary supervision upon his part.  Perhaps he could hold grand tournaments to keep their skills and whet their energies in the absence of true battle.  Ah, something to look forward to…  With a smile, Éomer sighed.  No doubt before the winter snows made travel difficult he would hear more cases from the common folk of injustices that might or might not have been done to them by various parties, have to check the tally of collected taxes and goods from his subjects and plan for the harvest and then year’s end ceremony and feasts.  It shall be lonely without Éowyn.  He had much to discuss with her before she left, like what in all the Mark he would do without her company and aid.  I don’t even know what she does exactly…or I do some, but I don’t know how she knows when to do it.  Like putting new straw on the floors of Edoras and strewing it with sweet-smelling herbs…how does she know when and what herbs?  Who will I appoint that task to?  The chamberlain…have I spoken to him?  Éomer rubbed his face, wearied.  If he had it had been some time for he couldn’t even conjure up the man’s face.  Maybe he could have some diversion this winter—ride unexpectedly to the City and enjoy the hospitality of his brother-in-law.  That might amuse him…or it might kill him to possibly see his sister swollen with child.   

My sister, oh sister…he came out of his thoughts, watching Faramir again.  The Steward had called a halt to spear practice, helped his students put away the crude spears and now they were…what?  He was curious.  Faramir was taking down what appeared to be small bundles of sticks and unsheathing his knife.  Riders were talking, moving around, beginning the meal and some were even setting up the goals for the night’s game.  Éomer ignored the others, focusing upon Faramir’s actions.  He alone was providing the only unpredictable activity in the camp.

The Steward had seated himself on some of the stumps nearby, though he did not acknowledge Éomer’s presence.  The lads surrounded him, giving him their full attention.  Despite all the uproar of earlier, they appeared quite respectful and obedient.  Éomer, intensely curious, listened, too. 

“Now, we’ve let them cure…” He unbundled the sticks and held one up.  “These are no more than simple darts, if they were to be used in battle we would take far more care in selecting and curing them, but…” He smiled and began shaving the bark from the wood with quick, graceful flicks of his wrist.  It fell between Faramir’s boots as he kept talking, “First you skin it, then you see if it is straight or not,” Here he held up the stick again, eyeballing it.  “If it isn’t then we would use heat to make it straight but this one is fine for the moment.  It will bend before we are finished and we can straighten it then.”

Éomer was not good with a bow; it was not to his taste—too delicate and too fickle a weapon.  A spear was better, but wielding the sword was his love.  Preferring the blade, he was natural at it and knew his strengths and weaknesses well.  Faramir was supposedly a master with the bow and it appeared all the rumors were true for it took skill and knowledge to craft one’s own arms.  Unconsciously, he leaned closer. 

The Steward kept on, “We want to shape it so we can set the point…”

“What will we use for points, Láréow?”

One of the students had interrupted; Éomer frowned at the disrespect but Faramir took it in stride, seeming more pleased than anything at the question.  His voice was enthusiastic.  “Well, we have the tips of my own broken darts but if we were on the field of battle we could also scrounge from used ones or if we were out in the open, we could use pieces of bones or chipped and shaped stones.”

One of the boys frowned, “What kind of stone?”

Faramir seemed to realize he’d made a mistake and he began to explain.  “Flint. It is less costly than metal points of course and is commonly found in parts of my country.  A piece of antler would work as well, if cut and shaped.  All it needs is to be sturdy and sharp enough to withstand penetration.  The force you use to shoot does the rest.” 

The boys looked curious and hopeful.  “Will you show us how to make points?”

“If you would like.”  The Steward grinned, apparently pleased.  “Now, we notch the end like this and I’ll make you some paints so we can tell your darts from the others.  The best feathers to use are…”

Éomer was silently aghast from his seat on the stump.  This was nonsense, was this what Faramir had been teaching these lads?  When the five were in his service they would be properly outfitted, not have to make their own arrow tips from…rocks!  Is he mad?  Appalled, he listened further but fortunately the remainder of the lesson was confined to shaping the arrow shaft and properly carving the shaft to hold the point and feathers.  Faramir demonstrated, explaining what he did at every turn and the tools he lacked and with what he substituted them.

He was served his meal just before the others and Éomer ate it, noting that it was better than the normal camp fare.  The sun was low when the Riders finished their meals and began forming teams for the game, their laughter filling the valley.  Éomer felt a sense of wistfulness.  He wished to play but then they would be overly conscious, make attempts to soften to blows against him so as not to injure their lord and the game would be ruined for all.  He reluctantly settled for watching.  Of course, there was one person of comparable rank that he could speak and interact with without having to tolerate their constant restraint and show of respect…shaking his head, Éomer pushed the idea far away.  He was not so lonely yet.

Nearby, one of the Riders turned to another.  “Faramir, cymð?”

“Faramir!  Ge eart mid me eft?”  A large flaxen-maned young man grinned and pretended to toss a punch at the Steward.  To Faramir’s credit he didn’t even flinch…but of course Éomer knew he was a mind reader so he didn’t give the man too much credit.  The Steward spoke to his students, instructing them to practice with their bows until he called for them to cease.  Éomer paid attention—this was more in line of what he had expected. 

Then Faramir surprised him.  The Steward turned and bellowed a reply, voice cheerful, “Gea!”  He stripped off his shirt and boots, neatly tucking his knife into his saddlebags and joined the young Riders.   

Éomer watched and wondered that he didn’t feel more satisfaction every time Faramir was thrown to the ground.  Not even the spectacularly bloody nose the Steward got when one man’s elbow connected with his face gave him any real gratification, which he considered a shame.  Perhaps it was because two of the Riders, a redheaded man and the larger fair-haired immediately hauled Faramir to his feet and asked if he was all right to continue while cheering his very near attempt to score and ability to take a blow.  Perhaps it was because Faramir barely took the time to spit the blood from his mouth and rub it from his chin to say yes.  Perhaps it was because when he said yes he grinned with heedlessly bloody teeth.  Perhaps it was because the men clapped him on the back and laughed, obviously glad.  Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…Éomer wondered while trying not to think too much about it.  He was rather afraid of the answer his mind might present.

It was dark now and most were collapsing into their bedrolls or sitting by the fire, speaking wearily in the flickering orange light.  The Steward’s students had been released at sundown, with their teacher checking them, noting their progress and offering quick suggestions between every game and during every pause when the leather “ball” was fetched or thrown back. 

When Faramir sat heavily onto one stump and began dabbing his fingertips at the still oozing cut over his left eye and peering at the redness on them, Éomer moved, deliberately not thinking about what he was doing.  He sat near, glancing at the man.  “Hello.”

“Hello.”  Faramir answered easily, as though he was not feeling as stilted and awkward as Éomer was.

He opened his mouth to continue, “…” And he didn’t know what to say.  This was ridiculous…it is ridiculous…he almost scared himself off and bolted to his tent—no plain bedroll on the hard, open ground for the King of the Mark, goodness, the idea—but Faramir spoke instead, his tone jaunty and relaxed.  The Steward raised his eyes and looked at him, grinning in an arrogant fashion. 
        “Does she miss me yet?  Tell me she’s pining away in my absence, I know she is.”

Éomer stiffened, but not in rage at the implied presumption his sister was a moony girl that couldn’t stand a two-day separation, no the rage was drowned by his immediate confusion.  He frowned, brow furrowing and his guard rising.  This tone was new and strange coming from the man sitting beside him.  This was not typical of the way Faramir acted.  “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Faramir frowned, but it was a mock frown, “Did I stutter?”

        Utterly confused and beginning to feel the first pricks of annoyance, he repeated himself.  “What?”

        “Is she moping, you know, wandering about all dreamy eyed and preoccupied?  Maybe a little sad?  Mentioning me?”  The last was punctuated with a wide, cocky smile.

        “No…” Ordinarily he would have spoken with enjoyment, deliberately firm to crush the Steward’s hopes but he was too disconcerted to summon anything of that nature.  What was wrong with the man?  Éomer wondered if in one of the many times Faramir had been sent sprawling he’d clunked his head upon a rock.

“Hmph.”  Faramir glanced off and shook his head, shrugging as though he didn’t care in the slightest.  “Well, I’d hoped...but…I’m sure she will soon.”

“What are you doing?”  It burst from his lips in a feat of extreme bewilderment.  This was not the same man he’d left two days ago.  This man was brash and strange.

“An impression of my brother, to get your attention.”  Faramir’s eyes twinkled with amusement, “I guessed a blow to the head would not go over as well.”  He cocked his head, asking, “Did you recognize it?  I’ll admit it’s not the best, but I heard he stayed in Edoras.”

Éomer was even more confused, if that were possible.  “I didn’t meet him.”   Now he saw a flicker of the man he knew, a tiny flash of uncertainty in Faramir’s eyes that let him know the transformation was an act, if an incomprehensible one.  He relaxed and settled in to play this new game, deciding to confuse Faramir a bit.  Voice properly sober and sincere, an act that was not an act really, for he had heard such a thing and suffered the loss of a near brother, too, Éomer said quietly, “Unfortunately.   It was said he was a great man in your City.”

Again, Faramir seemed thrown but he kept on with this bizarre act of flippancy.  “Oh, you’d have had a great deal in common.  Impatient, forceful, though I doubt he’d have done the equivalent to this to Éowyn when she came to the City.”  The Steward made a grand gesture at their surroundings.  Faramir’s eyes glinted assertively, “Pity, for it seems he would have great fun in doing so.  I know mocking me must be a highlight of your day since you do do it so very often.”

He was too astonished to feel anything else, so he kept to his quietness, answering, “Maybe not, I would not know what your brother would do.”  Then Éomer strived for the ultimate wondrous effort, pumping sincerity into his voice and face, speaking softly, earnestly, and even gratefully.  He fixed his eyes on the grey ones of the Steward.  “I deserve that.  It is good of you to do this; I thank you for your understanding.  I will miss her deeply; you are an admirable man to tolerate my foolish demands.  I am very glad to have your family tied to mine.”

Beside him, Faramir was speechless.  His face betrayed his utter shock, blinking and staring in silence.

But so was Éomer; for all his internal thoughts that he would have to put an intense effort into the words he’d just spoken…he hadn’t.  There was no lie, there had been no lies, and that startled him, spoiling whatever childish victory Faramir’s shock might have given him.  Do I actually believe that?  Stunned and a little frightened at how far he’d gone and exposed himself, he waited for a reply, any reply from the Steward.  It came in a hesitant voice, the flippancy thrown aside to show the real man.  Faramir scrutinized him and said slowly, “I am glad as well.”  He was himself once more—face containing the typical calmness and barely perceived progression of thought that showed caution and tact and that he chose his words carefully. 

He swallowed; tense and wishing he’d gone to his tent after all because the hesitancy in the Steward’s face had changed to steady, searching contemplation.  Is he reading my mind?  Does he know I didn’t lie?  Éomer looked away, seeking escape and quickly.  “Good.”  He placed his palms on his thighs, preparing to rise.  “Well…”

        Faramir smiled at him.  Actually smiled.  “And I thank you, for those words.”

        Éomer gave a hasty nod.  All he wanted to do was flee the almost warmth growing in Faramir’s gaze.  He didn’t know exactly what that meant, but he knew he was not ready for the consequences of his own words when they both knew the truth behind them.  It bore the signs of a friendship initiating as they spoke.  And not even a token one, he thought in horror.  No, he’d opened the gates for a far deeper thing, for cordiality and visits and…and hugs.  Why did I do that? Maybe if I hit him again I can undo it.  Instead, he answered, “You are welcome.”

        The Steward’s voice was low, confused and holding him there with continued conversation.  “Why say them now?”

        “I-I don’t know.”  He gazed longingly at his tent, but then was abruptly brought back by Faramir’s next sentence.

        “It is not too late and I think you know that…and,” He paused while Éomer stared at him with wide eyes.  “You wish what I wish…a way to interact with no hostility, with happiness between us…the three of us.”  Faramir laughed and looked at him with genuine friendliness in his expression.  “I am so relieved; you have no idea…it is over.  We can start anew.”  He laughed again, thoroughly happy sounding.

        Éomer twitched, having no idea what to say.  But luckily, Faramir had plenty.  The man was in reality babbling with his relief.

        “…no more arguing, can you imagine how happy she’ll be?  We can stop this,” He gestured and laughed light-heartedly, “madness and I can…”

        “You can take her away.”  He didn’t have to go so far as to hit Faramir after all, apparently.  No, the five words that slipped unwittingly from his mouth did it quite nicely. 

        The Steward stopped talking, his voice chopped into silence as cleanly as though with a knife.  Éomer flinched inwardly under the weary depression and bitter anger that shone in the man’s grey eyes as he spoke flatly.  “Do you mean that, in that way?  Do you mean it still?”      

        I think I have to…  Opening his mouth, he prepared to finish the job; eliminating any chances of the jubilant friendliness he’d seen every appearing again.  Éomer knew what he did and was ashamed but relieved—he would not have to involve himself, not have to…to interact and be open with this man.  He could be a lout for the rest of his life; it was well within his capabilities. 

Faramir had not taken his eyes from him and he spoke before Éomer could.  “Go ahead coward.”

He stiffened with anger and guilt but again was unable to talk before Faramir did.  “Tell me…” The Steward hissed it, his face intent and livid with rage, “Tell me you do.  Tell me I’m stealing her, like she was a piece of treasure in your pathetic little wooden town.  Tell me you can’t see I make her happy.” 

Éomer didn’t think he’d seen the man this enraged before and he tensed instinctively as Faramir snarled, “I made her happy when she wanted to die, I brought her back to healing and now you say I take her from you?  I gave her back to you, you ungrateful excuse for a man.”  He laughed bitterly and furiously, “Glad to have me tied to your family?  I think not.  I’m sure you would be far happier if you awoke to find me gone back to my City…” His voice lowered and Faramir’s eyes burned like a blaze were lit there, actively frightening Éomer in their intensity.  “No matter what she thought or felt, you selfish bastard.”  Leaning back, he challenged, “Go ahead, coward, and tell me what you mean.  Say it loud and proudly…leave us to no choice but hate.”  The last Faramir spat with a volcanic, sizzling fury, “I dare you.  Do it and end this.”

Éomer stared back, nonplussed and agitated, and tried to form a response.  He couldn’t.  He could choose a path and shape his future accordingly but he was stymied, too rattled to think. 

***

He felt like a dragon—fire filled him, burning in his belly and curling and licking along his spine; Faramir breathed it out as he said dangerously softly, “I’ve put up with this farce, tolerated slurs, got over the fact you broke my fingers and tried to choke me while attacking me in my own rooms…I’m patient, I like peace and when given a choice I take the nonviolent route that hurts no one, even though it may be at my own expense.”  His hands clenched tightly, “I’ve run out of patience, Éomer.  I can only take so much and,” Faramir felt his rage flame anew, making it difficult to talk rationally.  He’d been shown a shining moment, a gift of pure liberation and bliss from his guarded misery only to have it torn apart, crushed.  “You push and push me further against my limits.  I can take no more.” 

The King of Rohan did not reply, as he hadn’t replied for some time.  It didn’t matter.

Faramir went on, voice rough with his immeasurable wrath.  “So go ahead, tell me what I’m doing to wrong you…tell me how I should apologize…”  Men in the camp had taken notice now and were gazing on in silence, uncertain.  Faramir could sense Gaer’s eyes upon him, his anxiety, but he ignored it.  He meant to have his say.  “Tell me now what it is you want or I’m going to give up and in the morning I’m not going to be here.”

Éomer was startled and Faramir felt a rush of alarm from the man that pleased him.

“Speak swiftly and,” He smiled, baring his teeth, “Make it clever.  I will not wait long and if you don’t, I’m riding straight to Edoras, collecting my bride and leaving your lands.”  Faramir felt his smile widen, “Do not presume to think you may visit me in Ithilien…”  He chuckled icily, “The City is not mine, feel free to go there all you wish, but if you step one foot in Ithilien I will have you escorted out under my Guard.  Send your messages to the City, no rider under the standard of the Mark shall be welcome in my home.  I will accept no word, no letter and no man.”  He laughed coldly when Éomer’s mouth fell open and he gasped, panic flying over his features.  “Oh, I will permit Éowyn to see you or write you all she likes…but I cannot be certain she will like it when I tell her your unbelievable discourtesy.”  Hearing his own condescension, he added, “Undoubtedly her love will eventually overcome her anger.”

Éomer’s eyes were huge.  He looked horror-struck beyond all he could have imagined, pale and gulping.

Faramir felt his rage peak and he smiled.  “Choose now and apologize or I go forever and will tolerate your presence no more.”

***

He couldn’t think.  Éomer had never particularly been a man of words and the Steward’s threats had ripped his remaining calm to shreds, leaving him with nothing.  Say something…you must…

Faramir was quiet and still, patiently waiting.

He struggled, trying to find words that might express the depth of his fear and desperation, the depth of his remorse and how much he wished he’d been able to accept Faramir long before it came to this.  He’d never imagined it would come to this.  Éomer licked dry lips and forced breath up his dwindling throat, tension tightening it with every second of silence that passed.  “I—I’m s-orry.”

An arched eyebrow was his only response.  Faramir appeared as composed and detached as a man in his own hall hearing a peasant plead his case.

Éomer licked his lips, terribly nervous.  “I…”  He had nothing, no words to speak, nothing to say that might save him and if he couldn’t come up with them…  I might as well fall upon my sword.

That thought broke him.  “Don’t go, please, don’t.  I…”  He looked down, aware he was sweating.  “I didn’t mean to…I want to…I don’t know how to let her go so easily, please…my sister is all I have.”   Éomer’s last words came out as a choked whisper.  His pride was dead, ashes under the harsh threats hurled at him and he was going to weep before his men and beg for the Steward’s mercy and enough forgiveness to see his sister again under good terms.  Faramir was correct, she would be just furious enough to leave, to refuse to see him.  And for how long?  It was indeterminate and horrifying.  He sucked in a gasping, burning breath, looking up through blurring eyes, “Please don’t…stay, I beg you...  I could not live, I’m sorry…”

“Accepted.”  It was hushed and gentle, shocking him.  Faramir had stood to put his hand on his shoulder; he squeezed while Éomer looked up in wonder.  There was anger still, that he could see, but it was overridden with the compassion in the Steward’s voice.  “Easy, I will not go.”  His words were soft with mild humor, “I don’t want to have to explain why you’re a nervous wreck.  Be easy, Éomer.  You are forgiven, lucky I am soft-hearted.”

Men ceased to watch, seeking their bedrolls and talking in low voices as Faramir returned to his seat and Éomer tried to breathe.  After a few minutes to calm himself, he said, “Thank you.  I don’t deserve it.”

“Yes you do.  There is always hope in a good man.”  Faramir shrugged but his gaze remained steady.  “But I wish to hear no more words against me, no more accusations or insults.  I am finished.  It is allies or enemies between us.” 

“I understand.”  He was quiet, broken.  Whatever Faramir wished, he would have.  He had all the power.

The Steward asked quietly, “Have you chosen?  You did not say.”

“Yes.  I choose comrades, friends.”

“Good, I am glad.”  Faramir smiled faintly, “Truly.”

Éomer just stayed quiet.  It was better that way.

Faramir stared at him while he avoided meeting his eyes.  Eventually, the Steward spoke, “I’m sorry as well to have to have said what I did but you tried my temper.  Éowyn is your sister and my love, not a piece to hold against you to buy good behavior with coercion.  I wish us to be friends as men are.”  His voice turned puzzled, “Why do you resist so fiercely?  I give you every indication I can imagine that I would be happy for you to visit, to make her happy with your presence and you reject me every time.  Why?  You say you cannot let her go but I do not even see you trying.  Speak to me, let us discuss this like men and leave it behind.”  Faramir looked questioning, “Are you not as weary as I am of this constant strife?”

Éomer stared at the yellow flames of the fire.  The stars were bright above his head and in the distance coyotes howled.  Finally, he turned to face the waiting Faramir and spoke as sincerely as he’d ever in his life. “Yes, I am.”

 Translation:

Ic nat!  Ic bidde ge, ná hrædwyrd!  I don’t know!  I ask you, not so hasty of speech!

Nu, ná hrædlice!—Now, slowly!

Faramir, cymð?—Faramir, he comes?

Faramir!  Ge eart mid me eft?—Faramir!  You are with me again?

(I am really sorry about the format, but I tried for over an hour to fix it and nothing worked!  I have no idea why it did this.  The chapter is not so long.  Sorry but I was going to have a heart attack if I continued to try and fix it.)