“What is this?”

        “What is what?”  Éowyn turned, rubbing her damp hair with a cloth.  Arwen held up a travel-worn, drab bag.  “Oh…that’s Faramir’s.”

        Experimentally, the Queen shook the unadorned pack, “Well, what’s in it?”

        She frowned at it; it was lumpy and looked fairly full; she remembered it had felt light, though.  “I don’t know.  He just wanted me to keep it.”  She’d thrown it on the chair and forgotten it immediately but now Éowyn eyed the bag, curious.  “Probably some other gift he’s got me or something he brought with him.”

        The Queen peeked inside, slim fingers probing, “Well, this is a gift and this…is quite a nice drawing.”  She sounded amused, pulling out the paper and unfolding it and taking a look, before carefully replacing it.  Éowyn flushed a little and rubbed her hair harder to cover it.  “Estel can’t draw for much either; I’m doubly jealous.  And we have things to draw with…  Oh!”  Arwen yanked the opening wider and turned it towards the candlelight.  Then she looked up and, to Éowyn’s surprise, she appeared to be utterly delighted.  “Do you want to see this?  You’ll never guess, even if you lived to be as old as I am, as to what’s in this dreary little bag.” 

        “No…” The little exclamation Arwen had uttered made her even more curious. 

        Deflating a little, the Queen asked, “You’re sure?”  She looked back down, frowning.

        The temptation was gigantic; Éowyn fought it away.  “Yes.  Why?”

        “Because, this…this is so wonderful.  I want to take it out,” Arwen laughed lightly, “And play with it like a child.  I’ve never seen so big of a one.  I can’t imagine where he found it...” Her voice trailed off as she peered into the depths of the bag.  “There was one in Imladris, but they weren’t kept as a rule…too painful for some of my folk.”

        What is it?  The bag itself was shapeless, tattered and gave no clues.  She bit her lip and wrested with herself for a moment before asking, “What does that mean?”

The Queen touched the object, obviously charmed.  “It means you have to see it.”

        “What is it…I mean.  He brought me presents, they were all jewelry so far…” She remembered and glanced at her mother’s little garden, “And a dagger.  Is it something like that?”  Éowyn had no idea what she was going to do with the thing; it would likely lie there forever.  She didn’t even particularly want to touch it.

        “No.”  She was smiling.  “Not even close.”  Arwen laughed and put the bag down on the table, closing it snugly.  She sat on one of the chairs, helping Rusco up as he tried to climb into her lap.  “It’s not a lot of things; I told you, you can guess until you’re as ancient as I am but you are never going to get it.”  She sighed, “Oh, if you were a woman of the City…maybe…but not likely.  Now, if you were Imrahil’s daughter, a lovely girl whom I adore, possibly…but you?”  Arwen made a dramatic gesture, “Never!  The seas will crush us all, Éowyn.  Just look so I can play with it.”

        She ran her fingers through her wet hair, gradually untangling the mess, and sighed.  “I can’t.  I can’t act surprised.”

        “Why not?”

        Éowyn wished Faramir were here to scold her for thinking of peeking into his things; she could apologize and kiss him.  She had the urge to kiss him, to wrap her arms around his neck and tangle her fingers in his dark hair.  Mmm…to press upwards and feel how solid his body was, to feel his mouth on her neck and sucking right on the perfect spot so that he made her legs feel shaky and the world dropped away, it felt so good…  Distracted, she answered, “He’ll know.”  

        “Oh, so?”

        The Queen looked like an impatient child staring at a tray of treats, just waiting for them too cool.  Éowyn smiled.  “So…you’ll have to wait.”

        Arwen made a disgusted face, petting Rusco.  “For how long?  I’m not immortal any longer.”  Her jest had been brave, only the slightest of cracks in her voice betraying her.

        Deliberately softly, she answered.  “Not long.  Should be…no longer than three days.”  Éowyn smiled jubilantly into her mirror.  Forget the present…  Faramir was a gift enough.  “I can’t wait.”  The crack in the bottom caught her eye but she ignored it.  So far, nothing had come of it, proving she was just a silly girl.  The puppy straightened in the Queen’s lap and yipped once, then half-slithered, half-fell onto the floor, trotting towards the door with his tail wagging.

        There was a rap from the other side and a male voice.  “My Lady?”   Arwen stood quickly and moved to the door; when she opened it, there stood her manservant with a vessel in his hands.  Rusco sniffed his feet happily.  “It is mixed, as you ordered.”

        Fingers working through her hair, Éowyn frowned.  What is mixed?

“Thank you.” The Queen just smiled and took the container; the man bowed low. 

When she recrossed the room, Éowyn got her first look and she remembered.  It was brown…goop and a lot of it, lumped in one of the new, large earthen pots she’d gotten for the kitchens.  Moving to sit on the floor with her blue and white skirts neatly tucked; Éowyn stared at it, alarmed as Arwen plunked the container down by the little fire that burned in her hearth.  “What is that?  What is in that?  Is that it?”  That is not going in my hair…I don’t care who she is. Faramir and Faramir’s bag were forgotten.   

“Yes.  Henna, walnut powder and rosemary oil…oh, and red wine,” Arwen smiled.  Rusco sniffed at the goopy slop and she shooed him away with her foot.  “No, not for you, darling.”  The Queen reached into a fold of her gown and tossed a bit of meat in front of the puppy’s nose, the treat bouncing on the grizzled fur of the bearskin.  The little dog inhaled it then searched the floor around Éowyn’s skirts, studiously looking for more.  She patted him.  Arwen seated herself, too, immediately having to deal with a rambunctious puppy in her lap, nose poking everywhere in an attempt to find more of the treats. 

Rusco’s tail wagged, lightly tapping Éowyn’s knees as she asked, “What are you doing with it?”

“Well, we’re sitting it by the fire to heat so that it will release the dye,” Here Éowyn’s eyes widened and it all made sense.  Dye?  Oh, no…  She stared at the brownish goop in the clay pot, filled with horror as the Queen went on gaily.  “From the leaves and tomorrow morning we’re putting it in your hair and leaving it for an hour or two, you can sit in the sun, that’ll be best, then washing it all out.”  Arwen looked pleased with herself. 

“Umm…” She tried to find a tactful way to refuse this offer besides simply fleeing the room.  It would be odd; these were her rooms, after all.

The Queen rolled her eyes.  “Don’t tell me you’re frightened…  I promise it will turn out beautifully and it washes out in three weeks in any case, so you’ll look just like normal soon.”

“Oh…all right.”  Propping a nervous smile on her face, Éowyn decided she could survive for three weeks.  She asked quickly, “What color will it be?”

Arwen smiled.  “We’ll find out.  It’s not an exact formula.”  Holding up another tidbit of meat, she clucked at Rusco.  “Come, come.”  The puppy jumped eagerly to take the treat, his paws on her waist, muzzle shoved into her hand while she cooed and made a face over at Éowyn.  “Unruly, isn’t he?  Good lad…now, let’s learn something more civilized to do than jump all over people, you little beast.”

We’ll find out…Éowyn looked at her fate.  It had all the appearance of some muck someone scooped out of a bog, but as the fire warmed the pot, a nice smell came off of it.  It smelled like hay fresh cut and under the sun, giving her a good feeling.  Very, very slightly optimistic, she sighed.  Fine. 

        “Rusco…” The dog ignored his mistress, preferring to sniff for more meat.  Arwen caught his small jaw, voice soft as she pulled his head up so their eyes met.  “Listen to me, my darling.”

        Éowyn watched, wondering as the puppy went still, then, apropos of nothing, his tail wagged and he lapped at Arwen’s fingers.  It had all the appearance of a touching of minds and suddenly she was very, very desirous to see Faramir.  She wanted him to hold her, to kiss her hand like he sometimes did, to beam down with his eyes full of tenderness and love and most of all, to hear his inner voice.  It was deeper than his normal one, warmer at times and full of emotions that seemed purer and sharper than those outwardly expressed.  Éowyn hugged her knees to her chest, her heart lonely and longing, feeling the emptiness in the back of her mind.  Faramir…my beloved?  Min lufiend, ge eart se?  Dêst ge hÿrst me ofer swâ mycel sîd-weg?  Of course, there was no answer; she had no strength to do such a thing.  Éowyn bit her lip, saddened.  Alone, alone…she was cut off without him, unable to feel any of his warmth.

 At the moment, she wouldn’t even mind having to listen to him laugh and jest, his wonderful, Southern accent rumbling up from his chest while he teased her about whatever her hair ended up looking like.  Damn you brother…she missed Éomer, too.  There was no enjoyment in staying at Edoras without either of the men she loved.  And there will be less in Minas Tirith…

        “Now.”  Arwen smiled as she held the treat up and paused, her manner expectant.  The puppy did nothing beyond leap for it again, his greedy little maw gaping, paws reaching up to clutch at her hand, and the Queen’s smile disappeared and she sighed.  “He knows what I want him to do…I felt it.  I wanted him to sit.”  Her eyes narrowed, “He’s just stubborn and thinks he should get it anyway, whether he does as he’s told or not.”  She patted his brown head, gently pushing him back down to all fours while withholding the tidbit of meat.  Lifting it over his nose, she said, “Let’s try again.  Hára, Rusco, hára.”

        Éowyn looked at the pot of goop.  Oh, why not?

        Several halting tries later, Arwen clapped and cooed over Rusco as the little dog reluctantly folded his haunches.  Éowyn fussed, too, adding her praise and flopping the puppy’s oversized ears.  Still ridiculous, but amusing.  She smiled forlornly.  “Let’s teach him to speak.”

***

Faramir remained quiet, looking at Éomer’s profile.  The orangish glow from the small fire cast back and forth over it with each breeze; his eyes were lowered, his face canted away as emotions played across it just faster than the irregular light from the flames.  He could sense Éomer’s deep awareness of his stare and so that he wouldn’t put too much pressure upon the man, also sensing his fragile state, he looked up and gazed at the stars.  Allowing the stillness to draw out, he named one in elvish like he’d been taught by Mithrandir.  It made him deeply unhappy he would no longer see the wizard and yet proud to still have retained his lesson.  Morwinyon, the brightest star in the Herdsman.  Two of its companions in the constellation fell to the east and west, while Morwinyon itself held slightly to the north.  One could find ones way by it, if necessary, during the summer months.

At his side, Éomer still made no move or sound.  He sat waiting and full of silent anxiety, shame and…hope.  The hope gave Faramir hope too, though he knew he must not reveal he’d felt it.  The topic of his gift was far, far too tremulous a one for him to mention now or, he guessed, for a long, long time.  If ever he can accept it...it will not be now.  I must seek something he can accept.  Of course, he could force the issue…for a moment he was tempted, sorely tempted to simply spell out for Éomer how things would be and make them known in no uncertain terms.  He glanced at the man and decided against it.  I am not the one to browbeat Éomer into submission…he found the idea sickening. 

Faramir carefully considered his next move, his rage cooled by necessity—they were too alike, brother and sister.  Both pushed and pushed in their own fashion—Éowyn mostly by retiring, Éomer mostly by challenging—and in so, forced him into an explosion of pent up frustrations at which they retreated, seeking escape in the way Éomer was now.  The King was utterly silent, gaze moving from the fire to his tent, one refuge to another, both providing the same thing: avoidance from Faramir.  His fingers moved to clasp each other, then release as they dangled between his knees.  His mood was subdued, cautious.  Never once did he turn.

Rubbing his own hands together, Faramir tried to think of the best thing that he could say to begin the exhaustive task of bridging the gap between them.  He’d been harsh and furious, and then as Éomer had broken, the man’s emotional anguish had touched him and brought deep sympathy.  He nearly wept…would have if I’d not gentled.  Glancing at the man beside him and feeling how withdrawn he was, he felt that pity wash over him again.  Too proud, perhaps, and horribly stubborn, but Éomer was willing to change.  Or so it seems.  Faramir sighed; he had to stop, to put all his anger away.  It would do nothing but hinder this new truce.  The last truce, either way, he thought and silently admonished himself.  Peace, remember?   

Now he felt more grief than anything that he’d had to speak such words, but not regret.  No, it had been wonderful in a petty fashion, to finally release his temper.  Faramir carried no regret if his threats had done like he’d thought and ripped through the headstrong and inane conceitedness that Éomer wore like a coat of arms. 

His stipulations had been a dart’s point, crafted in the fires of his wrath to pierce, to bring out the bad blood that flowed between them.  And now I must play healer to the wounds I’ve opened.  Now I must court him, find flattery, find ways to ease into my rightful place at Éowyn’s side and bring us to friendship.  One glance at Éomer, who was purposefully looking away and he knew the majority of the burden would clearly fall upon his shoulders.  Faramir felt a smile play on his lips.  He was exhausted and he hadn’t even spoken yet. 

Opening his mouth to begin, he was cut off.  He’d not thought for a moment that Éomer might speak and it startled him.  Perhaps I won’t carry this alone…  Faramir focused upon the King of Rohan, listening attentively and feeling his sense of hope grow.

“I don’t know what to say…” Éomer gave him a sliver of a glance, a narrow and wary but not unfriendly look.  It held the air of a youth carefully testing the waters or a soldier deeply disgraced and not wishing another dressing down.  “I’m guessing you don’t either…” His eyes turned more cautious and nervous, “Because you aren’t talking and…maybe you want me to.” Pausing, he took a quick breath, seemed to reconsider his words and then eventually let them out all in a rush, “I don’t know how to begin…to do what you asked and,” He inhaled, rushing the rest out in almost one breath.  “I’m not a man of words like you.  Say something.”  Éomer looked at him fully for the first time since he’d changed his tone from rage to gentleness and in the firelight, his face was guardedly optimistic and almost pleading for guidance. 

Surprised and highly admirable of the courage that he could feel it took the man beside him to take the initiative in this, Faramir considered his response.  The last thing he wished was to inadvertently squash this tiny, tiny offering.  Friends had something in common; it was the very basis of their relation, no matter what it was, so he admitted the first obvious thing he shared with the King of Rohan.  “I’m not sure how to begin either.”  He smiled, tone gentle, “My words come slowly as well.”  Éomer relaxed infinitesimally and Faramir congratulated himself.  Of course, this left them with silence again, which was rather counterproductive to his goal.  He opened his mouth a second time, but Éomer did too and they both stopped at once, uncomfortable.  Their eyes met, and then Éomer looked away.  Feeling the hobbling weight of both of their awkwardness pressing at him, Faramir tried to regain his momentum and regather his thoughts.  It was made harder with the overwhelmingly dismal and tense cast of their minds.  His temples throbbed in warning of their future ache; he could already feel it coming.   

The King of Rohan gave him a minute smile, no more than the curving of his lips, and made a slight, forwarding gesture with his fingers.  He said softly, not quite meeting his gaze, “You first.  Please.”

  Bobbing his head in a nod, he accepted.  Faramir cleared his throat, feeling the pressure, and clasped his hands.  He was very conscious of the Riders asleep around them, the dying fire and the tenseness within both their frames.  What could he say?  He’d forgotten what he’d been about to, so he had to start anew.  But with…  Any impulsive words could shatter this delicate equilibrium and send Éomer fleeing as the humiliated man so desperately wished to.  The King of Rohan was barely holding himself in check; he could feel it.  Dammit, why do they have to be so touchy?  Both…both were so damn difficult; he thought he must be marrying into the only family with this indescribably, infuriatingly improbable level of difficulties in all of the earth.  I certainly hope so in any case…Faramir shuddered a little. 

He’d taken too long.  Another trait shared by brother and sister: impatience, reared its head.  Éomer eyed him.  “May I say something?”

Do you have something to say?  I hope one of us does or this is going to be even more trying than I’d imagined.  He answered mellowly, making sure his words contained all his learned diplomacy and grace, “Certainly, if you wish.”

Éomer took a moment, looking at him warily.  It seemed to be his new manner—a cautious scanning of Faramir’s face before he began anything.  There was more respect in his eyes and demeanor, which saddened Faramir—he’d rather have earned the respect in a different way.  He was a peaceful man, why did these folk always seek to drive him to hurtful fury?  He’d bent over backwards until he could take no more…and now Éomer watched him with the caution one gave a viper simply because his leash on his temper had finally snapped.  Faramir felt impatient as he listened; he tried to shake it away as it swelled, filling his chest with dry, rasping annoyance.  Impatience wouldn’t help anyone. 

 “I…” He paused, and then went on carefully, “I wish to continue this tomorrow.”  Éomer swallowed, speaking slowly, “If you do not mind, I would prefer to have the night to…gather my thoughts.”

He was disappointed and impatient again but he kept his voice respectful.  “Of course.”  Whatever made Éomer the most comfortable would probably be best, though, Faramir sensed.  Rising and giving the King the properly courteous nod that his rank obliged, he wished him a good night and made sure his voice carried his sincerity.  He really did wish the man nothing but good; in a way he had to or risk the same thing he’d threatened Éomer—Éowyn’s fury, but also, Faramir glanced at him and sighed inwardly.  I’d rather not fight with him.  He will be uncle to my children, children who have few relatives as it is, and brother to my wife…I cannot escape him no matter my threats.  Faramir smiled faintly.  I’m sure my Lord Elessar would be very displeased by such a fierce conflict between Rohan and Ithilien.  Especially since we were all but ordered to end it. Another thought struck and Faramir came close to laughing out loud.  If I do not yield to peace, I might feel Andúril across my backside.  He could not call a feud; he had too many responsibilities to bring with him new hostility into the beginning of this promising age.  I will not be Faramir the Pitiless.

“To you, as well.”  Éomer returned his good night, expression careful as he stood and they moved to separate until the King stopped and called, low in deference to the sleeping men, “What are…your plans for tomorrow?”
        Faramir took this as a sign of effort—the man was trying to make an attempt to see that they would continue; he was not trying to put it off or escape any longer.  Pleased, he answered just as softly, “My students are accompanying me early to see what I can get for tomorrow’s meal and after that I shall finish our lesson on making arrows, then have them practice shooting from horseback.  Later, I’ll practice throwing the spears.”  And continue the memorization of herbs; add some stalking games…  He would have a full day.

Éomer nodded slowly and thoughtfully.  His words were hesitant; face too in shadow to read, “Would you mind if I…went with you?”

  Actually, he found he did mind; his time spent with the lads was restive, pleasant.  Éomer would add tension and make what was easy effortful.  But…  Faramir answered without pause or difficulty, hiding his true feelings.  He must make sacrifices.  Yes, but why are the sacrifices always mine...?  Anger flashed across his thoughts but he smothered it, not letting even the slightest shadow touch his voice, which he kept smoothly pleasant.  “Not at all.”

“Good.”  He smiled then, quick and apprehensive, but it was a smile.  “Good night, Faramir.”

Feeling himself smile in return and try to make it a true smile, not the short-tempered, irritated animalistic baring of teeth, he answered.  “Good night.”  Éomer moved quickly away, escaping at last into his tent and carrying his deep sense of relief with him. 

Treading silently amongst the slumbering Rohirrim and feeling his unspoken anger burn, he was lost in his own world, paying no heed to his surroundings.  In the dark there was a sudden movement and Faramir nearly jumped out of his skin in fright, years of prowling in Ithilien making him instinctively snap his jaw tight and press his lips together to prevent from voicing the short cry that rose in his throat.  Instead it came out a muffled squeal as a thrill of shock went up his spine, the shorter hairs on the back of his neck standing up; he twisted to face the fear, ready to fight or flee.

Beside him, in the midst of two dozen prone, easily dreaming Rohirrim, Gaer had sat up without warning, snapping his torso upright like a dwarf-made jack in the box amongst a field of dead men; he was completely awake.  The Rohir took in his scare and grinned widely, pointing at him in a gloating fashion.  In the dim illumination of the stars, his pale eyes were nearly cavorting with delight.  Grinning hugely, barely seen in the night, he voiced a very quiet and very satisfied, “Ha!”

Embarrassed, Faramir scowled and made to pass him but the redheaded man caught at his leg.  He whispered equally quietly, expression concerned, “Wait.  Nothing is wrong?  Between you and my Lord?”

“Everything is fine.”  Faramir put as much reassurance into his voice and features as he could.  “Do not worry.”

Gaer frowned, then accepted his words and nodded and let him pass by.  The redheaded man gave him a smirking grin. “How about Drefan?”

“What does it mean?”

“Trouble.”  Gaer laughed and Faramir shook his head, moving on, careful not to step on any of the scattered men.

He was called after in a small voice, “What about Galan?  It means sings.  You can be Galanan who doesn’t sing!  Hrypa, the shouter?  Caedmon the poet?  Egeslic the terrible?”  There was quiet, then a plaintive, “Faramir?”  He ignored him.  Feeling every one of the rough hits he’d taken in the Rohirrim’s’ game over the last two days, Faramir unrolled his bedroll cautiously, but to his intense relief, it had not been bothered with.  Silently grateful his tormenter had let him alone for the night; he wrapped himself in the bedroll and stretched out on the hard ground. 

After a few seconds, Faramir sighed and rolled onto his back, lacing his fingers and laying them beneath his head as he looked up; he breathed deep of the night air, feeling his chest expand and his heart beat steadily.  His scrapes burned, his nose still ached and his bruises felt sore whenever he accidentally hit one.  It was odd; he’d never really been the lad with the scraped knees and elbows, the bedraggled, roughhousing boy.  Oh, often in play, but not on a daily basis that he could remember.  No, that had been my brother, praised for his boldness, even his boyhood scrapes and scars.  No, no place for a poet in my father’s favors, only warriors to skirmish and struggle.  But that had been the need for a country under siege.  My father did what he had to, I suppose…  It didn’t hurt any less. 

Eyes closed, he pictured Boromir as he’d last seen him, taking the reins of his horse from one of the stable boys.  His brother had bid him farewell, had spoken in a low voice for him to take care of himself and to pay little heed to their father’s harsher words.  Goodbyes had been frequent; this one considered no more dangerous than others, even unexciting and tedious, as it would be all lonely travel with no guarantee of ever getting to Imladris.  There was no warning, no feeling between them that spoke of unease, they’d embraced, wished each other well and to take care and then parted.  Oh, my brother, were that you were here…doing my paperwork.  Faramir smiled to himself, his thoughts bittersweet.  Or not.  You, too, might have demanded to join this ridiculous excursion; if he remembered correctly, Boromir would have rather leapt from the White Tower than go over endless ledgers. 

 His brother would have enjoyed this place and, if he’d been able to circumvent his occasional bouts of arrogance, Boromir would have fit in easier than he.  Ah, but Éomer…Faramir smiled.  His brother would have been ranting and railing within scant minutes, demanding he deal with the King of Rohan.  And my Éowyn…to his knowledge Boromir had had no female friends, the better to keep the idea of arranging a marriage away from their Father’s thoughts.  My brother preferred a more seemly and elegant woman…though he might have made an exception.  And he would have tormented me…flirting, tossing innuendoes left and right…probably just terrifying her.  Faramir smiled sadly.  I lie here and miss what might have been when all I should be thinking about is what I’m going to do tomorrow; I am pathetic.  Suddenly he chuckled, the sound low and doleful in the lonely night, and thought of Éomer again.  If my brother were here, then maybe in comparison I would not look so bad.

His eyelids snapped open and Faramir shifted his legs, feeling the dullness in his temples—the headache had been averted, but barely, with Éomer running away to his tent.  That was something to be thankful for.  He was tired, but not ready for sleep.  I miss my Éowyn…I miss her bed, the smell of flowers when I put my face to her hair, her skin.  I miss my bold Éowyn…I want her close to me…  Wondering what she was doing, he stared up at the stars, naming them absently in elvish as his eyes progressed from one constellation to another.  He knew most but as always could not see the pictures they were named for, only memorizing the shapes.  Faramir speculated some strong elvish wine must have been needed to form them…that and endless years without the Sun. 

Thinking it might help him sleep he closed his eyes again and tried to imagine a world with only stars for the heavens.  The tiny little points of light seemed very bleak, cold and far away.  People would turn to one another for warmth, he guessed.  His hands were threatening to go numb under his head; Faramir moved them back to his chest, folding them and relacing his fingers. 

She is probably asleep…  Dreaming of me?  A smile surfaced on his mouth.  Probably not.  He was too weary to try and rise out of himself and see.

Having avoided it long enough, he thought, now…what shall I do tomorrow?  He had to be very careful not lose his patience or his temper, even once.  The situation with Éomer was too delicate, too fragile to tolerate such a thing.  Control…control…he listened to his breathing until he finally fell asleep. 

***

A weary Éomer watched Faramir rouse his students just before daybreak.  It was accomplished with remarkable ease, the half-dressed and wide-awake Steward needing little more than to direct a meaningful look to each to make them rise and begin readying themselves.  He frowned, looking back down to his hands as he slowly laced his boots; each foot was at turn propped up on one of the stumps.  It appeared that despite all the impertinence of the day before, the lads did respect Faramir enough to heed his signals.

Done, he made his way to the Steward, waiting awkwardly to address him, shifting his weight from foot to foot until the man had gotten the simple linen shirt down over his head.  Faramir was unappealing—lanky, almost slender and rather underfed looking beneath all his dark hair.  Éomer wrinkled his nose in silent disgust, wondering what his sister possibly saw in this reedy South man, a man almost as far from Eorl as one could be without being a ruffian or an orc. Faramir got the shirt down and shook out his hair, turning to him with an unruffled expression. 

 It seemed he did not trouble to wear much at all and appeared unbothered by the lack of gear—only the simplistic garb he’d worn before:  shirt, trousers, boots and knife.  Probably because he could make his own from twigs or rocks or something, Éomer thought with a flash of cheerless humor.  He’d slept little the night before and felt it.  “Are…you taking horses?”  Trepidation nearly made him stutter, but he succeeded in asking Faramir the question.

“Good morning.”  It was warm and cordial, as was the cheery grin aimed at him as the Steward ran his hands through his coal-black hair and beard again, as before doing little to order it.  He was getting woollier all the time.  Éomer shifted some more, startled by the greeting and, even further, by the friendly manner in which it was delivered.  Idiot, that’s what people who are nice to each other say, what friends say.  Wake up before he starts threatening again...  He felt abruptly nervous before he made himself stop fidgeting and reply in kind,

“Good morning.”  He offered a brief smile in return, determined not to incur Faramir’s wrath.  Pleasantries out of the way, he waited for the answer, feeling like a fool, standing like a first year lad awaiting orders.  It angered him, but he had no power.

“Yes…” The Steward gazed down the valley, brow creasing, then he said more firmly, “Yes, we will.”  Raising his voice, he called to the lads, “Gað eower eoh.”

“Gea, Láréow.”  They mumbled it while rubbing their eyes and stumbling around camp.  Faramir grabbed up his horse’s halter and Éomer noted one of his guards; the man had come to his side, silently volunteering to fetch the chestnut stud for him.  Graciously declining the offer, he took the halter from the man’s hand and caught up with Faramir.  The Steward took long strides; they walked in what, between other men, might have seemed companionable silence.  Éomer wasn’t sure what it was between them.  After a few steps, he tried to make it companionable by saying hesitantly, each word halting, “You’ve gotten good.”  He looked at the Steward, waiting. 

“Hmm?”  Faramir looked up politely, face questioning.  He’d not been listening.

Clearing his throat, he repeated himself, this time a little smoother.  “I said you’ve gotten good.”  After a beat, he added, “With our language.”  Then he took the frightening plunge into friendliness, “It’s very impressive after such a short time.”

The Steward looked pleased.  “Thank you.”  Éomer bobbed his head and went quiet again; he’d run out of things to say.  Faramir appeared content in the silence, as he did not speak either.  The shushing sound of their boots through the dewy grass, the muffled thumps of their strides on the earth, the soft murmur of rubbing cloth and their faint breathing were the only noises.  The sunrise shone redly, orange streaks lifting while the bowl of the sky was still indigo; as Éomer walked, the Sun herself peeked over the fork of the hills, her light pricking his eyes and making his limbs feel heavy with weariness. 

Halfway down the valley, his horse raised its head from cropping the grass, brown eyes inquisitive as he haltered it, making sure to keep the rope from brushing its eyes or catching its ears.  “Hello, my friend.”  Voice low, Éomer greeted his mount, rubbing the white forehead and scratching its chestnut neck in praise of the horse’s quiet obedience.  The stallion moved with him willingly as he turned, preparing to go back, but the sight before him made Éomer halt.

“Faramir…stop.  Just stop.”  Éomer tried not to chuckle and failed though it wasn’t a particularly scornful sound, just amused.  The Steward’s horsemanship skills were truly pathetic.  “Stand still.”

A short distance away, Faramir did as he’d said, ceasing to follow a thick-bodied grey gelding.  The horse halted, too, expression sour as its steps slowed, then quit altogether.  The Steward glanced back, halter in hand, asking, “Now what?” 

Éomer considered the horse’s stance, noting it was pointed away from camp.  If Faramir moved behind, he would at least herd the reluctant animal in the correct direction and then by moving to check the horse by advancing past its shoulder, using the animal’s own language, he could maneuver it in circles until the beast gave up.  “Move…get over there, on the other side of him, behind his flank.”  He gestured with his arm, waiting to see how closely the animal would allow the Steward to approach.  It was fairly closely, just outside actual touching distance; Éomer was relieved.  This wouldn’t take long at all if the grey was that lenient.

Frowning, Faramir did as he was told.

“Now,” The grey was moving again, “Cut him off, there…walk by his shoulder and push him inward…” Faramir did, turning the horse back towards Éomer.  The grey halted, raised its head and pinned its ears, not wanting to approach him in case he tried to catch it, too.  It was smart, then.  “Now, keep as close as you can and cut him off like you did, turn him in circles…”

It took another minute before the gelding gave in and allowed Faramir to approach and halter it.  Éomer began walking back to camp, his stud still calm and willing.  It was well trained; the horsemen of the Mark would not risk their King on an ill-tempered brute…such as the one he rides.  He glanced over at the burly grey gelding and ventured to speak to Faramir once more.  It was something he must get used to, he supposed, slightly irked that so far this morning he’d been the one initiating all the conversation.  Ah, that is what you deserve…  “What is his name?”

“Thorn.”  The Steward smiled, walking easily and apparently not feeling as awkward as he did.  Or he is pretending. This new thought gave him a jolt—it was too reminiscent of Wormtongue, always hiding, never showing his true self.  He glanced sideways, wary as Faramir spoke further, “It fits; he is not the most agreeable animal.”

Éomer nodded, at a loss.  He didn’t know when Faramir planned to talk to him and despite not sleeping much the night before he still didn’t have anything truly relevant to say to explain or justify himself and his behavior.  He’d spent the time with his mind racing but not actually thinking much, too shocked and emotionally worn to think.  This time Faramir spoke first and startled him,

“Do you have anything in mind for today?”  The corners of his mouth had turned up in a rueful smile.  “I’m not opposed to taking requests.”

Puzzled, he asked, “Like what?”

“Like for supper.  You’ve brought me more mouths to feed.”  Faramir smiled again, glancing sideways with his grey eyes light and mirthful.  It didn’t appear that he was feeling clumsy at all, speaking and reacting with no perceptible tension.

“Oh…no.  No.”  Éomer felt foolish and strained and increasingly leery that Faramir appeared to feel none of those things.  He swallowed, gathered his courage to continue, and said, “Where are we riding to hunt?”

Faramir gave him a sharper glance, but he did answer.  “Probably another deer would be best…so somewhere in the wood.”

Nodding, Éomer let the silence fall again; he had no more to say to break it.  Neither spoke as they reentered camp, separating to saddle their mounts.

***

“You thought you were the only one who could scare people, didn’t you, Faramir?”  Turning aside, he said, “You should have seen his face…” Opening his eyes and mouth wide, he gasped and leapt backwards into the air.  Nier stood nearby and laughed at the impression.  “Hiiimmmpph!”  Gaer squealed with his mouth tightly shut, eyes bugging, actually making a fairly good imitation of the sound and face he’d made.  Humiliatingly good.  Not that Faramir was going to give him the satisfaction of saying so, of course.  He settled for glaring.  The Rohir sobered, “Like that.”  Immediately he grinned again.  “Just like that.”  Faramir gave him a hard stare over Thorn’s back, trying not to laugh at the younger man’s glee.  Gaer was gloating, nearly dancing with delight as he followed him back and forth from one side of the horse to the other, the better to mock him.  Nier looked amused.  The Rohir grinned, then pasted an arrogant look on his face and said solemnly.  “Well, I think you learned your lesson about frightening people.”

He answered drolly, swinging the saddle and blankets over the grey’s withers, and then bending to cinch the girth.  “Yes.  I did.  Quite well.”

“Good.” 

Casting an eye over the camp, he noted his students were waiting.  Faramir checked the balance on his saddle, carefully buckled the saddlebags and made sure his sword was tightly lashed down.  Éomer had wandered nearby with his chestnut stud ready; he, too, was waiting.  Strapping his bracers to his wrists, he paused, momentarily struck by the designs he’d scratched into the rich leather of the left one.  The White Tree gleamed in the darker background.  Oh, my City…  A wave of homesickness passed over his heart before Faramir shook it off and strapped his quiver and bow to his back.

Nier spoke for the first time, “What’re you getting us today, friend Faramir?”

Ah, so I am a friend now.  Amused at his own gratification, he tightened the girth, moving with Thorn as the gelding sidestepped under the pressure. The camp was mostly awake with men building up the fire.  “Deer.”

Gaer asked almost joyfully, as though he thought the word a grand new jest, “And?”

Surprised, he echoed, “And?”  He was expected to provide side dishes now?  Oh…  Well, it was no more ridiculous than everything he’d had to put up with so far was and at least he didn’t have to cook the food.  Not yet…  Faramir said wearily, “What else would you like?”  He smiled, bridling Thorn, hands quick over the inelegant grey head as his thoughts turned once more to Boromir.  My brother would have thrown a fit to see this day, the son of the Steward taking dinner requests from two common bred soldiers.   

“I don’t know.”  Nier looked to Gaer, who frowned.  The Rohirrim stared at the sky and ground, respectfully, trying to think.

Valar save me.  Since he had to put his foot down somewhere, he said curtly, “Make up your mind.  I’m leaving soon.”  Gesturing to his students, he mounted Thorn.  The grey stepped forward immediately, feeling energetic.  Faramir tugged gently on the reins, murmuring, “Easy, stand still.”  He glanced at the heavy grey ears.  You weren’t this eager for me to catch you…  Almost in response, Thorn shook his head; lowering it and making his ears flop like he thought flies were buzzing around them.  Éomer swung up into his saddle, not speaking.  Faramir’s students felt alarmed and very flustered as they perceived their King would be coming, too.  He hoped this would go well.  It would be difficult to teach if they did not relax.  That goes for me, too.  So far, it had been a strain to remain perfectly at ease under Éomer’s wildly fluctuating sense of discomfort.

        The two Rohirrim were still frowning, so he just sighed.  “I’ll get something, all right?  We gáþ nu.”  Faramir nudged Thorn, steering him down the trail the led out of the valley, surprised at the way the grey was so hard up against the bit.  He tightened his grip on the reins, wishing he’d thought to put on his gloves.  The horse’s neck was bent, his jaw tight as he tried to take off.  Faramir was hard-pressed to keep the gelding from bolting and wondered why.  Under his breath, he murmured a constant litany, “Easy, easy…” Thorn shook his head and struck out with one foreleg, ready to gallop.  Maybe he thinks we’re going back…and he can’t wait to get me off of him.  Faramir smiled a little and let enough slack so that Thorn could run.

        They loped down the path and he took them much farther than the first time, knowing the smell of death would have discouraged any deer from reentering the area.  Finally turning off the trail, Faramir rode through the trees, enjoying the soft light and feel of the wood.  Thorn’s hooves made quiet noises on the ground, birds fluttered in the brush and overhead in the leafy cover; he was painfully reminded of Ithilien and Faramir’s heart ached.  It was too easy to pretend those who rode so quietly behind him were men cloaked in the greys, browns and greens of Rangers, their hands ever ready to grasp their bows or sword hilts, ears alert for any suspicious noise.  Turning Thorn around the bole of a tree while using his lower legs as Éowyn had so eloquently taught him, he glanced back at who really kept to his heels—five Rohirrim lads, their tired, youthful faces full of apprehension and curiosity and a subdued Éomer who looked down at his hands in preference to their making eye contact.

 Do I miss the days of war, truly?  They’d been ones of more certainty; he’d known his place and what was expected.  Faramir swallowed, sad and wishing for something that he could not put into thought.  He didn’t know what, but something was absent and wrong.  It gnawed at him with tiny, dulled teeth, slowly ruining his peace.      

 They rode in silence until he came to a small clearing suitable to tying their horses.  He dismounted, loosening Thorn’s girth.  “We’ll leave them here…” Squinting, he tried to think of the translation.  “We wille læten hêr.”  At once Faramir sensed that he’d been faulty in his words—his students frowned and Wurth shifted but none offered the enthusiastic corrections he’d become used to.  They were intimidated by Éomer’s presence, keeping silent.  Dammit, dammit, I can’t teach with him here. 

        He didn’t speak, either, just patted Thorn and wandered through the forest, following faint deer trails and tracks, places where bucks had rubbed their antlers on trunks and pawed out oval beds in thickets until he came upon very fresh imprints under a tree.  It was huge, thick trunked with good branches.  Faramir looked up at it in approval and turned to his students.  He spoke very quietly.  “I need some of you to go and fetch some…” He frowned, what could they get?  Herbs again and maybe greens.  Nothing more complicated than that.  Mushrooms were far, far too dangerous.  Suddenly he smiled, thinking of a simple, tasty dish.  Éowyn had been correct in her teasing, so long ago when they’d lain in her bed in the City—he could cook and rather well.  It was amazing what a lad could discover in the libraries in Minas Tirith.  Faramir ordered, “Get me some sorrel, watercress, dandelion—leaves and roots of that, and nettle.  Be very careful with the nettle, break it and use the juice if you get stung.”  Tomorrow he’d send someone else to fetch bread from the village, gather the mushrooms himself and the Rohirrim would have their meals.

        “We’ll go, Láréow.”  Scef, Leodthain and the nameless lad nodded quickly, leaving him with Wurth and Feohtan to herd the deer.  The boys stepped back, ready to flee at his authorization while the other two looked on enviously.

        Faramir shrugged, feeling his annoyance and Éomer’s curiously growing dismay.  Why, why did he have to come?  Still keeping his voice down, he said, “All right, you three go off; you two see the tracks?  That deer was just here.  Go the other way and circle and Lord Éomer and I will be waiting up in this tree…” 

        Éomer interrupted quickly and tersely, every low word hurriedly clipped.  “I’ll go with them.  You don’t need me here.” 

        This surprised him until Faramir became reaware of the way the King of Rohan was feeling—controlled anxiety and dread.  What’s wrong with him?  He could see no cause for it.  The man had asked to come…Éomer glanced up at the tree and the anxiety within him increased twofold.  Faramir was astonished but spoke in a soothing manner.  “All right.  If you wish.” 

He’s scared of…the tree…?  Still puzzled, he touched the leather straps holding his bow and quiver to his back, checking their snugness and made sure the cloth top of his quiver was folded over so that when he swung up onto the branches no arrows would be lost. The three lads shuffled off and he’d just grasped a hold of one of the thick limbs and jumped up high as he could, gripping it securely with his lower legs, when Éomer spoke, sounding hushed and nervous.

“Faramir…?”  

Hanging upside down, he allowed a bit of annoyance to creep into his tone.  The rough bark burned his gloveless hands and he tightened his legs, locking his ankles; Faramir turned his head to stare at the King of Rohan, defiantly not bothering to move.  “Yes?”

Éomer looked up at him with his eyes dark and sober.  “Be careful.  Don’t…fall.”

         The words startled him just as much as the complete sincerity and concern of Éomer’s expression.  What is he…what’s wrong with him?  What does he think, that we don’t have trees in Gondor?  His first inner response was a sarcasm laced, I’ll try not to but this sounded too childish and crabbed even to him.  After taking a breath, he softened it, trying to respond to the very real, if baffling, worry that he could sense radiating from the man.  “I will be careful.  Thank you.”  He was, he supposed, thankful for the concern.  At least it is genuine…that’s something, isn’t it?

 Éomer nodded once, not looking very relieved, and moved away followed by Wurth and Feohtan.  They look like ducklings again, he thought and smiled his first true smile of the day before he finished swinging into the tree.  Faramir positioned himself securely, back to the trunk with one boot propped upon a forking branch.  Moving carefully while the leaves fluttered, he unstrapped his bow and began his wait, still baffled. 

***

He fretted, moving quietly through the wood.  How high will he climb…it’s a big tree…I can imagine too easily…  His fear of heights prodded his imagination with horrific scenarios.  The two youths trailed him; Éomer paid them no real attention.  The faint thump of hooves caught his attention though and he gestured them to fan out, keeping quiet.  The deer was ahead and poised to flee in the wrong direction.  Faintly, though the range of tree trunks, leaves and brush, he could see the soft, greyish tan of its pelt.  Éomer sent them forward, making plenty of noise where he stood, distracting it from the quietly walking lads.  In fact, he could hardly believe how quiet they were, stalking silently with their strides very careful.

The animal pricked its great ears, swiveling them; it was a young buck and with the foolish boldness youth, it stood its ground until they got around it.  Suddenly noticing that the two predators were uncomfortably close, the buck panicked and plunged back in the direction Éomer had wanted it to—directly at him.  He stopped making noise, stepping behind a tree as the lads began to slap branches and yell, creating a clamor to drive it.  Now the buck just trotted, lazily swinging his tail; he was fairly unafraid and with good reason since few peoples lived in this area, meaning the deer were rarely hunted. 

He stood tight against the tree, cheek to the coarse bark, and it passed him with only a brief hesitation when the deer caught his scent.  Éomer held his breath, enjoying his brief closeness—the living buck was beautiful, springing with dainty grace over the cluttered forest floor.  If he’d had a spear, he could have gotten it then and there.  The boys joined him, their movements making and keeping a wedge-like shape as they walked through the wood.  Éomer made plenty of noise though he really couldn’t even see the deer anymore but for its tail wagging back and forth.  They were very close now to Faramir’s hiding spot and he moved slower; Éomer had never seen the Steward shoot; he’d heard he was good but no matter how skilled the archer, being behind the target wasn’t a very safe place.  He gestured the lads back, too, not wishing to test fate.

As they neared Faramir’s position, he cursed and halted in disgust—the deer’s white tail had stopped wagging and stood nearly upright, which meant the buck had finally decided to get serious and flee to parts that were more peaceful.  Its bouncing stride lengthened and there were sounds of its body crashing through the brush.  Oh, damn.  He sighed.  It was going too fast and when it went under the tree in a few seconds Faramir would have no chance of shooting it.  They were only two thickets behind, giving them a fair view.

Out of sight, Faramir whistled sharply and the deer froze, tail and head lifted; the big ears swiveled under the antlers.  It was poised to resume its flight.  Éomer waited for the twang of the bow but heard nothing.  He was confused until he realized the deer was almost immediately beneath the giant tree—Faramir couldn’t get a clear shot unless it moved.  They would be trailing the thing’s blood all day if he shot now and didn’t hit it correctly. 

The unseen Steward whistled twice more but the sharp notes sounded odd, like each was coming from a different direction.  Witch, he thought, unnerved at this new trick.  Perhaps the buck thought the same thing for the deer’s ears were twitching and it looked confused.  Its small, cloven feet stamped fearfully as it tried to decide in which direction to flee; black nose sniffing, it was no doubt becoming aware of the man that was very close but unseen.  The whistles appeared to be coming from everywhere but the buck was too bewildered to move unless it just fled at full speed, which it was readying itself to do, breathing faster, dark eyes huge within their white tracings.

  Branches swayed gently though there was no wind.  Then Faramir jumped out of the tree and Éomer’s heart nearly stopped, horror filling him just imagining doing the same.  He landed in a near-silent crouch very, very near the buck with his long, inky hair falling around his face, grey eyes narrowed.  It was not the perfect landing since Faramir had to steady himself with one hand, but he balanced swiftly, drawing an arrow from his dark, weather-stained quiver in an action almost too quick to be seen. 

The deer, overwhelmed by this, didn’t move while Faramir, arrow already in his hand and nocked, bent his bow.  From his spot in the wood, Éomer gaped, astounded at this bold method of hunting.  If he’d been the deer and Faramir had leapt out at him, he’d have had a fit and dropped dead, not even necessitating the arrow.

It ended all in fleet motions, Faramir’s arm drawing back with the bow bending tight just as the buck realized its grave danger.  Its hindquarters dropped, its tail lifted and its head turned away towards escape; the animal was gathering itself to leap and as its slim forelegs left the ground, Faramir released, shooting it at close range.  The bowstring sang, echoing itself dully as it slapped back against the Steward’s leather bracers, and the dart imbedded itself deep, killing the deer all but instantly.  The buck crumpled with a meaty thud, soft beige, tapered head outstretched, pink tongue lolling while its wide and beautiful eyes dulled.  Its now graceless legs twisted under itself, turning the elegant creature to a lumpy pile of cooling flesh.  Its leap cut so short the animal all but fell at his feet, the Steward looked very pleased as he straightened.  Without pause, he strapped his bow to his back and drew his knife, dropping to one knee by the fresh carcass.  Around Éomer, the two lads were wide-eyed and murmuring in amazement.  Listening with half an ear, he could hear their admiration. 

Admiration…indeed, he thought and walked slowly forward, boots crunching through the brush; as he came close, Éomer gathered himself to give an offer to help Faramir skin out the buck.  He is strange…

 Soon after, Éomer amiably lifted the deer’s pelt as Faramir sliced slowly upwards, separating the skin from the meat; luke-warm and tacky blood covered both their hands.  What Faramir wanted it for, he didn’t know since there was no time to tan the hide.  Curious, he remained silent and as helpful as he could, substituting willing physical aid for his lack of amiable conversation.  Bones were piled as they were revealed, food for the dogs.

“It’s going to be a target.”  The Steward’s eyes met his casually; “The other’s getting ragged.”  He cut sinew away, scraping blood vessels and scraps of fat from the hide, occasionally flicking his knife to clear it.

His heart sped up and his tone was cautious, nerves jumping.  “Oh.”  Éomer stared back at the top of Faramir’s dark head, leery.  Did he read my mind…?  Other than his offer, he’d not spoken and that had been minutes ago.

The Steward glanced at him, heaved an impatient sigh and spoke again.  “You looked curious.” 

He repeated himself.  “Oh.”

There was a silence, then Faramir stopped and looked at him very straightly as they crouched over the cooling carcass.  “Éomer…can you do something for me?  It’s very important.”  His voice was quiet now, barely audible at their close proximity and certainly inaudible to the lads who were waiting nearby to take their turn at helping.

He made sure he spoke softly, too, though he stumbled.  Éomer met the man’s grey eyes, trying to read something in them but they were inscrutable.  “Yes…w-what is it?”

Faramir smiled, emphasizing his words with a wag of his eyebrows and a small grin.  “Relax.  Please.”

Surprised, he didn’t think as he blurted back, “I don’t think I can.”  And just like that, they were talking.  Faramir answered placidly, keeping his gaze lowered as though he knew it made Éomer more comfortable.  He probably does…  That thought gave him the shivers.

“Well, it would make this much easier…you’re making me tense as well,” He paused, “Which we won’t go into.”  Éomer nodded quickly, grateful, even though it didn’t matter because Faramir couldn’t see him do it.  The Steward kept talking in a frank, calm voice as he worked.  “And more importantly, you’re making them tense.  I’m trying to do what you assigned me and teach,” Here Faramir lifted his head to give him an amused and very tolerant look that changed into deep patience.  “But I can’t if you don’t relax and stop acting like I’m going to attack you.  It’s very distracting, plus the fact that as their Lord you’re already intimidating them...can you understand this?  It’s not a very great request.”

I’m intimidating…?  I don’t leap out of trees…  He didn’t respond and together they stood and lifted the skin, carefully turning the deer to remove the hide from the other side.  Odd, he thought miserably, in a simple physical task they could function in tune but not so in any other way.  The innards had already been taken out and they gleamed wetly in a neat pile.  The early morning air was full of the coppery scent of blood, the lazy buzzing of flies and the admirable murmuring of the two lads as they looked up the tree, then down where Faramir had jumped. 

He chewed his lip, thinking of his sister.  Her face had been happy that first day when Faramir had arrived in Edoras.  Éomer finally answered, speaking very quietly.  “Yes, I think I can understand.” 

Faramir glanced back up at him and smiled in a friendly fashion.  “Good.”

As they fell into silence again, Éomer thought worriedly.  He felt like Faramir was going to attack him, or do the vocal equivalent again.  If he had to speak to this man, had to befriend him, then he wanted to do it in a place where he could be himself.  I am not a King…not on the inside.  “When do you think you’ll be finished?”

At the question, Faramir sounded testy.  “Sundown.  I’ve got a lot planned.”

“Do you…” He hesitated, nervous at the change in the Steward’s tone and pushed himself onward.  “Want to go into the village with me?”

Faramir gave him a skeptical, searching look, and then shrugged.  “All right, if you’d like.”  That done, they finished the deer and wrapped the meat in its hide, carrying it back to the horses where Faramir seemed very pleased to see his still where he had tied it.  The other three lads came soon; they’d stripped their shirts off and filled them with the greens the Steward had ordered.  Faramir praised their ingenuity with his voice filled with an enthusiasm and gladness that didn’t sound forced.  Éomer watched mutely from the skirts of the group, wondering at the strange sensation that swept over his heart.  The situation…it felt familiar and almost comforting.  All of a sudden he identified it and cursed himself savagely, cold dismay and alarm coursing through his body.  He is not Théodred!  Stop it! 

Unbearably, as Faramir stood before the five boys, smiling easily and speaking, he was reminded of Théodred, his brother in all but name, his hero every bit as much as Uncle and Eorl were…  I remember watching him instruct lads and helping him clean his kills from the hunt, going out to the taverns…like you just invited him to that little village!  He was dumbstruck.

After he’d mounted, Éomer held back his horse, wanting to ride last in the group; he was letting himself brood furiously.  Had he done it unknowing?  Inadvertently steered Faramir into nearly every role Théodred had occupied?  His cousin had taken pleasure in the occasional times he’d taught the younger soldiers, preferring it to sitting idle between long rides over the Mark.  Théodred had led him on hunts.  Théodred had never hesitated to call him to task or allowed him to mope childishly when a good shouting or scolding could snap him out of it; the similarities were small but there…and the ones that did not exist…  He looked up, watching Faramir pat his horse and speak to the lads.  I made to by ordering them or acting like a brute until I forced him into attacking me.  

He was deeply disturbed, nerves winding tighter until he clenched the reins, unable to unlock his hands.  Sneaking another look down at the Steward, Éomer felt only confusion.  He is not Théodred, not even a poor replacement.  Faramir’s eyes swept over him as he mounted the grey; they were gently inquiring.  Éomer looked down quickly, not wanting to betray anything and fought to loosen his grip on the leather grasped between his fingers.  Anything he can’t already sense…he felt his frame grow taut and warred with his discomfort.  Beneath him, his horse stamped, its ears flat as the stallion became aware of his distress.  Stop it, stop it, stop it…  All the long ride back, he kept glancing at Faramir’s tousled, sable mane, half waiting for the Steward to turn in response.

Back in camp, he dismounted and unsaddled his stud, letting the animal free.  Not much calmer after the long ride and hungry, Éomer stood nearby and watched uselessly as Faramir sliced the sleeves off one of his linen shirts, setting them aside with some of the sorrel leaves.  Next, he wrapped the greens the lads had gathered into the linen, folding all the open ends up.  He then took a small stick sharpened at one end and thrust it through the top of the cloth, making the shirt into a rough bag.  Faramir tossed the bag into the pot with the venison and some water.  The Steward glanced at him and grinned naturally, “My shirt—I know that it’s clean.”  He scooped up the sleeves, carrying them.

“Oh…right.”  He shifted his feet, terribly uncomfortable.  Théodred…my brother…am I so lonely that I turn to this man?  This man I do not even like and have nothing in common with besides my sister?

Faramir’s gaze turned slightly searching, but he smiled again, this time looking more forced as he jested weakly, “Now to my real work while we wait.” 

Éomer made no reply, either verbal or physically; he kept his gaze lowered, only once daring to lift it.  His mind was a confused swirl.  Faramir’s brow creased and impatience flashed in his eyes, but he didn’t speak.  Instead, he called his students to him, and then sent them to fetch the rough darts; in seconds, their hands were full of the half-made bolts.  Éomer looked them inquiringly before he moved closer, part of him genuinely curious to hear this lesson.  From the depths of his conscious, he thought fiercely, he is not Théodred…remember…  It was an insult to his dear, brave cousin’s memory to compare him to this… 

He moaned inwardly.  This man who seems very much capable of a lot of things I am not and who is much loved by my sister, who has offered time and time again everything he can think to me and just asked for acceptance in return...  This man who can and obviously will provide for her, protect her, love her and let her do what she likes, who will make her happier than I’ve ever seen her.  Éomer floundered, not sure of anything anymore and horribly, awfully close to just sitting on the ground and weeping into his hands like a child.  The only thing he had to hold onto, Faramir was taking.  It’s not fair…why can’t he just let me hate him?  Reflexively, he felt himself grow angry and he embraced it, taking much needed refuge.

The five lads gathered.  “All right,” Faramir held up the dart.  “We’ve got it nearly finished…” Unexpectedly, Éomer found grey eyes fastened to his as he hovered at the fringes.  The Steward raised his voice, calling strongly with his gaze firmly intent.  In it, he could read both strength and supplication; in it he could see a gift of friendship still freely offered.  The offer came out in Faramir’s lightly spoken words.  “Do you want to help, Éomer?  It would aid me a great deal if you did.”

He hesitated, not wanting to be drawn in, but the students were looking at him with an open and friendly curiosity.  Théodred, remember.  He smiled a little, forcing himself to relax.  Allies or enemies…and he had no desire to become Faramir’s enemy now he knew the Steward’s weapons and his willingness to use them.  He had too much to lose.  “All right.”  Éomer found himself adding in an uncertain tone, “But I don’t know anything about bowyer’s work.”

Faramir smiled wider; gaze steady as though he was wordlessly encouraging him and at the same time warning him.  There were odd depths to his eyes, coolness in the grey as well as warmth. The feeling of warning made Éomer tense again even as Faramir spoke and smiled good-humoredly.  “That’s fine.  You’re making paint.”

***

Sitting in her mother’s flower room, Éowyn grimaced in disgust as Arwen enthusiastically rubbed the slimy brown goop into her clean, freshly washed hair.  The stuff was warm, at which she couldn’t decide if that made it more or less revolting, especially when some slid down her neck.  Eww…it was like mud and she’d ceased playing in mud long ago. At least it still smelled good, like fresh-cut hay, which brought happy memories of her childhood summers. She sang quietly, under her breath, “Com, sumor” and laughed at remembering the tune of her youth.

 Arwen scolded her from behind.  “Hold still.”

“I am.”

“No you’re not.  Rusco is, though…isn’t he a good boy?”  There was syrupy sweet cooing in her ear, making her roll her eyes.  The puppy sat nearby, under strict orders not to move…or whatever Arwen had said in elvish.  It all sounded the same to her.  He was stuffed, white belly rotund, so Éowyn doubted he had much difficulty in obeying.  The little thing was yawning and could barely keep his eyes open.  It reminded her of the easy way of training foals to lead—first you led them where they wished to go, only afterwards venturing other places. 

The Queen adjusted the cloth wrapped around her neck, making sure none of the goop would escape to get on the simple men’s clothes she wore. They were going hunting using the hawks later; Arwen, too, was clothed in men’s wear stolen from Éomer’s quarters.  Éowyn had noted silently and a bit peevishly that the elven woman made even the baggy, rough wool and linen look feminine and favorable.  She moaned as the stuff dripped onto her cheek, twisting her neck away, horrified it might get into her mouth.  “It’s nasty.”

“Oh, hush, you child.”  Arwen wiped it off of her then resumed blending the goop into her hair.  She wore old gloves they’d also found in Éomer’s rooms.  Her brother was used to her petty thievery; Éowyn had had to rip apart his rooms to find things many times before, often finding he’d done the same to hers to recover the stolen items.  “You’ll like it.”

“You don’t even know what color it’s going to be.”

“That’s the fun of it…don’t you ever do things like this?”

“No.”  She squirmed, feeling her hair thick and heavy with the glop.  “Never.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re doing it.  I’m glad I have someone to do it with.”  The Queen rubbed the goop one last time and then shucked off the gloves and grabbed the frame of the chair, not seeming to have to make much effort as she dragged both Éowyn and it over into the morning sunlight.

“What do you mean?”  Anything to distract from the way it kept dripping down her neck.  She curled her toes within her boots, grimacing and gripped the chair’s arms.

“Oh, I can’t do this in the City.  Those women wouldn’t let me.  They want my favor, not my companionship.”  Arwen sighed, sounding a cross between pensive and merry, “This is more like being in Lórien.”  She sat carefully on one of the stone borders, gently pushing aside a few blooms.  “These are so pretty…” The Queen smiled.  “And familiar.  I wonder what fool male first thought of massacring helpless flowers to present to his lady…and what fool lady allowed it.”  Her pale, delicate hands traced the roses.  Éowyn folded her sun-browned, lean ones in her lap.  “Estel cannot feel their pain or hear the earth’s cries for the loss of their beauty and the wind’s the absence of their dipping faces…for that alone, he is excused or I would slap him soundly when he brings me them.  I’d rather he rode with me to look at a live bloom than be presented a wilted and dead one.”

Feeling the atmosphere turn melancholy despite the sunshine pouring into the room, Éowyn made a face at the window and tried to steer the conversation into a less despondent vein.  “How is this like…Lórien?”  She stumbled a little over the name, not used to saying it.

“Well, this is what elves do with eternity.”  The Queen snickered, body shaking with mirth, eyes bright, “They dye hair.”

Confused, she laughed and asked, “What?”  Facing the window, she stared at the foothills and wondered what Faramir was doing at that moment.

“Oh, we spend a good few hours sitting about looking wise, and then we sing to the sky and then we practice walking ethereally in the afternoons…it’s much harder than it looks.”  Éowyn turned to look over her shoulder and Arwen burst out laughing.  “Oh, you mortals are silly.”

“I didn’t believe you for a second.”  She smiled and asked again, “How?”

“We’re equals…you aren’t worrying if something you say will cause you to fall into disfavor.”

“Oh.”  Éowyn frowned a little, understanding, yet not.  That was ridiculous.  “What does that mean?” 

“The families in Gondor rely upon the favor of the King to help keep their status as the highest noble, the second highest and such.  I don’t think you have the same here it is so small.  You couldn’t imagine all the folk who’ve whispered to me,” Arwen smiled and lowered her voice slyly, “that they’ve elven blood in their veins.”  The Queen burst into light laughter.  “As if I cared and as if that would make me love them!”  Her laughter dissolved.  “After seeing to my duties, I spend much of my time by the White Tree while Estel sits in his council or his throne making decisions over his lands.  He fought so hard and for so long; I cannot complain when it keeps him late into the night.”  Arwen sighed and slumped on the stone, her boot nudging the petals scattered all over the tiled floor.

Éowyn swallowed, feeling afraid.  She didn’t want to do the same.  Faramir…my lufiend…?  Dô ná ânforlêton me feorh îdle …

“But it will change.  We shall enjoy ourselves and do many things.”

“Yes.”  She spoke without quite knowing it.  “Tell me about…” Meaning to say Lórien, the possibilities had suddenly opened in her head like a window thrown wide, a dim room flooded with the brilliancy of sunlight.  Instantly, she was tongue-tied.  I could ask…well, anything, Éowyn guessed.  Arwen seemed very forward, not shy about any topic.  I could ask…  She’d never had a woman close to her to ask things.  Certainly, there was much she was curious about.  Oh, everything…it was too much and the depth of her questions suffocated her.

“What?”

Éowyn answered truthfully, twisting her fingers.  “I don’t know.”

There was a thoughtful expression on the Queen’s face and a moment of quiet.  “Do you want a story of great horror?”  Arwen was smiling again. 

“All right.”

“Once…in Lórien…” The Queen giggled, “I offered to rub Estel’s feet.”  She laughed, “Never touch a Ranger’s feet!  They are nasty, nasty beyond anything you’ve ever seen or imagined; all lumpy and callused—he’s walked everywhere…  Well, not everywhere but close enough.  Ugh, they were chapped and rough and he could hardly feel it unless I used my strength!”  She shuddered, laughing at the same time.  “I pass on my wisdom to you; never, ever touch his feet!”

Éowyn laughed, too.  “Not just Rangers…an old Rider, his legs get all bowed inward and it’s disgusting.” 

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”  She smiled, feeling the sun warm her wet hair; it was pulled back; she couldn’t see it and was somewhat afraid to peek. 

The Queen laughed, “It was a shame, too, about Estel.  Poor thing, he was limping and so pitifully adorable, playing it for all he was worth.  I found some nice, scented oil and it promised to be fairly erotic in a way none could disapprove,” Éowyn blinked rapidly and Arwen smiled, “until I saw those things and,” The fair elven woman pretended to retch violently.  “It was a fine performance I gave not to be horrified, though perhaps not too fine for he’s not asked me again.”

She laughed, still a little shocked.

“Now, what else?”  Hmm?  Don’t be shy!”  Arwen reached out to slap her leg.  “Ask.”

“Umm.”  She didn’t know how or where to begin.

The Queen sighed, and then smiled patiently.  “All right.  Another story.  Let me tell you how you should fall down upon your knees in gratitude only to be cursed with one brother…”

***

Faramir set the lads to trimming the still useful feathers from his broken and bent arrow shafts, showing them the proper way, and then he turned to Éomer.  The King of Rohan was edgy, as he’d been for some time, his mind filled with unease.  Faramir curtailed his impatience, speaking quietly as he carried the cut off sleeves of his shirt and grabbing up one of the eating bowls.  “Here, come with me to the river, we need water for this.”  Éomer obeyed, plainly wary and walking just slightly out of step so that Faramir led the way and conversation was awkward at best.  Irritated, he slowed to match.  “What’s wrong?”

The only reply was a quick, faint shake of the man’s head that sent his thick golden mane, a rougher version of Éowyn’s, to swinging.  Éomer’s light eyes were careful, his mind deeply nervous and uncomfortable.

Faramir held his patience with difficulty.  “What?  What is it?”  His voice rose, temper burning hotly and forcing its way out, “Am I being too civil?  Am I not doing all I was asked to do?  Do you disapprove of my teaching?”

This earned him a response, a cautious yet truthful, “No.”

When they were out of sight from camp, he halted altogether, directly facing the man.  “Then what is it?” 

“I don’t know what you mean.  Why are you so angry…with me?”  The last two words were so hesitant they sounded more like a question onto themselves.  Faramir didn’t speak and Éomer didn’t meet his eyes; he shifted his feet, looking from them to the landscape around them, obviously wishing he were anywhere else.  Faramir kept silent and still, feeling the tension build within the man before him until Éomer finally looked up, made fleeting eye contact and asked, “Can we just…” He gestured in the direction they’d been walking, “go?  Please?”

“No.”

Éomer fidgeted.

“Not until you understand that,” Faramir emphasized each word, “I’m only angry because you’re not trying…”

“I am!”  All of a sudden it seemed like Éomer had remembered his long-dormant temper for he snarled the exclamation, momentarily taking Faramir aback.  The King of Rohan straightened, looking livid and strangely relieved in it.  “What else do you want?  I’m helping, like you asked me, I’m not insulting you, I’m not calling you a thief, I’m not doing any of those things you didn’t want me to…” He spat each word, fury coloring his voice and darkening his fair complexion.  “I don’t like you, I’m not going to right away and I won’t pretend to like a worm…  I am honest, you are a lying, pretending...” Éomer silenced himself, turning away.

Faramir offered pleasantly, feeling his bitterness smoldering just under his skin.  “A witch?  Was that the word you were looking for?”

His answer was a near roar.   Rohirric accent heavily distorted by resentment, Éomer whirled back to face him, hair flying around his face.  “Yes and don’t pretend that doesn’t make you angry!”

“It does.”  He felt his muscles brace in reply to Éomer’s distressed mindset and strained body language; it was only with great will that he calmed himself.  Yet…oddly, as he’d admitted that, the King of Rohan had seemed to ease, his features and shoulders appearing to be held not quite as tensely.  Purposefully composed Faramir added, “Only I have the good manners not to show it.”

“Good manners…” Éomer looked even more bewildered and angry than before.  “You…you speak nonsense!  What else would you have me do?  Pledge my undying devotion to your house?  Lick your boots and follow you around like your dog?”  He stared at him, open mouthed with disbelief and finally near-wailed, “Why won’t you just let me alone?!”

Faramir almost laughed; the desperation before him was that pitiful. Stern, he replied, “I already asked you what I wanted you to do.  I assure you, it’s not half as hard as you are making it and if you would just do it, I think we’d come to friendship much faster and without this rubbish.”

Pale eyes wide and incredulous, Éomer asked, “What?”

“Relax.”  You great thrice damned idiot, do I have to knock your head off to get through to you?  He began walking again before it occurred to him to try.  “Now come.”

        “No.”

        He groaned with frustration and turned, “Oh, why not?”

        Éomer’s expression was anxious; his voice was thinner as he challenged, “Not until you stop pretending.  I don’t like it…it’s not normal.” 

        “Courtesy isn’t normal to you?  Consideration of another’s mood and the desire for calm, peaceful conversation where both parties can come to an agreement isn’t normal?”  Faramir laughed suddenly, answering his own questions aloud, “Look whom I’m talking to, of course they aren’t.  You’re an ill-mannered, uncivilized brute who I’m shocked was even allowed in a Hall, much less crowned King of one.”  He chuckled again, feeling his own mix of anger and desperation clash with Éomer’s agitation.  Shaking his head, he sighed, “Fine, no more courtesy, if that’s how you want it.”

        The King of Rohan looked back at him outwardly staunch, yet with caution and confusion showing in his face as well, betraying the lack of confidence within.  “It is.”

        Faramir walked quickly forward, tossing over his shoulder.  “Good, now come, I’ve got work to do and you’re helping me.”    After a moment, he heard Éomer’s footsteps.  They were slow, but they were at least moving in his direction instead of back towards camp.  He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for an instant, blocking out the sunny morning, the green and amber valley and the bright blue sky.  I will never leave this place and I will never get through to this man.  I should have just left.

        No.  Stop.  He just talked to me and did so in words of more than one syllable…Faramir mentally repeated their conversation and smiled a little while feeling the slightest bit of optimism stir.  The game he’d begun with Éowyn came back to him.  One step forwards…none back.  Yet.

***

        When they’d returned the meal had been ready and they’d eaten.  It had been quite good, the meat tender.  Now, Éomer concentrated, brow furrowed, mixing the paints as Faramir had so patiently—more patient than he would have been, certainly—shown him. After getting water at the stream, they’d wandered until the Steward had found a red maple tree and stripped some of the inner bark, using his knife to slice it delicately.  He’d also picked wild onions, discarding all but the root; cut a handful of lush grass and, lastly, gathered black, ripe berries and blue-green needles from a juniper tree.  Normally Éomer wouldn’t have been inclined to think that these things, except the grass, could make colors, but after mashing them, then soaking them while the camp ate breakfast and saddled the draft horses for another day’s work and then draining the water, Faramir’s various plants yielded four.  The colors were soft, not bright, but there—red, brown, yellow and green.  Also before returning, the Steward had gathered twigs, which stripped of their bark and the ends frayed, made tiny paintbrushes.  Éomer himself had done the last thing needed before the paints were ready—by the fire, he burned the juniper needles, careful to keep the ashes, adding them to the little bowls of dye and stirring the plant, ash and water mixture before straining the liquid through the linen.  He found the simple tasks very satisfying after too long a time sitting idle as King; they were also soothing, something to focus upon and take his mind away.

        Nearby, Faramir was doing something else with the arrow shafts, straightening them and smoothing the wood.  The students worked diligently, paying close attention.  Faramir kept glancing over, monitoring his progress, Éomer guessed.  Leaving them, the Steward stood and stretched his long body before coming to sit on a stump nearby.  Éomer stirred the dyes a little more though they were truly ready, pasting a focused expression on his face.  He didn’t really want to talk and tried to show it by ignoring the man seated beside him.

        “Going well?”  Faramir didn’t care, obviously.

        “Yes.”

        “Good.  All we have to do now is paint them, oil the wood, let it dry and then fix the points and fletching.”  He sounded pleased. 

        Éomer sighed deeply and asked what he’d wanted to ask ever since the day before when he’d sat and listened incredulously to Faramir talking about stone points.  “You do know they won’t ever have to do this again, don’t you?”  He glanced upwards and braved, “I assure you, we are well supplied.  This isn’t necessary.”

        The Steward laughed under his breath, “So?”

        Snapping his head up, he repeated in confusion, “So?”

        Faramir slumped and gave him an exasperated look.  “It’s good for them to learn new things, they enjoy it.  They’re very curious and that’s good, too.”

        “Enjoy it?”  He glanced over at the lads.  They looked earnest, dogged and seriously focused over the slim dart shafts…not expressions he associated with enjoyment.

        Faramir said firmly, “Yes.”  He rose, “Now give help me carry these over there.  I want you helping and,” Raising both eyebrows, he growled, “Doing it with a smile.”

        Éomer frowned at him, craning his neck up and dared to say, “No courtesy doesn’t mean ordering me about.”  His memory stirred…Théodred…and he frowned deeper, nonplussed.  But there was no way he could fight back; he was defenseless and it chafed.

        “Of course it does.”  The Steward grinned, “I’m being rude and I’m simply staggered that you didn’t recognize it.”  He stood and the tip of his boot lobbed itself painfully into Éomer’s shin; he compressed his lips, refusing to give any sign or sound that it had hurt.  “Now move,” The Steward lowered his voice patronizingly, “My Lord or I will move you.”

        Éomer got up, grumbling under his breath.  I cannot believe my sister puts up with this fool…

        Faramir arched an eyebrow challengingly; then helpfully took two of the bowls of dye, “What was that?”

        He sighed, unsure about this brightly genial attitude the Steward was bearing but it was far better than having him threatening again.  “Nothing, I said nothing.” 

        Did I say I’d prefer him to Aragorn?  Idiocy; I was drunk.  Aragorn is far more tolerable and easy to manipulate; in fact, I wish he were here to amuse me.  Éomer chuckled very softly as he walked, carefully holding the last two bowls of paint and resisting the urge to hurl them at Faramir’s back even though it might even be worth wasting all his time and efforts and risking the Steward’s resulting fury.

Or just to have someone to talk to…  Of course, Aragorn’s also named Estel, which even he knows is a woman’s name and utterly horrible.  He lifted his eyes to Faramir’s back and dark mane again, the latter tangled and studded with bits of bark.  Faramir held all the power, even if he did not use it; surely, there could be some way to finding a level ground between them.  He had no other ideas than...  Perhaps I should try to get this fool into his cups tonight.  If I’m stuck with him, I might as well make it interesting.  He smiled a little to himself.  At worst, it could result in a brawl and he could relieve some of his tension in creating new landscapes on the Steward’s face. 

But I swore I wouldn’t…  He had, unfortunately.  Éomer sighed again, this time feeling it in the very soles of his feet. 

***

Finally allowed to look in a mirror, Éowyn touched her hair, eyes wide.  “It’s…” In the noon sun, her long hair gleamed brightly.  But it wasn’t its usual pale flaxen, oh no.  It’s…that doesn’t even look like my hair.  She said it out loud.  “That doesn’t look like…me.”

Arwen beamed.  “I love it.”

“But it’s…” She stroked the strands, most a nice, warm shade of cinnamon with lighter coppery highlights widely interspersed.  It was not quite brown, yet not the vivid red often seen in the locks of her native folk.  It was between, a rich color all of its own.  “I thought it would be darker, the…goop was darker.”  Éowyn rubbed a lock between her fingers, marveling at the shine and the hearty, radiant mahogany color.

A laugh in elven tones brought her back.  “Goop?  Is that a mortal word, truly?”  Arwen stood behind her and fluffed her hair, smiling and talking fast.  “It’s gorgeous, is what it is.  Come on, let’s go hunting and then you’re my doll for the day and first off we’re putting you in a pretty gown.  I never had a little sister, only idiot brothers.  And, whenever you wish, you can untie your tongue and ask me whatever it was you wanted.”  Éowyn was no match for elven strength.  She didn’t bother to fight as she was dragged down the hall, only taking amusement from the way the servants caught sight of her and gasped.  One older woman nearly dropped her basket and the Queen laughed delightedly.

Catching sight of her own hair again, falling in a ginger-colored sheaf over her shoulder, she remembered a task she’d planned.  “While we’re out we can ride east and I’ll bring up Líeg.”  Her list of things to do was steadily decreasing and Éowyn fought off an attack of anxiety every time she thought of it.  Faramir…she wished he were here; the urge to burrow into his arms was made all the more terrible because she couldn’t satisfy it.

“Who?”

“My horse.”

“Ah.”  Arwen nodded and walked faster.  Éowyn doubted the woman had really heard her.

***

Éomer watched the game, if one could call it that; Faramir had set his students to playing.  One boy sat cross-legged and blindfolded while the others ringed him.  The four took turns in creeping up on the blind boy; some were good, others were audible even to him as he resaddled his stallion.  The blindfolded lad listened closely, pointing at any noise he heard and the game was very quiet at first, but soon he was ripping off the cloth and shouting in laughter while the caught boy stomped back in mock anger.  It became a louder game, with others hissing and making noises to cover their friend’s approach.  Often the blindfolded lad or others burst into laughter, meaning none won the round and they had to start again.

“It’s supposed to be a silent game with no noises, to sensitize your ears.”  Faramir sounded amused.  “But, in my experience in Rohan, quiet is not something your folk excel at.”

He nodded just so it would be apparent he’d heard and understood.  Éomer was working on different ways to approach Faramir—he wanted to make sure the Steward wasn’t pretending anymore and the only way he knew how was to act annoying enough to provoke a small outburst.  Currently, he was trying silence.  It did not appear to be working at all, as the Steward chatted, looking merrily undisturbed.  Perhaps he’d read his mind.  Éomer shuddered, still horrified by the very notion.  How can my sister like it?

“Did you play games like that?”

He shook his head in reply.

“Too bad.”  Faramir looked thoughtful.  He was saddling his own horse, the sour-faced grey. 

Éomer nodded, agreeing that, yes, it was too bad that he’d not been forced to play silly Southern games as a youth, instead learning how to swing a sword as a proper warrior should.  Glancing down where he wouldn’t be seen, he rolled his eyes and tightened the girth.

The light touch of Faramir’s hand on his arm made him jump with surprise.  The Steward gave him a glance, then gestured, “Stop that and come over here with me.”

“W-what for?”  He was still startled; the man had crossed several feet in almost no time at all and with no sound whatsoever. 

“You’re helping me show them how the game is supposed to be played.”

He frowned.  “I am?”

“Yes.”  Faramir grasped his arm firmly; Éomer squirmed inwardly, disliking the casual contact as the Steward dragged him over.  “Wurth?”

The boy in the center lifted his blindfold, “Yes, Láréow?”

“Get up and give that cloth to Lord Éomer.  He’s volunteered to help me demonstrate something that will make this game…more challenging and more like to how I played it as a lad.”

I did?  Bemused, he allowed himself to be pulled further.  The boy, a tall lad, handed him the blindfold and scuttled out of the way.  Perhaps he did intimidate them, then.  Éomer shrugged privately and frowned.  So what if he did?  He was their Lord, not their playmate, what was Faramir doing?

He was holding up the cloth, a small grin on his face.  “Now, put it on…”

He glowered.  No.

Faramir’s voice lowered; amazingly there was a glint of mischief in his grey eyes.  “Do it or I’ll do it for you, Éomer.”  He cocked his head, a smile resting on his lips as he whispered merrily, “You said you didn’t play games…now’s your chance!”

“I never wanted to…  Fine!  Fine!”  Faramir had stepped forward, lifting his arms, appearing for all the earth to be about to make good on his threat to bind Éomer’s eyes like he were a helpless child.  Annoyed, he snatched the cloth from him.

Folding it, he tied it in a knot and stood blind; he sounded gruff and surly even to himself.  “Now what?”

“Sit.”  Éomer folded his legs and sat, careful in his blindness.  Faramir sounded annoyingly smug and much farther away as he began, “Now, fan out…good.  This is the woodsman’s walk and the best way to walk stealthily.  Watch closely.  First, keep your knees slightly bent, and loose, and your toes pointing straight forward. 

Behind his blindfold, Éomer rolled his eyes to the sky.  This was ridiculous.  I hate him…hate, hate, hate…

Faramir sounded a good deal nearer and he jumped slightly, coming to attention; his fingers plucked nervously at the grass.  “If we were in the wood, you’d step lightly to avoid rustling leaves, snapping sticks, and bumping into trees or stumps. In this grass, you put your heel down first if the grass is short, your toe down first if it is long.  This is short, so watch me.”

He turned his head, listening, but heard no footsteps. 

Faramir sounded nearer still.  “A stalking cat moves one foot at a time, setting each down carefully; it freezes at the first hint of a movement of its prey. You must practice putting down each foot in such a way that you can stand like a statue on the slightest alarm. Be careful where you plant your feet, so that leaves do not rustle or twigs crack with your weight on them.”

This was eerie.  Éomer couldn’t hear anything, no steps nor breathing, only Faramir’s voice to tell him where he was.  He sounded many feet away still and slightly to the left.

“You see?”

There was a silence in which he imagined the lads nodding and then the blindfold was whipped off his head, making Éomer yelp in surprise and fright.  He jerked backwards, nearly falling onto his back, only catching himself with his palms.  Faramir smiled down, looking altogether too full of himself and folded the cloth in his hands.  “When you do it correctly and practice, it works—just like that.”

The lads looked impressed; Éomer’s heart was pounding.  To his surprise, Faramir extended a hand to help him up. 

He took it, albeit gingerly, and the Steward beamed at him like a proud parent, dipping his brow in a respectful nod.  “Thank you for your aid, Lord Éomer.”

Faramir was a mad man; he stared at him.  “You’re welcome.”  As dignified as possible, he escaped back to saddling his horse and got a minute’s respite. 

“So, is there any special reason I’m riding out to that tiny village with you?”  It was pleasantly curious, not in the least bothered; the longer he’d spent with the lads, the more Faramir’s disposition had improved.  The Steward had changed before his eyes, laughing and paying Eomer no attention whatsoever, focused upon his students as they attempted to neatly paint their darts.  He’d found it a welcome reprieve and discovered his own tenseness to have abated some, too.  Of course, with the little blindfold trick, he was rather disquieted.

Damn.  He had to answer and forget his silent game for a moment; there was not a grunt or physical gesture articulate enough for that question.  Lifting his gaze from the saddle but not quite eye to eye, he said, “I thought we could sit and have a drink while we spoke…”

Faramir actually looked pleased.  “That sounds good.”

Éomer nodded and began to plan.  He’d never seen the Steward do more than nurse his drink, so how could he get him drunk?  Maybe he can’t hold his liquor…if so, Éomer found himself reluctantly applauding this example of Faramir’s careful restraint.  It did little to look like an ass and to spread the reputation of being less able to hold one’s drink than a woman.  He remembered Faramir speaking of getting drunk with Halorl in the City but he’d no way of knowing how much it took to get the Steward into that state.  I want him sloppy, embarrassing himself, maybe saying things he shouldn’t…he swallowed bitterly, feeling anger and shame.  Faramir, as it was, could control him with little more than a word; it was an intolerable situation.  Down to my level…but not dead from over-drink.  Éomer patted his stud, rubbing the fall-thick chestnut hair.  The horse looked at him quietly, brown eyes calm.  He slapped its neck gently and mounted.  “Good lad.”

“Ready?”  Faramir stepped into his stirrup and swung aboard his horse, turning to look at the laughing students.  They now played a game that was more or less in-between the Steward’s version and their own.  Under Faramir, the grey chewed its bit and pawed.  “Listen…” He paused, then spoke slowly, “Adrogen æt eower bogan oððis niht.”

It was halting and the Steward’s accent varied widely, but Eomer was still impressed.  Faramir was actively trying and improving. The students nodded, the lad in the center pulling off his blindfold again, this time with a flourish, and answering with a cheeky grin, “Gea, Láréow.  We wille.”

Faramir grinned back, “Ge gemynte selle, Wurth.”  That done, the Steward turned to him while planting one hand on the grey’s rump to brace himself as he twisted in the saddle, grinning still and looking very natural on his horse, relaxed and perfectly at ease.  Only his careful pronunciation and dissimilar appearance made it known he was a stranger to the Mark.  “We gað?”

Éomer gave him a tiny smile, but one that for all its smallness, was filled with actual warmth.  Unbelievably, he was feeling appreciative of the effort he could see before him—in it, he could perceive, however grudgingly, the same effort that would be given to his sister.  It made him think; after all, if our positions were reversed…would he have to learn elvish or some nonsense like that?  He laughed under his breath and was thankful Faramir had no womenfolk, attractive or otherwise.  He grinned, answering openly and easily for the first time that he could remember in all their intermittent dialogue.  “Gea, we gað, Faramir.”

They didn’t go alone.  His guards had not backed down even under Éomer’s increasingly irritated protests.  He could not fault them, they knew their duty and they had held to it most admiringly even as he’d come closer and closer to outright fury.  In the end, his arguments had given out before their staunch calm and now the four men rode behind, silent and watchful.
        At least if he passes out they can help me lift him up and tie him to the saddle…he smiled again and urged his chestnut into a gallop.  Now would be a good time to see to another concern long before he had to worry about it—could Faramir keep the pace?  Aragorn had had reservations and the King knew him better than he.  Let us see.  Éomer leaned forward, wind in his face and clucked, riding strongly frontward while using his weight and motion to encourage the horse.  Obedient, the stallion lengthened his stride and they flew up the path, leaving a tail of dust while the softened light of the sunset turned the land around them rose-colored.