Éomer was pleased to find Faramir could keep up.  Of course, the brief ride to the village was hardly a test and he reminded himself of this as they dismounted.  A lad took their mounts, bowing low to him; Éomer smiled back as Faramir watched the boy in open curiosity.  The Steward glanced at him, but he didn’t return the look.  Walking into the tavern, he did eye the other man furtively; Faramir didn’t appear to be having any problems walking or obvious soreness from the fast ride.  Éomer considered that and smiled to himself.  Good.  It was one mark to Faramir’s favor, anyhow. 

His guards were intelligent enough to move away from them, granting him his privacy.  Once inside the darkened interior, smelling of wood smoke, ale and cooking meat, the Steward’s long strides slowed and he hovered, looking unsure.  Éomer waved him at one of the tables in the corner of the all but empty room.  There were a few older men of the village sitting by the hearth but no women in sight.  However, he heard noises from the simple kitchens.  Feeling himself cheer suddenly, after all, it had been long since he’d last sported with a maid; Éomer said, “Let me find someone” and shooed Faramir again.  This time the Steward went, boots clumping softly over the floorboards.

He’d had no luck over the summer, even with briefly putting aside his rule not to pursue a woman within Edoras.  It was no wonder, though; it was very difficult to charm a kitchen girl when seated by one’s sister who was snorting in disgust and rolling her eyes, often telling embarrassing tales of one’s youth to boot.  He’d garnered much laughter and cheeky responses from the maidens, but none of the warm flesh he coveted. 

The villagers greeted him respectfully; Éomer smiled back, offering his own quiet greetings in return as he walked to the bar, leaned against it and bellowed expectantly.  “Ay!”  To his surprise there was no reply, so Éomer wandered around the high wooden barrier, glancing at the stacked and fragrant barrels.  Here it smelled of spilt ales and, more faintly, food.  The floor was better swept here, too.  There was mostly tame beer, but he thought he saw some stronger stuff, a few dulled bottles glinting secretly in the depths of the cabinets.  Perhaps that would aid him in his quest to get Faramir inebriated.  He sips his drinks…something stronger would work faster…ah…but he’d taste it for sure…  He pondered that as a young and pleasantly rounded woman, flaxen-haired and filling out her plain dress nicely, finally came to his call.  She was drying her hands with a rag and if she was shocked to see her King, she hid it well.  She was also quite pretty, at least to his frequently rebuffed eye.

        The maid did him a courtesy, which amused Éomer, making him smile.  Her manner was efficient and properly deferential, not quite meeting his gaze.  “I apologize, my Lord.  What may I fetch you?”  He was blocking her passage, standing just outside the door to the kitchens where she’d come from.  The kitchens were warm and much brighter than the common room, smelling better, too, full of the scent of good cooking.  Éomer watched her inch forward, pointedly glancing around his sides though she was far too well mannered to speak outright and tell him to move out of her way. 

He didn’t budge, amused further and liking the way she flashed an annoyed and bordering onto insolent glance up at him.  “If it would please my Lord to seat himself, I’d be halfway to serving him his ale.”  She set the rag aside and lifted a hand about the level of his chest, presumably to shoo him away but he caught it, rubbing his thumb along the slim ridge of her knuckles.  Her hand was small, light in his and warm from dishwater he guessed; her eyes widened with surprise.

        Teasing her, he said, speaking low, “Maybe it’s not ale your Lord’s wanting.”  Éomer wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, barely suppressing his guffaw into a wide, playful grin. 

        The maid’s eyes flashed again; she was no starry-eyed girl and not easily impressed by his foolishness, rank or no.  Bold, she jerked back her hand and lifted her nose to sniff disgustedly, “Maybe he’s had his fill already, to be dallying with me while I’m waited upon.”  The maid jerked her chin, pointing in Faramir’s direction.  To Éomer’s amusement, the older men had risen and were slowly converging on the Steward who sat alone at one of the benches pulled near the far corner of the room.  Faramir stared at him almost beseechingly.

        Not caring one whit, he turned his back.  “Don’t worry about him.”  Delighted by her spirit, Éomer laughed and lounged against the doorframe, not moving an inch and deliberately taking up the entire doorway.  “Answer me a riddle and I’ll move.”

        Exasperation briefly scrunched her pretty face inward as she let down her polite facade.  He loved that the best, watching a kitchen maid turn as impudent as a Queen, knowing he would let her speak any way she wished.  “Whatever for?”

        He smiled again, knowing how repulsively arrogant he sounded and knowing still that he was handsome enough that he could just get away with it.  “My pleasure.”

        She huffed while looking disgusted anew.  As well she should.  He chuckled inwardly as her eyes narrowed.  “If you weren’t my Lord you’d be taking your pleasure out of this inn and elsewhere for your churlish talk.”  Éomer just laughed, snatching her hand again.  The maid looked down at their clasped fingers and left it limp within his grasp, her cheeks attractively flushed in vexation.  “Go on, my Lord!  Look…your friend is getting impatient.”  Éomer glanced back; Faramir was sitting in the group, occasionally turning his way and appearing rather forlorn and pitiful and out of place.  If the Steward was looking for sympathy he had the wrong man.

        He’s not my friend…  “Do not worry over him.  Listen.”  Shifting his shoulder against the wall, he used both hands to cradle her one, smiling and leaning closer.  “I’m a strange creature, for I satisfy women,” The maid rolled her eyes and he chuckled through his next words, “a service to the neighbors!  No one suffers at my hands except for my slayer.”  Here Éomer took a breath, feeling an irresistible grin tug at his lips.  He was never able to keep a straight face, it tickled him so.  Yet she was paying attention, her gaze fixed on his and rather expectantly.

He lowered his voice, growling in as suggestive manner as he could without breaking into hearty laughter, “I grow tall, erect in a bed, I’m hairy underneath.”  The maid looked away and her bosom swayed in what he hoped was unspoken amusement.  When she looked back, she shook her head in aggravation, but then smiled and lifted an eyebrow to tell him to go on.

  Galvanized, Éomer did, hastily recalling the rhyme, “From time to time a good-looking girl, the doughty daughter of some churl dares to hold me.”  He grinned roguishly and rubbed her knuckles, sliding his fingers around hers, massaging her warm flesh and paying gentle attention to her joints; surely if the woman had been working all day she had to be weary and bone-sore.

 The maid gave him an impatient look, yet he thought he saw interest stirring in her gaze.  After all, he was showing her how pleasant his hands could feel and that just on her own hands, a rather trivial place in comparison to all the other areas he could touch.  Ah, and if I give this much attention to just your fingers, my dear…how could you resist?  Encouraged by her allowance, Éomer all but purred, “Grips my russet skin,” He slid his hands up to her wrist, curling his fingers around, encircling in an unmistakable fashion and sliding slowly downward to her fingertips.  He was delighted to see her cheekbones darken with a flush even as she puffed a breath of irritation through puckered, rosy lips, making her flaxen hair flutter. 

He grinned, “Robs me of my head and puts me in the pantry.  At once that girl with plaited hair who has confined me remembers our meeting.  Her eye moistens.”  Éomer smiled confidently, leaning closer still, resting his shoulder on the doorframe and letting his fingers toy with her pliant ones.  “Well?  What am I?” 

        “My Lord, you’re an onion.  I’ve heard it before.”  It was brisk, even though the corners of her mouth were twitching and her eyes were beaming up at him in soundless laughter, especially as she perceived his chagrin.  She jerked her hand back and made to push him aside, fluttering her slim fingers at his abdomen, brusque demeanor reasserted.  “Now, will you kindly move, my Lord?” 

        Well.  He was disappointed but not ready to abandon all hope.  “Wait.”

        She put her hands on her hips; he swore he saw a fleeting smile curl her mouth as she asked.  “Another riddle, my Lord, or is it my turn?  I’ve heard quite a few and more clever.”  The maid gave him an impish look.  “You’ll have to answer rightly if you want your ale.”

        “No, no more riddles.”  Grinning, Éomer was hard pressed not to explode into robust laughter.  He liked this woman; it was too bad he had Faramir on his heels or he would spend more time pursuing her; whether or not he won the day, it would be worthwhile just for the pure enjoyment he got out of it.  Tapping one of the bottles, he asked, “What is this?”

She looked down, “Strongly brewed cider.”

 Good, good…  The cider held more alcohol than the plain ale.  “I want some of this to go into his drink but not enough to taste easily.”  It was also very sweet.  Éomer nodded surreptitiously towards Faramir as the Steward smiled and spoke awkwardly with his company.  From the sounds and looks of the man’s halting speech they were conversing in Rohirric.  “And not into mine at all, understand?”  He thought for a moment, “Only the first round.”  Too much would ruin everything; he had to be careful.

        Her face grew puzzled but her voice remained compliant as she bent and retrieved the bottle; Éomer took advantage of the way her dress gaped as she leaned down, standing on his tiptoes to peek, then quickly shifting back onto his heels and pasting an innocent expression on his face.  The maid nodded, clueless,  “Aye, my Lord.” 

Pleased in more than one fashion, his mood exorbitantly lightened, he let her alone and made his way back to the Steward, sliding onto the bench across from him with a silly grin still in place.  As he sat the villagers disbanded, joining his guards, both parties allowing him his privacy with Faramir.  Éomer would have rather they’d stayed.  He met Faramir’s stoical, grey gaze and felt himself deflate a little.

***

        In his imposed upon state, while Éomer dawdled, Faramir had found a game and being new, it intrigued him.  Now he touched the dingy and roughly marked board with one fingertip, “Tell me, how do you play this?”  Nearby, there were sixteen light, eggish-shaped wooden pieces, another eight of dark wood and one sitting alone marked with symbols of horses.  There were nine squares on each side; the center and corner squares of the board were decorated with the same swirling designs he’d first seen in Edoras, deeply etched into the grain of the wood.  It was an old board, carved out of a hunk of oak and stained dark from hearth smoke, spilt ales, and the contact of many, many hands. 

        Éomer looked at him quizzically, folding his arms on the table and leaning over them; the man was barely paying attention, repeatedly glancing back at the kitchens.  “You mean Hnefatafl?”

        “Hnef…” Well, there was no way he could pronounce that. Faramir smiled.  “Yes.”

        “It’s not difficult…” Éomer shifted, glancing over his shoulder again. 

        “Let’s play then.”  Perhaps beating him at it would build Éomer’s confidence; in gloating at least, he could get him to say more than a word or two at a time.  Faramir rated it far better than sitting in tense silence, anyway.

        The King of Rohan’s attention snapped back to him and his brow furrowed as he squirmed on the bench.  “Why?  What for?”

        Faramir pushed the board between them and said forcefully.  “Show me how to play.”  Why demanding worked better than a simple request he still didn’t understand.  The knowledge that he might have to demand quite a bit more this night and beyond wearied him.  I just want peace…how hard is that?  How?  It appeared very hard indeed.

        “Fine, if you want.”  He watched Éomer begin to divide the jumbled light and dark pieces with quick, practiced motions.  A woman, not the ample one he’d seen with Gaer, thankfully, came to their corner bearing two foaming mugs.  She set them down with a mindfulness that he barely noticed, carefully separating the cups; Éomer’s somber mood broke as he looked up and gave her a lighthearted smile.  The maid smiled back, her lips twisting briefly as she smoothed the front of her dress, appearing more preoccupied than charmed.  “You’ll be wanting something else, My Lord?”  Her eyes moved to linger on him and, uncomfortable, Faramir looked across to Éomer, who, remarkably, was grinning.

        “Aye, I would.”

        The young woman flicked him an exasperated, yet somewhat amused glance, “I meant do you wish anything to eat, my Lord?”  Éomer’s grin just widened and the maid looked flustered.  “I’ll bring you both something from the kitchen.”

          Impatient, Faramir watched Éomer watch her go.  “Can we play now?”

        The King of Rohan turned back and his pale eyes alighted on their untouched mugs.  So far this was the most merry, in a continuous amount of time, that Faramir had seen the man and it puzzled him.  He also hoped it would continue.  Éomer lifted his cup and smiled.  “Drink.”

        Fine…  Lifting his own heavy, crude clay mug, he watched Éomer take a generous swallow and Faramir smiled to himself.  A little wouldn’t hurt to help him relax for this new ordeal between them and if it helped Éomer, then all the better.  Now, how would a man of the Mark drink his ale?  Ah…  He thought he knew.

***

Across from him the Steward eyed his ale speculatively, then lifted the mug’s rim to his lips and Éomer felt satisfaction—as he’d thought the man would nurse it.  Now I just hope he doesn’t taste it and think to question…  Slowly setting the pieces of the game into order, he gulped another mouthful from his, wincing past the sourness and then nearly choked as he tried to roar with laughter and swallow at the same time.  Faramir had sipped his drink carefully, given him a small, yet surprisingly reckless grin, and then downed his entire mug in a series of long, deep gulps.

The Steward wiped foam from his dark beard, looking pleased with himself as he set the empty mug down.  Éomer just struggled not to cackle madly, swallowing past his penned up laughter.  And I was worried he would taste it…there’d been no opportunity for Faramir to taste the stronger liquor hidden within his ale.  He hid his delighted grin behind the rim of his mug and spoke as casually as he could.  Oh, this will be good…oh, so good.  “What did you speak about…with them?”  Éomer nodded to the villagers.  It would take a few minutes for the laced ale to show its effects and he was looking forward to it very much.

Faramir smiled ruefully; luckily for Éomer’s peace of mind, his piercing grey eyes were focused more on the board than him.  He wondered if Faramir would perceive his jubilation and sobered; there was no true reason for him to feel so amused.  The Steward traced some of the carvings around the game board, flicking away some dirt.  “I’m not entirely sure.  I think they were questioning me about my lineage.”

“Your bloodlines.”

Faramir looked at him curiously.  “Why?”

“It is…” Éomer tried to find a way to explain, acutely aware that Faramir was watching him now as he sorted the little pieces on the sides of the dirty board, separating light from dark.  “Like our horses…” He glanced up, then back down, “We know about them and remember by knowing the traits of the lines.  Blood tells temperament and quality.”

“Quality…” He frowned, appearing confounded, and then snorted, toying with his empty cup, “Checking to see if I was good enough?”

Éomer looked up, startled; Faramir’s voice had been tinged with an astringent coldness.  He shifted on the hard wood of the bench, uncomfortable and wary of the reappearance of the man’s wrath, directed at him or not.  “No.”

The Steward seemed irked, curling his lips while he shook his head and said irritably.  “I am not a horse.”

“No.”  He sighed in defeat; the man did not understand.  It was a compliment, not an insult; in the Mark horses were numberless and only the best bloodlines were remembered and that they might bother to memorize Faramir’s in some insignificant village was a markedly high tribute.  Éomer looked across the table, staring at the disheveled, foreign man opposite of him…it is a tribute to both to how they view him…and my sister.  He sighed again, to expect Faramir to know that was too much and to explain too difficult at the moment.  “This is how you play—do you want to be the King?”  Éomer took another drink of his ale.  He was beginning to wish for something to eat and to see his pretty maid again.  Any distraction would be welcome.  Anything to postpone this.  Covertly, he eyed Faramir again, noting the man’s bruises and the scrapes won by playing with the men in the company.  His sister would be displeased.    But she will get to play Healer…  Éomer grimaced, revolted.

Faramir smiled, once more the picture of civility; it was a picture Éomer didn’t trust, having seen it switch too quickly.  “No, you can.”

“All right…see, I have half the number of warriors you do.”  He tapped the empty board, and then indicated his eight lighter wooden pieces and Faramir’s sixteen darker ones.  “I move first and I want to get into one of the corners.  You want to stop me, to trap me and slay me.”

“That doesn’t sound difficult.”

“The warriors can move in straight lines only, but they can move any number of places if no other man is standing in the way.  You cannot pass over another man; you can move back and forth across the board as many times as you wish.” 

Across the scarred wood of the tabletop, Faramir nodded.  Across the room the other men, Éomer’s guards and the older Rohirrim villagers, were talking and laughing, a stark contrast to their awkward constraint.  He went on,

“You can kill and take one of my warriors by making a move which traps it between two of yours, but not crosswise.  You can kill more than one at a time and you can move between two men without being killed.”  Éomer surveyed the board, “As I’m the King, I can move as I like and you have to get four around me to slay me unless I’m on the edge or in the center, then you only need three warriors.”  He glanced up.  “Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s play, then.”  Éomer moved one of his warriors just past the center of the board, spreading his smaller guard over the eighty-one squares.  He smiled a little, pleased he had something other than Faramir to focus upon.  “Your turn.”

The Steward was more hesitant, using his fingers to gently slide one of his warriors out in the open.  Before his next move, Éomer plotted; the edges of the board would speed his quest to the corners, but he was more vulnerable.  He guessed Faramir would play conservatively, act carefully in this new thing.  Éomer put his King out boldly, striding from the center and aiming for the right edge, putting his goal at the corner closest to himself. 

Faramir used another warrior, again only moving a short distance.  At this rate they would be playing for a long time; Éomer frowned, looking up and around for the maid, then drank the remainder of his ale in two great swallows.  He was hungry.

The Steward looked up at him and spoke placidly, still unaffected except for that his eyelids looked lower than normal.  “I don’t think subtlety has helped in any of our conversations…so,” Their eyes locked, “What do you want from me, Éomer?”

He nearly choked, wiping ale from his face and rubbing his damp hands on his trousers.  Éomer tried to look polite and confused instead of dreading and anxious as he truly was.  “Hmm?  What?”

“That’s what we’re here for.”  Faramir stared at him from across the rough tabletop, then gestured towards the board and spoke more lightly.  “It’s your move.”

“Oh.  Right, yes.”  He paid little attention, scooting one of his warriors halfway out to the corner he wished to possess; it would be his guard from the left flank.  Éomer stared at the table, then said quietly.  “I don’t know.”

“Time, we know that.”  Faramir held up his fist, sticking out his thumb.  He was very intent.  “What else?  What else is there to make this so difficult?”

Éomer looked at him, thinking how utterly bizarre this man was.  He fidgeted, desperately uncomfortable.  “I don’t know.”

A fleeting smile touched the Steward’s lips.  “That answer appears to run in the family.”  But before he could ask just what that meant, Faramir continued, “You made certain demands upon me—learn your people’s history, language…how do you feel I’ve met them so far?”

Éomer tried to put off answering, nodding downwards.  “It’s your move.”  He really didn’t know what to say.

Faramir didn’t bother to look down, nudging one of his pieces with his forefinger.  “Well?”

“Ah…” He stalled, using another warrior to build his guard. 

“Can I guess?”  There was no time to give assent.  “I think I’ve done better than you thought and that’s worrisome because every way I’ve managed to mix with your folk cuts into your time.  You know full well I’m not going to put up with any foolishness anymore and that leaves us here.”  Faramir sat back, gazing at him calmly, eyes moving back and forth to study each of his, “Honesty.”  He smiled, looking at ease, “No subtlety, no courtesy and no more patience for my part.”

He allowed stiltedly, unsure of where this was going; every time they spoke like this Faramir struck him from some unimagined angle, wounding him deeper and deeper.  “You…have done well.  Very well…did I not say so?”  Éomer fiddled with his six remaining warriors, the small pieces of wood clicking and clacking between his fingers.  For a moment he felt like Faramir was searching him, checking the veracity of his words and he tensed a little.  He didn’t wish to speak about that…gift that belonged to his sister’s lover.

“You did.  Thank you.”  It was pleased as he put another warrior onto the board, still not going any particular place with them.  Éomer wondered if he’d properly explained the game.  “And I think we’ve agreed to…honesty.”  The Steward smiled, “So I’m going to be honest and not hold back any longer—”

And he fell silent.  Éomer twitched his fingers, feeling the hush grow.  At length, he tapped his foot and looked up, impatient.  “So speak.”

Faramir looked adamant, firm and direct but not menacing.  “It’s your turn.” 

It was and in more ways than one.  Éomer moved his King then licked his lips nervously, closing his eyes and not thinking, just speaking.  “I…I want to hate you.”  When he opened his eyes Faramir only looked mildly surprised; Éomer supposed he’d heard it enough.  “And you know why…” They’d spoken of this already.  “But I can’t just hate you anymore…” He glanced up quickly, almost in supplication, “And I don’t…and…”

Éomer ground his teeth, feeling his frustration rising.  Clever words were not among his talents.  “Why do you have to be so good at…why couldn’t you have just let me?  Why do you have to push and push and,” His tone changed to angry sarcasm, ““Be my friend, Éomer” and “Let’s be comrades” and…make me compare you to Théodred?”  That was a true sore spot; Éomer’s voice wavered, and then firmed.  “Why couldn’t you be incompetent?  Why couldn’t you just hit me and curse me and get it over with so I can go back to hating you and not caring anymore…?”  He liked his simple life; he didn’t want it to change and Faramir brought nothing but change.  Éomer ground his teeth again and clenched his fingers tightly against each other, frustrated by everything.  How could he be expected to welcome a man who ripped his perfectly satisfactory existence apart?  It is too late and I know it…it was and he did.  He took a deep breath.  He could fight still or let it go.  Éomer stared across the table, meeting the steely eyes that awaited him; they glinted, terribly aware, like a sword held in ready by an experienced hand, alert and willing to check his clumsy assault.  I am tired of warring with my Southern brother.

Faramir gazed at him in silence, and then he looked away and downward, dark hair falling to hide his expression, whatever it might be.  Éomer swallowed, staring at the table and feeling ashamed of his own words, yet good.  It was the last time he would say them and he’d had to get them out for fear they might fester and return, an illness of the heart and a danger to his spirit.  He took a breath, ready to speak the rest, ready to begin anew, but suddenly, Faramir looked back and he lifted his head just as the Steward half-stood.  Éomer frowned, uncomprehending as Faramir leaned over the table and then, incredibly, struck him.  The shock and pure force of it knocked Éomer off of his seat and he fell, barely catching himself from cracking his head, then lay with his legs tangled over the bench, half sprawled on the floor.  After a second, he put one astonished hand to his aching face; above him, Faramir was out of sight and mute.  Around them the men became quiet as well, only the fire in the hearth crackling; one of his guards rose questioningly, gloved hand moving to rest upon his sword hilt, but Éomer waved him away.  The guard stood anyhow; another did, too.  Their faces were grim.  He shifted, untangling his boots, preparing to rise and lifted his hand, checking for blood.  There was a small smear on his thumb from where he’d wiped his lip.

That hurt…he thought in surprise and then amusement, well, he certainly wasn’t reading my mind…  The guards had all stood and they moved forward as one, features set into hard lines; alarmed, Éomer ordered sharply, “Ná, ná dón com to min geoc.  Ic eom ábannen ge.”  He moved his aching jaw and sighed, looking up at the tabletop, then Faramir’s legs below, “Min…” He laughed inwardly, finding himself stupidly impressed; the man he met in the City would not have done such a thing.  Éomer smiled just a little, “Faramir…min gesibling is to árianne.”  My kinsman…it was about time he acknowledged that.  And what delightful timing…he chuckled, and then winced, gingerly touching his lip again.

The guards frowned in disapproval but reseated themselves reluctantly and watchfully.  No longer laughing, they brooded over their ales, faces dark.  They had had a point; striking him, as Lord of the Mark, was an imprisonable offense or worse depending upon his mood.

It had been a fine, strong blow; his lip was bleeding and his cheekbone burned like an ember was nesting there.  Éomer kicked free of the bench and scooted himself back, gathering room to rise in a semi-dignified fashion.  As he did so, the Steward slid to the end of the bench and leaned down, resting his elbow on the table.  To Éomer’s upturned eyes, he almost looked like he was holding back laughter.  Faramir spoke very quietly, grey irises twinkling like stars, “Is that better now, or do you want to be cursed, too?”

It was exactly what he imagined Théodred would have done and said if presented with the same circumstances; he groaned, “No…and yes.”

“Well, I think it helped me a great deal.  I said I wasn’t going to be holding back.”  To his surprise, Faramir offered him his hand.

Éomer took it and laughed some as he reseated himself. “I didn’t think you meant it like that.”  Faramir laughed, too, and he looked across the table, surprised anew, for it was the first time they’d laughed together and it sounded all right, fully peaceable…and didn’t bother him.  Like nothing had happened, the Steward moved one of his warriors; Éomer moved one of his, setting up his northward guard.  He took a deep breath to steady himself and blew it out.  “I don’t hate you, Faramir…and I haven’t for a long time.”

Faramir laughed and shook his head, “That’s good…that’s good.”  Éomer noted the laughter was slightly louder than normal and the Steward was slumped, not sitting with his back as straight as before.  Amused, he wondered if it was the laced ale beginning to show; he’d half forgotten it.

His amusement faded as he said, speaking slowly,  “It is just…hard.  My sister is all I have…all that I hold close.”  Éomer struggled with choosing the right words; he didn’t wish to ruin this. 

Faramir interrupted, but softly.  “She is for me as well.” 

The words startled him.  In their entire interaction, Éomer had never considered that.  Faramir had no brother, nor father any longer, only more distant relatives…and Éowyn.  He is like me…he is me, only different.  The idea that he sat before a sort of twisted mirror silenced him completely and suddenly aware that some time had passed, he blurted, “I thank you for your patience with my foolishness.”

“It is all right.”  Nodding slightly, Faramir gazed at him and there was clear compassion in his eyes, something Éomer found at once difficult to endure and deeply welcome.  “I can forgive and understand…if this is the end.”  There was the warning, though gentle, a hint of unbreakable steel, the weapon in hand, held in readiness behind all of the Steward’s princely temperament.

It almost relieved him to hear the hardness.  That was real and that was something Éomer could comprehend, no more shadows of civility around the boundary of what Faramir would and would not tolerate.  “It is.”

“Good.  I’m very,” Faramir smiled, “Very glad.”  He leaned on the table, fingers tapping it impatiently; “Tell me, then…” And Faramir’s eyes met his, “How much longer would you like…I can endure if you can meet me halfway.”

He didn’t quite understand.  “What?”

“You never asked.”  Faramir laughed, leaning back and toying with his mug.  “You never asked for time…you just made me give it.”

Éomer laughed a little, too, but it was more out of realization and dismay than any amusement.  “You would have waited.”  It was a statement, not a question and he was horrified by the simple way Faramir nodded.

“Some time, yes.”

Amazed, he echoed.  “I never asked.”

The Steward chuckled, “No.  Instead, you gave me an insane ultimatum…a rather desperate one.”  Countenance full of sympathy, Faramir smiled.  “And, since we’ve already established,” He gave Éomer a small inclination of his head, a tiny bow, “Thanks to this duty I’m fulfilling in your land, that I am very open to accepting ludicrous propositions from you…what is the earliest you would agree to part?”

Instantly all his ease was gone and Éomer felt his chest tighten.  “I don’t know.”

“Think on it.”  Not so subtle, he thought, but perhaps Faramir was reading his tension and trying to diffuse it.  The Steward was suddenly much less forward, at any rate, his posture and speech relaxed.  “It is no great matter and nothing we need to discuss right away.”

Éomer nodded, looking down.  He felt horribly depressed.  I could have asked he says…without all of Aragorn’s intervention and Faramir’s patience, he might have made an enemy of a man quite willing to be friends.  I am a boor. 

Faramir was watching him.  “We should probably ask Éowyn for her view, anyhow.”  His face, too, was less glad as he played with a few of the wooden pieces.  “She is not too eager to come and live in my City.”

“No?”  This cheered Éomer, though he noticed Faramir now appeared depressed.  He tried to comfort the man, “I’m sure she’ll be fine.  You must tell her about Ithilien and give her plenty of free rein to go and do things.  She will be happy then.”  Of course, he added mentally, you must watch and make sure she doesn’t forget she is a woman again…make sure she doesn’t ride with your warriors and return to hardness.  It would be a fine line, to let her be herself in that strange City and not clash with its inhabitants, a task needing much attention.  He wondered if Faramir could do it and, looking at the man, clad in simple peasants clothes, sitting in a tavern in the White Mountains, miles from home and his betrothed, Éomer thought so.  He relaxed, feeling it go farther than ever.  Things would be all right…had his sister not told him so?  I should listen to her more…

Then, attempting to give their conversation the lightness a conversation between friends should have, Éomer smiled and changed the subject.  “You fought good at Edoras…you hit hard.”  He touched his sore cheek and grinned to show he had no hard feelings.  “You are stronger than you look.  I’m going to have a great mark.”

Faramir grinned back, then glanced up and away, expression refocused. 

Just like a dog…  If the Steward had had long ears they would have pricked right up.  Éomer smothered a burst of laughter as Faramir nodded to their right and moved the game board a little.  Finally, their food and more ale had arrived.  The light-haired maid gave him a solemn look, setting down two mugs and two trenchers of a thick stew.  It looked delicious and they ate without speech for several minutes, both game and conversation forgotten.

***

He’d surprised himself, but what Faramir found even more surprising was his lack of questioning in his actions.  Striking Éomer was not an acceptable thing; obviously, by the guards’ reactions and his own knowledge of proper decorum; yet, he didn’t think or fret about it.  Faramir glanced sideways at where the four armed men still watched him.  He could feel their wariness, their unabated anger.  Let them come.  The thought was reckless and a part of him welcomed it dearly.  Let them come if they wish and try to take me away.  He slurped up the stew from his trencher, amused at his noisiness.  Such table manners…Faramir chuckled softly.  He felt astonishingly good and strangely unstoppable. 

Éomer looked at him with caution, but markedly less than the looks he’d been getting most of the day.  Apparently he’d finally done something right.  This place, Rohan, is backwards.  The thought struck him so deeply that he missed the man’s words.  “What did you say?”

“I said, can I finish now?”  He touched his face; “I was going to speak.”
        “You were going to say something before I hit you?”  For some reason this struck him as amusing.  Faramir laughed to himself.

Across the table Éomer looked amused too, a smile surfacing on his bruised mouth.  “Yes, I was.”

Generously, he waved a hand full of bread.  “Go on, tell me.”  Faramir took a big bite, finding it delicious.

“I was going to say…” Éomer smiled again and it was very different, almost timid.  His throat bobbed as he swallowed and leaned on the table, “Wilcume… héafodling min, mann æt min sweostor, tó se Mark…” The smile disappeared and he inclined his head, flaxen mane dipping.  “Hit is lang gebindan inne min egeslic hreðerloca.  Canst ge forgiefan me min dol inca ond ábidon?  Ic eom bysmorful deoplic ond wille ná má donne dol.”  Lifting his golden brow, Éomer’s pale eyes met his squarely, hope radiating from his face. 

For a moment Faramir didn’t comprehend all the words, scrambling inwardly with the translation, but then he did enough to understand and it moved him both to warmth and a kind of vexed, yet still benevolent amusement.  He’d finally gotten an amiable reception by his future brother in law and all he’d had to do was hit Éomer.  I suppose I should have done that a long time ago…like when he came up to me and shouted at me in what used to be my own gardens in what used to be my City.  What would things be like between us then?

Faramir smiled back, speaking easily; luckily for him the words to reply were simple ones.  “Ic þancie þe.  Ond…gea, Ic cann.”

Éomer looked greatly relieved.

Then Faramir frowned and, in response, he watched Éomer’s face grow wary.  More amused than truly angered, he grinned and gnawed off a hunk of the bread, chewing, “You realize, most other men would have hit you again?  And much harder?”

The King of the Mark gazed at him steadily, only his fingers betraying him, moving to play with his warriors.  Another shared trait Faramir had noticed—both brother and sister were fidgety.  Yet he spoke gently enough, “It is good my sister chose such a generous, and warmhearted man, then, to forgive my offenses.”

He was shocked; the words did not appear to belong to the voice.  “Was that diplomacy or flattery?”  Faramir burst into delighted laughter.  “Who taught you that?”  He gestured to the others in the inn, “One of them just now?”  Faramir guffawed, just utterly delighted.  “Because I’m sure I haven’t heard it before.”  Éomer just smiled at him, seeming fairly relaxed and nodded at the forgotten board.

“Are we going to play still?”

“Yes.”  Faramir plucked up another of his warriors and continued his attack, carefully placing them in route to every place Éomer could move.  He knew which corner the man planned to take and Faramir meant to cut it off soon, but not before he had all other corners and the center cut off, too.  No escape, no way to put the King in the corners or center…I win.  He smiled and put his darker piece in a seemingly aimless position, but one that, once he moved to the other side, would neatly block Éomer’s King—not where it was, but where it would be in four moves, he guessed.  Warfare in Ithilien, mostly careful skirmishes, had taught him to look ahead and scout his enemies’ possible moves.  It was strange, though, in this game he had nothing to protect, outnumbered Éomer’s warriors and could afford losses.  In this game, I am the orcs, I am the attacker.  He tossed one of the little wooden pieces up and caught it, amused.  As far as Faramir was concerned, he had the upper hand and he intended upon winning.  “Is this what your folk do for entertainment?”

“We tell riddles, too.”  Éomer’s eyes gleamed and again there was a sense of cautious hope in him.  They were still not entirely at ease, but Faramir was confident he’d broken through the man’s armor and that naturalness would come with time.  He felt still good as the Lord of the Mark asked him,  “Do you do so in the City?”

“Not much.”  Faramir did not remember having to answer any riddles but he’d been rather busy for a long while.  He’d been somewhat distanced from his people of late, spending his time in the Council or in his study…or studying Rohirric.  He frowned.  But that is over, will be over soon.  Glancing around himself, Faramir felt the slightest stirring of regret.  There were things he would miss.  Gaer, my students and the lack of responsibility…  Reminded of Gaer’s desire to see the White Tree, he decided to bring it up at some point during the night.

“Try one, then.”  The King of the Mark grinned, moving his warriors and eyed him speculatively.  “I’ll give you an easy one.”  Éomer took a breath, “I saw four creatures, wondrous beings, travelling together.  Their tracks were dark, their path deep and black.  They coursed swiftly: faster than birds they flew through the air, dove under a wave.  He strove without rest, the battling Prince, pointing the way across plated gold to the four creatures.”

Faramir had no idea of the answer.  “I don’t know.”

The Lord of the Mark appeared surprised, “No guesses?”

“No.”  He took a drink of his ale; “You’ve stumped me.”

“The four creatures are a thumb, first two fingers and pen.”  Éomer still looked surprised.  “I thought you were a scholarly man.”

Faramir shook his head, “I never had to answer riddles about it,” He nodded at the man, “Tell me another.”

“All right.  This is easy, too, easier perhaps.”  He dabbed his bread into his stew, “I travel by foot, trample the ground, the green fields for as long as I live.  Lifeless, I fetter dark warring men, sometimes their betters too.  At times I give a warrior liquor from within me, at times a stately bride steps on me; sometimes a girl, raven-haired, brought far from home, cradles and presses me.  Some stupid, sozzled maidservant fills me with water on dark nights, warms me by the gleaming fire, on my breast she places a wanton hand and writhes about, then sweeps me against her dark declivity.”

Faramir raised his brows, bemused.  So far in Rohan he’d heard more ribald things than in a year in his own lands.  Perhaps I don’t get out enough.

Éomer finished, “What am I called who, alive, lay waste the land and, dead, serve humankind?”  He ate his sopped bread with relish, waiting. 

Once more, he had no idea.  Not wishing to end the good will between them, since Éomer apparently found the telling of riddles entertaining, Faramir cheated and swiftly, lightly as possible, touched the mind of the man before him.  It was easier than he expected; the answer was riding upon Éomer’s thoughts like the foam on the ale they drank.  Leather.  He spoke, feigning uncertainty.  “Leather?”

“Good!”  Éomer grinned, appearing to be untroubled and Faramir was relieved and confused to find it was so—there was little unease in the man.  His earlier thought reoccurred to him.  This place is backwards…  Logically then, all his normal actions should be reversed.  What would I do here?  Faramir looked at his all but untouched second mug of ale.  Normally he would let it be but…all his former prudence had just alienated Éomer and even at times seemed to disturb Éowyn. 

Éowyn…he was briefly distracted, feeling himself ache with longing.  In a way this was worse than the summer, she was so close yet so far.  Éowyn…he wished to call to her, but it would take much more effort to touch her mind over the distance.  Quiet, it is only a few more days. From somewhere deep inside he thought clearly, the words almost a correction—three days, though he had no way of knowing if that were true.  He hoped it was.

Faramir forced his thoughts back into their former track.  Recklessness was encouraged in the Mark, or so it seemed.  Slowly, he realized that for the first time he was given free license with no consequences in sight.  Faramir picked up his mug and began to smile, gently jiggling its intoxicating and promising weight.  There was no Court to face, no Council, no nothing.  I am a soldier of the Mark, a man free of such annoyances.  And annoyances they were considered here; he leaned on the table, peering into his mug, then up at Éomer. 

“Tell me another riddle…” Faramir grinned, “I’d better learn those, too.”  Lifting his cup, he drained it and belched.  Wiping his mouth, he grinned again, “After all, a warrior of your folk would be familiar with them, correct?”

Éomer nodded, “Yes.”

Faramir gestured, “Then go.”  Turning on his bench, he raised his empty mug at the flaxen-haired maid and then bellowed in his best impression of Tondhere, his giant blonde friend and opponent in the Rohirrim’s game.  “MÁ!  NU!”  She did not appear impressed, which made Faramir laugh.  He laughed further when he caught sight of Éomer’s face.  He looked a little stunned, then he smiled. 

“You South men are rude, it is a wonder you ever find a woman who stands you, much less serves you.”

What?  Snickering, he asked, “Hwa?  Hwa, Éomer?”

Éomer laughed, shook his head and drained his own mug.  “Nawhit, nawhit Faramir.”

***

To her complete shock, Éowyn didn’t mind being Arwen’s doll.  It was enjoyable in its own way, to see how different dresses made her look, to feel soft fabrics and admire intricate lace, tiny beads and rare colors.  These were her mother’s dresses and the ones Arwen had gifted her, yet she’d not examined them to find which complimented her form best.  Arwen insisted, piling the gowns in order of most flattering, making Éowyn laugh even though she knew, too, they were packing.  The gowns, piled neatly and folded were ready to be repacked into their wooden chests, ready for the journey to Minas Tirith.  There, no doubt, she must dress her best so as not to embarrass her high-ranking husband and all this analysis would be more duty than enjoyment.

However, she’d never done such things, so it was all new and interesting as Arwen pointed out flaws of a gown or enhancements that made her appear to have a larger bust or a neater figure.  Except the sleeves, the gowns with lengthy sleeves drove her mad; she shook them, irritated at the long, trailing fabric.  The folk of the City knew she was rich, why did she have to declare it with sleeves longer than she was tall?  Ridiculous.  “Tie them.”

“Hold still.”  The Queen was doing something in the other room; they were in Aragorn’s quarters, all of Arwen’s belongings once more within them and the trunks of gowns carted there by the Queen’s serving man.  Éowyn turned, trying not to step on her damned sleeves.  She kicked one with a stockinged foot, annoyed.  The dress was pretty, the cream one that Arwen had given her; unfortunately, the sleeves had been tied up when she’d seen and approved it.

Éowyn tossed her hair over her shoulder, marveling at the color.  It was so pleasing, such a warm chestnut that it surprised her still.  “Arwen?  Tie them or I’m cutting them off…somehow.”  Her poor jade bangle kept getting caught and she couldn’t see it at all under all the cream-colored fabric.  What is the point?  Éowyn pushed her sleeve back, admiring the soft, spring-green stone band.  It was beautiful, like Faramir insisted she was…and fairly well proved, she thought with a smile.  The memory of his gaze, so intense and so full of fervent desire while she’d stood nude made her shiver all over.  Her fingers remembered the way he’d felt when he’d taken her hand and placed it in his lap, the hardness and the heat.  Éowyn shivered again, her blood warming, and made herself cease.

She missed him terribly; she was making herself sick with all her sighing and bemoaning and craving of his presence.  Faramir…  Éowyn shook her head, mildly disgusted at herself and then called restlessly.  “Arwen?”  I am not a lovesick maiden; it is three days until I see him.  Only three; she felt an anxious and impatient sigh coming and suppressed it with a laugh and a stamp of her foot.  Stop it.  But she couldn’t and Éowyn groaned inwardly as the mere thought of just three more days threw her into a fit of girlish elation.  Oh, she blew air through her lips, disgusted.  Heart bobbing with eagerness, barely able to stand still, Éowyn knew full well that she wanted to dance at the thought of seeing Faramir again.  It seemed so long a time.

If you cannot stand this, what will it be like in the City?  She sobered instantly, feeling her heart sink and grow wintry with dread.  Perhaps it was not too late, none knew of her plan but Aragorn and Gandalf.  She could forget.  But then…all her anger had faded and Éowyn frowned into the mirror, wondering what purpose she had if not anger.  To make them cease fighting over her attentions?  To learn independence and cease relying upon Faramir for comfort?  To make sure she would not burden him?  Biting her lip, she made the overlong sleeves wave, disturbed.  I should have a clearer reason; I must make a firm stand when I speak with them.

Éowyn looked at herself in the mirror.  She didn’t look the same, her hair and the dress…but it was something more.  She was different than she’d been.  Touching her hair, curling it over her fingers, she thought, I miss Éomer.  Her brother could give her entertainment, could ease her heartache with distraction and console her if she was lonely; though he might dislike it, Éowyn knew he would do so if he thought she were truly upset.  There was little else for distraction since she was nearly done with her duties to Edoras.  Éomer, annoying as he might be, was good for doing things, for providing company as she went along with her tasks, and teasing her, always infuriating but something that somehow made the days go by more swiftly. 

The Queen reappeared, carrying her little dog with her.  Rusco squirmed to be put down as she fastened his collar on, buckling the rich leather into the gold; he thrashed, sharp puppy teeth gnawing at the collar.  “You whine worse than a child.”

Pretending to be spiteful, she answered, “Yes.”  Arwen laughed. 

“Here,” She tied the sleeves up, winding a long, wine colored ribbon through specially made holes in the material.  Éowyn liked the purplish-red of the ribbon and wished the dress had some color.  She was tired of pure white.  It lacked something to hold one’s interest.  I am no longer the White Lady, or soon I will no longer be.  “Better?”

“Yes.”  It was, some.  But everything else was the same.  Éowyn turned and smiled, putting away darker thoughts.  She could not change anything at the moment.  “What now,” She lifted her tied sleeves, “Now that I’m dressed?”

Arwen smiled back, almost hopefully.  “I don’t know.”

For a few seconds they stood in silence.  Éowyn knew she needed to break it hastily, feeling bubbling questions rise in her chest.  She wanted to ask so much, so many things that were withheld from her.  Éowyn wanted to ask what it had been like to come to the City, to marry Aragorn, how it had been to loose her maidenhead and assume wifely duties.  But those questions were terribly personal and though Arwen had bid her to ask anything, she still wavered.  I’ve lived too long under the guise of a man; I cannot even weave a cloak for Faramir on a loom or mend his clothing properly.  I am to be a wife with no practical use that he will soon outlive.  I wonder if he will choose a more serviceable woman for his second wife…a woman with manners and grace and who knows all a wife’s duties.  Despairing, she glanced sideways at Arwen who was now smiling down at her puppy.  Rusco fought the collar, indignantly snarling, teeth inflicting dents and scratches in the tough leather as he rolled on the floor.  What does she do?  How does she endure?  Is it love alone?  Taking a breath and stuffing her questions back inside, Éowyn asked, “Do you want to teach him to lead?”

“Oh, yes.”  The Queen smiled brilliantly and she smiled back, feeling herself cheer.  Courage, she would gather her courage and find out what Faramir might expect of her.  Arwen moved away to get the leather lead and Éowyn stood very still in the center of the room, remembering when Faramir had rode into Edoras.  He’d said she was beautiful, and that he’d missed her, twice.  And when she’d been shy about him kissing her within the throng of folk, he’d whispered…  Éowyn swallowed, throat tight as she heard his voice.

 Éowyn…  She remembered his words exactly; they’d surprised her so with their silliness; he’d rarely been silly, but she’d enjoyed it.  “Courage, then.  Never fear, I will get you out of this predicament, my lady.”  He’d been smiling, grey eyes alight, a grey that was somehow warm and the opposite of the stone in his home, which was the same grey yet so cold and aloof.  His voice had been soft, breath tickling her ear, her hands trapped in his.  She remembered clearly the leather beneath her palm, the calluses and warm firmness of his hands and when he’d bent to her how gently he’d kissed, afraid of her fear. 

Her eyes filled with tears that Éowyn wiped impatiently away.  She’d survived the summer…but that was different!  She interrupted herself.  After a second, Éowyn asked cautiously, how? 

I love him more now, he is a part of me, and without him I am broken in some strange way, unable to be complete.  She walked quickly after Arwen, heart at once melancholy and dancing with anticipation.  Three days. 

***

Éomer laughed so hard he worked himself into a coughing fit.  He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he’d spoken his part and accepted Faramir in the only way he could find to express himself, but he’d lost all but one warrior and his King.  Faramir had taken losses, too, but the Steward remained quite jovial, leaning on the table with his dark hair in his eyes.  He was more horizontal than before, chin resting on his arm as he laboriously moved his pieces.  Their game of riddles hadn’t ceased, with Faramir guessing them correctly all but a small number of times. 

Éomer took another deep swallow of ale, vainly trying to keep up with the Steward.  The man was drinking his beer like it was as harmless to his wits as water.  He had to respect that, if purely out of imagining the aching head the Steward would have the next morning.  “Listen…” He snickered again, laughing for no specific reason except that he was rapidly on his way to drunkenness.

Faramir perked up, “Mm?”  He was toying with his remaining warriors; as of yet, his only signs of inebriation were his slow, careful movements, slurred voice with deepening Southern accent, and drooping eyelids.  Éomer hoped he wouldn’t fall asleep, he finally liked the man.

“Listen.”  He took a second to remember, then recited, “I’m loved by my lord, and his shoulder companion, I’m the comrade of a warrior, a friend of the King.  The fair-haired Queen, the daughter of an earl, sometimes lays her hand on me, well born though she is.  I carry within me what grew in the grove.  Sometimes I ride on a splendid steed at the head of the host; harsh is…” He went blank, then recovered, “Harsh is my voice.  I often give the singer a reward for his songs.  I’m sallow to look at and kind at heart.  What am I called?”

Faramir chortled into his arm.  “A horn.”  He sounded odd, like he was laughing at some jest but if he was it was a private one.

“Right.”  Éomer was beginning to become suspicious in a dim way; Faramir had said he’d not had to answer riddles, yet he’d accurately done so to all but a very few.  The one he’d just asked was not difficult, but some had been.  He frowned, “How did you…?”

Suddenly, three men from camp sat down, all occupying the bench with Faramir, whom looked to his right and blinked in surprise.  “Gaer.”  He lifted his head, licking his lips and groped for his mug, only finding it was empty.  “Má!  Nu!”  Faramir asked in a slurred and puzzled voice, “Why’re you here?”

“My Lord.”  Proper, the soldier greeted Éomer first; he nodded back, polite.  That out of the way, the redheaded man grinned, “We got thirsty.”  His brows raised and he gingerly moved a few empty mugs out of his way, “I see you’ve already quenched your thirst, friend Faramir.”

Faramir’s forehead creased and he mumbled bad-naturedly, “That’s not my name…”

Éomer frowned, confused.  “What are you talking about, Faramir?”

“My Lord, I’ve taken the privilege to provide Faramir here,” Gaer grinned, patting the Steward on the shoulder, “with a befitting name for a man of the Mark.”  Faramir shrugged him off and stared at the game board.  He moved carefully, sliding a warrior to reinforce his attack upon Éomer’s King. 

Moving his King back out of danger, an increasingly difficult task, Éomer was astounded at this new way Faramir was fitting in with the small company.  As he’d thought earlier, if the man gave half this effort to his sister, undoubtedly she would be happy for the entirety of her life.  “Oh.”  Curious, he asked, “What have you decided upon?”  Éomer grinned, “Sweorwærc?”

Gaer laughed loudly as he signaled one of the other women who’d appeared from the kitchens—there were three, the pretty blonde whose services Éomer preferred, an amply bosomed woman and another, taller and plainer flaxen-haired girl.  “No, I’m afraid we haven’t come to a suitable one yet.”

One of the other men spoke, respectful but with cheek, “Do you have any other suggestions, my Lord?”

“We could use them,” Gaer elbowed the Steward playfully, “I told you that you were difficult.”

“No!”  Faramir sat up abruptly, voice becoming markedly less slurred, “He’ll name me something horrible.”  Éomer was actually hurt a little; he’d only been jesting with his offer of a name.  He shrugged, feigning not to care, instead watching the ample maid come with the three’s ales.  She smiled at Faramir who ducked his head in peculiar shyness; Gaer chuckled, obviously filled with glee. 

“He is mære giet, ná?” 

To Éomer’s amusement, the woman laughed, ample bosom moving to and fro.  She was quite attractive as well, though he preferred the fiery spirit of the earlier and younger girl.  “Gea, he is.”  She brushed her hand across Faramir’s shoulders caressingly and the Steward twitched, looking incredibly uncomfortable as he ducked his head further, almost like he wished he were a turtle to retreat into a shell.  “Ealfela, hit is cuð min Ides is fægen.”

It is?  He was thrown by even the possible truth of the statement and felt his heart sinking.  I am a fool, simply inexcusable.  Then, shocking him out of his brief disheartenment, Éomer snorted, trying to hold in his great laughter as the woman leaned against Faramir’s back, purring something into his ear while her hands moved on his chest; the Steward twisted a little, both his expression and his frame taut with discomfort.  It seemed to be a question she was asking though Faramir gave no reply

 The two flaxen-haired men with Gaer sputtered and snickered desperately, faces turning crimson; Gaer himself was grinning.  One was larger in form than Éomer and nearly as tall as the Steward was, the other was normally built with a very crooked nose.  All were young men, which surprised Éomer.  He would have thought Faramir would make friends of his own age than men more to the age of his sister.  The very moment their maid retreated, generous backside swaying beneath her unadorned skirt, they all laughed uproariously. 

Faramir’s face was dark with embarrassment, flushed high along his cheekbones.  “Be quiet, Gaer.  Not a word.”

Éomer cackled at the redheaded young man’s innocent response, “But she likes you!  Why won’t you let her sit with us?”

That’s what she asked?  He laughed harder, utterly charmed by the woman’s daring.

The larger blonde man broke in with a grinning, “I wouldn’t mind so much.”

Gaer poked Faramir in the shoulder with each question, “See what you do to poor, lonely Tondhere?  And just crush the girl’s heart, will you?  Can’t you let her down more gently than that?  I thought you were a prince!”

He laughed delightedly as the Steward’s tone grew violent, hand slapping away the poking finger.  “I said…”

The smaller flaxen-haired men spoke up, marred face still red from laughter, “Look over there.”

Cheerfully, Gaer slapped the table and turned, “What is it, Nier?” 

Men had poured into the small tavern, both from the camp and village, and were moving benches and tables.  Nier looked at Gaer and smiled as crookedly as his nose, “Want to make some money?”

“I’ve a better idea.  I bought our friend here some ale and a bite the other day…perhaps he could earn it back and then some.  They’d love to bet on him…or against him.”  Gaer was grinning at the Steward.  “What do you think?  Tondhere!”  The burlier man had been staring at the women who studiously ignored him.

Now he eyed Faramir and nodded.  “I think he could.”  He grinned, “He fights hard enough; I’m still sore.”  Tondhere frowned, “Bit scrawny, though, for it.”

Faramir glowered.  “I am not scrawny.”  Éomer chuckled and the Steward’s gaze turned darker.  “I am not; you’re all just…oversized.”  He sounded like Pippin, which made Éomer laugh and feel both sad and happy at once.  He’d not been as close to the hobbits as his sister, but he still rather missed their lightheartedness.

“Aww, you’re just like a damn chicken.  All bones and fluff.”  Tondhere and then Gaer grabbed Faramir’s arms and upper body, hands pressing and pinching as they remarked,

“Slender, isn’t he?”

The bigger man scoffed, “Like a twig…feel this, will you?  I can span his arm with one hand.”

Gaer added, “Can’t believe our Lady likes this…it’s like I’ve got my arm around my little sister…” Faramir thrashed, cursing, but the men had him well surrounded.  Éomer laughed until his chest hurt, delighted by all the manhandling.

Nier chuckled, “I know what that feels like.”  He grabbed Faramir, too.  “No, no Gaer, your sister’s much nicer to squeeze.”  The man grinned into the Steward’s disgusted face, “No offense, friend.”

The redheaded man stopped short in his mockery, “…what did you say?”  Nier and Tondhere burst into wild laughter, slumping over the tabletop; Faramir used the opportunity to shove them away.

Grinning under his bowed nose, Nier returned quickly, “I said nothing.”

Gaer’s pale eyes narrowed in a dangerous fashion.  “No, you said…” Éomer watched, amused as he empathized with the younger man, though few would have been half as bold to speak of his sister in his hearing.  Gaer reached around Faramir and shoved Nier powerfully, knocking him off the bench.

“Wait…what did I…?”  Nier tried to look innocent, though he was laughing; Gaer scowled darkly as he ordered.

“Stand up so I can knock you down again like Faramir did Oswyn.”

Tondhere broke through their words, “Look…he’s small, he’ll be able to squirm around and get out of a hold…” He grabbed the Steward aggressively, “Like this, watch him!”

“Stop it!  Stop it!  Stop it!”  Faramir threw the man off with an effort, knocking him away from the bench.  He glared, angry and a bit cross-eyed as he slurred, “Wouldth you geth off of me?”  Éomer noticed and guffawed in delight.  Finally got him drunk.  This promised to be entertaining.

Tondhere only looked pleased as he reseated himself.  “See?”

Gaer stood and said firmly, “I did.  Get up Faramir, we’re going to make you a proper man and get ourselves a fortune doing it.”

Nier grinned, “We can’t lose.”

Becoming very slightly alarmed with all the talk, Éomer spoke, “I don’t know...” Frankly, he couldn’t risk Faramir becoming injured, his sister would never forgive him the lapse in judgment and inebriation would be no excuse.

Immediately they were looking at him.  Faramir rebelliously, the other three more or less respectfully.  He glowered.  “You…you don’th think I can do it.”

Éomer stared at him in consternation.  “Do you even want to?”

The Steward grinned and stood very carefully.  He spoke carefully, too, not slurring his words; his native accent was thickened, making the four men pay close attention.  “Maybe I do.  Men of the Mark…do that, so I should.  Too.”

This is why I hated him, he thought irritably and somewhat nonsensically because that wasn’t the reason at all.  Suddenly Faramir smiled; it was very satisfied and Éomer frowned, forgetting his argument that Faramir was not a man of the Mark and unused to such things.  “What are you smiling about?”

“You’re worried.”  Faramir’s smile had widened enormously; the man looked idiotic beyond compare as he sing-songed,  “About me.”

He was.  Éomer scoffed loudly and said in a very firm tone, “I’m worried about what might happen to my sister’s heart if you get crushed like a bug.”

Faramir was standing with his legs straddling his bench and grinning hugely.  As he moved over the bench he swayed, off balance.  Bemused expression on his face, Tondhere grabbed his arm and steadied him as Faramir sing-songed again.  “You like me now.”

He did and a bit more than he was willing to admit.  “No, I do…” He changed his irritated tone and tried to act nonchalant.  Éomer was finding that he liked a less-sober Faramir, anyway.  “So?”

Nearby, Gaer snickered and then composed himself, a mischievous smile lurking in the corners of his mouth as he urged while elbowing Faramir’s side, “Hug.”  The Steward’s grey eyes lit up and Éomer panicked.  He did not want a hug; he’d not even hugged Théodred and he was certainly unwilling for more physical contact between himself and his sister’s paramour. 

“No!”  He gestured wildly, “Go, go and do what you want!”

Taking his desperation as permission, they ushered Faramir away and Éomer stared at the abandoned board glumly.  “I win.”  He sighed and stood; there was no way he couldn’t watch this.  He better not get hurt…because when they returned to Edoras, Éomer knew it would be taken out of his hide, not Faramir’s and, if properly provoked, his sister’s temper could eclipse his own with ease.  He shuddered.

***

Faramir walked carefully, the floor was doing the oddest thing, it kept moving away and then closer, making his feet catch and stumble as he misjudged.  It looked dirty; he didn’t wish to fall.  Luckily, Tondhere and Gaer were there to catch him; in fact, they kept close, making sure he wouldn’t trip.  Nier led the way, pushing through the thickening crowd.  Men called his name loudly, but Faramir couldn’t pinpoint any faces in the duskiness of the inn.  To his immense satisfaction, none used the condescending moniker Lytle Bregu.

“How…how do I do this?”  He supposed he was drunk; talking was hard because his thoughts slipped away just before he could voice them.  His senses were dimmed and especially his mental ones—Faramir could just barely identify the excitement in the room as excitement and he couldn’t settle on any one man’s mind.  This was jarring and he frowned, trying to concentrate but it just made him stumble.  

The three men led him to a bench and sat him there; Gaer and Nier disappeared.  Kneeling down, Tondhere spoke to him.  “It is easy, all you have to do is wiggle out of any holds until he gets weary enough for you to pin him.  You don’t go after him, he’ll come after you.”  He grinned, “You are fast and agile Faramir, not slow like me, that’s how you always catch me.  I’ve watched you, you know how to use yourself best.”

Faramir smiled, dizzy just sitting down.  “That’s nice of you.”

Tondhere laughed good-naturedly, “Look at me, friend.”  His voice turned serious, “How drunk are you?”

He shook his head slightly, focusing in an attempt to look sober.  “Some.”

“Fingers?”  He held up a hand expectantly, folding back only the thumb.

Trying to see clearer, Faramir narrowed his eyes.  The man’s hand was all blurred, so he cheated like he’d cheated on Éomer’s riddles, though it was far more difficult now with all the ale running through his head.  Tondhere had a pleasant mind to read; it was curious, open and friendly and sadly ignorant.  He folded back the thumb only because he knew a hand had five fingers.  Cheered and yet depressed by the contact, he asked more than answered, “Four…?”

“Good.”  He got a staggering slap on the back and his young friend grinned wide.  “You’re fine.  We’ll make money tonight.”  The inn grew louder, men’s voices shouting names; eventually Faramir became aware that all the names were really only two now—his and another man’s.  To his surprise, Tondhere moved and Éomer sat down beside him. 

He looked disturbed.  “Why are you doing this foolishness?”

Faramir tried to concentrate enough to argue; it made him titter a bit at Éomer’s cross expression.  The man looked like that so much around him that it was a wonder his face wasn’t permanently stuck that way.  “You wanted me to.”

“No, I didn’t!”

“You wanted me here…learning.”  In reply, the Lord of the Mark snorted with his face disgusted.  Lifting his mug to his lips, he drank.  Faramir felt slightly nauseated.  Perhaps he had had enough ale. 

“Will you try not to break any bones?”

Smiling again, he said, “You are worried.”  Faramir giggled, a high-pitched sound that made him laugh all the more because of its absurdity.  “I knew it.”

“Yes.”  Éomer stared at him in open annoyance and spat, “Yes, I care, yes, and not just because of my sister.  Are you happy now?  I sound like a woman.”

“Yes.”  Faramir burst into giggles.  “Yes.”  He smiled woozily; the room blurred at the edges and he gripped the bench, swaying without support.  Can’t fall…it’ll hurt...  “I could feel it.”

Wariness flickered in Éomer’s pale eyes before he relaxed and groaned.  “Oh…how drunk are you?”

“Lots.”  He snickered again, holding his stomach and laughed for what felt like a long while even though every time he looked up Éomer had the same expression of aggravation and amusement on his face.  Tondhere made a noise of irritation and disbelief.

“You lied to me.”

“Yes.”  Faramir giggled wildly and the men exchanged looks of exasperation. 

Finally, Tondhere spoke.  “Do you want to know how not to lose?”

“Yes.”  Faramir went off into giggles again, cupping his hand over his mouth.  Like a child, he thought and laughed harder.

Éomer wasn’t paying him attention; he was listening to the men’s shouting.  “Stop.  Be quiet.”  He frowned, “They’re betting against you.”

He was insulted and that finally stopped his giggles, which was good because they were making him very nauseous.  “Are they?”

“Yes…and no.”  He glanced at him, then stood.  Faramir just watched, still a little dizzy where he sat.  Éomer turned around, eyeing him, then peered over the crowd and disappeared into it. 

“All right…” Tondhere was serious; Faramir was snickering again.  Everything was funny and blurry and dizzy, he thought in a strange, amused way.  His well-built friend, flaxen hair falling over his broad shoulders, leaned over, one hand shaking Faramir’s arm to make him focus.  “Listen closely.”  As he began, Gaer and Nier were returning, muttering between themselves.  Faramir strained inwardly and discerned their mood—slight apprehension.  Maybe I shouldn’t…he had the feeling it was too late to back out.

Luckily, he was drunk and thus, unstoppable.  He grinned at Gaer, ignoring Tondhere’s advice while the young man stared at him in exasperation.  “Listen!  You can’t lose, we’re betting on you!”

Nier corrected, “No, we’re not.”  Tondhere looked betrayed.

Faramir scowled and the Rider soothed, “Not because we don’t like you…it’s just…”

Gaer patted his arm as Faramir frowned at him.  “I’m afraid you’re really too drunk to stand properly…” He chuckled, then composed himself, “Maybe another time we’ll bet on you, when you’re sober.  This is about money, not loyalty, and we’re rather poor at the moment.”  He turned to Nier.  “I’ll go next…do you think I should win or lose?”

“We’ll look at the man first…whatever seems the most believable…”

Ale was wonderful for rebuilding one’s confidence.  Faramir spotted a nearby mug and slid it towards himself, slurping its contents.  A great deal went over his shirt, soaking him.  He looked down, hazily dismayed.  I didn’t want to do that.  I’m all wet.

Gaer snatched the mug, sounding awfully parental to be fourteen years his junior.  “Stop drinking!  You’re drunk enough.”

Annoyed, Faramir cursed him in sloppy elvish, “Vá himya…hecal!” and tried to focus yet again.  There was only one thing he wanted to know from Tondhere.  “What did…?” His thoughts scattered and he looked blankly at the man before he remembered, “What did…do you shout…tell me a good cry when I win.”

The three men exchanged looks.  Faramir grinned upwards, “I want something good.  Tell me…now, so I can…” He felt dizzier than ever, “Remember it.”

Nier and Gaer both appeared amused and Gaer corrected gently, “If you win, Faramir.”

“He will.”  Tondhere grinned and said stoutly, “That’s the man I know, shouting odd things at me when he knocks my brains out my ears.  Here, remember this so they’ll know what you’re saying…”

***

Several rough and scarred tables away, Éomer looked at the first man appointed to wrestle with Faramir.  He was a man of the village and seemed very confident and unfortunately very sober, undressing to the waist as per the rules; nudity was acceptable, but it left one more vulnerable.  There were, in truth and like most of their contests, very few rules to this pastime.  Weapons weren’t allowed, nor interference from the bystanders.  Deadly force, too, was highly discouraged, though roughness was expected.  Éomer was only slightly mollified by the knowledge that his presence would deter the worst ways for a man to impose victory.

He circled him at a distance, noting his build and his weight, both exceeding the Steward’s.  Others were doing the same, carefully setting their bets; it was not a wealthy village, few would bet rashly until they’d had a few ales in them.  Some men spoke with the challenger, getting a closer look at his muscle.  However, it was not muscle alone that won and Éomer listened for a moment, noting the man’s self-assurance.  He’d obviously done this many times, unlike Faramir, too.  Éomer himself had wrested with men in taverns and knew the marks of a good candidate for victory when he saw him; peering back through the crowd, he could just make out Faramir as the man stood.  The Steward was swaying quite badly and, by the looks of it, odds were fair that he might even pass out before he got to wrestling.

I’m not sure I’d put my money on Faramir, either…  He frowned, worried.  He couldn’t drag him away for fear of making him appear to be cowardly; he must let the Steward fight, no matter the consequences.  Éomer fretted and made his way back, brow lined with concern.  His sister would surely murder him if she ever heard of any of this and he wondered if Aragorn would help her.  Certainly he will pardon her.

***

Faramir was aware they were trying to strip his wet shirt off of him; he raised his arms, making it easier.  Looking at the dingy, smoke-blackened ceiling, he laughed like a child.  He was so dizzy.  Suddenly his legs went out from under him and he fell back into Tondhere’s thick arms.

The young Rider gave him a stern look.  “Stand up.” With difficulty, he obeyed and concentrated upon remaining upright.  He had to win or maybe he would be Lytle Bregu again.  Can’t have that…he snickered at his own vanity.  I want to be Micel Bregu.  Faramir shook with his laughter.

They were pulling off his boots now, leaving him only his trousers.  Men were looking at him from the crowd, most skeptically.  Bidding voices raised, money was exchanged, bets changed; a great deal was going on, Faramir noted with a sudden weariness.  He closed his eyes and swayed a bit, feeling like some horse at auction.  The feeling increased as Tondhere raised his arm, shouting things in Rohirric about his strength lying not within…within…within what?  Faramir opened his eyes. 

I am drunk.  Very drunk.  He had to stop his thoughts from wandering or the other man would flatten him and…and…Éowyn will be upset.  And then she will…his gaze drifted left, to Éomer.  He smiled.

“She bites?”  The man’s light eyes widened with dread showing in them and Faramir remembered that he wasn’t supposed to do that.  He could have ruined everything.  His heart sank.  “I’m sorry.”

“It’s…all right.”  Éomer’s words were labored, but Faramir was pleased.  He decided to confess.

Merrily, loud in all his drunkenness, he declared.  “I cheated.”

Éomer frowned in confusion and sipped his drink.  “At what?”

He chuckled, watching Gaer shout at someone; men were clearing an area for the fighting and Gaer wanted more room.  Tondhere and Nier had vanished yet again.  “The riddles.”

There was a bit of quiet in their little space, then he spoke, but his words were more stilted now.  “You…read…my mind?”

“Oh, yes.  But just to get the answers.”  Faramir assured, and then snickered, looking at Éomer.  “You’re not that interesting.”  He tittered a little, swaying and then sat heavily.

“I’m not?”  There was amusement as well as disturbance in his face.  Éomer’s hands were locked together, fingers squeezing nervously.

He smiled, happy to be sitting.  “No.”  But the vertigo of the downward motion made him nauseous, so he decided to go back to what he was doing.

Faramir stood again, very carefully, his feet spread far apart for balance; near him, Éomer sat quietly and suddenly he broke their silence.  His question was guarded, voice like the Éomer of old, sharp and disagreeable, expression close.  “What am I thinking now?”

He let his mind float out, gingerly and casually touching.  It was difficult, but he eventually got some response.  “Nothing.”  He giggled, “You’re waiting for my answer.”

Éomer laughed and it surprised Faramir even in his current state for his question had been as unhumorous as a man could be.  “You’re right.”  He looked very serious, though.  “Do you remember what I said about that?”

“No.”  And Faramir laughed for what felt like a long time.

Éomer was still quietly serious; his face full of the patience reserved for drunken men or children as Faramir’s laughter trickled down into a few burping chuckles.  “I said witch would be the last word you would hear.”

Unafraid since there was absolutely no aggression radiating from the man, he asked, smiling and listing from side to side, “Will it?”

“No.”  The Lord of the Mark gave him a small smile and his voice was back to its now simplicity and unguarded ease.  There was care, but none of the dread.  Almost acceptance, Faramir thought in disconnected astonishment.

He sobered long enough to realize the implications and their eyes met.  Faramir smiled back affably.  “Good.”  He had broken through the man’s armor.  And just in time, I suppose, for my blunder.  He sighed, happy with the world.  All he needed was Éowyn and he would be happier than ever he could remember.

“Faramir!”  Gaer was gesturing at him impatiently as the three returned.  “Wake up and pay attention.”

His good-natured outlook hadn’t faded.  “What?”

“You’re going to…” He sighed, “We’re going to make you vomit.”

Faramir became slightly unsettled.  “I don’t want to.”  He was nauseous, but dreaded the experience.

Gaer nudged Tondhere.  “You do it.”

The bigger man’s eyes widened.  “No.  He was your friend first.  I don’t want any on me.” 

“No.”  Faramir echoed him anxiously though he went mostly unheard; he looked about himself, but they outnumbered him and he was too dizzy to flee.  “No.”

Tondhere tried to soothe him.  “It’s courteous.  You’re going to do it all over him if we don’t.”

Alarmed, he tried to watch all three at once.  It affected his concentration.  “No, I’won’t.  Your folk…aren’t cour-courteous—no!”

“Faramir!”  Gaer took a sterner route, though he turned to glare at the others.  “Stop that, you’re making it sound horrible.”  Gaer turned back and he spoke matter-of-factly.  “Now, we’re going to do it…and it’s not so bad.  Remember in the City?  It made you feel much better, didn’t it?”

He vaguely remembered vomiting on some unfortunate’s doorstep.  Faramir shook his head, making himself dizzier.  “No.”

“You are doing it, not “we”.”  In an exaggerated motion, Tondhere stepped back.

Nier groaned.  “I’ll do it…” He laughed, looking sideways, “I have to buy your sister something nice with this money.”  And, as Gaer looked at him, so enraged that his face was nearly as red as his hair, the man whacked Faramir in the belly.  He had no more choice in the matter.  The three and Éomer retreated swiftly, Gaer shoving a bucket forward with his toe.  This is so undignified, Faramir thought, his mind woozy.  He glared at the men, as irate as he could be while so muddled.  I won’t.  He opened his mouth to say it aloud…

And then his stomach gurgled in a most dire way.

 Ugh…oh.  No.

***

        Éowyn wandered through a wood, listening to the faint sound of running water.  There were irregular splashes, catching her attention; something fairly large was playing in the water but she was lost, so she only listened.  It sounded like a river, like the Snowbourn but she was not in the Mark; the grass was too green for late summer.

        Where am I?  The land was gentle, comprised of rolling hills with many small thickets of trees.  She walked through them, only now noticing she was barefoot and clad in a nightgown.  Another dream?  If so, it was far better than her previous ones.  There was no Gríma, no place of the dead, or field of battle under a cold black sky.  She was alone and fairly at peace; this had the feel of a good dream.  Above the branches, the sky was blue, the air was sweet and cool, and the floor of each small wood she passed through was soft and yielding with spring plants and warm earth.  Éowyn felt her heart ease, felt herself relax and her tension slip away, fading into the ground.  Where am I?  It was too beautiful and too detailed to be fabricated, real only in her mind.  This is real…but her dreams were not so realistic unless they were nightmares…

Abruptly, Éowyn halted, feeling a stirring in the back of her thoughts.  The feeling filled her with joy; it was clearly recognizable, though faint—Faramir.

        He was near, but where?  Closing her eyes, she concentrated, but her own mind was weak and powerless, unable to find him the way he could find her.  Desperate, Éowyn called out, “Faramir?”

        There was a shout, strong and blatantly male in its deepness.  The river, he’s there.  Yet, to her puzzlement the cry had sounded more like two voices than one.

        She walked swiftly through the wood, ducking under branches and following the sound of water, only to halt at the edge of a thicket, just within the trees.  There were definitely two voices, Faramir and another’s.  This other man’s was deeper and less familiar.  They sounded alike, yet not quite; it could almost be Faramir talking to himself, if not for the lower pitch of the other.  Éowyn hesitated, and as she did, the other voice faded away.  “Faramir?”

“Here!”  He shouted again, this time the sole voice and she came out, blinking in the daylight.  Under the blue sky, Faramir stood half-submerged; the water reflected his torso darkly, river gleaming in the same sunlight that blinded her.  His feet were braced against the current; he shifted them and asked uncertainly, features awash with hope, “Éowyn?”   

        “Yes.  Oh, yes.”  She laughed delightedly, forgetting all about other voice in her joy.  This was a dream, yes, but she was free to move and free to act.  White nightgown streaming behind her, Éowyn flew more than ran down the bank and stopped just out of the water, toes digging in the cool mud.  She smiled, chest heaving and gazing at him, taking in the pure, beautiful sight of him.  He was so handsome, almost radiant to her eyes as drops of water ran down the lines of his chest, merging with the swell of the river.  Long, dark hair lank and dripping around his shoulders, his arms were wet, his fingertips loose in the water; he was wearing only a smile.  Éowyn stared, drinking in his presence, her mind no longer lonely, but delightfully full of the sense of him.  It was indescribable, a low warmth and support that made her every moment feel lovingly looked after and willfully defended.

        “How are you here?  Truly here?”  Faramir moved towards her, his eyes focused and voice soft, almost as though he was enchanted by her and under some strange spell.

        “You.”  She smiled back, “I don’t know.”  Girlish laughter filled her throat.  “I don’t care.”  As he splashed awkwardly out of the river, Éowyn opened her arms, fully eager.  Oh, this is like the other dream, but so much better…so good and wonderful!  Watching him come to her, she knew, astonished, that even if she woke now, it would be to happiness.  Éowyn marveled, wondering how this depth of feeling could have grown hidden within her heart.  I love him so much…she’d said she would have been lost, a fearful shell, and Éowyn was just now realizing how fully she’d meant it.  The depth of her feelings was almost frightening.

        He fit into her arms perfectly, skin chill to the touch but so warm beneath.  He was wet, soaking through her thin nightgown instantly; Éowyn hugged him tighter, uncaring about anything but feeling his arms tight around her body.  After a moment, Faramir pulled back a tiny bit and his hand lifted her chin and, willing, she kissed him, feeling his cool lips and then the heat of his mouth.  His tongue touched hers lightly and Éowyn shivered all over when the kiss finally broke; she was very aware of his nudeness, his eyes fixed downward upon her and, she guessed, full of emotion.  She was unable to look up, afraid because the feel of his mind alone made her so happy that the light in his eyes would surely make her heart burst with gladness.

         Turning her head, she tasted the water on his neck, kissing his skin, licking his earlobe in a frantic attempt to touch or kiss as much of him as she could while murmuring, “I missed you so much…”

        “As much as all this?”  His tone was playful, but his hand on her breast was not as it gently cupped, then moved away to slide along her hip and interlock with his other around the small of her back.  Faramir shifted, pressing his front to her more firmly. 

        “Oh, yes.”  Éowyn wanted him to pull her down to the bank, wanted him to cover her and do whatever he liked.  She shivered as he fastened his mouth to her neck, sucking.  The world dropping away and her legs growing faint, Éowyn moaned with pleasure.  He did that so well, perhaps because it was the first thing she’d ever told him she liked.  Éowyn locked her hands around his shoulders and leaned into his embrace.

        Yet, very suddenly, he pulled away.  “Come with me, swim with me.”

        “All right.”  Though disappointed, Éowyn was not in the mood to refuse.  Faramir lifted the hem of her nightgown, pausing with it around her neck, kissing her bared bosom.  His beard, softened by the water, tickled her.  He then pulled it off and tossed the garment aside.  Faramir stared at her, his broad chest rising and falling slowly with his breathing. 

        When they came together, bodies warm and bare, it felt so right she couldn’t believe her own earlier fear.  Éowyn could feel the water from his skin slicking her own and she shuddered all over.  Shifting her feet, she rubbed her bare thighs together, desiring friction and pressed against him, half-hoping he would put his hand between her legs.  He’d never done so.  I want…Faramir…I want…you.  Éowyn became aware of the knowledge that she’d never lusted for a man until now and the appreciative realization burned her as much as her own desire. 

“Shh.”  He was kissing her neck, her front, her mouth; she could feel his hardness rising to press hotly to her belly.  “Swim with me,” When he looked down and saw her questioning face, he shook his head almost mournfully, “I want you in the waking flesh.”

Éowyn nodded, disappointed again.  “Soon.”  Her voice was not questioning, but instead almost ordering.

“Yes, oh, yes.”  He kissed her, then grabbed her hand.  Faramir looked down at her, asking eagerly.  “Swim with me in the Anduin?”

Éowyn frowned; she could see the river, but where Faramir was seemed but a slender, swift offshoot.  The Anduin she recalled was much wider and slower, the water choppy and full of silt. This river was slim, fast and quite clear.  On the other side was a great hill and only empty lands with green smudges of trees.  “Where are we?”

“Cair Andros.”  He smiled down, holding her hand and squeezing it; he was virtually glowing with happiness.  “Our home.  This is Ithilien, to the north.”  His grey eyes were on hers now and beaming with such hope and love that she smiled and didn’t feel uncomfortable at the mention of her future.  I love him.

“I love you.”  He pulled her into the water; Éowyn squealed as its coolness rose up her warm thighs and belly, nearly frigid under her breasts. 

It’s cold.

“Not half as cold as the Snowbourn.”  He laughed, suggestively grinning, and then growling, “Unfortunately for you, my beloved” as he grabbed at her bottom.

        “Faramir!  Stop!”  She laughed happily, splashing and leaping away into the cold depths of the river as he made lecherous faces and pursued her.  Éowyn dove, holding her breath as she fled, swimming and kicking with all her strength.  The current pulled her downstream and when she rose gasping she was surprised to see Faramir surfacing almost right beside her.  “How…?”

They floated close together and his dark hair mixed with hers.  Éowyn was astonished to note her hair wasn’t chestnut, but gold again.  Before she could mention it, he grinned and grabbed at her, just missing as she threw herself backwards.  “You can’t get away, Boromir made sure I wouldn’t drown; he taught me to swim quite well.”

        He approached with arms spread wide to catch her, under them, waves of water closed in.  Éowyn backed, clumsily finding footing in the muddy bottom, but she was giggling and not doing well at her impression of fear.  Faramir sprang, awkward in the water, yet he caught her fairly easily as she splashed and flailed to get away.  It was no test of his skill; she had wanted him to catch her.  She wiggled against his harder body, relishing the feel of his firm, strong arms tight around her torso.  He picked her up and Éowyn felt oddly weightless yet still oddly secure.  She wrapped her arms around his neck and let her lower half float, kissing his wet, dripping and thickly bearded chin.  Feeling the firm set of his shoulders under her arms, she asked playfully.  “What now?”

        Faramir just smiled and didn’t answer.

        Éowyn frowned, “What?”  He waded deeper and she tightened her arms, feeling strangely protected by his strength, even in this new element.  “What are you…?”

        Chuckling, Faramir stopped and lifted her high and Éowyn screamed, perceiving his intent too late.  Laughing, he threw her up and into the water and she went under, kicking her way to the surface and sputtering.  For a moment she felt panic, unable to touch the river bottom but Faramir swam to her easily and she hung onto his neck. 

        Taller than she, he could still touch and felt solid as a rock.  Éowyn pinched him.  “Don’t do that!”

        “Why not?”  She drifted closer and his hands groped her bare bottom, making her squeal and giggle and wriggle violently while still attempting to keep her hold.  In the center now, the current was strong, tugging her away unless she kept her grasp.

        “Stop!”  She was giggling.

        “No, I like it.”  Faramir lifted her a little and nuzzled into her breasts, cradling her up against his chest once more.  “Look, they float.”

        He made her laugh, gently bobbing her bosom with his fingertips.  Éowyn scolded, helpless as long as she held onto him, as long as they remained in the deep water.  “Stop that.”

        “No, they’re my playthings.  You said.”  Faramir kissed her, and then returned to his fondling.  “This one’s larger than the other….”  He toyed with her breast and gave her a cheeky grin.  “I believe I like it better.”

        Éowyn laughed at him, squirming deliciously and buoyantly in the water.  His hands felt good, they always did, why she ever denied him Éowyn had forgotten.  Throwing her head back to the wide, blue sky, she cried in exasperation.  “What are you doing?”

 “We’re playing…” His eyes grew serious and his hand stopped.  Water dripped from his skin to hers.  “Like you wanted.”

        Éowyn didn’t think she’d imagined this but she was very glad he had.  “Oh.”  She laughed and slid her hand down his chest, fingers gliding across bare flesh, then slipping smoothly through the water.  “Good.  Yes.”  But they were in deeper now and his manhood was too far to reach before her chin went under the softly rippling river.  Faramir grinned; he could reach what he pleased.

        “Immodest, lewd is what you are, trying to touch me like that.”  He teased her, a disapproving expression on his face.

        Éowyn laughed, making her eyes wide.  “No.”

        “Yes.”  And he threw her again, less far, slopping after her while laughing and they floundered together for a bit, throwing up waves and showers of water.  Éowyn splashed him fiercely, using her legs to kick in thick sprays until Faramir grabbed her ankle and yanked her under.  She twisted free, unable to breath out of giddy laughter.  He grabbed her again, this time tightly and Éowyn clung to him, letting herself float.  When she lifted her head, he kissed her once, firmly on the lips.  “Got you.”

        Tired, she surrendered, “You did.” 

Smiling, Faramir slung one arm under her and carried her to shore.  As he splashed out of the river, Éowyn slid down, landing on the bank near her crumpled nightgown, her toes curling in the mud.  Faramir staggered farther up the bank and collapsed, rolling onto his belly and grinning at her.  “Come here.”  He patted the ground; it looked soft and pleasantly grassy.

She looked around, feeling foolish.  Of course they were alone, this wasn’t real.  But still, Éowyn couldn’t remember lying naked in the open sun.  It aroused her a little, to know he could see all of her as she came and sat beside him.  Faramir’s eyes wandered, eventually returning to hers and she smiled as he did.

Leaning forward, Éowyn used her finger to tuck a bit of his dark hair off of his chin, then tugged gently on his short beard.  The scruff made his smile more visible, which made her happier because she noticed it when he did smile.  “You’re getting to look like my bear.  Min Býúlfr, Ic wille neman ge.”

He looked amused, propping himself on one elbow.  “That’s a name for Gaer.  I like that name.”

She didn’t know what he was talking about but Éowyn didn’t care.  Wiggling closer and onto her side, she slid one ankle over his calf in silent and bold invitation, feeling her exposure in the fast beating of her heart.  He quirked an eyebrow at her, then Faramir’s hand rubbed her lower leg, sliding upwards; Éowyn did nothing to stop him, even moving a little closer to aid him, feeling her own desire and anticipation to experience something new from his trusted hand and then…

It ended and Éowyn awoke, all her sense of Faramir vanished away as swiftly as though an axe had chopped the link between them, severing it at once.  She looked around her barely lit bedroom, feeling her arms, rubbing her legs; within herself Éowyn still felt the water, his hand wetly touching her inner thigh.  Faramir?  Her heart was torn between brilliant, great gladness and utter despondency.  Faramir?

There was no answer and no feel of him whatsoever.  Eventually she lay back and tried to sleep again, hugging her pillow tightly in the pre-dawn dimness.

***

The light was pain and Faramir moved, gingerly covering his stinging eyes with one arm.  His joints ached and his head…it felt like some orc stepped upon it with an iron-shod boot, pinning him with the agony and stomping a few times for good measure.  Deep within, he felt vague sorrow and an impression of Éowyn.  What…? But it swiftly faded and all else was murky confusion.  He’d rarely drunk even near this much and the effects were paralyzing.

Footsteps clumped to his side; he bent his fingers in the folds of his bedroll, wishing to pull it over his head but it was too twisted around his legs.  “Faramir?  You awake yet?”  Gaer’s voice was entirely too loud and too cheery.  “It’s noon.”  He added, almost laughingly, “We’re starving, get your lazy self up.  Northmen don’t sleep an aching head away.  You have to fight it with breakfast.”  He sounded like he was grinning, “Now get yourself up and go fetch us some.”

He groaned, long and drawn out, slowly stretching his legs.  He was still fully dressed; his shirt felt stiff and Faramir was none too eager to guess why.  What…fight…his last halfway clear memory was vomiting messily into a bucket.  That cannot be good.

His Rohir friend was still there.  “You’re moving, you’re awake.  Get up.”  Carefully, he removed his arm and hissed at the daylight, squinching his eyes tightly shut.  This is what an orc feels like, surely…  Faramir felt pity for the ruined creatures.  Gaer must have taken pity, too, for he moved so that Faramir lay in his shadow.  “Better?”

Voice a rusty croak; tongue anesthetized under the worst taste he could ever remember, he rasped, “Yes.”  Faramir opened his eyes to squint painfully upwards.  “What happened?”

Gaer grinned.  “You did good.  Very good.”  He chuckled, “You lost.”  The redheaded man jingled a small sack presumably full of coins; the noise made Faramir flinch.  “You want your share now?”

“I did?”  He couldn’t remember fighting, yet trying to stand, his muscles did, and assured him of the fact with great aches and throbbing pains.  His head whirled crazily and for a moment Faramir leaned his palms on his aching shins and fought not to vomit.  Stomach clenching, he dry heaved and sank to one knee, closing his eyes and concentrating on breathing.  I am never drinking again.

The reply was cheery, though it came from a slight distance now.  “Yes.”  When, at length, he rose, Gaer nodded at him almost sympathetically.  “Your students are waiting, Láréow.”

Around the fire, the five lads stared at him and Faramir felt a little ashamed.  What kind of example was he giving them?  A typical one, no doubt.  He didn’t wish to be typical, to let them think all there was to their lives were inns and ale and women.  There was more…is there, though, to them with their lives?  His students were sons of herders, farmers, and not privileged men like himself.  Confused, he grated out, “A moment, please.”  Rohirric was beyond him as Faramir staggered the distance to the stream.

Gratefully, he sank down beside it, squinting away from the light that gleamed upward from the bright water and bent down, drinking straight from the stream.  The water was cool, washing away the horrid dead taste in his mouth; Faramir splashed his face and stopped suddenly, remembering.  Cair Andros…  He remembered dreaming of swimming and Boromir daring him to race around the island, then…nothing.  Still, some memory tickled him.  He frowned and shook it off.

He washed himself the best he could, slopping water over his face and hands and combing through his matted hair.  His shirt was filthy, spotted with muck Faramir would rather not identify; his trousers were similarly fouled.  Walking slowly back to camp, he found himself to be limping and, changing into cleaner clothing, Faramir noted fresh bruises and aches.  He hurt all over.  Food was entirely unappealing; he avoided the eating men.  For all of Gaer’s claims to starvation, there was obviously something being consumed.  Éomer was among them and looked far better than he, only wearied and bleary-eyed, not as though he’d been stomped by mûmakil.  The Lord of the Mark’s eyes met his own bloodshot ones and Éomer grinned in obvious glee.  Faramir glowered in return, then was surprised as he got a laugh and a nod from the man.  The way they associated had definitely changed for the better.

Now, standing before the five lads, he couldn’t think of something for them to do.  Archery or spear practice would be loud, as would a game.  His students were rarely quiet and his aching head desperately needed quiet.  Except for one thing…  “Today,” Faramir stopped speaking and groaned, laboriously translating, “Dægweorc se, ge willan feorhlast me æt má ná breahtm a ge cann.”

The boys nodded, uncharacteristically solemn and Wurth answered for them all.  “Gea.”  He assumed their solemnity was his fault; Faramir could see no other reason the normally boisterous lads were so somber.

In his state, bouncing with Thorn’s rough gaits was unthinkable, so he kept to his own feet.  He moved off, intent upon working the mysterious soreness out of his leg.  Faramir walked a long ways, at first keeping his trail fairly easy, and then making it harder as he warmed up, losing some of his aches.  But his head still pounded, so after what he estimated was nearly three miles from camp, Faramir found himself a grassy hollow and sank into it.  Leaning his head back against a sapling that was kind enough to grow from earth in such a position that he could lie against it comfortably, he swallowed and closed his eyes thankfully.  The wood was silent and cool.  Very quickly and unintentionally, Faramir fell back into sleep.

When he next opened his eyes, his head ached less and he remembered the dream.  Vaguely, in a faraway voice he heard himself saying, “Our home…” and Éowyn’s hesitant, yet willing smile in return.  He’d dreamed something more about that and the tiny bits he could recall seemed extraordinarily vivid—Éowyn, nude and unafraid, laughing at him and the feel of her wet skin under his wrinkled fingertips.  Her joyful voice, “Stop it!”  Faramir smiled dreamily up at the sky as it peeked down at him through tangled branches.  I miss her.  Lying quiet and for the most part blessedly painless, he was loath to move but his students should have found him by now, long ago, even.  The sun was roughly a fingerwidth’s father west; he’d slept for nearly an hour.  Certainly the trail he’d left hadn’t been that difficult.  Feeling the slightest stir of concern, Faramir stretched his legs and prepared to rise from his peaceful little hollow; with wakefulness his headache returned and he winced against the throbbing pain in his temples.

As he rose, the blow to his side, a boot digging hurtfully into his kidneys, took him completely by surprise and he fell back down again, twisting into a ball of pain.  Faramir hugged his side and looked up, his hair was in his eyes but he could see quite well enough to recognize his attacker.  Attackers…he cursed softly, to the obvious amusement of the men that stood waiting.  Slowly, cautiously and, unmindful of his previous aches, he rocked his weight to his haunches, watching for any signs that he would be struck again.  Faramir attempted to look even worse off than he felt, the pain from the kick subsiding into throbbing heat, yet he kept his hands there, trying to take attention from the fact that he’d almost gathered his feet.  It looked as though he would have to fight and he wished to appear as weak as possible, to lower their guard so that he might escape fairly unscathed.

Above him, Oswyn stood with two other men.  The great, flaxen-haired brute smiled with self-satisfaction coming off of him in waves.  His voice was underscored with a bitter fury that alarmed Faramir greatly.  “Astanda, Faramir.  Nu.”

He shifted, wary of doing as he was told; yet he was outnumbered and had little choice.  Gaer had been correct, he shouldn’t have gone alone.  Trying to look complacent and weak, he stood and swayed a bit to fuel his deception.  Damn him.  Let me be!

The big man spoke again, sounding furious.  “Ge eart a dysig mann…dyde ge nà ábád me?”

He didn’t answer, certain it would make little difference, and instead Faramir tried to push his mind past its aching to read the level of aggression in the other men.  He’d never seen them and they were clothed differently than the Riders in camp.  Villagers?  He could only imagine they came for Oswyn’s benefit, to settle the grievance.  Their minds were far less hostile and the man on the right seemed unwilling to attack, continually shifting his weight backwards.  The man on the left didn’t appear bothered, but still, was not as warlike.  Oswyn was their leader in this matter and, maybe if he could defeat the man again, then the other two would let him alone.  Surreptitiously, he scrutinized them; the plan had a small measure of success.  Of course, once I attack, they might join in out of the spirit of things…these were Rohirrim he was facing and these men thought relatively little of fighting.  They’d be more likely to let him alone if he pleaded and surrendered, if only out of disgust at his actions. 

However, this gave him a bit of hope and Faramir stood more or less upright, keeping his distance and still trying to look weaker than he truly was.  Inside, his heart was racing, preparing for what was to come.  He studied the man on the right; he was the weakest link in this defense and the most likely to retreat.  Keeping his eyes lowered in false meekness, Faramir asked, pleading in an abject way.  “Hwa, Oswyn?  Hwa dest ge ahebban æt me?”

“Ic hette ge.”

That was a straightforward answer, at least, but it explained nothing.  Faramir tried to ask.  “Hwa?”

Oswyn looked impatient.  “Ge wiston.”

He didn’t quite understand, but did not ask again.  Instead, Faramir concentrated on the other men.  He met their eyes, trying his damndest to get the words correct enough to be understood, “Ge feohte a mann healf æt drenc, æt inca…  Dest ge habban nà cræft?

The man on the right shifted his feet again and looked about to speak but Oswyn snarled, “Genoh.”  He moved forward and Faramir readied himself.  The other two came behind, not as willing and not as fast.  He concentrated on Oswyn, planning to take him and him alone, if possible.  Outside their group there was a rising emotive force that distracted him, a fierce disconcertment, and then intense anger.

His attention diverted, Faramir heard the whistle of the first rock before the others; they were too focused between watching him and, Oswyn particularly, gloating over his near to be triumph.  Instinctively, he ducked back down; raising an arm to protect his face, but the stone was not meant for him.  There was a loud, meaty thud of contact and the man left of Oswyn cried out, twisting away with his hand clamped to his shoulder.  Suddenly all was chaos as rocks rained upon the three men, filing the air with swift missiles fully intended to hurt.  Faramir was entirely untouched and rather astonished; scooting backwards against the sapling that had served as his pillow, he kept out of range of the rolling, bouncing stones.  Who had come to his aid so soon?  He half expected Gaer of having followed him again.  His satisfaction quickly turned to dismay as the stones flew harder and then men became bent, their attempts at fleeing cut off with flying rocks.  There were shouts of pain intermixed with cries of fury, making every woodland creature retreat in terror.  Blood streaked their hands and clothes, places where sharp-edged stones had found a soft mark.

Body aching, Faramir stood and ordered sharply, raising his voice to its most audible and most authoritative.  “Ætstendeð!  Nu!”  His shout broke through the commotion and the hail of rocks ceased.  “Com!”

 Around them, cleverly hidden in the underbrush, his protectors stood slowly, dropping their ammunition with little thuds to the forest floor.  Well, I’ll be damned.  He didn’t know whether to laugh and praise them with the pride and emotion that filled his chest or scold them harshly for such violence.  

His attackers looked rather shocked, too, and that, finally, made Faramir break and bestow his praise. He could scold later.  Faramir smiled, “Ic sæcge eow þancas… leofe freond.”

Standing in a rough semi-circle, his students smiled back.

Translations:

Ná dón com to min geoc.  Ic eom ábannen ge —Do not come to my aid.  I am commanding you.

Faramir…min gesibling is to árianne.  —Faramir…my kinsman is to be pardoned.

Wilcume… héafodling min, mann æt min sweostor, tó se Mark…--Welcome, my (equal) companion, man of my sister, to the Mark…

Hit is lang gebindan inne min egeslic hreðerloca.  Canst ge forgiefan me min dol inca ond ábidon?  Ic eom bysmorful deoplic ond wille ná má donne dol.  —It is long held fast in my foolish heart.  Can you forgive me my grudge and lateness?  I am deeply sorry and will act childish no more.

Ic þancie þe.  Ond…gea, Ic cann.—I thank you.  And…yes, I can.

Má!  Nu!—More!  Now!

Hwa?—What?

Nawhit—Nothing

Sweorwærc—“pain in the neck” J (come on, that is so what Eomer would have said)

He is mære giet, ná?  —He is still gorgeous, no?

Gea, he is—Yes, he is

Ealfela, hit is cuð min Ides is fægen—Very much, it is well known my Lady is happy.

Micel Bregu—the Large Prince

Dægweorc se, ge willan feorhlast me æt má ná breahtm a ge cann –This day’s work, you all will track me as much without noise as you can.

Ge eart a dysig mann…dyde ge nà ábád me?—You foolish man…did you not expect me?

Hwa Oswyn?  Hwa dest ge ahebban æt me? —Why, Oswyn?  Why do you wage war with me?

Ic hete ge—I hate you

Ge wiston—You should know.

Ge feohte a mann healf æt drenc, æt inca…  Dest ge habban nà cræft?—You fight a man sick with drink, because of a grudge.  Do you have no skill, strength?

Genoh --Enough

Ætstendeð!  Nu—Stop it!  Now!

Ic sæcge eow þancas… leofe freond.—I thank you, dear friends.

Quenya

I will not abide that…stand aside!  --Vá himya…hecal!