Éowyn entered the corral, careful to keep her movements slow and non-threatening.  Éomer’s new bay stallion watched her; as she closed the gate, he came to her, brown eyes large and curious.

        “Hello.”  She’d forgotten his name.  In her hands, Éowyn held a long rope.  He came closer, bobbing his fine head to better see her and the thing she cradled; his long mane waved in the breeze and his hooves made soft noises on the dirt of the corral.  She tucked her chin and ignored the stud’s puffing, sniffing breath against her forearms as she knotted and worked the rope.  Once she’d gotten a giant loop out and a good knot secured, she gazed up at him and smiled.  “Aren’t you kingly looking?”

        The bay, his blood-red coat shining in the sun, pricked his ears at her and stepped forward.  He nosed her fingers and sniffed the rope with his warm, dark muzzle, curious.  Éowyn smiled, pleased; curiosity was an outstanding quality in a horse.  “See?” She let him sniff a bit more, whiskers tickling her skin, and then raised her hand and rubbed his forehead gently.  He seemed to enjoy it when she scratched under his chin and behind one finely shaped black-tipped ear.  “Good lad, hmm?  He’s a good lad.” 

When the stallion stepped forward, trying to get her to scratch his arched neck, she knew he was comfortable with her and she could begin.  “My brother should have done this before he left, but…since he didn’t and I want to, I will.”  She felt off inside herself, out of place, and working with this horse was the best way that Éowyn could think to regain her equanimity.  Faramir…she patted the stallion, delaying as she thought.  He challenged her, even when he wasn’t physically present, by making her experience a dream world.  The memory of her dream made her ache with longing and the bright lands that she saw with her waking eye were drab in comparison.  Enough…you’ll be here all day.

 Attention refocused on the curious stud, Éowyn covered one bright eye with the cup of her hand, careful not to press the sensitive skin, and swung the large loop of rope up and over his head in a quick motion. 

        The stallion started, but only moved a few steps away.  He eyed the rope stretching between them warily, and mouthed it to see if it was edible.  Éowyn waited, holding out her hand to let him smell her again and was pleased when he submitted to a pat.  She murmured, “It’s all right, look at it, I won’t let it hurt you.”

        The rope hung low around his withers; there was no pressure and the line in her hand was slack.  His coat twitched, thinking the foreign thing might be a fly about to bite or sting.  The stallion shook his black mane and huffed at what he had to put up with, making her smile.  “Good lad.”  She let him calm and, when he was moving to get her to scratch his crested neck, she patted his shoulder and stepped closer. 

        “Now.”  Voice no more than a breath, Éowyn lifted the loose rope from his withers, positioning it behind his ears and slowly tightening it until it was just slack enough to slide a finger beneath with no trouble.  She took a break to pet him, then slid the rope over his tapered nose and carefully knotted it under his jaw to make a rope halter with a long lead.  Prudent, she also knotted the end of the lead to give herself something to hold onto.  “Good lad.”  For standing so quietly, she spent a long moment scratching and stroking him.  He seemed to enjoy it greatly despite the distraction of the rope on his skin, leaning into her fingers and turning to guide her to itchy spots.

        Finally, they were ready to begin the lesson.  Éowyn clucked purposely and stepped back, putting pressure on the lead.  The stallion, confused, raised his head and braced himself against the tension in the rope.  White showed at the edges of his eyes; he was nervous now, uncertain of what she wanted.

        “Come along…” She murmured softly, careful not to look him directly in the eyes or make any sudden moves, things that would be intimidating actions to the young stud.  He shook his head and lifted one hoof to clumsily paw the air in frustrated confusion.  Éowyn hissed discouragingly and shook the rope, making it snap softly, “None of that.”  The stallion put his foot down, alarmed, but calmed somewhat when she did nothing but begin to pull again.

Moving back and forth in a semi-circle, facing him and keeping a firm pressure on the lead, she pulled him off balance and forced him to move his front feet.  The stud took a reluctant step to the side, and then halted again with his hindquarters braced.

        “Good!  Good, he’s so good…” Immediately Éowyn released the pressure and scratched him, making her voice as pleasant as she could—low and sweet, she cooed his praise, “Good lad.”  He tossed his head, unsure as she soothed him, then began the lesson again.  It took several minutes before he was walking in response to pressure on the lead, each step very slow and reluctant but obedient.  He enjoyed the praise very much in between efforts, making her think he would be a good horse indeed, to be responsive and willing to please her so early in his training.

        She kept on, eventually leading him to the other end of the corral and back, giving full slack at the slightest hint of his compliance.  Éowyn praised excessively, her fingers filthy from scratching him.  Glancing at the sun’s position in the sky, she patted his flank.  This was the first lesson and she didn’t plan to make it longer than a half-hour. 

When she finally slid the rope halter off of his head, her shoulder was aching from pulling against him and her hands and fingernails were dark with dirt.  Éomer’s stallion wasn’t fully trained to lead yet, but he was nearly so.  “He’s a good lad.”  With one last scratch, Éowyn turned her back.

        The stud followed her to the gate and hung his pretty head over it, ears pricked and eyes wide to watch her.  Éowyn smiled, feeling better; he would be good horse for her brother.  She coiled the rope carefully and hung the halter on a nail just inside the barn, far out of reach of his teeth.  He looked innocent but would gladly chew the rope to pieces.  With one last pat, she left him.

        Éowyn walked slowly, dirty hands held well away from her skirt and weaving through her people as they walked too, most working—she saw two men carrying water buckets.  Another was pulling a small cart full of sacks of grain and further down the hill she heard the hammering of the metal smiths intermixed with the soft whirring of the windmills as grain was ground into flour.  She smiled at a trio of grimy-faced boys; dogs leaped around them excitedly as the lads played some game, the rules of which seemed both elaborate and mysterious.  They dodged well around her, calling greetings in shy, but cheerful voices.  Éowyn gazed at the boys, finding herself wondering about the child Faramir would make in her.  I hope it has his eyes…  Faramir’s eyes were beautiful to her, the grey of them both fair and profoundly expressive of his love. 

        Hearing her own thoughts she rolled her eyes and smiled.  Thankfully he wasn’t about to hear her sounding so utterly girlish and silly.  Next I’ll be singing of his fairness…Éowyn laughed aloud, not even noting the cheer in her voice, merriment that a year ago had been all but buried in fear and despair.  Faramir liked her singing; he would probably enjoy it and if composed in her tongue, might not entirely understand the mortifying depths of her girlishness.  Hmm…she stepped lightly, watchful of the chickens that dotted the courtyard beneath the Golden Hall.  A farrier set near the barns considerately waited until she was out of range to continue shaping a horseshoe—the sparks from the red-hot iron might have charred holes in her skirt.  Éowyn gave him a brilliant smile in thanks and the young man bowed his head quickly.  How would I start?  His dark hair and his height had been the first things to strike her.  How tall and lean Faramir had been with one arm in a sling, which further slimmed his form.  He’d appeared scrawny for a grown man and thus weak to her experience, yet his eyes had been firm and intense, almost frighteningly so as he’d focused his attention upon her.  I never would have approached him but for that window…it was incredible, Éowyn thought, to have met Faramir over so trivial a thing.

        She hummed at bit, then made herself laugh by spontaneously singing, “Falewende…  Is ná eower locfeax.”  Éowyn laughed again, “Blæwen…  Is ná eower êage.”  Softer, she added, “Ge eart ná of min, Ac ge eart min ánum ond á ðý deórwyrþran.”

“Good morning.”  Arwen’s voice greeted her just as she was arriving at the stairs to Meduseld; she looked up in mortification, losing her thoughts and hastily silencing her giddy song.  Thankfully, it had been in her tongue and not the Common one.  The Queen was making her way down them, clothed in a truly beautiful dark blue gown with her shawl and under skirts a lighter blue like the sky; she shone in the sun with bright jewels on her brow, making Éowyn feel eclipsed.  Her own dress was plain as dirt, adorned only by Faramir’s color-shifting bracelet.  Yet, unexpectedly, Éowyn smiled and forgot her insecurity.  Before Arwen, Rusco was on his lead, but unlike the stallion she’d just taught, he was fighting it with all his might, plunging and falling on the stone steps, whining unhappily.

        “Good morning.”  She kept her smile, absently wishing for a cloth to wipe her filthy hands, and suddenly she remembered the roan colt.  He’d nickered at her while she’d taught the stallion.  “Do you…remember the foal we saved?”

        “Of course.”  Arwen smiled, gripping Rusco’s lead tightly. 

        “Would you like to see him?”  She gestured back across the courtyard.

        The Queen nodded in distraction.  “Yes…” Rusco was crouched, gnawing the leather of his lead.  “Stop that!”  Arwen hissed and nudged him with her shoe, which he then attacked.  “No!”  In defeat, she picked him up and carried him to the bottom of the steps.

Éowyn laughed, watching the puppy as they walked to the barns.  Rusco hadn’t taken to the leash the evening before and, if possible, he disliked it even more today.  She clucked disapprovingly as he threw himself onto his back, kicking and pawing at the leash; Arwen shook her head in exasperation and waited until the little tri-colored dog began walking again. 

Looking about at the clear, cloudless day, Éowyn felt less lonely.  She’d awoken a bit more resigned and a bit more patient thanks to Faramir’s visit…or whatever it could be called, their connection through the dream world.  Working with the stallion had calmed her, as well, making her feel more or less like normal. 

It frightened her a little, the dreams and the connection, almost as much as it brought her comfort; Éowyn had always been taught not to pursue such things, to keep to the physical for fear of disturbing ghosts.  Who was the other voice so like to Faramir’s?  She frowned, smoothing her simple skirt.  It was a soft shade of brown, the wool very pliable and worn fine with repeated washings.  Under it she wore no more than a thin shift and delighted in the lack of skirts; and luckily the sleeves on this dress were normal, making it an utter pleasure to wear.  Her darker hair hung over her shoulders and Éowyn looked at it happily; she liked the new color more every day.  Yet at her side, Arwen glowed and sparkled, making her feel like a handmaid clothed all in dull browns.  It is your own fault.  If you care so much, unpack a finer gown, she thought, purposely admonishing herself as Rusco submitted.  They began walking again; this time in silence with Arwen repeatedly checking the puppy’s attempts to either run ahead or halt altogether.

Éowyn thought to herself, frowning.  All of her courtly gowns were neatly packed and ready, meaning her leaving necessitated only the packing of her daily clothing, inconsiderable possessions and the tying of a few loose ends.  Her frown deepened and she played with her bracelet, looking at the stones as they glittered a bright teal green, the color shifting with her movements the way sunlight played on leaves.  Éowyn was uncertain of how much longer she could hide her plans from Éomer; as it was, she’d have to keep him from her rooms.  And Faramir…a stray thought could mean her discovery.  She would have to be careful.  However, as of last night there was one thing Éowyn was completely certain of—the moment she saw Faramir again, she would hug him so tightly that she might just squeeze the life out him…and she couldn’t wait.  Buoyed merely by thinking of him, her frown disappeared and she stepped more lightly down the street. 

Arwen walked alongside her holding the leash but the long strip of leather was slack now; Rusco’s head was turned at a sharp angle, his small jaws fixed on the lead.  He ran sideways, panting and bounding in irate attempts to free himself.  “My sweet little prince.”  The Queen laughed, tugging the flapping leash.  Laughing too, Éowyn was glad they were visiting the roan colt; she remembered she was allowing the men to release the late foals today and it would be the last time for Arwen to have an opportunity to see the colt she had helped save.

        They pulled Rusco aside for a pony and cart to pass.  The driver nodded to them and Éowyn returned the courtesy with a sunny smile.  She glanced at the darkened aisle of the barn.  “He’s grown big.”

        “Has he?”  The Queen seemed pleased.

        Éowyn played with the dolphin pendant, fingers twisting it on the rawhide thong as she added, “He’s going to be a fine roan, too.  So far he’s shed out to be a dark chestnut, almost crimson, with good, dark feet and good, strong bone over a nice frame.”

        They walked a bit more, Rusco still fighting any attempt at leading before Arwen asked, “What will he do?”

        She answered easily; the technique for bringing up the colts was always the same.  “He’ll run free for another three years, and then when we round them up, if he’s grown enough in mind and body to handle it without strain, he’ll be trained for riding and to pull a cart.  Then, if anyone wishes for him, he’ll be sold as one of Éomer’s herd or returned to the fields until he’s needed.”

        “That doesn’t sound bad.”

        Éowyn smiled, “No.  There is no more war in the Mark, so he will not have to face battle…the most trying duty he could have is to be a messenger’s horse, but I do not think he’s built to run as fast as all that.  He’s too thickset for true speed.”

        The Queen gazed at her.  “Perhaps messages won’t have to be delivered as urgently soon.”

        She’d never considered that.  Still merry from the thought of Faramir, Éowyn shook her head.  “I don’t know.”  Rusco pulled them off course, battling the leash with all of his small might.  She laughed, gesturing at the dog, “If he were a man of my people, this would be a great and epic duel, renowned and told of in halls for men to marvel at.”

        Arwen laughed, then voice firm, the Queen ordered, “Hótuli, Rusco.”  The puppy scrabbled low against the ground, oversized feet braced and if he recognized the command, he did not obey it that Éowyn could see.  “Lle olca…” Muttering, Arwen dragged him into the barn until his paws touched the swept floor and then he became interested in the smells, willingly trotting with them.

        Curious at the lilt of the foreign words, she asked, “What did you say to him?” Éowyn smiled blissfully; when Faramir spoke elvish it always made her feel special and important like she’d never known before.  They had passed into the shade of the stable; it was cool and smelled of horses and fresh hay from the lofts.  She glanced up the ladder and remembered his unhappy words and the way his head had been so heavy in her lap, his hands touching her tear-slick face.  His grey eyes had been unveiled in the gloom of the loft, naked, open and unafraid of showing himself in a way she could only yet admire.  Oh, I miss him…  Éowyn snorted; she was making herself sick again.  I am a lovesick maid.  Good grief, where is my brother to pull my hair or plant a spider on my arm or some such nonsense?  She needed distraction, perhaps another hunt.  Something dangerous.  She would be forbidden to bring down dangerous beasts once she married Faramir, Éowyn was not fool enough to not realize that much.  She smiled; the time limit on taking trophies like her bearskin was rapidly decreasing.  What is dangerous?  Boar?  Wolves?  She already had a bear.

        “I said for him to come away.”  Arwen smiled, shaking her head, “And then I called him wicked.”  She looked inquiring; “Do you want to learn his commands?”  The Queen frowned down at her dog, “You’ll probably master them long before he does…” Her voice turned sugary as she bent at the waist and prattled to Rusco, “You wicked little thing.”  He jumped to stand on her gown and Arwen petted him.

        The opportunity to learn some elvish intrigued her and Éowyn smiled back, “Yes.”  Maybe Arwen would teach her a few phrases and she could surprise Faramir by learning something for him.  That would be a change…  Éowyn nodded eagerly, fingers on her bracelet, feeling the slants of the stones’ surfaces.  She wanted to do something for him.  “Yes, I would like that.”  Rusco strained and Éowyn shook her head, “Give him to me.”  She was curious to see the difference between teaching a dog and a horse to lead. 

“Here.”  Arwen looked almost grateful as she passed the leash and Éowyn took up the slack, not bothering to watch the dog fight the restraint. 

She snapped the lead sharply to gain his attention.  The puppy froze, frightened, but she did no more to discipline him.  Éowyn watched him closely, planting her feet and holding herself very straight and tall.  She was the dominant animal, not he, and it was time he learned it.  She looked at Arwen, “What do you say to tell him he’s good?”

        The elven woman’s voice was soft, lilting airily.  “Mára.”

        Éowyn was relieved the word was so easy.  She spoke softly, pleasantly.  “Mára, Rusco.”  The puppy squirmed, pulling away but Éowyn didn’t budge, letting him fight it out and realize he was trapped and must be obedient.  The bitch that had borne him would have snarled or snapped and shaken him for such behavior, the restraint of the leash was hardly torture.  “What is the word to make him know he is to stand still?”

        “Heca.”

        She nodded and waited the dog out.  Panting, Rusco finally just stood and Éowyn bent, petting him and cooing with all her might as she repeated his word of praise slowly and clearly, wishing to fix it in his mind if she could.  “Mára, mára…” The dog wagged his tail down low, pink tongue lolling.  When he jumped up to stand on her leg, she pushed him back down.  “No.  I won’t pick you up.  You have to walk.” 

Arwen shook her head.  “He’s worn himself out.”

        Éowyn just smiled.  “Good.  He won’t bother the colt, then.  What’s the word to come with me?” 

“Hótuli.”

This word was strange, but none too hard to pronounce.  Gathering the lead up, she said firmly, “Rusco…hótuli.”  Éowyn began walking forward and she allowed no slack, forcing the dog to walk near her heels or be dragged.  Rusco fought but in a weary sort of way as they walked into the open again, near the corrals she’d just left.  The bay stallion looked at her, then down at the puppy, his eyes bright.  Éowyn knew he would undoubtedly kill Rusco if he could reach him, whether in play or not, and kept well back.  Horses in the fields of her land fought wolves and coyotes; they would not know the difference between the harmless puppy and a young wolf, nor care.

“Oh, look at him!”

“Isn’t he big?”  Rusco slumped against her leg and she nudged him away to stand on his own, and then reached to pat him.  He was tired, little ribcage rising and falling with his panting breaths.  Arwen scratched the roan colt through the corral fence and Éowyn smiled. 

Boar.  I wonder if she wants to come?

***

They didn’t know what to do now and Faramir smiled inwardly, not because he did, but because it amused him.  Things didn’t go quite as they planned…  The three men stood confounded; Oswyn’s face was dark red with impotent fury.  His golden-furred jaw moved and he kept his fists clenched.  The man who’d stood on his right looked relieved, the other merely indifferent.  Faramir doubted the two would make any further effort at beginning a fight.  They seemed to care too little, which made him wonder why they’d come in the first place.

Silence immersed the forest as no one moved, the tension gathering thicker and thicker, weighing on their shoulders.  The five lads felt wary and strained to him and Faramir could sense the prevailing anxiousness behind the confident set of their youthful faces.  They fidgeted, looking to him and he understood—they’d partly extricated him, but now he had to decide the next move.  Tense seconds passing, Faramir tried to ignore his headache and think of some solution to this conflict, be it permanent or not, but one that involved his students not being injured in any way. 

Abruptly, Wurth, who’d always been the boldest, must have decided to settle the prolonged stalemate.  He bent and picked up one of the rocks; it was plenty large enough to do serious damage at such a short range and Faramir felt the immediate rise in stress within their group.  Alert, he waited to see what Wurth would do and, at the same time, readied himself to command the lad against it.  Rotating the rough, craggy stone in his hands, as though for all to see and appreciate its destructive ability, Wurth asked very quietly, “Láréow?”  The boy turned a pointed gaze upon the three men, still cradling the rock in his grubby fingers.

Though mildly appalled at his willingness for violence, Faramir was, nonetheless, struck by the lad’s bravery.  By his own admittance, Wurth was only fourteen and, though the largest of the five, he was no more than a boy just grown out of his childhood with long legs and a reedy, immature build.  Oswyn’s shoulders alone made three of the lad. 

Yet this boy, small and ineffective compared to the physical power of the three men that he faced, was willing to not just come to his aid, but also fight on his behalf.  Faramir felt strange, chest full of emotion.  How did I earn such loyalty?  He was incredulous.  None of his lessons had been so worthwhile, nor had he showered them with things of value.  Their intentions came from their hearts and Faramir had no idea of how he’d garnered such earnest affections in such a short time. 

“No.”  He made up his mind.  “Put it back.”  Wurth frowned and Faramir repeated himself, voice gentler.  “Put it back, Wurth.”  The lads looked wary now, but Wurth did as he was asked, dropping the stone to clatter and roll at his feet.  His expression was concerned; Faramir smiled at the boy, hoping to give him reassurance.  He could not allow his young charges to be injured defending him, it was inexcusable, he was a man grown and they were but stripling youths.  An irritated smile quirked his lips.  Why does no one think I can care for myself?  Bearing noble blood doesn’t mean I am a doddering idiot.

Oswyn was glaring at him, but with less certainty.  Obviously he’d expected to be forced to retreat.  The man’s attention was divided, watching both Faramir and his students.  The lads gazed back, outwardly expressionless and composed while inwardly a mess of anger and nerves.  Under the burden of their combined emotions, Faramir felt wearied; he took a deep breath, bolstering himself for a conflict.  Squaring his shoulders, he demanded, “Hwa donne ge hete me?”

Once more it was the same baffling answer given through a snarling, momentarily powerless visage.  “Ge wiston.”  Yet Oswyn’s confidence was dropping.  Faramir noted this while quietly and hastily thinking.  What does that mean?  The hatred could not be because he’d humiliated him; it had been there before, to provoke the first oral attack.  Their fight in Edoras had no doubt been fuel for this surprise assault.  You spoke ill of my mother, fool, what did you expect?  At the thought, Faramir felt his anger return, butting out all weariness. 

Flatly, he spoke again.  “Ic nà do…” Searching for the word, he finished.  “Gyman ge ond eower hete.”  All the Rohirric was a great strain on his limited vocabulary but he made himself smile confidently and willingly as he stepped forward and taunted, “Ge mægest cuman ond bist beatan…” Faramir’s smile widened as the colder fury returned to him, burning icily within his chest, “Eft.”  He felt himself stand taller, muscles tensing, heart beating swifter in anticipation.  You are lucky you did not face my brother…he would have slain you in the courtyard within full sight of all…

Oswyn stiffened, anger in his eyes.  He cursed him fiercely and elaborately, in the process giving Faramir many new words, but ones that he highly doubted he would have occasion to use.  My, my, my…

Ignoring the Rider and projecting his deep disregard for all the threats being hurled his way, Faramir turned to his students.  Still in their semi-circle, they looked up in such a simultaneously morose and defiant silence that it made him lose his wrath and heave a sigh of frustration.  They wished to help, he could read it within their eyes and yet, that was the last thing he would allow.  Commanding, Faramir said firmly.  “Stand well back and do not come to my aid, do you understand?”

They looked surlier now, answering with clear reluctance and most not meeting his gaze.  “Gea.”

Hoping to soften his order, he added, “Thank you” and inclined his head to them, showing his respect as one man to another as he met the eyes, one by one, of those that would.  Then he returned his attention to the giant blonde man who awaited it.  Again, Faramir squared his stance, bracing himself and attempting to ignore his aches.  He would soon have more, anyhow.  Rohan was a rough place to live; it was a wonder any men survived to old age.  Lifting his chin, he challenged, “Com ond fiht.”

Oswyn did not.  He appeared suddenly unwilling, staring at him, then more suspiciously at the lads.  Wurth’s jaw was clenched; Scef looked angrier than Faramir ever believed the shy boy could be.  The five watched with such dark expressions that he suddenly questioned their obedience.  From Oswyn’s hesitation, he guessed the Rider was doing the same.  There were many rocks still at his student’s feet, clearly stock-piled and well within their range.  Making eye contact with Wurth, the lad most likely to step forward and act, Faramir frowned discouragingly and then stepped forward himself, prepared to carry the fight to Oswyn.  He’d had enough of this nonsense.

Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw Scef move, a precursor to bending for a stone, and Faramir stopped short, looking at the boy warily.  Heart jumping in his chest, he was suddenly frightened—if they began throwing rocks again he could not guarantee the Rohirrim would not charge the lads.  His three opponents had done the same, eyeing the boys, and the two men behind Oswyn became alarmed.  None of the five met his gaze; he felt their guilt and he opened his mouth to command them again, more sternly this time, “Did I not say…?”

Suddenly, the man who’d been averse to fighting all along broke his position, stepping backwards.  His words were slow and thick, but spoken in the Common Tongue.  “I have no quarrel with you.”

Cautiously surprised, Faramir did not respond and the man retreated still, calling to the other in a low voice.  After a moment, he too retreated and Oswyn’s companions left him alone.  The Rider watched them move away through the wood, and then turned back.  He looked furious, yet increasingly doubtful. 

Faramir was almost sympathetic to the fact that Oswyn’s companions would not stand with him.  The man’s distress was acute, pricking his mind, but he pushed his empathy away, focusing on his anger.  Undoubtedly the ill-mannered Rider deserved to be abandoned.  If he treats others as he treats me…

The woods were quiet and Faramir stood his ground, simply waiting.  He could force an attack now, but he would rather wait until he did not hurt so much and his students were not nearby.  As the silence mounted, Oswyn broke, taking a small step backwards and giving ground even as he spat, “Ge ná wilt habban hira helm awa.”

Faramir agreed willingly.  “Ná.”  He hoped not. 

His abrupt lack of aggression seemed to puzzle the Rider and, face confused, Oswyn retreated just a bit more, another scrap of earth opening between them.  Feeling his resentment of the entire situation, Faramir decided to taunt again, gesturing at the man derisively, “Hwa eart ge gan?”

The burly Rider looked at the five lads.  “Ic ná donne neodlaðu bealo híe.”

That was his excuse.  Unfortunately, once he translated it, it was the only one Faramir would accept freely.  He, too, had serious misgivings about the boys’ willingness to not interfere.  They are my responsibility…  “Ic eom leof.”  He thought quickly of the words, asking, “Ærdæg…o…oðer?”  Another day would give him time to recover and strategize.  And he will not come upon me again unannounced…

Oswyn narrowed his eyes; suspicion was the dominant emotion within his mind, second only to rage.  “Gea.”

“Ic wille cuman mid nænig.  Ge?”  Faramir gave his students a stern glance.  They frowned, Scef glancing at Wurth, almost as though they were co-conspirators in some plot.  Faramir eyed them; he’d thought Feohtan and Wurth were better friends than Wurth and Scef.  Or even Leodthain…  Clearly, something had changed within his group of pupils. 

Again, suspiciously, Oswyn agreed.  “Gea.”

That settled, Faramir turned away, motioning his students with him.  Side aching from the kick he’d suffered he tried not to limp.  “Come.”  He and they had much to discuss.

He took them deeper into the wood, casting out his mind the best he could and making sure they were alone before finding a convenient rock to rest upon.  Faramir set himself on it gingerly, brushing aside bits of leaves.  Inside the small grove he’d chosen, his students followed suit, some cross-legged, some just more or less dropping sullenly to the ground.  Wurth was one of those and Faramir met the boy’s eyes with difficulty, noting them flinty and dark with anger.  He looked at them all, wondering where and how to begin.  “Thank you.” 

None replied; Feohtan was pulling up weeds, Scef was staring at his boots, Wurth was glowering into the distance and the nameless lad and Leodthain were more nervously focusing upon other things.

He sighed deeply and asked, “How did you know to come to my aid?”

Eventually Scef answered, though he did not lift his head.  It was a mumble, “Master Gaer.”

That made Faramir both smile and have a great urge to strike his redheaded friend.  The care infuriated him…how dare he…and yet made his heart warm.  Gaer did worry, even if overmuch.  He leaned his elbows on his thighs, absently scratching under his beard and wincing whenever he hit a bruise.  “What did he say to you?”

“This morning…while you slept he said not to let you go alone, that you would be unwell.”  The lad played with the frayed hem of his shirt.  “He said that man…would come soon and that you didn’t believe him.  He said that if we wanted a good teacher we needed to watch out for you…especially today because you would be weaker from drink.”  Scef glanced up and the clear fierceness in the boy’s normally reticent gaze made Faramir’s heart swell, “He called the man a coward, said he would try and beat you when you couldn’t defend yourself properly…but that you wouldn’t let him come with you—and we must keep watch.”

At once amused, touched and incredibly angered by this recounting, Faramir nodded.  Despite his emotions, he kept his tone even as a teacher should.  Gaer had called him a good one, after all.  “He was right…I suppose.”  He rubbed his face, not sure how to go about admonishing them for helping him.  It didn’t feel very fair, but…I don’t want them to be hurt trying to help me again.  Their actions had been out of the rightness of their young hearts, and if this event were any indication then they would grow to be good, valiant men.  But that is long in the future…and he couldn’t let them fight for or with him no matter how much they wished to stand by his side.  For a second time Faramir thought in bewilderment, how did I earn such loyalty?  He took a deep breath.  “I thank you very much but…”

“You think we are…we eart bearn.”  The last word was spit with such distaste that it silenced him.  Wurth was livid, on his feet in an instant, fists held tightly by his sides.  The other four looked up, their features a mix of anger, nervousness and a kind of youthful desperation that Faramir barely remembered.

He answered gently, feeling like he was walking the edge of some precipice.  “Yes, I do…but that is because you are.”

“We saved you.”

He tightened his hands, interlacing the fingers and squeezing out of frustration, which of course, hurt.  “Yes, you did.  But…”

Scef interrupted.  “But what, Láréow?”  The boy looked saddened, sitting cross-legged on the forest floor.

“But…” Faramir shifted on the rock, unlocking his hands and running them through his messy hair.  His face itched fiercely under his beard; he was about tired of the novelty of it.  Sighing, he appealed to their common sense.  “But you must know you cannot help me.”

Wurth frowned.  “But we did.  We saw them and gathered rocks as we followed your trail…” Pride touched his young face, “They did not hear us.”

“Yes…” He’d not had such confidant interactions with children before and it frustrated him.  They would not listen.  “That’s very good…but…”

“We won’t get hurt.”

“You don’t know that.  Wurth…” Faramir groaned, “You, whether you like it or not, are just lads and you are my charges, I am not yours.  I appreciate you caring about my welfare and coming to my aid but you mustn’t do it again.”

Scef interrupted, “Master Gaer said…”

“I plan on speaking with him.  He did what he thought was right…and it was this time.”  How dare he put them in the path of danger?  Infuriated, he struggled to keep his voice calm and not to insult them, “I assure you, I can care for myself.”  Faramir smiled, trying to lighten their tone of their conversation.  “Remember?  Ealdor?  I have seen battle and survived.” 

There was only a moody silence from his pupils.  Bird song floated from tree to tree, circling aimlessly, light and trilling, pleasantly filling and contrasting the strained hush.  He closed his eyes, wishing for Éowyn and some peaceful place alone where he could relax.  The gardens of Minas Tirith had never seemed so appealing.

But he was far from her side and far from his home, so he opened his eyes and stared at his seated student’s bent heads and the standing Wurth’s tense profile.  As far as Faramir was concerned, the conversation was over.  Trying for enthusiasm, he slapped his thighs and rose, wincing at his many aches and pains, “Now, Master Gaer was wanting something to eat.”  He glanced at them each in turn, still seeing only varying shades of flaxen hair adorning their bowed or turned away heads, dirty hands busying themselves nervously, and disheveled clothing.  Noting their emotive state—anger, dejection, worry and gigantic frustration, Faramir tried to offer them some sort of amends.  He did very much adore these five young Rohirrim.  “What do you think we should fetch him?”

After a long, sullen moment, Feohtan looked up.  “Fisc?”

Faramir smiled.  “All right.”

All the long way back, they trudged behind him and he occasionally heard whispers, but Faramir did his best not to eavesdrop, instead focusing his attention on the rough path in front of himself.  The growing sound of the stream was soothing; he could picture it chuckling and leaping with its bright water glimmering.  Pushing his way through the trees and brush, Faramir was startled; he had company.  A sense of mischief arose in him and he gestured to the lads to be silent.  He did not ache so much that he couldn’t steal up on a man and this man’s reactions to displays of stealth were always amusing.  He glanced back at the five.

Maybe it would make them smile again.

***

He inched a little further out on his perch, trying not to fall into the water.  His shirt was disgustingly soiled and he wasn’t about to wear it again without a good washing.  He could have another do it, of course, but then all he would have to occupy himself was watching the men unload the carts.  I prefer this…there were definite disadvantages to being a King rather than a Marshal, for one, nearly all things were considered beneath him, leaving him with far too much idle time.

The rock’s surface was slick with waterlogged moss and grey-green slime; he watched his footing closely, carefully moving further out.  Balancing on the soles of his feet, Éomer bent down to dangle his shirt into the running water.  He’d have to get closer to wash it, but a good soak wouldn’t hurt, either.  Wrinkling his nose, he studied the stain.  It had come from Faramir leaning against him as they’d left the inn, he was sure of that; he’d half-carried the inebriated Steward out.  What he was unsure of was what exactly the stain was from and so, Éomer dipped the garment in and out of the stream, trying to soak it.

“Good afternoon.”

At the greeting, alarmingly close, Éomer jumped, with the shock of it running down his spine.  He twisted, trying to spin and face the voice but, with a coarse scraping noise, his boots slipped on the moss that covered the rocks and he slid ankle-deep into the stream.  Arms flailing for balance, staggering, he came precariously close to going down all the way but caught himself just in time.  Cold wetness rushed to nip his feet, slowly wicking up his trousers and he yelped indignantly, stumbling to a halt in a spray of water.

There was a quick burst of all too familiar laughter behind him, making him flush with embarrassment and annoyance.

Sloppily, water and mud churning a broad, brown swath in the clear stream, he turned to face the voice and scowled.  Standing on the pebble-strewn bank, Faramir blinked innocently with not a trace of laughter in sight except, of course, for the dancing of his eyes.  His mouth twitched, but he managed to sound reasonably sober.  “I’m sorry.”  The five lads were behind him, watching; Éomer noted some were trying fiercely not to laugh.  When Faramir glanced back, he looked pleased by their half-hidden smiles.

He glowered at the man, water rising in his boots.  “No, you’re not.”

The Steward gave a tiny shake of his head, looking smug as he assured.  “Of course I am.”  He laughed and stepped forward onto the rock, leaning out to offer a hand.  “Here,” Faramir smiled, “I truly didn’t mean to—”

Unthinkingly, he saw the opening and took it with only a fleeting moment of appreciation.  Éomer stepped forward and grabbed Faramir by the proffered wrist, wrapping his fingers tight and using both hands for maximum leverage.  He jerked as hard as he could, twisting himself to the side to pull the man past him and throw him outward into space.  The Steward, wide-eyed and unprepared, slipped the same as he had and staggered forward off-balance, splashing wildly as he landed in the water.  Laughing at Faramir’s very astounded, open-eyed expression, Éomer planted a hand on the center of his back and shoved him hard in hopes, but the man recovered just in time to avoid falling.  Water flew up around them as he retreated and the Steward awkwardly collected his feet. 

Amused anyhow, he laughed, trudging and splashing exorbitantly up the bank; the lads scattered out of his path like birds.  Pretending to be more irritable than he was, and he was somewhat, thanks to his feet being wet, Éomer asked, “What are you doing here?”  He carried his drenched shirt, watching it drip as he walked.  There were sloshing noises behind him, but no answer.

Once more on dry ground, he stamped his flooded boots uselessly and managed a grin, turning—Faramir was watching him and looking fairly well rebuked as he wiped water from his face and shook his dripping hands.  Éomer smiled a little, feeling peculiar as it faded.  His rowdy conduct was of that of a closer friend than he felt he was yet; he felt the need for distance, afraid he’d shown too much and, with difficulty, made himself stand where he was without fidgeting.  Jesting and trying his best at casual fellowship, he asked, “Besides making me miserable?”

The Steward looked at him, face so peevish that it made Éomer smile more naturally; the man had no right to be irritable, it was only in the interest of fairness that he’d pulled him into the stream.  Catching sight of the five lads’ expressions and noting their repressed smiles, Éomer chuckled.  It was in the interest of entertainment and retaliation that he’d shoved him with all of his might.  Faramir glanced at his students before he answered.  “Fishing.”

Both Faramir and his students’ hands were empty.  He frowned as the man plodded slowly back up to dry land, squishing and squelching all the way.  “With what?”

“We don’t have them yet.”

“Don’t have what?”

“Hooks, line.”  He gestured around himself.

Éomer grimaced.  “You don’t make them with rocks, do you?”

Faramir kneeled and was taking off his sodden boots now; his voice was muffled.  “No, most of the hooks we still have…Leodthain…” He looked up, “Wilst ge geton se…?”  The Steward’s face went blank and he made a fist, bumping it gently against his thigh.  Éomer gazed at him expectantly.

Finally one of the lads offered, voice hesitant.  “Angel?”

The Steward lit up again, “Gea” and resumed taking off his boots.

As the boy trotted off back to camp, he smiled a little, needling this time in play, “Did you make those out of rocks?”

Faramir looked up long enough to say humorlessly, “Wood.”  One sopping, dirty boot off and working on the laces of the other, he twisted his torso and jerked his darkly bearded chin towards a stand of small trees.  “Juniper.”

Despite himself, Éomer was curious.  “How?”

He looked distracted, yanking at a wet knot.  “How what?”

“How do you make them?”

Faramir paused to give him a strange look, a smile rising on his lips.  “You find and cut a twig of a certain thickness and shape, then trim it to a point and a nock to hold the line.”

“Oh.”  Curiosity satisfied, Éomer lifted up his wet shirt and eyed it skeptically.  The stain was dark and hadn’t budged.  He grimaced as his boots squelched, but endured them; the lack would mean mincing daintily and painfully across the pebble-strewn bank.  That was something that apparently didn’t bother Faramir one bit as, leaving his boots and socks to dry, the Steward made his way, walking very gingerly on his pale, sun-starved feet.  Behind them both, the five younger Rohirrim were busily fashioning something with long-bladed grass.  Lines from grass, Éomer thought and snorted.  Faramir wasn’t so smart, not at all.  I could make better line and faster just by…  His thoughts were interrupted by the Steward’s question.  “What are you doing?”

He lifted the garment again, this time for emphasis.  “Washing you out of my shirt.”

Faramir turned to look at him.  “What?” 

“This,” Gripping the shirt in both hands and holding it up, Éomer pointed with an index finger at the stain, “Is you.”  He cocked his head, “You don’t remember me hauling you out of the inn, holding you up all the way?”  Suddenly, he chuckled.  “Or me trying to help you onto that grey nag they told you was a suitable horse?  You fell off twice,” Éomer gave him a darker look, “Once on me.”  He grimaced, remembering.  It had not been a pleasant experience—the drooling, muttering man leaning against him, too weak to push himself up.  He’s lucky I didn’t just leave him there to find his way back in the morning.

“No.”  Faramir shook his head, and chuckled.  He smiled ruefully; “I don’t even remember fighting.”

“No?”  Éomer laughed and began moving away from where the lads were standing; he didn’t want to scare the fish, though he really didn’t see any large enough to catch here.  “You lost.”  And how…he chuckled in remembrance.  Faramir hadn’t been lacking in enthusiasm, merely equilibrium, staggering all over the place and missing his holds.  He’d slid to the floor eventually, ending the match in an undignified fashion that few of the men would forget.  He laughed out loud in delight, lifting his head to the afternoon sky.  The man from the village had been half-holding Faramir up, his face both puzzled and exasperated. 

“What?”  The Steward gave him a quizzical look.

Éomer snickered, pointing at him in a warning that might or might not have been grimmer than he let on; even he wasn’t sure.  “Don’t you dare read my mind again.”  He felt laughter bubbling every time he thought of Faramir going limp and sliding down out of his opponent’s grip, certainly unconscious before he even hit the dirty tavern floorboards.  Éomer chuckled again, deeply contented by the memory.

“What?”

“You lost.”  He sniggered.

“I know.”  The reply was deadpanned, making Éomer smile again and out of the corner of his eye he saw Faramir was smiling, too, as he said tolerantly.  “I heard.”  The Steward chuffed out a good-natured laugh.  “Gaer couldn’t wait to tell me.” 

Suddenly he remembered his earlier thought and gestured at the lads.  “They don’t have to do all that.”

“Why?”

Very satisfied, he said.  “Horse hair.”  Faramir just looked puzzled.  Pleased by knowing something the man didn’t, Éomer elaborated, “You make the lines from horse hair, they’ll be stronger and you’ll be able to use them again.  It’s easy and faster; just brush a tail out, maybe two, and you’ll have plenty.”  The Steward glanced at his students, and then back to him and the man’s artlessly astonished expression made it clear as to just what he thought of Éomer’s intellect.  He thinks I know nothing…that it is amazing I can even dress myself.

Slightly hurt and defensive, he added, “It is what my folk do… sometimes, when we are in need.”  The Steward did not reply and Éomer fell quiet, awkward as he kneeled by the stream and began sloshing his clothing in the water, rubbing it vigorously between his doubled fists.  Frowning to himself and ignoring Faramir the best he could, he lifted the shirt and glared at the stain.  The edges had blurred, but otherwise it was annoyingly stubborn.

“Éomer?”  When he turned his head, Faramir pointed at the shirt and smiled broadly, his manner almost placating as he looked him in the eyes.  “Soapwort.  It’s over there; you see the plant with the rounded leaves by the water’s edge?  Clean the root and pound it against the rocks.”  He was still smiling, but this time his foreign accent was tempered with hope.  “It makes soap.”

Éomer looked down at his soiled shirt and spoke quietly.  “Thank you.”  When he lifted his head again, Faramir was already moving away.

***

After his tense morning, Faramir planned to spend the rest of his day as simply as possible.  He would give the fish to the Riders and eat his share of the meal, watch and carefully supervise his students as they trimmed the feathers from his arrow shafts, and rest quietly as much as he could.  The arrows…  Glue would have to be made, and could be easily by boiling the skins and bones of the fish they caught today, but the project was all but finished. 

At the moment, he was standing knee-deep in the pool, damp trousers rolled high, and watching the coarse line float gently in the translucent water.  The worm on the end of his crude hook had stopped wriggling long before and he stood very still, watching the pale, wavery shapes of fish in the deeper, more sheltered parts of the pool.  Most hid in the shadows of rocks or fallen branches.  Darting and drifting, the fish swam unconcernedly; it had been long since he’d moved and his legs, he imagined, were but interestless pieces of wood to them.  They felt cold in the water and he wished to stamp them but confined himself to wiggling his toes, making silt float cloudily upwards.  Patience was a great virtue in a Ranger and instilled from the beginning; Faramir wondered how and if he could teach patience to his young Rohirric charges.  Patience and their proper place in the scheme of things…my students, not my defenders.

 Delicately, he jiggled the line, making the quiescent worm dance, and then letting it drift further from where he stood.  Wrapped sturdily around his wrists, the line was short and the worm halted its progress about four feet away, small, pallid body twisting with the gentle movements of the water.   

Faramir felt peaceably happy for the first time that day, his headache had receded to a dull pulse and the discomfort of his warmed muscles had lessened considerably.  The afternoon sun was bright, lighting even the depths of the clear pool well.  Nearby, his students were occupied with various duties—fishing in parts of the pool and gutting the caught fish.  Their mood had improved only slightly when compared to his own and that worried him some.  What else could I have done or said? 

Nothing came to mind, so Faramir let his attention float, following a bird as it winged gracefully across the blue sky, scrutinizing the tracks of a small animal near the water’s edge and admiring the rough beauty of the land around him.  The tracks came from some lesser creature; a fox he guessed, and led from the place they’d last gutted the fish.  Faramir was quietly amused and wondered if the little beast would return in hopes of another meal.

The tall grass was yellowed everywhere but near the water and there it shone a jewel-green, rising in thick, unruly clumps; around and under the rocks there were more tiny clusters of grass that were protected from the sun’s fury and still lush.  Undergrowth was thick, parted down low with the trails of small game, and the great heaped and tumbled rocks were cracked and broken from surviving winters’ wrath for longer than he thought he could truly conceive of. 

Faramir imagined the pool iced over and the trees bent from snow, the rocks hidden by drifts; the warm sun did little to help and he was glad it was not yet the height of harvest time.  The boulders surrounding the pool did remind him fiercely of Henneth Annûn and his earlier thought came back—do I miss the days of war? 

No.  He didn’t at all.  Reassured, Faramir smiled faintly.  There were things he did mourn, though, and his brother’s presence was at the uppermost.  His smile changed, became more melancholy and he twitched the line again, feeling its roughness against the palms of his hands.  There had been rare times when his father’s praise had overflowed, touching him, too, and he’d been very happy.  My father…Faramir was uncertain if what he grieved for was what had truly been or merely what might have been or both. 

Trying to banish his unhappy mood, he wondered what his life would be like by winter.  More of the same, he thought, in serving Aragorn and his City, plus new experiences in the organizing the building of Ithilien and the managing of its government where he would be lord and master, subservient only to Aragorn and that at a distance.  This, too, would be new, as he’d never controlled such a potentially large amount of property, livestock and folk.  Wedding Éowyn…he twitched the line again, thinking about her longingly.  He thought that at the moment he wished most to hear her voice, to have her sing to him as she’d done once in her bed.  Faramir glanced at himself, noting bruises and scrapes.  He’d been in rather bad shape, then, too. 

 And once we are wed, I will have help…or rather, I should say she will have help with Ithilien…he smiled and lost all sense of despondency.  Faramir sighed contentedly and made the drowned worm dance.  He still had to mention that to her and, to Éomer, Gaer’s wishes.  Surely the man wouldn’t object, he had plenty of Riders. 

There was a shout and a familiar face came over the little hill that obscured the pool.  His mental capabilities were almost back to normal with the waning of his headache; before the Rider came quite into sight, he easily discerned it was Gaer.  Feeling a mix of pleasure to see his friend and rising irritation at what said friend had imposed upon his students, Faramir looked at the pile of cleaned fish.  It wasn’t enough, but he gathered up his empty line, speaking directly to the nearest boy, Leodthain.  “Ge canst ætstandan.”  He got a nod in response, but no eye contact and the feel of their minds was still dispirited.  Faramir frowned, displeased and wishing for the return of his boisterous students.  He was at a loss on how to cheer them since not even spooking Éomer had worked for more than a few minutes.

Gaer strode down the hill, steering around the rocks in a wandering path and gazing about before he settled to look at Faramir.  “Here you are.”

Splashing onto the bank and picking up his still-wet boots, Faramir echoed more testily, “Here I am.”  He took a breath, forcing his resentment down and spoke evenly as he handed Gaer a string of gutted fish, the grass line threaded through their gills.  “Carry this?”

“All right.”  The redheaded Rider took the fish willingly, and then leaned closer, voice confidential.  His pale eyes were fixed keenly on Faramir’s.  “What is it?”  The five lads hefted their own loads and paused, waiting.  Faramir waved them onwards impatiently as Gaer frowned, “What?”

His anger broke free, emerging from his throat into a protective growl.  Faramir jerked his head at the lads as they walked ahead of them, just cresting the little hill, and said low and furious, “You told them to watch out for me.”

“And?”  Gaer looked at him blankly and a bit cautiously.

“They are children.”

The Rider scoffed, “No, they’re not.”  He swung the line of fish over his shoulder and shifted his feet.  “They’re men of our land, just untried as of yet.” 

He ground his teeth, disgusted and plucked up his waterlogged socks, sticking them into his boots in sharp, irritated movements.  “But…”

But Gaer had a question.  “When is a boy a man in the South?”  He’d asked it firmly enough to momentarily redirect their conversation and Faramir shook his head, impatient and frustrated. 

“I don’t know…it’s different for some…” He’d not been acknowledged a man until his eighteenth year, but boys of the lower classes worked adult hours much earlier. 

“See?”  His friend looked gratified, “You keep forgetting that you,” Faramir got poked in the chest and was none too pleased about it.  He showed it with a dark glare that didn’t seem to impress his Rohirric friend, just as none of the many preceding dark glares had.  “Are not in the South any more.”

He grumbled back, “No, I’m not.  But they’re just lads and you can’t expect them to fight for me…”

“Of course not.”  Gaer frowned at him and he sensed the redheaded man’s immediate apprehension.  The feeling somewhat mollified his wrath and Faramir answered righteously,

“Well, that’s what they were about to do…”

“Oswyn?”  He huffed, eyes trained downwards.  They spoke in hasty, expressive whispers now, the five Rohirrim walking ahead.

“Yes.  Why?  Do I have any other enemies?” He struggled to keep up, picking his way painfully over the sharper rocks and cursed his notion of frightening Éomer.  The end result wasn’t worth his brief amusement from the man’s yelping and wetted boots.  Of course…he pondered for a moment, thinking of the dazzling grin that had alighted on the man’s face as he’d yanked him forward into the stream.  Éomer grinning like that was unusual; perhaps his misery was worth something at any rate.

Tactfully matching strides, Gaer looked up and almost smiled.  “Not that I know of.”

Faramir replied sourly.  “Good.”  They walked in silence; Éomer was still at the stream, though he appeared finished.  The Lord of the Mark glanced at him curiously and Faramir halted.  Curt, he said, “Gaer wishes to come with me.”

“Where?”

“The City.  When I leave.”  He softened his tone; aware the subject had greatly disturbed Éomer the night before.  Careful, do not lose him…he’d made great progress, obviously, and Faramir was anxious not to undo it.

Luckily, Éomer merely looked baffled by the request.  He shrugged, holding his sopping shirt in one wrinkled hand.  “How long?”

Faramir didn’t know and when he looked at Gaer, the Rohir just shook his head.  “Until he tires of it.”

Éomer took a second to examine Gaer, eyeing him skeptically and shrugged again.  “All right.”

Gaer was grinning and even beginning to whistle as they walked onwards but Faramir stopped him with a coolly spoken, “You told them to watch out for me this morning, correct?”

His tone was brusque and the Rohir replied stoutly, “Yes.”

He sighed, and then replied crossly, “They came to my aid, drove him and two others off with stones…”

Gaer smiled; he was beaming.  “Good for them!”

Faramir gave him a disconcerted look, “No, not good…they are not to be involved, they might be injured.  I’ve told them this, now you must,” He glanced sideways, gloomily, and snorted, “Since you assigned them guard duty in the first place; they are too young.”

“I can’t do that.”

 He’d stepped forward, but now he halted and asked roughly, “Why not?”  Impatient, Faramir snapped, “Give me a reason.”

“Because…” Gaer frowned, swinging the fish; the lads were out of sight now.  “This man wants to hurt you…you said he brought two others.  What stops him from doing the same again?”

“His word.”

“You trust his word?”  It was incredulous and Gaer’s face showed his clear perplexity.  “Why?”

Faramir could not reply that Oswyn’s mind had not felt false to him, simply doubting, miserable and full of rage.  Frustrated, he said only, “Yes…and I can’t explain.”

“Then you are a fool.”  Gaer sounded angry now as they trudged slowly along the stream; “Like I’ve said before.” 

Head down, Faramir picked his way around rocks, feeling the warm earth and soft grass on the soles of his feet; normally the sensation would have soothed him, but he was too annoyed.  Tight and restrained, he answered.  “Perhaps.”

A third and familiar voice grimly invaded their low conversation; it held strong tones of alarm and of budding fury.  “What man did this?” 

They’d forgotten about Éomer and the Lord of the Mark had followed them unawares along the rock-strewn bank.  He has more stealth than I imagined…he was fleetingly amused.

 Turning to include the man, Faramir clenched his teeth, sighing through his locked jaw and shifted his grip on his boots.  The last thing he needed was another body with whom to argue.  What was it with the folk in Rohan?  Why couldn’t they just let him be? Forcibly, he answered, “No one.”

“Who?”  To his surprise Éomer was angered, even actively interested in his response.  The man’s eyes were fixed on him, his attention purposely and completely focused, as though he considered the danger shared and not belonging to Faramir alone.  His sheer concentration was unprecedented, since never once had Éomer showed half this attentiveness in all their interaction.  He looked like a man standing full ready to jump to battle at the cry of a horn…or my whimper of abuse…

Reading and interpreting this mentality, Faramir was further aggravated.  He took a deep breath, feeling the air fill his chest and then whoosh outwards.  The movement did nothing to dispel his ire.  How many times must I make this clear…?  “It is my concern alone.”

The Lord of the Mark was ready for him, however, and renounced his statement bluntly, “Foolishness.  You are my kinsman, it is my concern as well.”  Between them, Gaer nodded staunchly, his face pleased.  The still wet fish swung gently from his hand and the reflections off their scales sent out tiny, brilliant flashes to bounce off their clothes.

 Unfortunately, Faramir’s temper overrode any feeling of sentiment that remark might have given him and he spat back, ill humored, “Since when?”

The Lord of the Mark recoiled, though it was entirely mental; physically Éomer only looked distressed, an instant’s flash of hurt moving over his earnest features before they became more resigned and even grew angered again.  His stance changed and became more determined as his voice lowered, turning vehement, nigh unto furious.  “You think I wish my sister upset by you returning to her injured?”  He shifted again, lowering his eyes briefly, and his next words were uttered more awkwardly and in a softer, less confident tone, “You think I wish to see you injured?” 

Pointedly, he replied, “I do not want or need your concern.” Faramir gave Gaer a severe look, “Either of you.”

His friend glared back stubbornly.  “But…”

“I am not helpless.”

There was a sense of unease from Éomer; a vast discomfort vying with other emotions before his tone changed to became more authoritative.  “What you want does not matter in this.”

Faramir felt himself stiffening in place as he recognized the threat—the man was willing to call rank on him.  How dare he?  How dare he?  I am his superior; I outrank him in lineage, in wealth, in my very instruction as a warrior, a Ranger, a noble…  “It doesn’t?”  He spoke deliberately lightly, making sure Éomer understood.  Gaer looked back and forth between them, features alarmed.

The Lord of the Mark hesitated only once, his eyes flickering with warring emotions and then said firmly, “It does not.”  Faramir’s fury must have shown on his face because the man’s voice softened immediately and became more reasonable.  He gestured anxiously with his empty hand, “You could get hurt if you were outnumbered again and…I won’t have that.”  He shifted his feet like an awkward boy, “I won’t, no matter what you wish.”  Éomer hesitated again before adding even more gently and almost dismally, there was a strange combination of confusion and disappointment in his question, “Do you not care about Éowyn’s feelings if you return to her wounded or not at all?” 

Guilt struck, but was quickly shoved aside by his anger.  Does he think I fall so easily?  Faramir’s free hand was in a fist, tightly clenched by his side but somehow he sounded fairly calm.  “I care.” 

The Lord of the Mark’s relief was palpable, as was the earnest good will in his face.  “Then tell me his name and I will have him returned to Edoras this day,” For a moment he stared into the distance but quickly brightened, “And sent to find Elfhelm, to gather any messages and serve in his patrols.  It is a valid duty and none will know or suspect any…”

He was not a coward and he would not have Éomer send away his enemies; Faramir was enraged by the mere notion, the reasonable cast of Éomer and Gaer’s features and their obvious expectance of his agreement.  “No.”

“Why not?”  It was frustrated and dimly, Faramir was aware of the irony—Éomer, of all people, was trying to talk sense into him.  “Tell me why you refuse.  It is…not wise…and,” Again he hesitated, voice nervous but ultimately firming.  “I won’t allow you to fight him, Faramir.”

 He felt slighted; none of the Rohirrim had acknowledged his fully earned station as a warrior, from Gaer’s flippant remark about sleeping through the battle of Pelennor to Oswyn taunting him about hiding behind Éowyn’s skirts.  The situation was intolerable and his fury overflowed at last as Faramir hissed, “Do you not think I can fight?  That I cannot defend myself?” 

Éomer stared at him in confusion.  He shook his head rapidly, making his flaxen mane fly from one broad shoulder to the other.  “No.  No.”  He frowned, still sounding angered, but far more confused, “Why…why are you acting so…?”

Bitterly, he answered.  “Why not?”  None respected him in this land.  My fight won me esteem of sorts, striking him won me friendship of sorts…what else am I to learn from these lessons?  He’d always been a good student and the instruction given within the Mark was simple enough, violence = recognition and approval.

Faramir stepped forward, right into the other man’s space, locking eyes.  He felt Éomer lean backwards though his feet didn’t move, felt the man’s intense discomfort as he challenged furiously, almost snarling the words, “Then what is it that you think?  Wouldn’t it make you happier if I got myself wounded?” 

Éomer blinked at him, frowning and giving the tiniest shake of his head; by their side, Gaer was forgotten.

His eyes narrowed as cold suspicion flooded his mind, “Isn’t that what you’ve desired to happen all along?  You keep telling me how you wish I were less and that I would leave…yet you’ve found that I’m not and I won’t.  Shouldn’t you be aiding this man so that you’ll have your sister all to yourself again, you selfish child playing at being a King…”

Éomer and Gaer gaped at him.

Faramir became quieter; barely able to breathe with the fury that filled him as he said very coldly; dripping with sarcasm, his words were meant to injure.  “Perhaps you paid him to hate me.”

There was a beat of pure silence; in it he felt their shock and he continued in the tone of a man who’d suddenly come to some great conclusion.

“That would explain his hate and, since your folk fight for money, this would be nothing more than another duty for him, wouldn’t it?  Scaring away the man you don’t want marrying your sister while you begin to act rational and friendly so as to disarm my suspicions?”  He chuckled discordantly and felt a sneer curl his lips, “It fits well enough.  Tell me, how much gold did you promise—”

From his mind there was only the instant’s warning of some great flare of revulsion before Éomer hit him in the mouth hard enough to rock him back on his heels.  It was open-handed, a blow meant to hurt but not seriously injure and much like the blow he’d given the man the night before.  Faramir broke off, putting a hand to his face as the Lord of the Mark hissed; “Idiot!  You think you know what I want?”  His voice had turned thick with wrath, Rohirric accent blurring the words even as they became louder.  “You think you know what I want?”

 Gaer’s pale eyes went wide and he started, quickly stepping forward with his hands raised, “My Lords…please!”  Tossing the line of fish aside to slap the rocky ground, the Rider begged, “Please…do not!”

The Lord of the Mark glanced sideways; it was black and forceful enough to make Gaer silence abruptly, though his face remained deeply worried.  He looked back and forth, watching with a growing expression of dread.  Flushed with anger, Éomer straightened and bellowed, raising his fists as he dropped his wet shirt.  “You want to fight?  Then come!”

Faramir blinked.  What had possessed him?  Am I mad?  What was he doing ruining every bit of progress he’d made—and by looks of the hard sparks in Éomer’s eyes, and the feel of how the man was so exceedingly, incredibly, almost raving with fury now, that was exactly what he was doing.  Skin afire from the blow, Faramir regained a little of his composure and, still taken aback at his own words, he scoffed disgustedly.  “I am…” He felt himself calming and even growing ashamed.  Why…I don’t even think that, why did I say that?  “I am not going to…” Somehow this man always made him lose control.

Éomer’s features flickered again; Faramir sensed emotions too swift for him to interpret and then his voice turned as coldly condescending as his had been a moment before.  “Ætywan me, Lytle Bregu!  Ætywan me ge canst!”

 All of his chagrin vanished as he dropped his boots to the ground and did, barely conscious of Gaer’s panicked yells and hasty, but failing attempts to pry them apart before they tumbled to the rough ground. 

No one called him that; after nearly two weeks in the Mark, his tolerance for insulting nicknames had reached its limits.

***

After a few seconds of struggling to maintain his footing, the force of the Steward’s charge threw Éomer backward; the rocks that lined the stream’s banks were painfully hard, poking into his back and body.  He thrashed, finding himself in the unique situation of being in a fight with a man that he really did and yet did not wish to hurt.  Faramir was less inhibited, fists tightly balled and hitting hard whenever they struck their mark, which was often. 

Fortunately, the man knew nothing of wrestling and when they hit the ground, his own limited experience quickly proved worthwhile.  His sister had been his best teacher, as Éomer, a quickly growing lad, had found that while she could kick, bite, scratch and thrash with abandon, he might truly hurt her doing the same.  She’d been five years younger and many pounds lighter but Éowyn could fight as well as any boy, even better as she had mastered very early the crippling strike to the groin that had sent Éomer into a yielding ball of excruciating pain every time.  So he’d compensated with Théodred’s amused help, trading blows for holds to pin her until she gave up and slaps for a fistful of her long hair to gain advantage yet not truly hurt his beloved little sister.  Éowyn had soon renounced full-out brawls, becoming cleverer.  This had posed more problems but he’d not had to worry about accidentally harming her.

This was much the same, he thought abstractly, trying to keep Faramir from bashing his face in.  He kept his arm up, blocking as much as he could while trying to gain a good enough hold to pin the man.  Irritatingly, Faramir’s smaller physique hampered this, the South man being too squirmy and wiggly to grab and Éomer settled for jabbing his forearm upwards and catching the man hard on the underside of his rough chin. 

Faramir was thrust backwards and half off of him, falling onto his back and immediately twisting, preparing to rise again; Éomer scrambled to his knees and saw an opportunity to use the Steward’s light build against him.  I don’t want to hurt him, just enough to end this.  Even though it privately shocked him, Éomer found that he had enough faith in the benevolence of his sister’s paramour to realize Faramir hadn’t meant the nonsense he’d spoken.  I can’t kill him…I promised I wouldn’t even hit him…he winced; he’d broken that already, of course.  It was a sour mark against his honor.

So in desperation he did what had worked so many times before with Éowyn—rising to one knee and planting his heels solidly, Éomer threw himself against the Steward, knocking the lighter man to the ground facedown.  He landed half on, half off of him and quickly wiggled upwards, bracing one knee on either side of the man’s chest, gripping his lean ribs.  It was difficult to keep his position as Faramir bucked hard, constantly throwing himself back and forth, but Éomer used all this movement to shift backward enough so that his bulk wasn’t over the man’s shoulders, giving him freedom to move just where he wanted him.

As he’d hoped the Steward half-rose and, given the perfect opportunity, he crooked his arm down under Faramir’s elbow and pulled back, shoving his dark head downward with his palm firmly on the nape of the man’s neck.  Nose to the dirt, Faramir roared curses and flailed desperately though he could do little to dislodge him.  For good measure, Éomer used his other hand to steady himself, scraping his knuckles on the rocky ground; for revenge, he grabbed a great fistful of the man’s dark hair and twisted it securely around the wrist he was using to pin his nose to the earth.  Straddling Faramir’s narrow back with no more difficulty than staying astride a frisky horse now, Éomer pinned him with his superior weight and firm hold.  To rub in his control, he gave a good tug on the man’s hair and let Faramir flop, jerk, and bellow all he wished, confident it wouldn’t take long.

It didn’t and it seemed Faramir had more sense than Éowyn had had as a girl because he went limp almost instantly.  Sitting firmly atop him, Éomer almost laughed at the man’s voice, as he sounded both fuming and humiliated.  Each word had the note of being forced through tightly gritted teeth.  “Let go of my hair and get off of me.”

“No.”

There was a long, furious silence in which they both breathed heavily, Faramir’s ribs pushing at his knees which each deep breath, and then, “Why not?”

Éomer really laughed this time.  “You deserve it.”  He shifted to get a little more comfortable; the Steward’s lanky frame was less yielding than those of his folk were.  Riding the scrawny South man into submission had been easier, though, as Faramir’s lithe build was also less suited to put up a struggle.  My sister will have an easy time with him…he snorted, then sobered.  It was time to teach Faramir a lesson.  I will bow to his sharp tongue when I am in the wrong…as he’d been so many times before with this man…but when I am not, nay; I will not stand for it.  He was careful not to lean too much on his arm and push the Steward’s face into the earth again; he wanted him to hear what he had to say, after all.  “And, because within this land’s borders I am Lord, not you and when I ask for the name of the man disturbing you I expect it.  And I care if my sister’s face darkens because you’ve hurt yourself, and I care if you hurt yourself…” Éomer smiled, admitting.  “Because I like you…some.” 

Dirt and particles of grit in his beard and clinging to the side of his mouth, Faramir turned to look at him as much as he could and pushed up against his arm impatiently.  “Can I get up while we do this…?” 

He wasn’t finished.  “No.  And when I say something you do it.”  Éomer paused, voice serious, “Is that clear, Faramir?  You’ve put yourself in my service and I expect you to honor that.”  He smiled again, “Ridiculous or not, because you are very lucky I’m not making you muck out all the stalls in Edoras for saying such idiocy to me as you did a moment before.”  His anger tried to return, tightening his chest, but Éomer pushed it as far away as he could.  Now was not the time for outbursts, but stern rationality.  He was a King; he needed to keep his temper here as much as before a throng of quarreling peasants.  No matter that I’d like to strangle him for such words…I am not a child and I would not bend to such worm-like and cowardly endeavors to rid myself of him.  Does he not even understand the depth of the insult?  It is unthinkable.  I would sooner murder him outright than use Wormtongue’s means.  “Do you understand?”

Under him, Faramir’s chest heaved with a sigh.  “I understand.” 

Éomer released him and thrust himself away as swiftly as he could; his eagerness for more contact with his sister’s paramour had not increased.  Faramir stood very slowly, wincing, and said quietly, sincerely.  “I did not mean it…”

He brushed off his clothes, not bothering to meet the man’s eyes, “Of course you didn’t, you don’t think I’m clever enough to think of such a plot.”

There was quiet in which the Steward blanched and looked ill at ease; his mouth opened slightly, then closed again over whatever he might have answered.  Gaer stared at them, and then retrieved the line of fish, dipping it in the water to wash away the grit and dirt from being thrown on the ground.  Éomer noted that he also picked up and shook the dirt away from his shirt, as was proper to show his deference for the wellbeing of his King’s possessions, carrying it thrown over one arm.  His expression of dread had changed only slightly to one of sorrow. 

Straightening his clothing, not looking up, Éomer spoke quietly, hoping for an answer.  “His name?”  Glancing upward deliberately casually, he could see the Steward’s protest clearly outlined on his features, but the man did reply, if heavily,

“Oswyn.”

He nodded tiredly, pleased and wishing that Faramir had just said it in the first place.  His back ached where he’d landed on the rocks that littered the stream bank and he could imagine the Steward felt worse as he’d been on top of him, weight pushing him down onto those same rocks.  “Thank you.”

Wincing as he rubbed the back of his neck, Faramir glanced at Gaer, then back to Éomer and spoke hesitantly, clearly trying for either some jest or some attempt at repentance, “Do you do that to all your subordinates?”

He didn’t particularly care to forgive but arguably Faramir had forgiven far worse from him and more than once…  “No, I don’t.”  He made himself smile and meet the grey and blood-shot eyes of his sister’s paramour.  “I haven’t had to yet.”   On that, before either of them could do something to ruin their fragile peace again, Éomer left the Steward, pausing to collect his wet shirt before walking purposely back to camp.  Behind him, he heard Gaer say, “You didn’t listen to a word Tondhere said last night, did you?” and Faramir’s subdued burst of laughter.

It made him smile at least.

***

        Faramir returned to camp with Gaer, but didn’t stay to eat.  There wasn’t enough and he had to fetch more food.  My responsibility…he guessed he’d better fulfill it or risk Éomer squashing him again and pulling his hair.  As annoying and humiliating as the experience had been, he felt a smile crack his lips.  Unbelievable.  It was incredible; if he’d done such an act of insubordination in the City he’d have been punished, likely publicly and likely with a whipping.  Here…I’m wrestled to the ground and given a stern talk…no more.  Partly it had to do with who he was, he knew that.  But still Faramir marveled.

 Out of the corner of his eye, as he sat on one of the stumps and stuffed his feet into his halfway dried boots, he watched as Éomer called Oswyn to him.  His view was partially blocked by Riders cleaning the fish and his students as they sat glumly and he craned his neck, trying not to be conspicuous.  Éomer and Oswyn spoke for a few minutes before the burly Rider bowed and turned away.  He came close to where Faramir was sitting, but paid him no attention—no physical attention, the feel of the man’s mind resembled a slow wave of anger, increasing the nearer he came, then decreasing as he moved away.  Faramir almost felt like speaking to him, but did not, thinking himself foolish.  What would I say?  Assure him I did not tattle like a child?  As he bent over, lacing his boots, his side ached, competing with the rest of his pains.  Éowyn would be distressed, he supposed wearily.  At least he would if he came back to find her covered in bruises and scrapes.

Faramir did wonder what the next morning would have been like, however.  Would I have prevailed again or lost?  Boots on, he let it go.  He had other things to worry about, like catching Thorn.  He planned to enjoy this hunt alone, running his mount through the lower parts of the dale and hopefully scaring up fowl to bring down with his bow.

The sun was on its descent now, late in the afternoon as he got another handful of grain and picked up his bridle and a handful of grain from one of the pouches in his saddlebags, marching out into the gold-green valley.  A good walk later, the grey gelding lifted his cumbersome head when Faramir was still many paces away and looked at him.  He stopped and held out his hand.

“Thorn.  Come.”  He had no real hopes that this would work.

Ears pricked, the old horse stared at him, then his outstretched palm, on which there was a small mound of pale oats.  Thorn took a tiny step forward, and then halted warily.  The other horses took no notice of this tableau, cropping grass peaceably.  

“Come lad…” Faramir soothed, walking very slowly to meet the animal.  “Good lad…stand still…” To his surprise Thorn did and accepted the treat of grain very eagerly.  Not chancing it, Faramir wrapped the reins around the thick grey neck until the grain was gone, and then he bridled the old horse swiftly. 

Thorn took to him returning bareback better this time, standing relatively still until he used his legs to command him onwards.  The gelding’s ears weren’t even quite as pinned back as usual and Faramir patted the light neck, glad the animal at least seemed to be happy.  He saddled the horse quickly, too, not trusting this calm demeanor and grabbed up his bow and quiver.  Once mounted again, he flipped the leather top off his quiver to ready it for easy access.  Gaer came to him just as he, holding his bow by his side, clucked to Thorn.  “Where are you going?”

His friend’s mood was subdued, usually dancing eyes quiet and still.  Faramir spoke jovially to show he was unharmed and held no grudge against Éomer.  Both were fairly true.  “To get you a few birds.”  He grinned, “I wouldn’t want you to starve.”

Gaer smiled faintly, offering, “God gesla.”

Unfamiliar with the term, but able to tell its good will by the tone his friend used, Faramir nodded in return, glancing over at his students.  They were watching him and he called out, “Ic bonne bæc.”  Nudging the old horse with his heels, he jogged out of camp with Thorn snorting a few times before agreeing to quicken his pace to a lope.

They made their way down the valley with no trouble, passing the now full carts.  Gazing at the bags of salt with jubilation, Faramir dropped his reins to see if the gelding would hold a straight line without guidance.  Thorn did, or at least straight enough to suit their purposes and he guided the horse to the edges of the valley and tightened his legs, hoping to hold him to a canter.  “Good…” Voice hushed, Faramir drew out an arrow and held it at ready, scanning the ground ahead for any sign of a startled bird.  He hoped for partridge or quail but any fowl of size would work just as well.

The landscape was beautiful, the bowl of the sky was deep blue with the afternoon sun glinting off of the amber walls of the valley; studded with dark rocks, they were too sheer to climb but as he glanced at them, they held many bird nests.  Thorn ran easily beneath him, large ears twitching back and forth.  Faramir watched them for a moment, wondering if the horse enjoyed this duty.  He patted the thick neck and returned his attention to their path; the rutted road that led to the small village was just ahead and he carefully steered Thorn away, guiding him back along the edges of the dale. 

Smaller songbirds flew alongside them for a moment in a flutter of wings and he was almost too distracted to actually spy the number of fat fowl that did explode up from the grasses.  Unguided, Thorn slid to a halt, nearly spilling Faramir from his saddle and driving furrows into the dry ground; dust clouded his vision and filled his mouth.  He yelped in surprise and grabbed at the ragged mane for balance as the burly gelding gathered himself with a loud, snorting exhalation and plunged after the small flock of panicked birds. 

Lifting his bow, he sighted and drew while Thorn increased his pace to a flat-out run as though he were chasing the fowl.  Faramir didn’t need to make contact with the animal’s mind to realize this was one duty the old gelding enjoyed. His bow twanged once, then twice, arrows luckily going straight and true, and Thorn automatically checked his pace, jogging forward with his ears pricked and action eager as his clunky hooves galumphed and snapped loudly through the dry grass, crushing brittle stems in their wake.

“Good lad.”  Delighted and mystified since Thorn had always reacted poorly to any activity, he slapped the horse’s cresty neck and reined him to about where he guessed the birds had fallen, sliding down to retrieve his prizes.  Behind him, and for the moment trusted not to gallop off, Thorn blew through pinkened nostrils and shook himself all over; crouching over the fowl, Faramir was surprised to feel the horse’s dark muzzle against his shoulder and hot, puffing breath on his neck. 

He turned, still bent down on one knee, and found the gelding sniffing him, small brown eyes locked intently.  His reins drooped, and the stirrups still swung gently but Thorn didn’t move.  He stood there, a statue of a horse but for his eyes bright and inquisitively boring into Faramir’s and showing all their intelligence in a single, open moment. 

Suddenly Éowyn’s voice came into his head, along with the memory of her cuddled close and warm into his shoulder as a wide-eyed foal approached.

Breathe into his nostrils, introduce yourself…Now he knows you—you’re part of the herd…

Faramir remembered and blew out gently, sharing breaths with his Rohirric horse.  Thorn’s big, odd ears flicked but he didn’t move.  Sweat beaded along the more lightly haired parts of his face and wetted the leather of his bridle.  Broad barrel moving in deep breaths, his tail flattened against his grey hind legs in a breeze that brought relief to the heat of their exertions and the sun.  The same breeze made Faramir’s hair sweep off his brow and, prodded by a whim, he whispered softly, “Ic grete þe, Thorn.”

The grey’s nose touched his face with a questioning look in his eyes and Faramir smiled, raising a hand to rub the dark, soft muzzle.  “Come, we have to get more than two.”  Rising, he jerked the arrow from the birds’ breasts and stuck them in his saddlebags, sliding his green cloak over.  Thorn stood quiet, head turned to watch him.  Faramir found this odd and kept glancing back, each time finding the brown eye fixed upon his movements.  Looking back at the cumbersome head, the short, thick neck and small piggish eye with overlarge ears flopping relaxedly, he wondered why Thorn was not as finely made as the other horses he’d seen in the Mark. 

He patted the horse’s shoulder and the gelding jumped; Faramir had accidentally put his hand down on the long scar that further marred his scored coat.  “Easy…” Thorn shifted as he touched the light, dappled hair near it, eyeing the pink edges critically.  The wound had been deep—the battle before the Black Gate was months ago and the hair over scar had yet to fully regrow.  Yet the gelding didn’t feel lame to him, just roughly gaited.  Faramir patted Thorn again, this time carefully keeping his hand away from the scar. 

“Come.”  Mounting, he drew another arrow and steered Thorn straight ahead, cutting through the lower end of the valley on a diagonal, hoping to come across the flock he’d just thinned.  The horse was more than eager, ears swiveling and when the deer leaped out of the grass near the wood, he bolted after it, making Faramir grab at his mane again.  “Thorn…no…ná!”  He didn’t need a deer; since the wagons were full he was certain they would leave soon.  Maybe tomorrow…delight rushed to fill his heart.  Éowyn…

“No!”  Thorn’s neck was stretched out and, head down, the gelding charged after his prey.  “Ná!  Whoa!”  Rohirric and tugs at the reins produced no effect, so he gave in rather than chase the deer all over the Mark.  It was better than the strange, nagging feeling that he would be letting the horse down if he didn’t shoot.  Using his legs, Faramir nudged Thorn to run at an angle so that he could better hit the bounding animal in a vital spot.  Under his breath, he muttered, “Fine” and drew and shot in a quick motion, Thorn again slowing to a jog at the twang of the bow. 

The deer leaped a few more elastic strides and fell heavily, twisting on its graceful, slender neck and flipping to lie in a small cloud of dust and dried-up, brittle grass; it was a small, immature doe and looked fairly well fleshed for all the dryness of the landscape, last puffing breaths pinkened by blood that the dirt eagerly consumed.

Faramir scratched Thorn’s neck as the gelding halted a few feet from the kill and blew loudly at it through outstretched nostrils.  He sighed, “Good lad.”  At least he wouldn’t have to worry about fetching food for the remainder of his stay in these hills.

Or Oswyn…or even Thorn, I suppose…just my students and Éomer.  Faramir smiled broadly as he dismounted to gut the deer.  I can handle that.

***

The evening meals were quiet now; almost formal at the high table, while elsewhere the Knights and Riders ate, drank and spoke uninhibitedly in the Hall.  She envied them, wishing to do more than nibble daintily at her food or sip from her cup or speak of something other than the mildest of topics.  If her brother had been here, things would be different, but Éowyn made do as she could.  She needed practice, anyhow; she was fairly certain the ladies in Gondor did not train stallions to lead or propose the coursing of boars to the men of their land.  Oh, what do they do?  Sit and weave clothing?  Chatter and gossip like birds?  Manage their small households and kneel before the King?  Her only notions of their behavior had been gotten from afar.  I cannot lurk in the Houses of Healing, nor haunt the gardens, I must attend Court.  She made herself put down her cup gently, not slam it in frustration as she wished. 

As she sat and spoke, Éowyn watched Imrahil closely; when he lifted his eyebrows she knew she’d strayed from her imitation of perfect womanhood.  Arwen did not help one bit, bringing up things that pointed out her mannish behavior and unmaiden-like knowledge—hunting and slaying her bear, rules of the wrestling in taverns and other equally unladylike activities.  Often they locked eyes and the Queen seemed impatient, almost annoyed. 

They were quiet now with only minstrels singing in soft tones at the center of the Hall.  Éowyn frowned, carefully choosing a bland topic; she wished most to ask about the Sea, but feared it would be in poor taste because of Arwen’s presence.  At length, she looked up and smiled, keeping her voice light and gracious.  “Imrahil…I beg you, tell me what is there to see in the City?  What do you find amusing?  I’m afraid I did not explore much when I stayed there.” 

As he spoke, naming little shops of a simple nature, she felt contempt for her deceit growing in her heart.  This was not her, the perfect Lady who never thought of hunting or took delight in swordplay.  But Faramir…the Lady of Ithilien was the second of all the highborn ladies in the City and the lands.  Only Arwen herself outranked her…and with rank came responsibility.  Oh, but what kind? 

 Éowyn found her attention drifting and fixed her eyes on Imrahil’s noble, sharp-featured and slightly aged face.  She must not appear rude or uncouth, the people of the City would look to her, would look at her and judge her by her behavior.  I must, even if I do not wish to…for him.  For my love, who’s suffered much nonsense for me already.  Éowyn closed her eyes tightly and forced her rebellion away.  But…perhaps she could get what she wanted, just not in the way she was accustomed.  A man would ask outright what there was to hunt about Minas Tirith, but she did not have the luxury.  She felt a sort of curbed rage thrashing in her chest amid hope and a vast repugnance.  For the first time in my bad-mannered, clumsy life, I must be artful; I must trace around what I wish with a dainty finger, but never touch.  I must be a lady in all but deepest heart again.  I must play Gríma’s game of speaking in shadows.  She shivered in the big chair, fingers tight on the worn horseheads that ended the arms, and swallowed past her revulsion.  I must.

Clearing her throat delicately, she interrupted him.  “Forgive me, I beg your pardon.”  Éowyn smiled her best and brightest smile, “But…are there any dangerous creatures roaming about the City?  Beasts in the hills?”  She gestured and widened her eyes in mock concern, “There are monstrous bears and fierce packs of wolves in the mountains here.”  Arwen was staring at her narrowly and Éowyn ignored her with difficulty.  Were her ladylike behaviors so shocking, then, that the Queen stared?

“No, no.”  He sought to reassure her, that was clear, but it was an effort to remember he was not being patronizing, instead only conscious of the fact she was a woman and might truly fear wild beasts.  “Of course not, Lady Éowyn.  Even without the gates you would be perfectly safeguarded.  Elessar’s lands are well settled.”  His voice changed, for the first time losing its tranquillity, “As Lord Denethor ensured in his reign.”

Too bad.  That was not the answer she desired at all.  Éowyn tried another tactic.  “Is the great gate built then, do you imagine, by now?”  She leaned on her hand, gazing at him in what she hoped appeared to be naive intrigue and no more.  Can I leave the City any time, day or night, or shall I be kept in like a stabled horse?  Éowyn doubted she would wander out of the shelter of the walls at night or, more frankly, be allowed to, but she was still interested in the question.  Very suddenly her freedoms weighed on her mind.

“No, the dwarves are just beginning their labors on it, I’d imagine.”  Imrahil smiled, almost wistfully, “It is to be very great, I’ve seen the drawings.  Erecting it will take much time.”

Arwen sounded coolly displeased.  “Is that so?”

They both glanced at her.  “Yes…”

Éowyn thought of another thing to ask.  “Tell me…” She smiled, allowing some of her timidness to show with this query, and she was positively timorous about this question, “Can you…Imrahil, I beg you, tell me of the Lady Finduilas?  I wish to know what she did for the City…” So I can model myself the best I can, so I can grasp some clear idea…please…  Faramir’s recollection would be too poor for her but Imrahil could remember quite well, Éowyn guessed. 

Imrahil did not answer and, to her, his expression appeared that he was rather indisposed. 

Desperate, she added, “Since I am to be the Lady Steward…” She dropped her eyes, pausing in unfeigned shyness and played with her knife before suddenly laying it neatly and stating.  “I wish to learn the role prior to taking it so that I will not encumber Faramir…in any way.  He will be occupied enough with this delay.”  Meeting his eyes, Éowyn took a breath, “If it pains you, I apologize and say to you, do not answer…but…”

Silence reigned for a moment before the Lord of Dol Amroth spoke hesitantly.  “My sister, Finduilas did not do much of importance in the City, I’m afraid, if edicts are what you’re asking about.”

Éowyn nodded quickly, anxious to keep him from ceasing.  “Anything you feel you could say…”

Imrahil wasn’t looking at her, instead some place she couldn’t see.  “She adored her children very much and busied herself with them and their happiness.  She always wanted a babe, often holding or singing to others’.”  He smiled gently before collecting himself and going on.  “She did not involve herself much with the workings of the City that I knew of, staying mainly within her houses or the upper levels.”  He shook his head, “I know only of some small improvement to the gardens that she showed me once.  Small things of that nature; she gave a woman’s touch to whatever she affected.  There were more flowers in those days, more color in the streets and the halls.  Denethor was not a harsh man as I knew him later, but laughing and lighthearted when he came to court my sister.”  He sounded distant and melancholy, and then recovered again.  Imrahil was choosing his words carefully now, “No, Denethor preferred to control his estate himself.”  He fell off, gazing into midair with a nostalgic cast to his features, “Finduilas was much beloved by the people…the mourning in the City lasted long and in Denethor’s heart, never ceased, I fear.  I wish…” Imrahil abruptly silenced.

Éowyn felt small and downcast, for how could she compare to that standard?  It was impossible; she was too different, by the sound of it.  I do not wish to be solely occupied by Faramir’s quarters and the bearing and raising of his children…I want…I want to do and to be important somehow, to serve…  Tears of frustration pricked her eyes.   All I ever wanted…  She was careful not to betray her feelings, inclining her head to him in respect and saying quietly; “I thank you very much.”

For a long while they ate without speaking; there were only the minstrels’ voices rising and falling with the slow beat of small drums and light, dancing harp strings amid the loud, coarse rumbling tongues of the Knights and Riders in the lower parts of the Hall.

Playing with her knife, Éowyn was feeling low when she glanced up, her eye just happening to meet Arwen’s.  The elven woman smiled a particularly mischievous smile, one that she’d never seen on her fair face before, and picked up a large piece off of the tray of honey cakes.  As Éowyn watched, the Queen purposely stuffed the entire thing into her mouth, using her dainty fingers to cram it in, crumbs falling everywhere.  Across the table, Imrahil looked shocked.

Arwen smiled, cheeks bulging and Éowyn understood—it was a test of her ladylike manners, to see if she would be properly aghast or laugh.  Glancing at Imrahil, she saw the proper reaction—astonishment and disfavor though he was too polite to speak out, confining his disapproval to a quietly stern expression.  However, the more she looked, the more she wondered if she didn’t see amusement there…it was impossible, she knew him too little to tell.  Arwen chewed nonchalantly and somewhat bovinely for all her beauty, cheeks moving slowly like a cow with a cud.

At that comparison she failed.  Meeting the Queen’s dancing eyes, Éowyn laughed loudly and delightedly, as did Arwen though her mouthful.  I am not a Lady like those in the City, I am a Lady of the Golden Hall and here we do not fear a mess, nor tremble under the burden of proper etiquette.  She could pretend to be so dainty but it would destroy her eventually.  I will mind my manners, learn and fulfill my expected duties and no more.  I cannot be perfect, I am not…oh, I shall worry no more, I have a friend here who cares not if I am elegant or no.  Feeling more lighthearted than she had since leaving Éomer’s stallion, she plucked up a cake of her own, “That is nothing to brag of, my friend Queen…”

Arwen had managed to swallow most of the pastry, muffledly asking, “No?”  She drank from her cup in sips and wiped the bosom her dress free of crumbs.

“Not at all.” 

The Queen, able to speak now, challenged, “Then show me something worthy of bragging.”

Éowyn laughed, for it had been what she’d had in mind all along.  “This.”  Hefting her pastry, she stuffed it in her mouth, savoring the sweetness of the warm honey and chewing the delicate cake.  The Riders in the Hall took no notice; they were not renowned for table their manners and cared little about hers.  Her fingers were coated with the slick sweet, so she licked them clean in unabashed barbarity.  Imrahil stared at them both, an eyebrow raised; this time Éowyn was sure she saw a smile twitch at his lips and she felt her spirits lighten further.  Perhaps the folk in the City were not as stiff as they seemed to her. 

All she wanted now was Faramir and her brother to return.  But not before I have a boar’s head…  Éowyn smiled.  A great one with tusks and whiskers and…perhaps rubies for eyes to show its fierceness…  She laughed aloud and Arwen and Imrahil gazed at her quizzically. 

The next morning Éowyn held her breath, attention fixed upward.  She loved this, the thrill, the sheer openness of the land around them and the wind that made her eyes water.  Above their small party, no more than a blink of brown in the waving grasses of the fields beyond Edoras, the released hawk’s wings beat as steadily as war drums.  The creature’s beak pointed high, a curved spear to strike the heavens as it climbed up and up.  Around their masters’ legs and the horses’ muscled haunches, the dogs whined and strained eagerly against their leashes, long tails wagging in anticipation.

        The older man’s face was creased from the weather.  He spoke softly, asking permission.  “My Lady?”

        Éowyn picked up Byrga’s reins, feeling the grey come aware.  “Release them.” 

        The quietness was filled with the men’s cries to the dogs and the dogs’ yelps as they raced across the field, noses to the earth, scenting.  The foothills were near, in which thickets of trees hid her true goal--boar.  But first, in case they were unable to bring down one of the elusive, fierce creatures, far above the hawk had reached a height and circled, looking for signs of prey.  Éowyn watched it, shading her eyes, imagining they looked very small and pitiful.  We are its masters…yet we must look so insignificant...  Beside her, Arwen stirred in her borrowed men’s saddle; the Queen had only a sidesaddle and Éowyn had little liked the thought of her having to ride a hunt in one of those clumsy things. 

“What are we doing tonight?”

        She glanced away from the hawk and then back up, finding its tiny and waiting form.  “What do you mean?”

        The Queen frowned, and finally asked, “Well…what did you do while Éomer was in the City?”

        She smiled.  “I wasn’t in Edoras long enough to do anything.”  She counted days in her head and her smile brightened, “They should be back tomorrow, the next day at the latest.  We don’t have time for much.”  Arwen opened her mouth but Éowyn lifted her arm, “Look!”

        The hawk must have found something, for it folded its wings and dropped, a silent arrow sent from a giant’s bow.  The falconers mounted quickly, huntsmen calling the dogs with their short horns as they did.  Putting her heels to Byrga’s side, she felt the gelding plunge forward, felt his eagerness to run in the way that he sprang, nearly rearing as his powerful hindquarters surged; all four hooves left the ground and she gripped his solid barrel with her legs.  Arwen’s horse was a grey, too, but that was the sole similarity.  It was a mare and so lightly built Éowyn could scarce believe the animal held the Queen’s minor weight.  Glancing back over her shoulder, she watched it try and keep with Byrga’s huge strides; after a week in the barn the normally serene gelding was wild with excess energy.  The mare was finely made, running easily within his thicker shadow.  Light-boned and tall without much muscle, she was all long legs with a narrow frame.  Éowyn sat up, asking Byrga to slow; the better to watch this elven bred animal move on those delicate, spider-like legs.  The differences interested her greatly—as a member of the noble house, she’d read the Stud Book, the only real book in all the Mark, and knew the basic theory of breeding and or identifying a good horse.  This new specimen was fascinating.

Éowyn scrutinized the grey mare.  She was a horse useless to any but a Lady and even then, not one that rode hard.  Her action was buoyant and her good, hard-looking hooves hardly touched the soil; her elegantly molded head was high, small, inward curved ears pricked and long tail lifted.  There would be no market for her in Rohan; horses had to be useful, had to be able to pull a cart or carry a Rider into battle or herd animals or even tolerate children.  This mare looked ill suited to do anything but float about with her Lady on her back.  However…  The Queen’s horse appeared to have a tractable disposition; Arwen was riding comfortably, hardly seeming to have to touch the reins or do anything to control her mare. 

A gentle disposition was something so highly valued that other flaws might be overlooked.  Perhaps that was why the Queen rode this dainty creature.  Or this is an example of an elven horse.  Interesting.  She turned back, scanning the brown and dried grasses for the dogs’ waving tails; Byrga knew his duty and galloped strongly, following her slight touch on the reins.  Here, out under the sun, the full brunt of the drought was seen—the ground was dry, hard and dusty, the grass thinned and yellowed and there was an abundance of hardy, yet inedible weeds.  Briar plants were thick as they neared the shadow of the wooded foothills, brambles sticking to their mounts’ tails and winter-feathered legs.  Éowyn glanced up at the sky, wishing for a cloud to mar the perfect, intense blue. 

        Within the withered grass, the hawk crouched over a rabbit, shifting warily on its talons and flapping its wings as they rode to a halt, showing the creamy under-feathers.  She looked into its golden eyes, fascinated by their fierce sheen as the bird moved protectively over its victim and hissed a warning.  Immediately, its masters gathered it gently up from the kill, pacifying the rapacious creature with bits of fresh meat.  The hawk tore into the red, dangling flesh with its curved beak, using its sharp talons to hold the meat and gulping it while sitting on the older man’s heavily gloved fist.  The bird tolerated his caresses, blinking keen and pitiless.

The younger man lifted the hare and held it for her to see; his gaze lingered on her hair, then dropped in a more appropriate manner.  Self-conscious, Éowyn nodded and resisted the urge to run her hands over herself; many of the servants or folk that had not seen her yet stared.  The hare was plenty fat enough for supper.  Her hair flew over her shoulder with a gust of wind and held her gaze for a moment; the reddish-brown color was still surprising to her.  I like it…Éowyn tucked her hair back behind her ears.

        The younger man spoke, “Elra, min Ides?”  He put the rabbit into his saddlebags and patted one of the hounds that restlessly circled their group.  The older man held the passive hawk, the small leather hood replaced upon its dark, fine head.

        She smiled and shook her head, resisting the urge to touch her hair.  “Ná, se eofor nu.”  The huntsman called the dogs to attention with his horn, readying them for the real prey. 

        Boars were a challenge since the great pigs able to run as swiftly as the horses that chased them, but with more agility and the added threat of their sharp tusks that could easily slash open a delicate equine leg.  Éowyn gathered her reins, determined to keep a firm hold on Byrga.  She glanced over at Arwen, “Keep close.”

        The Queen nodded and they went, the dogs crying as they dashed back and forth, trying to find scent of a boar.  Following at a well-controlled run, Éowyn hoped for a male to hang his head on her wall.  Ah, what shall my husband say…she’d seen no trophies in Faramir’s quarters, naught but dust and books and candles, hardly the rooms of a warrior at all.  That shall change soon...very soon.  Laughing aloud with giddy delight, Éowyn urged Byrga forward.

        She imagined both her brother and her beloved would have difficulties with it.  Serves them right for leaving me here alone.

Translations:

(Q) Hótuli, Rusco--Come away, Rusco

(Q) Lle olca…--You wicked…

-Falewende…Is ná eower locfeax.  Blæwen…Is ná eower êage.  Ge eart ná of min, Ac ge eart min ánum ond á ðý deórwyrþran.—Yellow, is not your hair.  Blue is not your eyes.  You are not of mine, But you are mine alone and ever the more precious.  (hee, full length song later, I promise!)  J

-Hwa donne ge hete me?  —Why do you hate me?

-Ge wiston—You should know.

-Ic nà do gyman ge ond eower hete.—I do not care about you and your hate.

-Ge maegest cuman ond bist beatan…eft.—You have my permission to come and be beaten…again.

-Ge ná wilt habban hira helm awa.—You will not have their protection always.

-Hwa eart ge gan?—Where are you going?

-Ic ná donne neodlaðu bealo híe—I do not desire to harm them.

-Ic eom leof—I am in agreement.

-Ærdæg oðer?—Next daybreak?

-Ic wille cuman mid nænig.  Ge—I will come with none.  You?

-Bearn—children

-Ealdor—elder

Ge canst ætstandan—You can stop.

-Ætywan me, Lytle Bregu!  Ætywan me ge canst—Show me, Little Prince!  Show me you can!

-God ges

la—Good fortune

-Ic bonne bæc—I will be back

Ic grete þe, Thorn—I greet you, Thorn

Elra, min Ides—Another, my Lady?

Ná, se eofor nu—No, the boar now.

BTW, Éomer’s got Faramir in kinda a ¾ Nelson here, for those who are curious.  And, I might add, if you see a pic of this it’s VERY hoyay and immediately conjured up every slash fic I’ve ever read.

LOL!