The mood of the camp was different, something Faramir had noted the moment he’d awoken.  It puzzled him, as it was not as strong as jubilation, nor as bright as happiness, but being more of a lightening of the general atmosphere than anything.  After studying the Riders, he eventually attributed it to their leave-taking of the encampment and felt his own delight at the prospect.  His students still seemed less animated, but Faramir was pleased to note that Gaer had recovered somewhat, if his teasing was any indication.

        “We could name him…Byrhtwold?“  The Rohir had begun with a statement but ended on a question.  In reply, Nier wordlessly shook his head and jerked on the laces of his boots, tightening them.  Accusingly, Gaer turned to Faramir and said, “You’re too difficult to name.”

The giant draft horses were being harnessed near the lean-to.  The robust men of the Mark were dwarfed in comparison as they ducked under the animals’ necks and moved around them to buckle the thick, smoothly worn pieces of leather.  Faramir watched the quiet, enormous horses between packing his few and mainly soiled belongings into his saddlebags.  “What happened to…” He’d almost forgotten the name, “Larcwide?”

His redheaded friend snorted.  “That was days ago.”

Nier sighed; by all indications he was fully ready to depart, sitting on a stump with his packed saddle and bags canted beside him.  “What names run in your blood, Faramir?”  He gave Gaer a pointed look.

He thought, frowning.  “My brother’s meant ‘precious jewel’, my father’s meant ‘lithe, lank’, my mother’s was…” His frown deepened as Faramir stuffed his dirty clothing into the depths of his bags and withdrew his cloak.  It was wrinkled and he shook the green garment hopefully but to no avail.  Below it, in the dim confines of the pack, the mail he’d been given gleamed coolly.  “There is no exact translation…gold and leaf?  It is an elvish name from the south…” He amended, “Further south, near the Sea.” 

“Well.  Hroþgold?”  Gaer shook his head, sounding frustrated.  Speaking almost to himself, he muttered, “Ná…ná ge, Faramir.”

Trying to be helpful, he added, “My forefathers bore my brother and father’s names.  My folk tend to name ourselves after our ancestors.”  Faramir thought back, but shook his head in vain.  “My lineage is long, the names are many and I fear few would translate right or be fit for me.”

“Aldlaf?  Cuþlaf?”  Every name was instantly dismissed with a scoffing noise from either Gaer himself or Nier.  There was a brief silence, in which Faramir could sense the two Rohir thinking and he was both amused and amazed at the amount of thought they gave to the subject.  He folded his cloak and carefully replaced it in his saddlebags, as the day seemed growing hotter with the sun’s rising; his mail and things were fairly balanced and Faramir jerked on the buckles, making sure they would not come undone during the journey back.  Back, he thought happily and felt his face stretch in a grin.  Back to Edoras and to my Éowyn.  Not long ago, Faramir wouldn’t have guessed the thought of the golden roof would have provoked such joy in his heart, but it did.  Ah, it is not Edoras itself, but what lies within, a fair treasure hidden behind crude wooden walls…  Soon he would sweep that treasure away to a place more fitting to house it.

Gaer eventually broke the quiet between them with what sounded like annoyance; “My people’s names do not have anything to do with jewels or leaves or such silly things.  Ours tell bravery, hardness of spirit…” He trailed off and sighed, then said again critically.  “You’re too difficult.”

Faramir smiled; with the absence of Oswyn, he expected nothing could break his light-hearted mood.  “I apologize.”  Then he laughed, “My forefathers, the Stewards Beren and Túrin were not named for leaves or gold.  They bore names of mastery…” He glanced up, “Held by other men before them.”  Only one other man of Gondor had borne his name and he’d been widely proclaimed a headstrong fool, oft cursed for his actions.  His lightheartedness wavered and his hands stopped, smoothing the worn leather of the saddle.  Faramir had not thought of the man who’d borne his name in a very long time.  More than one father preferred his eldest, I suppose…why he’d been named for a King’s son and not for one of the Stewards or heroes of old still escaped him, though.  And there is none I can ask…  At least he stood a chance of knowing the motive behind his Rohirric name.  Faramir glanced sideways at his two Rohirric friends.  I hope.

Nier chuckled while behind him men stamped out the small fire with care, using the pot to smother it with stream water.  “He is Aichus nu æt our Hlaford.”

“Gea.”  Gaer laughed and asked.  “Who were you named for?”

He sighed, “A King’s son, the younger of two and a foolish one whom, out of loyalty and love of his kin and adventure, left our land’s bereft of a Lord.  He was one of the last of the line of Kings.”  The Rohirrim exchanged glances. 

Gaer clucked his tongue, “Bad luck, like I said your name was.”

Not sure if he were bemused or not at such disrespect, Faramir looked out to the narrow valley, seeking Thorn’s bulky frame and was surprised to see that the gelding was not his usual distance from the camp.  Good.  He wouldn’t have to walk so far today.  “What does Aichus mean?” 

The big horses were harnessed now, iron buckles shining dully, the light from them glinting into his eyes as several of the Riders guided the drafts back between the shafts of the giant wagons.  Their voices were soft, hands light on the long lengths of reins.  The big animals moved quietly and obediently to what seemed like almost no pressure at all, ears cocked to hear the men’s quiet commands.  He watched them, not as used to seeing this task as he was the saddling of a horse.  More of the thick leather harness was produced and Faramir hoped they were nearly readied.  He wished to leave. 

“It’s a name.  Means beast of burden.”  The Rohirrim chuckled at him, sounding a bit strained, then hushed.

Once more richly garbed, Éomer had come to stand near.  He cleared his throat quietly.  Faramir looked up, as the man’s mood was unusually contemplative, giving a small jerk of his chin as his hair fell across his brow and into his eyes.  He brushed it away so that he could see clearly, noting the thin film of sweat on his temples.  It was very hot and not yet noon. 

Éomer’s eyes met his and he felt sudden nervousness and shame.  His actions weighed upon him, his foolishness of the day before in the face of the Lord of the Mark’s generosity.  Faramir felt out the man’s mind, relieved to note only the same presence of nerves and no sense of anger or feeling of a need for retribution. 

Briefly, he marveled.  Éomer had changed.

***

He took a breath, collecting himself and ordering his words the best he could.  He was giving the Steward a option; not that he wished to, but Éomer felt it would help their laboring friendship.  He was finding that he wished to do that, which brought many questions to light, but he refused to consider them at the moment.

 Overly conscious of Faramir’s questioning gaze while the two Riders politely looked away to give them the illusion of privacy, he propped one dark boot on a worn stump and leaned against his leg, saying quietly while still looking down.  “I’m giving you a choice of what to do...” Faramir didn’t respond, just appeared curious and unguarded, lifting one eyebrow in a silent gesture to go on.  He obviously had the Steward’s full attention.

Looking up, Éomer finished, “You can ride with me or them.”  As he waited for a reply, his green cloak was flattened to his back by a welcome breeze.

The Steward did not immediately answer and when he did his face was creased by a thoughtful frown.  “What’s the difference?”

“A few hours worth.”  Elaborating, he said, “I’ll go ahead to Edoras and ride fast,” He nodded at the big wagons where a few Riders swarmed like ants, checking every buckle and fastener of the harnesses and making sure of the security of both the wagons and animals.  “They’ll be slower loaded down like that.  You’d probably get in by sundown.”  Éomer hoped the man would see what he offered—a chance to be with Éowyn swiftly.  This is all I can give…for the moment.  He felt inwardly saddened.  He would have to give much more once they were back within the walls of Edoras.  Straightening, Éomer asked firmly, “What will you do?”

To his surprise, Faramir smiled and shook his head, expression regretful.  He sounded content, if a little sad, glancing at the rutted trail as he said, “I’ll go with them.”

He hadn’t expected this answer and Éomer was utterly baffled.  He would have thought the Steward would have leapt at a chance to return quickly.  Whatever he wishes…  At a loss, Éomer just shrugged.  “All right.  As you wish.” 

***

“You are a stupid man.”  The moment the Lord of the Mark was out of ear range, Gaer reproached him severely.  Nier stared at him, mouth curled and shook his head.

“I cannot believe it.”

Faramir laughed and gestured at them both.  “Why?”

Gaer declared.  “If the Lady was mine I would have kissed his boots at giving me such an offer.”  The Rohir snorted as he stood and grasped up his horse’s bridle, the reins swinging loosely, “Ride with us…idiot.  We walk the road back.  It is long and dull,” He looked up at the bright, merciless sky, red hair falling back, “And it will be hot.  Ge eart dysig, Faramir.”

He laughed again, sitting his saddle upright and grabbing Thorn’s halter.  “It won’t take that long.”  The rope was rough in his hands, grey hairs sticking to it.  Faramir smiled.  He really did not wish to ride as fast as Éomer was likely to go.  When I arrive in Edoras I don’t want to be too exhausted to…what?  Faramir frowned a little.  He hoped Éowyn’s frame of mind had improved with his absence, that how she’d felt, a combination of shyness and wretchedness, she would feel no longer.  He hung onto his dream fiercely, remembering her laugh and delighted eyes and the way she’d thrown herself against him.  But that was just a dream…

Now he was just a little apprehensive about returning, about immersing himself in all the complications he’d left behind and Faramir said firmly, reinforcing himself.  “It won’t take that long.”

They walked into the valley, halters or bridles in their hands, leaving their tack behind; Faramir pausing just a moment to grab up a handful of grain—Thorn seemed to come to him for the treat, at least.  Nier brightened.  “We can teach you some of the songs of our people.”

Gaer smiled, but a trifle sourly.  “He doesn’t sing.”

Nier looked at him for confirmation and his expression became utterly incredulous when he got it.  “I don’t.”  In the valley, Thorn had lifted his head.  Faramir whistled softly and the grey's ears flicked forward, though he didn’t move.  Nier said slowly, 

“You cannot be that bad.”

He sighed.  “I am.”

Gaer had moved off to collect his chestnut; the blonde Rohir grinned.  “Prove it.”

“No.”

“You are difficult.”  Nier stared at him, and then strode away to find his horse.  Faramir chuckled under his breath.  He was pleased by Thorn taking three small steps to meet him, dark muzzle already extended and snuffling for the oats in his hand.  Faramir let him lick his palm clean before he haltered the horse, scratching the thick grey neck.  Thorn’s eye met his, cumbersome head bobbing for a moment and then gelding began walking forward.  He pulled on the rope, “Hey,” thinking the horse was moving away from him, but it quickly became clear Thorn was just coming to stand in a position so that he was nearer to his withers and could mount with ease.  The horse turned to look at him, almost confused.  Pleasantly surprised, Faramir praised, “Good lad, good lad!” and swung aboard the broad, cream-colored back. 

By the time he returned to camp, Éomer was already mounted on his bald-faced stallion and, guards flanking him, riding out of it.  Dust rising under his horse’s hooves, the Lord of the Mark gave him a nod and Faramir returned it before the great standard of Rohan eclipsed his view. 

“Dysig.”  Gaer said forcefully, tacking his chestnut swiftly.  His friend gave him a sideways look, revealing a small grin.  “Listen to me, I pegged you as a fool the first day.” 

“Ná.”  He didn’t tease back, just patted Thorn’s neck and steered him to where the saddle waited, scrutinizing his own mind—he truly was a little apprehensive about returning to Éowyn.  He hoped that in the time it took to return to Edoras, the feeling would fade; Faramir did not wish for her to know.  It would hurt me…it would hurt her.  He slid from Thorn and absently leaned his arm over the grey’s neck, head down, thinking to himself.  His dream had not contained an unhappy woman and he fervently hoped to find that Meduseld wouldn’t either.  I’m not sure how much more I could stand…

Frowning, no longer so light-hearted, Faramir swung his saddle and blanket over Thorn’s back and began to tighten his girth, absentmindedly side-stepping with the gelding.  He had all the long way back to Edoras to worry.  Some diversion would be welcome…

His students were saddling their own mounts and he looked at them with a mixture of hope and nervousness.  He still had things to settle with them; unfortunately he had no ideas on how to go about it.

“Faramir…” 

“What?”  Gaer had not exaggerated; they were walking slowly behind the carts full of salt.  He supposed they were to protect the precious cargo, but really, Faramir doubted there were any who would fight for it.  He glanced around at the hills.  The landscape was empty, winds blowing with a lonely sound.  Eyeing the trees, he estimated they were less than halfway to the Golden Hall.

“Sing with us.”

He’d had to fend off this command or entreaty (it was impossible to tell which) several times already.  “No.”  The Rohirrim had been singing or talking amongst themselves the entire journey.  Faramir had ridden, mostly in silence, brooding over his feelings about returning to Edoras.  He was overjoyed, of course, but also leery, which bothered him a great deal.  I should be happy, no matter the…the difficulties with Éowyn.  These difficulties will not last forever; she has come so far…and, perhaps, if I cease pushing her…  He felt guilty and the feeling was increased by his inability to come up with anything to say to his students.  Faramir stared at Thorn’s ears as they flopped with his slow strides.  The horse had been perfectly behaved, so far. 

“Why not, Láréow?”  Scef looked at him; the boy’s face was filled with real curiosity.

He sighed.  “I cannot.”

Gaer interrupted.  “So you say.”

These Rohirrim were like to dogs over a bone.  “It is true.  I am not…pleasant to hear.” 

“So you say.”  Nier grinned under his crooked nose.

Faramir ground his teeth and surrendered.  “Fine, fine.”  He added, “I don’t know the words.”

“They are simple…” Gaer turned in the saddle, “You are just making excuses.”

He smiled.  “Yes, I am.”  His students rode loosely around them and they were listening curiously.

“Coward.”  It was friendly and amused. 

Nier grinned, “Just sing…what I tell you.”  His face turned suddenly roguish.  Se lyft is má beorht…”

The five lads and Gaer echoed him with gusto; Faramir murmured along reluctantly.  None laughed at him though, and he relaxed a little. 

“Min eoh is má smeþes.  Ic ná aswefed for þæom…” Faramir let himself get a little louder, wincing but still feeling himself become a part of the group, which made him be aware of how little he felt that way and how much he wished he did.  Nier snickered before his next line.  “Se sweoster æt Gaer aridan me eall niht…”

Gaer lunged at him and missed, of course, as Nier quickly pulled his horse away and into Thorn.  They jolted roughly as Gaer bellowed something in Rohirric that Faramir got only half translated before it shocked him into laughter.  The two Riders shouted at each other as his leg caught Nier’s.  Their stirrups locked and Thorn’s ears slapped flat as he was jostled further.  In a rage, the grey snaked out his cumbersome head, sinking his great, yellowed teeth into the crest of Nier’s gelding’s neck.  Nier’s horse jerked away, saliva gleaming on its mane as Faramir yanked on the reins, appalled.  “Thorn!”  The gelding tossed his nose and snorted loudly; he was obviously irritated, ears tightly pinned, eye glaring.

It took a few moments to establish equilibrium, as Nier was laughing, Gaer was obviously fuming and the Riders in front of the cart or beside it were turning back to look at them.  Faramir chuckled under his breath.  Nier complained loudly, though he was grinning, “I jested!”

Gaer’s face was dark.  “Min sweoster is a god, cystig wíf.”

“She is a god wíf…” Once more Nier’s expression turned playful.  “Æt se acer, æt se bærn, æt se bedde…” 

This time Thorn was knocked sideways with the impact and the eyes of Nier’s horse rolled whitely in their sockets, as it did not wish to approach the threat of Thorn’s bared teeth, but had to.  Nier and Gaer were shouting and the three horses were tossing their heads, pawing and squealing in distress and anger as they tried to separate.  Cursing both the men, Faramir slapped the ends of his reins at Nier to get him away, as Thorn was already trying to bite the Rider’s mount again.  The grey lunged repeatedly; muzzle wrinkled and even kicked out a few times, his back rising beneath the saddle, but luckily hit nothing but empty air.

They rode in silence for a while, Nier snickering occasionally, but Gaer’s face remained stormy.  Faramir moved Thorn closer to his students, rubbing the gelding’s withers in an attempt to soothe away the horse’s anger.  Ahead of them, the Riders began to sing and, after a few moments he joined in, this time deliberately loudly.  At his tuneless rendition, often missing words and even more often, getting the accents wrong, Gaer smiled.  When his redheaded friend joined him in the chorus, Faramir grinned to himself in triumph.  They rode up a hill with the giant drafts straining at their harnesses while both men and lads sang loudly and cheerfully.

“Ealu æt a weorþe mann,

Ic fohten eall se dæg,

Seo gold æt wíf seo folgiaþ me forma

Ic peorþ drenc!”

It was then that the wheel of the second cart broke with a loud crack, slewing the end of the wagon sideways and sending coarsely woven bags of salt rolling and bouncing in a small flood down the trail.  The horses reacted first; Thorn jumped the rebounding, sliding sacks, throwing Faramir back in the saddle.  He grabbed the thick, dark mane, holding on tightly and bouncing painfully as the grey bolted off the trail.  Men riding ahead of the second cart shouted queries and horses snorted in high, frightened breaths.  No Riders had been driving the giant drafts; they used voice commands instead to guide them and the big horses stumbled to an awkward halt under the shouts of multiple men.  Their harness was twisted and a Rider grasped their bridles quickly to stop their nervous movements.

As they halted their panicked mounts, the Riders’ faces grew exasperated and many gathered around the cart, now canted sideways, to look at the broken wheel.  Faramir waited, stroking Thorn’s neck.  He could feel the horse’s fast breathing and his own alarm as it dwindled.  Leaning slightly downward, he murmured into the tipped back ears, “Easy…be at ease, Thorn.”

Suddenly the Riders stopped talking amongst themselves and the first cart began moving again.  Some busily unharnessed the draft horses pulling the second, broken cart and when Faramir glanced up again from Thorn’s ears, he started—the Rohirrim were looking at him.  One spoke in a low voice to Gaer who nodded and steered his chestnut closer.  “We’ll have to go back.”

Being stared at unnerved him a little.  “What?”

“He is the biggest and can fit the harness the best.”  Gaer nodded at Thorn.  “He’ll have to pull the cart here, but…” He sighed deeply, “We have to go back to the village and get one.” 

        “Back?”  Faramir was dismayed.  “You can’t repair that?”  He knew nothing about the wheels of a cart. 

        “No.”  Gaer turned his horse.  “They will wait while we go back and fetch another cart.  Come.”

        He tried, but Thorn balked instantly.  Faramir clucked and rocked in the saddle, using his legs to squeeze and eventually the grey moved, though it was very reluctant.  He didn’t blame the horse in the slightest.  Glancing back wistfully at the slowly descending trail, he saw his students dismount and begin to pick up the scattered bags of salt.  Faramir looked up at the blazing sky, and then at Gaer’s back as the Rider trotted up the long path back to the little village.  He sighed and urged Thorn into a jog.

        Perhaps he should have ridden with Éomer after all and risked being sore and tired…it looked like he would be both by the end of this, anyhow.

***

Éowyn swept her dark hair out of her face and rubbed her sweating palms on her trousers, breathing fast as they halted in the wood.  The hunt was not going well.  Boar was clever prey, often confusing the hounds by mixing their trails with other boar so that the dogs continually chased new and fresh quarries while never resting themselves.  At the moment the hounds were flat on their bellies, having been recalled once more by the horns.  They panted; pink tongues lolling and bouncing, streams of spittle covering their forelegs and the earth.  Arwen nudged her grey mare closer; the elven creature was lathered just as heavily as Byrga, proving no difference in stamina between the types.  Éowyn looked at the mare tiredly.  The Queen gave her a smile, seeming less wearied than her mount. 

“Min Ides?”  The men were asking to go on.  Their faces were flushed.  It was nearly noon, and though they were in the shade of the trees it was still stiflingly hot.

“Berthwil.”  She was tired and sticky, man’s shirt sticking between her shoulder blades, and her inner legs were chafed from having to grip for so long; under her Byrga’s sides moved with his breathing and his head was lowered slightly.  She could see that his ears were slick and shining with sweat; putting her hand behind the saddle, Éowyn found the thick blanket was nearly soaked.  Byrga stood motionless and the other horses were no different; taking the momentary rest for granted, none moved except to swish a tail.

Arwen nudged her mount closer and Byrga flattened his black-tipped ears, not liking his space invaded; the mare replied in kind and the two horses stood displeased while they spoke in hushed voices.  The Queen looked curious.  “What did you say to them?”

“I said in a moment.  In a moment we will try again…” When she would call to cease, Éowyn was unsure.  She sighed and stretched in the saddle; a man waited at her flank, carrying her spears.  Bows were useless against the thick hide, or at least any small bow that she could draw back.  Vaguely, the memory of Faramir’s longbow came to her, how great and powerful it had seemed, and Éowyn sighed.  She wished he were with her, but likely if he were he would not allow her to hunt.

He said he would take me…

Ah, that was for duck…there is no danger in a duck…that made her smile, though in a melancholy fashion.

The men were waiting and she reluctantly turned her thoughts back to more pertinent matters.  I want a boar…  She could hear the panting of the dogs and men interspersed with the horses’ blowing through pinkened, widened nostrils.  We shall try once more, but only that.  The hounds were nearly exhausted and all the animals needed water and rest.  To keep them running would be cruel.  She took a deep breath and said firmly.  “Com,” The men looked up, “Ac, áne má.”  Translating more softly for Arwen, she said, “We shall try once more.”  The Queen nodded.

The men and dogs fanned out again, the hounds’ bodies darting and wheeling through the sparse brush, their multi-colored coats dappled by the shade of the trees.  She kneed Byrga close, leaning up when he jumped a small log and sinking back into the saddle as he jogged.  The huntsmen were quickest, their mounts’ dripping white lather to the forest floor and crowding the dogs’ heels.  They went a long way, twisting and turning around the boles of trees, down small hills and around high brush.  The land rose steadily with bushy thickets that closed in on them and, whenever they parted, gave view to the White Mountains that hung above.  Birds flapping and fluttering in alarm, the dogs found a stream and threw themselves into it, spraying water everywhere.  Éowyn rode Byrga into the little brook, letting the gelding drink briefly while wishing for a drink herself. 

Sudden crying interspersed with deep bays meant the hounds had found a trail.  The huntsmen sounded their horns, signaling the dogs onward and Éowyn pushed Byrga up the stream bank, gripping his mane in one hand as he bounded upwards in rough jumps.  Not wanting to give the boar any time to trick the dogs again, she shouted, urging the grey gelding to fly through the thick brush and dodge the gnarled trees in his path.  He was light to her aids, checking himself and twisting at her slightest signal as she leaned this way and that so her knees would not be bashed against the trunks of trees.  Bursting out of a thicket and into the sunshine, Byrga flew over the dry grasses and she could feel the heat of his skin even through the saddle.  Her men matched her pace, their faces strained and eager as they leaned over their mounts’ withers.  They, too, wanted something to show for this long hunt.

As they sped up with the hounds’ cries growing louder and louder to signal their approach to the boar, apropos of nothing, Éowyn glanced back.  Arwen had vanished.  Terribly alarmed, she checked Byrga sharply, nearly sliding up out of the saddle and onto his neck as he slammed to a dusty halt; the men looked at her, briefly milling in confusion, but she pushed them onward, “Gá, gá!”  Pushing her sweat and dye darkened hair out of her eyes, Éowyn called out urgently, “Arwen!”  Only the man that carried her spears remained by her side.

There was no answer but the slowly fading sound of hooves, breathing, dogs’ yelps and men’s high, urging cries.  Reins tight, she wheeled Byrga in a circle to look all around herself; the gelding sensed her unease and pulled on the bit, trying to rejoin the hunters.  To his mind there was reassurance in a group.  Impatient, she corrected him and held him still.  “Ná…”

Where is she?  Behind her, there was nothing in sight but a few meager copses, the thicker woods that surrounded the stream and empty, sun-bleached grasslands.  Perhaps the Queen had slipped past her unseen.  There was certainly nothing about here that she could see.  Hopeful, Éowyn allowed Byrga to gallop onward; the gelding’s ears were pricked, following the sounds of pursuit as he ran. 

At the sight of a lightly built horse running through the trees behind the other hunters, she shouted, “Arwen?”  The Queen turned her mare.  She looked confused as Byrga plunged through brush to jog nearby; both horses pinned their ears.  “Where were you?”

The Queen was flushed, asking, “You ride first…for the kill?”

Éowyn frowned, perplexed.  “Of course.”

“Ah.”  Arwen’s confusion cleared.  “The women in Gondor do not.  They come after.”

She had no time to ponder that rather horrifying statement.  “Come.”  Éowyn let Byrga jog as a thought occurred to her, “Can you throw a spear?”

The Queen smiled and shook her head.  “I’ve never done so.”

A boar hunt was not the right place for lessons.  Signaling the man that rode at her flank with her spear held at ready in his hand to stay close, Éowyn smiled tightly.  “In the Mark, I ride to the kill and I aid in the killing.”  What she would do in the City remained to be seen.  Ahead, the changing sound of the dogs meant they’d trapped something.  “Come swiftly but, since you are weaponless, stay behind us where it is safer.”  Clucking to Byrga, she urged the gelding forward. 

There were three boars trapped in a small clump of trees, all young males and all furious; their tiny eyes gleamed redly as they snorted, cloven hooves stamping and clawing at the dry earth, causing dirt to mat their coats.  Éowyn halted at the generous distance the huntsman had given the fierce beasts and examined them—they looked to weigh heavily, well fleshed with nice manes and thick bristles.  Because they were young their tusks were shorter and slimmer than she would have liked, but the smears of red on them proved they were quite sharp.  Either way I’m not hunting the rest of the day just for an older boar…she knew her limits and she was already wearied.  The flesh of these will be tenderer, anyhow.

        Dogs rushed forward snarling only to leap out of the way of the boars’ charge.  Some of the hounds were not quick enough and were slashed by the tusks and, yelping high-pitched in pain, they retreated slowly and clumsily to the huntsman’s ring.  Éowyn watched as dispassionately as she could while some of the dogs, injured beyond help, were held by their masters and killed with a swift pull of a sharp knife across their throats.  For an instant she felt ill, but pushed it out of her mind in disgust.  She had seen it before.  Thankfully none were Théodred’s hounds, but more the smaller and more compact dogs her people used.  Like Rusco would have grown to be…  The Queen watched also but she turned her fair face away from the younger huntsman as they gently picked up and removed the dead dogs from the ring of men.  Later, once the hunt was finished, the animals would have a cairn built of rocks to honor their loyal service.

Hunting such murderously tempered and well-armed game could be ugly; Éowyn told herself she was used to this and to quit being squeamish.  Impatient, she waved her spearman closer and took one of the four spears he carried for her.  Barbed and terribly sharp, the head of the spear would detach in the prey’s struggle, leaving the shaft to fall to the ground and be reused.  If the boar escaped, the dogs could trail the blood easily.  Hefting the first of her spears, Éowyn squeezed Byrga with her legs, commanding him to advance. 

The Queen looked at her from her position outside the ring of men and Éowyn said quietly, “Stay here.”  Then, voice stern now and the voice of a hunter, no longer soft like a woman’s in the slightest, she ordered her men.  “Nu. Forþ.”  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Arwen gaze at her, almost startled, but Éowyn paid it no attention.  All her concentration was focused upon the three boars, the spear in her hand and the feel of Byrga beneath her.

The huntsmen followed her, raising their own weapons and the dogs, perceiving that now was the time to attack, rushed forward with muzzles wrinkled and their teeth bared to their pink gums.  The boars squealed and roared, but the dogs were too many and they were too encircled to flee.

They reared and twisted sideways, their manes and facial bristles stiffly upright with rage, using their cloven hooves to battle as much as their sharp tusks.  Heavy as a man or more so, the boars cut down many dogs, crushing them to the ground and slashing with their tusks at their unprotected backs.  The noises of animal pain and protest were near deafening.  Éowyn threw her first spear carefully and whooped as it hit the mark, burying itself deep into the flank of the nearest boar.  At her cry the hunters threw, too, filling the air with the long and deadly shafts.  With grisly thuds of impact, the barbed points drove deeply, one spilling the entrails of a boar onto the earth as it caught in the beast’s struggles.  The dogs grabbed the long, grey-green ropes and tugged as the animal screamed in agony and turned on them to fight as much as it could before it died.

        The air smelled of green growth, blood, sweat and feces; the roots of the trees were bared in the boar’s thrashings and the trunks of many were stippled with what could have been mud or blood.  The horses milled, ears flat and the whites of their eyes showing as they were urged forward.  Red blood pouring through its gaping mouth, the gutted boar fell and the dogs focused upon the remaining boar, stopped from ripping into the dead animal only by a sharply commanding blow of the horn. 

        She put out her hand and her spearman gave her another spear.  In the second it took for her to firmly grasp the wooden shaft, Éowyn yelped in surprise, feeling Byrga lunge sideways to escape one of the boars as it charged desperately through the circle of horse legs and snarling dogs.  Its flanks and sides were studded with spear points, brilliant drops of blood dabbling onto the dusty ground.  The grey gelding went up into the air, twisting on his hind hooves to avoid the tusks of the boar and her leg was dashed against the bole of a tree from knee to ankle.  The tree’s trunk was green and yielded under the force of impact, lessening the blow, but she cried out as her left leg numbed then burned in exquisite, blooming pain.  Gripping Byrga’s mane tightly and curling her good leg around his barrel to keep herself in the saddle, Éowyn’s vision blurred with tears and she held onto her spear only by sheer will power.

Her spearman looked concerned, reaching to take Byrga by the bridle as she tried to recover.  “Min Ides…”

“Ic eom fægere.”  Gasping and furious, she ordered, hot-blooded, “Abreát hit!  Abreát hit nu!  Ic wille habban his hafela!  Nu!”  Three of the huntsmen wheeled their mounts and followed the bloody trail of the loose boar obediently, some of the dogs running eagerly before them.  Those men that remained gazed at her in concern and Éowyn straightened in her saddle, lying as composedly as she could, “Ic eom fægere.”  Her leg hurt a great deal but she ignored it, lifting her spear and clucking to get Byrga to move. 

The last boar was swiftly killed, encircled by dogs with their spears raining down until one hit a vital mark and the beast sank to the earth, bemired in its and its kin’s blood.  Slumping, Éowyn ventured to move her foot in her stirrup and winced.  She hadn’t broken her left leg, just bruised it terribly.  Byrga flinched when she moved it again, making her guess he’d hurt his side when they’d hit the tree.  Leaning carefully down, she slid her leg forward so that the stirrup no longer covered the area and felt gently, fingers probing the grey coat to feel for a broken rib. 

Luckily Éowyn found none, just mild heat and softness.  Only a bruise…  She was relieved.  Byrga stood quiet under her as the hunters began assessing the dogs’ wounds, gathering the used spear shafts, gutting the boars and making a makeshift travois to carry the heavy animals back to Edoras.  Arwen came close, her bright eyes concerned, “Are you hurt?”  In the distance there was the blow of a horn—a signal that the third boar had been slain.

“Just a bruise…I’ll be sore for a few days.”  The Queen frowned and Éowyn asserted quickly, in a false voice of indifference, “No more.” 

“Good…it seemed like a hard blow.”

“The tree bent under our weight,” Patting Byrga’s shoulder, she smiled reassuringly, “It was not as hard as it looked.” 

Arwen said nothing.

***

Gaer rode swiftly and Faramir followed him all the way back, passing their camp at a run.  The horses were breathing hard, necks wet with sweat as they galloped side by side down the valley, the return trip having taken much less time.  Slowing to a jog on the narrower, heavily rutted trail to the village, Gaer spoke, “You must help me think of something to say to the Lady the next time I see her.”

Faramir was completely baffled by this request.  “Whatever for?”

“Twice I’ve been clever…I can’t look like a dolt now.”

He snorted.  “I don’t think it matters…” Faramir grinned sideways, “She is marrying me.”

Gaer smiled a little sheepishly.  “It matters to me.”  He looked over, crookedly grinning, “Do you think I just opened my mouth and out came that talk of her beauty blinding us?” 

Faramir admitted, “Yes.” He was answered by a loud scoffing noise which made him chuckle.  Sobering, he muttered, “I don’t even know what to say to her.”

Gaer raised his eyebrows.

“I have not…” Striving for delicacy and to keep some privacy, he said, “Acted with the proper restraint…”

“Like what?”  His friend obviously found this interesting.  Thorn and Gaer’s chestnut snuffled and huffed as they jogged, dust rising softly around them while the sun bore down hard, making both men and beasts sweat freely.  Faramir wished desperately for a cloud.  “Well?”  Gaer had gotten impatient.

He sighed.  “I don’t think I’m going to be telling you…”

“Why not?”  Faramir sighed again, but was cut off.  “You don’t trust me to keep silent?”

 “I don’t think you know the meaning of the word.”  He smiled.  Gaer did not.

“I’m hurt.”  He turned his head away.

Faramir glanced at the red mane and surrendered.  Maybe Gaer held clues to Éowyn that he did not.  It was possible.  “Fine.  I…” Gaer turned back immediately, proving that he was not hurt at all.  Faramir glowered at him but finished reluctantly, “I tried to make love to her.  She…got upset.  She was not happy when I left and I fear she won’t be when I return.”

There was a contemplative quality to his Rohir friend’s face that he’d never seen before.  “And?”

“And what?”

“You did nothing else?”

Faramir thought for a while.  He and Éowyn’s talk had seemed to calm her, but she’d been upset again when he’d left…  He remembered something he’d paid little attention to at the time.  She did not like the fight.  He frowned.  “She did not like it when Oswyn and I fought.”

Gaer shrugged.  “Women don’t like a good fight.  They are strange.”  Faramir smiled a little but his friend wasn’t finished.  “No one liked that fight.”  Faramir looked at him and was reassured, “Oh, we loved how you did it, but how it was started…” Gaer shook his head, “It was shameful.  A man and his misery can only be given allowances for so long.”  His voice turned bitter and low, almost to himself, “We have put up with such from others like him ever since we returned to the City…fools looking for their sentence…”

        Faramir was lost.  “Like him?”

        Gaer looked at him sharply, and then away, obviously uncomfortable.  “It is not something we speak of.”  He clucked to his horse, making it spring into a run again.  “Come, we’re almost there.”  Thorn took more persuasion, but followed as Faramir wondered.

        They rode straight into the village, dust rising in soft tan plumes with Gaer shouting loudly, “Eower cyning behófaþ ge!” 

Halting Thorn, Faramir stared at the Rider in astonishment.  The statement carried all the authority of a soldier and his friend’s face, usually split with a grin, was self-controlled and expectant.  For the first time he found himself looking at Gaer and seeing a warrior sworn to unfaltering service.  He marveled, feeling the heat of the day and his own thirst.

        Some of the villagers spilled from the tavern and looked at them until one man asked, “Hwa deþ he behófian?”  He seemed to carry more authority than the others and they looked to him though Faramir could not see anything that differentiated him, not clothing, manner of speech or stance.  His feeling of that the deciding of leadership in Rohan was merely a chaotic and illogical choosing was reinforced.

        “A crat ond a gerédan æt seo eoh.”  Gaer pointed at Thorn.  He grinned as Faramir sat trying to translate as fast as they spoke; the villagers’ accent was much thicker.  “Get off him and get that saddle and bridle off.”  He turned back to their audience, asking in that voice of crisp authority, “Wilst ge folgodon?”

        The village man who’d spoken replied back, “Gea, min Hlaford!”  At his word, two young boys ran to jump bareback onto ponies and they were already galloping off into the hills as Faramir dismounted from Thorn.  Gaer looked very satisfied, sliding off his chestnut to loosen its girth, pat it and cheekily order Faramir, “Hurry.” 

Rolling his eyes, he’d just begun unknotting the sweat-soaked girth when two girls of the village came near with water from the well in simple earthen pitchers.  They smiled timidly, clearly offering him and Gaer the vessels.  Faramir smiled back, looking at their pretty blonde hair and wishing for his Éowyn.  Peculiarly, the girls whispered to themselves and backed far away as he took the pitcher and drained it thirstily, finding it to be delightfully cool.  They did not look at Gaer, only at him.  Bemused by their curiosity and odd shyness, Faramir remembered his manners,

        “Ic þancie þe.”  The girls giggled at him from behind their hands and Gaer snorted in obvious disdain.

        Very young boys from the village came to them and took the reins of Gaer’s chestnut; Faramir looked to his friend for confirmation before handing Thorn over.  The lads walked the horses to the well, drawing the bucket to wet cloths and squeeze over the horses’ sweaty coats to cool them.  The villagers had returned to the inn and Gaer followed them.  Faramir did as well, supposing they were waiting for the cart to arrive.  Inside he was bored, as the villagers did nothing but talk to Gaer in their thickly accented Rohirric.  Several attempted to converse with him in a friendly fashion but it was difficult on both ends and they soon gave up.

It did not take especially long before there were the sounds of hooves outside the inn and he emerged again from the comparative coolness into the baking heat of the day.  A bulky-looking horse was being unharnessed and Thorn was being harnessed in its place.  Faramir watched them put his saddle and bridle in the back of the large cart and marveled at the speed of the obedience shown by the folk around him.  Gaer mounted his gelding easily and waved at him.  “Get up there.”

Faramir climbed awkwardly into the cart and sat on the wooden seat; it was padded with stuffed leather and narrow.  He shifted on it to get comfortable, very aware he’d never driven one before.  Fully harnessed, Thorn looked displeased, his ears flat as one of the lads held his bridle until Faramir picked up the reins and nodded to him to let go.  The boy grinned toothily at him, making him smile in return.  He had an odd view of Thorn, seen from above and behind; the gelding looked at once huge and small.  The reins were very long and there were four instead of two, baffling him.  As staunchly as he could manage to look, Faramir took a deep breath and clucked loudly.  “Let’s go.”

Thorn walked slowly after Gaer’s chestnut, the cart creaking and gently rattling over ruts in the dry earth.  Ahead of them, Gaer was moving faster so Faramir clucked again to catch up.  Thorn did so, and, unprepared for the sheer roughness of his ride, Faramir bounced and grabbed the seat as Thorn began to jog.  He felt oddly out of control, as he was not in direct contact with his mount.  “Good lad…”

Still far ahead, Gaer turned to look at him and grinned.  He waved one arm sharply forward in some signal Faramir didn’t immediately understand until the chestnut jumped into a run. 

Oh, no…  He grabbed at the cart desperately, all but abandoning the reins in favor of holding on over what felt like incredibly deep ruts.  Alarmed as both their speed and the cart’s shaking did nothing but increase, he called, voice vibrating comically from all the jouncing, “E-e-a-a-s-s-y-y…” Thorn’s only response was to flick his ears, relaxing them from their pinned position. Over his head in this and well aware of it, he began to snicker.  What am I doing?  Bouncing so much he was getting sore, he cackled wildly for a while as Thorn galloped, the turns making the cart tilt precariously several times.  On one turn he felt all four wheels leave the earth before slamming back down hard enough to bounce him up into the air and Faramir heard himself screech with genuine panic, which made him laugh until he was gasping for breath.  The cart made a horrendous racket, rattling and groaning so that he could hardly hear himself think.  Snickers bursting from his stomach, he tried to make sense of the reins, only to fall back into helpless laughter.  Ahead, Gaer looked around, which made him laugh harder.  What am I doing?

         Finally sobering and finding it difficult to talk, Faramir tried an experiment.  He reached out and touched upon the animal’s mind.  Thorn.  The grey checked his stride, tossing his nose up in alarm.  Easy…  Perplexed by the overreaction, Faramir soothed more lightly, easy.  Thorn turned his head very slightly; ears not pinned at all, but instead tipped back and listening.  Easy lad…easy, be easy…

        Their pace smoothed a little as the gelding found his stride and settled into a canter.  Faramir still bounced but thankfully less now as the wheels of the great cart were firmly within the ruts.  He gathered his reins, praising, good lad…that’s it…

        Watching the landscape fly by, he wondered in amusement, what am I doing?  Thorn answered with a downward toss of his nose and a huff.  Faramir smiled.

        The return to the broken cart took longer than it had to ride to the village, of course, but they were back before he expected.  Climbing out of the cart, he was deeply glad to be on stable ground.  The first cart was long gone and the second one sat where it had broken, the drafts unharnessed and tied in the shade of the trees where the remaining Riders, horses and lads took shelter.

Standing beside a sweat-drenched Thorn, Faramir looked at the mess of leather harness and then around himself helplessly.  He had no idea of even where to begin.  Luckily, his idle students amassed to help him. 

        Leodthiain took charge, tapping buckles as he moved rapidly around Thorn.  “Her, her, ond her Láréow.”

        Faramir followed the instructions wearily and was glad when they’d freed his horse and he could resaddle the gelding.  Tying Thorn in the shade, he had no need to tell him to stay—the horse’s eyes were already drooping.  Good lad.  He patted the grey neck as Thorn’s eyes flickered open and sat beside Gaer in a deep pool of cool shadow.  His friend grinned at him and offered a bit of dried venison.  Faramir accepted it and chewed as he watched.  The cart he’d brought was not quite the same size and he wondered sadly if that meant return trips.  A peek through the tree limbs made him sigh; it was already well past noon.  Soft warmth on his shoulder made him look around—Thorn’s head hung over him.  Faramir smiled; the gelding’s lower lip sagged a good inch from his teeth.  He tickled the whiskers and Thorn’s lip twitched.  Faramir grinned.

        The empty cart was pulled to stand very near the other and the Riders stood on the sacks of salt and threw them over into the arms of other men who more carefully laid the sacks to rest in the back of the cart.  The remaining drafts were brought out and one was reharnessed and the other tied to the back of the cart, with the smaller harness that Thorn had carried carefully gathered and laid on the seat.

        All in all the task of transferring what salt that would fit into the smaller wagon took far less than he wished.  Faramir was weary as he rose and woke Thorn.  This time the Rohirrim did not sing, but instead rode quietly, the dust of their passage rising high.

***

They walked back, cooling the spirits of the excited horses and dogs.  Éowyn was grateful, but sat straight in her saddle as though she didn’t feel sore at all.  When they at last rode into Edoras the golden roof glowing in the afternoon light and she gazed at the stairs to Meduseld and groaned inwardly. 

Dismounting was painful but tolerable; leaving her hopeful that handling the stairs would be the same.  She would not be carried unless she was on her deathbed.  Éowyn took a deep breath, holding Byrga’s reins as the men dismounted around her in the courtyard.  She stood so, pointedly, until one man bellowed for a boy.  She let the stable boy that ran to her untack Byrga, pointing the bruised area of the horse’s side out to him so that he would take care and stroked the gelding’s head before walking slowly from the courtyard.  Men were trotting down the stairs, cooks’ boys and such, ready to grab up the three boars.  The presence of one of the great standards of the Mark, the golden staff once again placed at the doorward’s post, escaped her attention completely. 

At the bottom of the stairs, while Éowyn gazed upwards tiredly, Arwen caught up with her and there was still concern in her gaze.  “I am fine, just sore…” She smiled while glancing at her hands, “And dirty.  A bath sounds wonderful.”

The Queen nodded, some of her concern fading.  “It does.”

“I’ll tell someone to arrange it for you.”

“Thank you.”  They walked slowly and Éowyn was irritated by her aches.  Arwen was tactful and stopped twice to speak.  It was her second halt that made Éowyn look up at the doors.  “The banner is there again.”

“What?”  Oh, no…  Her brother was home.  Faramir…?  Éowyn strained her mind but couldn’t feel him…but he could be inside the Hall.  She was simultaneously ready to run up the stairs or flee back down them.  Éowyn was fully aware her slight injury would be perfect cause to ban her from any number of things—other hunts, for example.  Foolish, foolish, over-protective men…if they were hurt nothing would come of it, but I, I must be safeguarded!  She ground her teeth as Éomer came from the doors and began down the stairs.  He took them swiftly at first, not even really looking at her, which puzzled her until their eyes met and her brother stopped so fast on the steps that he listed sharply and came close to floundering for his balance and worse.  Eyes wide, Éomer stuck his arms out, regaining his equilibrium.  She’d forgotten about her darkened hair and she smiled a little as he stood, plainly dumbstruck, above her.  His gasp of shock had been audible, which made her laugh.

        Amused, Éowyn waited, resting while she could.  Her motionlessness would be suspect, but a limp would be worse.  She couldn’t help but smile as her brother began walking down to her, now one step at a time.  Her hair would hold his interest for a while, it seemed.  As Éomer approached, the Queen smiled kindly and headed up the stairs.  “I’ll see you later?”

Éowyn nodded as her brother passed Arwen, apparently unseeing.  “Yes.”

***

“What…how…why?”  He was speechless with dismay and appalled disbelief.  Éomer half reached to touch her hair and made himself close the gap, fingering the reddish brown strands.  He felt his face move with his grimaces of disconcertment.  

She smiled, almost gleefully.  “I like it.”

“It’s horrible.”  His sister laughed at him, running her fingers through the tangled, sweat-matted tresses and luckily taking no offense, though he scarcely gave it thought.  Her beautiful hair, such a pretty shade of pale gold, was utterly changed.  It looked like she’d rubbed mud into it.  Guileless and confused, he said.  “I hate it.”

        “Too bad.”  Éowyn began to walk up the stairs and he grabbed her arm at once, seeing her painful gait.  She looked at him almost challengingly and, as they stood so close, her eyes widened and lingered on his features.  Suddenly his sister’s gaze grew dark with anger and he released her, afraid of what she might say.  Faramir had left marks upon him, of course, as he’d done to the Steward and his face was lightly bruised in places.  His sister was not stupid; she knew now that he and her paramour’s ridiculous feud had not ended and even escalated in their absence.

They stared at each other for a moment and though Éomer wanted desperately to ask about why she favored her left leg, he also did not wish for her to ask in turn about the clear, if not exorbitant, marks on his face.  What could I say?  Any lie would be absurd, yet the blunt truth would infuriate and or sadden her.  Uncertain of what course to take, Éomer felt himself tense inside.  Éowyn stared at him coolly and said nothing.

In the end, after several seconds, he inquired hesitantly, “Where did you go?”  He peered past his sister’s dirty, strained features, eyeing the diminishing swarm of men, dogs and boys in the courtyard.  “A…hunt?  For what?”  Éomer turned back to her, seeing her tiredness in her eyes, the dirt and flecks of mud on her cheeks and above all, her odd quietude.  He hesitated, “Are you…well?”  Returning to Edoras to find it empty had been shocking but this was even more so—finding his sister so changed and even injured.

He stared at her darkly shining hair.  Éowyn was looking at his face, her expression calculating as she spoke, almost offhandedly. “Boar.  I got a bruised leg, no more.”

Boar?  He was horrified and Éomer pressed, unable to help himself.  “You’re sure?”

There was a bit of fire to the reply, which reassured him more than anything did.  “I’m sure.”  She glanced past him up the stairs and his sister’s voice turned puzzled and hopeful; unfortunately Éomer also heard just a touch of accusation.  “Where is Faramir?”

“He rode with the others.”  At her bald stare, he added apprehensively and defensively, “I asked him to come with me.  He refused.”  The very moment he spoke it Éomer knew he should have lied as Éowyn’s face took on a faint, vulnerable cast and she looked very much saddened.  She rubbed her upper arms, frowning.

        “Why?”

Uncomfortable, he shifted on the stairs, making his boots scrape.  “I don’t know.”  Are you not happy I’m here?  Éomer knew he did not matter as much as the return of her lover, but he felt slighted at seeing no gladness whatsoever at their meeting again.  Éowyn still frowned and took a slow step upwards.  He came closer and offered an arm silently, in hopes she would not brush him aside as thinking her weak—his sister looked very much ready to collapse.

To his relief she smiled and took his offer, leaning on him, though probably less than she needed to, Éomer knew.  He tried to distract her from the oddly exposed and laid open moment he’d seen in her eyes.  Her light weight on his arm, Éomer was briefly and hotly furious at Faramir.  Why did he refuse?  Idiocy and now my sister looks like this…  He glanced at her dark—dark!—bent head.  “How many did you get?”

Her voice lightened, as did her step; they were near the top.  “Three.  I helped to bring down two.”

“You did?”  He was, as always and regardless of his worry, proud of her skill. 

“Yes.”

At the doors, he let her slip from his arm and ventured to say, “You look tired.”

Éowyn nodded.  “We began this morning.”  She sighed and took another step away.  “I’m going to have a bath.”

Éomer nodded and she left him in the Hall; he watched his sister’s halting steps until she disappeared, disturbed. 

***

Faramir was amazed that Thorn mustered enough energy to jog up the hill to Meduseld but the gelding did, and of his own accord, pulling ahead of the group.  It was late in the afternoon, the sun slanting to alight on the Golden Hall, rays of brightness trying their best to blind him.  He looked down, shading his eyes and reached to slap Thorn’s neck, feeling the heat of the gelding and the slick sweat that had dried into salt-specked and hardened patches on his crested neck.  “Good lad.”  Very soft, he murmured, “Good lad, Thorn.”

The grey jogged slowly up the hill, picking his own path and halting in front of the stables.  Faramir smiled, amused as he spoke to the flopping, grey ears.  “I’m not sure that we’re finished yet.”  Dismounting wearily, he looked up at the Hall, half expecting to see Éowyn silhouetted there or even flying down the stairs, skirts and flaxen hair trailing behind her.

But there were none at the open doors but the doorwards.  He frowned and chastised himself as the Riders surrounded him, dismounting and giving the reins of their horses to stable boys to hold.  I can’t expect her to come running the very moment I arrive…  A lad took Thorn’s bridle and Faramir joined Gaer and Tondhere as two Riders climbed the sides of the cart and straddled them to begin tossing down the dark bags of salt. 

It was hard work; the bags were heavier than they appeared and he had to carry them to another, man-drawn cart and lay them carefully so that they would not burst their seams.  Faramir did his share without shirking, though his back quickly began to ache at this unaccustomed labor.  Following many of the others’ examples, he stripped off his shirt and tossed the sweat-drenched garment aside to lie over Thorn’s saddle.  The gelding’s eyes were closed, his hind leg cocked as he dozed.

“You won’t get her attention that way.”  Gaer teased him.

Slightly cooler, Faramir took another bag, the rough cloth rubbing his bared arms red from friction, and asked in confusion.  “What?”

“We’ve tried that before, prancing around without a shirt…or even less.”  His friend cackled, “Never turned her head.”  Passing them with their own loads, Tondhere and Nier snickered, sounding surprisingly juvenile. 

He smiled, “I see” and glanced hopefully up at the doors again.  Still nothing.  Faramir could sense her familiar mind and feel its nearness but he couldn’t reach her without an effort that would get him noticed.  Éowyn… 

Tondhere passed him going the opposite direction, his voice coming easy; he was carrying two sacks of salt and wasn’t breathing hard despite the work.  “Skinny thing like you…my mother would tie you to a tree like a lamb and feed you until you burst.”

Going by on his other side, Nier chuckled and gave Faramir a slap on the back that, with a heavy sack of salt in his arms, staggered him.  “Aye, he looks like a stick-ribbed lamb doesn’t he?” 

Gaer, though his back was turned as he took another sack, stepped in to redeem him with a laugh, “But at least he can work.”  Several of the Rohirrim chuckled; those that could speak the Common Tongue were listening.  Faramir smiled too, recognizing the good nature behind the jesting.  He’d just laid his burden down on the cart and turned to defend himself when the voice he’d been hoping to hear spoke up, full of suppressed laughter, gentle chiding and a wildly giddy joy,

“I think he looks fine.”

He froze in place, delighted beyond belief, and as Faramir turned to face Éowyn, he paid only the slightest of attention to Gaer’s abrupt inhalation or the shock that flew over the man’s wits.  He felt her dear mind and heard her beautiful voice, yet as he turned there was before him only an unfamiliar and entirely incomprehensible blur of cinnamon colored hair and cream gown and his arms were suddenly full of a woman’s body.  She squealed with loud and uninhibited joy, a sound deeply disconnected to his perception of Éowyn, and hugged him with her arms wrapping tightly around his torso, soft front of breasts, stomach and hips pressing up to him with all her strength, a burst of laughing breath warm under his chin. 

For a terrible instant, before his mind, ear and eye caught up with each other, Faramir did not recognize his beloved and nearly shoved Éowyn away from him in repulsion.  Luckily, as he felt his eyes grow wide, she took his grasp of her forearms for an embrace and not the reflexive movement of pushing away the strange woman that was so intimately clasping him.  Aware his mouth was hanging open, he was also aware he wasn’t alone in his shock.  The Riders gaped in silence around him; they stood with their loads, frozen in place.

  Éowyn, oblivious and still joyful, laughed and added as she leaned back with her nose delicately wrinkled, “You smell terrible, though.”

Faramir found he had only open-mouthed silence with which to answer.  She stared up at him and her brow creased before she dipped her eyes, laughing softly and extremely self-consciously.  Éowyn released him and tucked her hair back with one hand, smiling in a manner that was both less forward and less confident than before.  Her movements, hands rubbing each other as she took a step back and eyes no longer meeting his, were also unsure, which fit his notion of her and how she acted and made him accept this new and baffling image at last.  Oh, why…Valar…?  To his mind this change was akin to some profanation of her loveliness.

Lifting his hand, he gingerly touched a lock of her hair that lay over her slim shoulder.  It was…a sort of red-brown color that shone warmly in the sun but was not even a poor substitute for the brilliantly golden luster that he had first seen in the gardens of the City…and never expected to not see.  Horrified outrage filling his voice, Faramir half asked, half demanded, “What did you do?”

Éowyn’s smiled faded, then became slightly more nervous.  “Its just dye…” She straightened a little, frowning as her hands clasped tightly before her, “It washes out…why are you so upset?”

He cut her off, appalled.  “Why would you do that?”

“Arwen did it.”  She bit her lips, compressing them, and her blue eyes darted tensely to the men standing in silence around them.  Very suddenly they stopped moving and fixed almost pleadingly on some space over his shoulder. 

“But why…?”

Abruptly, Gaer spoke, moving to stand nearly at Faramir’s side, his hand falling hard upon his upper arm.  His voice was light, though.  “Min Ides…Ic eom…” He took a breath.  “Ic eom in egesa, æt a se fyrngeweorc æt hærfest…  Ic habbe ná beháwod a onhweorfeþ, æt gold æt se betera a fyenhyd, min Ides, gea forcom se leáfum on se duns in whlite.  Ic giernan eower mildheortnes, galdricge!”  His grin turned teasing, “You did not warn us, my Lady… gea wilst ablendan us eall.”

Éowyn relaxed some, laughing in embarrassment and amusement as she shook her head.  “Ná, ná Gaer.”

The Rider bowed at the correction.

Faramir looked at her as Éowyn smiled, noting that when her eyes turned back to him they were worried and chagrined and suddenly he was filled with choking, bitter guilt.  He was acting like a brute and hurting her feelings when all he should be doing was telling her how much he’d missed her.  Taking a deep breath, he said quietly, “It does look…” The memory of brushing her generous fair-haired mane still made him wince, “Nice.”

Every bit of the exuberant joy within her had vanished and Éowyn stared dully at her feet, “Thank you.”

Faramir looked at her almost desperately, conscious that the other Riders had moved away and were unloading the salt once more.  He frowned, not sure of what to do when Gaer clasped his shoulder again to say solemnly, “Go.”  In a fiercer undertone he whispered, “Or this time I will kill you and take your place.”

He smiled and gazed at Éowyn, who had raised her eyes to look back and forth between them.  To his surprise she reached out to clasp his hand, her fingers warm and small as they fit between his, “Come.”

Faramir let her lead him away but they did not get far before his guilt overwhelmed him into stopping them both.  “I’m sorry.” 

Éowyn’s met his gaze briefly, shifting from foot to foot.  “It’s all right.”  It clearly wasn’t.  She tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.  “Éomer said it was horrible, too.” 

He tried again, remembering how much patience this required, “I should not have said that.”  Faramir grimaced, “It shouldn’t have been the first thing I said to you.”

A spark of fire illuminated her gaze.  “I told you once before to tell me how you felt, to not give way to me and lie like I was a child.” 

“Yes…but,” He lowered his voice, feeling her mind and knowing at once how much she was wounded and now, growing furious.  “I hurt you, I’m sorry…I missed you.  Very much.  Don’t be angry with me please.”

Éowyn crossed her arms in front of herself, eyes narrowing as he spoke.  Her voice was remote.  “I’m not.”

He reached out to grasp a lock of her darker hair between his fingertips.  Éowyn tilted her head away from him.  She was more deeply saddened than anything and Faramir understood fully—she’d greeted him with joy and he her with displeasure and umbrage.  Elvish she liked, so he tried, “Melamin…”

Looking up, Éowyn answered, her words stumbling but clear, “A'maelamin.”  Shocked anew, he gazed at her speechlessly and then promptly and fiercely embraced her, as he knew he should have done before.  Faramir felt this misdeed keenly. 

Oh, my love, melamin, min frendscipe, forgive me…?

Éowyn laughed shakily against his shoulder, her arms tight enough to make his bruises twinge.  “Ugh, you smell like a beast.”

He inhaled.  You smell like flowers.

I had a bath…like you’re about to.  Her eyes were full of love now instead of bruised hurt and Faramir relaxed.

Am I?  It sounded wonderful; he thought at the moment that he would undertake anything to keep her from losing the smile on her lips.

Yes.  Her eyes seemed to swallow her face as he stood so close.  They were a beautiful shade of blue, like the very bowl of the sky.  Éowyn gazed at him, fingers rubbing in the dark hair that covered his face, “And a shave.  I think I could have myself a new mantle with this pelt you’ve grown.”  She smiled more shyly.  Do it, touch to me…?

Faramir was more than glad to acquiesce.  He touched her mind and connected, concentrating on Éowyn and how she felt, how her heart felt.  He sensed her renewing joy, the hurt he’d caused fading, her…he couldn’t quite understand what he found.  Éowyn seemed different and yet the same; something had changed.  He felt in her a new openness and a willingness that had not been their before; Faramir knew it in the way she clung to him unabashed in the very same courtyard where, when he’d first arrived, she’d not wished to kiss him.  And yet…there was something she hid within and did not let even herself see.  He was confounded, and then forgot it immediately as Éowyn smiled and he felt her deep contentment; it matched his own. 

They stood very close in the late afternoon sun; Faramir’s head was bent to hers, not touching but near as though he was whispering a secret into her ear.  Her dyed hair tickled his nose and he felt her spread her hands and slide them up his bared chest, palms coming to rest on his shoulders, hands dangling with her fingers loosely interlaced.  Éowyn’s body pressed up to his without inhibition and it was at once firm with muscle and yielding with the pleasing softness unique to a woman.  He breathed in her good, clean and flowery smell, so welcome after days of nothing but the sweat of men and horses and almost at once Faramir was aware of his desire.

        You smell…feel so good.  He had to have some sort of intimate contact, a kiss or a touch, anything…please?

Éowyn wrinkled her nose again and murmured.  “I can’t even find you in that wool you’ve grown…” Her eyes twinkled, “Lamb.”

Faramir pooched out his lips helpfully, which had the bonus effect of making her laugh.  Here I am.

Ah, yes.  But just as their lips met, she pulled away to touch his chin like something had caught her attention.  It hurt a little bit as she placed her fingertips over a dark bruise.  “What happened to you?”

He shrugged and bent to kiss her only to get a firm push back.  Faramir answered impatiently, “A game.”

Her voice was chilly.  “My brother must have played that game as well.”  He hesitated but to his astonishment nothing came of it.  Éowyn looked at him very frankly with an emotion he couldn’t decipher in her eyes—there was cool displeasure and anger but some other, strange thing Faramir could not distinguish overthrew it.  Éowyn’s tightened expression smoothed and she tugged gently at his arm.  “Come, before the women carry the tub out of my rooms and I have to call them back.”

He hesitated again, “My things…”

Éowyn barely paused, speaking with her tone full of competency.  “I’ve arranged for your weapons to be returned to your quarters and your clothing to be washed…is there anything else you wish for?”  Her question puzzled him though it was completely innocuous.  There was something odd in her efficient manner. 

He looked over at the huddle of weary horses; Thorn’s bulky frame was missing.  Faramir shook his head.  “Nothing but the things they took from my rooms before I rode.”

A frown came over her face and Éowyn raised her voice, calling after the nearest Rider.  “Ge, wilst ge ábirð giedd æt me?”  In her very erect and commanding stance he saw clearly his lioness, his Shieldmaiden and Faramir stared at her wonderingly.  How can she be so fearful, then so assured?  He rubbed her knuckles with his fingers but she paid him no mind, Éowyn’s concentration was bent upon the man who stood waiting.

The Rider answered quickly.  “Aye, min Ides.”

Her voice was adamant now, fully purposeful.  She meant ever word and every one of the words was heavy with the distinct threat of authority.  “Se scrud æt Faramir wille beo gecierran ær dægræd or Ic wille minself secan ælec hus ond bur in Edoras ond forsecan se þéof æt geearnian.”

The Rider looked as impressed as Faramir felt.  He bowed low, “Min Ides, Ic wilst hieran.”

As they returned to walking she glanced up at him almost in reassurance; “I will see them returned.”

         Faramir nodded.  “I believe you.”  Éowyn smiled a little and walked him up the stairs into Meduseld.  He felt like a barbarian without a shirt on to cover himself and even more so at how filthy he was.  My father would come down upon me like the hammers of the mountain trolls…  The Hall was bustling with servants and he could smell food.  “Is there a feast tonight?” 

She glanced at him as though the question startled her.  “No.”  Éowyn smiled, “Though I should command one to celebrate.”

“What?”

“You coming home.”  Edoras was not his home.  Faramir smiled anyway, hiding his instinctive aversion.  He knew what she meant.  Moving to kiss her, he barely got a taste before she pushed at him lecturing, “Not until you’re clean.”

“Am I that bad?”

Her laugh made him cheer and Faramir pulled her against him to murmur into her ear as she squirmed.  He felt her disgusted annoyance and laughed.  “Next time I’ll dunk myself in the river before I return to you…if my wild Shieldmaiden has grown so particular.”

Éowyn tilted her head back to look up, her face open and vulnerable, “Next…time?”

Faramir shrugged and teased.  “I do as my Lord Éomer commands.”  He took advantage of her motionless surprise to kiss her and it was wonderful to feel her warm wetness of her mouth, the slickness of her tongue as it touched his lightly and the way her lips moved to react.  She even tasted good, like some sweet fruit.  He felt her desire, too, rising to meet and entwine with his and it amazed him enough to look at her.  

Éowyn’s eyes were wide and so uncommonly defenseless that he wished to gather her up and protect her from everything, including himself, but Faramir did not think that he could much longer.  Her mouth was slightly parted, dark, big pupils moving to search his.  One of her hands had found its way to touch his shoulder and it looked very small and slender.  He was drawn to that part of her, pulled irresistibly to the openness that she couldn’t hide and that expressed of her innocence.  Faramir spoke because to not say it was unthinkable in the face of the shakily budding confidence he saw.  “I love you.”

A playful smile turned up the corners of her lips and her voice was light with the melodious accent of her folk.  “Ic lufie ge.”

He answered with the Eldar’s tongue.  “Amin mela lle.” 

She bit her lip, smile pulling at her mouth before finally admitting with a giggle. “I have no more.”  Éowyn laughed.

Faramir teased her, changing tongues easily.  “Melin le.” 

Braggert.

He grinned and she pulled at his wrist with a sudden laugh of high spirits.  “Come, I don’t wish to call back the women.”

***

All the way to her rooms Éowyn’s heart was thumping in her throat.  He’d placed his fingers against the small of her back again and his palm warmed her, the heat of it spreading to touch her very core.  Faramir was behind her, just to the side and she felt the phantom touch of his body tickling her senses.  He kept moving his fingertips, the blunt tips tracing stitching, tickling through the layers of her dress and making her wish they were on her bare skin.

He purred an enthusiastic reply.  “Mmm-hmm.”

Éowyn flushed a little, looking at her moving feet; glancing back at him revealed the patchwork of yellowing, purple and greenish bruises that covered his lean body.  Discolorations laced the swell of his chest, showing dimly through the dark hair; they were liberally scattered over his flat belly; his shoulders looked as though they’d taken the brunt of many falls.  He had scratches and scrapes, tiny scabs everywhere from his knuckles to the underside of his furry chin. 

A game he says…  Her brother bore the same marks on his face that Éowyn could barely spy beneath Faramir’s dark beard.  She felt a swell of rage that she swiftly suppressed and channeled into disciplined efficiency.  Her duty as wife was to care for him and his needs, not to lecture him.  Walking faster and glad her leg no longer ached, Éowyn gritted her teeth briefly and succeeded in banishing her anger again. 

Behind her, he felt curious and apprehensive at her mood but she ignored his slight questioning.  As though to soothe her, Faramir’s hand slid lightly, brushing up and down the back of her cream overdress.  She wondered if his fingers were dirtying it, as they’d been rather grimy before, and had to suppress still more annoyance.  This is a new gown…  My brother and he fought like they were no more than foolish, mindless beasts again… Her hair caught her eye, he hates it, thinks it ugly, thinks me ugly with it…  Inside herself she felt boiling rage and sore hurt before she pushed it far down and straightened her spine.  She had a duty to do for Faramir.  This was her life, her responsibility as his wife; even if they’d not yet wed, no doubt he expected it. 

Her door was open and she called, “Wait.”  The women halted their work of hauling her bath water out with their jugs and buckets and stood expectantly.  When she halted, Éowyn felt Faramir press himself lightly to her, a faint, all-body contact that she relished as much as the warm feel of his mind.  Éowyn resented her anger; she’d rather be glad but the bruises he bore mocked her.  Ordering the women, she said.  “Fetch more water for me.”  Faramir shifted, (still dirty, she could see) fingers touching her neckline and brushing the rawhide thong of the dolphin pendant.

Still wearing this?  The awe within his mental voice softened her heart.

Always.

Faramir brushed aside her hair to kiss her neck; his beard was scratchy but his lips were smooth and warm.  She smiled, unable to help it, and took the opportunity to tease him, directing her comment to the women, “Quickly.  I cannot stand this filthy, stinking man.”

The women laughed.  Faramir’s eyes went briefly out of focus and he looked hesitant as he followed her into the rooms.  The women moved on as she glanced into the wooden tub; there was a bit of water left in it but not much.  Kneeling, she thrust a few sticks back into the fire that burned on her hearth, several small kettles sitting near it.  Éowyn rocked them with her hand, pleased to note they were full of presumably warm water; their welcome purpose was to provide hot water so that she was not forced to sit in a cooling bath.  Black and grey-streaked fur spotted with errant drops of water, her bear skin was rolled and pushed aside so that the tub could be sat as close to the fire as possible.  Éowyn poked up the charred logs and watched the little flames rise.

Abruptly in their silence, Faramir asked her, “Why are you angered?”

It took a great deal of her will to not snap at him, to not point out the bruises on his body or the fact that she liked her hair this color and how dare he bark at her for changing it, it was her hair…  Instead, Éowyn took a deep breath and walked into her bedroom to see if she could find the shirt he’d given her.  A pair of Éomer’s trousers would give him something clean, if not appropriate, to wear.  Trying her best to appear indifferent, she asked, “Can we speak of this later?”

“Will you speak of it?  Most times…you don’t.”  This was new between them and she felt his hurt as he followed her. 

Voice whispered, Éowyn answered.  “I know.”

There was the soft sound of a body depressing a bed as he sat and she rolled her eyes to the ceiling, her hands stopping in the act of opening her drawers.  On my clean bed.  My filthy future husband has just sat his filthy self down on my clean bed when he is in a room with chairs…  Rising and looking him, his handsome face so obviously clueless as to what he was doing, Éowyn covered her mouth in helpless, exasperated mirth.  Faramir cocked his head at her.  “What?”

“You have no notion of what it is that keep a room clean, do you?”  First thing I’m doing in the City is ripping your rooms apart and slaying the multitudes of spiders that lurk there…Shelob’s kin in size by now no doubt…

“What?”

A quick look into her drawers and she pulled out the neatly folded shirt and tossed it on the bed.  Faramir hadn’t moved and he was just as filthy as the last time she’d looked at him.  Flapping an irate hand, she cried, “Get up!  And take your clothes off.”  She walked into the other room, muttering, “I’ll probably have to have them burned.”  Looking back, Éowyn called out.  “Open the door in there wide, I want to smell those flowers.” 

There was a pause as he obeyed, then Faramir walked to stand in the doorway to her bedroom.  He was frowning, “Will you not tell my why you are angry?  I know…” He rubbed his beard, hand making a scratching noise, “I know I upset you with what I said, but I apologized.  I am sorry.  Won’t you forgive me and be happy?” 

Her anger melted at the gentle, earnestness in his grey eyes.  They were so beautiful in their soulful nature.  Faramir blinked and smiled at her thought.  She answered softly.  “I know you apologized...” Éowyn sighed deeply and looked at his bruises; they infuriated her the most and she almost wished Aragorn were still in Edoras to join her in berating her brother and Faramir.  “Are those from a game, truly?” 

“Yes…” She could feel Faramir was lying but before she could speak he ended truthfully, unhappily, “And no.”

“Why?”

“It was just how it had to be.”  The past tense made her watchful.  Leaning his hand against the doorframe, Faramir smiled reassuringly, “It is over, I promise things will not go to that any longer.”

        She felt so weary of their stupid battling.  “Swear to me?”

        Faramir nodded solemnly.  “I swear it.” 

Looking at him, Éowyn smiled a little, feeling herself relax.  She was terribly glad he was back; just feeling the presence of his mind, his soul within her reach was deeply pleasing.  He was still clothed and she walked to him and grasped the waist of his trousers to give them a playful tug.  “I thought I told you to take this off.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”  He leered, making her laugh loudly and openly at him.  Faramir looked wounded for a moment, making her immediately wish she hadn’t. 

Éowyn opened her mouth but she wasn’t sure what to say, if anything and the women were walking in again and interrupting them, carefully dumping their pitchers and buckets of warm water into the wooden tub.  She turned to speak to them, “Bring me some herbs.”  Quickly, she listed some that would smell nice and soothe his bruises and hurts.  “Thyme, lavender, mint and marjoram…” She gestured, “I want them laid fresh about the floor and in the water.  Also bring me sponges and clean cloths.”  There was no way he could complain that she lacked any wifely skills of consideration, though no doubt he found the setting terribly rustic; she’d seen the smashed and broken remains of elaborate bath houses in the City.  This is the best I can offer…

When she looked around Faramir had vanished and, alarmed that she’d hurt his feelings, Éowyn went into the only place he could be—her mother’s flower room.  She approached with some hesitance but could sense nothing bad from him.  He was sprawled in the chair, gazing out at the bright afternoon and she marveled at how long his body was.  And how lean…  Faramir tilted his head back to look at her, smile on his face.  “You are spoiling me beyond belief.”

Puzzled, she answered as competently as she could; Éowyn did not wish for him to be ashamed of her.  She was no woman of the City but she could care for him and would to the best of her skill.  “I’m only doing what I should for my Lord.”  The slightest of frowns crossed his face before it disappeared.

“You don’t have to go so far…I’d be happy in the river.”

She felt nervous at his steady gaze.  “I…I want to.”

“Thank you.”  Éowyn plucked a dead bloom from one of the bushes to busy her hands; he felt so very affectionate and his tone was so warm that it made her flush.

This time he looked puzzled, and touched.  “I can’t remember anyone else ever ordering such…” Faramir stretched a little, shaking his head and remarking, “Not that I was deprived of comforts but none were…” He paused and looked at her plainly as he spoke soft and tender, eyes and voice combining to make it seem as though he were awakening to something so grand and new that it intimidated him a bit, “Assured to me… alone.” 

Éowyn smiled, embarrassment and sudden nervousness making her look away from the way he was beaming.  She hated her nervousness; she wanted to respond to his warmth in kind but it was so overwhelming.  Struggling with herself, she answered, “I want you to feel that way…I,” She made herself meet his eyes as they looked at her with such focus it was daunting, “I don’t want you to feel I’m…cold.”  The last word left her weak with the fight to express herself. 

Faramir patted his knee and spoke quietly and compassionately, as though he felt her inward battle.  “Come here by me,” Smile curling his lips, he added more lightly, “If you can stand the stench.”  She eyed him, not relishing the idea of curling up on his chest where she could see the dust and sweat that had dried on his skin.  Éowyn folded her knees and sat on the floor instead, cream-colored skirts spreading on the dark and white flagstones, scooting petals with her feet; they were dried and rustled softly.   She leaned her forearms across his thigh.  Gazing down at her, Faramir spoke, reaching out to smooth her hair.  “I’m sorry I was so rude.”

        Éowyn just nodded.  She had no words that she felt would fit. 

He sounded wistful, “But it was so beautiful…I loved it, the color was like spun gold but finer.”  Faramir’s face was mournful.  She became aware of her position, her hands lying relaxedly over his lap and the way he was touching her face.  His fingers traced her hair, slipping down her cheek, “How long will it be like this?”

“I don’t know, two weeks?  It washes out.”

 He looked hopeful, “Bathe with me, then, and hurry it along?”

“No!”

“Why not?  It would be nice…” His features became saddened and resigned, “Do you not trust…?”

“No.”  She laughed lightly and was taken aback.  The thought simply hadn’t entered her mind; Éowyn had thought purely of the smallness of the wooden tub and not a bit of what he might seek to do.  Quieter, she protested, “It’s too small.”

He smiled, “Are there no larger ones in all of Edoras?”

Éowyn laughed and leaned her forehead on her arm.  Her stomach felt fluttery just at the thought of doing what he was asking.  “I don’t know.”  Teasing, she added, “You’re likely to turn the water black the moment you touch it, anyhow.”

        After a moment he prodded, a smile in his voice, “Can you ask?”

        Her chest tightened but not with fear.  Éowyn felt excitement quicken her heart and narrow her throat as she lifted her head to meet his gaze.  “I suppose.”

        Faramir seemed to struggle with a question himself.  “Would you be…afraid?”

        She wanted to laugh at the suggestion, to brush it aside and call boldly for another tub for them both.  But Éowyn just looked at her fingers against his dusty trousers; the dark, coarse cloth specked with grey horse hairs, and murmured, “I don’t know.” 

        “I’d like to…I’d like to bathe with you…” His fingers traced down her throat, making her shiver.  “It would be pleasurable, I think, to wash together, to touch you…” Éowyn couldn’t look at him.  Faramir’s desire was all too evident in his voice.  “But if you feel…” He trailed off, no longer sounding yearning, but sad.

“I don’t know how I feel.”

There was a silence between them before he broke it to carefully ask, “Afraid?”

Éowyn felt herself stiffen; they were into intimate territory and her discomfort was terrible.  She fought it to reply in tiny, very ashamed voice, “A little.”

His hand momentarily cupped her bent cheek.  Don’t feel so bad, please.  It hurts my heart as well.  Aloud, he continued, “Of what?”

“You, me…”

“Yourself?”  Faramir sounded mystified.

Tense, she said.  “I don’t like to feel like this.”  Some of her fury at herself leaked out, making her almost snarl, “I hate it.”

He moved suddenly, sliding to the floor with her.  Cross-legged, Faramir tapped her chin lightly and peered at her.  “Look at me?”

***

Éowyn raised her head and there was desperation in her eyes.  He wanted to help so much but Faramir had no idea how to blot out the sadness and fear within except to keep her talking.  “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

He remembered his thoughts on the day he’d left her, how he’d pushed and how he’d wondered if she was afraid that he might not cease no matter how many times he proved himself trustworthy.  “Do you think I’m pushing you too much?”

She looked confused.  “I don’t know.”

Faramir sighed.  How would she know, fool?  She’d never had a man before to try such things except for that cursed Gríma…  “Does it feel like I am?”

“Yes…sometimes.”  Guilt lanced him.  He’d been correct.  But Éowyn was not finished, “I like it, I like…your hands and your mouth,” She was blushing redly and prettily at the admission, “I like it but you don’t wait for me, you just keep…”

“Pushing.”

She sounded relieved.  “Yes.”

“You have to tell me, I can’t tell if you’re nervous just because I’m pushing too fast or if you’re nervous because you’re afraid I’m going to do something.”  Not without reading every thought that goes through your head, my love, which would be wrong of me…

“I…can’t tell, it’s hard to even speak of it.”

Encouragingly, Faramir gripped her hands in his own.  “You’re speaking of it now.”

“Yes…”

“Do you want to bathe with me, truly?  Do you think I’m asking too much?  You won’t hurt me to tell me…” Honestly, he added, “It hurts me more when you push me aside and I feel how much it hurts you and I don’t know what is so wrong.”  Or how to fix it…she’d said she needed time.  Faramir sighed.  He’d gladly give her all of eternity but they weren’t of elven kind, he had to settle with mortal limits and eventually he would need an heir.  I cannot wait forever, but I will wait as long as you wish. 

Indeed, he had to wait a long time for the answer, silently encouraging her while listening to the footsteps of the women and the irregular sloshes of water into the tub.  Éowyn finally looked up and said in a faint voice.  “I want to.”

Though his heart leaped in eagerness, it wasn’t good enough.  “Are you certain?”

“Yes.”  She was carefully choosing her words.  “I don’t want to be afraid…remember, when I met you in the dream?”

“Yes.”  He smiled. 

“I wasn’t afraid, I was happy.  You held me up in the water and you didn’t let the current pull me away…” Éowyn spoke tensely, “You won’t let me…being afraid…pull me away, will you?”

“Never.”  She embraced him, to his surprised delight.  Faramir hugged her fervently while feeling her relax and sensing the easing go deep within.  It’s all right, I will help you make it all right.  Trust me, please, I’ll hold you, anything…

 Éowyn pulled back and kissed him, again to his surprised delight.  He smiled at her when she did not retreat and she kissed him once more, soft and with tender emotion before pulling back.  Her voice was brisk, but not odd, as it had seemed.  This was natural.  She was smiling.  “Get up, you’re getting some of this dirt off if you’re sharing a bath with me.”  Faramir followed her into the other room where she grabbed up one of the sponges and handed it to him.  He held it while Éowyn spoke rapidly to the women in her own tongue.  They answered and gestured somewhere else.  Éowyn nodded and turned to him.  “There’s a great tub nearby to Théoden’s chambers.”

The women were still in the room; he asked her inwardly, are you sure I’m not pushing?  You want to?

I’m sure…and yes.  She wove her arm through his.  I don’t know what you think you’re getting, exactly…I’m going to make sure you get actually clean.  Éowyn rubbed his cheek briskly, making him wince.  And a shave afterwards?  You can sit with the flowers, if you like.

That would be wonderful.  It itches.

She smiled and pulled him down for a kiss.  Wash some of that dirt off.  I’ll arrange for everything and come for you.

Faramir looked at her, still amazed at her care and willingness to provide it.  On his own he might have wandered to the river and splashed about a bit; Éowyn was thinking of cloths that had been laid with rose petals between them to keep them smelling sweet.  Faramir had the brief and jubilant sense that he had, somehow, struck upon something very, very good.  He smiled.   Yes, my Lady.  Éowyn smiled back and walked quickly into her bedroom, her mind already racing ahead of her feet.  He stood quiet, wondering, is this some indication of what I shall have in her as a wife?  If it was, Faramir was more than pleased at the idea and felt himself to be more than favored with some splendid fortune.  Ithilien…his land would have a great and wonderful Lady to rule it. 

Faramir had wetted the sponge and just begun to dab at the dust and grime clinging to his stomach when Éomer walked in, already in mid-query.  “Sister, what did you do with…?” The King of Rohan stopped short and stared at him, obviously perplexed.  Faramir smiled; he imagined it was a curious looking scenario.

“Hello.”

He was answered slowly.  “Hello.”  Éomer frowned.  “When did you return?”

Agreeably, he replied while squeezing the dirty sponge back into the tub and rubbing it hard over his forearms.  “Not long ago.”

For an awkward moment neither spoke, until Éomer asked tentatively, “Where is my sister?”

Éowyn herself answered, striding from her bedroom with a garment of some sort folded over her arm.  “Here.  Get Faramir some trousers…” She looked at him and shook her head, making her cinnamon-colored hair whip back and forth over her shoulders, “Never mind, I’ll do it myself.”  Footsteps quick, she vanished out the open door just as swiftly as she’d entered the room.  Éomer looked after her, then more uncomfortably at Faramir.  He gave a small, courteous nod of acknowledgement and began to follow her, but Faramir spoke up anxiously.  His thought of Ithilien had jogged his memory.  “Do you think I should bring up what we spoke of tonight or wait?”

Cautiously, the Lord of the Mark inquired, “What did we speak of?”

“The planning of Ithilien.”

To his surprise, Éomer gave this serious consideration.  “Tonight, if you wish.  I see no reason why not.  If you do not mind…” He turned to take his leave and Faramir stopped him yet again.

“You really do think it will make her happy?”

Once more there was serious thought behind the answer.  “Do you not?”

He admitted.  “You know her better than I.”

“Does your…gift not tell you that?”  This was a shock and all Faramir could manage to do was shake his head.  Éomer looked at his boots, then up to say soberly.  “It will make her happy, yes, to have a worthy task.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”  Éomer began to turn and stopped.  Shifting his feet, he didn’t look like he knew quite what to do.  Sensing the man’s unease, Faramir kept quiet and concentrated on cleaning the filth from his bared upper body.  Éomer smiled in a melancholy fashion and finally said, “She runs Edoras better than I…I don’t know what I will do.”

Probably most shockingly, there was nothing accusing or aggressive about his words or mood; Faramir answered carefully, “Have you asked her?”  Who is this so politely spoken man?  He was confused.  Has all of Éomer’s boorishness sprung from his resentment of me and what I shall do?  If so, when did that cease?     

“I’m afraid to ask for fear to find the running of my lands beyond me.”  Éomer smiled faintly and glanced up at the ceiling and around the room before he said slowly, forlornly, “My mother’s rooms will be to empty and lonely for me to stand to live across from them.  I’ll have to take up the King’s quarters.”  Faramir felt saddened though there was nothing reproachful in the words.  If this was a new way to punish or attack him, it was working; he was depressed already.  Éomer inclined his head.  “If you don’t mind, I’ll take my leave of you,” He smiled more humorously though no less sadly; “You look busy.” 

Disheartened, Faramir nodded at him and resumed trying to sponge off the worst of his dirt.  He had nearly judged himself finished when Éowyn swept back into the room, arms full of curious garments cut like he’d not seen before.  They looked luxurious and well made and he wondered if they were for him as she disappeared into her bedroom.  “When you want him I’ve got a man to take care of that…fur on your face.”

“All right.”

She was back beside him, biting her lip.  “Are you ready?” 

“Yes.”  He dropped the sponge in the water. Éowyn looked up at him, not moving at once.  She smiled a little before she turned and it was plainly edgy, but not frightened. 

Likewise, her voice held no fear; he was listening closely for it.  “Come.  I’ve got something for you to wear.”  She handed him the shirt he’d given her and a pair of simple trousers.

“Good.”  Faramir followed her down the passages, coming to a small room.  Inside, he gaped. 

***

“What?”  Éowyn frowned.  The tub was copper, the inside padded with cloth to make it more comfortable.  It wasn’t especially huge, but large enough to hold them both without too much crowding.  Not that she would mind terribly…she was excited just imagining it. 

“You did all this…?”

“What?  It was musty and dark in here.”  Baffled, she waved at the candles on long stands with bunches of flowers and sweet herbs from the kitchen gardens tied to them.  “It wouldn’t have been pleasant.”

He looked astounded.  “I’m actually frightened to think of what I might have found if I’d given you longer.”  Again, Éowyn glanced around the room.  By necessity, she’d had two small tables carted in, one to lay their clothing and cloths to dry themselves on and the other pulled close to the tub with sponges, clothes and wine in case they grew thirsty.  There was also a little tray with red coals on it to heat more water in a deep basin.  The water in the bath was scented with the herbs she’d commanded and the floor around the great copper vessel was strewn with them, sweetening the old, stale rushes.  As far as she was concerned there were no extravagances, only requisites to what Éowyn hoped to be a wonderful bath.  There was no point in bathing in a dank, cheerless room; it would only depress her.  Besides…she looked up to his handsome face and smiled lovingly.  Faramir deserved the best she could offer.

The final jug of water was poured into the bath, with steam rising pleasantly.  The women exited and Éowyn bolted the door; the last thing she wished was for someone to burst in on them.  Trying for lack of concern, she said.  “Take off those filthy clothes.”

Faramir looked as aroused and wound up as she felt.  His voice was quick, eager.  “You first.”

She laughed, pulse quickening as she slipped the cream gown off over her head and stood in her thin shift.  “Here.”  Éowyn tossed the soap at him; Faramir was staring at her and the ball thunked off his chest and rolled away.  He frowned with annoyance and looked about his feet. 

“Where did it go?”

“I don’t know.”  She giggled madly and undressed swiftly while he tried to find it in the room’s dimmer corners.  Kicking off her thin-soled shoes, she ripped her stockings off her legs and tossed them aside, then lifted the shift over her head.  Naked, her bare feet pattering over the cool, fresh herbs that lay about the tub, each step crushing the delicate flowers and plants to release all sorts of wonderful smells, Éowyn felt her skin break out in goose bumps and she shivered.  Gasping with pleasure as she lowered herself into the hot water and settled against the cloth-cushioned side, she moaned softly and stretched her legs as far as they could go.  The tub was just large enough for her to stretch and put her toes to the other end; she doubted Faramir’s long legs would be able to.  It felt delicious, the heat, and smelled delightful, all the herbs combining pleasantly.  Reaching over the rim of the tub, Éowyn took a great sponge off the table and smiled at him innocently as Faramir turned around, the pale ball of soap in his hand. 

“That’s not fair.”

“You were too slow.”  She submerged the sponge and stared at him expectantly, not bothering to hide her avid smile.  Éowyn felt a brief impulse to cover herself, but ignored it.  There was no sense in it anyhow.  She was a little bit tense, which angered her.  Relax, relax, won’t you?  You’ll upset him…you’ve learned by now there’s nothing to fear…

Faramir sighed and tossed the soap to plunk into the water with a splash.  As he bent to unlace his boots, he asked, “How did you not know of this room?”

“I wasn’t in the habit of acquiring about my Uncle’s bath.”

Rising again, Faramir was smiling.  Éowyn pointed to the corner.  “Put your things there.  I don’t want to smell them.”  He looked patient, carrying his boots and socks there and stripping off his filthy trousers.  Nude, Faramir appeared mildly self-conscious under her eyes.  She watched him walk to her and remarked playfully.  “You got dirt everywhere.”

He grunted in reply, shivering and scampering to the tub to climb in awkwardly, his addition raising the water level to a dangerous point.  It sloshed back and forth as he settled himself to sit opposite of her; Éowyn withdrew her legs to cross them and give him more room.  She’d forgotten how big he was compared to her; Faramir seemed so lean and lithe all the time, never very great but he towered over her in the tub, his body taking every bit of free space. 

He moaned softly and she shivered at the sound and tried to hide her excitement; Éowyn squeezed the sponge tightly.  She wasn’t afraid, merely wound up with nerves.  “This is wonderful.”  Faramir leaned back and looked at her, his eyes half-lidded with pleasure, “If I hadn’t already intended to wed you, I would now.”  The water steamed gently and the candles flickered, making the room pleasantly dim and giving it a nice feel.

His hairy legs slid down on either side of her, feet flat against the bottom of the tub.  Faramir was looking at her, all of her, still with that expression of pleasure.  The silence grew intent, soft sounds of water the only noise.  Her heart was beating fast.  It quickly became obvious he wasn’t going to move.

Swallowing and gathering her courage, Éowyn smiled.  “Hold still.”  He watched her unfold and come; sitting up and placing her knees between his to rub the soap under his chin until she’d gotten some lather.  Éowyn dropped it and rubbed her fingers over his neck and collarbone and behind his ears.  He stared up at her, eyes half-lidded and so warm with affection that she smiled back timidly.  One eyebrow quirked upward.  Kiss?

Éowyn shook her head.  “Close your mouth.”

Faramir frowned in incomprehension but his expression quickly cleared when she retrieved the soap and rubbed it over his furry chin and cheeks.  Éowyn massaged it into his beard until his lower face was white with suds, and then rinsed it out with palmfuls of the hot water.  Faramir gave her a tiny smile as she smoothed his moisture-softened facial hair and leaned to kiss him.  His lips were wet, of course, and it felt good, giving a new quality to the experience.  Éowyn met his tongue fleetingly, then made him reach for her until he rose up little bit and met her eagerly.  She felt his desire in his greedy kisses and tried not to think of how easy it would be to let him caress her here or there. 

Faramir held the rest of himself still for less than a second, and then she felt his hands touch her bared breasts, each swinging a little as she moved to squeeze the saturated sponge over his collarbone to wash away the soap. She jumped at the contact, the spread of his palms and gentle press of his fingers.  “Faramir!”

“What?”  His voice was smoky soft.  “I’m just returning the favor.”  He was, indeed, and the slick feel of the soap made her thrill as Faramir massaged her, his hands amusingly thorough.

Éowyn’s words caught in her throat as his thumbs touched her nipples, briefly fondling before slipping beneath her breasts.  “You had to start there?”  He chuckled.  After a few moments in which she rubbed his shoulders and upper chest, the soapsuds spreading in the dark hair slowly to gleam with multi-colored little bubbles, Éowyn began to giggle uncontrollably.  Some of her tension was draining away.  “Faramir, I’m clean, they’re clean.” 

He sighed, “I suppose so” his grey eyes glinting with amusement and moved to rub the soap over her back, one hand lifting water to run warmly down her skin, the other sliding the soap back and forth in a soothing motion. 

It felt nice and even nicer was his kisses, soft press of his mouth to her brow line as she bent her head to scrub his chest firmly, using her hands to knead the soap well into the dark, curly hair.  One of Faramir’s flat little nipples hardened at the contact, making her curious.  Éowyn had thought the nubby things useless for a man, except of course as valuable tools in winning fights over her brother; he’d always screeched agreeably loudly whenever she twisted them.  She ran her finger over one of his nipples, flicking it.  Faramir sighed and nuzzled her earlobe, his hands cupped to bring warm water over her cool back.  His voice was amused, “Stop that.”

Rinsing him again, she looked at him, his skin damp and warm, lips soft.  Éowyn laid the sponge to float nearby and braced her hands on the rim of the tub, sliding her knees up and folding them to sit gingerly on his abdomen.  Faramir’s arms went around her, fingers interlocking at the small of her back.  He gazed up, not moving a bit and she felt her throat tighten with emotion—he was trying so hard not to do anything that might alarm her. 

She whispered, feeling bad that he did not dare do anything.  “It’s all right.”

His voice wasn’t reproachful and neither were his eyes, but the nature of his words was.  “It’s been before.”

“I’m sorry.”

Faramir shook his head and pulled her closer to slide downwards and lie against his front.  “Don’t worry.”  Éowyn pressed her nose to the underside of his chin, compressing her lips tightly.  She wanted to give him everything he wished from her, her free and no longer withheld intimacy, her heart and body to make love…she just couldn’t.  It went against her somehow, made her tense inside.  Tone as soothing as his kiss to the top of her head, he added.  “You’ve come so far, don’t worry, it will come…”

The remembrances of how silly and scared she’d been in his rooms made her relax.  He was right.  She wrapped her arms around his body, holding him just as he was holding her and suddenly Éowyn smiled.  Very soft, she sang, “Falewende…Is ná eower locfeax…”  Giggling at her own absurdity, she murmured into the dip of his throat, “Ond blæwen is ná eower êage.  Ge eart ná of min, Ac ge eart min ánum ond á ðý deórwyrþran…”

Faramir sat up, water sloshing around them, “What song is this?”  Éowyn began to laugh as he asked again, voice delighted, “What song is this?”

She raised her head to kiss the tip of his nose.  “It is your song.”

 He was grinning, adorable with his hair hanging in his eyes, the longer strands clinging wetly to his neck.  “Go on, go on.”

“Let me think of more…that’s all I have.”  Staring into his eyes, she felt the warmth of his love spread through her body.  Éowyn smiled faintly and touched his face, reaching behind herself to unlace his hands and put them on her thighs so that she could sit up on his stomach again.  Faramir looked uncertain and didn’t move them. 

The candles flickered, making light shine in his gaze, highlighting the emotions flowing there.  When she began to sing it was soft, repeating her earlier verses and there she stopped, but after a moment under his warm regard, she quickly found more to sing about.    

 Translations:

Names

Byrhtwold—Bright wood

Hroþgold—gold adorned

Aldlaf—Old legacy

Cuþlaf --  Known legacy

Se lyft is má beorht--The sky is too bright,

Min eoh is má smeþes--My horse is too rough

Ic ná aswefed for þæom--I haven’t slept because

Se sweoster æt Gaer aridan me eall niht…--Gaer’s sister, rode me all night…

Min sweoster is a cystig wíf—My sister is a virtuous girl

She is a god wíf…Æt se acer, æt se bærn, æt se bedde—She is a good girl…In the field, in the barn, in the bed…

Ale for a working man--Ealu æt a weorþe mann

I’ve battled all the day--Ic fohten eall se dæg

This gold for the girl that serves me first--Seo gold æt wíf seo folgiaþ me forma

I need drink!--Ic peorþ drenc

Nu. Forþ—Now.  Forward.

Ic eom fægere.—I am fine

Abreát hit!  Abreát hit nu!  Ic wille habban his hafela!  Nu! –Kill it!  Kill it now!  I will have his head!  Now!

Eower cyning behófaþ ge—Your King has need of you!

Hwa deþ he behófian—What does he need?

A crat ond a gerédan æt seo eoh—A cart and harness for this horse

Wilst ge folgodon—Will you serve?

I am in awe, of all the ancient work of autumn…I’ve never seen such a transformation, from gold to better than a she-foxe’s skin, my lady, you surpass the leaves on the hills in beauty.  I beg thy mercy, enchantress!

Ic eom in egesa, æt a se fyrngeweorc æt hærfest…  Ic habbe ná beháwod a onhweorfeþ, æt gold æt se betera a fyenhyd, min Ides, gea forcom se leáfum on se duns in whlite.  Ic giernan eower mildheortnes, galdricge!

… gea wilst ablendan us eall—You will blind us all

(Q) Melamin—my love

(Q) A'maelamin—My beloved

Ge, wilst ge ábirð giedd æt me?—You, will you carry word for me?

Se scrud æt Faramir wille beo gecierran ær dægræd or Ic wille minself secan ælec hus ond bur in Edoras ond forsecan se þéof æt geearnian.—Faramir’s possessions will be returned before dawn or I will myself search every house and cot in Edoras and punish the thief as they deserve.

Min Ides, Ic wilst hieran-- My Lady, I will obey.

Ic lufie ge—I love you

(Q) Amin mela lle—I love you

(S) Melin le—I love you