Éowyn cupped the bottom of the wine bottle in her hand as she thought, stroking the pads of her fingers absently over the tiny flaws in the glass.  Her gaze wandered downwards and stopped—Faramir lay full-length before her, sprawled on his belly with his long legs every which way like a child, one of her pillows wrapped in his arms and scrunched underneath his chin.  He looked adorable and she smiled fondly. 

“What?”  Faramir quirked an eyebrow and hugged the pillow tighter, an answering smile curving his lips.  His shirt had ridden up, bunching in creases around his midsection.  She eyed the narrowly exposed bit of skin around the small of his back.  It looked very smooth, his pelvic bones gently showing, and Éowyn lingered a bit, gazing at the enticing slope of his shape and the way his skin seemed pale there, though it was a warm dun color compared to the even paler line beneath it where his trousers came to rest.  She wished to touch him without even the pleasant interruption of his touching her, to explore his foreign body, so different in make from hers.  Éowyn’s eyes wandered over his familiar features, seeing his strength in them, their definition.  Her gaze passed on to Faramir’s slim fingers that had drawn so well and with such ease; his lightly furred arms were darker on top, but as he held them curled around the pillow she saw they were pale with fragile, life giving veins beneath.  His legs were long, ended with long, narrow feet that made her bite her tongue in amused disgust.  Arwen was braver than she was. 

Her lover was all planes, no real curves; all length, made even more so by the way he was lying stretched out and over her bed like an oversized, contented cat.  Contented, indeed.  The thought made her smile as a shiver went down her spine. 

Éowyn glanced down at the wine bottle before answering, “I’m trying to think.”  She’d not really had a specific game in mind.  No riddles…most of her folk’s pastimes involved the telling and guessing of riddles.  She didn’t like them and was horrible at them, but that was what she knew best.  Other games were those that needed some pieces and Éowyn frowned, her fingers tapping against the cool glass of the bottle.  Faramir smiled up again and she smiled back, barely able to see him.  His hair had fallen in his eyes so that they were beautiful flashes of bright grey peeking through his dark locks, like, she thought fancifully, wolves sprinting through the forest.  He gazed at her, smile gently fading.  His mind was full of a warmth that she could feel just touching her own.  It was a feeling Éowyn cherished because it was linked to the knowledge that he was near.  Min lufiend, Ic eom eadig… 

His reply was instant and a bit saccharine, making her laugh, ná, Ic eom.

She leaned forward to sweep his dark hair from his eyes.  Still beautiful.  Faramir pretended to turn away with embarrassment, ducking his head, and she laughed at him, teasing, modest. 

He chuckled softly and reached to play with a loose thread that hung over her thigh.  His fingers were very warm and they tickled slightly; Faramir’s brow creased just a tiny bit as he tugged the thread.  He looked even more adorable with his forehead wrinkled by his concentration; with an effort, Éowyn concentrated on something else.  No riddles…and no guessing games…he wouldn’t know the legends or tales of her folk to guess correctly.  Lifting the wine and feeling its weight, Éowyn frowned.  “We need more.”  They hadn’t drunk much yet, but in a game the remainder would go quickly.

        He’d lowered his chin; his voice was muffled and his limp hand felt heavy and hot on her bare leg, fingers just moving this way and that to tug on the thread.  Her nightgown’s hem twitched, tickling her.  “Why?”

        “To play rightly.”

        Faramir tilted his head up to scold at her, “We’re supposed to be riding early in the morning…”

        “So?”  She took a long drink of the wine to show how little she cared, savoring its flavor and the first, faint feelings of intoxication.  Éowyn felt a little flushed and eyeing him made her thrill.  He reached for it and she handed the wine over easily.  Faramir smiled at her,

        “I just don’t want an aching head.”

        “Fine.”  She sighed and began to get up, scooting to the edge of the bed.  “Come.”

        “Where are we going?”  Faramir looked loathe to move.

        “To the Hall.”  At his stare, she explained, “I don’t have the bones here for knucklebones.”  Éowyn drew her drab woolen robe out of her drawers and wrapped it around herself, tying it firmly.  At the most she expected they would encounter a few men of her folk or serving women lingering at the tables.  The fire should still be burning in the hearth, the coals banked for the night.  She turned to the bed expectantly; he hadn’t moved.  Trying to urge him, she smiled and thought, I don’t want to go alone…  Faramir frowned and rose slowly, padding close by her in bare feet that made her squeal internally.  Don’t touch me with those!

What?  He stopped at once.

Tactfully, she replied, you do not have pretty feet.

Looking down, then back up, Faramir laughed at her, “I doubt you’ve walked as far or as much as I have.”

“No, but still…” She made a face at the elongated, callused thing he called a foot.

His face mischievous, Faramir grasped her arm firmly and lifted his foot to very deliberately put it down on hers.  Éowyn gave a hastily muffled screeched at its rough feel and tore herself away as he laughed again.

        “No!”  She took back the wine and carried it out her door as they made their way to the Hall.  The corridors were murky, not lighted by snapping, flickering torches as they were in the City, but Éowyn found her way easily, one hand trailing along the wall.  Behind her she felt him sober in the darkness, too.  Faramir tread on her heels twice, his voice a murmured apology, his body no more than a denser shadow in the shadows surrounding them.  It is so dark…their footsteps echoed softly and reechoed, making strange noises.  He grasped her arm suddenly, making her jump and giggle as their hands met to clutch together like two lost and fearful children.  Fearful…  Éowyn marveled at her fearlessness in something that not long ago she wouldn’t have considered doing and if she had indeed made it this far, she would have been clutching her dagger with white knuckles. 

Faramir rubbed her fingers before releasing her hand and she felt his amusement mixed with exasperation, why are you dragging me about this late?  I was happy in your bed…  She felt his inner voice warm and tease, where I’m always happy…

It’s not that late…

It’s dark. 

Yes…  She glanced around at the empty, gloomy corridors and shuddered.  It was too like her dream, wandering about vacant, dark halls listening to weeping and cries amid the stench of smoke and for a moment she felt panic.  Éowyn halted, her heart in her throat. 

        He bumped into her back and Faramir spoke in a hushed tone over her head, “What is it?”

        Her chest ached, it was so full of petty relief and sudden thanks.  She was doing something she’d not done in a long time for fear of whoever might be trailing her footsteps.  “I love you.”

        He snorted, almost in laughter, “And I love you.”  She turned but she couldn’t see him, only the vaguest of shadows that made up his features and even that Éowyn couldn’t be sure she wasn’t just imagining.  Reaching up, she managed to blindly poke him a few times before his hand caught hers and flattened it against his shaven cheek.  Faramir’s voice was softer now, if puzzled, “I’m right here.  Feel?”

        She was the one who would leave him, of course, one day when her years ended and his stretched forth.  Éowyn was very glad he couldn’t see her face as she struggled to silence her thoughts.  They might lead her other equally dangerous places, such as what she planned to do after the festival.  “I know.”

        His hand squeezed hers and he sounded concerned, “Are you all right?”

        She told a half-lie which, after focusing upon it alone, became her only truth.  “It’s just…I’m not afraid, I’m,” Éowyn swallowed and rushed, “I thank you so much…”

        “Shh, don’t thank me.”  He bent; she could feel his warm breath, but he was sensible and used his fingers to map her face in the dark so that his fingers went before his lips, gently touching her mouth, cheeks, and chin to orient himself.  Faramir kissed her and she tasted wine, tasted the intoxication already within him and felt the promise of more still with the weight in her other hand.  Éowyn felt a strange, wild thrill—soon she would be vulnerable like she’d never been; merry and hazy with drink, thinly garbed and alone with a man just as intoxicated and fully capable and willing to make love to her.  She found the thoughts more exciting than alarming and pulled him closer in the dark, delighting at the feel of his solid body.  But it wasn’t long before he slipped from her embrace again, voice reluctant but practical.  “Shouldn’t we…”

        “Yes.”  She led him the rest of the way, the soft firelight in the Hall seeming bright to her deprived eyes.  The Hall was empty of all but a few collapsed and snoring men and Éowyn made her own path around the sleeping forms of dogs, glaring at them in annoyance while her bare feet moved gingerly and silently over the rushes she’d had strewn.  Drunk, in a stupor, idiot men…lucky I don’t awaken the chamberlain to roust them…leave them to sleep in the barns…  Faramir was even quieter, startling her when he touched her waist.  Waving at him to wait for her, Éowyn found enough of the scattered, flat little bones where they usually lay, owned by none, on various tabletops, to play.  She walked back with a handful, scowling at the dogs, the skewed tables, the general disorder.  I’m frightened to think of what this might look like in another year…

        Faramir smiled and spoke, hushed by the empty Hall, “I’m frightened of what my lodgings might look like in another year.”  He was standing before the fire and the light made his skin glow, brought a brilliant shine to his dark hair like a crown was set there, and made the thin, delicate gleam of wine on his lips catch her eyes.  Reaching up, she kissed it from his mouth, again feeling the delicious thrill of her vulnerability.  She was very conscious of his larger size, his stronger body, his long limbs that could outrun her with ease.  She shivered, and then smiled as his gaze searched hers.  Faramir looked wary and ready to catch any slight sign of her alarm but this was a good fear, a nervousness that made her heart pound with excitement.

        She jiggled the little bones, nearly ten sheep’s knuckles polished by long use.  “Do you know how to play?”

        His eyes were on her closely, their intensity only slowly relaxing its guard, “No.”

        Éowyn smiled, “You take the bones in your palm,” She demonstrated, laying her palm flat with the wee, squared bones gleaming like warm ivory from the firelight, “Then toss them and try to catch them with the back of your hand.”  Éowyn did so with dexterity; it was a game often taught to children.  She managed five of the nine and smiled in pleasure before bending to retrieve the other four.  Undoubtedly as the wine disappeared, so would her skill.  “Whoever has the most wins.” 

        He smiled and took the bones from her as she offered them.  Éowyn took another long drink of the wine, feeling its warmth course through her as they began the walk back to her rooms.  As though he were aware of her exhilaration, he spoke simply of genial things.  “This is easier than what I played with your brother.”

        Her voice, too, was hushed in the silent corridors.  “What game was that?”

        “Riddles and…” Faramir’s brow creased as he carefully nudged the bones on his palm, separating them, “some board game with a King and warriors…but we never finished.”

        “Hnefatafl?”

        He chuckled, “Yes.”  The last light from the Hall faded, leaving them in the dark.

        Curious, Éowyn asked, “What else did you do?”

        “I fought a man…badly, though I won money for Gaer, Nier and Tondhere,” Faramir’s smile was in his words and she wondered who these other men were, “And a share of my own, though I don’t know where it is now.  And I think I fell into a stupor halfway through.  I was drunk.  Very drunk.”  He laughed in good humor, “I know for certain that I lost.  Also, I hunted a great deal and taught my students some woodcraft.” 

        Students?  She inquired hesitantly.  “It wasn’t too bad, then?”

        “No,” He paused and said, “Not at all.”

The rest of their walk passed quickly, Éowyn keeping a hand to the wall.  Entering her softly-lit rooms made her blink at the light.  Her fire was lower than ever and the only other illumination came from the candles in her bedroom.  Faramir closed the door behind them and the muffled sound of it made her aware they were alone as they’d been alone before.  When she glanced at him, he smiled reassuringly. 

But she didn’t want reassurance, she wanted…  Uncertain, Éowyn glared at his shirt lying crumpled on the floor before stripping off her robe.  Pointedly, she folded it and put it back in her drawers.  When she turned, he was laying sprawled back on her bed and Faramir was pretending not to notice as she closed the dresser drawer firmly.  Climbing up with him, she sat with her back to the headboard again and folded her legs. 

“Ready?”  He smiled.

Éowyn nodded, letting the wine sit in her lap.  It leaned against her knee, making chill bumps rise on her bared skin.  While she watched, Faramir tossed the bones up, moving his hand in an exaggerated movement and managed to catch 3, with one falling off the back of his hand.  The remainder pattered to the bed.

        She smiled in encouragement.  “Good.”  Éowyn took the bones and tossed them quickly and efficiently, catching four this time.   She laughed in triumph, feeling her spirits raise to heights they’d long not, “Drink!”  He obeyed and she watched his throat move as Faramir took a long draught of wine.  “Here.”  She gathered the smooth knucklebones, warm from their hands, and passed them.

        “I’m going to lose, aren’t I?”  He tossed them before she could answer and managed to catch 2.

        “Yes.”  Laughing at his mock-despairing expression, Éowyn flipped the flat, squared bones up in a shallow throw while keeping her hand still and flat, fingers together, as the best landing surface she could make.  She caught only three but it was enough.  Triumphant again, she nodded at the bottle already within his hand, its contents shifting darkly, “Drink!”

        Faramir did and asked, “What are you going to do if you win…besides making me pick up that shirt?”  His eyes twinkled with good-natured teasing that tried in vain to belie the heat that crackled within his voice, rising into his question and making her body respond instantly.  Shifting her legs, she felt her skin was too tight, and only movement would relieve it.

        She answered without thought of anything but to tease, caught up in his stare, “Tie you up and ravish you.”  Out of the corner of her eye, Éowyn caught sight the long cord she’d left lying on the little table beside her bed.  She giggled recklessly and gestured at it as though she’d meant to put it there all along.  “I’ve got something to do it with lying right there.” 

But, to her surprise, he didn’t share her laugh, only sobered and tossed the bones again, this time getting five.  Faramir smiled at her, brilliant with sudden cheer, making her say firmly.  “Naught but luck.”  He chuckled and it sounded deeper; Éowyn wondered if it was a flush that she saw on his face or merely the reflection of the orange candlelight.  She tossed the bones swiftly and caught three.  Faramir laughed once more, pushing the wine to her.  She drank deep and set it back, feeling her body heat.  The drink was slowly getting to her.  Éowyn welcomed it, nodding at him.  “Again.”  Faramir tossed them high, making her giggle as over half the little bones fell back to thud on the bed.  He wasn’t even trying to win.  She said so, nearly winded with her merriment, and he growled at her as his eyes met hers and then slid to linger meaningfully on the blue cord,

        “Why would I ever want to…with such an offer?”  Éowyn felt herself flush all over and she put her hand to her mouth to hide her laughter and the heat in her cheeks.  His mind touched hers in a familiar fashion, you’re pretty when you blush like that…especially when it goes all the way to your bosom…  While she stared, Faramir smiled and pushed the bones to her.  “Here.” 

When she leaned forward to get them, he did so, too and kissed her, his hand light on her chin to hold her in place.  It was a kiss rich with wine, making her head feel light, giving her the fool notion she could get drunk just from his kiss.  Sitting back against the carved wood, Éowyn tossed them and caught only one, still feeling the press of his mouth and its desire pulsing through her.  Faramir took them again and grinned as he teased lightly, “Maybe it’s you that wants to be tied and ravished.”  His smile was slow enough to make it uncertain if he were playfully jesting or more seriously contemplating the idea.  Either way, Éowyn felt herself shiver under her skin as he said in a low voice, “Drink.” 

        She reached for the bottle, not bothering to hide her embarrassed, shy smile.  “Well, give it to me then.”  Faramir did so and watched her drink; he was very intent all of the sudden and she felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch.  Seating the wine back in her lap, she waited for him to take his turn.

        Faramir tossed the bones, his eyes not leaving hers and of course caught none.  He smiled wickedly and her heart pounded.  His Southern accent was just a little thicker now, “Your turn.”

        Éowyn looked down at her hand, shifting her fingers to move the bones.  They clacked and scuffed very softly as she murmured, her own daring making her voice no more than a breathy undertone, “I don’t want to play anymore.”

        His question was inevitable, charged with heat, but still couched in that easeful tone as though Faramir wished desperately to speak in a more wanton fashion and yet was not sure if he should or might even be too shy to attempt it.  “Then what do you want to do?”

        She wanted to do a great many things; to make him answer her question about what he wanted from her as a wife, to ask him to talk to her wantonly because she was sure the words alone would be enough to bring her to climax and she could well imagine his murmur into her ear, the warmth of his breath, what words he might say…  “Sit up.”  Éowyn swallowed, “Get up.”  He rose to his knees, settling back on his bent legs and gazed at her with carefully restrained passion in his eyes.  With a sudden snicker, she pointed at the floor, "Now fetch the shirt.”

        Faramir deflated slightly, but he laughed in good cheer.  “Yes, my Lady.”  Climbing from the bed, he picked it up and held it in expectance.  His face was alight with amusement, with a warm and loving agreeableness.

        Éowyn turned to face him and ordered, smiling, “Now fold it…you know how to fold a shirt, don’t you?”

        His eyes sparkled with laughter as he replied solemnly, “It’s been a while.  I might have forgotten.”

        “Here.”  She pretended great annoyance as she slid off the bed to stand before him.  Éowyn grasped the end of the shirt, holding each of the embroidered corners in one of her hands.  Speaking in a playful tone, she began, “Fold the sleeves inward…”

        Faramir smiled down at her and did so.  He leaned to kiss her as she began, “Then…” Éowyn felt anew how much she loved his kiss, only reluctantly breaking it.

        He was flushed and his voice was hasty, eager.  “What?” 

        “Fold it in half…long-ways…”

        Another kiss, another breathless, teasing question, “And?”  Her heart was beating fast as she answered.

        “Fold it to me.”  Their fingers met together, hers slipping beneath his and away and at the same time he kissed her, making her smile in both shyness and eagerness.  Éowyn laughed, her chest tight with excitement and delighted pleasure as he stepped back and took the time to lay the garment very neatly on the table beside her bed.  Faramir gave her a raised eyebrow and an acknowledging look that made her laugh again.  He had tasted of wine and when he picked up the bottle and drank, he approached to kiss her again immediately, his hand fast to the nape of her neck.  Éowyn’s eyes widened in surprise as some of the liquid slipped sensuously hot from his mouth to hers, wetting the corners of their lips, slicking their tongues and making reality of her fancy of getting drunk off his kisses.  She tasted it, tasted him and found that both were equally rousing. 

        When they finally pulled apart, panting slightly, he asked, “You know what I want to do?”  He sounded playfully hinting at something, yet soft and intense, as he stood very close.  As he waited for her reply Faramir wore a tiny, rather silly smile that she’d never seen before.

        Éowyn took a moment so her voice wouldn’t shake, licking a bit of wine from the corner of her lips.  “No.”  But she thought she could imagine his desire and it made her heart speed up.  The wine had gone to her head, making it swim and she was suddenly very uncertain about what her answer would be.

        Faramir beamed at her, then set the bottle aside and cupped her breasts through the nightgown, lifting them up and pressing them together to form a small well.  As she stood, not comprehending the motion—it was not a caress, but an almost informal touch—he smiled in an expressive way and said in a low voice.  “I want to drink some of this wine from the cup of your bosom,” Faramir’s eyes dropped, then rose as he finished more avidly, “To taste you and it, then to let some of it run down your body and lick it away.”  Éowyn had no answer for this incredible, unfathomable statement, so she just stared up.  He waited a moment, and then met her wide, flustered eyes.  Faramir laughed abruptly, almost tittering, then released her bosom before leaning to kiss her, cheek nudging hers, his breath warm on her earlobe.  His voice was an amused and partly sheepish rumble as his arms slid around her waist, “Forgive me.” 

        It was a very long moment before she could ask, mind awhirl with the image of his desire and the imagined feel of cool wine and his hot, eagerly slurping tongue; Éowyn was uncertain who’s imagination, hers or his, “W-Why?”  She imagined the dark crown of his head bent over her bosom, his panting breaths, the guzzling, ravenous sounds as he drank from her like an animal and she shuddered with pleasure at the thought.  Oh, but this man would kill her with such notions.

        Faramir just laughed again and pulled back to nuzzle his nose to hers before kissing the corner of her mouth and murmuring matter-of-factly, “I’m being foolish.”  He held her to him and gave her that tiny, silly smile as his forehead pressed hers and his dark hair brushed the sides of her brow with downy, feather-like touches.  Leaning forward, he touched his lips to hers in tiny, repetitive and smacking kisses that made her start to giggle uncontrollably.  Faramir laughed with her and she felt his body shaking against hers.  Had they ever laughed like this?  Éowyn didn’t think so but it made her feel good.  She wrapped her arms around him tightly.

Once their laughter had subsided, she smiled, slightly dizzy from the wine and her giggles.  “A little, I suppose.”

        “But not too much?”  His eyes dropped and his hand rose slowly to very deliberately slide the shoulder of her gown so that the hem pressed to her neck and her shoulder was revealed.

        She squeaked out, “No.”  At once, Éowyn was at an utter loss of what to say or do.  Faramir’s fingers traced her throat, the blunt tips tickling almost unbearably as he trailed them along the edge of her nightgown where he’d pulled it to bare her skin.  He was doing nothing, really, so she stood quiet and complacent and felt herself heat as he gazed down.  Éowyn closed her eyes, mentally following his fingertips.  When she opened them again Faramir’s face looked spellbound, as though the scant and entirely innocent part of herself that he’d bared was fascinating in some way. 

        He spoke softly, “I want to draw you.  I want to…” As though words escaped him, he fell still.

        She tightened her arms around his waist, smiling, “Now?”

        Faramir answered and the word sounded to her incredibly carnal for all the simplicity of his murmured reply.  “Naked.”  His eyes met hers and they were full of a marvelously avid light, glowing like stars as a smile spread across his face. 

        Éowyn shook her head, biting her lip.  “No.”  She wanted to say yes; to watch his skilled hands remaking her form, capturing it so precisely within their grasp as she’d seen him draw other things.  She wanted to bare herself to his eyes, to let him seize the curves, lines and hidden places of her body to put them on the paper, to know her as no other, to see her flaws and perfections.  Éowyn shivered within the circle of his arms and felt how very much the idea aroused her.  If he did so she could not refuse him the request of making love to her, it would be no more than an extension of his drawing, his knowledge of her from sight to bodily touch.  Oh, I want…but she did not dare to speak the single, simple word that would declare her assent.  She was too timid to make the final step.  It seemed too great a stride.

        A frown touched his beaming face like a dark shadow passing across a clear summer sky.  “Why not?”  Faramir’s silly smile returned to broaden into a silly grin.  “Shy?”  He chuckled and nuzzled his nose to hers again, “Or afraid I’ll make a mess of it?”

        She was shy, and almost as eager to do it.  Biting her lip with a smile, she said timidly, “No, you’d make me beautiful.” 

“As you are.”  He kissed her hotly, passionately, pressing his body to hers; Faramir dipped to kiss her bared shoulder.  “Oh, as you are…I want to draw you, please, won’t you let me?”  His face was intent, lit up with a kind of zeal she’d not seen; he very enthused about the idea.

“But…” Éowyn went on with her protest, unsure of how much it was illusory and how much it was true, “What…if someone saw it?”  She felt both quivers of excitement and hotly blushing embarrassment from the idea.  She almost wanted someone to see, yet dreaded it as horribly mortifying. 

        “Who would see?”  He smiled and his fingers traced the curve of her breast, her hip, in a gentle and strange fashion.  Neither were the tentative caresses of a suitor, but the touches of a husband, the casual handling of one who has full permission. 

The touch of an artist to his tools…she shivered and felt briefly lightheaded remembering the quick, effortless movements of his hands as they’d guided the reed pen over the paper.  She had little doubt that with insight, if she gave to him knowledge of such and such touches that gave her pleasure, he could do the same only over her body.  “I don’t know.”  He began to open his mouth again to assure her and Éowyn shook her head and said more firmly, drawing her resolution from her mortification in the thought of someone stumbling across the drawing.  “No.”

        He pouted, something that made her stare, hypnotized by the sensual, puffed out and slightly damp curve of his lower lip.  “Never?”

        Faramir smiled in hope and delight when she took a breath and released it in a soft rush, “…no.”  Éowyn shook with a violent shudder born of the titillation, the thrill that came from the rampant and wild imaginings within her.  She laughed uncertainly, voice small, “No, not never.”  For an instant she almost wished he were a less mild man who’d simply pulled her nightgown over her head and told her that he would draw her naked.  I wouldn’t have refused…she shuddered again.  But that was why she trusted him—he didn’t simply do things, he was patient and gentle, as understanding as was possible of her silly fears.  Éowyn pulled his mouth to hers.  “Not never…soon…but,” She laughed nervously, “Another day.”

        “Good.”  He murmured, leaning to kiss her, “Good…” Faramir stepped forward, his body pushing against her body and she understood.  Grateful to move away and take a respite from his lavish almost to the point of being deliciously unbearable attentions, Éowyn returned to the bed, straightening her nightgown, and retrieving the wine to drink long and deeply.  She was surprised at how much was gone, how little the bottle weighed.  The liquor heated her stomach, her veins and made her flush.  She wasn’t drunk, but quite affected and she felt a moment’s flash of nerves as Faramir had come to sit behind her.  He’d had more than she had. 

The faint edginess quickly changed to pleasure, though, and Éowyn did not move as he brushed her hair aside; in an instant she felt his mouth on her throat, small, light kisses that nonetheless made her lean to them.  The bed shifted as she did, sloping very gently under his heavier weight, making it easy for her to lean against his side.  “When?”

        She was confused, distracted, “What?”  Éowyn turned to face him, swinging her legs up to stretch them.  Faramir rose to his hands and knees and crawled atop her, his palms planted on either side of her waist, her legs between his knees.  She frowned up, reaching to push his hair behind his ears so she could see his face.  He gazed down at her, serious,
        “When will you let me draw you?”  Before she could answer he leaned down to kiss her neck.

        Despite the pleasure of his wet kisses, again she felt the passing annoyance that she could never be atop and could not explore him, that because of his objections she could not give him simple pleasure as he’d done her.  As he is doing right now…  “I don’t know…” At once Éowyn decided to do something about it.  She frowned and put her hand to his chest, sitting up, “Move.”

        Faramir was quite amenable and they switched positions more easily than she expected; he rolled over to his back, his hands resting lightly on his stomach.  Éowyn glanced at the cord and smiled, but did not fetch it.  He was still, lying on his back with his head and upper body pillowed against the headboard while she sat up on her folded legs.  Moving deliberately, planting her hands and knees on the other side of his long body, Éowyn hovered over him.  Faramir’s grey eyes watched her and they were smoky, dark; he was strangely yielding, motionless.  It gave her a feeling of great power to bend over his larger, stronger body and he was the pliant one, she the vanquishing, the action to his repose.  He stared up and she down, neither spoke.  Finally, he did and he smiled with an eyebrow quirked, “What are you going to do?”

        “I don’t know.”  She was smiling bashfully, feeling it on her face.  His hands rose to touch her shoulders, her arms, caressing them, then down to her waist before he leaned to grasp the backs of her thighs and pull her down and closer.  Éowyn kissed him as she resettled herself over his lap, straddling him, “This first, I think…”

        “Good…” He smiled between her kisses and murmured as she bent press her mouth to his neck, “Will you sing for me later?”

        She laughed, and sat up to hit his chest lightly, “I’m not your minstrel!”

        Faramir’s face grew exaggeratedly sad.  “You won’t?”  He widened his eyes like a child, lower lip pooched, and whimpered pathetically.  “You won’t sing for me?”  Éowyn smiled down and words came to her, slipping swift and deep like a river whose channel passed through her heart; words full of love, devotion and trust.  She quieted, feeling overwhelmed by the instant composition; the song was just beyond her grasp and she sensed it was great indeed.  He studied her face and lit up, “Another song for me?”

She shook her head, teasing.  “You only get one.”

Faramir pouted in play, his hands finding a home in the warm crease of her folded legs, fingers trapped between her thighs and calves.  “But I want another.”  He murmured simply and more intimately, making a lump form in her throat, “I liked it very much.”

Their eyes locked again and the love she could see made her smile and look away in embarrassed delight; Éowyn broke into laughter.  “You are a child, aren’t you?”  She smiled, “I told you, I’m not your minstrel to command into verse whenever the mood strikes you!”

“I didn’t command…I asked.”  He smiled, “I’ll beg, if it pleases you.”

She smiled, “You’re going to beg?  The great and benevolent Lord Faramir, whose noble breeding makes a mockery of mine,” Éowyn paused, and put her hand to her breast to show her astonishment, “Is going to beg me for a song?”

To her surprise, he answered in her tongue.  “Ná.”

“Hwa ná?”

“Ic hæbbe ná naman to…”  His brow creased and she supplied the word,

“Gyrne.”

Faramir smiled.  “Gea.”

Éowyn argued, “Eower naman is ænlíc to me.”

His eyes turned soft, wondering.  “Sóþlíce?”

“Gea.”  She lowered herself to him, lying on his body, caressing his face.  “Min Feramaerh…” Her brother’s derisive voice came back to her and she smiled, taking the name he’d scoffed at as homage.  Soul-steed…  Despite his mocking, it was a perfectly honorable name to her folk’s ear; there was no shame in comparing one’s soul to a horse.  Noble, loyal, strong and protective of one’s friends and family…she gazed into his warm grey eyes.  What is wrong with that?

They kissed very simply for a while and it felt good, felt wonderful to trust him so equivocally, to not feel a moment’s fear.  He smiled at her when she lifted her head.  Emboldened, Éowyn felt her heart beat faster as she leaned over to grasp the long blue cord; Faramir’s eyes watched her movements and he did not protest; indeed, she felt him shift beneath her almost eagerly. 

Yet his brow creased and she felt an odd emotion run through him; when he finally spoke, it was in a falsetto, making her laugh in shocked delight.  Faramir turned his head away sharply, feigning horror.  “Do what you will, but be gentle, I beg you!”  His eyes dropped and he admitted, “I am but a chaste maiden.”

        Éowyn gasped in her laughter and what had been within her as an amorous thought, abruptly turned playful.  She demanded, “How chaste?”

        He fluttered his eyelashes flirtatiously, “Quite.”      She laughed again and he shifted under her, admonishing, ruffians don’t giggle.

        This fancy delighted her to no end.  They don’t?

        Not the ones I’ve caught.  His eyes glinted with mischief, “Please, I’m just a maiden…”

        With a mocking and raspy growl she answered, “Not for long” and she leaned down to kiss him, grasping his chin to hold him still as he was struggling a bit in play.  Underneath her, she felt his chest and stomach convulse with silent laughter.  Éowyn felt the heat of the wine course through her body, easing her shyness and urging her forward.  Obeying an impulse, she lifted her head and barked, “Hold still girl!” 

Faramir’s eyes went wide and his mouth opened with real surprise, forming a startled “o”.  She burst into more laughter but made it harsher, more as she imagined a ruffian would laugh.  Éowyn felt strong and fierce at his capitulation—she caught his wrists and pinned his hands to the blanket and he went limp beneath her, allowing her to catch his shocked mouth.  But he quickly recovered and for the first time she had to make him open to her and yield to her wishes, to hold him by the jaw and make him accept her kiss.  “Quit wiggling!”  She snapped at him, “Do as I say!”  Éowyn couldn’t help a tiny snicker slipping past her guard, “Or it will be worse for you!”

He gasped back, still in his high-pitched voice, “Please…no…” Under her, Faramir’s erratically, but eagerly upward thrusting movements made lies of his whimpering objections.  He turned his head this way and that if she didn’t hold him, so Éowyn gripped his chin, fingers firm to his jaw.  She was giggling, trying not to hit any of the bruises.  Faramir compressed his lips, making her struggle to kiss him.  He was still shaking with unvoiced laughter, gasping with it in muted barks.  Éowyn’s stomach ached with her own laughter.  It was difficult to even sit up, much less hold him still.  

She had to coax kisses; almost lapping at his tongue to get him to respond and it felt strange…Éowyn wondered if this was what he’d felt all this time.  The thought made her realize what she was doing—playacting at rape—and she was astonished and a little uneasy.  But one glance at his enthusiastic, passionate gaze convinced her it was different and all right, that no matter what playacting they were doing, it was and would never be anything akin to rape.

Eventually, Faramir had been tamed enough to accept even her most wanton kiss and she lifted her head, taking deep breaths.  He was flushed, lips parted as he, too, panted.  But she was the ruffian, so she could not simply admire his handsomeness, she had to take charge.  Éowyn liked the thought.  “Let’s see you, girl.”  He guffawed, eyes shining with amusement.  Boldly, smiling and on the verge of laughter, Éowyn yanked the linen shirt up.  She snickered, “Agreeable lass” when he lifted and arched his back up from the bed to aid her as she pushed it to bunch at his collarbone.  His chest and stomach bared, she gazed at him, taking time to gently and sympathetically touch near the bruises marring his otherwise splendid body. 

Éowyn trailed her index finger around the marks, saddened by their presence.  Her hand slid down his side, very gently caressing the scar that had nearly felled him.  She laid her hand over it; it wasn’t very big at all, a small pocked place where the healers had drawn out the Southron’s bolt.  So small…it hardly looks like it would slow him…  Certainly her brother bore worse marks from his headlong, reckless charges. 

Smoothing his scar with her fingers, she was wishing she could make it disappear, yet at the same time she was silently gladdened for it, otherwise…  Aware she’d become caught up in her thoughts, Éowyn looked up hastily and somewhat self-consciously.  Faramir was gazing at her in silence, no longer laughing, but solemn, his face quiet.  She met his soft, quiescent eyes, then just as hastily looked down.  Under her hand, his crossed wrists were entirely lax, allowing her mastery of the moment.

Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she resumed her exploration.  His skin was amber colored, darker than when he’d left.  His ribs showed less to her eye, pleasing her.  Curling her finger around a bit of his dark chest hair, Éowyn tugged on it and clucked her tongue disapprovingly as she met his eyes again.  “No bosom at all.  Flat as a boy up top, aren’t you?”  He grinned immediately.  She ran her hand over his upper chest, flicking his nipples with her thumb, amused and curious when they stiffened.  Faramir huffed as though her exploration was a great annoyance.  Obeying another impulse, she bent, brushing aside chest hair, and took one into her mouth.  He inhaled; she felt his chest move sharply and the tiny, rather unimpressive nub hardened still further.  Éowyn rolled her tongue over it and was satisfied to learn he enjoyed the same as she.  Faramir moved restlessly, the muscles in his trapped arms jumping against her pitiful single-handed restraint.  Still curious, she switched to the other; neither tasted of anything but clean skin.  It felt odd, a firm and twisty, movable little nub in her mouth.  She tugged it, trapping it very gently between her teeth, not wanting to hurt him, and wondered if her own nipples felt the same to his mouth.

He sucked in a breath and contorted under her, breathing, “Stop.”

“Why?”  She felt her irritation rise.  He could do this to her and torment her, why could she not do the same to him?   Why am I denied?

But Faramir stared at her, almost gulping, “It feels too good.”

“Too bad.”  She wiggled backwards on him, squeezing her thighs.  Éowyn bent farther to lick at his flat stomach.  It jumped under her teeth as she very lightly scraped his skin.  He groaned and begged, peering down at her,

“Stop it…”

Lifting her head, she smiled at him.  You’re sure?  Éowyn slid a little further down his legs, kneeling on the bed.  Her heart jumping in excitement, she took hold of his trousers, fingers caressing the buttoned fly, ready.  His eyes widened. 

Yes.

She sighed in disappointment and discontent, returning her attention to his upper body.  A few leisurely caresses later, her palm testing the softness of his belly in comparison to his lean sides, the thickness of his hair on his chest to the thinness of the trail that led down his stomach, Éowyn snorted in a dismissive fashion, “No wonder you’re yet a maid.  Flat and prudish.”  She reseated herself on his lap. 

Faramir’s jaw was clamped as he fought laughter before managing to look away and whimper.  “Cruel.  You’re terribly cruel.”

“Yes.”  She sighed.  “But you’ll have to do.”  Éowyn lightly tweaked one of his nipples, earning a real buck of surprise.  She snickered and growled impatiently as she pulled his shirt back down, “Come on girl, I’ve had lame horses give me better rides.”

He blinked at her rough talk, delighting her with his astonishment.  Ah, I’ve heard worse than I am likely to speak…  Faramir fought her weakly, his strong arms with their curves of muscle only pushed against her enough to prove his resistance; he twisted beneath her in a mock fight that ground his groin up against her.  Éowyn encouraged in her voice of feigned disgust, “Show some spirit.”

The exertions made them both pant and the sound of him so breathless added to her excitement.  Éowyn was giggling helplessly, chest and cheeks hurting; under her Faramir laughed whenever he caught his breath enough; he was using all of it to fight her without fighting hard enough to actually overpower her.  The feel of his body was wonderful, bucking and flexing under her like an unbroken stallion, but even more delightful was riding him into submission, planting her knees firmly to the soft feather mattress, her hand to his crossed wrists, and pushing him back to the bed.  The old bed frame creaked and groaned under their vigorous struggles, making her wonder if the noise carried far.  To the hallway, surely not…oh, but what if some serving woman or man walked by?  It gave her a sense of wickedness, heightening her arousal and Éowyn’s heated imagination followed her idea of grabbing up the blue cord but there it stopped.  She wasn’t quite sure how to use it.

She knew knots well from years of working with horses.  It would not take any time to tie him.  But how…the headboard had no hole to pass the cord through and the elaborately carved posts on either side would be too fragile, plus position him awkwardly…she would have to bind his hands behind his back or some such way. 

Under her, Faramir struggled a second time, as though reading her thoughts.  He was flushed, panting as Éowyn kissed him then roughly pulled his head to the side to lick the shaven underside of his chin and press her teeth to his neck.  Instead of retreating, he pushed up to her gentle nipping bite, and writhed to kiss and slick her skin with his hot tongue when she licked his neck; Éowyn giggled and suckled at his earlobe.  To her surprise, Faramir moaned very soft and the sound of it made a great bolt of excitement run through her.  Not thinking, she pulled back to stare into his eyes and ask forcefully, “You like that?”  Éowyn felt her excitement mount that she was the one talking so wantonly.  Her question seemed very lewd indeed, “You like that?”

His eyes were half-lidded, full of lust, and the shame in his voice, though undoubtedly false, drove her wild.  “…yes.”  Faramir seemed very willing to play this game, whispering, “Yes.”

She gripped his sides with her knees, generating very satisfying friction by rubbing back and forth against his prone body, “You want more?”  His expression showed, he, too, found it satisfying as he squirmed up to meet her.

Faramir’s reply was instant, if in a soft and properly maiden-like tone.  “Yes.”  The cord was still clasped tight in her fist; thinking about it with a thrill, she loosed the hold she had on his wrists.  She would need both hands to tie a knot. 

But immediately, Faramir’s released hands came up to her waist, fingers sliding back and under her nightgown to grasp and knead her bottom.  Instinctively, she wiggled upward, giving a cry of surprise, unable to escape.  Under her, his eyes were unfocused, attending to the movements of his hands; his knees bent up, catching her.  Éowyn twisted on his body, unbalanced, caught off guard.  She felt a moment of unease at the swiftness of his actions.

Quickly, and in an unbridled way they’d never done before, his fingers probed, tips slipping down and pressing slightly between the cleft of her buttocks, so that she squealed involuntarily and leaned forward against his front to escape, almost in his face.  Faramir laughed and kissed her firmly, making her glower.  At her embarrassed, infuriated glare, he burst out laughing.  She rose on her knees and he lost his place; breathless with astonishment, she gasped wide-eyed, “Stop!” 

Faramir’s hands caressed her thighs, her buttocks slowly now, palms firm as he passed them up her flesh.  He spoke softly, curiously, a roguish grin spreading over his face, “Why?”

She licked dry lips.  “Because…” Éowyn couldn’t think of a reason fast enough under his distraction.  He was running his fingertips lower to just skim back and forth along the sensitive flesh between her legs.  It felt good, though more ticklish than pleasurable, but Éowyn forgot her indignation, sinking back to his lap.  He wasn’t laughing anymore but staring at her seriously.  The pressure of his eyes made her flush, as did the slight movements of his fingers.  She felt warmth grow within her middle and under her skin as he kept teasing; Éowyn moved her hips a little, wishing he would give her more. 

He could obviously sense it and spoke up, grinning impishly, “Still want me to stop?”  She glared down and didn’t answer, knowing her face was red.  Suddenly Faramir chuckled and it was wicked.  The blunt tip of one of his fingers delved inside her very gently, slicking itself with her moisture before slipping back upwards along the cleft of her buttocks and almost too late Éowyn realized what he was planning on doing.  She pulled back with a yelp to slap and yank his offending forearm as Faramir burst out in laughter, yielding immediately, dropping his hands to the blankets.  Éowyn eyed him and admonished, “Maidens don’t do that.”  She was stunned and roused, broken from their game, half-wishing she had been able to curb her reaction and allow him to go on.  He smiled at her and it was warm and reassuringly good-humored.

Forgive me…?  I told you I would be foolish…

 Éowyn glared and he sniggered delightedly, making her smile against her will as she thought, sounding fussy and overmodest even to herself,  You didn’t tell me you would do things like that.

        “I didn’t?”  Faramir was grinning widely; when she shook her head, his grin fractured into tittering snickers, then great loud peals of laughter; he was nearly choking with mirth as his body vibrated under her.  She ducked, smiling, not entirely sure about the situation but liking the sound of his laughter.  Éowyn glanced at his reddened face, wide, weary grin and dancing eyes and thought that she’d heard it too rarely.  He finally lay back, trying to catch his breath while murmuring, “What do they do?”  His eyes were dropped and Faramir had abandoned the falsetto, but his voice was still very meek and tame.  She could feel how it lied, though; he was full of anticipation, of impudence and eager passion and Éowyn shivered because he’d turned it on her again.  She wasn’t the ruffian in this bed, but was instead perched atop of him, only strong and fierce in his fancy of helplessness.

        She didn’t know how to answer.  “They…”

        “What?”  He purred softly, “Tell me how to please you…” Faramir fluttered his lowered eyelashes, peeking up, “cruel Master Ruffian.”  She bit her tongue not to giggle, feeling herself relax again into their game.  His impassioned gazed fixed on hers; Faramir started to move, rhythmically rolling his hips, rising up and down.  He was grinding into her lustfully, also like he’d never done, hands firm to her hips to hold her in place.  She was briefly shocked but not displeased.  It felt delicious, not in any fashion that he was touching any sensitive parts of her, but in the knowledge of his desire, adding to the burgeoning and half-forgotten warmth in her body and Éowyn forgot their game for a moment, her eyes closing.  She felt the passing urge to touch her breasts and her hands half rose before her shyness returned.  She’d not had near enough of the wine to caress herself so blatantly and lewdly.

        But Faramir answered her urge in a breathless plea, “Do it” and she felt the growing bulge of his arousal.  When he rolled his hips next it was with more restlessness.  I want to watch…Faramir grinned, then help…

        She opened them to say softly, eyes narrowed as though in suspicion, “You are awfully wanton for a maiden.”

        He stared up at her, crooked grin spreading across his mouth, “Maybe I lied.”  Éowyn felt him moving a little faster now, becoming more intense, and even in her pleasure and happy playfulness she knew that the time to stop their play before it grew too serious to stop was swiftly approaching but…she didn’t know what she wanted to do.  Éowyn wished to respond, but she was afraid to go too far and anger him when she couldn’t reciprocate.

 Frustrated, she thought, what do I fear?  Her pride arose.  I fear no pain…Éowyn knew that he wouldn’t hurt her if he could help it.  Yet she was afraid, the unconditional and naked openness of the act haunting her.  She would have to give him license over much more than just the simple caress of her breasts, the kiss of her mouth or even his most recent stride along the path of conquest—his fingers access to her most private place.  She was frozen inside with indecision, the wine, her desire and her heart urging her forward while her fear of the sheer and great emotional and physical exposure involved held her back.

        His eyes had softened, no longer afire with passion; he’d noticed her pensive mood and slowed, then stopped his grinding motions entirely.  Faramir’s hands caressed her back in a soothing fashion, rubbing and smoothing her nightgown.  Don’t worry…whenever you wish to stop…I jested only, I would stop…

        That’s not what…  I don’t…I don’t want…I want to…  Faramir’s brow creased with his lack of understanding and Éowyn lay down on him, pressing her nose to his neck.  His arms came up to hold her, hands spreading over her shoulder blades.  He didn’t speak and neither did she; their playful, amorous mood was broken and she felt fury that she’d done it.  Éowyn’s jaw clamped tighter and tighter with her rising self-hatred and rage.  She relished the pain, clenching her fists, every muscle taut with her bitter anger, trying to char and burn her fears away in a single flash of pure, seething hate. 

        Abruptly, he spoke.  “Éowyn…?”  Faramir sounded worried and he moved under her, sitting up a little on his elbows.  “Please answer me.”  What’s wrong?  Don’t…don’t do that…don’t feel like that…please…

        She let out her pent-up breath and relaxed.  Éowyn rubbed her eyes, wiping away her few, hot, damp tears of frustration and anger.  Why couldn’t she just give in?  Why?  I want to, I’m not afraid of him…what did she fear then?  Éowyn gritted her teeth.  She was utterly mad.  She couldn’t look at him, staring bleakly at the junction of his neck and shoulder, shining, clean locks of his sable hair, “I’m sorry.”

        He was worried.  She could feel it, which made her guilty.  Faramir touched her cheek, making her turn.  His eyes searched hers almost desperately.  “What for?”

         Éowyn rolled off him, hanging her hand off the side of the bed to drop the cord.  It landed with an almost inaudible thud.  She stared at the ceiling and tried not to scream with her frustration.  Voice dull, she answered before he questioned her again, “We were…I liked it.”

        “So what’s wrong?”  Faramir turned on his side and propped himself on his elbow, gazing at her in fretful bewilderment.

        “I didn’t want to stop.  I want…” Why couldn’t she just say it?  Maybe she was mad.

He frowned.  “What do you want?”

Éowyn felt her shyness and raged against it.  She was tired of shyness that was born of her fears.  She wanted the thrill, enthusiasm and all of how she’d felt when he touched or held her, when he’d given her pleasure not so long ago.  And very suddenly her cowardice broke and she took the moment, meeting his gaze.  “I want you to make love to me.  Now.” 

Faramir looked uncomfortable and as though he didn’t know how to respond.  He shifted on the bed, glancing away before asking hesitantly, “Why?”

Impatient and afraid she’d soon revert to her weakness, she answered.  “So it’s done.”

His face twisted and he looked truly aghast, repulsed even.  “No.”

“No?”  Éowyn hadn’t expected this answer.

“No.”  Faramir shook his head.  He was deeply hurt by her words and she could feel it, which puzzled her.  “I won’t do any such thing.”

        “Why not?”  She was irritated and guilty at his hurt, lashing out, “I thought that was what you wanted so very much to do.”

        For a moment he looked abashed, and then he gathered himself again.  “Yes, but not to,” His voice was full of nausea.  “To just get it done.”  Faramir stared at her.  “That’s wrong, Éowyn.  That’s not love that’s something horrible.  Why would you want that?”

        “Because…” She was just tired of dealing with it.  “I don’t want to be afraid…”

        “I thought you weren’t.”  His helpless confusion was palpable.  “You said you weren’t…”  Faramir frowned, “Did I do…”

        “No!”  The notion of his guilt was unbearable.  It was her, not him.  Faramir was gentle and loving, he didn’t deserve such difficulties.  Éowyn shook her head, daring to look at him.  “I’m not afraid of…” She closed her eyes, trying to explain the unexplainable.  Éowyn was near tears.  “I want you, so much, I want to…be with you, I just can’t…I can’t let go…please…just…”

        “No.”  His face had softened and Faramir scooted to lie beside her.  “It would not be an act of love…” He smoothed away a tear from her cheek; she’d not even felt it slide down.  “Understand, I couldn’t do it.  It is not just that I won’t, I couldn’t.  You would hate me, I think…” Faramir kissed her brow, putting his arm around her when she moved to lie against his side, hiding her face in the hollow of his throat.  “You don’t need to fight so hard…do you think I’m…angry?”  He felt saddened and pained; she sniffed back tears.  “I’m not…I told you, it matters nothing.  I just wished to be closer, to make our words of love into deed.”  He frowned, “Don’t think I need it from you to be pleased with you…” 

        Her voice was small, but truthful.  She took his arm to hug it, intertwining their fingers.  “I don’t.”

        Faramir tilted his head to ask, his breath against her ear, “Then why would you make such a horrible request of me?”

        “I…”

        “What?”  Éowyn had no idea how to explain in a coherent way how every muscle in her body revolted, how she couldn’t allow such vulnerability for fear…but she was supposed to submit to his desires, it was her duty as soon as she was his wife.  She’d listened to enough talk from the women to know that much, even if she was a poor excuse for a woman herself.  Yet…Faramir had given her no indication of wanting such…  Éowyn felt her frustration swell, making her want to explode.  Am I mad?  Do I imagine his wants and fear things that he will never ask?  She didn’t know and didn’t think he would be able to answer.  He can’t even tell me what he wants in a wife…how would he know what duties are mine?

He’d been gazing at her very closely; she could feel the weight of his concentration.  “What is wrong?”

        Her despair made her moan, “I don’t know.” 

        “Come here.”  Faramir held her to him and she curled against his side, wishing she could stop her stupidity.  The warmth of his closeness was very soothing, making her shut her eyes.  Eventually he spoke and his voice was soft, “Do you wish to speak about it?”

        Éowyn wished she’d never said anything.  The vision of his face filled with such repulsion shamed her.  “No.”

        Faramir sounded almost relieved.  “Then go to sleep.”  He kissed her temple and curled a little closer. 

        “The candles…” It was dangerous to let them burn to nothing, they might start a fire.

        “I’ll do it.”  Somehow, from somewhere, Faramir managed humor.  “It’s time I did something.”  He rose and she opened her eyes to watch him stride into the other room.  Éowyn listened to the scrape of ashes, clunks of wood and soft hiss of sparks as he banked her fire.  He reappeared and she watched Faramir blow out the candles one by one.  It was dark now, the only light coming from stars, tiny points of light visible from her window and the little flower room.  The bed depressed with his weight and she pushed the wrinkled blankets down, shoving her feet under them and shivering at the fabric’s coolness. 

        Faramir put his arm over her shoulders and she sighed, pillowing her head to his chest, feeling peace rising to overcome the turmoil within her soul; his peace, he was trying to soothe her, to give her comfort; she appreciated it greatly, nuzzling her cheek to his front.  Several seconds passed before her guilt made her whisper.  “I’m sorry…”

        He answered immediately, “It’s all right…I just don’t understand why you…” Faramir paused and she sensed his frustration in finding the right words.  “You fight so hard…just let it come…” He swallowed, “It will, don’t worry…I trust it will.”  His arm squeezed her, remember the dreams?  Her mind was flooded with a vision of sunlight, of green grasses, of creamy stone walls, the sound of hoof beats amid the laughter of children and the sight of herself smiling.  Beyond that was his voice, softly prodding, “You have to trust with me.”

        Éowyn felt her chest tighten and she pressed her face to his front before whispering.  “I don’t want to hold back with you anymore.  I want to…I want what you want.”

        Faramir shifted, “But why then…?”  Why did you ask such a horrible thing of me?  That is not what I want.

        For several minutes she fought through her answers, trying to find one, anything that made coherent sense.  It came out in a blurry, jerking speech, “I can’t let go of myself, I can’t…you don’t understand…you’ll be inside me…I have to let you in control, to give myself…” She was breathing fast, body tensing, “It’s so hard.  I have to…surrender and I can’t.”

        Faramir sounded distressed.  “I won’t be in control of you…” He shifted downwards to face her directly and she could just barely make out his features, “You let me make love to you, you let me inside,” He touched her chin, then her cheek, “Here, too.”  He gently placed his hand on her breast, above her heart.  “And here, too.  It’s not surrender…” Faramir hesitated and his voiced sounded very vulnerable and wavering, almost frightened of her answer, “Did you think you surrendered today?”

        She’d not taken that into thought.  Looking away from even his indistinct gaze, Éowyn muttered, “No.”

“You let me, you wanted me to, isn’t that what you said?”  His bafflement was clear.  “I don’t understand.”  Pausing, he said softly, “To make love to you to just…” It was as if he could barely bring himself to speak the words, “Get it done, would be rape to my mind.”  Now Faramir sounded so saddened it made tears rise in her eyes.  “You would not want me, wouldn’t want to feel how much I love you or to take any pleasure in the act or our closeness.”  He sighed, “You’d just resent me and want nothing but for it to end.”  Please say you understand.

        Inside she felt her spirit twist with silent rebellion.  Éowyn was alarmed that within herself, to some degree she doubted his words, doubted the very compassionate nature of them; but at the same time she understood, very abruptly, what he desired, what he truly seemed to want of her and she was horrified at herself.  She hugged his chest, whispering.  “I’m sorry…I…didn’t…” 

        “Never mind.”  He kissed her cheekbone, and then found her brow to press another kiss there and murmur.  “Never mind.  Go to sleep.”  He added, almost in solemn invocation, “Wake happy.  It’s nothing between us.  Just misunderstanding, it is no great matter.”

Éowyn frowned, not trusting his calming words.  He felt upset still but when she took a breath to speak, he repeated, “It’s all right.  Go to sleep.”

        She closed her eyes and focused on relaxing, but her uncertainty and the nagging sensation of his chaotic thoughts gnawed at her.  “I can’t.”  Faramir touched his mind to hers, surprising her with its tightly contained turmoil.  He was upset still, but before she could speak it faded and he touched her arm; she rolled to her side and he moved his body closer, bending his to match her curves.  Éowyn clasped his hand to her stomach, silently holding him tighter.  He felt good with his arm around her, chin on her shoulder, felt loving and patient and, enclosed in the feel of his emotional bond, his immeasurable affection, she soon fell into slumber. 

***

        Faramir lay very still and listened to her breathing slow.  His heart ached, not because of Éowyn’s words, no, he understood now that she did not understand what it was, the act of love.  How do I explain?  How do I teach her?  He didn’t know and so he was in silent discord, unable to give clarification to her confusion and peace to her great and almost vicious heartache.  The only thing Faramir could think of was to pretend her disturbing request had never happened, to concentrate on how happy she had been, how happy he had been.  Their play had been astonishing; Éowyn was so bold as to make him wonder.  Now he wondered dismally if she would be shy and withdrawn the next morning. 

No, his heart did not ache because of her words; it ached because of his inadequacy, his wrongs.  He’d somehow given her the thought that he was no more than a grasping, lecherous creature, a man who would accept her flesh and not necessarily her heart.  You pushed her, you kept pushing and now that’s what she thinks…  He felt guilty, sick with it almost.  Faramir carefully kissed her hair and hoped strongly that she would awake and not remove herself, would not hide her soul from him again. 

He took a deep breath and glanced down, the starlight just gleaming off the dye-darkened strands of her hair.  I trust that you won’t…  It was all he could do.  Éowyn was asleep now with the soft rise and fall that her breathing gave her body as the only sign of movement he could see.  He slid his hand out and away from her stomach to touch her extended arm, feeling the softness of her skin, the tiny pale hair that dusted her forearm, the faint wrinkles at her wrist.  Faramir placed his hand over her gently curled one; hers felt cold so he laced their fingers, hoping to warm her flesh. 

As he lay there, unable to sleep, the thought rose unbidden, but rang fearfully true.  I don’t think I can help you…  Faramir felt trepidation coil through his chest, tightening his throat; unconsciously he tightened his hand on hers.  I don’t think I can help any longer…please don’t fight so hard…  He felt her move away from his embrace and let her, shifting his legs into a more comfortable position, and pulling his arm back so it wouldn’t go numb in the night.  Lifting his head to look at her, he saw that Éowyn looked at peace in the dim starlight.  Faramir hoped fervently that it would last.  Please, please just trust…   What had gone wrong?  He ran over their actions and could see no instant cause of her change.  He felt intense, stifling frustration and closed his eyes, hoping for sleep and another vision of their future to ease his anxieties.  What came to him was something else entirely.

“Don’t move…”  Boromir’s familiar voice was a whisper carried on the wind.  His brother lay very still, body making a large, splayed impression in the rushes by the river.  Beside his brother, he was equally splayed, flat on his belly on the muddy earth.  Faramir touched the ground absently, pressing his palms to it with pleasure at the coolness of the wet, squishy mud, feeling its clinginess, its life, the answering force to his tiny inquiry. The land felt happy, echoing his own cheer; today he was out with his brother.  Faramir told the land so and it responded with simplistic fashion, some curiosity but mainly indifference.  Many things walked the earth.  Yet at the contact, he felt a moment’s pride—his much-lauded brother could not do the same—but the pride turned instantly to humiliation.  Boromir was not jealous of him.  Faramir frowned; he knew jealousy was not something a man of noble blood should feel.  Quietly, he glanced at his brother to see if his lapse had been detected.  But Boromir was paying him little attention, focused on the ducks, as he should be.  He admired how his brother’s face was strong-looking, eyes firm, features staunchly focused ahead.  Faramir bit his lip and stared out over the shimmering water, feeling his legs chill from the mud.  No wonder Father praised him less, he could not even keep his thoughts on what he was doing!

 Downstream, Faramir could hear singing of women and the slap of wet fabric on rocks as they washed clothing.  It reminded him of his mother and he wished to listen but they were too far away.  He wasn’t a babe anymore, to run about and do as he pleased.   Faramir strained to make out the words of the song, but there was only the sound of water and the small talkings of ducks to each other.  They ducked their heads under the water, quacking in muted or animated voices, fluttering their feathers and chasing one another.  He listened to the birds, smiling at their silly noises and wished he could know what they spoke of.  Their minds were too foreign; he got only images of rocks, water, other ducks and the landscape seen from eyelevel.  His curious touch seemed to alarm them; they fluttered their wings and squawked loudly so that he pulled away.  Perhaps his brother knew.  His brother was wise in all things.  Faramir didn’t want to speak aloud but Boromir hated it if he spoke in his mind.  Whispering, he asked plaintively, “Boromir, what are they saying?”

His brother glanced at him in impatience and frowned.  Boromir gave a small shake to his head, “Hush.  I’ll tell you when.”

        Chastised, he returned to staring at the fowl.  Father might be pleased with him if he managed to get one.  Faramir scowled, looking at his throwing stick.  It was hard, much harder than his bow.  Boromir tried to teach him; he was patient and sure somehow that Faramir would learn, but he wasn’t good at it.  He returned to looking at the ducks, but his attention kept drifting.  There were giant bull frogs hiding in the grass, their shiny, stretched throats filled with air like bellows, and other brightly colored birds flitting around and over the water.  For what felt like a long time Faramir stared at tiny black, long-legged bugs as they walked and ran on the water’s surface, magically not falling through.  He wondered what sorcerer had enchanted them so and fantasized about being able to walk across the choppy Anduin.  He imagined that would impress Father.

Suddenly the mood of the ducks changed and he followed their attention up the bank.  An image rose among them and he caught it—a fox.  The ducks saw it as a blurry creature, associated with brief spats of terror; they didn’t think it was very smart and they thought it was awkward and heavy as it could not fly; it also smelled fetid and slinked instead of striding properly.  Faramir was fascinated; he thought foxes were clever and pretty, especially red ones.  As it trotted cagily down to the water’s edge, he squirmed, daring to whisper, “There’s a fox.”

Boromir stared at him, “Where?” 

“Up there.”  He pointed, nudging aside cattails. They were fuzzy and he stroked them, pleased by the ticklish feel.

“It’s close.”  His brother smiled.  “Do you want a fox tail?”  Faramir looked at the peacefully drinking fox and shook his head.  Boromir nodded at the ducks.  “Look.”  The birds were quacking loudly, making sure all knew of the predator.  His brother gestured at him, “Get ready.”  Boromir rose up swiftly, uncoiling and shouting at the ducks.

They rose in clumsy jumps, flapping dripping wings and making noise.   Faramir’s mind was filled with their alarm.  He tried to block it; lifting his arm to throw his stick…but even as he threw he knew it went astray.  The stick plunked into the churned water and the ducks moved downstream, resettling with angry and frightened conversation.

“Ah, well.”  His brother wiped his trousers, sending bits of dry mud and dust into the air.  He barely paused while Faramir stood crushed by failure.  He always failed.  To his horror, he felt his eyes burn.  He was too old to weep!  Boromir looked at him and shook his head.  He laid his hand on Faramir’s head, ruffling his hair and plucking a bit of leaf from it.  “Come, let’s go back.”  His voice was gentle and although his brother was unable to touch his mind, there was the flooding warmth of his love that soothed Faramir’s heart, so unlike the cold chill of disappointment that radiated from Father.  “We’ll try again another time.”  Faramir rubbed his grubby hands on his face and smiled up at his brother who was smiling so cheerfully down at him.  “All right?”

He nodded in agreement, forgetting all about his grief.  As they walked back up the road, the walls of the City towering high, he looked up at Boromir’s tall, broad frame, his long, swinging stride.  Men called to his brother, their voices full of admiration and respect though he was little grown past the title of lad.

 Sometimes, most times, he wished Boromir was his father. 

He awoke, tears in his eyes and chest burning with withheld sobs; Éowyn shifted behind him, hand touching his back, pressing to it as though in comfort.  He felt her confusion and disturbance like some dim ripples far underwater; she was still asleep.  Faramir rubbed his face and jumped, breath catching in his throat—there was a single, loud pounding at the door to her quarters, rattling the thick frame, then immediately afterwards there was a bellow in a familiar voice, “Éowyn!  Wake up!” 

It was just after dawn, the sky outside her window was blue still touched by the rosy blush of daybreak.  Faramir felt the swift flash of his recognition of Éomer’s mind, the man’s nervousness and then nothing as Éomer moved away.  He obviously didn’t dare to enter.  Faramir took a deep, unsteady breath; he couldn’t say that he was entirely unhappy with that since he guessed that his presence discovered within this particular bed would cast quite an awkward pall over the day.  He smiled weakly, still full of sadness.  Indeed…

Éowyn stirred again, inhaling to murmur something negative before pressing her forehead to the center of his back.  In their sleep they’d changed positions, now he was facing away and she was curled tightly to his backside.  Faramir rolled over carefully, giving her some room and gazing at her in apprehension.  Please, please…  She opened her eyes after a while and smiled at him in a drowsy fashion at which his heart leapt with hope.  He spoke softly, voice raspy, “Good morning.”

“Mmm.”  She stretched her legs and yawned before shaking her head, curling up tightly and burrowing into the pillow.  “No.”

He smiled, hope growing while his heartache was fading.  “What?”  But Éowyn frowned and she raised her head very abruptly and her sleepy eyes were suddenly less sleepy and more filled with chagrin and nervousness.  Faramir soothed quickly, “It’s all right, remember?  Nothing between us.”  Please, my love…  He was unsure if simply smoothing over this incident was for the best but…he couldn’t keep himself from trying.  He wanted happiness, not grief. 

For a moment her frown deepened, but then she relaxed and nodded hesitantly.  He smiled encouragingly and was relieved by an answering, if very small and shy smile.  Anxious, Faramir changed the subject, hoping to keep her from mulling over the night before.  “How am I going to get out of here?”

“I don’t know.”  She’d lost the smile but kept a shy quality in her eyes and her features.  Éowyn gazed at him, plainly questioning.  He smiled again, and she reciprocated without hesitation but some nervousness.  Nonetheless, Faramir took her smile as a good omen, relieving some of his anxiety.  Finally she murmured, “You’re not.”  Éowyn seemed to relax; she snuggled close and her voice grew thicker as her eyes closed again.  “Not going anywhere…”

“I thought we were.”  He was very awake, years of springing up in Ithilien ensuring that.  Not that I want to wake…he was tired, feeling the weariness that came from wine still coursing through his veins.  At least I do not have an aching head…he smiled, thinking of Gaer’s assertion.  I have heart anyhow.

“Mmm.”  A frown touched her face.

Faramir prodded, “He’ll come back…and he might come in.”  Her eyes opened, they looked slightly alarmed as she thought about that.  He highly doubted it.  More than likely Éomer would find someone else to send in to wake his sister if she did not emerge.  But who…?  The entertaining part of the question was just who the man trusted to see them in such a shameless and brazenly intimate position.  He grinned to himself and chuckled.  It was almost worth it to lie in bed and find out. 

“Mmm…mmmm.”  With a groan, Éowyn rolled to her back and stretched with legs and arms all akimbo, which made him smile.  She laid one arm over her face and peeked under it sleepily.

“What was that?”  Faramir was still grinning, his sadness fading.  He looked at her and imagined future mornings of lying together in unabashed indolence, deciphering her sleep-imbued talk with none to bang on doors and interrupt…except…  He laughed aloud, remembering his brief dream of a cheeky boy with a wooden sword and hair the color of the sun on a field of ripe wheat, eyes the color of a summer sky.  Gazing across at her, he thought, I can’t wait until we are in my City, when we are man and wife and none shall disturb us…  His more recent vision came back to him and he sobered.  That was no future, only the past come to haunt me.  Faramir felt himself to be a contemptible lout with his next thought, my brother, you are gone, leave me be…

Éowyn’s face had changed, became very timid.  She smiled, her teeth indenting her upper lip, worrying it, and wormed to lie nearer to him.  Her voice was small as she pressed her hands together palm to palm and rested her cheek on them, answering his earlier thoughts.  “Truly?”

“Yes.”  Faramir smiled at her, chiding gently as he rolled to his back and folded his hands under his head, turning to look at her, “Why would you even ask?”

“Tell me about it.”  Her blue eyes were large, intent.  He could sense Éowyn’s curiosity, her hope, awaiting joy, and was surprised at the depths of her emotions.  There was nothing negative, nothing but trusting expectation and enthusiasm…exactly the things he’d always wanted to feel from her when he spoke of them and their life.  Faramir stared at her in wonder.  She wanted greatly to hear, she wants to know…like she’d begged the night before.  Faramir cursed himself.  This is what he should be doing instead of pushing her for intimacies she had so much trouble giving; he should be telling her how he envisioned their life, reassuring her of its happiness so she would not fret over things like her disquieting notions of what lovemaking was.  He frowned.  I am an idiot.

The trouble was that he wasn’t sure how he envisioned it much beyond abstract moments like this one.  “I don’t know…” 

“Oh.”  Her face fell and so did his sense of her eager hope.  Faramir hastened to reply but he could think of nothing to say.  Éowyn sighed and rose up, her hair in tangles, sleep creases on her face.  She sat up in the bed, preparing to get out of it and suddenly he thought of something,

“I see…” She turned, expression cautiously optimistic.  Faramir scrambled to think of a way to finish the sentence that might please her.  What pleases her?  He didn’t know…orderliness, duties, horses, flowers…  He trailed off, abruptly conscious of the fact that he knew very little of what would please his future wife.  Faramir settled for the blunt truth.  “I don’t know what to say, that would make you happy…” He glanced away guiltily, then admitted in a voice of determination, “I don’t know what you want.  I’ve not asked nor offered beyond the building of my lands…which was not my idea at all.”  Faramir sighed, “Tell me what you desire.”

To his puzzlement, Éowyn laughed faintly.  She scooted to sit by his side, meeting his eyes.  “I want to wake up to the smell of my mother’s roses…”  She’d taken his hand and was toying with his fingers, smoothing the joints as though by repetition she could press the wrinkles flat.  Faramir nodded and made a noise to show he was paying attention, eager to keep her talking.  It saved him from showing his ignorance.  “Samwise told me how to take cuttings, so that I will have them in your…” She paused and clasped his hand, giving him a fragile smile.  Éowyn corrected herself very deliberately, making eye contact so that he knew she did so.  “Our land.”  She dipped her head self-consciously, but in a positive fashion, her other hand picking at the blankets.  Faramir’s heart swelled with joy.  He nodded, feeling himself grin like a fool.  She licked her lips and went on almost sadly, “I want to wake up to you…like this every morning.”

He eyed her in mock suspicion, eyes narrowed and hoping she would tease back or simply laugh and show some sign of relaxation or merriment.  “I would hope so.”

To his delight, Éowyn laughed and collapsed to the bed.  Any lingering tension between them dissipated and she kissed him before saying more seriously, “But I want to know that I can leave the City…if I can go out in the morning or afternoon…” Éowyn frowned.  “If I wanted to ride to hunt or just leave to explore the hills.”

Leave?  Puzzled, he nodded again and rapidly, rolling to face her.  “Of course you can.”  Faramir knew well there were few predators close to the City where she was likely to ride; her hunting deer or rabbits or some fowl was not at all disturbing to him, only the great and dangerous animals.  No more bears…ever…or boars, or wolves.  A great surge of protectiveness arose in his chest.  He wouldn’t lose her to anything.

Her reply was definitely sad, “With a guard, you mean?”

Faramir faltered in his eager agreement, “I suppose if you wanted to go alone…”  He frowned, “But you wouldn’t feel you wanted a guard?  You wouldn’t want to go alone, surely.  It could be dangerous…if the horse spooked or…”  Feeling himself grow apprehensive at the thought, he added more hopefully, “Gaer is coming to see the White Tree and Ithilien…you wouldn’t mind him riding with you?”  Gaer would provide an easy solution until he could convince her to take a guard.  He was relieved when she smiled and agreed.

“I wouldn’t mind Gaer.”  But Éowyn frowned and asked, her fingers busily playing with the blanket, “Would you not want to come with me?”

“Of course…if I had time.”

Her brow wrinkled.  “What will you be doing in the morning?”

Smiling at her, Faramir answered, “Sleeping.”  He remembered his dream, no more than a snippet, of lying in bed in the early morn while Éowyn undressed and joined him.  He slid over to kiss her.  I’ll keep the bed warm for you when you return…  She smiled, but it was shy again and he thought he could sense very slight tension.  Faramir said in as soothing and simple a manner as he could, “You can wake me if you like.”  He nuzzled her, not trying to be or imply more than affectionate fondness, just kissing her amiable lips once more before pulling back to smile.  “It won’t bother me.” 

She smiled back and touched his arm, pulling him close.  It was very pleasant to lie with her in the warmth of her bed, to close his eyes, duck his head to her throat, breathing in air warmed by her body and feeling her press a kiss to his brow, to imagine that instead of cloth on his side, it was the furs of his own bed and that when he opened his eyes again he would see the comforting messiness of his own quarters.  Faramir could almost smell his books, the ink and the leather of bindings.  He could almost see the bright white of light that poured into his window, the great plain of Pelennor crossed by fields, laboring men, women and animals, the endless, gleaming mithril ribbon of the Anduin stretching from horizon to horizon…  His homesickness made him swallow thickly; Éowyn touched his face and he opened his eyes and withdrew to see hers full of concern.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.  Just thinking about my City…the City.  I miss it.” 

“Oh.”  Her expression became at once sad and quiet.  Faramir clasped her hand.  They lay very near for a short while; he looked into her eyes searchingly and she didn’t retreat from the scrutiny, only smiling a bit timidly and hugging his side.  The fact that Éowyn accepted his kisses and touches, returned them even, gave him still more hope; she usually did not if something was wrong.  Banishing his gloom, Faramir gave her a light, playfully smacking kiss; he found the noise of it amusing.

She laughed and sighed before stretching again.  Once more, there was an efficient quality to her manner as Éowyn sat up.  “You need to go and see if I have to hunt down your things.”

Faramir had forgotten about it utterly.  He stared at her in amazement and admiration.  “You would do it?”

Her glance was puzzled.  “I said I would.”  Éowyn was already standing; she picked up his small bag from the floor, setting it aside.

Moving much slower, he set his feet down, wincing at the coldness.  “I’m taking that with me.”

“Why?”

“I’ve got another something for you…the last of it, I’m afraid.”  She shook it gently, making him laugh, “And in case I get the opportunity to draw you.”

“Oh.”  Éowyn looked pleased and surprised. 

Carrying the bag, Faramir found his boots and stuffed his feet into them; he glanced around but he had nothing else here.  “I’ll see you in the Hall?”

“Mmm-hmm.”  She didn’t look up, already half-dressed, rapidly buttoning up a man’s shirt with other shirts and a few pairs of worn trousers lying neatly over the bed.  Several nightgowns, shifts and gowns lay there, too. 

Faramir felt oddly useless, not unwanted, but unnecessary and rather like he was showing poor behavior to simply leave.  Shifting his feet, he offered, “You want me to do anything?”  Éowyn glanced up and he grasped onto an easy task, “Make the bed for you?”

She gave him a peculiar and obviously taken aback look.  “All right…if you want.”  Éowyn smiled and it was sweet, making him return it in pleasure.  Adding with an impish smirk, she said, “If you can remember how.”

Faramir smiled, delighted by this playful gibe; his guard was relaxing by the second.  Laying his bag down, he picked up her clothing and moved it to her dresser or her waiting arms, then concentrated on making the bed.  He took his time, pulling the tangled sheets up, then straightening the blankets and the pillows with care, lining up the corners as best he could, tucking them under and making sure the bed looked as neat as he was used to seeing it.  Finished, Faramir circled the bed to eye his work critically.  He smoothed a few stubborn wrinkles, only looking up to find her watching him with an amused smile.  

“What?”

“Thank you.”  She’d dressed herself, complete with men’s boots, and packed her already neatly folded men’s clothes in a small, dirt-streaked sack.  Her gowns and women’s garments were in a larger, slightly less dirty bag.  He looked at the two, fascinated by the fact that she took both types of clothing.  Now, Éowyn came to his side to cup his face and lean upwards to kiss him.  Her eyes sparkled with held-back laughter.  “You did it very well.”

Faramir jested, “Is that my reward?”

She laughed and it sounded sunny, bright and happy, all things good.  “Yes.”   

He narrowed his eyes, enjoying their playful banter and hoping it would not take a darker turn, “You’re not going to redo it when I turn my back are you?”  Inside himself he felt a twinge of misgiving…perhaps I should have pushed for an explanation.  She is forgetting swiftly and seems merry and all right…it bothered him but for all his wariness he could not make himself speak of it.  Faramir’s desire for peace and happiness between them was too powerful, overriding even his good sense.

This time she laughed in delight, shaking her head.  “No.  It’s fine.”

He leaned in close to her lips, “I’ll do other things for you…” He glanced at a tiny sliver of a view of roses through the doorway, “I can water flowers, I can dust…” Éowyn laughed and scooted around him, hauling her shapeless sacks with her.  Faramir walked her to the door, feeling much better as he held it open.  “I’ll see you in the Hall?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”  To his overjoyed surprise, she snagged his sleep-wrinkled shirt and they exchanged one last kiss before he made his way down the corridor.  Faramir felt himself relax.  He pushed away the annoying twinge of unease in the back of his mind.  Things will be all right.

***

Éomer gazed down at the bay stallion’s head as the horse ate grain from his hand.  The horse’s damp muzzle moved over his palm, his fingers, whiskers tickling as the animal searched out every last bit of oats.  He’d found the rope halter but left it for another day.  “Good lad.”  The stud eagerly licked his hand free of even crumbs, getting him sticky.  He smiled, using his other to rub the thick, gracefully curved neck; the young stallion’s coat shone warm red, bright russet in the morning sun, gleaming in fiery spots like hot coals were set here and there.  He admired the long, equally bright mane, colored like a raven’s wings, and not much unlike the head of his sister’s paramour.  The stud’s hooves were untrimmed as yet, but naturally in fine, rounded shape, showing his good health, fitness and satisfactory bloodlines. 

When Éomer took a step back, the horse pricked up its ears and followed him to stand close once more.  Alone as he was in the small corral, training was made easier by the animal’s instinctive need for companionship.  The bay’s brown eyes were curious and unafraid, which pleased him.  He rubbed the horse’s forehead and scratched behind the tender bulbs of his ears with care.  Blâcfÿren had a single long swirl in the hair on his forehead; that meant luck, friendliness and intelligence.  Éomer sighed inwardly.  Wlite, the black roan he’d coveted, had born two, which meant great keenness and even better fortune. 

He kept scratching, fingers journeying under the stud’s chin as he went, learning where his future mount liked to be petted.  He used the horse’s name often, and with much praise as he scratched his neck and the slanted angle of his shoulder.  Brushing the black mane aside, he scratched under it along the stud’s crest where rolling rarely satisfied an itch, making the stallion stretch his head out and lift his upper lip in delight.  Other places the bay couldn’t reach himself were his withers, his upper neck and under his jaw.  He scratched them all, taking his time, his fingers, knuckles and fingernails growing childishly grubby with dirt.

Though friendly, the stud was unsure about several things; his ears flipping back to track Éomer’s hand while his eye watched him whenever he touched the shining coat below his shoulders or much past his withers.  His hooves didn’t move, but his body swayed back.  Noticing, Éomer was careful to only skirt these regions, not wanting to alarm the animal with too familiar actions too soon.  He had plenty of time for training; this was the time to build trust.

“Good lad…” He murmured it as a near constant litany, well aware that the beast would consider him more of a threat than his sister as he was a male, and would thus be more wary.  “Good lad.”  Éomer kept his voice soft and light. 

It startled him when another spoke up to confirm his statement, “He is a good lad.”  The stallion jumped when he did, dark nostrils flaring as he snorted low and long, a sound of warning.  Éowyn was leaned against the wood fence, peeking through the slats.  “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”  He felt odd, like he should act carefully, and not at all comfortable.  Éomer was unused to this and it disturbed him deeply.  Éowyn was his sister, the last of his blood and most beloved—he should not feel anxiety at her presence.  She smiled at him but he could think of nothing else to say, consumed by his unease.  She didn’t look very uneasy as she put her hand through the fence, whistling low and like a bird; the stallion came to her, sniffing her bent fingers, then submitting to an awkward pat.  Éowyn withdrew and pushed some wisps of her darkened hair back to smile at him,

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”  He’d packed much earlier, even before he’d called for her.  Éomer gazed at his sister; she looked less purely joyful than the night before and the lack was worrisome.  Despite his own misery he’d been happy at her laughter and brightly shining eyes.  He wondered half-dismally and half-hopefully if her mood was related to the absence of Faramir at her side.  If it is, then the reappearance of the Steward means the reappearance of her laughter…  Éomer knew full well which he would prefer.  In truth, he was surprised Faramir was not with her.

She stepped back from the fence, coming to stand near as he climbed over it.  The stallion watched with his ears pricked and head raised, unsure of this movement.  Éowyn smiled at him, “I can’t wait.”  Éomer grunted a reply as he jumped from the last two slats to the dusty ground, still at a loss of what to say.  He’d heard loud laughter from her rooms that night, even waking him once.  She’d not been alone.  The knowledge discomfited him terribly even if she bore no new marks on her skin—her men’s shirt was unbuttoned enough to show her throat, collarbone and the rawhide thong of her necklace.  Glancing at the slim brown cord of rawhide, twisted on one side and starting to look a bit frayed, Éomer realized with a start that he would be very taken aback to see her without the rustic bit of jewelry.  Has it been so long?   

Éowyn gave him a look and clouted his arm playfully.  “Aren’t you excited?”

He stared ahead, just flicking his eyes at her, “Yes.”  Stop it, you’re being childish…she is still your sister, nothing has changed…everything had changed.

She questioned as they walked, smiling, “You don’t sound it.”  Éomer compressed his lips, unable to find an answer and growing increasingly angry with himself.  Éowyn’s next glance was puzzled.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”  He was upsetting her; he saw the smile she wore begin to fade and it pained his heart.  Éomer took a deep breath and smiled in return, making his voice light.  “Just hungry.  I haven’t had anything yet.”  He even managed to tease, “Unlike you, I rose early.”

His sister looked uncertain before she seemed to accept his excuse.  She smiled and quickened her pace, taking his arm with an amused shake of her head. “Come on then, let’s get you something.”  Éowyn laughed in a high, excited way he remembered from their childhood, “I want to start!”  She was obviously lighthearted again and he felt better as Éomer let himself be lead into the Hall. 

Faramir was waiting there, standing near to Arwen and Imrahil, which didn’t shock him much.  What did was how Éowyn hesitated, just a half stride, the briefest of uncertain halts, before pulling away from his arm and throwing herself against the Steward to embrace him.  And really, as he slowed and stopped to join them, Éomer silently admitted that it was the hesitation that had surprised him, not the embrace.  Above the darkened crown of her head, Faramir’s eyes met his warily and Éomer hastily summoned an unconcerned expression to his face—in truth, he didn’t know how he felt at the display except for the gladness at the light in his sister’s eyes and happy glow on her cheeks. 

“Good morning.”  Arwen held her puppy, dressed similarly to his sister in oversized men’s clothing that Éomer was amused to note were among his many missing items.  She gave him a smile and an expectant look.

He smiled in return, well aware of their words the night before, and waved his arm at her, looking imploringly to Imrahil, “This is why I have nothing to wear but King’s fare.”  Indeed, his garments were really too fine for a ride—embroidered and fine-stitched, made of costly material instead of the plain undyed wool the Queen and his sister wore.  “When I turn my back, women steal it from my closet.”

Éowyn laughed at him.  “It’s your own fault.  You leave it lying out.”  She stood with her back against the Steward’s front, her arms clasped to his, both secured around her waist.  Faramir’s gaze fell on him again, cautiously questioning and clearly asking if he was bothered by their behavior.  Éomer did his best to ignore it.  I have no answer, let me be...  “Who would wear a hot gown if they did not have to?”

Arwen agreed, “It gets terribly hot in the City.”  Her face was mirthful, “I’m afraid I’ll have to keep these and leave you clothesless, Éomer…or else I shall burn within the finery they insist on heaping upon me.”

He returned as playfully as he could be, “I will willingly sacrifice for you, my Lady Arwen.”  Grinning, Éomer added with more boldness, “Even if you raid my closets again and I must go without to ensure your comfort.”

Her eyes flashed with amusement, glancing up and down before laughing lightly, “I doubt any would mind.”  He flushed a bit and the Queen’s laughter rose even more gaily.  “The ladies at court would be glad to sew you something to protect your modesty, I’ll bet.”  There was a pause in which he tried not to flush anymore, feeling his fair skin betray him.  Éomer felt it worsen under the Queen’s laughter and cursed his fair-skinned and light-haired derivation.  She smirked at Imrahil, “Isn’t Lothiriel skilled with the needle?”

The Lord of Dol Amroth chuckled, “When she wishes to be, which isn’t often, I’m afraid.”

He wished they would cease proclaiming the virtues of this girl to him.  No doubt aware of his discomfort, Arwen teased, lifting one slim hand to pat his cheek, “So fair are you Éomer that you redden so easily!”  He ducked his head away and she laughed again.

“Does it get very hot in the South?”  His sister angled her head to peer up at Faramir’s chin.  Éomer sobered and felt a pang in his heart.  Please don’t speak of it…please…

The Steward looked down and reassured, “Not too bad.”  When his eyes lifted they met Éomer’s.  They were full of sympathy; he looked away.

Servants had laid a small, simple meal for them.  Arwen set her puppy down to pick a slice of bread.  “Imladris never got that hot…I felt like I was roasting!”

“Does it snow much?”  Éowyn was frowning.  “You said the winters were mild…”

The Queen glanced at her.  Éomer winced; would she not stop?  Faramir was looking between her and him, his grey eyes ceaselessly moving before he admitted, “It does not snow much.  Perhaps trice in a year.”  His sister fell quiet for several minutes.  Éomer took a piece of buttered bread, glancing at the other offerings—a platter full of cold slices of boar meat, ripe apples in a bowl and a pitcher of some drink. 

Éowyn sighed and said mildly, “I will miss all the snow.”  Her eyes lifted to meet his, “Remember how we used to play in it until our clothes were wet and Théoden would say that we would catch chill and forbid us to go back out until the morrow?”  She smiled gently, “I loved it when they pulled the sleighs out and oiled them…it was so much fun, bundled in furs…” 

“Yes.”  Éomer’s heart ached again and he avoided the Steward’s gaze.  He would miss her so terribly much.  What shall I do all winter…?  Arwen’s words came back to him.  But where would I go?  He desired to journey nowhere.  I could not stay in the City, I would bother them.  Or perhaps it would only bother him.  Éomer did not know and for all his assertions of hunger he only picked at his food.  He had no appetite.
        His sister smile hadn’t faded and she looked at him as she sang very soft and under her breath, “Com, se grég rodor!  Ic lyste snáw…”    Éomer’s laughter burst out, surprising him, his spirits instantly and wholly lifted by the two simple verses.  They brought memories of horses stamping, bells hanging from sleighs, his mother and sister singing together, his sister’s voice high and reedy but still beautiful.  He remembered his family, his father’s voice deep and strong as he sang the children’s tune with them.  Éomer remembered grey skies, warm mugs of cider and sweets, he remembered his sister wrapped in a fur, riding on their father’s shoulders and how Éomund had had to hold her tightly as she wiggled and strained to catch the flying snowflakes on her tongue.  She smiled at him and her eyes, too, were full of both sorrowing and joy, “Remember, brother?”

        “Yes.”  Éowyn was smiling, and they sang together, his voice not as good, “Ic lyste bifón flaeeajft ac min tungan gelîc Ic dyde eall swâ bearn…”  He did remember and the memories brought him a painful sort of elation. 

        “It won’t be the same.”  Her smile faded, leaving her face pensive and gently wistful.  Éomer felt his veins run cold, cheer replaced with sinking, icy dread.  She was already bidding farewell.  Panic swelled within his chest, but with an awesome effort he managed not to betray it.  Instead, he took a deep breath and agreed in as even a voice as possible,

        “No, it won’t.”  His sister looked to him wanly.  Éomer smiled at her sadly, wishing with all his heart that he could go back.  Why had he not cherished his childhood while he could? 

Suddenly, Faramir spoke again, his words careful.  His face was drawn, heavy with compassion and distress, but he offered lightly enough, “If you wished we could return this winter.” 

His sister’s eyes were brighter than any stars; her features had lost their melancholy tinge.  When she leaned on her chair to beam at her lover and ask, “Could we?” it was in the voice of a delighted young girl.  Éomer remembered that girl and it pained him all the more despite the talk of the chance of her returning so soon.

The Steward’s expression was unguardedly disappointed before he recovered himself to smile patiently and return, “Of course.”  He glanced over her head, seated in the same place as he’d been the night before, and on the uncounted time that morning, his gaze met Éomer’s.  He repeated himself, “Of course” and his lips turned in a smile that was at once sad and in jest, “That is if your brother wouldn’t think it too soon for me to beg of his hospitality.”  He smiled, “I doubt he would turn you away.”

He swallowed, forced to participate.  Arwen looked at him and smiled purposely, her eyes full of kind, yet firm support.  Éomer smiled back at her, still well aware of their agreement, “Of course not.”  He shifted to Faramir and finished, wording his reply to include the man and make seen his acceptance to all, “You are my kin, Faramir, it is no burden to me.  You are always welcome whether with my dear sister or not.”  Éowyn’s dazzling smile rewarded him; Faramir looked rather surprised before pleasure spread across his face.

The Queen glanced at him in approval.  “See?  All shall be well for you young ones.”  She smiled and they ate in mostly silence, quickly finishing the small meal.  Imrahil had refused to accompany them; he bid farewell from the Hall.  Éomer followed his sister and Arwen down the stairs into the courtyard.  His guards were already saddled, their horses standing in the morning sun with drooped heads and half-closed eyes alongside the horses of the small company he’d ridden with.  Men and lads spoke in soft voices to their mounts; iron bits gleamed, tails lashed and reins were thrown over eagerly tossing necks.  Most were readied as his mount was tacked, his small bag tied behind the saddle.  He touched Güthwine’s hilt at his hip; none but Éowyn were permitted to handle the blade while he had strength to carry it; it would be him alone that secured it to the saddle.  His sister had already brought her baggage and selected her mount—a small golden chestnut stallion bore her saddle and two sacks.  Éowyn took the horse’s reins from a shyly smiling stable boy and patted her mount, murmuring into one pricked ear as the stallion shifted excitedly.  Éomer frowned when she glanced at him, showing his disapproval at her choice.  “Why couldn’t you take one of the geldings?”  Something calm and easy to handle so that I wouldn’t have to worry for once…

She just laughed, then sobered, patting the stud’s gleaming neck, “I’m saving Líeg for…” Éowyn paused and bit her lip before she continued in a voice of forced cheer, “For the ride to the City.”  Uncomfortable, he did not answer, just turned away and busied himself with making sure Güthwine hung correctly on the saddle.  Éomer stared at the dark leather of his baldric, adjusting the buckles in their well-worn holes, and tried not to think about anything else.  When he glanced up, his sister had drifted away and her eyes were lifted to the doors of the Hall.

“That was lovely, Éomer.”  The Queen’s long-limbed grey mare was tacked and readied, her serving man holding Rusco while she stood near.  She’d tied back her comely hair and looked very different from the stately and regal elven princess who’d first been admitted to his crude, rough Hall. 

“What was?”  Éomer tried not to stare, fascinated by her beauty even without the enhancements of finely woven, brightly colored cloth or jewels.  Hearing his own voice, he realized he sounded like an idiot besotted by a pretty face and it amused him.  Éomer smiled to himself.  Maybe I am…a bit.

She answered with a smile of her own, “Making dear Faramir welcome…it soothes his heart.”  Her features turned pensive, “He needs such balm and when you say such things it lifts his spirits very much.”

He sighed, then answered plainly.  “I’m glad.”  He was, in a way, or at least thought he was.  I don’t know…when did I seek to bring him happiness?  Éomer brooded, why should I?  His sister turned to look back at him, one arm thrown over the neck of her mount.  She was smiling, playing with her rawhide necklace, the blue-green fish between her fingers.  Ah, that’s why.  He sighed again, bittersweetly.  If his happiness is linked to hers, then I would give my heart to please him.   

“See?”  Arwen gestured with one slim arm and Éomer watched Faramir, loaded with his belongings, come down the stairs. 

She looked very intent.  He glanced at the Steward, then back, uncertain about what it was he was supposed to be observing.  “What is it?”

“He walks with a lighter step.”  Éomer squinted, but could not tell how so.  Faramir walked down the stairs no different than any other time to his eyes.  The man disappeared into the barn only to reappear shortly afterwards leading the ungainly, raw-bodied grey, saddle and bridle thrown over one arm, baggage in the other, loaded with his weapons.  It was a comical sight, prompting Éomer to smile yet again.

As the Steward neared, his sister returned at once to hand him the golden stud’s reins and cross the courtyard with light, quick steps to take the grey’s from her lover’s hands, holding the coarse creature while Faramir tacked it.  Éomer could not hear them over the loudness of the other men, but she was smiling brilliantly as they exchanged words.  He held her horse and his own, waiting with much practiced patience as he glanced at the Queen, then again to the Steward.  His sister’s lover was smiling as he spoke; his sister was laughing, features alight with gladness.  “If you say it is so.”

“I do.”  She was obviously pleased.  Faramir and his sister were moving now towards them now with the grey behind him, its face surly.  Éomer handed her the stud’s reins without comment and stepped away to mount his horse.  Arwen’s serving man put the squirming puppy into her saddlebag, slinging it over the saddle’s front where she could keep one hand on the dog.  The narrow-framed grey mare tossed her small head and fretted until Arwen spoke some elvish and then the horse stood quiet. 

One of his guards unfurled the standard he’d ridden under, lifting it on its long pole, securing the butt to his stirrup; gold, green and ivory gleamed in the morning sunlight.  The White Horse ran when the wind blew, ripples making it leap unseen obstacles and Éomer looked at it respectfully.  His forefathers had fought under that same standard, died, watched their people die…and I whimper and fuss at the distancing of my sister.  Despondent, he turned in the saddle, scanning the men with a practiced eye as they put boot to stirrup, settling into their seats, “Ready?”

His sister nodded, just holding her stud to a halt; the horse’s neck was a straining bow as it pawed furiously at the dry ground.  Éomer was gratified to note that Faramir, too, gave her choice of mount a dubious and not especially pleased look.  He smiled, spirits lifted some just by that.  Oblivious, she was glowing with eagerness.  “Yes!”  With a laugh, Arwen nodded as well.  She had her hand firm to the strap that held her puppy in place; Rusco stared about wide-eyed and subdued, shrinking against his mistress’s front.  Faramir and his inelegant grey were stone still now, waiting in silence.  He glanced at the man and their eyes met; Faramir nodded once in agreement.  Wariness and clearly questioning shadows had eclipsed the earlier happiness in his face—obviously he would not cease until he had an answer.   

I have no answer.  Turning back, Éomer gestured and his guards lead the way, his standard waving bright and bold as they jogged out of Edoras with dust rising around them, settling on their flaming armor and caking to their mount’s shining flanks. 

They did not ride as fast as he would have alone with the company; the horses settled to a jog early.  Éowyn had trouble with keeping her stud to their slow pace and he nudged his bald-faced chestnut nearer only to get an irritated look for his troubles.  “Brother…”

He feigned innocence.  “What?” 

He watched Éowyn see the same nervousness reflected in Faramir’s eyes.  His sister tightened her jaw.  “Do not.”  She glared at them both in turn, “Do not dare to suggest anything.  I am not helpless.”  Arwen laughed. 

“Sing me the rest of that song…that shall quiet these beasts,” Her eyes twinkled, “And the horse, I think.”

He snorted belligerently at the Queen, who only laughed again.  Faramir said nothing, his eyes gently appealing to Éowyn, whose face softened in response.  Then, to Éomer’s delight, his sister agreed with a smile.  “All right.”  She took a deep breath, humming to get the tune.  He waited eagerly.  Éomer loved her voice and by the look on the Steward’s face and the way he urged his grey closer, the man appreciated it as well.  He would have to be deaf not to.  The company of men, boys and guards closed in to better to hear as Éowyn’s humming became very soft words, then much louder, light and quick with a child’s enthusiasm as she finished the short song.

“Com, se grég rodor!

Ic lyste snáw…

Ic lyste bifón flaeeajft ac min tungan

ge-lîc Ic dyde eall swâ bearn.

Fongne æt pilece, swâ sêfte ond gewyrman.

Hÿrst se bellum?

Se fnæst æt se eoh is gelîc draca,

Hit reác ond stÿmeð.

Seah seo stemp?

Seo lyston ærnað!

Under se blæwen rodor, Ic spinne

Ceald lyfte besoreode min ceácna.

Gewyrmed fulle æt cider,

Be fÿre, we âtealdon gidda ond hweorfeð se winter.

Com sumor!”

Éomer felt his heart in his throat.  He remembered his mother and the way she would sing over them with a sort of exasperated patience at their endless demands for songs.  His sister’s voice was just as good, light, warm and golden like honey.  When she laughed shakily with emotion and began over again, he joined her, relishing the sound of their voices blending.  Not for long…  Surreptitiously, he glanced away so as not to betray the gleaming in his eyes.  Faramir only listened with a look of admiration and Éomer was further gladdened that he could enjoy this moment alone. 

Éowyn finished with a laughing shout, “Com sumor!”   Almost immediately she was beset with humbly and not so humbly pleading men. 

The guards did not turn their heads but another of the Riders asked, properly deferential, “Oðer min Ides?”

Faramir’s redheaded friend called audaciously, “Grace us again, Lady Éowyn?  No sweet-tongued bird of the night could compete!”  There were loud calls of agreement.  His sister flushed and smiled. 

She turned in her saddle, eyeing the surrounding men in turn.  Faramir’s young students dropped their eyes immediately, turning red to meet her gaze, but more than one Rider grinned at her boldly and did not look away.  Éomer caught Faramir frowning darkly at an especially brashly leering one and he bit his tongue to keep from howling with laughter.  This was a new source of amusement he’d not suspected of existing.

His sister smiled, her voice more than brazen.  “What shall I sing?”  She arched an eyebrow while saying cockily, “Since I am your minstrel, my lords?”

Gaer smiled, guiding his horse close enough and addressing her familiarly enough to be considered disrespectful.  However, Éowyn did not appear upset, and so Éomer did not speak or gesture the man back to his place.  “A song for the harvest, my Lady?”  He glanced at the Steward and grinned.  Éomer frowned.  Many of those songs were not suitable for voicing in the open without the excuse of ale and it was just like his sister to sing one of a carnal nature just to bother him…  She acts like she did…years ago…before… Perhaps Faramir had truly brought his sister back to him.  Éomer looked at her in wonder.  Éowyn was smiling, sitting straight in her saddle, briefly favoring her lover with a warm glance before answering Gaer.

“Gea.”  She smiled and began in a much softer, more rounded and womanly tone, “Lóca hwǽr is se gearwe?”  There was no sound but the clopping of hooves, breathing of horses and creaks of leather harness.  The small audience was completely still, fully intent.  Éowyn continued, sounding almost shy at first, then gaining strength.  She sounded so beautiful that Éomer could not make himself interrupt though he recognized the song and dreaded the hearing of it. 

“Se eoh is ástendeð ǽswind.       

Ná má níðplega, min lufiend,

Se æcer eart geberende

Ic bere se gylden gyrdel…min lufiend,

Cymsttó min innanearm,

Se clywen is in min locfeax, lóf æt clærniss

Blostma hiwum.”

She did not sing with cheek, but with instead a gentleness that made every word meaningful and poignant.  Considering the lyrics, Éomer would have preferred cheek—it had less power to stir his heart and bring him to grief even as he rejoiced at the beauty in her voice.  Faramir did not look away, his face utterly captivated. 

“Biwrâh me in eower loða,

Ic eom eower neoðan se rodor,

Se eorðe seoboren se hwæte,

Is min innoð.

Ôðerǽghwæðer wille aspryt.

Ic bidde,

Forlêt se dæges eage in se æcer,

Seo eart ná min tó beran.

Drêorignis ond blissis gelumpen.

un-sceaðfulnes,hǽl,

Lóca hwǽr Ic seah ge, Ic wæs losian.”  Éowyn finished softly.  Her head was bowed for a moment before she lifted it and asked with a merry tone that tried unsuccessfully to dispel the mood of hazy longing and gentle, not unpleasant regret that she’d given them, “Another?”

For the first time Faramir spoke.  He sounded very loud in the quiet, though he did not raise his voice.   Possibly it was the firmness of his reply that made him seem so forceful.  “Yes.”  Éowyn met his eyes with a quick, nervous smile.  The Steward returned it warmly.  “I’d like that very much.”  Something passed between them that Éomer could just sense.  Again, he felt intense discomfort and tried to ignore it.  Faramir added, “It was beautiful.”  Éowyn smiled anew, this time less touched by nerves and more by happiness.  When she lifted lightly into the next song Éomer marveled.  My sister is happy…my sister is whole.  He glanced aside at the raptly listening Steward.  He owed this man much.  It was time to make amends. 

But how?  What would please him…?

Of course Éomer knew what would make Faramir happier than anything and what was, really, the only way to please him.  He glanced aside, gazing at the man as he looked to Éowyn, trying not to give the thought a chance to make itself known.  Éomer felt his whole spirit try to rise against him but it was in vain.  He already knew what he should do, the only option he had.  His sister was smiling as she sang, bouncing lightly with the stride of her mount.  Her hair blew in the wind, a short length of red ribbon tying it back.  She looked very much like he’d always seen her and yet very different…the darkness of her hair had nothing to do with this difference; it was entirely from within.  Éomer sighed in defeat and allowed himself to know what he’d realized.

I should let them go.

 Translations:

Hwa ná--Why not?

Ic hæbbe ná naman to--I have no name to

Gyrne--Beg

Eower naman is ænlíc to me--Your name is beautiful to me

Sóþlíce--in truth?

Happy Winter Song

Come, the grey sky!

I want snow,

I want to catch flakes of snow on my tongue like I did as a child.

Bundled in furs, so soft and warm.

Hear the bells?

The breath of the horses is like a dragon,

it smokes and steams

see them stamp?

They want to run!

Under the blue sky, I spin,

Cold air turns my cheeks deep red.

Warmed cups of cider,

By the fire,

We tell riddles and pass the winter.

Come, summer!

Com, se grég rodor!

Ic lyste snáw…

Ic lyste bifón flaeeajft ac min tungan

ge-lîc Ic dyde eall swâ bearn.

Fongne æt pilece, swâ sêfte ond gewyrman.

Hÿrst se bellum?

Se fnæst æt se eoh is ge-lîc draca,

Hit reác ond stÿmeð.

Seah seo stemp?

Seo lyston ærnað!

Under se blæwen rodor, Ic spinne

Ceald lyfte besoreode min ceácna.

Gewyrmed fulle æt cider,

Be fÿre, we âtealdon gidda ond hweorfeð se winter.

Com, sumor!

Harvest Song

Lóca hwǽr is se gearwe?

Se eoh is ástendeð ǽswind.

Ná má níðplega, min lufiend,

Se æcer eart geberende

Ic bere se gylden gyrdel…min lufiend,

Cymsttó min innanearm,

Se clywen is in min locfeax, lóf æt clærniss

Blostma hiwum.

Biwrâh me in eower loða,

Ic eom eower neoðan se rodor,

Se eorðe seoboren se hwæte,

Is min innoð.

Ôðerǽghwæðer wille aspryt.

Ic bidde,

Forlêt se dæges eage in se æcer,

Seo eart ná min tó beran.

Drêorignis ond bliss is gelumpen.

un-sceaðfulnes,hǽl,

Lóca hwǽr Ic seah ge, Ic wæs losian.

Wherever is the harness?

The horse is standing slothful.

Battle no more my love,

The fields are fruitful.

I bear the golden girdle…my love,

Come to my arms,

The circlet is in my hair, fillet of purity

In hues of flowers.

Wrap me in your cloak

I am yours under the sky

The earth that bore the wheat,

Is my womb,

Next (another) year both will bring forth.

I ask

Leave the daisies in the field,

They are no longer mine to wear.

Sadness and joy is mine.

Farewell, innocence.

When I saw you, I was lost.