They stopped at noon to rest the horses.  Not sore, but grateful for a respite, Faramir dismounted and slackened Thorn’s girth, sliding his fingers under it to loose it from the grey’s sweaty side.  He glanced around himself at the wide open plain, gingerly following the relaxed example set by the other Riders—they let their horses free, allowing the animals to drink from a small pond and range to graze on pasture still kept green by growing at the water’s edge.  A wide swath of churned hulks of mud dried into the molds of countless hooves and then broken into dusty and roughly crumbled ground showed the pond had once been much larger before the drought.  He patted Thorn’s flank as the gelding moved off, saying firmly, “Don’t roll and soak my things.”  A flicked ear was his only reply and he eyed his bow and scabbard fretfully, half tempted to fetch them back.

Faramir had found his bags and saddle sitting on the bed and floor of his rooms that morning.  The knots on his bags had appeared untouched, their contents undisturbed and, most ridiculously of the entire ridiculous incident, his saddle had been oiled.  When he’d approached, the dyed sable leather shone near enough to reflect his amused face, the silver trimming was burnished and every speck of dirt had been removed from even the tiny, stylized leaves of the White Tree carved into the dark wood of his stirrups.  He’d left it behind, guessing it too narrow to bridge Thorn’s broad frame without pinching.  Now Faramir watched the burly grey jostle for position at the pond and stretched his arms over his head, straightening his back with a few satisfying pops, inhaling deeply of the warm air.  The mystery of who’d stolen his things was still unsolved, though, and he wondered idly why they’d been taken if the intention was not to ransack or destroy them…or even hold them for some preposterous idea of advantage over me…it made no sense.  Who and why…?  Impossible as it seemed, Gaer had been the only Rohir who’d taken an interest.  He turned, looking for his friend’s red mane within the group.

“Tired?”  Éomer surprised him; standing near, but not too near, the man smiled as tentatively and with as much good will as he’d spoken.  Faramir glanced around him.  Arwen and Éowyn sat on the grass nearer to the pond, members of Éomer’s guard loosely spread around them.  The other Riders and boys were closer, though still keeping their distance from the women.

“No.”  Squinting, Faramir peered up at the bright blue sky and then smiled over at the Lord of the Mark, putting aside his thoughtful ideas of treachery.  “It’s a nice day.  Your country is beautiful.”  The sun shone hotly but there was a breeze to cool him and Rohan seemed particularly agreeable with its endless grasses under the faded blue bowl of a sky.  He smiled again, adding, “I look forward to returning this winter.”  He was unsure about it, really, but the simple mention the night before had lifted Éowyn’s spirits so much that Faramir had no heart to even try and back out now.  A few weeks of traveling in snow…he just hoped she was not yet with child.  Travel on horseback might be dangerous…especially the horses she likes best.  Faramir frowned to himself wondering if either he or Éowyn realized how everything would change.  I wish for the son I saw…yet, am I ready, is she ready?  Teeth gnawing his lip, he stared at the dusty ground. 

Éomer agreed quickly, almost eagerly.  “Yes.  It is beautiful.”  He didn’t seem to know how to reply to the other statement, but Faramir had felt the man’s enthusiasm rise sharply at his words and guessed he felt the same as Éowyn.  He sighed inwardly and they walked together to their womenfolk, matching stride for stride.  Faramir paid the man careful attention but was relieved to note no dark feelings.  Finally…finally we meet the end of this… 

His smile reappeared just watching his beloved; it was clear that she was happy as well.  Beside him, he sense Éomer’s mood lighten and Faramir silently resolved to put away all worries of his future.  The Lord of the Mark chuckled softly.  “They will spoil that creature.”

He agreed with a laugh, boots making rustling noises through the tall, dry grass; it was almost standing hay.  “Yes.”

“I’m glad I won’t have to deal with it.”  Éomer sounded both amused and wistful, making Faramir aware of just how lonely the man felt or anticipated to feel.  He frowned.  There must be some way of happiness for all…  The company was under the shade of a few trees clumped together, the coolness of which just extended along a skimpy line of smaller trees over the Riders and boys’ heads.  The coolest shadows were almost entirely monopolized by the two women and puppy. 

Faramir chuckled, grinning at the spectacle under the trees.  Released from his bag Rusco lunged over and over, barking at Éowyn’s hands.  She ruffled his ears, then jerked her fingers back, prompting the puppy to leap at her, tail wagging, floppy ears alert and tongue lolling as he jumped and bounced.  Arwen was smiling as she grasped the little dog’s tail.  Rusco spun to hop onto his mistress, who laughed and ran her hands over his tri-colored coat.  She called out to them,

“Faramir, when we depart will you not spare your lady’s voice and sing us some of the songs of your folk?”  Her eyes were bright, “Éowyn and I wish to hear them…” He looked to Éowyn in surprised pleasure and she nodded, pressing her lips together as the Queen continued, “And I think its time for a new minstrel before the throat of this one’s is too raw.”  She scolded lightly, “We’ve not as much as given her a single coin for her kindnesses.”

Éowyn had caught Rusco up to her chest, scratching the dog’s round belly.  One of the puppy’s legs kicked briskly in time, making her laugh as she nodded again, smiling now.  “If you keep me singing I’ll not have a voice by dinner!  Let another go…” Her smile turned unsure but still full willing as Éowyn added in a softer tone, “And I wish most to hear the songs of my new country.” 

His heart warmed at once, her plain statement lifting his spirits to soar, and he smiled broadly in return.  Éowyn dipped her head just a little; shyness radiating, but she met his gaze.  She means her words.  Faramir felt his soul fill to brimming; his delight was a pleasure so acute it pained him.  Beside him Éomer swallowed audibly and his face seemed to pale, but he said nothing, voicing neither protests nor agreements.  Carefully reaware of him, Faramir prepared to lower himself to the dusty grass, sitting as near to Éowyn as he dared within Éomer’s company.  He was not yet sure of what the man would tolerate in shows of affection…and what might reopen the slowly healing wounds of their struggle.  That I wish least to do… After an instant’s pondering, he fell on the side of moderation, folding his legs and sitting near but not so near that he could touch her effortlessly.  Still beaming and petting the joyously wiggling and panting dog, she asked him, “Please?”

His heart sank under her hopeful smile and Faramir remembered himself.  “I’m afraid I cannot…”  Éomer frowned as he, too, sat.

“Why?”  The Lord of the Mark, if not in favor of his sister’s request, would obviously still support it.  Faramir found this amusingly exasperating and counseled himself to answer with forbearance.  If this is my complaint, then we’ve truly neared the end…

The Queen also beseeched, if more impatiently.  “Yes, why not?  I heard many in the City that would compare to the songs Éowyn has been so generous to favor us with.”

There was nothing but to admit his fault.  “I cannot sing well.  I would not do them fair justice…my voice would be a raven’s harsh croak to our nightingale.”  Éowyn smiled at the compliment as Faramir gestured to Arwen.  “I’m sure they would like to hear verses of your land just as much as mine.”

Éomer spoke up, his face full of curiosity as he added to their conversation, “I would and more so, as I’ve not heard them before.”

Arwen looked disappointed, but she nodded gaily enough.  “Well, if you wish it, Éomer, dearest friend of mine, then I shall sing for you.”  The Lord of the Mark smiled with boyish eagerness, prompting Faramir to glance at him in surprise.  What have we here under sun and sky?  He tried not to laugh, deeply amused by the simple, harmless infatuation he could sense.  As he grinned to himself, Éowyn set Rusco down and leaned over to lightly touch his knee to gain his attention. 

Her face was questioning.  Would you not sing some for me later?

His first thought was can you not wait, but he stifled himself.  What was it to him if she alone heard his tunelessness?  Faramir silently berated his own cowardice, do not check her just to save face, she is just now easing and if this helps…  He took a breath and returned with a faint smile, if you will it…and promise not to laugh at my pitiful croakings.  Faramir inclined his head in surrender and Éowyn smiled in a gentle fashion as though she’d been aware of his struggle…and empathized.

 I would not laugh at you, my love, min Feramearh.  Again she used the version of his name that Éomer had culled from within her people’s tongue and he smiled, thinking it quaint.  To his surprise, she didn’t pull her hand away, resting it lightly on his knee and squeezing once, almost to comfort him as their gazes lingered.  Faramir smiled with happiness and some trepidation about his future singing until he felt how Éomer was discomfited.  The Lord of the Mark was growing increasingly aware of their inward communications. 

Seeking to bring back peace, he lifted her hand away to clasp it in his own, so that they touched still, just in a less familiar manner.  Éowyn’s brow creased for a moment before she bent her fingers, lightly touching and stroking his callused palm in tiny, ticklish movements.  Faramir looked down at their hands; hers was smaller, slimmer, and altogether more delicate.  But it was not the hand of a Lady—there were calluses, if lesser than his; her nails were short and ragged with dirt and horsehair beneath them; she was browned from the sun and had a number of hairline scratches to spoil her smooth skin.  He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand as Éowyn smiled at him, her gaze searching, and he felt how she wished for more than the simple, passionless touch of hands.  Her mouth turned up; she smiled in hopes, tilting her head endearingly.  Kiss?  He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing them to the back of it.  She sighed in soft disappointment, but kept the smile. 

It was mildly annoying not to be able to express himself exactly as he desired but Faramir was willing to sacrifice for a short while longer.  He looked aside to where her brother sat quietly talking.  Not long ago his simple gestures would have provoked a giant reaction—either sullenness or outright anger—this day there was none.  He doubted the man had even noticed.  Faramir sighed to himself and kissed her hand again, clasping it to his chest.  There is little reason to complain…  Éomer had already made great strides in acceptance; again he glanced aside at the Lord of the Mark, whose expression had long reverted to tranquility and even lightened to merriment as he spoke with Arwen, hesitantly asking her about elven songs.  I should respect that…and not push for more within his presence.  He looked at Éowyn reassuringly and stroked his thumb over her hand again.  It will not be so long…it cannot be.  Faramir frowned to himself.  How long could this strange farce of service go on? 

But his solution of simply clasping hands did not work in the slightest for Éowyn heaved a sigh of her own and almost immediately scooted closer to lie down in the dry grass and pillow her head on his bent thigh.  She stretched her legs, boots sliding through the sparse, thirsty turf, and crossed them.  Not yet comfortable, she extended one arm backwards over his lap to crook her elbow loosely about his side, splaying the other palm down and out, twisting strands of dry, wiry grass around her fingers.   

Body stilling, Éowyn exhaled deeply; she sounded and looked to be fully at ease.  Nearby, he could feel her brother was not…but he could also feel that Éomer was controlling himself and slowly the sensation of unrest faded from the back of his mind.  Arwen smiled at the Lord of the Mark, who smiled feebly back, then seemed to relax.  He raised his voice to the nearby grouped Riders, asking a question in Rohirric.  One replied and went to fetch whatever Éomer had requested. 

Freed from the burden of another’s discomfort, Faramir looked down at his love and she smiled up in satisfaction; she appeared merry and very much untroubled, which warmed his heart anew.  He looked into her eyes, fascinated by the way they looked to be pools of the purest, stillest waters reflecting the sky perfectly and yet the color was entirely her own.  Éowyn’s arm tightened about his side and she closed her eyes for a moment, obviously at peace.  Faramir chuckled under his breath as he thought, no one told me betrothment would mean so many times of serving as a giant pillow…  She laughed, eyes flying open, and smiled at him in a pleased way.

But you make a very good pillow…  Éowyn’s eyes were closing again, her face smoothing, mind drowsy from the warm sun.  Her hand moved gently against his side, fingers tickling him through his shirt. Above them, tree limbs and leaves made shadows flicker and jerk in mysterious patterns across her features.  Carefully, so as not to disturb her, Faramir shifted to keep the sun from shining onto her face and she smiled quietly, just the slightest movements of her lips.  Thank you.

Rusco broke their intimate moment as he came from Arwen to lick enthusiastically at Éowyn’s face, making her hide herself against his shirt and shake with laughter.  Her voice was muffled, “No!”  She giggled and pushed weakly at the puppy, “Ná!”  Tail wagging, Rusco put his paws on her shoulder and Faramir’s hip, digging into and around her darkened hair with renewed vigor, and for good reason, as the word for no in Rohirric was the same as the one for yes in the Queen’s tongue.  Éowyn remembered herself, laughing, “Áva!  Va!”  Arwen had to scoop her dog up and pull him back.  Éomer was grinning lightheartedly, all his unease vanished as he teased,

“That’s what you get, lying where he can reach you.”

“Oh, leave me be!”  Éowyn stuck her tongue out at her brother, picking twigs and bits of grass from her hair before resettling herself. 

Faramir laughed as well, but with less assurance.  Éowyn speaking elvish was incredibly strange to his ear; her Rohirric accent wrapped around the fine syllables, smothering them in earthy, velvet tones so foreign to the airy speech of the elves.  He glanced at the Queen and it was with a start that he saw her unearthly beauty again; with near daily contact, Faramir had long become accustomed to it.  No wonder Éomer is besotted—Arwen was more beautiful than other women, including his own Éowyn.  He glanced downwards, looking at the peaceful face of the woman whose head lay in his lap with a rush of affection.

 But she is a beauty and a form less warm to my mortal hands.  Her heart does not beat as mine does, quickening from season to season, but with the weight of years uncountable, long memories forgotten.  No, he wished not to reach for immortal flesh, he was but a man whose blood called faraway of Númenor, no powerful seer of his forefathers, a man alone and the last of his line…gifted or burdened.  Éowyn thought him strong but his father’s mind had been as the walls of his City—unassailable and indestructible save in death.  No dark lord broke him…Mithrandir was mistaken.    

She shifted her head on his lap, penetrating his cheerless thoughts.  Éowyn smiled while looking back up at him and he touched her dark, mussed hair, using his fingertips to move it from her cheeks and brow.  She blew a few strands from her mouth, laughing up at him as she did and he smiled back, but dolefully.  He missed her flaxen locks more than he would have imagined; without them his Éowyn simply did not look right. 

Her brow creased and she reached up to playfully touch his lips, index finger gently tracing the curve of them.  So stern today…why?

He twirled a strand of her hair around his fingers.  I miss it.

She shifted her legs and smiled with an indulgent shake of her head.  Will it make you happy if I try and wash it out tonight?

Faramir beamed downwards, breaking into a grin.  Yes, very.  Éowyn smiled her agreement.  He knew she liked it but the prospect of her regaining her beautiful golden mane was too wonderful for him to refuse.

One of the Riders returned with a full waterskin, making Faramir realize he was thirsty.  Éomer drank from it briefly, and then passed it to him; Éowyn sat up from his lap to drink and her brother drummed his fingers on his leg, seeming to take the opportunity to ask with a tone of impudence aimed at his sister, “Have you rested enough?”

Éowyn nodded, giving him a matching look of impertinence, and stood, brushing dust and dirt from her clothes.  “Yes, very much.” 

The Lord of the Mark turned to him questioningly and Faramir gave his own agreement before Éomer felt moved to ask him.  “Yes.”  Éomer stood and the Riders and guards stood as well.  They weren’t half as organized or obedient as men of the White Tower, but the Riders of Rohan were well enough servants.  Faramir’s eyes fell on his students and he frowned, wondering if they were still upset.  Wurth’s hastily redirected gaze made him think so.  But what can I do?  Scef was looking at Éowyn with a harmless sort of longing as she giggled and helped Arwen wrestle the struggling puppy back into the saddlebag.  Faramir smiled, moving to grasp her elbow as they walked to fetch their horses.  They all love her…perhaps…  And Éowyn certainly knew more about Rohirric lads than he did.  “I need you.”

She gave him a playfully coquettish look.  “What for?”

He smiled in amusement, then sobered.  “To help me make amends.”

Her brow creased.  “To who?”  As if on instinct, Éowyn glanced at her brother and her face grew upset, its glow dimming.  “Why?”  He felt her mind tense, emotions running high and strained; fury, despair, anxiety all building in an instant.  “What—”

“No, no, no.”  He smiled reassuringly at her and Éowyn’s dark thoughts stilled with a great final swell of thankfulness as he clarified.  “My students.”  Faramir tried to think of a way to explain without telling any of Oswyn’s part.  If it had infuriated Éomer to such lengths, a man who had little reason to care for him, it would doubly infuriate her or worse.  She commanded them with harshness over my belongings…what would she do to this man who threatens me?  Faramir had more than a guess that Éomer had been far, far more lenient than Éowyn would have liked had she been told of the incident.  He looked at her fondly.  Faramir had no doubt that his lioness would have set upon the insufferably arrogant and hostile Rohir with great fury.  And I’ve no doubt the victor, either…  He grinned.

She frowned just a little, looking out at the boys as they fetched their horses and, helpfully, the mounts of whomever that might be grazing near.  “What did you do?”

“They claimed I treated them like children.”

“Ah.”  Éowyn did not question this, to his relief.

One of the lads had tried to catch Thorn.  The burly gelding pulled away quickly, reins swinging.  Faramir watched in sympathy.  “I don’t know what to do to lift their spirits.”  He whistled, Thorn, and Thorn’s ears flicked forward and the startled horse looked for him in the group, cumbersome head turned and motionlessly upraised long enough for the boy to snatch the reins.  Faramir grinned suddenly.  The lad that had captured Thorn was the one whose name he’d never learned.  He prodded Éowyn, “Ask that one his name.”

She gave him a baffled, sideways look, “All right,” and Éowyn called lightly for her own mount.  The gold-colored stud lifted his head and began to walk to her obediently, still chewing a mouthful of brownish, parched grass.  Thorn was led to Faramir, who smiled down at the boy.

The Rohir lad said quietly, “Eower eoh, min Láréow.”

“Ic þancie þe.”  He took the reins, rubbing the gelding’s forehead.  Thorn pushed at him, driving Faramir back a step as his palms were thoroughly nosed and even licked in a search for oats.  He scolded quietly, secretly pleased, “No, stop, I don’t have anything for you.”  Thorn had done much the same when he’d fetched him from the barn.

The lad nodded silently, not meeting his eyes.  He turned to go with a low bow, but Éowyn smiled at the youth, “Hæl, Ridend.”

The boy flushed, making Faramir clench his teeth not to laugh.  He returned immediately and courteously, also using the familiar greeting, if stumbling with shyness.  “H-hæl, min Ides.”

She smiled brilliantly now, asking, “Hwa is se naman æt swá a glæd hold mann?” 

Faramir glanced at her, man?  The way she spoke: as stately as any Lady and yet very relaxed and familiar reminded him of the way that she’d treated the two younger halflings.  She was already better with his students than he; he compressed his lips in disgust.  Oh, I shall be the worst of fathers.  I cannot even deal with such simple lads.  Faramir beamed at Éowyn adoringly.  At least he had a wonderful mother for them.

“Gudrad, min Ides.”  Thorn bumped his head against Faramir’s shoulder, then rubbed it roughly, getting light hair all over his clothes and as the wind blew, in his mouth.  Grimacing and spitting with as much grace as he could, he yielded to Thorn’s insistent pushes, the big angular head knocking against his side, shoulder and arm, and scratched under the bridle to keep the horse happy.

Éowyn spared him a mirthful, laughing glance, then nodded and replied smartly.  “A cynelic naman.”

Gudrad answered and there was a glimmer of pleasure in his eyes when he finally dared to lift them, “Ic þancie þe, min Ides.”  He bowed low, acknowledging again, “Min Láréow,” and retreated to the group of Riders with his horse trailing him.  Faramir smiled as his four other students gathered around the boy, murmuring excitedly and staring at Éowyn who’d already turned and began tightening the girth of her mount, paying them no attention at all.

He spoke pitifully, having moved on to rubbing behind Thorn’s big ears.  “They like you more than me.”

“Láréow.”  Éowyn gave him a wide, teasing smile over her shoulder. 

“What?”  Faramir pulled on Thorn’s girth, but the gelding was holding his breath.  He put his hand to the grey’s side, waiting for him to exhale.

She took a step closer, eyes sparkling with amusement, one hand coming to rest on his shoulder, arm wrapping around his neck as she pressed her body to his.  Éowyn’s face was aglow; she was smiling as she murmured in a playful and fetchingly teasing tone, “Láréow, teach me…” Her voice became at once soft, ardent and her smile faded to be replaced by unsteady composure.  “Læreþ me se foldweg æt lufu…”

He couldn’t resist kissing her once, just a touch of lips, mild and subdued before their audience, and replying back in a soft, private whisper, “Lustfullice, Ic wille.  Más lustfullice…” Faramir added gently, “Hwa ge willes.”  No pushing.  When she willed was when he would and no sooner. 

Her eyes shone and though there were still the faintest ripples of unease within her mind, Éowyn laughed and bowed her head before hugging him.  Her reply was willingly, quietly earnest.  “Ic wille ge to…min Feramearh…” She smiled beautifully, as though simply looking at him made her feel joy.  Faramir stared at her, wondering and slightly afraid.  His heart beat faster as Éowyn finished with a kind laugh, meaning every word.  “Se más cynelic ond cystig æt mann.”  Her voice turned warm and she stroked her fingers along the nape of his neck, “Se más awhetness æt mann.”

That was a word he didn’t know.  Smiling, Faramir asked, “What does that mean?”

“This.”  She leaned up and kissed him; this was no mild kiss but one full of passion.  Éowyn caressed him; there was no other word for the motions of her hands over his shoulders, down his arms, fingers cupping his face.  It took long to break because neither wished it to, but finally he took a breath, pulling away.  Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her eyes on his mouth before they lifted to his and she smiled demurely.  No woman of elven blood could have stirred him so and he bent to kiss her again, savoring her eager, uninhibited response.  Oh, if all times could be like this… 

But behind her, he saw that his students watched with envy and admiration.  Faramir lifted from her mouth and smiled, lightly touching upon their thoughts.  He pulled away from her embrace with regret, then leaned to say confidentially, “They love you…” She glanced back with an embarrassed giggle as he ended, “And they have no idea how it is that I hold you in my arms.”  Her arms found their way back around his middle to hug him as he chuckled, “I’m not as grand to their eyes as to be worthy of you, se Ides æt Riddermark.”

Éowyn shook her head, glowing.  “They don’t see you with my eyes.”  As he leaned his forehead to touch hers and her hands came to lay flat to the sides of his face, holding him even closer, Faramir concentrated on their emotional link.  Éowyn’s eyelids fluttered and the intensity of her love merging with his own was like flames of two fires reaching higher and higher to intertwine into a single light, a blazing star against the darkness of the space between them, around them, the blackness of the void.  Her mind was soft, willing and he touched to it, letting her know his happiness in that still moment.  He heard her laugh shortly, throat choked with emotion. 

There was movement to his right; Éomer steered his horse near and Faramir became aware they were the only ones not mounted.  When he looked up, the Lord of the Mark gave him a tiny, very quiet smile.  And then, to Faramir’s utter astonishment, he neither said nor did anything in censure, only casting his eyes away to wait with patience.

Amazed and horribly self-conscious in the face of such unsuspected generosity, Faramir straightened and took a step towards Thorn, but Éowyn didn’t feel self-conscious in the slightest.  Instead, she was irritated at the interruption and when, in regard for Éomer’s feelings, he would have pulled back and mounted Thorn, she turned to her brother.  “Quit gawking.”

Éomer grimaced and his eyes jerked away.  He feigned disgust but Faramir could easily see through it—her sharp words had startled them both and her brother was silently hurt.  “I’m not.”

She still wouldn’t move, so Faramir stood shifting his feet and feeling trapped and resentful as she asked, “You think this is so wretched?”  Her brother didn’t look like he had an answer to the sudden attack and Éowyn didn’t seem to need one, saying entirely unapologetically.  “I’ve seen you do far worse to a maid in a crowded Hall,” She sniffed in disdain, “Too drunk to know how much of an boor you looked like.”  With that, Éowyn swung aboard her horse in a single, effortless motion.  Arwen covered her mouth, fair hand not entirely obstructing her bittersweet smile.  Faramir did not smile, noticing Éomer’s embarrassed and guilty expression.  His gaze followed his sister and there was deep confusion within his mind. 

He mounted Thorn and kept quiet, gathering his reins and patting the grey’s thick neck, not wishing to add to the man’s dark feelings of rejection and disgrace.  As they rode out the Queen began to hum, then sing in her light, flowing tongue.  The Riders and lads listened with respectful and quiet curiosity while Faramir barely heard it, too focused on Éomer’s tumult and Éowyn’s sense of righteousness.  He glanced at the gamely resolute face of one, and then the worried set of the other’s and wondered restlessly what would come of it, if anything.

It was early in the afternoon when the festival came into sight, first as a lively speck of various colors long in the distance, but quickly rising higher above the grasses.  Faramir gazed in pleased awe at the great, brightly colored tents, waving banners and horses, horses uncountable like blades of grass in a field; hundreds upon hundreds of horses were spread around and inside the crowd.  There were rarely such things in his country, the majority of people staying within the walls of the City to celebrate…and for years they did not venture far…  Abruptly he wondered what Aragorn had in mind for this year’s end.  Perhaps Éowyn would like to be involved…he looked at her and she smiled widely, happily, bouncing with the quick strides of her mount.  Faramir gazed ahead, thinking.  Maybe this year our folk could embrace a few of her traditions…make her feel at home…  He felt the idea had some merit and resolved to ask Éomer later.  It could be a surprise…

  There were many people camped with smaller, dull, dirt brown tents ranging widely, thin grey smoke from fires filling the air along with sounds of music, laughter, song and simple conversation that grew and melded into a concentrated roar as they rode nearer.  There was the high, rich blow of a horn and the resulting wave of attention directed at their party was so immense that he flinched under it, closing his eyes tightly and desperately willing himself not to feel the weight of all the amassed minds.  Beneath him Thorn balked, tossing his cumbersome head violently and Faramir blinked back into awareness, picking up his reins; somehow, they’d fallen from his hands.  After a moment he was conscious of Éowyn staring at him with some worry.  Her voice was very low.  “What is it?  What’s wrong?”  She looked at the gathering, then him, chestnut hair flying about her face.  Is it too many? 

Her concern made him smile against the crushing impact as the many Rohirrim became aware of the approach of their King.  Close at hand Éomer, too, was gazing at him with brow furrowed and eyes full of anxiety as their horses jogged ever nearer to the mass of people.  Faramir took a deep breath and forced himself to nod as Thorn danced sideways, still tossing his head.  I’ll be fine…  She reached across the space between them and took his hand to squeeze it, holding tightly against the jostling.  The loving worry that flowed from Éowyn’s eyes and soul was enough to break the grinding press against his mind and he sighed affirming I’ll be fine.  She smiled at her brother and he looked relieved; there was no discord between them now, making Faramir wonder.

The minds of so many were a never-ending clamor just under his awareness, fatiguing but bearable as they were not mourning, but rejoicing and it lifted his helpless spirits as well.  Folk swarmed to surround them and Éomer’s guards tightened their circle, hands drifting nearer to the golden hilts of their swords.  They shouted warnings, bellowing to let the King through.  Slowly, the massive gathering of people broke into twain and Faramir became instantly aware of the stares directed first at Éowyn’s hair, then more intently at himself.  Young girls ran beside the slowly jogging horses and handed braided circlets of wheat, bright ribbons and flowers to Éowyn who laughed and thanked them in her tongue.  She placed some on her brow and held the others, looking utterly radiant garbed in the colorful blooms, which Faramir could hardly believe had been found and plucked from the arid fields.  He straightened to look above the crowd—dry grass stretched as far as he could see, broken by the gleam of a river he guessed was off the more eastward banks of the Snowbourn.  How far did they travel…?

 Éomer smiled gently, sadly, and leaned to touch his sister’s arm.  Brother and sister beamed at each other in a silent moment that was both pensive and joyful before she reached to clasp Éomer’s hand in her own.  Faramir, who rode at her side, was touched when she turned to hold his and smile with tears in her eyes, bringing him into their intimate moment though he knew nothing about it.  The people cheered around them and it made him feel welcomed anew or, perhaps for the first time, in this foreign land.  He looked over her head at the man that he felt had finally accepted him and laughed aloud, his spirits soaring with theirs, the crowd’s, and, it seemed to him in that moment, the earth under them itself.  Faramir raised his face to the blue sky, blinding white sun, the yellow-brown grass, the colors of the festival, shining flanks of the numberless horses and was overwhelmed. 

Éomer grinned in return as the shadows of grief that lay always within his pale eyes were momentarily overthrown by his revelry.  He called across their horses and over the voicings of the crowd, “Glad is this day, my friend…” His smile was true, “And I am glad to see you in it.”  Faramir was without words to respond, just laughing softly as he lowered his head, overcome.  Éowyn looked between them and her smile was dazzling, faint tears slipping down her cheeks.  Her familiarity overrode the press of the multitudes and the sense of her sweet happiness made tears rise in his eyes as well.

 At a steady jog they rode through the multitude, passing horses and the tents under which sat goods unnamable and innumerable, to the magnificent pavilion that had been set for Éomer, his standard already flying before it.  Nearby was another for the Lady, the flapping entrance decked with flowers, leafed branches and sheaves of corn and wheat.  It was swiftly decided that Arwen would share berth with her, as the tent was plenty large enough, as well as the generously bedded pallet.  Faramir looked about himself and Éomer laughed, sounding apologetic.  “It is the earth for you, I’m afraid, unless…” He laughed again; face chagrined, “You want to share with me…and somehow, I doubt you will.”

He found his voice and shrugged, saying lightly.  “No, I won’t disturb you.  The earth is familiar enough bedmate, I’ll lie with her again with no bitterness.”  The Lord of the Mark bowed his head in acknowledgment and looked rather grateful as he murmured low.

“No bitterness?”

Faramir smiled and shook his head, “None.”  Their eyes met and before he could dismount from Thorn, Éomer reached across the space between their horses and clasped his arm briefly in silent thanks.  The touch startled Faramir more than anything did since physical contact with him was something Éomer rarely consented to and seemed to value even less.  But the expression of the man before him was completely unguarded, open and very simply happy in a way that Faramir had not seen yet and he knew suddenly that it was that for the first time he looked upon Éomer when unweighted by painful sadness or bitter, jealous anger.  Unable to help himself, he stared—years of hard care seemed to fly from the younger man’s face and his golden hair shone in the sun, fair skin and pale eyes so like to Éowyn’s all bright, all marked by joy alone.  And in wonder, he thought, this is a son of Eorl who stands before me.

The Lord of the Mark spoke again, soft and very plain, almost inaudible in the din of the people around them.  He was smiling faintly, “Wilcome, min broõer, se lufiend æt min sweoster.  Wilcome ealdorlang.” 

Once more overwhelmed, he could find no words and just smiled in return, throat tightening to close off his voice and breath.  He thought, ah, I am home, and Faramir knew not what he meant but there was a gladness within his heart that burned like the fiery sting of a knife drawn sharply across bared flesh.  Éomer seemed to understand, for he laughed and his eyes were glowing sunnily as he looked about himself and swung lightly down from his mount.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

Éomer’s guards were placing their things about his tent and carrying their master’s within it; Gaer waved to him, so Faramir led Thorn to his friend, who was setting the poles of several small, mud-marked canvas tents on a spare patch of ground.  Gaer grinned and took down one of Faramir’s bags.  “Not too royal to bed with us, are you?  There’s room here.”

He swallowed, shaking his head and laughing away some of the emotions that had drawn his chest taut.  “Ná.”  His friend grinned and Thorn was swiftly untacked and loosed; his saddle was set upright outside the tent and Faramir’s bags were piled in a corner near where he laid his bedroll.  The tent was crowded and he almost wished to say he’d rather sleep under the stars, but held his tongue.  The friendly gesture was more important than his desire.  He emerged bent and straightened to the full weight of thousands of curious gazes so that Faramir had to close his eyes to center and collect himself, finding his heartbeat with an effort, seeking his mind among the seeming infinity of others.  It was a burden so heavy, so great to bear up under that it strained his reserves of strength, leaving him feeling weak and unable to tell how much he could stand. 

Éowyn flying to embrace him took his awareness away from the crowd and eased his labors.  She was clothed in the deep green and gold gown he’d seen her wear before and giggling madly, swept up in the exhilaration about them.  He took a step back to fully look at her, holding her arms.  Faramir gazed in curiosity at the flowers in her hair, green ribbon entwined with blossoms of daisy-like aster, ocher yellow spears of cowslip, reddish purple germaniums and soft, fragrant pink lavender.  Low about her waist were scarlet and ivory ribbons to hold the garlands of tawny wheat, green leaves of corn with silk still clinging to them, more aster and rounded buds of red clover.  Flowers and crops of the harvest…at once he understood the meaning of why she’d donned them and why she wore them still.  Éowyn blushed at his infatuated gaze, gracefully twirling with her arms spread so that he could see her. The crimson and snowy white ribbons flew out as well as her dark green skirts.  She was a living picture of the harvest and of the new growth of spring, as he saw the simple jade bracelet upon her wrist.  Judging by the frequency of her wearing it, the jade was by far her favorite.  Maybe she’d like more…  

When she stopped she was laughing with all the innocence of a young maid, cheeks flushed, blue eyes alight.  The dolphin pendant lay outside her gown today; flung upon her bosom with her motions, it gleamed dark blue and dark green in fair contrast.  Faramir reflected that the darkness of her hair, though it shone ruddily in the sun, was the only flaw in this sight of womanly beauty.  He smiled.  “You look lovely.”

She laughed again, ducking her head and touching her blossom-adorned brow with a conscious hand, almost as if she’d known he’d been thinking about it.  “Thank you.”

Faramir gathered her to him, careful not to crush her pretty laurels.  “I’m afraid I’m not a fit escort.”

“Then be one…” She ran her hand up the center of his chest and smiled shakily, “Wear the White Tree.  I would like to see it again, I think…” Her brow furrowed, “To me you look...strange under the Horse.”  A quick and hopeful smile took any sting out of her admission.

This was a shock and his words stumbled in his confusion and even, delighted hope.  “You…do you want me to?”

Her laugh was full of nerves and again her eyes gleamed with tears.  He touched her damp cheek wonderingly for they weren’t tears of sadness alone, but joy as well as lament, emotions too tied to ever separate.  “I remember you best with it.”

“Then you shall have it.”  To his pleasure, Éowyn caught his chin to kiss him and it lingered sweetly, ending with her smile before Faramir withdrew to fulfill her wish.

***

          Everything around her made her want to weep from the knowledge that she would see it again but rarely, and then it would be from the nostalgic eyes of a woman whose home and life were far away…and yet it made her heart fill with joy.  Memories pressed her: Théoden, Théodred; Éomer much younger and all knees and elbows as he carried her on his shoulders.  Women from the passing crowds called to her, their words merry and lightly teasing, making her laugh and her cheeks burn.  They celebrated her coming union, adorning her like the Maiden of the Harvest…she fingered the ribbons, the delicate flowers and sobered for a cold, shameful moment.  Do I celebrate?      

Éomer coming from behind to touch her arm and, when she turned, embrace her tightly made Éowyn smile and hug her brother with all her strength, glad for a distraction.  He grinned down, looking far merrier than he had in a month, a year, oh, years.  Had a malevolent spell, a tainted dream held them both for so long?  She didn’t feel her age, but more that of a girl just treading into womanhood.  As she brooded, he laughed lightheartedly, reaching to her brow to fiddle with the vivid sea green ribbons that held together her circlet of blooms.  “I see I have a sister again.”

“You always did.”

“Not when you swung a sword.”  Arwen had emerged from their tent and the crowd murmured appreciatively for the Queen outshone the sunny sky in an elegant blue gown.  Rusco pulled at his leather leash, alternately wanting to rush to the folk with wagging tail or cower beneath his mistress’s skirts.  Éomer leaned down to pat him and Arwen smiled as they exchanged words.  Then the crowd’s murmur grew louder instead of fading and Éowyn felt a gentle touch to the back of her mind.  She turned expectantly, heart swollen in her throat.  Yes, he looked as he’d done in the City, garbed in sable and silver-white, glaringly different from her folk’s earthy tones.  His dark hair hung loose, shining over his shoulders as Faramir smiled crookedly, just a little shy before the staring masses.  Admiring his tall, regal form, she laughed while opening her arms wide in welcome.

When he held her it was like coming home in a curious way that she’d never guessed to feel.  Oh, how strange…she ran her hand up his arm, breathing in, aware and wondering.  It was familiar and comforting to know again the mixed sensations of the firm, slight stiffness of his raven-colored leather surcoat, the warmth of it in the sun, and under it the longer, split length of his dark, faded and worn cotehardie that pressed to her skirts.  He had no mail on, so she could feel his body easily and Éowyn pressed herself to him.  Oddly, Faramir even smelled to her like the City—ancient stone swept by clean winds—and she felt tears well as she hid her face against his shoulder…how can I leave him and go alone, I must, I must…for myself…for us…  She was so very tired of hurting him, tired of her weakness and her uncertainty.  The only way she knew how to fight it was head on.

His handsome brow was creased and when Faramir looked to the crowd she sensed him weaken; his throat moved as he swallowed.  Éowyn touched the White Tree, tracing its etched trunk and graceful branches as she liked to sometimes, fingertips following the upraised argent stars that arced above it, feeling his gaze on her bent head.  His voice came to her mind, hesitant, uneasy.  It feels…different. 

She touched the fasteners at the side, brushing a sticky bit of corn silk from them.  “How?”

“I don’t know.”  Faramir’s face was troubled and she smiled with an idea. 

“Here.”  Éowyn carefully withdrew one of the ribbons from her girdle of flowers and crops to tie to his arm, a token to show her favor to her Knight who, she reflected with a laugh, was not a Knight at all but a Captain under the White Tree.  My champion, anyhow.

A smile sprang to his lips, vanishing away all disquiet.  “Am I?”

Laughing, she looked into his eyes, seeing how touched and happy he was.  Had she been so cold and cruel?  Éowyn smiled broadly, determined to make up for her coldness, “Yes!”  The adornment shone crimson in the sun, a vivid contrast to the faded black sleeve of his cotehardie.  “Now it is different.”

He laughed, leaning in to discreetly kiss her brow, as always restrained in view of so many others.  “What duties did I perform to earn this favor, my Lady?”  His fingers toyed with the red ribbon.  “First I’ve ever borne.”

“I don’t believe that.”  Eyes amused, he snorted as she corrected pertly, “And it is what duties you will perform.”  He chuckled in delight. 

Faramir leaned down near to her lips, murmuring playfully, “And what are those?” 

Éowyn shook her head, shy again at his mildly insinuating tone.  She touched his shaven cheek, feeling the day’s tiny bristly growth.  “I don’t know yet.”  Faramir laughed once more and she linked her arm in his, turning to Arwen and Éomer…but they were already gone.  She looked up to her beloved and he smiled down more gently, unsurprised. 

Faramir bent, his voice a whisper in her ear.  “Show me your people.”  His eyes turned regretful, as I should have shown you mine, my love. 

Éowyn smiled in reassurance, loving him, loving her brother and Arwen for leaving them alone.  She wondered if it was hard for him to do so, silently thanking her dear sibling. 

Faramir sniggered suddenly, eyes glowing with mirth.  Not as hard as you might think.

What?  She was confused, brushing his words aside to say, “I don’t know what to show you first…” In the distance there was the blow of a horn signaling a horse race and her heart leapt with remembered excitement.  Laughing, she pulled at his arm and cried, “Come quick!”  They ran through the crowd with hands clasped and she could hear Faramir laughing as he matched her shorter strides effortlessly. 

“Where are we going?”

Éowyn turned a corner formed by dug-out cooking pits, shouting at him over her shoulder, “The races!”

Her lover was laughing too hard to speak.  Behind her, he gasped, “What races?”

“Just come!”  They bolted through the crowds, halting at the edge of a field marked with spears from which hung scraps of cloth.  The horn called again and filling the air around them were shouted wagers as horses stood in a rough line, the boys that rode them barely keeping the animals in check.  Their coats gleamed over flexing muscles and Éowyn admired the racers; not a bit spare flesh marred the horses’ lean forms as they danced on quick hooves and tossed their small heads, eager to go.  Glancing aside at him, she declared, “They look like you.”

Faramir grinned, teasing, “Is that a compliment…?”

She laughed, “Yes and you know it is!” 

“Yes.”  He looked amused, “I’ve been called underfed many times since I stepped foot in your land…scrawny, compared to a starving lamb…”

Giggling at the memory, Éowyn shook her head, taking his arm.  “No, you’re perfect.  I love the way you look.”  Faramir smiled, his artless, open expression showing that he was deeply stirred by her kind words.

“Truly?”

“Yes.”  She laughed and pulled his jaw down so that they could kiss. “To me you are a man perfect in form and noble in heart…it is but some great luck of mine that you love me.”  In obvious pleasure, a slow smile came across Faramir’s face and then, with impulsive passion, he bent to kiss her again, asserting, 

“Not luck…” It was just the opposite of the moment before—where his previous kiss had been gentle and mindful of spectators, this was wonderfully raw and heated, his tongue pushing, teasing hers, his fingers lingering to her chin.  Éowyn hugged his body, loving the firmness of it, the way he amorously pressed himself to her at her slightest sign of willingness.  She remembered the excitement of first touching his lean, muscled chest and grasped the fasteners on the side of his surcoat, intending to do it again, audience or no.  Her fingers slid across smooth, well cared for leather, finding the simple snaps and twisting them as she’d done before, feeling the first come free with a jolting, eager thrill.

But Faramir’s hand slapped hers aside, making them both laugh with embarrassment, realizing their roles reversed before he kissed her again, insistent and hot-blooded with passion.  She could feel her heart beating faster, warmth spreading under her skin, through her limbs, and her desire rising so deliciously that she shivered and breathed deep as Faramir kissed her throat, once, twice and Éowyn shuddered at the fleetingly hot, wet touch of his tongue.  It was as though her body, having once been satisfied, rose more swiftly at the chance of being pleasured.  Her hand grasped the back of his sable surcoat, fingers digging into the supple leather as Faramir nuzzled her jaw until she pulled him back to her mouth, relishing every moment.  When they moved apart for good, he smiled at her and kissed her brow lightly, pausing to breathe in the scent of the flowers that crowned her. 

“These are beautiful.”  He smiled, chest expanding with his inhalation, “They smell almost as nice as you look.”

Laughing, Éowyn touched the pennon of his surcoat again, marveling anew at how to see him wearing the White Tree brought her such pure and strange comfort.  She murmured, shy now with the admission, “I think I missed this.”

Though he smiled and blinked rapidly, clearly taken unawares and pleased by her words, Faramir did not reply.  His eyes unfocused and his body tensed slightly; through him she felt the anticipation in the crowd build as the horns blew a third time and the horses flew forward, great chunks of dirt and clouds of dust flying out behind their pistoning legs.  She cheered and cried out with the others as the beasts strained, young boys clinging to their backs and steering them the best they could.  The horses passed them with heads down, hooves reaching and digging deeply into the earth for just an inch more ground or an instant’s more speed than their rival. 

Then something new—Faramir kept any of the excitedly shouting and moving crowd from jostling her, his larger frame coming close to defend her with one arm hovering lightly and possessively about her waist.  Looking up, she gazed at him and to her mind his body was tall and strong like to the walls of his City.   

She’d never had anyone to do such a thing before, to hold her and make sure she wasn’t bumped or elbowed and it felt very good as he took a small step closer, not bothering to look down.  Éowyn glanced up again; Faramir was looking at the horses, so she smiled at his profile, loving him.  The fact that it seemed to be an entirely natural and unconscious gesture made her heart warm all the more as he determinedly used his body to shield her from the wildly cheering throng of bystanders.  Éowyn felt his arm slide around her and she clasped her hand over it in thanks even as she jumped up and cried out encouragement to the horse that was pulling away from the others. 

They watched two more races before her stomach rumbled.  “Come with me?”  Faramir nodded and followed closely, hand light to the small of her back, keeping her aware of him.  He said nothing and his face had been strained, making her glance backwards again in worry, “Are you all right…?”

“Yes…” He hesitated, expression apologetic, “Can we…can we go somewhere less…” Faramir gestured to the endless throng around them and she nodded, unsurprised.  He’d felt increasingly tense even between races. 

“Of course.”

But he reassured almost immediately, speaking rapidly as though afraid he was upsetting her with the request, “Just for a little while.  I just need a moment’s rest, then…”

“Shh, it’s fine.”  Éowyn stopped walking to turn, lifting her hand to press a finger to his lips, stopping his anxious words in mid-sentence.  His keen grey eyes, so lovely, were fretful.  She said firmly, “I’m happy to be with you.” 

He smiled at her.  “You’ll get tired of me soon enough.”

Éowyn swallowed, heart aching.  “Never.”  Somehow, she managed to smile in return and lead him on without thinking much of how he would outlive her, how he might grow to think of being wed to a woman aged long before him, how he might feel revulsion at her worn body and regret his decision.  It was a worry that was growing deep within her, making it harder than ever to endure talk of their future.  They weaved through the multitudes with hands clasped, soon coming to the edges of the tents and the empty land beyond.  Faramir sighed and she could feel his spirit lighten.  Éowyn smiled as she halted, “Better?”

“Soon.”  His hands cupped her cheeks, warm and slightly rough with calluses.  She knew what was coming, and welcomed it, closing her eyes and stilling her mind the best she could.  He touched to her with a flood of deep, clean peace, like a pure waters rushing through her conscious, sweeping everything away but the sense of Faramir’s spirit and her own. 

She took a deep breath, feeling her heart slow and steady itself along with his, the sound filling her ears.  The sense of their connection was great.  Oh…wonderful.  When she finally opened her eyelids he was smiling down with crinkles of amusement about his grey eyes.  His soul was in them, benevolent and thoughtful, making her wonder how any could not see it, how any could treat him with anything less than perfect love and civility. 

His smile widened.  Ah, you are too kind…

Never, never enough.  She smiled and at length, Faramir pulled away and she linked their fingers; they began to walk roughly parallel to the gathering but still far on the outskirts.  High grass rustled against her gown, and her light shoes and his boots made crunching, crackling noises with every step; she trailed her other hand along the tops of it, brushing the brittle, yellowed and faded stems.  Rain…oh that it would rain!  Éowyn briefly thought of asking Arwen if elves knew how to call rain from the skies and smiled.  No doubt she would laugh at me…

His voice was low, intimate, breaking their pleasant stillness, “Tell me something, anything that you like…” Faramir glanced at her, “Besides horses, besides women’s work or men’s work…something new you’ve not told me.”  His face was very earnest, “I want to know what will make you happy in my City.”

Éowyn smiled up at him adoringly, even as she battled thoughts of parting from him for Minas Tirith, unable to help herself from the briefest of pensive fear for her near leaving.  Luckily, he didn’t notice or, her mind supplied more darkly…maybe he doesn’t want to notice.  She frowned, “I don’t know…I like…” Her free hand played with her girdle, gently and repetitively pulling on the ribbons and sliding them through her fingers until they reached the frayed ends.  She laughed, at a loss, “I don’t know.”

“Do you like this?”  His fingers ran over her bracelet.

“Yes.”

“The best of what I brought you?” 

Éowyn frowned; she’d not thought about it, but, “I suppose so, yes, I like the color and it’s just…so smooth and…” She laughed, “I love it.”

Faramir was gazing at her with a smile, “Would you like more of it?”

“I don’t know.”

His voice was honestly eager to please, “You can have anything, all that you wish when we return…you know that, don’t you?”  She ducked her head, heart filling with emotion.  His thumb caressed the back of her hand and she nodded mutely.  “I want you to be happy, lack for nothing…” 

Éowyn felt compelled to protest, smiling uncertainly, not wanting to hurt him or reject his generosity, “I don’t need…” Images of jewel and silk garbed women of the City rose to her inner eye.  Their gowns had been very marvelous, many times greater than anything she’d ever owned.  “I won’t need so much…”

 “My wealth is greater than I’d ever imagined…the fortunes of my father, my brother are now mine.”  He chuckled, if soft and somewhat forced, “And Imrahil tells me I have lands near the Sea…” Faramir squeezed her hand, murmuring, “Anything you want, I will grant you…not just because I can, but because I wish to.”  Like so many little things he’d done, it made her heart warm, tears rising from happiness and the overt knowledge of how much he cared.  Éowyn took a deep breath, thinking that if it pleased him for her to wear jewels, she would do so.  Faramir was too good for her to have any desire to disappoint him any more than she’d already done.  But she was curious, asking,

“What do you think I will want?”

“I don’t know yet, but I would like to.”  He glanced at her, “I could send word ahead with Aragorn for things to please you, if you would like.  You’d stay in an apartment in the Citadel before our joining.”  His face glowed at the word and she laughed helplessly as his happiness washed over her, brilliant, so bright, like the warm light of the sun itself.  “I could have it furnished as you wanted, and command for anything that you could think of to have gathered for you before we even came to the gates.”  Éowyn flinched.  He laughed quietly, “I don’t know what you could want but you have but to ask and I will command for it.”   She did not answer at first, her heart twisting until she banished it and replied carefully.

“I don’t know what I would need…if anything.”  She bit her lip, laughing softly, amazed at his kindness, “I don’t know that you have to do all that…”

Faramir’s hand squeezed hers, “I want to please you.”  He stopped walking suddenly and faced her, grey eyes solemn, “I want you to be happy.  Lack for nothing, do as you wish.  No sadness, no shadows of darkness.  I want my dreams to be truth.”  Éowyn felt tears rise, chest tightening.  He was utterly serious.  She smiled and leaned on tiptoe to kiss him tenderly,

“You’re too good.”

Long legs moving again, he chuckled and began to list, amazing her further, “You like all things about horses, battle, flowers and the pretty trinkets I’ve brought you…” Faramir smiled, “You like the snow and to sing…”

“Not always.”

His eyebrow quirked, “No?”

Éowyn glanced at him, teasing, “You don’t like to.”

“I sound terrible.”

She stopped, standing before him with a smile, “Let me hear.”

“Now?”  His face screwed up in a horrible grimace, making her laugh and grasp his hands to shake his arms.

“Yes, now!  I want you to…sing me a song, Faramir.”  She frowned playfully, “How many have I sung you?”

His gaze softened, “Do you want me to count the one I caught you singing in the gardens?”  She swallowed and he said more quietly, “You never explained it.  I’m curious.”

“Oh, it was…it was just…”  Éowyn struck the center of his chest, fingertips rebounding off the White Tree, “Stop distracting me!  Sing!”  She didn’t want to tell; he would get it from her eventually, but for the moment she wished to keep her heart glad and not delve back into the gloom that had once wrapped about her like a shroud.  He laughed reluctantly and she murmured, “I’ll tell another time, please?  No sadness today.”

With a slow nod, Faramir sighed deeply and stared into the distance.  “I can’t think of anything…except…”  He made a face again.

“What?”

“It’s a child’s song…it’s not a good example of my folk’s…”

Unable to understand, she shook her head.  “So?”  His teeth worried his lips, making her aware of how he was uneasy and of how he was nervous to perform in front of even her alone.  Éowyn took his hands in hers once more, swinging them gently back and forth as their eyes met.  “I won’t laugh at you.  Never,” She smiled, “Ever.”

“I used to sing this with my mother…no.”  And unexpectedly everything changed and his mind went so far away so swiftly that it frightened her a bit.  The land around her was mute but for the lonely wind, thirsty grass and burning sun, very empty as he looked into memories and forgot where he stood and what he did, forgetting her as well.

She was just about to say something, as Faramir had fallen entirely still and silent for a long while, when he spoke.  It was in a tone of terrible misgiving, a murmur, “Not my mother, my…father.”  His gaze was on her, almost pleading, as though he wished for reassurances that she had no power to give.  “I forgot…”  His brow creased as he repeated himself, “I forgot.  It was when I was very small…I had many little wooden boats that I would sail in my bath.”  He smiled at her sorrowfully, “I would pretend they were the grand fleet of King Ar-Pharazôn as he was sailing to Valinor with the Dark Lord on his decks and I would push them forward with one hand and then,” Faramir laughed unsteadily, self-conscious and more that she could not tell, “Cry aloud that they were encroaching, were breaking the law…and make a giant wave to batter and sink them, getting water all over in the process.”  His face grew bleak.  “My father laughed every time and,” His voice choked, “Bid me just once to have mercy, for they were misled and not evil men…”  Faramir lowered his head but not before she saw tears gleam like stars balanced upon his eyelashes.

Éowyn could not stand to feel his anguish.  She folded her arms around him and he leaned low to rest his brow on her shoulder.  Patting his back, she reassured, “Shh, you don’t have to sing.”

Faramir laughed, but painfully as he straightened and took a step back.  “I…I think I wish to.”

“All right.”  Licking her lips, tense, she waited as his mouth moved hesitantly, forming words, and then discarding them.  He took a breath, then sang very softly, nearly inaudibly,

“Blue-green, blue-green Sea, blue-green, blue-green Sea…”  Faramir laughed, growing just a little louder.  He never met her gaze, his eyes wandering over the arid, golden-brown fields.  Listening closely, she frowned—his voice was not as bad as he’d let on.  Though tuneless and rough, it was neither as offensive nor as awful as she would have expected for all his protests.  Éowyn smiled in encouragement as Faramir added more verses,

“How far can you take me Ulmo? 

How far do the waves go?  I can’t see the end,

I can’t see the end.” 

She relaxed as his face lost its strained quality, “Blue-green, blue-green.  Blue-green Sea, where can you take me?”  He sighed and finished, “There is no end, the path was bent.  Blue-green, blue-green Sea, how far can you take me?”

“You’re not so bad.”  It was the simplest of songs; he must have been young.

Faramir chuckled, “I used to sing it constantly.  Sometimes just repeating blue-green, blue-green over and over.”  His face turned whimsical, almost fiercely so, and she could sense he was trying to hide his sorrow as he laughed and jested.  “Maybe that’s why my father grew tired of me, because I sang it one too many times.”

Éowyn bit her lip.  She didn’t know what to say and inwardly she protested—no parent would tire of their child simply by a song; she could not fathom such a thing…but what did she know of the past Steward?  Nothing save what Faramir has shared of his many memories of cruelness and this one of charming love…oh, it makes no sense!  So instead, she took a deep breath and smiled firmly, doing what she could, which was only to speak of other and less miserable things.  “Do you want to return?”  Making herself laugh, she added truthfully, “I’m hungry.”

He sighed and smiled, “Yes.”  As they walked, she took his arm, leaning close, offering physical comfort which was the only comfort she could truly extend.  Faramir’s chin rested briefly on the top of her head and she knew he was grateful.  His hand squeezed hers, fingers rubbing over her knuckles as they walked back into the mass of people.

Food was everywhere, making her mouth water.  Simple ovens of cut strips of sod and stone or clay bricks smoked and filled the air with the rich smells of cooking meats.  Tents were occupied with scarred tables that bore up countless platters and trenchers of dishes—meat, vegetables in steaming tarts, cheeses, more food than she’d seen in a long while.  Not even Théoden’s funeral feast had such immensity.  Éowyn laughed to herself.  Of course it hadn’t—they’d still be eating it.  Women bustled, red-faced and dirty-aproned, cooking and cleaning and serving while children ran underfoot, dogs were shooed away and men lounged gambling or speaking of the arts of farming, herding, war and the like.  Whole pigs, sheep, hares and or fowl were turned on charred spits, children and women calling to the passing folk to buy a portion of this or that.  Pots of stew boiled and steaming loaves of dark bread were pulled from the simple ovens.  Venders hawked ales and beer, cider, cordials, special brews of a more mysterious nature and a few had wines made of dandelions and various sweet fruits.

She stopped and frowned.  “I don’t even know what I want.”

Faramir laughed at her, then gestured ahead through the constantly moving forest of people, “There’s your brother.”  To her gladness he’d shrugged off most of his despondency, left only with the slightest of shadows lingering in the corners of his face.

Even standing on her tiptoes, Éowyn couldn’t quite see over the heads of the crowd.  Faramir was a near tree of a man to catch sight of Éomer over the flaxen and red heads and broad shoulders of so many Riders and men.  She asked, hanging onto his arm to gain a petty and utterly futile inch or more in height, “What’s he doing?”

He was smiling in amusement.  “I don’t exactly know…I can’t see him anymore.”

“Let’s visit him for a moment, then.”  She was rather enjoying her time alone with her love, but she was leaving her brother as well.  Éowyn felt her heart twinge as Faramir led her through the folk, weaving his way around a denser crowd.  I will leave them both…but only one for good…  Bowing her head in misery, the slowly growing louder irregular clink, clank of metal on metal that ended with an abrupt cheering roar, caught her attention and she quickly guessed what Éomer was doing.  He did it every year they came and every year that she could remember, he had won, even as a much younger man.  It was little wonder; her brother was very skilled with a blade and Güthwine was a swordsmith’s dream of fame, as it fit his hand and arm to perfection.

At the sight of her, he bellowed delightedly, “Sister!” and came to hug her as Faramir tactfully stepped aside.  Éowyn wrinkled her nose, pulling slightly away from his sweaty embrace.  He’d tied back his flaxen hair and stripped to a linen shirt, the thin cloth darkened in places with dust and sweat. 

She wriggled from his hold, smiling, “You smell.”  He laughed, then plucked up a mug from the ground and gulped from it.  Then her brother returned to the center of a large dirt circle, raising Güthwine to shine in invitation as he roared good-naturedly,

“Hwa is æt nextan?”  He turned back to grin hopefully, “Faramir?”

“Oh, yes.”  Arwen turned to Faramir, pleased as Éowyn found her curiosity growing.  She glanced at Éomer, and then her lover as his expression became hesitant.  Éowyn smiled, squeezing Faramir’s hand.  Who would win?  The question was too delicious not to have an answer so she added her voice to the entreaty, smiling in enthusiasm.

“Do it, Faramir?”  He frowned at her and she laughed, “I want to see you.”  Éowyn added more enticingly; I’d love to see you boasting your warrior’s skills…  

***

          Taken unawares, he blinked, raising his eyes away from her hopeful gaze and shook his head, “Ah…I…”

          “Oh come, I’ve not faced a real warrior yet!”  Éomer struck the ground with the tip of his sword.  He pointed into the crowd, jovially ordering a man to bring “se sweord æt se weorðlic Hordere.”  When Faramir tried to protest again, flattered by being called honorable, Éomer just grinned and cut him off, “Too late.”  The man spun in a slow circle, sword moving easily as he practiced various thrusts and jabs against an invisible opponent. 

          Bleakly, yet with amusement, Faramir thought, I am outmatched.  He didn’t even need to spar with the man to know either, for one studious look at Éomer and the way he handled his sword proved it.  He’d never been best with a blade, but as he watched further, he sensed this would be a disgracefully quick contest.  Faramir did the only thing he could think of and glanced aside at Éowyn to plead his case in a low voice, “Must I?”  He tried for pitiable, “I don’t want to…”

          She stared at him and laughed loudly, “Yes!”  She rolled her eyes, teasing, “What a child you are!  Trust my words, he’s not half as great as he thinks he is.”  Within earshot, Éomer laughed and bragged cheerfully,

          “Ná, I’m twice as great.”

          “Better than I am.”  Faramir hung his head, pretending chagrin and peeking at her under his eyelashes, “By far.”  Nearby, the Queen smiled and shook her head, tsking softly as though to shame him.  He grinned at her and returned to pleading.  “You don’t want them to think I’m wretched just when they’ve decided I’m not,” He jerked his chin at the crowd which was mainly comprised of Rohirric warriors.  “Truly…I’m not very good…”

          “Really?  Then how have you survived these years of war?”  Éowyn hugged him, smiling up and not sympathetic in the least that he could tell, “I wager I can beat you.”

          “Mmm, at what?”  She laughed as he trailed his hand up her side, thumb just brushing along the gently curving underside of her breast. 

          Éowyn squeaked and jerked back with a giggle, slapping at his fingers.  “Stop it!”

          Éomer moved past, grimacing, “Yes, stop, please.”  But to Faramir’s surprise, the man grinned at him when Éowyn’s eyes narrowed and she glared over in annoyance.  Noticing he was looking at him, the Lord of the Mark lifted his mug, gesturing aside at some of the stands, “Thirsty?”

          He was, now that he thought of it; not that he would have refused anyhow, his sense of courtesy forbade it.  “Yes…thank you.” Looking at Éowyn as she smiled in the bright sun, he knew at once that he would not dare to ruin their frail camaraderie even if it meant humiliation at the point of Éomer’s sword.  Bemused and resigned, he watched Éomer call for two more ales. 

Around them, men shouted wagers while Éowyn hung onto his arm and leaned her head against his shoulder.  Faramir glanced about and decided that he could almost get used to this simpler, more casual life.  Would I be in Council now or at Court?  He shuddered a little, and then laughed.  There is no Council in the Mark, no Court…perhaps it is not such a bad place after all.  He looked at his future brother in kin and smiled.  At least no longer.

          Éowyn raised her head to command, “And get something for me to eat.”  Again, perfectly obligingly, Éomer called and a large steaming shank of goose was brought for Éowyn; it dripped juices, skin browned, and smelled delicious enough for Faramir to covet a piece as he sipped his ale.  She reached up, but as she did her brother took a giant bite from of it, making her cry out in dismay.  “Éomer!  That was mine!”

          He laughed, mouth full as she struck his shoulder.  “Ow!”  He shook his head, protesting and backing up a pace, “There’s plenty!”  Éomer took another giant bite and Faramir watched, awestruck, as his Éowyn, who was garbed so daintily and had acted so modestly all day, turned into a beast.  Without hesitation, she slipped from his arm, drew back her fist and punched her brother in the stomach so that he wheezed, “Stop, you’ll make me choke!”

          “Good.”  Éowyn glared up, “Now give it to me!”

          “Soon…I’m not finished.”  He took another huge bite, holding it over her head.  Éomer snickered gleefully around his mouthful as she turned red with frustrated anger, refusing to jump up for it.  Faramir felt his own laughter rise and clamped it down as Éowyn gave him a sharp glance.  He bit his lip, trying valiantly to keep the smile from his face as the man added with a smug grin and bulging cheeks, “It’s good.”  Éomer chewed for a moment and looked at him scoffingly, “Oh laugh, or has she gotten you so tamed already?”  Nearby, Arwen began to snicker, gasping with one hand to her mouth.

          “Éomer, you are a beast.”  He grinned cheerfully in reply and at that, Faramir did laugh.

          Éowyn’s lips pressed themselves flat and she hissed in agreement, “Oh, you are!  Oh…you are always such an ass!”  Lifting a foot, she stomped on his boot, aiming for the sensitive arch and when Éomer yelped and bent forward, she took back her much lessened shank of meat.  “Look at this, you ate half of it!”

          “It was good.  I’m hungry, too.”  He was snickering, still chewing and now favoring his foot.  “That hurt.”  A young soldier of the Mark had returned with Cólo’s faded sable scabbard in his hand.  “Mm.”  Wiping his mouth, Éomer tried to hand his mug to his sister, but she ignored him.  Arwen smiled and took it instead and he rubbed dust on his greased palms, unsheathing the long, broad Rohirric blade with a friendly jibe.  “Come, let’s see how they train you in the City.”

          Reluctantly taking his sword, Faramir shook his head and attempted once more, aiming his words to the two women, “I’m not going to compete for your amusement.”

          “Didn’t stop you before.”  Éomer snickered again.  “It was very entertaining…even after you fell on him.”  Glancing sideways, he grinned, “I trust you won’t do it again—I can’t say I’m as well mannered as to catch you.” 

He felt his face heat in mortification and Faramir heaved a sigh, tossing the weatherworn scabbard to lie at Éowyn’s feet.  She picked it up, brushing the dust from it, making him smile in thanks.  He lifted Cólo, shifting his hands on the familiar grip.  It had been long since he’d done this and he was afraid the contest would be over almost before it was begun.  But Éomer didn’t begin, instead eyeing his sword with curiosity. 

Questioning, he held out his hand, “May I hold him?”

“Certainly, if you wish.”  And Faramir found himself hefting Éomer’s sword.  It was uncommonly heavy and when he swung it he could feel the weight behind the gleaming blade.  Obviously well cared for, it was a beautiful weapon with molded gold and silver in the hilt; when he lifted it outward, he was unsurprised to find that it was perfectly balanced. 

Opposite, Éomer was frowning at Cólo in clear distrust, “What is his name?”

“Cólo.”  The grimace on the man’s face made Faramir laugh and smile, “I know, I know, what name is that?”  He looked at the sword in his hand with open appreciation.  It was a fine weapon.  “And his?”

“Gúthwinë.”  The pronunciation alone revealed volumes of cherished respect, as did the possessive glance Éomer gave his sword.

“Come!  We don’t have all day!”  The crowd of spectators echoed Éowyn’s cry and they switched to their proper blades.  She smiled, “Quickly, I want to see my brother taken down like the pig he is.”  Éowyn laughed, “And if you can’t, I will!”  The audience of Rohirrim whooped their approval, even the Queen joining them with a cry and sparkling eyes.

“That, I would like to see again!”

          Éomer scorned the remark, “I let her win.”  And suddenly they began, slow at first, very slow, trying each other with light contact to test the other’s skill.  Faramir knew at once his earlier assessment had been correct—he would lose this match, it was only a question of when and how the Lord of the Mark chose to defeat him.

***

          Faramir looked rather intimidating as he held his sword low and close, taking the more prudent stance as Éomer had expected.  But the crimson ribbon flopping along his arm took some of the menace away.  Looking at it, Éomer smiled.  After a few restrained thrusts, he grinned at the man and leapt to meet him with force, a test to see how he would be received.  Faramir did well, rebounding him with ease and even striking back so that Éomer narrowly escaped a wicked slice across his chest from the foreign blade.  Of course the movement had been completely under restraint—only experienced warriors could fight with bare steel and the Steward was as commendably skilled as Éomer would have expected the Prince of Ithilien to be.  Outside their limited field of war, Éowyn cheered the action and it was clear whose side she fell on.  He gave her a scowl, but she and the Queen just laughed in response; Rusco watched them with interest, tugging on his leash and whining restlessly as though disturbed by the conflict. 

Éomer grinned and resumed studying the Steward—his feet moved faultlessly, carrying him with perfect balance and ready to move in any direction at need, he held his sword well, and in a position fully prepared to counteract any move.  Congratulating him on the near win and the aptness with the blade that was so easily seen, he smiled, “You are good.”  How exactly, with that light, delicate little sword, I do not know…

          “Thank you.”  The words were cool and clipped, just as dispassionate and focused as the man’s features and Éomer frowned, not understanding.  This was supposed to be a friendly competition to test each other’s skill, not a serious contest.  He gave some ground to see if he could spark zest in the Steward’s grey eyes but there was only wariness and he was followed with care, not enthusiasm. 

Ah, there!  Éomer started, noticing a opening in Faramir’s guard—the man appeared unaware and, not wishing to defeat him so swiftly before his sister, he did not use the opportunity, instead smoothly ignoring it.  Or so he thought of as smoothly—there was a flash in Faramir’s eyes and Éomer knew the man had realized both that some part of his defense had gone awry and that he’d refrained from using it.  Awkward, he did not speak.

Minutes passed, their footsteps crossing and recrossing in the dusty arena and still Éomer could not understand for there was not the slightest sign of enjoyment on the man’s face.  It reminded him of Faramir’s fight with the Rider Oswyn…yet there was no anger in him this time, only the same dispassionate sense of duty.  None of his vigorous challenges changed it, either, as Éomer again and again struck with varying speeds and all his ingenuity, using many of his wiles to try and inspire a competitive urge within the man.  The crowd followed them intently, amassed Rohirrim howling like wolves with each strike in his favor while Éowyn hissed and called encouragement to her lover.  Arwen took no sides, laughing and calling to them both.  Rusco barked and whined nervously so that the women comforted him.

Come, come at me!  He was curious to see Faramir at his finest and tried to rouse him with no success.  Come!  For once he would not have to hold back his arm as he did with his sister and yet, the Steward used force sparingly, meeting him and no more.  Éomer frowned to himself, where is his joy?  Where is his spirit?  Faramir could not be under control always.  Éomer frowned, thinking that certainly he was like any man and used his fiercer temper to carry him into battle.  But if Faramir did there was no sign of that fierceness here and it frustrated him.

Surely, they did this in the City: noblemen or men-at-arms fighting for sport and the entertainment of the people.  It was common in the Mark and branded a man as gallant, stout and spread word of his skill, giving him a respected and honorable reputation, sometimes earning him higher station within his éored.  He frowned to himself.  And surely, as only ranked below his brother and their Lord, the Steward, Faramir has done such as this. 

          There was nothing but to ask him, “Do the warriors of your folk do this?”

          “Some.”  Across his face there was a flash of repressed emotions, the sadness of a fond memory, “My brother did at times.”  The Steward smiled faintly, “He was more able than I and would have been a better match to your skill.”

          At the compliment, Éomer smiled, surprised at his own pleasure.  Their swords spoke for a moment before he questioned, bolder now and more curious, “But you yourself did not?”

          “No…” Faramir smiled, effortlessly knocking aside his attack, “I do not like the blade.”

          “What do you like, then?”

           It was wistful, “My longbow.” 

Éomer nodded at the response, taking a moment to circle and study the man again.  A bit of wood and string?  He grimaced, letting Gúthwinë rush back to strike the sword of the City with a clash, “Why?”

But the Steward asked him first, “Why do you like this dead piece of metal?”

“Dead?”  Éomer was so horrified that he skipped a step and had to duck awkwardly out of the way.  His sister shouted in premature glee but he recovered almost at once to proclaim forcefully.  “Gúthwinë is not dead.”

          Faramir laughed, raising one hand in a gesture of peace, “To you.”  He glanced at his sword, “To me this is just weight against my arm…dead and reshaped stone dressed with silver, nothing but a burden when I could have slain you long ago without so much as you seeing me.”

          He shook his head, still aghast, and spoke with no thoughts except those of dismay for the attitude he was shown, “Those are the words of a man who knows nothing of the joy of battle…”

          With another laugh, the Steward interjected, “You’re right.  I don’t like war.”

          Éomer finished indignantly, “…I won’t have any blood of mine with such notions.  You send my nephews here and I will teach them the pleasure in wielding a blade.”

          This time Faramir slipped and their eyes met.  For a moment both froze and Éomer blinked, abruptly conscious of both his words and the impromptu, yet decisive way they had been spoken—there was no change in the Steward’s face save that of blankness that fell across it, a cautious lack of reaction or emotions.  Drawing in a deep, steadying breath and continuing their dance, he confirmed with his heart in his throat, nearly stammering but trying nervously to finish his commitment, “You…you send him, them, to the Mark when they grow old enough to learn how to swing a sword.”  He swallowed, “I will teach them.”

          Slowly, a smile came to Faramir and he nodded.  His response was quiet but full of sentiments that made Éomer want to fidget, for they were emotions of love and family, things he wasn’t sure about yet with this man, even if, for his sister’s sake and his own, he would embrace them.  “I will.”  For a while there was no speech between them save that of the clink and shrill scrape of steel and eventually Éomer saw again the hole in the Steward’s guard.  This time he stepped sharply aside and drove inwards, cutting Faramir off in mid-stride and winning with a mock blow across the gut, turning Gúthwinë so that it was the flat of the sword alone that knocked against the man’s midsection.  His sister’s paramour lost gracefully, bowing acknowledgment of the kill and standing down.  His sister was less graceful, booing loudly and making Faramir laugh and scold.  “It was a fair contest.”

          She handed her ale to the Queen.  “My turn.”

          The Steward resheathed his sword and arched an eyebrow at her, smiling, “In a skirt?”

          Éowyn stated confidently, somewhat exaggeratedly, “If I wasn’t, it wouldn’t be a fair contest.”

          Éomer laughed, but shook his head.  He was growing tired.  “Not today, I’ve done enough.”  There was a silence and his sister stepped closer to her love and he knew she was looking for a way to leave them; heart heavy, he made it easy for her, wiping Gúthwinë with a bit of cloth and speaking as though it took no effort.  He kept his gaze firmly on the lustrous metal.  “Go on, I’ll see you?”

          When he looked up, still feigning disinterest, her smile was his reward, as well as the steady light of appreciation that glowed in Faramir’s eyes.  To his great surprise he found that light meant very much to him and Éomer smiled in a hesitant, yet cordial reply.  Face merry under her crown of yellow, purple and reddish flowers, Éowyn reached up kiss his cheek and squeeze his arm as she smiled, “Yes, of course.”  They walked away arm in arm and he watched Faramir’s tall shoulders clothed in his raven-colored surcoat blend into the crowd, the brighter gleam on the man’s dark hair as he bent to speak to her, and faint now, Éomer listened to her familiar laugh, so carefree it hurt. 

          At the sound, something clean and pure, comprised of great joy and yet terrible pain rose from inside him.  Above it all was again the thought, I should let them go…but his heart’s terrified, warring response overrode it as the Queen came to stand at his side.  Éomer glanced at her, words filling his throat, unable yet to escape the iron desperation that clenched his jaw achingly tight.  I should let them go…I will let them go…when?  If he spoke it aloud he would have to keep his word.  If he spoke it aloud, it would be akin to turning his sword on himself.  I must…I would not have their anger again…I want my sister happy, Faramir, even, with happiness.  Haltingly, little above a whisper, he managed to grate out, “In two days I will ride on…and…”

          Arwen’s face was gentle.  Rusco pawed against her skirts and she patted him, scolding softly; Éomer sensed she was giving him time and he couldn’t help but feel deep, revering affection as he glanced at her bent head.  Dangerous, dangerous…he knew that.  In his long silence, she asked delicately, “And?”

          “I will…” But he couldn’t do it and wretched, burning tears filled his eyes.  Éomer lowered his head in shame.  Faramir would have to do as he’d threatened and take his sister away for he could not let her go willingly.  I am a coward.

          The Queen’s lightsome elven features were marked by sadness as she touched his shoulder, her voice soft, “Éomer, do not be so hard on yourself.”

          Taking a deep breath, he finished hoarsely, soul rebelling at each word, “I will tell them to ride back to Meduseld, to ride on with Aragorn and you to the City.”

“What will you do?”

Oddly, he felt lighter, though still terribly dejected as Éomer answered soberly, “Go on to the Wold and look on my people…” He sighed and his shoulders felt less burdened, but his heart heavier, “Make sure all is as it should be.”

She smiled at him.  “You are a good man.”  They stood quiet for a moment before Arwen tugged his wrist, her voice brisk and no longer redolent of sorrow, “Now come, be my happy escort as you promised and show me what there is to see here, I too have tired of swordplay.”  Looking at the passing folk, she said, “I hope to see new things.  After so long a life many things I’ve done and seen seem to blur…” Arwen smiled even as a shadow passed over her eyes.  “I expect I won’t have to mourn over that any longer but the habit remains…and I would like to see something I’ve not.”

          Éomer smiled back, feeling weak and woeful inside, but did as he was requested and thought of something, some rare sights that might please her.  “Have you seen man eat fire?”

          “No!  Of course not.  What sensible elf or man would do that?”  She laughed and he saw delight fill her, which sparked delight in his wearied heart as she begged with a winsome smile, “Show me?”

          Dangerous, dangerous and I know it.  Éomer smiled anyway.  It is no more than simple affection…he hoped not, at least.  Estel would not like that much…  Imagining the scowl on Aragorn’s face, Éomer laughed heartily and offered his arm in a courtly gesture he copied from memory, from watching Faramir with his sister.  This, too, amused him and took his thoughts from their darker track.  I can play a princely role…for a while.  “This way, I think, my Lady.”  With Rusco trailing his mistress, they walked into the crowd to find enough novelty to sate the Queen and distract his languishing heart.

***

          Happy at Faramir’s side, she wandered with him through the crowd, not caring where they went.  Merchants were gathered with goods from all over, calling to her as they passed but Éowyn smiled and shook her head, not wishing for anything.  As they walked, Faramir kept looking at her, then the merchant’s wares.  Teasing him, she stopped to peruse a few, watching him stare at the items on the table in an obvious attempt to guess which one it was that caught her eye. 

          “That?”  He murmured it into the cup of her ear, the soft, hot puff of breath warming her sensitive skin and sending a chill through the rest of her.  His chin pointed to a silver bracelet set with green stones.

          “No.”  Faramir’s brow creased charmingly and he nodded at a pretty comb molded into the shape of a flower.  Éowyn couldn’t help but laugh as she bumped his shoulder with her own, teasing.  “Not even close.”  In reality she was looking at the necklace made from wolves’ teeth and claws, wondering how many had been slain to make it and what brave warriors had done so.

          He smiled and said in defeat, “Perhaps I will have to send for Merry to aid me…”

          She took his hand, fingers tracing the lines of his palm so that she would not have to meet his eyes when she said, “I would like that…later, once we’ve built our home and can show it to him and house him as he deserves.”  Éowyn was afraid that if she looked him in the eye he would see her secret.  With a cheerful laugh, she added, “We’ll have to build special hobbit sized rooms for when they visit…with man-sized pillows.” 

          He sighed and his arm came around her waist, just above her girdle of flowers, “Say that again.  I love the words,” His voice turned tender, “But even more when you say them.”

          “Which part?”

          Faramir’s chin thunked against the top of her head, jaw moving a little as he clarified.  “Our home.”

          She smiled, repeating, “Our home.”

          He took a breath and shook his head, chin moving back and forth as he begged, “Oh again.”

          Éowyn laughed and this time trusted herself to look up.  The happiness in his face was clear, dazzling and honest.  Soft with the fine and delicately sharp emotions that filled her heart, crowding it so that her chest felt hot and tight, she repeated, “Our home.”

          He kissed her and they moved on to another table.  Faramir spoke over her shoulder, quietly and plainly, a smile in every word.  “It makes me very happy to hear you say that.”

          Biting her lip, she whispered, “I’m so sorry I…couldn’t before.”

          “It is no matter now.”  His eyes and mind were full of reassurance, of hope and blissful eagerness.  “Soon we will be home and everything will be as it should have been long before now…” He sighed, trailing off and she felt a twinge of unrest run through him.

          Éowyn was more curious than discomfited, as always desperate to learn what he wanted of her.  She asked, “How should things be?”

          “We should be wed,” He blinked at her, then smiled warmly, “Man and wife.”

          She interrupted, gazing at him in expectancy and no longer paying attention to the wares, “Yes, but what else?  What after that?”

          Faramir looked frustrated at her questioning, “I don’t know.”

          “You don’t know at all?”  It was utterly ridiculous that she would know the duties of a wife and he would know nothing of them.  What would he censure, then?  Nothing?  Could I just do as I wish with no thought at all?  That was absurd.

          He spoke carefully, part in lamentation, part in reflection, “I never planned to wed before my brother…I was gone too much, there were too many things that held my attention and I never felt any of the women I met were right for me to take as my wife.”  Faramir smiled at her, “Until I saw you.”

She smiled in return, arm finding its way about his side to hug.  His features turned gentle as he spoke further, sharing unreservedly, “I felt you needed me but not for anything that anyone else has needed me for in my life—not my bloodlines in the line of Stewards, my knowledge, my sword or my bow in battle.”  Éowyn tightened her half-embrace and his words became kindly, “You looked like you needed my heart to listen to yours, and I felt I had to give it, to do something, anything to ease the suffering I could see.” 

Oh…you…  Placing her hand on the nape of his neck and rising on tiptoe, they shared a kiss before he went on, talking slowly,

“I thought that I could help.  You looked so fair and so sad that I couldn’t just let you walk away without trying my best to lift the sorrow from your heart.”  He smiled down at her, “None of the women of my City ever looked at me like you did…even though I know for certain,” He grinned crookedly, “You held no intentions of trying to lure me with such a exceedingly rare charms.”

          She laughed and scoffed lightly in perplexity, “What charms?”

          “Your tears.”  Faramir beamed down, “You shared your heart, showed me a woman vulnerable, open and heartfelt and I knew that was what I’d wanted all along.” 

Éowyn smiled and brought his hand to her lips to kiss the knuckles.  Now her curiosity was truly piqued.  “Did you meet many women?”

          “Of course.”  He strode easily beside her, long-legged and tall, so different from men of her land, “Noble women of the City, mostly, some daughters of wealthy tradesmen or esteemed soldiers who’d been much lauded in combat.  I had to marry someone, sometime…I was taught from birth that if my brother fell the line of Stewards rested on my shoulders.”  He smiled dismally.  “None believed it would ever happen.”  With a sorrow filled pause, Faramir continued, “I was expected to seek them out but, truthfully, I did not.  I only danced with them if they asked or spoke with them if they approached me, escorted them to see different entertainments when I was in the City—plays, gatherings…  Refusing would have been discourteous, especially insulting as I had no excuses to give save admitting distaste in their company.”  Faramir chuckled softly.  “My brother had to cope with more than I did and he always swore he would never wed until he felt like it.  But the men in the City knew he was the favored son, that he was of more value to have linked to them in blood, that his name on the lists of their kin would give them more power than mine.”  He glanced at her with a smile, “My father would have coveted you for Boromir and forbid me to stand in the way.”  His smile turned crooked again, this time with amusement, “Do not take this as insult, but I believe he would have liked you.”

          Liked me until I heard him say one unkind word to you, my beloved…  “How so?”

Faramir gave her a look filled with dark humor, “You would have been the second son he never had…riding fierce horses, wielding a sword, delighting in the slaying of bears, wolves, what have you.”  He gave her a sideways grinning stare of mock fear.  “I would have been very frightened with my brother and you as a match.  Gondor would have never been the same.”

She laughed and shook her head.  “What would you have done?”

          He grinned, “Tried to talk sense into him, and if that failed, marry you anyhow even if I had to take you away in the night on my horse with my guard about us and have some barbarous prince of Harad to do it!”  With a laugh, he smiled, “Even if in the City they called you the White Lady of Rohan a coup for Faramir!”

          Morbid curiosity made her ask, hesitating and knowing she probably shouldn’t, “And if Boromir wished to wed me?”

          Faramir’s face darkened and she saw glints of steel in his grey eyes before he said firmly, almost harshly, “I don’t want to speak of that.”

          They walked in silence for a while, moving around the crowd, wandering aimlessly before Éowyn gathered her courage.  She cleared her throat, saying very quietly, “I know what a wife’s duties should be…and I want to please you…tell me if, when I say them, you would desire me to do it.”  She had to have an answer; uncertainty had gnawed at her too much.

          His face was troubled, but willing.  “All right.”  Faramir stopped her with a finger to her lips.  “Let us go somewhere less crowded?”

          “Where?” 

          “Back to your tent, I suppose?”  She nodded and they walked the long way back, Éowyn parting the folds of cloth that formed the door to her pavilion and holding them aside so that Faramir could duck low and pass beneath them.  It was empty save for her bags, saddle and bridle neatly sitting in one corner and Arwen’s in another with the wide cot in the center.  A washbasin full of water strewn with petals and a small mirror sitting on a plain stool were the only other furnishings.  He gazed around, smiling at once, “This is much nicer than what I’ve been given.”

***

Éowyn’s brow furrowed and she said quickly, “Do you want…?”

          “No, don’t trouble yourself; even bedding with Gaer is better than some of the places I’ve lain.”  He smiled again but she still frowned. 

          “My brother should have sent riders ahead for them to honor you as you should be.”

          Faramir sat on the cot, noticing all the blankets that had been lain upon it to cushion it.  Someone cares very much for the comfort of the Lady’s backside.  He laughed at himself, reassuring, “It’s all right.”

          “No, it’s not.”  Éowyn stared at him, arms crossed over her bosom, “Not to me.”   

          Heart warmed, he patted the blanket and scooted over, “Come, sit by me and tell me what you think I should expect.”  Her light weight rested against his side, warmth of her body cozy as a breeze fluttered the cloth walls of the tent, making them billow.  Faramir used a pillow to prop himself as he lay down, very mindful to make sure his dusty boots did not touch the blankets—he had an idea he might be scolded if he were careless.  He grinned, then became aware of her agitation; it showed in the caution with which she spoke.

          “You say I may leave the City, that I may visit my brother whenever I wish, that I may order the building of our home in Ithilien…”

          She sat upright still, leaning against his side, free fingers playing with a loose thread on his trousers.  “Yes.”

          “You say that I can have what I want,” Éowyn smiled, “And that you want me to lack for nothing.”

          “Do you not believe me?”

          Her smile was soft, truthful, “I believe.”

          Faramir frowned, “Then what troubles you?”

          She was looking at him anxiously.  “I want to know what you expect.  I need to know so that I can do it…I don’t want to disappoint or to anger you.”  Éowyn murmured, “You’ve done so much for me…” She bowed her head, glancing away as she repeated, “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

          He chuckled, asking teasingly and hoping to lighten her heart, “How could I be angered if I don’t know what it is you should do?”

          Éowyn frowned, “I don’t know.”  He laughed and pulled her to lie against him, relishing her pliancy, her lack of fear. 

          “Don’t worry over what I want; I want you and whatever you want to give, nothing else.”

          “But what I could give is…everything or nothing!”

          Curious, he asked, “What?”

          She listed rapidly, the obvious quickness with which she came up with the duties amazing him.  “I’m supposed to weave your cloaks, make sure your clothes are clean and grand enough, your weapons are ordered and ready if time of war came again, your servants and vassals obedient and doing their duties well, your house governed…” Éowyn took a deep breath, saying in frustration.  “Here, I buy grain, spices and meats from traders, I know who grants the Lord the largest yields at harvest, whose cattle is the best for dairy, what bakers or brewers of beer are the best, where the greatest metal smith is for armor for man and horse…  I know who to tell to do this or that.  I take care of all things except those of war or what concerns Éomer’s warriors or his gold.  I am the Lady of the Hall and it is my responsibility, but…” Éowyn stared at him pleadingly, stirring his heart. 

“But what?”

“But when I am your wife I’ll have more responsibilities in a bigger land that I don’t understand and where I know no one but you, Aragorn and Arwen…” She bit her lips and he felt her fright, her vulnerability as her hands chafed each other worriedly.  “I just want to know what I can, what will be certain.”  Éowyn added more softly, ducking her chin so that her hair hid her face, “I don’t want to embarrass you…I’m not a Lady like them, I can’t act properly, I don’t know how to weave, I don’t know how to dance or…”

          He touched her shoulder, making her look at him and she silenced with tears rising in her eyes.  Faramir thought his heart would break.  It was one thing to know of her love, to hear it and to feel it through his gift that linked them, but to see it in this effort was utterly grievous in how hard she tried, how much she wanted to please him.  He had no idea how that, in her mind, he’d garnered such a debt from her.  Carefully choosing his words, he said slowly and with regret, “I can’t give you anything for certain because I don’t know what the future will be or how we will live in it.”  She frowned, unrelieved, and he smiled, jesting gently, “But I will promise that you can be cross with me if I ever fuss at you.”

          With a sheepish laugh, Éowyn leaned close to embrace him.  “I had planned to.”  He chuckled and she smiled, hands cradling his face and leaning in close that her breath was a touch of soft warmth near his mouth.  Faramir smiled, waiting as she murmured, “Oh, but you are so…ow.”  She laughed more naturally and sat up again—the hilt of his sword was in her way.  Fingers quick and clever, she unbuckled the silver buckle of his baldric, sliding Cólo aside so that she could lie against him. 

Placing his hand on the dip of her waist, he let his palm and tripping fingers trek along the curving country of her side, tips walking along the yielding northern swell of her breast and venturing down into the valley of her waist.  Intrepid travelers, they journeyed further to the south, crossing the broader, firmer rise of her hip and pliable knolls of her buttocks before sliding swiftly up the long plain of her back.  Fingers tangled in her ruddy hair, grinning, he asked in play, “So what?  Go on.”

“So good…” Her lips met his and, as every time when she’d dared to initiate any intimate contact, Faramir loved it.  “And patient…” Éowyn smiled kissing him again very softly, “And handsome…”

Playing with one of her ribbons, he smiled, “Such a graciously tongued lady to compliment me so…”

They kissed again, and he learned just how graciously tongued before she answered him, “Nay, I tell only the truth.”

“Then I fear for when I’ve grown old and fat and lazy…” She laughed but he could see something had touched her.  Éowyn’s hand curled around the dolphin pendant as though for strength and he frowned, “What is it?”

It took a moment before she asked, timidly and nervously, “Will you be happy with me, knowing I won’t live as…?”  Her words halted suddenly and she looked away.

He leaned close, kissing her cheek, holding her near to him.  “I wouldn’t be happy without you.  You know that.”

Her features grew morose as she said with increasing anxiety.  “But you will be without me…have you thought of that?  How long you will be without me…you could marry again, sire more children, have an entire life…  It would be easier for you if…”

          Sitting up to face her directly, Faramir shook his head slowly and resolutely.  He took her hands, meeting her eyes.  “Listen.  It doesn’t matter; I can’t change my heart…I’d rather have those years with you than any other.  I know what I do and I love you, no one else.  It is my burden if I am unhappy, not yours.”

“But…” She bit her lips. 

“What else?”  He watched her face, “Tell me what else.”  Tell me everything so that we will have no worries…

“Will you be happy with me when I am old and you are not?  When,” Éowyn grimaced, touching her breasts, “When I am an old woman who no one would desire and you are a man in your prime?”  Her voice dwindled to a shamed whisper and she buried her face to his surcoat, making her words hard to hear, “I don’t want you to look at me with disgust…I would die.”

He sighed and smoothed her hair, staring at the ceiling of the tent and gathering his energy to grin, “I didn’t know my wild Shieldmaiden was so vain.”  She laughed a little, but it was distant.  Faramir sighed again, begging, “Don’t worry so much, please.  Everything will be all right.  You don’t have to worry about what I will think or do…or what you will do in my City.”  Éowyn closed her eyes, jaw clenched, and he could sense her restless frustration. 

You never answer me.

I’m sorry.  I have no answers.

She took a deep breath.  I want to do as you say, to not think of so many things…

Then do it.  Faramir kissed her eyelids, feeling the delicate skin quiver under his lips.  He reassured, “I will help you, I will take care of you…anything, anytime, come to me and I will be there no matter if it is Aragorn or the most respected of noblemen,” Éowyn’s eyes opened wide, searching and vulnerable, wanting so much to trust and ease.  He finished solemnly, looking straight into them, “I will make time for you.”

She turned her face away and some unknown emotion flew through her, making him frown before she took a breath, then jested weakly, “And if the women call me crass and uncivilized?”

He growled, “I’ll have them banished.”  Éowyn laughed and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him so tightly that he wondered about just how worried she truly was.  “What else?”  Faramir smiled at her, “We’ve spoken of what you might do, what I might feel and I’ve learned that you’re awfully vain to worry about what I might think in so many years time…” Éowyn shoved his shoulder, making him laugh.  “Anything more or can we be merry now as two lovers should be in a festival?”

She didn’t answer for a long moment and he watched her throat move as she swallowed.  “One more thing.”

“Well?”

“Later…before we leave.”  Éowyn smiled at him, “I want to have this…and I need my brother as well.”  She reassured, “It is nothing so terrible.”

Faramir couldn’t bring himself to argue though he tried.  Terrible or not, he could sense her trepidation.  “All right.”

She rose, “Walk with me?  I want to look on my country.”  The implication that it was the last or near to last time hung in the air between them, puzzling him.  He nodded, buckling Cólo back again, and they walked hand in hand out of the crowd and under the sky.  The land opened above him, skies huge and overpowering, grass endless and brown.  Éowyn steered towards the river.  As they neared the gleaming water, she asked, “Why do you not worry as I do?”

It seemed a very simple answer to his reckoning, though one hard to put into words.  “Because…you are what I want and I will do anything to keep you and to have the life I was promised in dreams.”  Faramir watched his boots move through the grass before looking at her, “This,” He raised their clasped hands in emphasis, “Is all I have now for family.”  Éowyn was paying him rapt attention, her eyes soft with compassion as he kept on, “My father and brother are dead, my Uncle lives but his home is far, and his kinship is not the kind I need.”  And he did need it; the lack was just making itself known as a painful void in his being.  “I will fight for us…I do not worry because whatever needs doing, I will do with no hesitation to keep this promise of family,” He heard himself grow wistful, tone yearning, “Of love and happiness, of peace and children in a sunny garden in a prosperous land.”

Éowyn was gazing at him, “You have family already.”  She smiled with gentleness, “Not just myself, but my brother.” 

Oddly, this simple sentence filled him with great pleasure and he recalled Éomer’s generous words as they’d dismounted earlier.  Wilcome ealdorlang…  He knew what it meant.  Welcome for all time…  And the offer of teaching his sons to handle a sword, too, came to his mind.  Maybe I do have family already.  “You think so?”

“Yes.”

Faramir took a breath and said quietly, “I would like that.”  A squeeze of his hand was her reply.  As they walked, he asked, “Why do you worry?”

“Because…” Her words came slower and he waited patiently, heart gladdened by answers that came without pains or an argument, delighted by her show of intimacy in answering him with no fear or nervousness. 

As she struggled to find a way to express herself, he added with voice lightsome and merry, “I do not worry because of how far you have come, how much ground has been covered between us.”  Faramir smiled at her and she laughed, sounding fond and very contented, swinging their hands.  “You see it, don’t you?”

“Yes.”  Éowyn murmured touchingly, “I have you to thank, min Feramearh.”

Faramir smiled again but said quickly, “I need no thanks…you owe me nothing.”  He didn’t want her to feel that way, didn’t want to her feel beholden to him; it would only cloud their happiness.  Thoughtfully he justified his belief, “I asked and you tried, giving what closeness that you could, then I asked again and you trusted me.  There is no debt between us in my mind.  Do you understand?”

“Yes.”  She smiled and there was comfort and relief in her eyes before she frowned and spoke slowly, almost with shame.  “I worry because I want to know what will happen…too long I lived with no notion of what might happen tomorrow, of what horrors awaited me and were assured to me by…that foul worm in the skin of a man.”  She shuddered and he felt her sick revulsion.  A great wave of protective fury rose in his heart, making him unclasp their hands and put his arm about her shoulder to hold her closer as they walked.  “My hope was…like you’ve seen a candle drowning in its own wax, the light struggling and eventually overcome so that I could not dream of light again.  All those I trusted and loved were either dead or might as well be…Théodred beneath the earth, my Uncle deaf and blind to the darkness around us.  My brother was drowning like I was, but he could not see it,” She smiled faintly, “Too stubborn.”  Éowyn shook her head and there was definite shame in her voice now, “I worry and it is an old habit that I should not have.  Not with you.”  She swallowed and when she looked up to him it was with the eyes of a young girl.  “I trust you; if you say it will be all right, it will.”  Éowyn’s smile turned fragile, “You’ve not led me wrongly.”

He smiled, feeling a great warmth rise in his chest, hugging her tighter while stating firmly.  “I say it will.”  She leaned her head against his shoulder and they walked in a silence that was both peaceful and soothing before he saw a shape against the riverbank.  It was a small boat without a master drawn up along the dusty shore and Faramir’s spirits rose—he could not imagine a more pleasant thing at the moment.  Extending his senses, he felt no one near.  Ours for the taking...if just for a little while...  Rare mischief filling him, he grinned and tugged her arm.  “Come.”

***

Éowyn followed him, laughing in confusion at Faramir’s back as he glanced around them, footsteps quick and near silent.  He jogged to the boat, towing her by her arm so that she trotted behind him.  He felt…like he’d not felt before, but jovial, full of delight and she was happy as well, gasping, “What are we doing?”

“Shh!”  She watched him push the little rowboat until the stern was in the river, craft rocking buoyantly as water lapped at its sides.  In it were two oars and nothing else.  Faramir grinned at her, looking upriver, then down.  “Get in.”

“In?”  Éowyn looked at the gently rocking boat with misgiving.  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been on a boat and eyed the little craft with wariness.  Not Faramir—he clambered in with no hesitation, not seeming to notice how it swayed and moved unsteadily, bottom scraping against the bank with alien noises.  He grabbed up the oars, looking at her expectantly. 

“Yes.  In.”  His grin was blinding, full of gleeful mischief.  It reminded her eerily of Pippin when he’d revealed his plot to steal Shadowfax.  “Quick!”  She placed one hand on the side, grimacing and regarding the rowboat with apprehension.  “Here, it’s all right, I’ve got you.”  Faramir extended his hand, his grip steadying her and giving her comfort as the little boat swayed and moved while she sat on the narrow board, which was her only seat. 

Gripping the board with both hands, Éowyn frowned at him.  “What are we doing?  Are we stealing this?” 

“Not stealing.”  He chuckled, grinning and using one oar to shove them off.  Faramir half-knelt above her to do it and she marveled at his strength as the boat lurched out into the river, swaying and bobbing.  Wide-eyed with alarm, Éowyn clutched the sides as it tilted before steadying.  Faramir turned them and smiled down at her as he reseated himself and grasped the oars.  “Borrowing.”

She felt a smile tug at her lips.  “Can I ask why?”

“I don’t know.  For fun…isn’t that what your folk do?  Do as they like without bother?”  With a laugh, he set to the oars, arms and upper body moving rhythmically as he took them upstream, making it seem like it was all effortless.  Éowyn stared at him admiringly and wished dearly that she could see the play of his muscles as he steered them to the center of the river. 

She allowed with a widening smile, “I suppose…some of them.  Though I would expect it more from my brother than you.”

Faramir guffawed, grinning at her merrily, “I would have expected it more from my brother than me.”  He smiled, “But here we are.”

Releasing her grip on the sides of the boat, Éowyn looked up to watch the trees hanging over them, sunlight sparking off the yellowing leaves, gnarled roots going deep into the ground, twisting over themselves on the passing banks like the laced and aged hands of giants.  Peering carefully over the side, she gazed at her reflection in the smoothly running water, often broken by swirling currents as bits of leaves, twigs and glossy air bubbles from Faramir’s rowing drifted past.  She smiled again, anxiety much appeased by the restful mood created, “This is nice.”  He grinned at her, still pulling easily. 

          Faramir explained, breath not coming hard, “I’m just going upstream, then we can float back down as we like.”   Nodding, Éowyn slid her hand into the cool river, feeling the water slip past, pulling gently at her palm.  Glancing at him in impishness, she flicked the droplets of water off her fingers, aiming for his face.  He gave her a narrow stare, growling, “Don’t start a war you can’t win.”  A turn of his wrist and the oar jerked, causing water to splash up beside her.  Éowyn laughed and shrank away, giggling,

          “No!  Don’t!”

          His tone was innocent, “I thought you wanted a bath.”  This time he did it from the other side, making her jerk and the boat sway.  Éowyn grabbed her seat again, gripping it tensely in fear of an upset.

          Her voice went high, “No!  Stop!”  Faramir chuckled as he kept rowing.  He was looking at the water, saying quietly, his eyes moving over the banks now,

          “I spent a lot of time on the Anduin as a boy, hunting ducks, fishing, learning to handle a boat, swimming in the pools until I could manage the current.”  She smiled,

          “I think I learned to swim because Éomer grew tired of towing me behind him.”

Faramir laughed, and then his voice grew thoughtful as he considered.  “This river is much easier…slower, shallower, not as terribly wide…” He spoke reflectively, “Many times in the spring after a hard storm we’d see drowned cattle or sheep float by.  Oft times corpses were fished out to be buried properly.  The Great River cared not what she took with her on her journey.”  He sighed, “Sometimes I wonder if the elven boat my brother drifted in still goes or if he’s been overturned…I think it could reach the Sea if it survived the falls.  Perhaps some kind folk will bury him as he deserves.”  Faramir frowned at the water.  “I wonder if the Valar would bar a dead man.” 

Éowyn didn’t know what to say.  She reached to touch his hand as he paused in rowing, clasping hers over his, squeezing his warm flesh in an attempt to soothe him.  Faramir smiled at her and sighed, “But enough sadness.”  He rowed again, moving them smoothly upstream and she watched, curious as he made it look so simple and easy.  His smile grew, “You want to help me?”

“All right.” 

“Sit here.”  He scooted back on the board he sat on and she saw it was wider than hers was.  Faramir spread his legs and very carefully, mindful of the movements of the boat, Éowyn sat between them with her back nestled cozily against his front.  “Take these.”  He slid his hands up on the oars.  She smiled, having to reach farther than he, as his arms were much longer than hers were.  The wood of the oars was polished smooth, warm from his hands.  Faramir’s breath was in her ear, patience in his words.  “Now pull with me.”  Éowyn did, moving slowly at first, feeling the resistant weight of the water, the rise and fall of the oar.  She could hear the low splash it made and the soft sound of it sweeping through the water, driving them up the river.  Faramir did it with her, helping her find the rhythm and taking foremost of the weight from her shoulders.  Even with his help, it was much harder than he made it look.

          The boat was going faster, pleasing her.  Éowyn smiled over at the water rising against the sides as it glided more swiftly against the current.  Turning her head, she said with admiration, “You’re strong.”  Muscles moved in his arms; she could feel them easily.  His chest expanded against her back with each deep breath that fueled his exertions.  

          He sounded bemused.  “Thank you.”  A moment later, Faramir nuzzled into her neck and her hands slowed on the oars.  His cheek nudged hers, voice mildly scolding.  “Keep up with me.” 

          “But you…” Warm puffing breath of his laughter came against her throat, then his nose touching her ear, subtle and light little touches of lips tickling so that she laughed and ducked away the best she could.  “Stop, I’m trying to…” His tongue slid delicately along the curve of her ear and Éowyn squealed, “Ahh!”  She scrunched her cheek against her shoulder, squirming and shivering with thrills, kicking her foot against the bottom of the boat in protest.  Her shoe made a loud, hollow noise as she giggled and gasped out, “Stop it!”

          “Stop what?”  He sounded innocent, but his breath was tickling her again, this time the other and unprotected side of her neck.  Éowyn shook her head back and forth, trying to scrunch both sides at once, which was impossible.  She ducked her chin and hunched her shoulders like a turtle, eyes slitted as unstoppable giggles burst from her.  Faramir’s chest shook with his laughter.  “What?  What am I doing?”

          Éowyn closed her eyes, gritting her teeth so that she sounded serious.  “Stop it!” 

          “I’m not doing anything…” He snickered, then nuzzled along her shoulder, pushing at the edge of her gown and kissing her wetly, making her wriggle, moaning and laughing all at once while still trying to row. 

          “Yes, you are!  You’re…ahh, that!  That!”  Laughing behind her, Faramir stopped rowing and the boat slowed gently, prow now pointing at an angle as it drifted leisurely, current carrying it back down the river.

He kissed her temple, idle arms coming about her waist to pull her closer.  His voice was smoky, murmuring, “I think this is far enough.”

 Éowyn turned her head to glower at him.  “You’re horrible.”

          “Am I?”  He was smiling, eyes shining.  He shifted behind her, making her reaware of how close they were, how close they had to be to remain seated on the simple boards.  Faramir kissed her temple again, then her cheekbone and then he held himself a little away, a small smile curving his lips as he looked at her.  Grey eyes the only part of him that was moving, his gaze seemed to linger over her mouth before ascending back to meet her eyes.  Faramir’s smile faded as his face became solemn, intent and full of growing passion; he leaned forward to lightly kiss her, just the barest of touches but full of intimacy, of hunger.  Éowyn felt her heart speed up, body warming automatically though he’d done nothing more.  She gazed at his mouth and wished for his kiss again; felt his hands loosely encircling her waist and craved his pleasing touch.

          Throat tight, she said faintly, trying to continue their playful banter.  “Yes.”

          “Mmm…then I must be.”  Faramir’s amused gaze became searching, then mystified.  He ran one blunt fingertip from her collarbone to her throat, just grazing her skin, all the while watching her tremble, aroused, and suck in a breath in an attempt to quiet herself.  Éowyn felt her cheeks heat—he’d done that on purpose to see her reaction.  Quickly, she cast her eyes away in embarrassment.  Voice enchanted, and even, she heard with horror, amused, he murmured as though he was truly asking her and not teasing at all, “What’s this?” She didn’t answer at first, and his arms jiggled around her waist.  Faramir sounded like he was smiling now, “Hmm?” 

Frowning, disconcerted and full of her body’s impulses to touch him, to pull him closer, to kiss and do anything to have more contact, she muttered, “I don’t know.”  But she did know and it was a little frightening in her impatience, what she wished to do and was willing to do; she wasn’t as ready as some of her thought. 

He bent a little, coming nearer, wearing a smile as she’d guessed.  Faramir was waiting for her to meet him and when she didn’t, he came anyway, lips touching hers with restraint.  They kissed and he was gentle, as she liked best, one hand to the side of her face, thumb caressing her cheek, the line of her jaw.  He shifted again, pressing himself to her backside.  “Hmm?”  Faramir’s mouth moved to her neck, planting tiny kisses in a line.  “What is it…?”  He knew what it was; the smile was too evident in his voice.  Éowyn ducked her head, mortified,

“You…”

“What?”

She blurted in frustration.  “You know already, why are you asking me?”

Faramir kissed her shoulder and when he looked at her, his face wore a poor mask of innocence; he was all but laughing, asking between pecking kisses.  “No, I’ve no idea.  Tell me…tell me why you shivered, why…you blushed…why you feel so tempting…now…” He took her earlobe into his mouth and she squirmed. 

Relenting, she said, “Because…” 

He was serious now, low and intimate, “Because what?”  Faramir wanted an answer, wanted, she saw, confirmation.  It softened her heart and Éowyn grimaced; the words sounded horribly awkward coming from her mouth as she finally gave in, ducking and muttering, 

“Because I wanted you when you did that.” 

A wide smile spread over Faramir’s handsome features.  “Did you?”  Her heart beat faster with his longing; she could feel how great his desire was, tempered only by his knowledge of her possible fearfulness.  Her own desire rose, eager to feel him and his weight pressing her down, the slick friction of his bare skin against hers and her own pleasure made sweeter by his eagerness to give it.  Overwhelmed, Éowyn pulled away to look out over the river.

          After a few seconds, he murmured worriedly, “Is something wrong?”

          “No, no, it’s just…” But it was too right for her to be comfortable.  Éowyn tried not to lean into his body—she didn’t want to encourage him, to whet his appetite for something he would not have.  She wondered if this…hunger for him, his touch, his warm flesh and strength was what he felt for her.  If so, then no wonder he’d wished and asked to make love with such ardent invocation.  “It feels too good.”

          “I didn’t know there was such thing as too good.” 

When she didn’t jest back, he sobered.  Moving the oars to correct their course, Faramir said softly, “You’re tense…” He slid his hands from the wood and down her arms, resting his palms on the backs of her hands, warming them.  “Relax for me?”  He kissed the top of her head, “It’s all right.”

          “I know.”  Éowyn turned, looking into his eyes.  They were troubled and whatever passion she’d stirred was buried beneath his care. She touched his face, cradling his chin and stroking one finger over his wee, growing stubble.  “Don’t worry, I’m not afraid.”

          Faramir dipped to kiss that finger.  “I don’t like making you feel like that…”

She protested with a frown, shaking her head.  The fault was hers, not his.  “You don’t…I make me feel like that.”

His gaze dropped as he moved his hands from hers to her shoulders, squeezing.  “Rigid…all of you, drawn tight like a bow.”  His eyes crinkled as he tried to make her laugh, “And I know how that feels.”  Éowyn smiled, leaning into him this time with no fear of stirring desire.  She bent her arms back to hold him in an awkward embrace, looking up at his chin.

          “I wish I could help it…could stop and never do so again.”  She dared to turn to him, saying low, “I wish it very much.”

          His smile was compassionate, “Tell me what to do.” 

If only I knew.  Éowyn shook her head helplessly.  Faramir nodded, not especially disappointed—she sensed he’d expected her lack of answer. 

They floated for a few minutes, listening to faint birdsong and the soft lap of water on the sides of the boat.  Éowyn felt secure leaning against his front, peaceful under the warm sun as it peeked down between branches of trees.  She wanted to kiss him again but didn’t quite dare to, as she was still tense.  Relax…nothing’s wrong except you…she squinched her eyes shut, ashamed.

He began, tone soft, “First, I would guess, would be for you to relax…and I think I know one way.”  Then he started to rub her shoulders, hands moving slowly, not too hard or too soft, but just right.  She relaxed as he moved down her back, fingers seeming to find the perfect places by instinct or gift…oh, that is a wonderful thing… 

Breathing out a moan, she felt him push her hair over her shoulders to have better access.  “That feels so nice.” 

He sounded gratified.  “Good.”  This time Éowyn corrected their course herself, not as aptly, but well enough, pleasing her before his massage distracted.  They weren’t far at all now from where they’d started.  Faramir hadn’t stopped his gentle kneading and rubbing and it was pleasurable in a different way from his more ardent touches.  This was sensual, arousing her in a lesser but no less purely satisfying fashion as slowly and thoroughly he worked all the tension from her muscles.  He moved here and there, staying longest where it felt the best and she knew he was reading her, paying close attention to her thoughts.  His fingers slid down her arms in slow strokes that moved inward, when the tips ran over her inner arm it tickled, sending wild thrills all over her body and she shuddered. 

“What?”

Éowyn turned her head, mumbling, “…felt good.”

She heard his smile in his reply.  “Good.”  Her eyes were closed with pleasure and when the boat hit the bank with a loudly grinding jolt of wood on earth, they flew open.  Éowyn blinked in surprise—they’d crossed the last part of their return without her even knowing.  When she straightened to step from the boat, she felt wonderfully eased, heart and body lightened.  Faramir rose, hand in hers to steady her, careful to help her, then as she moved aside, he jumped as lightly and as gracefully to the riverbank as though he’d been sired by a deer. 

Back on solid land, Éowyn smiled and hugged him, leaning against his body.  “Thank you.”

“Better?”

“Much.”

He teased her, wide smile making sure she knew it was teasing alone, “It would feel better without this gown…” His fingers plucked at her skirt.

Éowyn laughed and agreed, “It would.”  Faramir raised an eyebrow in amusement, then leaned to kiss her.  Wrapping her arms about him, she held him closely.  “Promise me you’ll do it again…another day?”  She could not say when, of course, but the time of their joining was near, no matter if she left before him.  Éowyn felt a flash of pressure and the resulting nerves.  She had little time left before she would have to yield to his desire, as a wife should. 

His face softened, “I will.”  Faramir kissed her again, gaze searching hers.  “I love you.  Don’t worry, it will come.” 

Éowyn brushed his hair from his brow so that she could see him better, fingertips lingering over his skin as she replied with a smile, “I know…and I love you.”  His eyes were on hers, focused and so earnestly full of loving kindness that she laughed, embarrassed and dropping her hand.  Faramir smiled and his features stilled as all lines of care vanished; there were no furrows on his brow, no creases drawn about his grey eyes.  She could feel his peace and it touched her heart as he linked to her, sharing his loving contentment.  Nearby shouting and several figures moving towards them broke their eye contact. 

She laughed again, as judging by the men hastily coming down the shore, they’d not brought the boat back to exactly where they’d left it.  “What’re we going to tell them?”

“I don’t know.”  He grinned and stepped backwards, raising his arms in a gesture of helplessness and innocence.  “You’re the Lady here.”

“Coward.”  Straightening her skirts, Éowyn marched up to meet the men.  I’m blaming it all on you.  His groaning chuckle made her smile, as did his hand reaching for hers as she climbed up the bank.  Éowyn looked to his face, searching his open, noble features.  Good man, too good…what did I do to deserve him?