When Éowyn neared the men they stopped their shouting and Faramir knew they’d recognized her.  A feeling of dilemma, then sincere abashment swept over the little group and the Rohirrim were quiet now while they approached.  Wind ruffled her flowered circlet, sending the green ribbon flying out to flap and tangle with her darkened hair as Éowyn smiled pleasantly at the nearing Rohirrim and stepped forward to hold onto his arm.  He glanced at her delicate profile, and then down to her arm wrapped about his with their hands clasped, studying the easy way that she held him close.  Faramir felt his heart warmed not only by her nearness in that moment, but by her consistency in nestling close to him and not retreating.  Oh, this is but the beginning…  He smiled to himself in pleasure, squeezing her hand, spirits buoyed beyond all sorrows. 

Éowyn apologized to the men in the Riders’ tongue, her manner very gracious and sincere as they bowed their heads in deep chagrin for so coarsely raising their voices to their Lady.  And she seemed very much a Lady in that moment, almost startlingly so.  Looking at her, the way she smiled, stood and spoke, he saw again the easy grace and confidence of her words with his students.  Feeling rather useless at her side, Faramir nodded, granting his own much more unwieldy apology, “Ic sarie”, silently amused as the men shifted their feet and fidgeted.  They were mumbling quick acceptance of her reparations almost before she finished, bowing very low and walking hastily past them to the boat.

        As soon as they moved on up the little hill and out of earshot, he asked, smiling, “I thought you were going to blame it on me…?”

        The shade of the trees was behind them and the late afternoon sun glowed off of her fair skin as Éowyn laughed and squeezed his hand; she’d not let go of it once.  “I decided to have pity on you.”  Her eyes twinkled with mischievous teasing, “Your accent is still…” She made a scrunched face as she stepped through the tall, dry grass that came to her waist, rustling and tawny against her dark green gown.  The contrast of it made him mourn anew for her flaxen hair.  Faramir turned his head sharply to look again with longing; he could have painted her, he knew how to make the paints for it and the picture of Éowyn standing against the blue sky in the tall sienna grasses with her emerald green gown and her golden hair would have been beautiful.  He sighed and tried not to think about it.

        “I thought that I was quite good.”  Faramir repeated carefully, “Ic sarie.  See?  I can say that very well.”  He jested, giving her a sideways grin, “I’m rather of the belief that that mastery, at the very least, will suit me well in coming years, my dearest.”  Glancing off at the horizon, he confided, “I had heard the line of Éomund was prone to fits of rash temper.”

        She laughed loudly and she was looking up at him with adoration, making his heart glad, “Yes,” Éowyn smiled more bashfully, “And yes, you can say that good enough, but,” She laughed again, “You sound like you’ve a mouthful of rocks sometimes.”

        He teased, “That is because your tongue has words that are terribly long and ridiculously hard to say, much worse than the elven tongues.”  Faramir put his fingers into his mouth, mumbling around them, “I think I’ve gotten more muscle…here…then when I came, just trying to say them.”

Éowyn burst out in delighted laughter again, yanking his arm, “No, you have not!”  She was smiling so brightly.  “Ah!”  Now she scoffed, “Words of the elven tongue sound the same…all la and na and running together like a river so that you can’t tell anything apart!”

 He taunted with a short shake of his head, hoping she would complete their simple jest, “Ná.”

Éowyn gave him a look, eyes narrowed in a show of annoyance while a smile lurked in the corners of her mouth.  “What tongue is that?  Nay or yea?  Elven or,” Her face was alight, teasing, “A proper one?”

“This one.”  Her hand slipped from his, resting on his chest as they kissed. 

She laughed softly.  Not so very proper…

He chuckled, jesting more cautiously now, “Your language is more difficult to my learning, probably because none of you have had to deal with the bother of ever spelling the words you use.”  Faramir was aware he had no idea how she felt about the lack of schooling within her folk.  He braced himself, but there were no reprehensions.

        Instead, Éowyn commanded.  “Name one word!”

        “Rhtfæderencyn.”  The word meant an ancestor on his father’s line.

        She rolled her eyes, “That’s just long” and repeated it fluidly, “Rhtfæderencyn.”

        “All right…” Faramir thought for a moment, “Modw…modwlon…” His mouth refused to move in both directions, sounds at once, forcing him to concentrate to eventually get out, “Modwlonc.”  He chuckled under his breath and made an effort, “Ge eart modwlonc.”  It meant spirited.

        “Thank you.”  With a playfully adorable half-curtsey, free hand pulling at her dark green skirts, Éowyn laughed at him, turning to walk backwards with a smile and say in a lightly bantering tone that he’d not heard much before, but instantly loved, “Mouthful of rocks.”  Her hand reached up to pinch and lightly tug his cheek.  “You sound like a squirrel would.”

        Faramir pursed his lips, “It’s the best I can do.”

        She laughed again and, to his pleasure, returned to hugging his arm.  “I like your accent.  It sounds very agreeable to my ear…” Her brow creased as her tone softened, “Sounds comforting, makes me feel good when I can find your voice among others.”  Éowyn looked up at him and her smile was gentle, deeply fond, “But that’s because you are my comfort.”  Faramir smiled in happy return and she leaned to snuggle against his shoulder with a contented sigh.

        Not sure how to respond, his soul was so overfull with joy, he just squeezed her hand, feeling her slender fingers comfortably interlaced with his.  They walked back into the crowd and he sighed as the veil of minds surrounded him again, the ups and downs of emotions of the people near and far dragging at his consciousness, prodding him to pay attention, to feel what they felt.  The weight seemed to grow easier to bear with time, but it still fatigued.  Music was loud in this part of the festival, providing a welcome distraction as numerous minstrels played feverishly for folk that clapped and danced round and round in giant rings or more closely with another in the center near to a great fire.  He imagined that when night fell in a few hours the sight would be one to marvel at. 

Faramir smiled, cocking his head to listen more closely.  The melodies were very exuberant; swift and chaotic, none were what he felt he could dance to with any degree of grace as there were few consistent rhythms to be found.  Éowyn stepped from his side and led him by the hand about the edge of the dancers, then through clumped groups of clapping, cheering people that made room for her with hails in merry voices.  Men bowed and women curtseyed as they spoke to her, faces full of cheer, flushed with high spirits and, no doubt, ale.  When he looked down, her features was alight as she answered too fast and to too many for him to translate more than one word in ten though many times he heard the word Hordere used, the Rohirric term for his title of Steward.  But whenever he turned to her for clarification, Éowyn just shook her head and smiled beatifically.

Finally, Faramir lowered his mouth to her ear, “What?”  What is it?  She was laughing, tilting her head to look back at him with bright eyes and gesturing with her free hand but he couldn’t understand what she was trying to say.

“You…they say…to you!”  Éowyn shook her head again, gasping with laughter as he frowned in incomprehension.  Her words were mostly drowned out by the loud variety of instruments and voices, but he gathered that the people had greeted him as well.  Anxious to return as much courtesy as he was presumably being shown, and finding himself touched by their effort, Faramir looked around himself and smiled and nodded briefly in return to any eye that caught his.  Yet, gazing at the joyfully and rather uninhibitedly dancing, clapping and loudly praising onlookers, he frowned.  This was her home, her world and Faramir was deeply aware of that what he was taking her to would oft seem cold, bare and colorless in comparison.  Still…he looked more closely.  The people who lived in the lowest levels were much like these folk.  Occupying the simplest, poorest houses in the City, they were commoners who worked the fields and herded their stock, living off what they could make, herd or harvest themselves and yielding a portion of what they could glean from their small plots of borrowed land to their Lord.  As he examined those around him, he rather thought the lineages of those in the lowest levels might have mingled or originated with the Rohirrim, or other North Men.  Faramir vaguely remembered that they were more boisterous in their celebrations during feast times and holidays, more like to the people in Rohan, I think… 

        Éowyn leaned up close, eyes sparkling as she raised her voice to entreat, “Teach me how to dance like they do in the City!”

        “I can’t with this…it’s too fast, too…” Faramir laughed, waving a hand helplessly as he tried and failed to accurately describe the manic cheerfulness of the Rohirric musicians.  He stared at the singing, playing men half in consternation, half in incredulous mirth.  Are they drunk?

        No, well, possibly.  She laughed and before he could speak, Éowyn turned and caught the eye of the nearest minstrel who came immediately to her side, bowing low and offering his services.  She looked at him expectantly.  “Tell him what to play, Faramir.”

        “I…I don’t…” Her words from not long before came to his ear, her murmured desperate desire not to disappoint or embarrass him and he sighed, looking down at her blithely hopeful expression.  With a gesture for patience, he laughed, “Let me think a moment…I’m not a minstrel, I don’t write the music, I just dance to it!”  Éowyn’s smile was well worth the effort of rifling through his memory.

***

        Arwen had buried her head against his shoulder and grasped his arm with elven strength when the man had swallowed the burning torch, only to look up immediately, crying out and applauding in delight as the quenched brand was withdrawn with no harm.  The feel of her curved body, even momentarily pressed to his, had stunned Éomer into silence.  He clapped more slowly, trying at once to shake off his surprise and a brief, but very improper thrill.  It was not seemly and he ground his teeth, thinking that he would not tolerate it within himself.  She is another man’s wife, a man who happens to be my friend.  I will not allow more than affection, friendship.  Heart set, Éomer swept it from his thoughts and shouted his appreciation for the Rohir’s talents, adding his voice to the crowds’.  The man bowed low, obviously delighted in pleasing his Lord and the Queen of the City.  With more relish, waving the flaming torch and building suspense, he performed again, swallowing and snuffing the red-yellow flame with no apparent effects.  The dead brand was shown with a boy from the crowd allowed to touch the blackened end to confirm it was still hot, and then the man showed his unharmed mouth, equally unburned tongue wagging in spectacle.  Arwen applauded anew, throwing many coins from her purse onto the gleaming pile on the grass.  The man bowed low with a bright smile.

        They moved on to a troupe of acrobats who amazed Éomer with their effortless grace and made him cringe and shudder as they walked with ease over slender ropes suspended well above the height of a horse’s back.  Some vaulted from long poles onto the shoulders of others and still others balanced lightly on one another, stacking men like cords of wood.  But Arwen just shook her head, “I’ve seen this, only in the branches of mallorns in Lórien.”  She laughed, “Young elves boasting their lightness of foot.”

        “What’s a mallorn?”

        “A tree much bigger than you can imagine,” Her smile turned teasing, “Or would wish to, I guess, Master Éomer.”

        He admitted, “I don’t like heights.”

        “As well you shouldn’t!”  One slim finger poked into the muscle of his arm.  “Heavy-boned creature you are, you’d fall straight to the earth like a stone.”  Éomer ducked his head and laughed, feeling curiously unashamed at his admittance.  The open declaration of fear was not something he was used to being acceptable.  She sounded wistful as she continued, “They are beautiful trees…you should travel to Lórien and look upon them.”

        He was startled, protesting, “No, I couldn’t do that…”

        “Why not?  The paths are open now and I could send word to my kin.  They would guide you to the city, show you every kindness, even let you sleep on the ground if the trees were too high for your tastes.”  Arwen smiled, teasing, “Or have you not the courage to enter the,” Her voice lowered in mockery, “Mystery shrouded elven lands alone?”

        He admitted, shamed, “I think that I don’t.  Not alone, and those that would come with me would be just as fearful.”

“Ah, well.  Perhaps one day.”  She patted his arm and Éomer was pleased to note no thrills or lewd feelings whatsoever as the Queen added warmly, “If you change your mind you have but to ask, dear friend.  I’m sure I could sway Legolas into showing you Mirkwood if you wanted.  I hear it is less dark these days, that the old woods are full of light rather than spiders.” 

At the word spider, he smiled widely.  Old tales of giant spiders in Mirkwood had terrified Éowyn to no end as a girl, even though most had been regarded as fancy or lies spread by elven folk to keep out trespassers.  Éomer chuckled softly in remembrance.  He’d spent many a night by the firelight in the main Hall embellishing those tales until she was begging to sleep in his bed, screeching at unexpected touches and generally terrified out of her wits.  He shook his head, like I would be any different…faced with entering an elven Hall.  Arwen smiled up at him, breaking his reminiscing by asking lightly, “Come, what else?”

        They walked into the dry fields to where men rode two horses, straddling open air with one foot planted firmly on their backs, some controlling four at once, galloping in tight circles and leaning with the animals.  A few were skilled enough to fly over a jump without tumbling from their precarious perches.  Here, like the man who ate fire and the acrobats, the ground sparkled with gold coins and silver pennies.  Éomer asked curiously, “Have you seen this?”

        “Young elves, again, but more rarely.  My brothers did such feats.”  She clapped and cried aloud in appreciation before murmuring into his bent ear with a dancing eye, “They are good horses to tolerate such nonsense.”

        He agreed with a smile, “Not all would, but they enjoy it, as they must.  It is but another game for them to play—we teach them as foals that all riding and work is a game,” Éomer’s smile widened, “One that they are always best at.”  They walked further to watch men attempt to ride a bucking horse that leapt and spun and sent a man flying to the dirt.  Arwen frowned and he reassured, “This, too, is a game to see if he can get the rider off his back.  He likes it better to throw his rider than to sit under saddle, so here he does what he likes best and gets praised as he wins his master a dinner and a dry roof for their heads.”

        Her keen eyes focused on the sweating horse as it pricked its ears and shook its head, blowing through pink nostrils.  It wore no saddle or bridle, only a halter.  At a soft whistle, it stepped around the slowly rising man it had just thrown, and came to its master, who patted it with much approval and then held the now quiet horse by the halter, crying a further dare to the watching throng of men. Several boys wiped the gleaming sweat and dust from the gelding’s flanks with damp cloths as another provided a bucket of water.  Arwen smiled as one man took up the challenge with a cry.  “Brave young Riders.” She smiled, “You’re right…he seems well enough.”  The Queen clasped her hands and laughed in anticipation, “What else?”

        Completely without thought, he growled at her with the tone and narrowed eyes of mock reproach and a grin of suggestive bantering, “Insatiable.”  Arwen seemed taken aback but then she laughed long and with delight.  Éomer blinked, immediately and silently reprimanding himself.  What did I say?  Friendship!  Act like a nobleman and not a boor for once!

However, the Queen didn’t appear offended in the slightest, giving him a laughing glance coupled with a worldly and teasing response that tied his tongue and rooted his gaze to his feet in an instant.  “Aye.”  Still laughing, she took his arm and pulled him back through the crowd, Rusco straining at his leash with every stride.  Nonplussed but helpless to resist, Éomer allowed her to lead them both onward.

***

Faramir was patient with her, which Éowyn quickly grew to appreciate.  The watching crowd made her nervous until she looked up into his eyes—they were held steadfast onto her own, full of love, composure and kind support—Faramir’s gaze made the rest of the world vanish and her nervousness went with it.  She smiled; relaxing and letting him lead her, the minstrels playing slow and lightsome behind them; higher pitched trills of pipes melded with the mellow strumming of lutes and the soft chang-and-shake of tambourines.  It was pretty music, simple and repetitive with precisely prescribed divisions, which made it easier for her to remember where she was in the dance.

“Good…now again just like before.”  Faramir smiled encouragingly, “How did it go?”  His hand just rested in hers, fingers sliding along her own as he retreated.  The soft frictions of skin on skin were teases of chaste touches before their hands lost contact entirely and he bowed to her, formally enough to make her smile with the unfamiliarity of seeing the gesture.  Faramir rose with his typical grace and courtesy, dark hair swinging gently, his eyes still held steadfast to her own.

Éowyn admired him, then opened her mouth to answer and realized she had none.  She laughed, moaning, “I can’t remember.”

From her left side, where he was supposed to be, he nodded soothingly and began, “Right, left, right, right…left, right, left, left…” Éowyn felt her smile widen, awed and loving him as she tried to memorize his low directions.  The steps were simplistic, made complex only by the sheer repetitive extent of them.  He grinned, “Remember now?”

“No.”  She giggled helplessly, stepping closer to him, desiring at that moment to be less surrounded by folk and more within his arms, as he looked incredibly handsome.  Head tilted, his mind touching hers to seek the reason for her sudden focus, Faramir smiled cheekily.  Flatterer. 

Laughing softly, she looked at him fondly.  No, I’m not.  The leather of his sable surcoat was gleaming warmly in the sun, the ivory of the White Tree unsullied and glowing in contrast; his hair was hanging in a shining mass over his shoulders, a few strands venturing into his grey eyes, where his gaze sparkled with good humor and adoration.  You are handsome.

With a grin, he shook his head, “All right.”  He sounded completely unruffled with her fault as he continued with the lessons, “Now again, just the same until you can remember.”  Faramir’s every movement was perfectly unconscious and natural; he made for all the world like they were in a fine Hall surrounded by courtly Lords and Ladies instead of in a dusty field encircled with quietly gawking peasants who’d likely never before seen such elegance or nobility of manner.  They went through the same beginning steps until she’d achieved a modicum of bearing and some memory of their order, then Faramir smiled brilliantly, praising, “Good!  Good.”  He raised and kissed her hand, lips warm and making her thrill with silly girlishness as he murmured, “All right, this is harder…”

Éowyn moaned again, smiling, “Harder?”

He laughed, “You wanted to learn.  Now, we go backwards…”

She repeated with something akin to horror, “Backwards?”

Faramir laughed again, eyes sparkling with good cheer.  “Yes!  Right, left, right, right…” The melody went on and she did her best to follow his movements, giggling at her own mistakes, trying not to trip over her skirts, pleased and reassured when he paused both her and the music.  Éowyn found herself actually breathing a bit fast.  Faramir smiled at her, “Very good.  You want the rest or to repeat this?”

“Oh, do it again.”  She looked to her left, where he stood.  “And you’re lying.”  I feel like an ox, and a lame one at that.

He furrowed his brow, a grin springing to his mouth, and then shook his head firmly.  “Ná.” 

Éowyn laughed, stepping back, her clasped hand extended as she turned and curtseyed as delicately as she could manage—he’d schooled her first on how to begin with a courtesy to her Lord.  Imagining Aragorn crowned and seated upon the High seat in the Hall of Feasts in Minas Tirith, his features alight with happiness for her, she asked merrily, “Which tongue is that?”

Another emotion was in his face now; it was bright with rascality, making her giggle in anticipation.  “This one.”  After helping her stumble through the steps she’d learned, he held her hand and kneeled, leading her in a slow circle around him.  Éowyn walked slowly, hearing the lightsome music and feeling as though she were floating about his kneeled, still and courtly figure.  Faramir’s hand was warm, grip firm as he rose just in time with the swelling music—deep strums of lutes, piping of recorders and even the trilling of harp strings—to plant a firm, lingering kiss on her lips.  He smiled, standing for just a moment longer and Éowyn smiled in return, feeling her heart beat faster, her desire rising to make her yearn for just another touch of his, another kiss.

She yielded to it and broke the rules for just a moment, curling one arm about his neck and pulling his body to touch hers, loving its feel.  Faramir laughed against her mouth, eyes full of pretend sternness; Éowyn dropped her gaze like a scolded girl and he laughed again, then lifted her chin with a surprisingly masterful hand.  Handsome face gone solemn now, intent, he kissed her a second time; this was softer, slower and with more passion so that she tightened her arm, holding him closer, wishing for far more closeness than she could or dared have, the closeness of skin to skin. 

  There was laughter and a few admiring calls from the women in the crowd, making Éowyn flush as he took a breath and stepped back with clear reluctance.  Faramir laughed softly, arching an eyebrow.  Do they think I’m handsome or no?  I’m not sure I know what that means when they do that…envy or pity for their Lady. 

She couldn’t answer at the moment, too dazzled, and he continued the lesson with a smile.  “Right, left, left, left…around to my other side…and back about, then I go and you stand.”  He stepped perfectly, every stride falling to the beat of the slow melody as he circled her and urged her to stand still with the light, guiding touch of his hand to her waist or the small of her back.  Éowyn felt odd, smiling in shyness, but very pleased as he circled; the crimson ribbon caught her gaze and she squeezed his hand, watching him.  His attentive eyes never left her, affection shining out from their grey depths as Faramir halted on her left again and half-bowed.  He grinned and gestured, “Now we’re both opposite of where we started and we begin the dance over until the music stops.” 

Éowyn stared at him and shook her head, finally able to answer.  If it is not envy, they are blind.  Smiling, he dipped his brow, dark hair falling around his handsome face, and took an extra moment to kiss her again before he sent her away to curtsey and end the dance in the proper manner to her imagined Aragorn.  She felt…light of foot, near weightless with giddy bliss, yet knowing she undoubtedly looked dreadfully graceless to his experienced eye.

After a moment to speak with the minstrels and change the tune to a sprightlier one, he returned.  “This is a simple circle dance…double left, double right, double left, double right…left four steps…” Éowyn laughed breathlessly, barely able to keep up as he took her in a large, somewhat irregular circle.  She was sure they looked incredibly silly but Faramir didn’t so much as feel embarrassed; Éowyn looked at him sharply—he didn’t seem anything but merry.  He was enjoying this, enjoying the teaching of her very much.  She smiled.  Min Láréow…my brother has a better eye than he thinks…or I think.  Éowyn laughed.

Faramir grinned in response.  “Now kick left, right, left and…” He burst into laughter, “Not so high.”

“You said kick!”

A rare sound—her Prince was giggling breathlessly just like a lad, hardly able to instruct, “Gently, gently…you’re not riding a horse!”

She felt herself blush, mimicking his quick, shallow kick.  “Is that right?”

“Yes.”  He guffawed, “Much better.  Now…”

Éowyn frowned as he paused, expecting the next command.  Hearing him humming cheerfully under his breath, she could sense he was waiting for something and suddenly he turned and was twirling her playfully with both hands to her waist and lifting her high enough and all so unexpected that she screeched and clutched his arms.  “Faramir!”  Faramir laughed in another great burst as he sat her down again, this time to the other side of him.  He sounded so happy it was startling.  Éowyn stared at him, her heart racing, and marveled.  How much younger he looked than when she’d first met him in the gardens of the City, how few lines of care were laid on his brow and how no longer drawn with worry and strain his features seemed! 

He was looking down, innocence marred only by his wide grin, “What?”

Assuming a scolding tone and putting her hands to her hips, she frowned at him in mock anger, “You did that on purpose!”

The grin disappeared and a naughty smile appeared in its place; Faramir leaned to growl softly, “Got you to squeal, didn’t I?”

Éowyn laughed, shocked and not displeased by his boldness.  She took a breath, biting her lip and trying not to giggle and keep her sternness as she admitted, giving his chest a shove.  “Yes, you did.”  

He moved closer and asked, his voice low with a playful smile riding on his lips, “Want me to do it again?”  Faramir put his hands to her waist; she was very aware of the light, warm pressure of them.

Her control broke and she laughed with thrilled pleasure, pushing him away again, but gently.  Éowyn furrowed her brow, trying and failing to make her mouth stop smiling and purse into a glower as she scolded through her laughter.  “Stop that and teach me!”

With a boyish chuckle of indulgence, he began instructing her in more of the simplistic, and yet highly ornamented steps.  Faramir was incredibly knowledgeable of how and when to move apart or come close, what to do when the music changed and on and on so that her head spun.  Éowyn learned immediately to look to him for guidance, as he was somehow able to direct her with a mere smile, nod of his head or a glint in his eyes.  This was communication akin to their link but a newly voiceless kind.  It made her feel closer to him, to his heart.  Oh, but I love you…

He glanced to her and a smile spread across his mouth.  His face fairly glowed with contentment.  She smiled as Faramir came close, breaking the rules of the dance, of all the dances he’d shown her, to fully embrace her and hold his body to hers.  Éowyn leaned on his shoulder, reaching up to whisper into his ear, not displeased at all, “I thought you couldn’t do this.”

He pulled back so they could be face to face and his smile turned into another crooked grin born of roguishness.  “I can do as I like…” Faramir nodded to their audience.  “We’ve no Court of disapproving…” He kissed her, just the tiny, barest touch, “high-born Lords and Ladies to…”

“…what?”  Murmuring her question close to his mouth, she could have melted into his hugging arms, never wanting the fragile, wonderful moment to end.

“Shake their heads and call me unchaste, say that I should have more…shame…” Faramir kissed her again, soft and full of warmth.  They moved together with very small, slow steps, far closer than any other time.  It felt deliciously wonderful to move with him, his body guiding her so slow and close.  His arms rested about her waist; their weight was lovely, as was the firmness of his sable surcoat, the faint smell of the City coming again to her nose when she nuzzled to his collar. 

Faramir’s eyes were on hers and she smiled shyly as he leaned to whisper faint and intimate into the cup of her ear, “You look so beautiful…you should always wear a circlet of flowers, my Arien.”

She felt delighted knowing that she could please him in the City, yet doubting.  Éowyn still knew herself as lumbering when compared to his effortless dignity.  “Liar…and who is that?”  She passed her hands up to spread against his broad back, marveling.  He held himself so straight with his shoulders squared and back erect, no matter the music or her mistakes his every step had been flowing and light of foot, utterly unconscious in his ability.  Certainly, no men of her lands could duplicate his grace or deftness.  Éowyn turned her head to see many of those in the crowd standing in awe and she smiled, feeling the same but favored as she was within the sphere of his enchantment.

He recounted for her in the easy voice of a man reciting a lesson learned with deep fascination, “She is the maiden whom the Valar chose to guide the vessel of the Sun, whose light foretold the awakening of Men.  It is written that she shed her form when she took her duty, for her eyes were too bright for even the Eldar to withstand and she became as a naked flame, terrible in the full measure of her magnificence.”  His words were filled with reverence, “The Sun embodied.”  Faramir touched her hair and became sober, lamenting, “I thought of Arien when I saw you on the stairs of Meduseld…your hair glowed in the Sun like it was made of Her rays, a crown of sunbeams.”

“Oh.”  Éowyn laughed, thinking.  That is a compliment, to be compared to this Arien, who you like?  Returning her arms to their place, clasped around his neck, she leaned upwards to kiss him. 

Yes…a fierce maiden she was, as you are.  Faramir smiled when she kissed him again, “Mmm, I should lie more often…”

“No!”  She hugged his neck, “You’re the one that looks lovely.”  Éowyn ran her fingers over the warm leather collar of his surcoat as she smiled up, feeling herself almost intoxicated by the happy grace he’d given her.  Perhaps her brother had not been entirely overcome by an overactive and distrustful imagination when he’d named Faramir a witch—in truth her love was a man charmed with many gifts of gallantry and refinement that none in the Mark could match.

Faramir shook his head slightly, answering with mild reproach.  “Thank you.”  He stopped moving and sighed, then turned to the minstrel and gestured.  “Enough for today, I think.”  Éowyn nodded, but he didn’t let her go, running his index finger under her chin to lift it.  Faramir kissed her briefly and only with subdued emotion; she could feel he was reaware of the crowd.  As they stepped apart, there was a great swell of applause from her people.  He tugged her hand so that she curtseyed self-consciously to their audience, flushing with laughter and embarrassment.  Faramir nodded amiably to their cheering onlookers, then beamed at her.  The minstrels bowed low, voicing lavish praises for her efforts while other musicians began anew with the quick rhythms of her people’s music, anxious not to lose the crowd.  Faramir kissed her brow and they shared a private smile.

You did very well…

You taught me well.  He laughed at her saccharine response and offered his arm.  As they began to walk away from dancing folk, Éowyn asked eagerly, “You looked so perfect, how did you learn to do that…and so well?”

“Practice, it took much practice and the bearing of much teasing from my brother…he had less rhythm, or less will to learn.  I’m not sure which.”  Her love laughed, his face rueful before he nodded beyond the edge of the amassed folk, “What do you wish to do now?”

“I don’t know.”  When she glanced around herself at the mingling dancers, trying to think, Éowyn started, catching the bright blue of an expensive gown, beads and jewels winking in the sun, veil glowing nebulously among the far more plain and drab dresses worn by the womenfolk of her country.  Her brother and Arwen were standing not far off; they had been watching them.  “Oh no.”  Able to see her brother’s grin already, she ducked her head, mortified as Faramir took her hand and led her forward.  He squeezed her fingers in reassurance, don’t be embarrassed…

I can’t help it…I looked…  She grimaced and asked with suspicion, did you know they were there?

Faramir smiled, peeking at her with his dark hair in his eyes.  Possibly.  Éowyn’s mouth fell open and she shoved him.  He laughed and his inner reply was warm, gently arguing against her distress.  You looked beautiful, happy…what is wrong with that?

I think you have to say that…and I looked dreadful.  He chuckled, then sighed, giving up on any further protest.  Éomer and the Queen came to them even as the great rings reformed with people laughing and dodging around their Lord.  Rusco barked nervously, cowering close to his mistress as skirts billowed; feet were stamping and hair and cloaks flew in the winds of the dancer’s passage.  Arwen bent and plucked him up, moving faster.  Her brother was grinning still; she read his teasing eyes and cringed.  I knew I looked like an ox…

Arwen spoke first, praising.  “That was lovely!”  The Queen smiled, “Faramir, you never danced or looked so well in the City.”

His voice was mellow, pleasant as he looked down at her, then answered good-humoredly, “I never had a partner whom I enjoyed so well.”

Éomer opened his mouth, grinning gleefully, but Arwen touched his arm and spoke first again.  Her tone was brisk and would brook no interruptions, “Where are you going now?”

Grateful for the way her brother was so neatly silenced, Éowyn looked to Faramir, but he just shrugged.  She answered quietly, still abashed and hugging his arm, “We don’t know.”

The Queen smiled, her eyes going from one man to the other.  “Good.  Faramir, I’ll return her to you by the evening meal.”

She frowned, not comprehending, “What, where are we…?”

Arwen smiled, taking her arm and stating firmly.  “Éomer has no appreciation for this.  He’d only be a pain.”  Her brother looked wounded, objecting,

“No, I wouldn’t.”

The Queen replied indulgently, one slim, fair hand patting Éomer’s cheek fondly, “Yes, you would.  You’d be positively horrid.”

Making a face, Éowyn groaned and guessed, “Oh, is it wrestling…?  I don’t want to see that, it’s…”

With a burst of laughter she was cut off, “No, just come!  I promise you will enjoy it.”  And then she was tugged away, powerless to fight against such strength.  Éowyn looked back over her shoulder just as her brother and Faramir gazed at each other awkwardly; both then smiled weakly and turned their heads to give her eerily identical pleading looks tinged with uneasiness, making her laugh and wave at them with her free hand.  Éomer’s scowl made her smile, as did the expression of yielding resignation that flashed across Faramir’s face.  Goodbye my dear loves…act nicely.

***

Éomer shifted his feet, feeling compelled to speak.  He was Lord here, after all, and the Steward was his guest.  He took a breath, paused in an effort to think of something to say, then asked, “You said before that you like the bow?”

Faramir nodded, his expression uncertain but full of earnest good will.  “Yes.”

He smiled and offered, “Do you want to show me?”  It was the first and only thing he’d thought of at the prospect of being left alone with the man, and the last thing they’d spoken of this day.  He scowled in the direction Arwen had taken his sister.  We have one thing in common and that has just been dragged off…

The Steward nodded again, then frowned.  Looking at him, Éomer realized that the man was just as desirous as he to appear friendly and comfortable within each other’s presence and he felt himself relax and grin as the Steward asked, “How?”

“They have contests.”  He looked away, feigning innocence while he added spice to the light challenge, “I heard you were good, that was part of why I had you teach those lads.  But there is good and…”

The Steward gazed at him for a moment, clearly amused, then smiled and laughed as he gestured with one hand.  “All right, show me where and I’ll,” His smile widened, “Defend my apparently great reputation.”  With a nod, Éomer led him back along the route he had taken with Arwen, passing vendors.  After several minutes of surprisingly comfortable silence, Faramir asked suddenly, “What was the other part?”

He started.  “What?”

“You said that it was only part of why you had me teach them.”

“Oh…” Éomer’s hand plucked at his trousers.  “It was…to ease your trials…” He glanced aside, but didn’t quite meet the other man’s eyes; Faramir’s touched expression and gentle smile was enough to know his meaning was understood.  “The lads would feel out of place, I supposed it would go easier if you could learn with them and not feel to be the sole man who didn’t know what he was doing.”

Faramir turned to gaze at him, speaking in a low, surprisingly appreciative voice.  “That was very considerate.  Thank you.” 

The appreciation and the affection easily heard within it made him squirm a little, so Éomer just bobbed his head in a nod.  He dared to look at the other man and accidentally met the Steward’s gaze.  It was warm with friendliness and very much filled with gratitude—more than he would have guessed.  Clearing his throat, he said roughly, “You’re welcome.” 

After a moment the Steward chuckled, teasing lightly, “And all this when you hated me?”

“Not hated…”

Faramir glanced at him, a grin just hiding as he spoke soberly, innocently.  “You said hated.”

Éomer smiled, feeling himself relax in their bantering.  “I would have called it…intense dislike.  I intensely disliked you.”  He smiled again, “Now,” He cleared his throat, “Now I almost like you.”

“Well, that’s good.”  Laughing softly and clearly amused, Faramir smiled at him and they walked in companionable silence until they came to a cleared field.  Old wooden shields had been repainted and used to stand as targets.  Many men stood nearby with bows in their hands.

 Grateful to speak more impersonally, Éomer asked, “Do you want your weapon?”  He motioned to an on-looking boy.  The lad came running at once.

“Please.”  Faramir was not paying attention to him, instead scrutinizing the targets.  He looked up, squinting at the sun and taking several purposeful steps away to stare about himself, though Éomer could not discern what the purpose was.  “Here, take this.”  The Steward unbuckled his sword, handing it to the lad who bowed and trotted off swiftly.  Éomer left him for a moment to inform the admittance of a new competitor.  As he spoke, casually commending the Steward as an accomplished archer of good skill, he smiled, hoping the man would not make him look like a fool.

It was not long before the lad returned with the bow of Gondor and Faramir’s worn quiver.  Éomer eyed the man’s things, curious as to why they were so stained, as certainly the Prince would have all amenities.  Yet the quiver was ragged at the seams with bits of thread unraveling.  The simple leather and cloth sheath was so faded as to be only darkish, colorless really, and the only thing that looked unaccustomed to heavy weather or wear were the straps to hold it to Faramir’s back.  Éomer guessed they were protected by the man’s cloak.  The bow was another matter; its wood was a warm dark color that glowed with the light of many careful oilings.  The string was new, but he noticed that the fair and delicate carvings that made it a nobleman’s piece were worn away in places. 

Faramir smiled as he took his weapon, holding it with tender care as he slid the quiver over his shoulder.  Éomer watched him, noting the easy way the bow fit in the man’s hand.  Smooth wood of light construction, it looked deceivingly trivial and not dangerous at all.  He asked, “Ready?”

Just holding his bow lifted the Steward’s spirits, if his fervent expression was any indication.  He nodded, Southern accent seeming to reappear more strongly.  “Aye.”  Together they walked to the line of Rohirric archers, mostly strong-armed men who looked like they could break the slender bow of Gondor with a single pull.

He offered, “Good luck.” 

The Steward chuckled, tone unconcerned, “Thank you.”  Faramir seemed terribly frail in their presence as Éomer walked away to watch from a safer location.

An older Rohir shouted commands in their tongue.  Bolts were put to string, securely notched and waiting with expectant hands.  Faramir stood still, he looked at ease, even speaking pleasantly to the man beside him.  Éomer frowned; he’d not even notched his arrow, instead holding it loosely between his fingers.  They shared more words until the last command was called out and all bows were bent, men firing at will.  The Steward shot with no apparent effort, arm pulling back swiftly, drawing the feather to his cheek and releasing it just as swiftly, all as though he’d not even sighted down the field, but simply shot into open air with perfect confidence that his arrow would reach the wooden shield.  Bolt sent, he didn’t watch it, but lowered his bow and stood courteously waiting until the man beside him had shot to speak again. 

***

The Rider stared down the field, then turned to him.  “Good shot, Lady’s pet.”

“Thank you.”  Faramir smiled, feeling the light, comforting weight of his bow, the living tension in the wood, the thin string vibrating under his fingertips, the smooth roundness of his next arrow and its perfect balance.  Using these familiar sensations as a shield, he pretended he wasn’t bothered by the name, centering himself and breathing normally though he wanted to snarl with fury.  The Rohir had been one of the six who’d pretended at guarding him on the ride to Meduseld.  Why does he wish to anger me…drive me to impulsive, ignoble actions?  He could not fathom the reason.  Do they think that if I act so then Éomer will banish me, forbid me to marry Éowyn…so that they will keep their beloved Lady?  He ground his teeth on a harsh laugh.  No such thing would ever happen.  He’d won the man’s favor long ago, even the Riders must recognize that.

The man seemed to pause, taken aback by his lack of visible outrage and Faramir watched a glimmer of respect come to his eyes before he asked with less assurance.  “Where is the Lady?  I do not see her.”

He replied easily, still feigning indifference, “You mean why does she not watch her trophy earn her more acclaim?”

The Rohir grinned widely, as though they shared a great jest.  Faramir frowned to himself, careful to keep his expression calm, indifferent.  In a voice of mockery, the Rider asked,  “Aye, where is she?  Have you slipped your collar?”

His jaw clenched and Faramir said coldly, losing all sense of stoicism, “I don’t wear a collar and I am not her pet.  Do you understand me?”  He lowered his voice, hardening it and receiving a certain fascination from hearing it shake with rage, “Or will I have to beat it into you right here and now?”  The thought of doing so before the crowd was not displeasing and he had the urge to set aside his bow and quiver and throw the insolent Rohir to the ground.  The last shreds of his sense that peace should be upheld to the last possible moment were all but gone.  And I don’t care…

The man beside him broke into another grin.  “Ná.  At ease, Hordere.”  He nocked his next arrow, peering at the distanced targets and setting his shot with care.

Turning to fully face him, Faramir stared blankly, utterly nonplussed.  The Rohir glanced up and just smiled, obviously pleased by his confusion.  His manner was not aggressive or hateful as Oswyn’s had been—there is no reason for this…foolishness!  Bewildered, he frowned and did not speak at once, and then it was too late, he had to shoot again.  He sighted with irritation and did so, loosing his bolt with particular force, feeling satisfaction in seeing it whack into the wood with a very audible thud, point wholly buried.  If it had been sent into soft flesh he would have lost most of the shaft, as well. 

Suddenly a question of Gaer’s returned to him, the question of why he did not speak with the Rohirrim as he did his redheaded friend.  Why not?  I do not know.  His abuser did not hit the center and cursed.  Faramir smiled, “It is no surprise to my thinking that the Lady went outside her lands to wed if all of your men have such softness…” He paused deliberately, “Of arm and carry little skill within it.”

The Rohir jerked to look at him, clearly surprised.  He stared ahead at Faramir’s bolt where it lay securely within the center of the wooden shield and then laughed aloud, clapping his hand to his back.  Faramir jumped a little; he’d been expecting contact of a more aggressive nature.  “Aye, if you like.”  He was dismissed then, leaving Faramir to stare after him, disconcerted, then ahead to his arrow.

I should listen to Gaer, more, I think…  He smiled and withdrew another bolt.

***

 The crowd broke into whistles and whooping cries as arrows flew, thudding into the targets with varying degrees of success.  Éomer grinned and applauded; Faramir’s dart had hit the center again.  But he’d expected as much and this was but the beginning of the contest.  The targets were dragged further down the field, adding distance and a further chance that the light wind would carry their bolts astray.  The performance was repeated and again Faramir’s arrow struck perfectly and he stood waiting. 

Over successive shots with the additions of distance until the shields could be moved no further back, and the use of smaller targets, men were removed from the field until only a handful was allowed to remain.  The Steward was one and looked no more ill at ease than when he’d started—Éomer had begun to wonder if he considered this a contest at all, as every shot had been done with the same effortlessness and seeming lack of care.  He’d also begun to wonder what wood the Gondorian bow was made of; it was smaller than most of the others and yet the farther distances didn’t seem to strain it.  Éomer was impressed with the man’s skill and knew those around him were as well.  Really, he thought the Steward almost looked bored, shooting his arrows swift and effortless, then often shifting his feet and glancing about himself as he waited for others.  After sending another dart into the target with perfect ease, Faramir turned, peering up into the crowd, his expression eagerly searching as a smile of welcome came over his face.

As he was wondering what the man was looking for, his arm was grabbed with a hard hand that dug its nails into his skin painfully and twisted him around; he jumped in shock and pain, turning to see who dared such a thing.  His sister and Arwen had come through the crowd.  She glared at him in outrage, blue eyes flashing, “You were going to let me miss this?  You didn’t think that I would want to watch him?”

Éomer stared at her, unsettled, “What?  No, I…I don’t know.”  Baffled, he gestured to the Queen standing behind her, “You went off with her…what was I supposed to do, run fetch you?”

“Yes!”

He argued, “I didn’t know where you were!”

“Oh…  Just be quiet so I can watch!”  Éowyn shook her head, glowering darkly.  She heaved an irritated sigh and glared at him once more before stepping on her tiptoes to smile and wave at her love, who grinned in cheerful return, raising a hand.  Faramir drew another arrow and turned back to the contest.

Once more they fired their bolts, the target reduced to not much bigger than a man’s head, the painted center as large as an apple; Éomer had to squint to see if any arrows struck but Faramir hit it perfectly yet again.  His companion had long been removed and he stood quietly now, absently rubbing his forearm, as he was not wearing any bracers to protect it from the string’s stinging rebound.  Two men missed the target entirely and only three remained—one of which was the Steward himself.  Éomer grinned and applauded loudly, showing his support; even if the man lost now he would be acknowledged as very skilled indeed.

“Æt me, min cempa!  Faramir, min cempa æt Mundburg, æt Riddermark!”  Éowyn’s spirited cry of encouragement made him smile, as well as her label of champion.  And her sign…the crimson ribbon was still firmly tied to Faramir’s arm.  Éomer studied his heart and was pleased to feel nothing but amusement combined with slight pride in the Steward’s efforts.  He smiled in delight, finding himself utterly at peace.  He felt light, unburdened and shouted for Faramir, openly giving his favor to the Prince.

Faramir turned his head slightly in response to their cheers and there was a flash of a touched, almost embarrassed smile on his face before he shot anew, not bothering to hurry or notch his arrow beforehand.  He simply withdrew one from his quiver and set it to the string, pulled to his cheek and released, all in one motion, all without pause and all with the same perfect confidence of every previous shot.  Around Éomer, the crowd had begun to grow and murmur to one another as people from elsewhere in the festival heard of the contest and came to see the victor.

“Min cempa, gea wille ofercomme him ond deð se geflit!”  Éowyn called out to her love, her voice full of happiness, firmly upholding her earlier cry.  Faramir had to shoot again, but this time he waited until the other two had gone, one missing, before drawing a bolt from his tattered quiver with a flourish, making Éomer grin to himself and chuckle as he came to a realization. 

He’s showing off now that she’s come…it was almost cute, as was the wide, hopeful smile on his sister’s face, one of her hands wrapped around the pendant at the end of her rawhide necklace.  The Queen’s eyes met his and she laughed softly, making Éomer laugh and admit silently that it was adorable.  Oh, so much that it is nauseating…  He chuckled to himself, grinning lightheartedly.  Meanwhile, the Steward had nocked his arrow and pulled, angling the Gondorian bow incredibly steeply and leaning backward with the effort so that his whole body was bowed.  Around them the crowd seemed to gasp and their murmurs turned into concerned, confused whispers as they looked to one another in bafflement.  The remaining Rohir archer stared at him in equal perplexity.

 Éowyn frowned, looking back and forth.  Her voice was anxious, “What is he doing?”  Éomer just shook his head.  He had no idea, but knew, even as a man who rarely shot a bow, that the angle was far too sheer. 

He frowned to himself, staring at the Steward’s bent figure in the second he was stone still, holding the tension, the breath before the release.  But why would he lose on purpose…and in front of my sister?  Faramir had only more one archer to outdo and Éomer found that he was quite confident that the man could accomplish it, which made whatever the Prince was doing all the more puzzling. 

Seemingly oblivious to their worry, and all still with the same perfect confidence, Faramir had pulled until the slender bow looked like it would snap.  The force concentrated against his two fingers and pulling against his arm and shoulder must have been terrible, but to Éomer’s incredulous eye there was no strain to be found within the man’s posture or on his face.  Instead, Faramir appeared nonchalant, wearing a growing smile of triumph.

 When he released, the string didn’t sing so much as howl, twanging back to slap against his unprotected arm as the dart flew impossibly high and far, vanishing into the blue sky.  Straightening to stare ahead, one hand shading his eyes, the other lax with his bow, he wasn’t looking at the sky, but instead straight to the wooden shield.  The Steward’s face was still confident, wearing the relaxed and pleased expression of a man just waiting for what he knew would come.  Éowyn grabbed Éomer’s arm, tearing his gaze away from Faramir’s motionless figure to meet her troubled, eager one, “Where…where did it go?”

He shook his head, peering into the bright sky.  Éomer saw nothing but emptiness and the light of the sun as it began its descent.  He squinted, glancing at the target, then the sky again.  “I don’t know…I don’t see anything.”

“Blind mortals…” Arwen pointed into the air.  The Queen’s cry was full of delighted excitement.  “There!  Look!”  She laughed.  “Watch it fall and see if it lands where our Prince intended!”

After a second of straining, he saw the bolt.  It was tiny, having been sent powerfully upwards, a black needle in the vast field of blue sky, growing larger as it plummeted, curving down, down then angling…

Éomer’s mouth fell open as the bolt sank itself deep into the target, only slightly off-center.  The thudding noise of it was loud within the suddenly quiet throng.  I don’t…  It was difficult to believe what he’d seen, but the proof was still vibrating, point securely embedded in the scarred wood.  Around them the crowd was still and silent for a moment more, turning to one another in shock, then one and all exploded in applause, voicing raucous howls of delight and admiration.  The remaining Rohir archer bowed low to Faramir, who inclined his head in a show of similar appreciation, and walked off the field, gracefully yielding to the Steward without further contest.  Éomer was jostled as Éowyn pushed past him, running down to laugh and embrace her love. 

It was almost too much, he was almost overawed.  This was not a contest…what would be if he could do that so easily?  Éomer walked more slowly down as Faramir lowered his bow carefully to the ground and stepped forward to swing Éowyn up into his arms.  Her laughing cry of surprise made him smile and think kindly, they look so happy…

Then Éomer was astonished to feel a pull another sort on his heart and one he did not recognize—not sadness of her leaving, nor jealousy of how swiftly she’d run down and left him behind—this was nothing he’d felt before in their presence.  It was almost a longing that filled his chest, a lonely sort of yearning as Faramir spun his sister with her dark green skirts flying, flowers fluttering, ribbons shining and floating outward; she leaned close, arms about his neck, hugging him tightly as she shared his triumph.  Something touched him in the way they laughed, their laughter mingling, the way they seemed not two apart, but two together, lines blurred as to where one ended and the other began.

Their eyes were so bright, smiles so radiant.  His heart pined and he glanced at his empty side.  I am alone…  Faramir held his sister up, and kissed her again as he looked on and Éomer sighed deeply.  He was a coward and should not wait.  I will give him leave to go…  He smiled, heart bittersweet.

***

  “That was…” She shook her head, eyes as stars, cheeks flushed with excitement.  Éowyn cupped his face and kissed him firmly before pulling back to exclaim proudly.  “Ge eart min cempa, dyde Ic ná sæge hit?  Min cempa, betst æt se boga.” 

“Gea.”  Somewhat embarrassed by her pride, Faramir laughed and set her back down, bending to pick up his bow and carefully brush the dry dirt from it.  He looked at her furtively as he did so, heart swelling with gratification and finding that while he wasn’t used to such outspoken joy in his efforts since Boromir’s death, the return of it pleased him mightily.

Éomer had come with Arwen and Rusco, who stood on the Lord of the Mark’s boot, panting, his long, pink tongue flapping.  Éomer looked down and gave the puppy a nudge; Rusco didn’t move, so he submitted to being stood upon.  Faramir smiled, daring to glance up at the man and jest in a tone of regret, “I suppose I shouldn’t have done that…”

“Why not?”  Éowyn frowned as well, silently echoing her brother’s astonished question.  “It was…impressive.”  There were volumes of esteemed laudation behind the halting words, but those were intimate emotions the man had no better way of clearly expressing.  Feeling Éomer’s frustration and touched by it, Faramir acknowledged him in the only way he could, with brief eye contact and a smile.  Éomer nodded slightly, almost imperceptibly as a wave of relief came to his mind, and he expressed himself more smoothly.  “It was very impressive.  You possess uncommon skill.” 

If you’d only known how my heart was in my throat…  He laughed.  It had been a shot not guaranteed, a fortunate guess at the proper angle and amount of force.  “Thank you.  But I really shouldn’t have…” He grinned, finishing in a deliberately lightsome fashion.  “Because now I’ll have to devote a summer to teaching your sons the bow.”

Éomer blinked, clearly taken aback.  He shifted his feet and then a hesitant smile came to his face.  He nodded shortly, voice quick and a bit apprehensive, but overall suffused with true fellowship as he answered, still smiling.  “Aye, then maybe you shouldn’t have.”

Éowyn smiled as well, stepping forward to put an arm about his waist and hug her brother’s side.  Éomer looked at her and they shared a moment in which Faramir could read the tacit praise in her eyes and the abashed, but very pleased response in his.  She teased, “If you have sons.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”  Faramir glanced over, near finished with his task of cleaning Tarwatirno; the man’s voice had held too great of a degree of nerves for their playful bantering.  He frowned.  What bothers him?

“I don’t think you could get a maid to settle that long in your company…” Éowyn smiled, “They commend your arm in battle, your bravery, handsome face,” Her smile widened and she laughed, “But I’ve heard nothing of your wit or conversation.  They seem to prefer that you don’t speak.”

Clucking her tongue, Arwen defended Éomer staunchly, “Then they’ve not fit for him.  Foolish things.”  She gave the Lord of the Mark an adoring gaze.  “I find his company very pleasant.”

Éomer half-bowed, grinning.  “Thank you.”  His mind was still in tumult, settling only when the subject was changed.

Éowyn had come back to his side; she touched his bow with light fingers, “What wood is this?”

Faramir held it up; wiped clean, the dark wood was now glowing with care.  This was alive, string humming at his touch, responding to his administrations; his sword was not.  “It’s gathered from groves in Emyn Arnen.”

“Oh.”  She paused, then said with soft casualness, looking him in the eyes, each word filled with warmth and spoken distinctly, “Our home.”  He swallowed, thinking he’d never heard such beautiful words; the simple, free way she’d stated it nearly made him choke.  Éowyn took his hand and her smile was gentle, happy in knowing she’d pleased him. 

He couldn’t speak aloud, resorting to inward communication.  I…I love you…you…

I know, I know and it makes me glad, more than anything.  Her eyes were fastened to his, tender, open, letting him see within to her soul and how proud she was in him, how at ease with him, how blissful in them.

I…I…he possessed no words in the Common Tongue.  Vanimelda…  She smiled in understanding and embraced him briefly, careful not to jostle his bow.  He lowered his head, pressing the side of his face to her hair, breathing in the soft smell of it.

A moment later, Faramir was startled from their intimacy, shocked by the voice made all but unfamiliar with merriment as Éomer leaned to whisper loudly into the Queen’s ear, “That bow?  I bet he made it himself.  You know he makes his own arrows?” 

She laughed.  “Ranger craft, aye, Estel can do amazing things with a few twigs…I got a few such presents in Lórien long before he came into his fortunes.”  Arwen smiled and it was fond as she continued, almost to herself, “I still have them all.”  With a moan, she sighed, “I miss him so.”  For an instant Faramir saw them through Éomer’s eyes—two couples, one momentarily absent, and one fully alone.

He protested, slightly embarrassed.  “No, I didn’t make this.”

A trace of stillness and quiet contemplation had come to his face before Éomer shrugged it off and smiled.  “Not that one, then, Faramir?  I’m disappointed in you.  It’s a lovely bow.”  The Lord of the Mark laughed at him, then extended his arm to Arwen with a declaration, “I’m starving.”

It was late in the afternoon and Faramir felt his own stomach rumble as they walked to where a magnificent table was being carried before Éomer’s pavilion.  Arranged for four places, it seemed very cozy to him, very intimate and pleasant.  Set for repast among family…when he glanced at Éomer, the Lord of the Mark smiled at him and his heart was lifted still further, filled with a happiness so acute it was almost pain.

The light-colored canvas of the tent flapped gently, both ends pulled back to let in the slowly fading sunlight and the breeze that was cooling as the sun sank from its blazing height.  He peeked at it fleetingly through his lashes, Arien…  Éowyn held his arm the entire way and whenever he chanced to look down, her eyes were filled with loving admiration.  Faramir found that he couldn’t stop smiling. 

At his side, she smiled again when he slipped from her arm.  A moment…  With a playful half-bow, Faramir took brief leave of her to replace his bow in Gaer’s tent, checking to see that his sword was returned.  Relieved to find all his possessions well, he next slipped into Éowyn’s tent, intending to plead for license to wash his hands in her water basin.  When he entered, Arwen turned and gasped in mock horror, holding her puppy closely and speaking to the little dog in a girlish voice, “A rogue!  Oh, whatever does he want?”

Éowyn giggled, standing by the wide cot; her girdle of flowers lay untied on it and she was carefully untangling the ribbons from her hair to remove her circlet.  “I can’t imagine.”

“I’m dirty…” Faramir smiled, holding his hands out palm up, “I come to you in supplication, to beg water and a cloth.”

Stepping away from the bed, she intoned, “There is a tax on my basin, rogue.”  Her face was solemn only by great force of will.  He could feel her inner jubilation and played along, smothering his grin to paste on a more pitiful expression.

“What is it?”

“Come closer and I’ll show you how to pay.”  Behind them, Arwen snickered, using a bit of damp linen to clean the dust from Rusco’s coat and paws.  The puppy wiggled, snapping at the cloth and trying vainly to catch it in his little jaws, intending to rip it to shreds. 

“I like this game, I shall have to remember it…” She stared at the cloth walls of the tent and smiled ruefully, “Estel never truly enjoyed playing Lost Lad of Númenor, I think.”  Éowyn looked over at her, nose wrinkled in a grimace and laughed before sobering and crooking a finger at him, her lips compressed and trembling with the effort of not smiling.  Faramir came, head bowed, tone humble. 

“My Lady?”  He bit his tongue not to break into a grin.

Her eyes sparkled like jewels, “I think you know the tax.”

“Aye.”  When he leaned down to kiss her, slightly self-conscious in the Queen’s presence though Arwen had long turned her back to busy herself with Rusco, Éowyn grasped two handfuls of his sable leather surcoat and jerked him forward, scolding in a voice gone breathless with laughter. 

“Pay it rightly or I’ll have you do it again!”

He froze, mouth just inches from where it wanted to be.  Promise?

She’d gone motionless as well, eyes softening; he could feel her melt and then the flush of her sweet desire came over him before she laughed and wrapped her arms around him, hugging and yet not kissing.  Éowyn’s smile was content, utterly serene.  “I promise.” 

Faramir laughed, using his most roguish growl, “That doesn’t give me much incentive…”

Éowyn leaned back, pulling against his waist and gave a little, adorable jump up against him as she cried with laughing impatience, “Oh do it, before I have to beg!”

Lowering his mouth, he watched as she anticipated, lips parting slightly.  Feeling her desire and the way she softened further to press to his front, Faramir gave her the lightest of kisses, no more than a brush of yielding lips, a taste of her warmth, a test of her willing pliancy.  When he pulled back after that first, delicate touch, Éowyn gave a faint moaning breath of disappointment, fingers pulling at his surcoat; the sound and feel made his heart jump with eagerness and longing.  Faramir smiled, taunting, “Wait…” He narrowed his eyes, “You’d beg?”

She bit her lip, tilting her head and smiling endearingly.  Éowyn freed her hand and reached up to touch his chin, thumb skimming over the swell of it, pressing the slight dimple in the center.  Leisurely, she gazed at his mouth, then locked eyes with him, licking her lips.  Her smile was self-aware, full of womanly confidence; before it, he quailed just a little.  Voice throaty, she murmured, “Possibly.”

 Relenting because he had no reply, he kissed her then and she demanded two, catching the nape of his neck and making it linger delightfully.  Her tongue touched his; she tilted her head for a new angle, one of her hands catching his jaw and pulling him closer before releasing him to wash.  Voice still low, she commanded, “Go on.”

“Thank you.”  Faramir rinsed his hands in the cool water, drying them on a soft cloth.  Now he was fit for supper…at least here in these lands, he thought with a smile, glancing at his dusty boots, a few burrs from walking in the grass clinging to his trousers.  Quickly, years of the habit of propriety goading him, he plucked the briars away and stamped his boots to shake the worst of the dirt from them.

When he’d finished and turned, Éowyn had withdrawn a few sweet-smelling cloths from her bags and set them on the cot.  Her voice was playful, innocently contemplative as she packed a few things into a little satchel, “Now, whomever could I find to watch out for me while I bathe in the river before dinner…?”

Chuckling under his breath, Faramir came behind her, wrapping his arms about her waist to murmur, “I wouldn’t know.”  He nuzzled to her neck, “Hmmm…me?”

Nearby, Arwen rolled her eyes and he laughed aloud.  The Queen advised, “Wear the red gown when you come back.”

“You think?” 

Arwen nodded.  “Yes.”

Éowyn turned to smile at him, compressing her lips and obviously forcing herself to say sternly.  “You can’t.”

He pouted, “Why not?”

She kissed him, explaining lightly, “You’d join me, you rogue.”  Her eyes lit up, “How about those virtuous lads of yours…wouldn’t that lift their spirits?”

Faramir laughed, I think that it would.  He frowned a little.  “They’d want to join you, too.”  No doubt they’d be watching her from the trees or some such place of hiding.  He eyed her, doubting.  If they could trail Oswyn and two Rohirrim…  Faramir tightened his arms over her waist in an unconscious gesture of possessiveness.  I taught them stealth…perhaps I shouldn’t have.

Patting his cheek, she slipped from his embrace with a laugh, “But they wouldn’t dare join me…” Éowyn gave him an ardently teasing smile, “I’d turn around and you’d be in the water, too.”

Would that be so bad?

No.  She smiled, more shyly this time, and spoke aloud, “It would be wonderful…but,” Éowyn’s smile turned merry, “Hardly proper.”

With a deep sigh, he agreed.  “No, and no, they wouldn’t dare.” 

“Good.”  Éowyn poked her head out of the tent, calling to one of Éomer’s guards.  Faramir listened as the man was instructed to find the Hordere’s students and bring them to her. 

“It may take some time.”  He looked up with all innocence that he could manage, “I’m right here.”

The Queen smiled, adding to their conversation.  “I rather think they’ll come at a run.”  It seemed she was right, for Wurth was peeking into the partially open flap of the tent almost at once.

“Good.  Here they are.”  Éowyn gave him a broad, confident smile as she breezed out, surveying her four young guardians.  The lads immediately bowed in a show of deference.  “These are your students?”  She beamed, “I’d forgotten they were such handsome men…and civil, as well.  But I doubt that’s your teaching…” Her face turned briefly mischievous, sending a smirk in his direction before she smiled again, asserting.  “They look to be fine Riders.” 

Again she’d left off any indication that they were youths, lads barely to their fifteenth year.  Faramir felt compelled to point it out.  “Fine young Riders you mean.”  Wurth stiffened and he saw a flash of anger go across the boy’s features. 

“Ah, was that how you got into trouble?”  Her eyes sparkled.  Éowyn was nearly laughing.

He scowled a little, not really lying, “Yes.” 

She wasn’t laughing now, but looking at the lads in a way he couldn’t exactly read—it was compassion, but not at all mixed with soft sympathy, more resolute than that.  Her voice, too, was unreadable.  Quiet now, she murmured.  “I understand.  More than once I was called too young…and other things.”  They retreated before her as Éowyn took a step forward, and their eyes were wide, nearly as full of shrinking timorousness as deep admiration.  Folding his arms, Faramir assumed a stern expression, carefully standing where she could not see him; he kept his face very strict through her greeting, silently laying an undercurrent that they should comply honorably or else. 

She smiled; her cloths were in her arms and the strap of a small satchel was wrapped around her wrist.  “Hæl, min freonds.”  The five lads bobbed their heads as one, answering,

“Hæl, min Ides.”  His expression of sternness was tested; Faramir bit the inside of his cheek.  Éowyn smiled, glancing over her shoulder.  He knew at once that she could feel his amusement and shared it. 

They are adorable. 

They won’t be when you notice one peeking at you gawk-eyed from the trees… 

Voice purposeful, obviously trying not to giggle, she began, “Ic gangen easteð.”  Éowyn nodded to the riverbanks, “Ic þurfe a mann æt bewit me.”  Her eyes fell on them in turn as another, wider smile grew, “Wilst ge…?”

They answered before she finished, nodding quickly and mumbling almost as one, again.  “Gea, min Ides.”  Faramir had molded his face back to its expression of sternness—he gave each lad a forbidding glare as Éowyn continued, her voice firmly questioning now, brooking no foolishness,

“Fremeden hit mid clæne gehygd?”  Wurth glared back, not budging an inch.  Scef had flushed at the question, making him bite his tongue not to smile at the shy boy.

Again there was a flurry of nodding among mumbled, earnest replies, “Gea, min Ides.”

“God.”  She turned and Faramir quickly smiled, unable to hide his lesser enthusiasm.  Éowyn read his expression and laughed softly.  Her eyes were teasing as she reached up to pinch his chin, shaking his face back and forth very gently.  “Not jealous, are we, min cempa?”  She dropped her hand to finger the red ribbon; he’d long forgotten about it.

With a sigh, Faramir shook his head.  “No.”  He gestured to the river, “Go on.”

Éowyn stood on tiptoe to kiss him and then turned, lightly commanding her young guardians, “Com mid me.”  The four lads trotted after her, glancing at him warily and giving him room before grouping to whisper excitedly to one another and stare at her back. 

Faramir watched after them and smiled to himself.  If I were a lad again…his Éowyn was beautiful; he would have done near anything to spy upon her at her bath, no matter her paramour’s stern glares.  Ah, well.  It was not as though he’d given her no warning. 

***

Éowyn slowed, abruptly self-conscious of her swift, decisive and not at all ladylike strides.  I must practice again…she would keep to her vow of minding her manners and no more, but her admittedly faulty sense of decorum would have to be revised and upheld as well.  I will be a Lady, I must act like one in public, at the very least.  Her legs felt impatient to be held to such a leisurely stride, but she gritted her teeth and walked slow.  Why does it have to be so hard?

Despite her easy pace, the lads still kept to her heels.  Finally, she stopped, letting them circle her.  They shifted their feet, nervous, and kept their heads bowed, making her smile.  “Ic ná wille bit.”  They laughed, but nervously still.  She asked for their names, looking at them in turn.

“Wurth, min Ides.”  The tallest lad was the most daring, smiling and bowing slightly from the waist.  He added forwardly, “I await your desire, my esteemed Lady.”  His words were bold, but she saw how he trembled with nerves to address her in so open a fashion.

Éowyn nodded, trying desperately not to giggle; she adored them already.  The next spoke softly, giving his name in a lower, gentler voice.  He barely met her eyes, “Scef.”  She nodded again, encouraging the shy lad.  Éowyn highly doubted that bold Wurth needed much encouragement.

Two gave their names almost at once, “Leodthain.”

“Feohtan.”  He’d stared at her with concentration during her brief speech with Faramir and she was uncertain if he knew much of the Common Tongue.

When she came to the last, she spoke for him, “Ond Gudrad.”  He nodded, smiling a little.  Éowyn began walking again, this time making sure they stayed with her.  None spoke, so she asked curiously, “Did you enjoy Faramir as your teacher?”

Wurth nodded.  “Aye.”  He seemed to speak for them all, both as boldest and eldest, she guessed.

“What did he teach you besides the bow?”  Amused, Éowyn listened to a wealth of herblore and woodcraft recited in eager voices in both the Common Tongue and Rohirric, obviously learned with the same eagerness.  As they trailed off, she asked, “Tell me, since he did not, why is it that he thinks you are cross with him?  Besides that he thinks you are young…why is it that he thinks so?”  She clarified, “What did you do to make that come to his mind?”  The lads looked at one another and she waited.  Éowyn had not bothered to press Faramir—at his very reluctance to bring it up, she’d decided the boys would be easier to question.  But the five lads still had not spoken, so she prodded, “He said something of being accused of treating you like children…”

“My Lady…” Wurth looked pained; he obviously did not wish to answer, yet knew he must.

“Yes?”  Éowyn did not push yet, still wanting their free compliance.  She soothed, “I will not be angered.”

“You would.”  He amended hastily, speaking with more respect, “My Lady, I think that you might be.”

“Why is that?”  The lad looked to the others, face desperate and questioning, but she said more firmly, “Do not look to them Wurth, you seem to speak for them all.  Your Lady has asked you a question, will you not answer it?”

His voice quavered; there was not much boldness in him now as he forced himself to meet her expectant gaze.  Wurth whispered, “N-ná.  Ná.”

She arched an eyebrow.  “Disobedience on the behalf of Faramir?”  Éowyn didn’t know whether to be charmed or annoyed by their loyalty.

Wurth answered again, tensely, “A-aye, min Ides.”

Looking away to take the pressure from him for a moment, she murmured softly, taking a different approach, “You’re making me fear for what he did.”

Leodthain blurted, his brow creased, worry in his eyes, “Do not, min Ides.”

“Why not?  I’ve no reason not to…unless you would give me one.”  She smiled inwardly; apparently, a mild, ladylike attitude could be an occasional boon.

Gudrad stirred, his features tense.  “Min Ides…”

She asked archly, allowing some of her impatience to show, “Yes?”

This time Scef spoke, just as worried but very earnest.  His pure heart shone through his words and humble face, “He did naught to us, min Ides…fear not, our Láréow is man good and kind.”

Éowyn smiled, captivated by the lad.  She assumed an expression with more sternness, “Then what do you hide?  Not what he did, but the nature of how he angered you, then?  The circumstance?  Or was it another that acted…?”  Wurth looked sharply away and dark anger flashed in more than one eye; she felt close to guessing the reason.  “Well?”  None answered and the lack clearly weighed upon them.  They were good lads, dearly loyal; unfortunately, she thought, their loyalty had shifted to another.  Éowyn sighed deeply and began walking again.  “Com.” It would be sunset before she returned if she questioned them much longer.  I might not know all of a Lady’s qualities but I guess that making the Lord of her land wait on their dinner is not one of them. 

At the banks she sent four of the five lads away, one upstream, the other down and two to stand guard from the direction she’d come.  Scef seemed to be the shyest and purest in action and least likely to spy upon her so she bade him stay nearest, guarding the opposite shore from a spot that, admittedly, it would be very easy for him to see her.  Before she’d sent them to their duty, Éowyn gave them all firm looks, reminding them, “Mid clæne gehygd.”

  The lads nodded and trudged to their stations, Scef mounting a small knoll to stand guard over the tree-lined banks.  Slipping through a few bushes and putting distance between them, Éowyn glanced about.  Above and at an angle, Scef was still properly turned aside.  She watched him as she laid her cloths down, taking a lump of perfumed soap from her satchel, as well as a comb.  The lad’s head never turned, so she kicked off her shoes, pulled her stockings off and began to slip from her green gown.  Piling her garments on a patch of grass, carefully laying aside the jade bracelet and rawhide necklace, she stood nude for a moment, enjoying the warm breeze, the heat of the sun on her pale skin.  Really, it was a shame Faramir was behind in the festival…or was he?  Éowyn smiled, glancing around herself.  For all she knew he could have followed and kept hidden.  Her knowledge of his woodcraft was limited but from the magnitude of the lads’ recitations her love knew much.  Faramir?  There was no answer, which was both reassuring and disappointing.  It would not be long before he had leave to join her at a whim and Éowyn told herself to enjoy her solitude while she may.  Ah, but there is less pleasure in it…she giggled to herself, then made a face, sounding revoltingly girlish even to her own ears.  Slapping her bare flank with impatience, she made herself pick up the soap and approach the river.

The water was cool in the shade, making her bite her lip to keep silent; they were but boys, after all, and a cry from her would be a convenient excuse to come running.  Éowyn glanced up again warily but Scef was still facing away to the opposite bank.  Her eyes scanned the brush along the riverbank where she was, but none of the bushes rustled or gave sign of any occupants.  The trees were similarly empty.  Splashing a bit and enjoying the water, she kept where she could feel the muddy bottom and swiftly washed, taking more time to work the soap into her hair.  Éowyn rinsed and soaped it several times, unsure of how swiftly the dye would come out. 

After the last rinse, diving deep and feeling the water icy near the mud, warming by degrees until she came to the surface, Éowyn pulled a handful of her hair over her shoulder to peer at it in the sun.  Pleased, she determined that she’d lightened her hair by several shades.  It was still darker than normal, but more a warm reddish ocher than the deep, robust chestnut of before.  She washed it once more, then lay on her back and drifted in the water, staring up at the sky, moving her arms gently to stay afloat.  The overhead view of the trees and the soft sounds of water lapping around her body put her back in mind of the boat and Faramir.  She felt the cool sense of peace that came with it as she stared at the dappled leaves, gnarled branches hanging with vines, high brush withered from drought.  The warmth in her heart, she felt not, that was in him.

But the light was dimmer now, shadows creeping and deepening around her, making the water murky.  Rising, Éowyn put her feet back to the mud and glanced over her shoulder to where Scef had stood; his head was still turned.  Good lad…  Quick now that she was done, she splashed to the bank and began to dry herself vigorously, well aware of her nakedness.  She began to imagine Faramir watching her from the trees and slowed, smiling to herself and taking her time.  Éowyn knew it was silly, but it amused her to put on a show for him, even if he wasn’t there to see.  Perhaps later I could describe it for him.  She shivered in anticipation, laughing under her breath as she dried her legs.

 There was a noise, a soft crackle, like that from of a foot set too heavily on a bit of the dry underbrush.  With a gasp, Éowyn froze, heart beating faster, and gathered the cloths to her front; her bare skin prickled.  Softly, so as not to be heard by the nearby Scef, she asked, “Hwa is hit?”  Faramir? 

Again, there was a faint rustle.  Neither of the sounds had been loud enough to pinpoint and she could see no movements in the undergrowth, or as her eyes raised, the trees’ boughs.  Feeling herself tremble with growing nerves, this time she called his name aloud in hopes, “Faramir?”  Surely, even if he’d come to spy, he would have revealed himself after a moment of scaring her; he was not so heartless as to frighten her by remaining hidden.  Éowyn glanced backwards.  Scef was still staring at the opposite banks.  Assuming they’d kept their places like he, her lads would have caught all others…unless it was one of the young Riders who came to see me at my bath…

Éowyn stood straighter, calling upon her authority as the White Lady; she put all of it into her low question.  “Hwa is hit?”  Paying no heed to her nakedness, save the few cloths held to her bosom and front, she marched up the grassy banks to stand nearer to the scrub of bushes and grass, choked with tall, spindly thistles.  I can be horribly embarrassed once I roust this fool…  Éowyn peered into the tangle, discerning nothing but shadows and slightly withered yellow-green foliage.  Above her, the trees were the same, birds flying unconcernedly from one to another.  Neither brush nor branches held any spying men.  Faramir, answer me?  If you are hiding, I swear I shall be very cross with you…her inner voice trailed off with a brief prickle of shame.  He was not here and such wicked things were unlike her Prince.

There was another crackle, this one louder and she jumped to face where she thought it might have come from, voice tight as she demanded, “Andwurde me.  Ic abanne ge.  Answer me.  I command you.”  Éowyn waited, heart thudding, but there was no answer, either from Faramir or a guilty peeping lad, and no further noises.  A breeze blew, making the bushes wave gently and the tree branches sway.  Frowning, Éowyn was aware that the sound of leaves and brush rustling and moving could have easily masked any retreating footsteps.  Eventually, still wary, she finished drying herself and, glancing about furtively, regarbed herself in the green gown, putting back on the bracelet and necklace.  The dark blue and green dolphin was warm from the sun, a spot of heat against her water-cooled flesh.  There had been nothing suspicious for several minutes but she felt watched and not at all comfortable enough to sit and comb her lightened hair by the pleasant waterside as she’d planned.  Slipping back into her stockings and shoes, she shivered.  No, she had no more desire to remain.

  When she emerged from her refuge in the bushes, hair still dripping and tangled, Scef turned, eyeing her with curiosity.  Éowyn was briefly amused and heartened to note relief in his face when his gaze alighted on her lightened mane.  Did none like it?

He frowned, though, as she looked about, “Min Ides?”

“Did you see anyone?”

He shook his head, voice honest.  “No.”

“Good.” 

“Did you, min Ides?”  There was concern in his young voice. 

“No, but I heard…” He frowned and she shook her head, “It was nothing, no more than a hare.”  With a smile for his proper manners, she dismissed the crackle as a small woodland animal and her imaginations as left over fears—Gríma would have trailed her to her bath without hesitation.  Éowyn shuddered a little, remembering the resentful, lecherous way he’d spoken to her, looked at her and even touched her, grateful he was long banished from the Mark.  He’d not always been so callous, but she’d never cared for him; he’d been too zealous and too uncaring of her lack of desire for his presence even before she’d openly scorned him as unworthy. 

A chilling thought struck her.  Or so we believe he is banished…  Éowyn looked around herself again, horror in her soul.  No, no, do not be foolish…suddenly the thought of Minas Tirith’s high walls, multitudes of armed, uniformed guards and the barrier where the gate had stood was very, very comforting.  I would be safe there, safe from all bad memories…

Away from the river, she found the other four lads were still in their positions and that none were flushed, appeared to be breathing fast or looked in any way to have run back from the Snowbourn.  Meeting their eyes, she found none held guilt, either, only the same shyness of before.  Relieved at their abilities to maintain decency, she led them back to the festival, deciding that even if one had spied on her, it was no matter.  They were but harmless lads.

But…Éowyn shook her head sharply, sending drops of water from her wet hair onto her cheeks.  Do not be foolish!  Jaw clenched, she stared ahead, the lads following her, not noticing their inquisitive, worried looks.  Finally her worry infuriated her to the point of breakage and she thought violently, and if he is not banished, Faramir and my brother would hunt him down as the wretch deserves!  This thought, at last, gave her a measure of comfort, but her hands wanted to twist.

Suddenly Wurth spoke, “Does it trouble you greatly, my Lady?”

They’d mistaken her remembered fear for the other, the mystery concerning Faramir.  “It does some.”  Éowyn halted, meeting their eyes.  She spoke carefully, “I am puzzled.  You are loyal enough to Faramir to refuse to answer my questions, yet how are you still so angered with him…?”  If she could not soften Arwen to Aragorn, perhaps she could do this lesser task of returning rapport.

The boys looked to one another.  Scef answered, “Not angered much.”

Wurth argued with voice heated, reminding her somewhat of her brother’s stubborn, irrational temper.  He sounded like he was continuing an argument long fought, “He was wrong!  We can fight, we are not children…!”  The lad shut his mouth quickly.

Éowyn’s heart jumped to her throat as fear tightened her chest, then turned to anger that burned like a red-hot ember lodged within her ribcage.  She asked with deceptive quiet, “Fight?”  None spoke but the riddle was easy enough now.  Faramir had forbid them to fight for or with him, calling them too young.  Éowyn clamped her jaw, furious as she hissed, “With who?  Fight with who?”  That man the day he rode or another? 

Scef answered faintly.  “Lord Éomer sent him away.  No one fought, we helped Láréow.”  The lad’s voice was soothing, trying to comfort her and ease her supposed worry.

Éowyn did not worry so much as she raged.  With an effort, her temper was pushed aside and she asked with a softer tone, “Did you?”

“Aye.”  They were looking at her fretfully.  

She closed her eyes briefly, rage giving way to cold fear again.  Please, please, I could not stand it if he were hurt…  “Good.  I thank you.”  Éowyn took a breath and offered them, for their bravery and loyalty, a reward of their choosing.

The lads just looked at each other and when they answered timidly she burst into delighted laughter, momentarily forgetting her terror.

***

Éomer found Faramir seated at the broad table, drinking wine.  Servants moved around him, setting platters and goblets, as well as knives for eating.  A few dishes were already on the table; the majority was being set.  He hesitated, then asked in real curiosity.  “Where is my sister?”

The Steward nodded to the river.  “Bathing.”

He frowned, “Now?”  Faramir shrugged with an easy smile.  Éomer stood a minute more, but Arwen was nowhere to be seen.  He sat at the end of the table in his honored seat and looked at the man nervously.  Faramir had taken his usual spot on his left, a chair lying empty between them for Éowyn.  They sat in peaceful quiet, the Steward watching people walk by with interest.  Loathe to disturb him, Éomer busied himself for a few minutes with looking at the dishes laid on the table—braised beef and onions with golden leeks; guinea fowl in apple and cider sauce with shallots; pies of coneys and ducks.  He smiled when he noticed partridges stuffed in his favorite dish.  But there were more—vegetable pottage with hedgerow herbs; loaves of barley bread; capons in many dishes as well as fish; chopped and browned vegetables and pork roasted with spiced wine, haddock in sauce.  It was a rich multitude, making him marvel as still more was placed on the table.  Finally, he could delay no longer and began, “I wish to say something…”

The Steward turned to him, expression inquisitive.  Éomer took a deep breath; he’d thought to put it for the last day of the festival, to give himself longer, but he knew that was cowardice.  Better now, to get used to the idea than later, better to ease his parting with a few days than shear himself away so swiftly.  Or so I hope… 

He’d taken too long.  Faramir spoke, his face had gentled and there was clear support in his grey eyes.  “Yes?”

Éomer’s mouth was dry.  He sipped some of the wine the servants had poured him and tried to find a way to begin.  “I see…now…how happy you and Éowyn are together…and…”

Faramir nodded in understanding; his expression was still gently encouraging.

“And…” Éomer looked away, “I don’t wish to hinder that happiness any longer.”  He struggled, heartsick.  “I think that, when I ride on to the Wold…” No more would come.  He ground his teeth, forcing out, “That you and my sister should return to Edoras,” The last was a rough mutter, “You should go on to the City, tarry no more in the Mark.”  There was no answer, so Éomer made himself look up, say again with more forcefulness, “You should go, leave.  I’ll not hold you anymore.”  Faramir was looking at him, but not speaking.  The Steward toyed with his cup, watching the dark wine swirl.  Éomer fidgeted, not understanding.  He would have expected delight, even anger for his irrationality of demanding service and proof of knowledge, yet then releasing it so suddenly without that proof, anything but the contemplative stillness he was faced with.  He waited longer, feeling the awkwardness grow, at his end, at least; Faramir did not look perturbed, only musing as his gaze returned to the passing crowd.  Stiltedly, confused, he asked,  “Do you not understand me?”

“I do.”

“Then, don’t you want to leave?”

Faramir smiled and shook his head slowly.  “No, I don’t.”

Utterly baffled, he blurted, “Why not?”  Éomer was almost angered.  What did I torment myself for if he doesn’t wish to go?  Why does he not wish to go?  It was inconceivable, unbelievable. 

“I’m not finished.”

He was angry now, asking irritably, “Not finished with what?  Did you not hear?  There is nothing for you to do, nothing to prove.”  Éomer added, dejected even in his anger.  He waved a hand in a sharp gesture of impatience and grief.  “You can leave, go on to your City, you’ve nothing to hold you.” 

“I heard.”  The Steward set his cup down with a decisive thump, turning to fold his hands in his lap and gaze at him with calm eyes.  “And I disagree.” 

He stared at the man, open-mouthed, even looking about himself in search of aid.  Faramir was utterly mad.  What…?  What?  What is he…what does he speak of? 

The Steward repeated, shaking his head, “I disagree, I’m not at all finished here.”  He smiled, “I’m sorry.” 

At Faramir’s quiet, almost amused apology, Éomer lost his hold on his temper and he burst out, frustrated, “I’m releasing you, go on, take her, be happy!  Have your lives!”

The Steward seemed about to speak, paused, and then shook his head again.  “No, I won’t.”  He smiled, “Though I wish to and I thank you.”  His words were more cautious, “I know that was very difficult.”

“You know…you do know!”  And you throw it back in my face!  He sputtered, incredulous, half-wondering if this was some vengeful plot to infuriate him, but that was not like Faramir at all.  “But…why not?”

“Mithrandir spoke of danger.  There has been none.”  Éomer was speechless.  The man was mad, so completely mad that he could not see an escape when he was offered one.  Faramir’s gaze fell on him and for the first time in a long while there were sparks of anger as he said, “I don’t want to escape.”

He tensed slightly, ordering.  “Don’t do that.”

The Prince dipped his head, “My apologies.”  Éomer nodded impatiently as the man went on, “I feel that if I leave now…it will be purposeless.  I’ve not proven anything to anyone save you.”  Faramir smiled, “Some would think that a great enough feat, but not I.”  His smile faded, “I’ve more.”

Éomer scoffed, “What does it matter?  What does it matter in the South if they,” He flung out a hand to indicate the passing masses, “dislike you?”  Incredulous, he begged, “What does it matter here?”

“It matters much to my thinking.”

“Why?”  All his questions came to this, a desperate entreaty.

The Steward shifted in his chair, frowning, playing with his knife.  “I cannot say.  It is a feeling.”

“You want me to command them to love you?”  What do you want?

Faramir laughed at his suggestion.  “No.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m not sure…but it lies here for the moment.”  The Steward sighed and his eyes went far away, “I miss my City, the stone, the wind from the height, the horns that changed the guard…the view of the Pelennor, the mountains and the Great River…” He trailed off and Éomer followed his gaze.  Éowyn had returned, followed by five lads that she smiled and spoke with, dismissing them, he guessed.  Her hair was lighter, a dark rose honey color rather than the deep reddish-brown of before.  She seemed to feel Faramir’s scrutiny and turned, smiling briefly, then entering her tent.

Éomer asked, hardly knowing he was about to speak.  “Do you stay for her?”

“No…not any longer.  I think her heart is readied,” Faramir looked at him sharply, “Not that it will not be a parting of great sorrow, you understand…?”  His face had become troubled, anxious.

“Yes.”  He watched some of the anxiety vanish.  Éomer did, very much, as well as he understood the Steward was trying to comfort him.  It was odd, that, but quite welcome.  “You stay for yourself alone, then, in this land that does not hold the bones of your fathers?”

“Yes…for a while longer.”  Faramir turned to him and there was a surprisingly boyish smile on his face, “I like it here.”

“You like it?”

“Not when I’m having to fight, no, but otherwise, it’s very nice.”  He looked around himself and murmured, “Simple.”

Éomer stared at him for a long while.  Simple…that’s because he doesn’t have to do anything or make any decisions…  Faramir was not in charge in the Mark, nor beholden to anything or anyone within its boundaries.  In the City that would change drastically, he would be a Prince again with duties and great charges; a Lord called upon daily.  And all this with a wife, my sister who will push him still forward in her desire to accomplish things of greatness… he knows that as well.

Éomer felt compassion grow in his heart, wondering if Faramir was afraid of what his life would come to be once he rode out of the Mark.  Afraid that you cannot meet the challenge?  That you will be unworthy in all eyes, even hers?  That is not so hard to understand…why do you not say so?  He’d not known Faramir to be so fearful in speaking his heart or so held by what he might consider weak behavior.

  He himself was terrified of what he would do once Éowyn left and would admit it in a moment.  My days will be filled with silence, empty silence…the sound of the winds over the mounds of my Uncle and cousin…  He looked down at the table, its surface covered with a fine cloth.  Éomer touched it gently, rubbing it between his fingers, feeling its smoothness, its softness.  It was a cloth that a King expected on his table.

They sat wordless until Éowyn and Arwen joined them.

***

Faramir smiled at her, rising to acknowledge her arrival.  Éowyn looked beautiful, hair lighter and thus better to his eye, with a warm red gown that clung to her curves.  The red of the gown brought out the reddish tones still left in her hair and it looked pretty.  He told her so, smiling lightly, his spirits lifted by her presence. 

She nodded and smiled in reply, “Thank you.”  But as she seated herself, there were shadows in her face, matching the ones he was certain lurked in his.  He sensed anger and distrust, a welling sense of helpless grief and gazed at her, troubled.

Unable to bear it, he leaned to murmur into her ear, “What is wrong?” 

Éowyn’s eyes were very vulnerable, nearly gleaming with tears.  She looked away, blinking and whispering back, “Nothing.  Nothing.” 

He frowned.  Éomer was looking at him nervously, wondering if he would speak of his offer or not.  The man smiled, greeting his sister with a little nod.  “You look nice.”

She smiled weakly in return, repeating, “Thank you.”  Éowyn turned to Arwen and fiddled with her damp hair.  “No one liked it save me.”

The Queen sighed.  “Ah, well.”  Her smile was far firmer, urging.  “But as long as you did…?”  Éowyn just nodded faintly and Arwen frowned.

Faramir watched his wine move as he tilted the cup, thinking.  Éomer’s offer had come as a shock, one that opened a black pit of fear in his belly.  He’d thought at that moment he would have felt great joy and eagerness to return but Faramir felt only the slightest of homesickness when faced with the prospect of actually packing his belongings, finding and mounting his horse and riding back to Minas Tirith.  He gnawed his lip, tapping his fingers against his thigh.  What is wrong with me?  Why did he seek to stay?  To prove myself to them…his eyes turned to the crowd.  Éomer was right, and sensible, in stating that it mattered not.  Then why did it matter to him? 

I don’t understand.  He rubbed his temples, then turned to Éowyn.  She was gazing at him, quiet and watchful.  When she spoke her voice held a dark anger that swiftly turned to dejection.  The sadness astonished her, melding with her distrust so that her voice was a low murmur when she leaned to ask,

“Why did you not tell me?”

Faramir asked carefully, “Tell you what?”

“That some of my people want to hurt you.  That,” She included her brother with a raking glance, “you had to send one away.”

Face guilty, Éomer looked aside and did not respond.  Faramir took a breath, answering, “I would have bothered you to know it, I thought…”

“And what will you do when we are wed?  Keep from me all things bothersome?”  Éowyn surprised him with her frankness and her open hurt, as well as her effortless talk of their marriage. 

“No…”

She gazed at him, wounded, voice small and sad.  “I would hope not.”  Picking up her knife, she began to eat with no further comment.  He’d hurt her.  Faramir felt guilt and his own desperate confusion.  Looking about himself, he tried to lighten his spirits with the bright flags of the Mark as they rippled in the wind, the growing orange light of torches and bonfires scattered here and there, the laughter of passing folk.  His eyes lingered long on playing children as they ran and caught another, their laughter high-pitched, their glee touching him.  None worked.

He turned, hands clasped tightly in his lap, and stated simply, “I’m sorry.  I didn’t want to burden you…” Faramir fought to keep any defensiveness from his tone, “I am able to care for myself.”

“I know, you don’t need help.”  He frowned.  Éowyn added, “They told me, your lads.”  She smiled thinly, “And the next time, if he comes with more than an ally or two, but a knife, a blade in the dark?  You can care for yourself then?”

He struggled, “Yes.”

Éomer was frowning darkly, not wishing to interrupt.  He did so anyway, blunt and earnest, eager to soothe her and, Faramir sensed with a small smile, return them to happiness.  “He will not come again, he is riding with Elfhelm.  Do not fear, sister, please.”

“Yes, do not fear, as I was not to fear for you.”  Her eyes were so dispirited it pained his heart.  She laughed bitterly, “Tell me how I am not to fear danger to the ones I love most, the two I love alone in all the world?”  At the word danger, Éomer’s eyes flicked to his and he straightened.  Faramir tensed, knowing the man would now plead his case unless he spoke otherwise.  Éowyn would certainly agree in this moment, he knew; her mind was awhirl with fear and concern for him.

Do I want to leave?  He sighed and interrupted just as Éomer opened his mouth.  “I’m sorry.  I will take more care in the future.”

Éowyn compressed her lips, worrying them.  “Swear it to me?”  Her eyes met his, “Anything that happens to you is as it happens to me…” Voice hesitant with this public show of intimacy, she murmured in frustration, “Faramir…I hurt when I see you hurt.”  This surprised him and he softened, nodding quietly.  Her hand reached to touch his face, palm cradling his jaw, fingers gently skimming his yellowed bruises.  “I see these and I don’t wish to see more…” Éowyn swallowed and her eyes shone with dread, “Or worse.  Please swear?”

“I swear.”  No relief touched her, so he said further, “I swear that I will take care,” Éowyn smiled faintly and he finished, “By the White Tree and the White Horse, you have my word that I will return unharmed barring accident.”  He added simply, “I cannot help that.”

She nodded, “I know.”  Éowyn looked down and her tightly interlaced hands, “Thank you.”

        Faramir frowned, weary.  I am not helpless…

But you are not invincible. 

He could not argue with a plain statement of truth.  Éomer said very quietly, “I will watch out for him in the Wold, sister.”  The man’s eyes met his and they were grave though the Lord of the Mark gave him a slight smile acknowledging that he truly needed no watching.  However, at the same time, when he looked again to his sister, his level gaze firmly upheld Éowyn’s concerns.  Faramir sighed. 

He wanted to protest, to vehemently declare that he was not an invalid, but Éowyn was looking to him, her face still and vulnerable.  “All right…” He asked in hope, “Does this please you, ease your heart?”

Swallowing, she nodded.  “Yes.”

 He made himself smile and ask with more cheer, “Then smile for me and be merry?”  She did, giving him a gentle curve of her lips with her eyes still troubled.  Faramir caught her hand to squeeze it firmly and she smiled with more conviction.  Then, as he relaxed and turned to survey the first of the dishes offered, Éowyn leaned from her chair to embrace him tightly.  He froze, astonished as her arm wrapped around his front, brow to his cheek, her face pressing against his neck, breath hot on his skin as she breathed raggedly.  She held him for a few heartbeats, then inhaled; he heard her throat click and she withdrew without a word to pick up a piece of bread, still quiet.

It touched him, this nearly desperate embrace and Faramir looked at her, heart aching.  Éowyn put a little butter on her bread, eating slowly and without much appetite.  I will be fine…nothing will happen.

I know.  He slid his chair closer to put his arm around her.  Éowyn leaned against it in welcome, one of her hands clutching the dolphin pendant.  In the silence, minstrels came to sing and play their instruments, giving their Lord entertainment as he dined.  All in all it was a solemn meal, the musicians picking up the tone of their table to play slow, gentle tunes.  After a while she leaned her head against his shoulder and he kissed her temple.

He looked at the men as they played and asked her, “Do you want to dance with me when we’ve finished?  Just for a song?”

She smiled and it was more natural, more relaxed and held more merriment, reassuring him incredibly.  “Yes, but not in front of my brother.”

Éomer protested loudly, his features relieved at their easy speech.  “I said nothing!”

A little of her cheek had returned as she asked, “What would you have?”

His tone was gentler, a little embarrassed, “That you looked lovely, sister.”  A beat, “Happy.”

Éowyn’s eyes narrowed and she scrutinized him for several seconds before smiling.  She reached to put her hand over her brother’s arm, squeezing it.  “Thank you.”

When she turned back to him, he smiled.  “Good.”  Faramir leaned to kiss her brow.  Éowyn closed her eyes, opening them a moment later, slowly, gazing through her pale lashes.  It was all so intimate with their locked gazes heartfelt and open to bare souls and their touches bringing them closer in a way not at all related to carnal desire that he felt strange and slightly frightened by the depth of her emotions.  With her newly willing familiarity, Éowyn tested his courage.  Now she was the one pushing him, urging him to give of himself, to do and accept things that he did truly not wish to merely because she asked.  Faramir looked at her and smiled, an oddly pleasant nervousness in his belly.  It was strange...and wonderful, oh, wonderful. 

        After they had eaten, plates occupied only by bits of crust or unwanted crumbs and cups emptied, he rose and took her hand.  With a smile, Éowyn followed lightly, walking with him as the common folk retreated.  Minstrels stood out of the way, prepared to play as the Rohirrim moved to open a large area.  Glancing over his shoulder, Faramir laughed, amused as Éomer was half-cajoled, half-dragged with them.  The Queen had him by the wrist and was clearly in control; the expression on Éomer’s face was one of deep displeasure and apprehension; he drug his feet.  Behind them Rusco howled, his leash tied to the table leg.

        “Which first?”  Her eyes had returned to their sparkle, though he could easily sense that her unease was still there, wrapped around her heart.   

“Circle dance first.”

She moaned, “The hard one?”

“Yes.”  Chuckling, Faramir looked to the people watching, wondering if they would join if he asked.  He was not in the mood for a solemn, intent dance, but a merry one, a wild one even, to loose the tension of their meal and renew all spirits.  If he had to teach the gathering the steps, so be it, but he would dance and with proper merriment.  I’ve no haughty Lords or Ladies to work with—he looked to Éomer’s surly face and laughed.  Perhaps I will soon wish for some.  “Éowyn, will you ask them to join…?”

Her answer was laughing, “Do it yourself, min cempa.”

“Do we get to trade ladies…?”  Red hair bright in the light of torches, Gaer emerged grinning from the multitudes, “I’ll only dance if we do.”  A roar of approval rose from the men.  Éowyn laughed, but even as she did, her hand tightened on his.  Faramir was about to shake his head but Arwen smiled and, surprisingly, answered in light Rohirric, the word made slightly dreamy sounding by her buoyant elven accent,

“Gea.”  She looked to Éowyn, “I have many scores of years to make up for not dancing with men…and I doubt Estel would be happy to see me do it, but as he is not here to object…”  Arwen smiled and gestured to the crowd of Rohirrim with a carefree laugh.  Éowyn wrinkled her nose.

Faramir frowned, feeling her hand still tight on his, but when he opened his mouth, Éomer laughed and his statement was firm, underscored by a tone of derision.  “You can be selfish when you’ve taken her away.”  He granted the throng, voice raised, “You may dance with whoever is willing.”  Éomer smiled at Éowyn, who narrowed her eyes at him.  He shrugged, saying softer, “I said whoever is willing, just be unwilling.”  Her brother laughed.

She sighed, then shook his hand and looked up to him, “Teach us, min cempa,” Her smile was sweet, “Min Lárérow.” 

He shook his head, protesting, “I don’t know the words, I don’t know…”

Her hands cupped his face, “Yes, you do.”  There was clear trust in her eyes and he found that when he looked again to the waiting folk, he could.  Faramir took a breath, gesturing and speaking with hesitancy at first, “Monn astandaþ æt lef…” Then as he noticed how none looked scornful, but merely patient, and in Éowyn’s case, adoring, he said with more boldness, “In hond,”  He took Éowyn’s hand in his right, the Queen’s in his left, “We ga lef twuwa, riht twuwa…”

They began, slowly at first, people tugging each other the wrong way and nearly collapsing in howls of laughter, but the Rohirrim caught on soon and they went so fast that he had to shout.  Éowyn and Arwen were laughing, Éomer was groaning and Faramir thought he’d never felt so happy. 

Éowyn’s hair was flying as she cried, “Stop, stop!”  Éomer echoed her, more desperate.  Arwen laughed and her bright eyes met his as she commanded,

“Faster!”  Faramir obeyed, chest aching with laughter until the ring buckled, some folk falling out of it, others pulled to a halt.  He stood, hands on knees, breathing hard and snickering whenever he got a spare breath.  Éowyn leaned against him, arms about his waist.  She was flushed and beautiful.

Just as he was about to kiss her, he was pushed aside as Gaer called, “Wandrige!”  He swept her away, leaving Faramir in the grasp of two smiling flaxen-haired Rohir maids.  They pulled him into the reforming ring, giving him no chance to object.  In fact, it was all so swift, his parting from Éowyn, that he turned his head to look for her, suspecting Gaer had planned it.

Ah, let him.  Faramir laughed and allowed the maids to lead him away.

Translations

Æt me, min cempa!  Faramir, min cempa æt Mundburg, æt Riddermark—For me, my champion!  Faramir, my champion of Minas Tirith, of Riddermark

Min cempa, gea wille ofercomme him ond deð se geflit—My champion, you will overcome him and take the contest!

Ge eart min cempa, dyde Ic ná sæge hit?  Min cempa, betst æt se boga—You are my champion, did I not say it?  My champion, best at the bow.

Ic gangen easteð. Ic þurfe a mann æt bewit me.  Wilst ge…--I am going to the river.  I need a man to guard me.  Will you…?

Fremeden hit mid clæne gehygd—Would you do it with pure intent?

Mid clæne gehygd—With pure intent

Monn astandaþ æt lef—Men stand on the left

In hond…  We ga lef twuwa, riht twuwa…--In hand… We go left twice, right twice…

Wandrige—Change!