Two days before he’d tried to kiss her.  His eyes had warned her, softening at the edges, focusing as he leaned closer; immediately her heart sped up, chills of anxiety spreading through her veins.  His fingers coming to lightly press to her chin had only increased the feeling.  Uncertain and overwhelmed by her uncertainty, Éowyn had turned her head so that he’d not touched her mouth and Faramir had stopped before his lips met her cheek, pulling back.  She’d kept her eyes cast downward, anxious, not knowing exactly why she’d turned away.  I was curious…  She had been curious as to what his kiss would feel like, whether it would be like the ones given to her in her youth—messy and clumsy or irresolute and swift, both not at all thrilling…or cold and brutal with lust…  Sensing her thoughts trying to blacken and her chest tightening, she took a deep breath.  I will not think of him! 

She lifted her eyes to the White Tree over the chest of the man who stood before her.  Or he could feel different from all.  The expected difference she had no definition for, no way to describe save knowledge she’d never had it.  Éowyn dared a glimpse at his face, twisting her hands.  His expression was mild, doubtful.  Faramir looked at her like that often, his features made intent with concentration as though he were puzzling some especially difficult riddle.

        After a few seconds he said quietly, “Perhaps I was overbold.”  She didn’t respond and he added, “My apologies, Lady Éowyn.” 

Again she said nothing, mind racing with explanations, all the while knowing she had none.  He waited, but soon Faramir began walking again, shifting his feet to let her know, and she’d followed at his side, confused and nervous.  Nothing had come of it, he’d simply returned to answering her timid question about the men that guarded the dead, dried and withered corpse of the White Tree.

        But now he was gathering to try once more, she could feel it in the way the air seemed to thicken around them, the way he’d gone silent.  His eyes were soft again.  Faramir had halted near the walls and now he stepped closer, into her space.  Trapped between the ledge and his body, Éowyn tensed, unable to watch his hands and face at the same time and deeply aware of it.  She was looking at his eyes when his fingers touched her jaw and she jumped with a tiny gasp, surprised, a sudden spurt of fear running through her chest. 

        This time Faramir did not even bend.  He lowered his hand, asking hesitantly, “Is something wrong?”

        “No.”  Her voice was wavering with indecision.

        He stood for a moment, clearly awkward, then asked with care, “Do you not wish me to kiss you…and do not speak for fear of upsetting me?” 

Éowyn didn’t know what she wished for; she was curious, yes, but also terrified.  How do I know he will just kiss, would not ask for more, would not demand it…?  She was aware that she didn’t know him especially well, that he’d always been restrained and courteously polite and that she’d never seen him angered or even truly perturbed.  Opening her mouth, she had nothing to say, too flustered and confused to respond. 

He nodded slowly and she saw a flash of hurt in his gentle gaze.  “I apologize again, my—” Faramir was uncharacteristically indifferent, half-turned away to the view over the Pelennor and she knew at once that it was so that she could not see his great disappointment.

        Abruptly she thought, will I have to wait another two days?  The distress within her heart was astonishing and Éowyn blurted, some more intrepid part of her pushing forward to take the chance, “Yes, I wish…” Her mind caught up and she fell still, paralyzed with indecision.  “But…”

        Faramir turned back to fully face her and she shifted, nervous now under his direct scrutiny.  When his hand came up, she looked at it, then his eyes, unable to keep her attention on them both.  “Would you like this better then, here?”  His thumb touched her cheekbone, gently pressing.  He smiled warmly, “Just one, I’ll make it swift and we can see if it pleases you to have another.”

        Éowyn nodded, unsure, but wanting to make him happy—it would obviously gladden him very much and he’d been so kind… 

He bent and she inhaled thinly, chest tight, spine tense, forcibly holding herself still.  He was so near!  Faramir was taller and broader than she was, intimidatingly large and the nearness of his warrior’s body was an onerous weight on her mind, keeping her focused, drawn with strain.  Éowyn’s thoughts went in swift circles, a maddening litany of what will he do, what will he do now…?  He smiled reassuringly, like he could sense her nervous fear and she felt herself ease just a little.  He is kindly, not cruel…

Faramir hadn’t taken back his hand; he’d merely moved his fingers to rest on her chin.  His eyes were thoughtful, his face bent low to hers but not yet far enough, his thumb caressing the line of her jaw; he was delaying for some reason.  Unable to fathom it, she waited, tension fading with his light touch, so light it was like to the flutter of a butterfly caught in the cage of her hand—harmless, utterly harmless.  Then, bafflingly, he dropped his hand and stepped back to look at her.  Faramir moved around her, each stride slow and careful, so that when she faced him, Éowyn stood parallel and a little away from the wall instead of being closely trapped with her back to it.  Able to move now and retreat with ease, she relaxed further and his smile widened as he reached for her chin again and she didn’t flinch, but lifted her face within his hand, the better to feel the newness of his warm, lightly callused and cupping palm.  He murmured, tone low, “Does that help…?  You’re not so close to the edge any longer.”

        He’d misjudged the cause of her anxiety.  She swallowed, not entirely lying as the unaccustomed height from the wall did make her dizzy at times.  “Yes.”

Then he bent further, purposely, and Éowyn stared straight ahead, wide-eyed yet not really seeing the blue sky, the tufts of fluffy clouds that crossed it under the power of Gondor’s strong winds or the snowy peaks of the White Mountains.  All she knew was his lips meeting with her cheek, his dark hair falling to tickle her earlobe and graze her brow.  The kiss was one of the softest pressure, gentle with surprisingly pleasant warmth; she felt a strange, sharp thrill along with a sense of fragility that filled her body, an urging that bid her to stand still, to not retreat from his presence.  Closing her eyes, she yielded to this odd, entirely agreeable sensation.  She could hear his breathing, feel his body as a faint, barely noticeable heat against her front.  He was so near, so close to her.  He’d not been this close since they’d stood together and he’d begged to pledge fealty and declare love. 

Éowyn’s hand rose, daring to touch the leather of the sable surcoat he’d worn once he’d no longer borne the sling.  It was rich leather, soft and buttery looking; she’d never touched it, never touched him and when her fingers slid easily over his ribs, feeling the warm smoothness of it, the warmth generated by his body, she found it to be very enjoyable.  Timidly, Éowyn left her hand there, palm just resting lightly on the swell of his chest.  It moved with his deep, slow inhalation, making her thrill again at the new physicality of it all.

        But he did not kiss her just once.  Faramir didn’t pull back as she’d thought he would, no, he was pressing another kiss to her cheek, and even another, lower now and touching to the corner of her mouth as she stood motionless with surprise and a growing sense of pleasure.  Oh…  It was nice, better than she’d ever expected.

This was a longer kiss; she felt his lips part gently, the heat of his breath against her mouth, the pads of his fingers stroking her skin.  Not aware of it, she turned slightly to face him, opening her eyes to see his.  How soft they are…how beautiful…  Wondering, Éowyn stared up, willingly losing herself in the warmth, the love she could see so clearly held within their grey depths.

And so, long before she knew, he was kissing her mouth with profound tenderness, his nose brushing hers as he turned, pulling back just enough to tilt the other way.  Faramir’s hand slid to cup her jaw in a firmer grip and his tongue touched her lower lip, hot and damp.  It skimmed along the dip of her mouth, dampening their contact and adding an unknown sensuality that made her tingle all over, heat rising in her belly.  She breathed faster, shallower, feeling the same quickening in him, a swifter rising and falling of her hand over his chest.  He kissed again more firmly, asking entry with another light touch of hot faint wetness, nose brushing hers, lips moving against hers as he beseeched in an eager, intimate whisper, “Will you not let me…?”  His other hand dropped to her waist, palm moving to the small of her back, intending to pull her closer as Faramir murmured against her mouth, asking with increasing urgency and excitement, “Not yield…?”

 Yield?  She frowned, dimly confused.  What, what does he…what is he doing?  Gasping, Éowyn came back to herself with a rush of nerves and outrage for his audacity; he’d only promised one kiss on her cheek, what was he doing?  Alarmed, she planted both hands to his chest, shoving him hard, heart pounding against her ribs.   With an exhalation of surprise, eyes widening in shock, Faramir stumbled back.  Éowyn turned her face away sharply, unable to look at him; instead, she stared out over the view, finding that she was breathing fast.  Her cheek and mouth were still heated from his kisses, still slightly damp. 

He was frowning now, standing at the distance she’d forced him to, “What is wrong?”

        Effort was needed to speak glibly and without a quiver, even more to meet his gaze.  “You said one.”

        He looked utterly confused.  “You…but you wanted…you…” Faramir gestured and she had no idea what he was trying to convey.  Frowning more deeply, he said, “You turned to me, like you wanted me to…” Hesitant, he added, “You didn’t say stop.”  Éowyn heard his disturbance as Faramir finished, “You could have told me to stop.  You didn’t have to push me, I am not a beast to be beaten back.”

        She answered tensely, unsure of what she’d done or not done as a sort of hazy and not unpleasant softness had obscured her thinking and her memory of those moments.  “No, I didn’t say…” She added with even more tension and a little anger born of guilt, knowing herself to be in the wrong, “I didn’t turn to you.”

        His brow creased as he firmly asserted, “You did.”  Anxious as his louder, persistent tone, Éowyn moved to step away and he caught her arm.  She stiffened with instinctive fear, half expecting to be pulled sharply back and the next thing he said to be laced with dark hostility for her acting in what was so obviously displeasing a manner.

        Oh, please no… her breath caught in her throat.

But instead, Faramir’s eyes studied hers, and then he released her and when he spoke it was with his customary genial tone.  “I apologize if I upset you.”  She nodded, not looking at him.  Éowyn wasn’t sure if she was upset, which she thought disturbed her more than his boldness.

        She gestured to the garden, biting her lips, “Please…?”

        Faramir looked relieved.  He offered his arm and she took it, feeling the warmth of his arm and side.  Éowyn looked up surreptitiously, sneaking glances.  His hair was thick, long and dark like a raven’s gleaming wings.  Its color was striking to her eyes, never seen in her lands at all within Men and even rare among their horses.  His skin was fair, and her gaze wandered to rest on his mouth, curious.  It had felt soft, so warm and very, very gentle.  It was not bad, not bad at all…better than any other kiss I’ve been given…far better.  I’d like it again if he would not try to put his tongue in my mouth…  The remembrance of its heat and wetness came to her and she thought, at least not at first…

A blush coming to her cheeks for her unchaste thoughts, she looked away, only to look back almost at once.  Faramir’s profile was smooth except for his brow, which was very slightly furrowed like he was puzzling something.  Puzzling me…Éowyn felt guilt.

        Misgiving bloomed in her chest and she thought forcibly, defensively, no doubt he could be ungentle, too.  I will certainly discover when he makes me his wife…  Her heart jumped fearfully at the thought, making her pulse thready.  His wife…why, why did I agree? 

         Éowyn looked at him again, this time with despair.  I do not love you, dear Faramir…but he was well bred, gentle and courteous; to the full extent of her knowledge and perception, she could see that he was merciful and…he loved her.  Certainly, since he professed love, he would be more benevolent and more disposed to think of her heart before he acted and she thought passionlessly, he is the best I could hope for, the highest in nobility.  I will be well cared for, provided with all that my blood would deserve.  And…her coolness faded; she looked again at his face and Faramir caught her eye.  He smiled downwards, asking with hopeful amusement and even an unexpected trace of shyness,

“Was it so terrible?”

Éowyn felt herself flush; she looked down but was careful to speak so that he could hear.  “No.”  Inhaling, she said further, “Not at all…just…” She used his word, “Overbold.”  And he is kindly.  That was why she’d agreed, because of all the men she could see walking within the City or her own land, Faramir was the only she could imagine joining with without terror of the unknown overwhelming her.  But…Éowyn felt doubt.  Is that because I’ve met him and he’s shown no boorishness…or it is something else?  None of the other noblemen looked quite this kind or kingly.  She was unsure, troubled.

        “Good.”  He sighed, then asked fervently, “Tell me, please, when did I go too far?”  He was earnest, “I don’t wish to displease you,” Faramir admitted with the same shyness back within his voice, “I’ve not much experience.”

        Éowyn had no idea of even how to begin to answer.  He’d not spoken so intimately to her before; their conversations had involved offhand and easily forgotten things: weather, some small detail of the gardens or City, their healing wounds, not such like he asked her now.  “I…I don’t know.”

        He smiled, jesting, “Then how did you know I was too bold?”

        Ducking her head, she answered tightly.  “I just knew.”

        “Was it this…?”  Faramir’s long legs slowed, then stopped as his arm slid from hers, then around her waist, holding her far closer.  He looked down at her, not at all uncomfortable.

        Éowyn shook her head slowly, voice faint. “No.”  His body was just apart from her own, hands resting easily around her middle; she felt his fingers stroking below the laces of her gown.

        “Ah, now I know where I strayed.”  To her relief, he loosed her and stepped forward to face her, asking with a smile, “May I try again?”

        “Again?”  She was surprised.

        “Aye, this time I promise respectability…or you may shove me as you like.”  Faramir’s smile became almost dreamy; in less a tense situation she would have laughed as he explained fancifully, “It’s just…you are so beautiful Éowyn, I could not restrain myself.”  His hand reached out, fingers sliding through her hair, curling around a thin sheaf.  “It’s like gold…and when I look at you I feel as a dwarf must in a room crowded with treasure.”  Faramir smiled again, tone ardent, deepened and lowered to murmur intimately as he fingered her hair.  “All greedy desire…” His eyes moved down her body, “To hold and possess.”  He laughed softly, sounding embarrassed.

        She was speechless at his talk, the first improper thing she’d thought she’d heard him ever say.  Quickly, she replied, “I think not…”

        “Please?”  Éowyn looked up and saw how solemn he was, how honest about remaining courtly and subdued.  She nodded, taking a deep breath and bracing herself as Faramir leaned to kiss her, hand moving from her hair to her cheek.

***

        “The White Lady?”  Aragorn inquired, “Is she within the gardens?”  Éomer looked past him, shifting his feet and fiddling with Gúthwinë’s hilt in his fierce impatience. 

        “Aye, my Lord, she is with…” The guard nodded and he walked forward, not waiting or caring to hear any more.  He was filled with the desire to bellow her name and call her forth, a want checked only by the presence of the King at his side.

        “Easy, we will find her and she will be well.”  Aragorn regained his side and matched his quick, eager strides, asking, “Now, what of the mares and studs I want?”

        Éomer spared him a glance.  “What of them?  Tell me how many you wish to buy.”

        “I was hoping to receive a better deal than most…I know of the quality of the horses traded to the South.” 

        He smiled, “They don’t know the difference, what is the harm?”

        “I know the difference and I expect better.”  The King paused, “Some of the nobler lines.”

        Any lesser man that asked and this would be an insult to the carefully bred horses of his country.  Éomer stiffened, taking a moment from impatiently searching every corner of the gardens to growl, “Those cannot be bought.”

        Aragorn contended in a shrewd voice.  “But your law states that they can be given as gifts.  I remember as much from my duty there.”

        That was true and Aragorn had earned many gifts from him.  My sister’s life…  He halted for a moment, entreating gravely, “Do you ask a gift?”

        The King answered smoothly, “I would not presume.” 

        “I could not give of the Mearas, it is forbidden, but the nobler lines, you may have those that you wish of them.”  Éomer hesitated, “I must limit your take, of course…but you can buy as much of the lesser stock as you need to supply your folk at a low price and I would give you leave to breed to my studs as long as it was marked in the Book.”

        Aragorn nodded considerately, “Of course, of course.”

        His heritage prodded and he said sternly, “But you must take special care in the breeding of them.  The lines cannot be profaned…” Éomer felt a stab of anxiety.  These decisions rested on him alone now and he was not trained in the making of them.  “All my fathers’ care would be wasted,” He met the man’s eyes, making sure his words were heard, “It would be a terrible affront to my country and my forefathers.”  As well as the spirits of the horses…  But he did not mention that, uncertain in this Southern land.

        Aragorn answered with gravity, a seriousness that greatly relieved him.  Éomer looked at the man with silent admiration—this was a Lord, a man of wisdom that he could trust with the higher bloodlines of his folk’s horses.  “I understand.” 

        “Good.”  Walking again, he said irritably, “Where is she?”

        “There.”  The King’s tone changed to one of slight disquietude, “Ah…Éomer…perhaps…”

        “Where?”  He turned and froze in astonishment, a torrent of undefinable emotion surging upwards along with his shock.  So this is he…? Look what he dares.  Éomer’s jaw tightened as his surprise curdled to rage; it was a depth of rage he’d not been especially prepared for and it soon swept him away beyond all reason.

***

        Faramir pulled away, smiling, “Better?” 

        “Oh…yes, yes.”  Éowyn answered breathlessly, still flushed with pleasure and hearing her own confidence with amazement.  But it was difficult not to be more confident as he’d kissed her slowly, softly, and many times but all with the same modest gentleness.  He had taken license to embrace her; his arms were still about her waist, relaxed and heavy, their weight unaccustomed but tolerable, she thought.  Swallowing, she dared to murmur, eyes fixed on the White Tree centered over his chest, “It was.”

        “Good.”  He was very pleased, voice lightened.  When she looked up in a hasty scan of his face, his beaming smile made her heart glad to a extent that surprised her. 

        Éowyn smiled in shy return and he bent again, not asking permission this time and she found to her further surprise that she didn’t mind terribly, able to subdue her fears without too great a struggle.  She begged, “Not so…” 

He pulled back at once, “What?” 

Worrying her lips with her teeth, she muttered, “Quick.”  Éowyn had wanted to beg him not to hold her so closely—his nearness made her tense just as much as it stirred her in strange new ways, which also made her grow stiff with tension.  Can I trust this man I have pledged myself to…can I trust his hands not to grasp or pinch, his kiss to stay gentle and not demanding, to not be driven by callous lust…?  She had no answers and so she concentrated desperately on holding her place and on not pulling back every time he moved his hands or changed his kiss.     

“My apologies…” He began anew, mouth pressing to hers with pleasant, gentle variations of pressure and angles.  Éowyn found quickly that she liked best the most delicate of his touches, but she did not speak, too shy and uncertain about voicing her preferences—he was the one who controlled this, not she. 

Faramir paused to smile at her as a familiar and utterly terrifying roar of rage in the tongue of her country filled the air, “Éowyn!  Hwa mann durst hrinan ge ná mid gewyrhtum min sweostor?”  He looked up and over her head, features sharp now and wary as his arms fell from her waist; he took a step around her, in front of her.

        Oh, no, no, no…  Éowyn winced and then came to a wordless decision, all panic back at once as though Faramir had done nothing to ease her.  Her brother looked furious, so furious and she was suddenly, terribly afraid of what he might do in the name of her maiden’s honor.  As Éomer stiffly crossed the last few feet, she spun, skirts twisting, pressed her back against Faramir’s chest to shield him with her body, the only thing she had at hand. 

 Feeling her heart thudding in her ears, she grasped a handful of Faramir’s black surcoat, shoving him more fully behind her.  He looked at her, startled and opening his mouth in protest, but Éowyn held him there, her hands aching with strain as her brother bore down on them.  His face was dark with fury, making her even more afraid.  She stammered, almost too rattled to speak.  “É-Éomer…”

        He halted close enough to make her push Faramir back a step in fear and stared over her head, lip curled to snarl, “Ond butan min wyrdsæf?  Ge durst má, Hordere.  Má toss.”

        She tried again, growing desperate, “Éomer!  Eart ge hlysting?”  But her brother was not listening and Éowyn felt herself nearly weak with fright.  She glanced behind her to Faramir, seeing with a heartrending rush of pity that his face was in lines of confusion and that he was looking to her for guidance.  

***

Faramir, unable to understand the man’s speech, studied him with reserved fascination.   He was fair-haired like Éowyn, tall—just short of his own height—and very broad, very well muscled under his armor.  Clearly he’d just come from the saddle, boots and legs dusty.  He spoke with the same accent and had similar features to his love, which, along with the protective attitude, made Faramir grimace as he came to a slow, reluctant conclusion.   This must be, has to be Éomer, her brother, he thought with a sort of amused chagrin.   Faramir had never been to Rohan, nor met any of the noble family since Denethor had seen no point in Faramir meeting or associating with other peoples—Boromir would have succeeded him as Steward.   Unfortunately, events had changed that plan and Faramir realized with another grimace that he was meeting the new King of Rohan, his future blood, under less than ideal circumstances.  Quickly, half-desperate, he thought, what do I know of Rohan? 

Little came to mind, mostly gathered from his studies in history so many years ago when he’d been a boy.  He remembered, however, his brother had once, under demand from a younger, enthusiastic Faramir, described the Rohirrim as a rash, hot-blooded, and yet valiant people who could be trusted. 

Hot-blooded indeed, Faramir thought, listening to both the rising volume and anger in the man’s voice as Éomer snapped at him, seemingly uncaring that he could not understand anything more than the warlike tone,

“Ge eart ná weorð in wermet, bestandan min sweostor, Hordere.”
        He was gesturing expansively and rather aggressively, but at a short distance because still before him and standing in posture of defense was his love.  Touched, he looked down and saw that Éowyn’s knuckles gripped his surcoat so tightly they were white from strain.   He could feel the tension making her slender frame tremble as she, he assumed, defended him.

“Is se æþeling æt má lond ná weorð in wermet, broðor?  Hwa béon?  Hwa béon?”

Éomer hissed through his teeth and raised his eyes; they were pale, afire with anger as he growled low at first, then rising to bellow.  “He wille ná be min wedbroðor!”

Struggling to keep his face expressionless or at least amiable, Faramir was privately shocked at the vehemence of the Lord of the Mark’s actions.   No man of Gondor would raise his voice in such a manner to a Lady in public, even if she were his sister.   His brother had been correct—the men of Rohan were rough and uncouth in comparison to the genteel, courteous men of the White City.   Forced silent from ignorance, Faramir could only watch them argue. 

He wished he knew what they were saying, especially when Éowyn shouted something that included his name.

        “Ic lufie Faramir ond Ic wille lucan æt him!”

He was slightly disappointed as Éowyn’s hands left his shirt and she took a step away.   His front felt cold without her against him, without the supportive nature of her gesture.   But, to his delight, Éowyn’s hand slipped into his in replacement.  Faramir squeezed it, still in the dark, but offering any reassurance he could think to.   If only I spoke their language…then he could help her.  Frustrated, he did what he could and kept silent, not quite daring to add his own anger to the fire of theirs. 

***

        Her brother frowned, asking in shocked quiet, “Dá ge?”

        She turned her head, looking up at her Prince.  Do I?  His features were blank, utterly unaware of what she’d said.  She thought with wonder and pity, he has no idea of what is happening…

And suddenly Éowyn tensed, all fear vanishing as a great surge of protective ire rose from deep within her center.  Faramir’s grey eyes contained nothing but puzzlement and in that moment he appeared terribly childlike, terribly dependent upon her to speak and reassure him, to make again their simple comfort in each other, their newfound, blooming and acutely fickle easement.  She felt nothing but acid rage, directing her inner vow to his gentle, baffled eyes.  I will not let him hurt you…  Éowyn glowered, “Gea, Ic dá!  He is min lufiend!”  Behind her brother, she saw Aragorn coming swiftly, his face full of concern.

“Lufiend?  Lufiend, ná mid min word, min wyrdsæf?”  Resolute now, voice still burning with anger, Éomer said plainly, harshly to her Prince, “Ge willst gefaran wundordeð æt wroht æt eower blydu.”  He stepped forward as she’d dreaded, one hand reaching for her arm to thrust her aside.  His other, horrifyingly, came to rest on Gúthwinë’s hilt.  The blade rasped as it was pulled, nearly four inches sliding free to spark in the sun.  When she looked upward, Faramir wore only an expression of slight alarm; he did not understand the danger, would not understand until it was too late and then, warrior or no, her brother would cut him down in an instant.

        With an effort, hoping Aragorn would soon come to her aid, Éowyn stood her ground, slapping her brother’s hand away.  He grabbed her wrist, preparing to yank her forward so that she no longer shielded Faramir.  Grasping his arm in return to pull him off-balance, she cried, “Éomer!  Ge eart atel pucel ond Ic behat forloreness æt ge ná atstand!”  She cursed him in growing fury, her temper rapidly unraveling as she made the nails of her free hand into talons, fully prepared to strike at him.  “Atstandan hit!”  He did not step away and so she raised her hand to slap his face.  The three men seemed to freeze in disturbance as she lifted her open palm, fingers hooked; Faramir especially appeared wide-eyed.  Knowing she had her brother’s attention, Éowyn spat.  “Ná!  Ná!  Ic lufie Faramir!  Ge ná wille wund him!”  Shocking herself with her outspoken declarations, she fell silent.  Ic lufie Faramir…do I?

But as she cried so, her brother glanced at her closely and Éowyn saw astonishment within his face as he took in her anger, her defensive stance and willingness to fight, even to hurt him.  For an instant he stood still, wary, and looked not at all sure of himself; for that an instant she thought she saw fear bloom in his eyes and in those familiar eyes she saw also something that made her want to kill him—he was not sincere.  Éowyn gritted her teeth so hard her jaw ached in sharp spasms, realizing that if her brother had been serious, he’d have drawn Gúthwinë in the first moment and challenged her Prince to a contest.  He is…jesting, testing Faramir…?  She found herself unable to comprehend it.  What does he intend with this idiot display?  Why, why…she couldn’t breathe with her rage.

        Faramir, who’d been silent so far, spoke; within his gentle voice she heard steely outrage carefully contained as he stepped from behind her to knock her brother’s grasping hand away from her wrist with a sharp, irked motion.  “Do not touch her so callously.”

        Éomer seemed to check himself, staring at Faramir with the same wariness he’d regarded her, then he growled low and with a new and, Éowyn sensed, real note of danger, “Hwa dyde ge sæge æt me?” 

Her Prince faltered and looked to her helplessly; he did not speak Rohirric.  He wished to aid, to nobly come to her defense, but knew not how.  She wished he’d simply kept silent and begged tensely,

“Please, allow me to…”

         “Éomer, stop this foolishness.”  Aragorn was at her brother’s shoulder, one hand laid upon it with hard pressure.  His firm, detached voice was a shocking dash of rationality; his features had become stern, eyes coolly angered.  “Now.” 

Outwardly it was as if her brother paid him no attention, but he did move to push Gúthwinë to settle fully into his scabbard.  They stood in a tense tableau before Éomer slowly seemed to relax from his rigid pose.  Éowyn did not, thinking she’d not been so simultaneously enraged and frightened since she’d been on the Pelennor.  Brother, you went too far…  Nearly shaking with her anger now that she was not alone held responsible, she seethed, “Apologize.”  Éomer was stubbornly silent.  “Ge wilst nu!”  He frowned and Éowyn exploded, hands snapping into balled fists.  “Nu!”

        He muttered, “I apologize.”

        She said coldly.  “Do it rightly, brother.”

        “Éowyn…” Faramir stirred.  He began in hesitation, then more amiably with an effort that faded as he continued, leaving his words spoken with naught but easy, optimistic graciousness.  “I’m sure if we but speak to another this…” Her brother’s eyes narrowed as her Prince finished, “Misunderstanding could be righted.”

         “No.”  To the best of her awareness Faramir was good-natured and reasonable at all times.  Her brother was reliably neither, often giving over to his rash temper.  Éowyn knew her betrothed did not understand; she said flatly, meeting Éomer’s eyes.  “He will or I will force it from him.”  Her brother blinked and she saw again his uncertainty.  What did you want from this idiocy…to bully him into what?  Did you think I would stand idly by?  She had no idea but the very thought enraged her.  Faramir was as good to her as any had a right to be and Éowyn knew with frank astonishment that she would not allow him to be bullied so easily, ever.  Perhaps she did love him in her own weak, faint-hearted fashion—after all, she’d shouted it twice.

        Aragorn upheld her, stating.  “I agree.  Apologize.” 

        Éomer did not apologize, but instead echoed incredulously, as though he’d not heard any of their speech, “Misunderstanding?  You call my anger on coming upon you…touching my sister without so much as my leave,” His voice rose, thickening again with anger, “A misunderstanding?”

Éowyn watched as Faramir chose his words with care and a profound look of relief that her brother spoke the Common Tongue.  “Aye, I would maintain that there is a grave misunderstanding…” His grey eyes flickered and she saw very suddenly that her Prince was awash with cold fury.  “I had plenty of leave, Lord Éomer, to…touch as you say,” He smiled thinly, “As I would with no displeasure and I fail to see why there would be any, as I am her betrothed, plighted with full willingness.”  Her brother went rigid with the familiarity and implications in Faramir’s words and tone as he added coolly.  “My Lady was not displeased until you came…” Faramir paused, voice lowering to scorn icily, “So brutishly into sight.”

Her brother’s fair skin was reddening; he was nearly sputtering with his wrath as he tried to answer when Aragorn interrupted.  “Enough.  Éomer apologize and end this.”

He ground his jaw, looking at her in a strangely agitated fashion that she didn’t understand and refused to sympathize with.  Éowyn folded her arms across her chest.  “Brother.” 

Éomer heaved a gruff sigh, then said in a false voice of pleasantry.  “I apologize for offending you with my brutishness.”  She held her breath but Faramir did not speak, just gazed darkly at her brother.  After a moment, he glanced at Aragorn, “If I may go?”

“No.”  Aragorn’s single word was clearly a command.  Her brother ground his teeth visibly, but stayed.  “What will soothe you, Éomer?”

She kept quiet, tense and wishing her brother could act with reason.  It has been so long…  Éowyn had missed him terribly, unused to being parted from his side.  Why must you be such a boor?  Truly, it must have been a shock since she’d not spoken of her troth, but did he have to act like this?  No, not at all.  She closed her eyes in frustrated annoyance.

He shifted his weight, eyeing her, and then Faramir before saying haltingly, “I ask…speech with…him, to discuss this…” When he looked to Faramir again, Éomer’s distaste was plain to all, as well as his defiance.  “Request for my sister’s hand.”  He hesitated, then added in Rohirric, “A gehat æt min corennes.”  Éowyn frowned, wondering what he could desire and why he chose to hide it in their tongue.

Faramir spoke again, still icy.  “It is not a request.  It is a pledge already made.”  Éomer stared at him and in his face she could read both surprise the man had spoken and growing rage at his words.  Éowyn moaned inwardly. 

Please stop…

Aragorn raised a hand to silence him, then considered the entreaty for several moments before asking calmly, “Will it be speech of a civilized nature or…?”

Her brother’s temper held by a thread as he answered through half-bared teeth, “Yes, it will.”

The King turned, questioning, “Faramir?”

Her paramour spoke in a voice slightly too cool for fellowship, “Whenever it suits you, Lord Éomer.”

“May I take my leave?”

The King nodded irritably and her brother inclined his head to them in turn; his eyes met hers and she saw his anger amid turmoil and an odd amusement.  Éowyn swallowed, feeling her own ire still humming through her bones.  She turned to her betrothed, unsettled and half-thinking he would demand an explanation of her, rage at her for her brother’s rudeness.  “I will…meet you another time?  Tomorrow?”

He was mild, nodding and giving her a soft smile; again she’d misjudged him.  “All right.”  Before she could move more than a step, he touched her elbow lightly, causing her to look back to his face.  “Farewell, Éowyn.”  Faramir cautioned and she could not tell how serious he was, if his words were no more than a tame jest or a pleasantly worded command.  “Do not let it be too long a time.”

She mustered a smile in return, giving him a courtesy.  “Farewell, and I won’t.”  He dipped his head, bowing gravely.  Éowyn backed away then turned, walking swiftly, seeking relief in her motion.  Brother of mine, dearest brother, what shall I say to you?  Her anger surged anew.  What won’t I say?

***

Faramir sighed.  “That man is…” 

“Not always.”  Aragorn turned to him and broke into a wide grin. “I’ve not seen him so moved outside of a field of battle.”

“What did he say?  I could not understand it, I’ve not been taught in the tongues of the North.”  Aragorn just frowned.  Faramir waited for him to continue.   A few birds passed overhead, a small rustle in the bushes that lined the walls, a snake, maybe, he thought.  Interestingly, he could see Aragorn thinking of answers and just as quickly rejecting them.  Five, he counted.  That was more than enough.   A King should be quicker on his feet.   Irritated, he asked.   “Well?”

The King shook his head and said rather simply for all his long silence, “Éomer has objections to his sister wedding you, Faramir.”

            “Indeed?”  He couldn’t suppress his tongue’s caustic reply, “I am glad you informed me, I would have never guessed.”

Aragorn made a face of equal irritation.  “He is very protective of his sister…an attitude I think worsened by her near falling in battle.   And to be fair, you never asked his permission to court her.”

Faramir could understand that.  But still, the man was appallingly rude.   He asked again, more impatiently.  “What did he say?”

A smile spread across Aragorn’s face as he recited, “That you touched her without deserving to do so, that you were unworthy and too bold, that you would die a wondrous death for your boldness…  And he expressed disbelief that Éowyn loved you.”

Faramir’s heart jumped in delight.  “She said that?”

“Yes.”  The King looked bemused, adding with more seriousness, "He also wished for a promise of his choosing.”

What is that?”

“I expect you will discover when you meet.”

She loves me…  He stammered, eager to learn, “Was that what she said when she spoke my name, that she loved me?”  Faramir could not remember the words, but the tone had been impassioned, strong and willful, entirely opposite of all Éowyn’s hesitant, shy actions within his presence.  If only he knew how to soften her, to open her heart.

Aragorn nodded, all smiles in response to his happiness, and squeezed his shoulder.  “Now I must go, my friend.   I will meet you tonight, right?   We will discuss what needs to be done next for Minas Tirith.”  For a moment Aragorn looked away and his voice saddened.  “I have a city to run.”   Then it was gone and the sun shined again in the new King of the West’s eyes.   They bowed slightly to each other as Aragorn took his leave.  

Alone, the Steward took a deep, slow breath before he laughed and whooped for joy.  For the moment it mattered not if she’d not spoken the words to his face or in his language, as long as he knew of Éowyn’s love, his heart soared like an Eagle. 

***

She walked through the halls of the inner circle, skirt swishing against the stone tiles that made up the floor, her speed lifting her long, flaxen hair to float behind her as though a stiff gale were blowing through the corridor.  Face set, Éowyn followed Éomer’s retreating figure; she could tell he was aware of her—his pace had quickened.   He was returning to the rooms assigned to him, she soon realized, as her brother’s trail led her into the part of the city that held private quarters for visiting royal persons.   Cursing under her breath at his longer legs, she bounded up the stairs.   Dodging around servants and surprised men, Éowyn finally reached the door to Éomer’s personal rooms.   Without pause she thrust it open, pushing with both palms for maximum force.  It felt good to unleash her anger and she relished in the sound as the door slammed with a great CRACK! against the stone wall, rebounding behind her in a groan of stressed wood and hinges. 

“Éowyn.  How lovely.”  Éomer deadpanned, sitting in a chair with his dusty boots carelessly propped on the windowsill.   A goblet half-full of a dark liquid was in his left hand; a few papers were clutched in his right.   The only evidence of his flight was his slightly tousled blonde mane and the faint breathiness of his words. 

“What do you think you are doing?”  She was breathing fast as well, feeling herself flushed high on the cheekbones.   Shutting the door firmly, Éowyn stepped forward, glaring at her brother.  Her hands clenched as she asked in a fury, “Why…why did you do that?  What possible…outcome…could you have wanted from that?”  Her voice rose with every syllable, “Why did you do that?  What are you doing to me?” 

Éomer feigned puzzlement.   “I’m sorry.   What…?”

“Éomer!  Answer me, curse you!”

To her shock, the mild expression of confusion he’d worn dissolved into laughter.  “Did you…see…did you see Aragorn’s face?”   Éomer snickered gleefully, his cheeks reddening as he gasped for breath.   He eyed her, then snorted and broke into a boyish grin before uttering, in a mocking falsetto, “Éomer, stop this foolishness!” 

Totally against her will, Éowyn found herself laughing.   It had been a good impression.  Clamping her hand over her mouth, she closed her eyes, then forced a stern expression and said,”You scared me, why did you do that?  Why did you come at us like that?”  More like terrified…

He smiled and stood, absently tossing the papers onto his chair.   “I did not scare you…you knew I was jesting.”  He snorted, but the lightsome cheer within his voice sounded forced, “I wanted to see what he would do.”

She pleaded to make him see, realize the depth of his actions.  “You did scare me.   And Aragorn as well.”  Éowyn ground her teeth, “Why would you do that?  What could you possibly learn by doing that?”

Éomer chuckled at the memory, making her think anew that her brother was a horrid, horrid creature.  He crossed the room to stand near her, arms folded across his chest; he rocked back on his heels as he asked, “And what of Faramir?   Did I alarm him too?”   Éomer smiled widely at her grimace.

“Of course you did, but not as much as you did me.  He didn’t think for a moment you would draw your sword.”

“Ah, your princeling is brave, then?   It looked to me that he seemed content to stand behind you and let you fight his battles.”

Disregarding the nickname, she rolled her eyes.  “He had no idea what you were saying!  And if he guessed, he cannot speak our tongue so he could not answer!  What did you expect?  What do you expect?”  Éowyn threw her hands up in acute exasperation.   She pushed past him and walked to the window.   After a moment of silence, she said, calmer now, “I have a better view.”

He came to look as well.  “Is that so?”

“Yes.”   She sat on the hard stone sill and folded her arms, anxiously digging her fingernails into her palms.   “I expect you to explain that outburst.”  Éowyn turned to glare at her brother, voice tightening.  “Why, why brother, did you do that?  Why couldn’t you have been civil?”

To her annoyance, Éomer was beaming.  “It was rather good, wasn’t it?   They fell for it completely.”

“Of course they did.   Aragorn hasn’t known you as long as I have.   You’re completely incorrigible…worse than Merry.”  She muttered the last under her breath. 

He pretended not to hear that, instead giving her an ultimatum.   “I will explain if you will explain, sister.”

“What?”

“Why you shouted, “I love Faramir and I want to stay with him.”  Why I had to meet this man you love in the gardens and learn his name from soldiers riding to Cornmallen from the City, learn his spirit by cursing at him.”  His eyes held hurt.  Éowyn looked quickly out the window, away from her brother’s wounded gaze.  She wasn’t supposed to feel guilty.   “I’m waiting, sister.”  Éomer’s voice softened when there was no reply.   “Come, you have never kept a secret from me before.”

That was untrue, but not to his knowing.  She did not correct him, just looked away in silent shame.

Éomer had continued, “Why, then, did I have to catch you with your princeling and judge him by surprise?  Why did you not send word or a rider to give me news?”

She frowned, stalling.  “Don’t call him that.”  Éowyn closed her eyes and sighed fitfully, gathering her courage to mutter.  “Because it is true.   I love him.”  She hesitated, saying softly, “And I wish to stay.”  Éowyn felt her heart twist, amending more truly, “I vowed I would stay and wed him.  I cannot go back on my word.  Faramir is kind and treats me well…he is the best I could imagine and he says that he loves me.”

            There was a long silence; in it she could hear her brother thinking.  He sounded loud in their quiet though he did not speak above a rough undertone, “And?”

            Carefully, slowly, she whispered.  “And I promised I would be with him, here or in Ithilien.   I knew you would be angry with me.”

            When she turned, Éomer was gazing at her, his expression unreadable.  His voice was strange, happy in parts, mournful in others as he spoke, “I would be happier if I saw you smile and laugh again.   You smiled in the garden with him.”  He looked away, “Don’t think me so selfish, Éowyn.”

            She hesitated.   “Do you mean it?   You would give us your blessing?”

            Éomer winced and held up his hand.  “Not so quickly, little sister.”  Her face fell, but she was unsure of how much his quiet objection saddened her.   “Oh, I would, I would have you happily married.”  Éomer paused to stare out the window.  Seeming to come back to himself, he smile faintly, voice gaining confidence, “He is the Steward of Gondor, a fine match both in blood and rank.  I have heard much about his valor in battle, knowledge of all things and civility in Court.”  He smiled at her, “And we’ve learned he is bold enough.”  Her brother frowned more darkly, “Too bold.”

“I would not consider it too bold when he speaks only to defend himself…” She added coolly, “And me from a senseless, unprovoked attack from a man he should have by all rights considered friendly as you and he will be kin soon enough.”

 Éomer blanched at her words, then grinned and spoke as though she’d not.  “It is just our people would not…take kindly…to a man from Gondor marrying their Lady without their knowledge; especially since if I died, wifeless and childless, you would be their queen…and he, a stranger, their King.”  Again he smiled and it seemed far more self-assured.   “But do not worry, I have thought of a solution.”

            Éowyn had listened hopefully.   Now she frowned.  “What is this solution, brother?  Is it anything like your idea of shouting and threats as a pleasant greeting?”

            He grinned, a mischievous gleam appearing in his eye, “You and I shall leave for Edoras in a week.   Before then I shall meet with your princeling.”  At her impatient grimace, he laughed, continuing, “If he agrees to my proposal I will be solving two problems at once—replacing a warrior in my éored and helping him prove his worth to our people.”

 “What…what do you mean by that?”  Replacing a warrior?  She could not understand; it was as though he’d spoken utter nonsense.

            Éomer continued firmly, “In order for our people to take him seriously your princeling must prove himself.   He must be able to perform all the tasks of a Knight of the Riddermark.” 

She gaped at him, disbelieving.  “But…” That is nonsense!  He is a Prince, a warrior…her brother had said Faramir was not worthy but she’d not believed it.  Does he believe that?  Can he?

He overrode her; “Tomorrow I will discuss it with him.   This is the only way they or I will accept him as your husband.”  His face was stern, features as unyielding as the stone around them.  “I would not have a man unworthy for you, sister…he must be strong in all ways.”  He cracked a smile, “Or I think you would run him into the ground.”

           And that I find him worthy means nothing?  Angered but know she had little recourse, Éowyn bit her lip and looked at the floor.   “It seems he has no choice.”

        “No.”  Again her brother’s voice was adamant.  But when she met his eyes, they wavered.  He was afraid and her heart softened.  He wanted the best for her, that was clear and if this was the only way her brother knew to go about it, there was no bothering with him—he’d fully inherited all the stubbornness of their line. 

        She sighed.  “As you wish it.” 

***

Éomer did not walk as other men did.   Well, at least not today…   He smiled to himself.  Today, on his way to meet the Prince of Ithilien, he stalked.   He entered the long council room stiffly, eyes as steely as he could possibly make them.  He kept his shoulders square beneath the heavy weight of his armor, glowering at the velvet wall hangings and cushioned chairs in open disdain, turning his head at last to meet the gaze of the man that awaited him so silently, so stilly it was mildly perturbing.  At ease, he does not dare…  Faramir had no reputation of aggression, but of calmness and patience.  Both were evident.

 Relaxing again, Éomer bit down on the insides of his cheeks in a desperate attempt to contain his gleeful laughter as the Steward’s still face broke; now his expression was marked with annoyance.   He watched Faramir watch him approach and the sound of his boots was the only thing that broke the quiet.   Nervousness coming to his features now, Faramir rose from behind his desk and inclined his head with proper respect as Éomer came to a leisurely standstill.  

            Clearing his throat, he smiled.  “Greetings, my Lord Éomer.”  Faramir seemed determined to be courteous today.   Éomer did not smile, instead he watched curiously, wondering how long it would take to break that smoothly affable façade.  “Did you…did you have any trouble locating the room?”

            “No.”  Éomer was over an hour late.

            “Oh…I see.”  Faramir looked flustered.   Éomer was being kept duly entertained, as the older man seemed at a loss as whether to respond to the implication that Éomer was purposely late or to simply keep going.   “So, my Lord,” He gestured to the seats.  “Shall we begin?”  Diplomatically, Faramir had taken the latter choice.  Éomer had known he would.   That was what made it so amusing when he said, voice hard and curt,

            “You accept my tardiness.   I did not know all men of Gondor disliked confrontation so much.”  He added, allowing some of his amusement to show, “Perhaps it is little wonder you must call upon our folk to defend you.”

Faramir froze in the act of seating himself.   There was a hint of anger in his eyes as he raised them and coolly asked, “What would you have done in my place?”  Éomer was impressed with his further icy statement, “Please, I’m sure your experience is greater than mine in dealing with such rudeness.”

            Hiding his delight, Éomer slammed his gloved fist down hard on the surface of the richly finished mahogany table; he was gratified to see Faramir jump.  “I would have hunted him down and demanded a reason.”  Éomer ground out his answer, making sure to emphasize it with his best fierce expression (practiced since he was just a lad).

            There was definitely cold fire in his words now as Faramir recovered, snapping, “And what was your reason?”

             “I couldn’t find it, all this stone looks alike.”  Éomer said this easily, straightening up as he did so.  Of course it was a lie, a test to see what new reaction would be brought.  

There was none.  Feeling a twinge of unease, sliding out his chair to dead silence, he sat.   Faramir’s teeth were clenched, but he was perfectly quiet and slowly an expression of patient tractability came again to his face.   Éomer had to pause to admire the man’s control before leaning back comfortably to see what he would do.   So far, his plan was working perfectly.  I must enrage him, goad him into accepting this…enflame his love and sense of honor…   

Speaking as carefully as though to a mad man, Faramir asked, “Shall we begin now, my Lord?”  His words were level again—Éomer was disappointed he hadn’t coaxed an outburst from this son of Gondor.  Nevertheless, Faramir loved his sister and Éomer was fairly certain he would agree, although, sadly, without as much entertainment as hoped.   It was dull in the White City.

He took a deep breath and began laying his trap with cool declarations of fact.  “Éowyn must return to Edoras.   Théoden named her regent there before he left for Gondor and I will need her help in putting things right in our land.”  He added, “You have less than a week to give me an answer on whether or not you will marry her.”  Faramir opened his mouth, eyes flashing in vexation.  Éomer silenced him with a glare.  “I have not yet named the conditions.”

A reckless sort of anger was in the Steward’s face and posture now.  “Do not trouble yourself.   Anything that you ask of me I will do.   I love her.   That is my answer.”

Surprised and a bit pleased by the show of emotion, Éomer chuckled inwardly; he had thought as much.   Faramir was so besotted by his sister that he plunged recklessly ahead into the unknown, like a foolish young stallion after a mare.  “Then we are finished.”  He made to rise.

“Wait…aren’t you going to tell me the conditions?”   Faramir looked confused, near panic as he stood. 

“You said you would do anything I ask.   I say that you must come with me to Rohan, South man and prove to me that you can complete all the tasks that a Lord of the Mark can.”

“Name them.”  Faramir voiced it challengingly.

Éomer admired his courage.  His sister had chosen well enough, if he judged by this alone.  It is too bad he is a thin whip of a man who hides his pride and bows to others…  He truly saw little that she could possibly like in Faramir.  Calmly, he stated the terms.  “You must learn our history and language, be able to carry and use a spear, care for your horse and tack, and ride in an éored with my warriors before you can wed Éowyn.”  Faramir still looked confused, so Éomer explained; “Accomplishing these things will show my men that you are capable of leading them if some misfortune befell me.” 

“I see…” His expression had cleared, but before he could speak a man in the dress of the Rohirrim walked through the door. 

 Éomer gestured at the man he’d chosen.   “Since you have already agreed, then you cannot visit my sister without a guard by her side.   I will not have her honor disparaged.”  He met the Steward’s gaze, stressing his will.  “If you wish to see her, summon Halorl.”   The fair-haired man stepped forward and bowed deferentially. 

“Now, if you will excuse me, my Lord Faramir, I have urgent business to attend to.”  He really had none, but Éomer smiled his victory at the silent ranger and left quickly to be sure to preserve his triumph.   If only wars were so easily planned and won…

***

As his Lord left, Halorl remained and stood quietly, patiently waiting upon Faramir’s command.  I wonder, does he speak the Common Tongue?  There was nothing but to try.  After a few seconds, Faramir sighed.   “Take me to the Lady Éowyn, please.”

“Gea, Hlaford min.”

Faramir blinked at the rough accent.   He assumed that was an assenting reply by the tone and since Halorl immediately gestured for Faramir to follow him.  Perhaps this man could help me in learning some Rohirric…  He rubbed his forehead, wondering how he was supposed to acquire all the necessary skills and if there was a time in which he must.  Are there any in my City that speak the North Tongue?  None of his rangers did, nor noblemen that he could bring to mind.  Merchants, traders?  He could hire one.

 The man, tall, blond and burly, moved quickly through the city, leading Faramir lower and lower through the levels.   It was not a cheerful sight.   Minas Tirith still lay in ruins; buildings were crushed from flung stones and blackened with fire, taverns stood empty, and nowhere were the usual peddlers shouting the importance of their goods in the debris-littered streets. 

Faramir itched to help the men he saw, yet Éomer had mentioned that he had only a week with Éowyn and he did not intend to spend all his time in places not graced by her presence.   His thoughts had been wandering along that line for a while, a somewhat silly expression on his face, when Halorl abruptly halted.  He gestured, saying in his thick, foreign voice, “Min Ides is seo.”  Faramir looked around, coming from his thoughts.   They had arrived at the stables on the lowest level of the city. 

It was not hard to spot Éowyn by virtue of the two hobbits sitting on the wooden bench with her.   Their swinging legs made Faramir smile, then smother a chuckle as he and Halorl approached.   Merry sat on her left, Pippin on her right.   Curiously, she wore a wreath of small blue and white flowers on her head and another around her slender wrist.   The flowers were very pretty against the gold hair he admired so much.  Also, instead of the gowns he was accustomed to seeing her in; she was clad in men’s clothes: breeches, boots, and a buttoned wool shirt.   The flowers added a distinctly feminine touch to her mannish attire, making her a curious sight, but one he found pleasurable.   The hobbits wore the clothing of their respective lords with Pippin bearing the White Tree and Merry the White Horse.   Faramir wondered, as he was unaware that they had to, but as he approached, he looked closer and thought that the halflings took pride in their uniforms and wore them out of pleasure.  

Éowyn was smiling at Pippin and fingering her flower bracelet when Merry saw them.   The hobbit immediately tugged on her sleeve.  She bent her head to listen, then spoke.   Pippin leaned in, sharp little face questioning.  The three fell silent when Faramir with Halorl now in tow, was only a few steps away. 

“Lord Faramir.”  Éowyn was looking up at him, a slightly amused expression on her face.   Pleased to see no shadows of grief or anger, Faramir bowed at the waist for her with a smile and nodded cordially at the hobbits. 

“My Lady Éowyn.”  He felt more inclined to place his possession on her title this day, unconsciously stressing it to an absent brother.

Pippin bobbed his head, grinning cheerfully.  “Hullo, Faramir.” 

He returned the greeting, feeling himself cheer, “Good morning, Pippin.”

To his surprise Merry had barely glanced at him.   Instead the hobbit hopped off the bench and looked askance at Éowyn.   She nodded encouragingly, lips compressed over a smile.   Stepping to Faramir’s left, he craned his neck up to look at the man of Rohan.   “Hwa is eower naman?”

“Halorl.”  The Rider smiled, obviously bemused.

“Halorl, Ic wille weard.”  Even in the foreign tongue, Merry’s voice carried an authoritative ring that Faramir could not quite connect to the foot-swinging Halfling of a moment before.  Halorl looked startled as well. 

“Ac, Hlaford min Éomer…” The Rohir’s voice was hesitant.

Pippin covered his mouth.   Faramir could see the smaller hobbit’s shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth.   Éowyn played diffidently with her flowers, twisting them around and around her wrist, as though in no doubt Merry could cope with the Rider. 

Halorl looked at a loss as Merry repeated firmly, “Ic wille weard.”  He looked to Faramir, who understood his confusion—the soldier had his orders from his lord, yet how could he not be obedient to Éowyn? 

        Faramir noticed Éowyn’s lips moving.  Merry’s eyes darted briefly to the side, and then he tilted his head back to better hear her.   After listening the hobbit’s eyes narrowed and Faramir smiled as he growled fiercely up at a perplexed Halorl.  “Ge inca me, Halorl?”

“Ná, min fréond.   Ac…” He looked pleadingly at Éowyn’s bent head, but she ignored them all, content to play with her flowers.  Faramir smiled to himself as finally Halorl came to a decision.  The Rohir bowed low and said in quiet submission to her will,” Gése, min Ides.”  He turned on his heel and left.   

Éowyn praised instantly, a wide sunny smile on her face, “That was wonderful, Merry!  Thank you.”  Merry bowed as Pippin burst out laughing. 

The Brandybuck turned to look up at his giggling cousin, who still perched on the bench and Pippin quickly scooted closer to Éowyn’s side as Merry scowled.  “What’s so funny?”

            “You didn’t know what you were saying, Merry.”

            “I did too!”

            “Did not!”

            “Did too!”

            Éowyn held up her hands with a laugh and a stern word.  “Enough!”  The hobbits quieted instantly.   Faramir was amazed; he’d once witnessed Aragorn spend several minutes shouting the two younger hobbits down before getting the results Éowyn had gotten.   She winked at him in an astonishingly but not displeasingly bold fashion and turned to Pippin.  “Pippin, what did you come here to ask Merry, again?”

The smaller hobbit’s face lit up as he remembered.   “Sam’s going to go and talk to the cooks in the Houses of Healing today and he wanted to know if you’d like “anythin’ in particular”.”   The Took grinned before adding, “Like desserts or other stuffs.”

Merry asked curiously, “Why’s he doing that?”

“I don’t know.   Maybe he thinks Frodo would eat more if they made his favorites.”  Pippin looked thoughtful as he resumed swinging his bare, dirty feet.  “Anyways, I told him I wanted some puddings and pies.”  He looked up plaintively, “Why don’t they have desserts here Faramir?   Is it because Men don’t eat them?”

“Men eat sweets, too.”  Faramir answered the question patiently, hiding his intense amusement behind a serene façade for fear of offending the younger halfling with his laughter.  He allowed a smile, “But, perhaps not as much as Hobbits.”

“Oh.”  He bobbed his curly head, “So, Merry, what do you want?  Hurry up I’m hungry.”  Pippin hopped off the bench, obviously ready to race back up the seven levels to Sam. 

“Strawberry short-cake.”  There was a dreamy smile on his face as Merry answered.

“That it?”  Pippin began walking backwards.

        “No…coffee cake and …mmm … lemon cookies.   Oh, and don’t forget to tell him I want some FRIED CHICKEN, TOO!”  Merry was forced to shout the last item as Pippin had gotten rather far away.   “What?”  Merry looked confused as Faramir and Éowyn laughed.   She hesitated, then offered Faramir her hand and he graciously helped her to stand, coincidentally moving nearer to her.   She smiled, the flowers in her hair rippling in the breeze. 

“Who made these for you?”  He encircled her wrist with his hand, willfully using any excuse to get close or to touch her.      

“Merry did.  Aren’t they lovely?”   She didn’t object as he stroked the little bracelet, but there was nothing in her words or face that she enjoyed it.  In fact, Éowyn did not react to his touch whatsoever, passively allowing him to hold her wrist until he wished to release her.  Uncertain, Faramir raised a questioning eyebrow at the hobbit, some of his anxiety disappearing as an irrepressible grin came to his mouth in the tease, 

“Should I be jealous?” 

“Aragorn says I’m supposed to use my hands.”  Merry’s tone was defensive.  Éowyn smiled down indulgently; Faramir fancied he saw more adoration in her eyes for the hobbit than him.

Stop it…  “Ah.”  He nodded, suppressing both his grin and his frustration at her perfect air of detachment.  It was as though she bore an invisible shield, hiding her heart and soul from him.  “What did you two have planned today, before I interrupted?”  Faramir asked in courtesy; he thought he could guess by her attire. 

Éowyn nodded to the stable.  “We were going to go horseback riding.”  Her voice grew softer as she finally met his gaze and smiled, but she ducked her head almost at once, a thin sheaf of her honey-colored hair falling across her eye and cheek.  It hid her from him as she glanced up and murmured, “Do you want to come?”

“I’d love to.”  Faramir replied gladly, delighted at even the faintest display of desire for his presence.   His day was finally brightening.  He offered her his arm, pleased anew when she stepped to take it.  Merry trotted behind them.

The stable on the lowest level was the largest, of course.   Capable of holding hundreds of warhorses at any time, it was depressingly empty.    Built mostly of stone, it was strong and located in a sheltered enough place to have survived most of the bombardment from flying stones and fireballs.   The damage received had been quickly repaired as the stable had housed, instead of horses, those too badly wounded to carry to the Houses of Healing in the first few days after the battle.   Thus, as Faramir, Éowyn and Merry entered the stable, it seemed surprisingly well kept; the street outside was swept clean of debris and the wooden doors had been replaced.   Most of the front stalls were empty, although nearer to the far end they were occupied with not only horses, but also other stock animals temporarily out of lodgings.  Stable boys trotted about, pushing wheelbarrows or carrying buckets of water.   Eventually the three caught the attention of one of the boys and he shouted for the Master.   A tall, thin man came rushing up on stork-like legs.   He bowed low in recognition of his Prince.

            It did not take very long to provide Faramir with a mount.   An older grey gelding, retired from the field though still strong, the Stable Master assured them, would be quickly saddled and brought to him.   For Éowyn, he said, bowing, “Our most gentlest of horses.”   She attempted to smile and he felt her hand tighten on his arm.  If it was a signal, Faramir was unsure of what it meant.  He frowned, anxious to please, yet too uncertain of what move to make to do so.   A movement from Merry caught Faramir’s eye; the hobbit shook his head rapidly, wide-eyed, curls flying, as the stableman continued, “…a most calm animal.   You need not worry, my lady…” 

Taking a chance he felt to be correct, Faramir cut him off.   “That will not be necessary.   The Lady can ride.   Bring her a horse with spirit.”  Éowyn shot him a look of gratitude and gave him a brilliant smile that more than made up for all of Éomer’s disagreeableness.  Merry looked smug.  However, the stable master hesitated before agreeing.   Faramir could understand; few women of Gondor could ride at all and none he knew of could ride a horse “with spirit”.   He ordered smoothly, “Go on, the Lady is from Rohan, she knows well how to ride, and get us a pony to suit Master Merry.”  He nodded to the halfing standing at his side. 

The man looked down at the hobbit and frowned.   “There are no ponies here, my Lord.   They are all pulling carts on Pelennor to aid our men in clearing the fields.”   

Faramir was getting exasperated, almost feeling that the man was deliberately being difficult.   Impatience to be gone rose in his chest, making him say more curtly, “Find the smallest horse and have him wear your smallest saddle.”

“Yes, sir.”   He bowed and began to shout at the nearest stable boy.   “Hi!  You, there!   Saddle me Cloud, Flame and…” The man blanched slightly before shouting the name in front of his Lord, “Blackie!”

           “Blackie!”  Merry cried delightedly.  

Faramir laughed and Éowyn shook her head, trying and failing to hide a smile.   He turned to her and the smile faded; she looked slightly away from his gaze.  Swallowing at the mild rejection, he said, “Do you ride much…?”  It was an absurd question, but he’d no other way of beginning a conversation—she helped him little or not at all.

“I learned to sit a horse before I could walk.”  Éowyn had turned back, but barely.  He was pleased to see her smile, even more to hear her laugh.  “I love to ride.  It is wonderful, I think, to feel the horse and my heart as one…” She trailed off, but her smile remained and her face was lightened when she looked to him, repeating honestly, “I love to ride.”

Well, that is one thing I know that shall please her for all time…  “Do you have a horse here…what of the one you rode?”  He’d softened his voice, ending the inquiry with gentleness in case it upset her.

“I don’t know what became of Windfola.”  She frowned.  “He either lies in a mound or will carry another on the road back…he was not my horse, I stole him when I left.”

He nodded, then said in hopes of pleasing her again, “If you wish a horse I will grant you one to your liking.”

Éowyn looked at him sharply, warily for all the simplicity of his offer.  She nodded slowly and then managed a smile.  “Thank you, my Lord.  That is very generous of you.”

He wanted to argue that it was not generosity, but a direct attempt to please her and perhaps give her something to keep him in her mind, but in very short order their mounts were brought out and he kept his silence.   Faramir’s grey was the largest, heavy-boned and strong, he chewed his bit and tossed his head, eager to go.   Faramir patted the thick dappled neck and swung into the saddle, half-grateful for a reprieve from his love’s difficulties.   As he did so, the young man at his bridle informed him shyly.   “His name is Cloud, my Lord.” 

            Éowyn’s spirited horse was next, a smaller, lightly built chestnut gelding with a beautifully tapered head that he was shaking violently, trying to rid himself of the boy clinging to the reins.   Merry took one look and scrambled away, out of range of a flung hoof.   Prancing, the horse leapt lightly from one side to the other, little ears flicking, his shod hooves clacking on the stone as he was led to Éowyn’s side.  He nosed her hand briefly before rearing and trying to break away.  “He’s charming!”

She looked enchanted; Faramir was having second thoughts.   “Are you sure you…?”

“Do not finish that!”  Merry interrupted with a good-natured cry.  His small face was stern, defending, “Lady Éowyn can handle a horse in the midst of battle!”

She laughed, looking to the hobbit fondly, then more sharply to him.  “Aye, I beg you, do not insult me, dear Faramir.”

Dear Faramir?  Had she ever called him that?  His heart leapt and he bowed from the waist, returning the endearment, “I apologize profusely, my dear Lady.”  She smiled in return and it was bright, easeful, and made his spirits soar like to Eagles.

Flame was finally stilled and two boys held his head while Éowyn mounted.  She did it with shocking quickness in this City where so few women rode—boot rested in the stirrup for only an instant before she was swinging up and aboard, reins fully in hand.   Once she was on his back, the gelding calmed, limiting himself to alternately pawing and snaking out his head and pushing on the bit to test his passenger’s resolve.      

            Merry looked apprehensively towards the stable door while Éowyn crooned soothingly to Flame.   The thud of hooves on straw preceded an even smaller black horse.   There was a sigh of relief from the hobbit as his mount walked comparably quietly alongside his stable boy; the only sign of restlessness was his quickening pace once outside.   The little horse was well made with a finely boned head and trim flanks, and obviously well trained—he stood still as Flame circled the group and Cloud pawed noisily at the straw covered stone.  Faramir still had a boy at his bridle but Éowyn had swiftly dismissed hers, preferring to handle the chestnut herself.  He watched her anxiously—a fall would mean being dashed to the hard stone. 

        Merry walked to Blackie’s side and looked up…and up.   The horse was much taller than any Shire pony, Faramir guessed; he could see the halfling needed help to mount.  He gestured for one of the watching stable boys.  “How did you get up on that great warhorse of Lady Éowyn’s anyway, Master Hobbit?”  Faramir teased lightly, he chuckled as Merry scowled.  One of the boys came and kneeled and cupped his hand for Merry’s foot.   The hobbit grabbed the stirrup and put his foot in the boy’s hand so that when the boy swung upwards, Merry was able to get one foot in the stirrup.   From there he climbed his way into the saddle.   Faramir watched him closely, frowning when he saw how the halfing relied on one arm.  He still hurts…  He turned to his love, wondering if she did as well.  Maybe that makes her shy from me…and she is too proud to say.  Panting, the hobbit picked up the reins.     

             Éowyn laughed, answering his teasing question.   “I had to boost him.   Believe me, hobbits are heavier than they look.”

             “I beg your pardon?  I’ll have you know that I’m quite slender for a hobbit…” Merry began hotly.   Faramir grinned and gestured for their horses to be released.   He steered Cloud down the wide street, listening with half an ear as Éowyn and Merry chattered, arguing over the natural heftiness of hobbits. 

He hummed to himself, heart light, thinking of the best place to ride.   On the Pelennor would not be wise…and anything to the north would still be strewn with the last of the dead orcs and men.   The river is east, and the City itself holds west…so Faramir would have to ride south.   In a few miles they would hit the river and…he straightened in the saddle as the thought struck, they could look over the Anduin at the hills of Emyn Arnen that Aragorn had given him.   Surely Éowyn would be interested in seeing the place of their future home.   It was very beautiful and unspoiled still in the heart of Ithilien.

Faramir twisted in the saddle to look back.  The flower wreath was still in Éowyn’s hair, the blue and white blooms flipping in the breeze as she teased Merry.   Flame’s head was tucked into his chest, neck bent like a bowstring, mouth pushing hard against the bit.   Faramir marveled that her slender arms could handle the pull.   He knew he would be bracing hard against the horse by now.   As he watched, confused, he saw her lift her hands to shoulder level and shake them gently.   Immediately Flame eased back on the bit, relaxing. 

              “What did you just do?”  He slowed Cloud so that he was beside Éowyn.   Merry trotted his horse into the lead.  

                “I shook him off the bit.”   She said it as though he were silly, glancing sideways into his eyes. 

               “Oh.”  Faramir felt silly.   He knew, of course, that the Rohirrim were superior horsemen, but still it was surprising how little he apparently knew. 

Perhaps seeing his confusion, she explained further, “I lightened the bit in his mouth; he didn’t have anything to pull against, so he couldn’t pull and grow wild.”  Éowyn stroked the chestnut’s neck fondly.   “I like him.  He’s very impatient.”  Her question held a bit of anxiety that he could not understand, “We will go where they can run some, won’t we?”  

“Of course, we’re riding south, there’s wide enough ground between the river and the road.”  He continued, feeling oddly shy.   “I want you to see some of Ithilien…where we’ll live.”   Éowyn looked startled, then to his relief, she smiled up at him.  Faramir was gratified to see that the same shyness within his heart was echoed in hers. 

Her voice was a murmur hardly overcoming the clopping of their horses’ hooves.  “Is it?”

“Aye.  I think you will like it.”  She swallowed and nodded, but the fragile moment was broken by a shrill hobbit voice,

“Come on!”   They had reached where the gates had stood.  Faramir stared at the broken, blackened remains in silent awe; the others hardly looked, but they’d not lived a life seeing the way blocked by the Great Gate, so he pardoned them their lack of interest.   It is gone…he marveled silently before using his all attention as they dodged wagons and men on foot.

 Soon, the three passed through the gateway and out into the open.  The cobblestones their horses walked on were still scorched and when Faramir looked for them, he found the Great Gates lay twisted on the ground hundreds of yards away, pulled down from their ancient hinges.   The city stretched on their right side, it’s smooth, impenetrable stone walls reaching for the sky, contrasting the level plain curving around its glittering river, the banks only a few miles away to the left.   Faramir led the way, steering Cloud over the dusty road, down into the drainage ditch and then up onto the flat grass.   Éowyn followed on Flame, sending the athletic chestnut up the incline with no trouble.   Merry’s short-legged horse, however, boldly jumped both down into the ditch and up out of it.       

            “Whoa!”  Merry yelped loudly, clinging for dear life.   “I don’t have any stirrups!”

            Faramir looked over.  He was right.   The smallest saddle in Gondor’s stables could have held two hobbits easily, even ones who drank Ent draughts.  Merry’s stirrups, adjusted to their highest, flopped a good four to five inches below his feet; he rode with one hand clutching the front of the saddle, his legs wrapped around the top half of the horse’s barrel.

           Concerned for the halfling’s safety, Faramir asked.  “Will you be all right if we run?”

            “Oh, yes.   Just, uh, no jumping.”

            “Good.”  Éowyn said firmly and nodded where the bend of the river, some two miles ahead began to straighten.   “You see that?  Where the Anduin comes back around?  That pile of rocks there?”

            “Yes.”    It was a marker for the old Harad road.   Faramir began to grin, sensing what she was implying.   He rose slightly in his stirrups, instinctively tensing.   Beneath him, Cloud’s strides began to lengthen.   Out of the corner of his eye he could see Éowyn’s mount do the same.   Merry’s little horse was already walking as fast as it could without breaking gait, the black head bobbing.   Merry grabbed enthusiastically at his dark mane, preparing to hang on. 

            “Good.”  Éowyn repeated.  Then, with a final glance at Faramir, she gave a light laugh of pure joy—it was a sound he’d never heard her voice.  “See you there!” and at her cry “Go!”  Flame flew ahead like an arrow released at long last from a quivering bow.  Éowyn rose, crouching in the saddle, her chin nearly touching the chestnut’s mane.

            Faramir yelled and put his heels to Cloud’s flanks, sending him into a rough canter.   His strides were choppy and clumsy at first, so that Faramir had to tighten his knee’s grip to keep his balance on the big horse.   Beside him, closer to the river, Merry whooped and thumped his bare, furry feet against the littler horse’s sides.   Accelerating smoothly, the pair surged into second, leaving Faramir as last. 

        Green grass blurring beneath their hooves, throwing chunks of sod into Faramir’s face, the two smaller horses’ course took them roughly parallel to the riverbank.  Swerving beneath the onslaught, he lost ground, but Faramir was soon gaining on Merry, his ungainly mount finding his legs at last.   Éowyn was still far in the lead, but Faramir was determined to catch her.   Merry booed him loudly as the bigger horse galloped past, leaving the short-legged Blackie far behind.    Faramir burst out laughing, exhilarated.   He hadn’t ridden this fast for fun in years.   The wind blew his hair back and made his eyes water, the thunder of hooves echoed his own quickened heartbeat; he stared through Cloud’s grey ears at the land that flew by with pleasure.   Leaning forward in the saddle, he urged the gelding on with voice and heel.   Éowyn had just reached the halfway point and Faramir had every intention of beating her.   Trees and spring flowers flashed past and on the road various parties of men on foot on the road were cheering as he gained ground. 

  She was standing in the stirrups when he finally had Cloud’s nose at Flame’s tail.  Faramir yelled a challenge that was blown away by the wind, but Éowyn glanced back and her eyes went wide; she hadn’t believed that his heavier horse could catch hers.   Bent low, her cheek pressed against Flame’s red neck, pleading, she managed to squeeze a bit more out of him, but the little chestnut had been going all out and was tiring.   His horse taking one stride to Flame’s two, Faramir hung at his flanks, waiting. 

Slowly it happened.   Faramir was not going any faster, yet he was gaining.  Cloud’s nose was at her saddle when she turned again.   This time her mouth fell open.   Then Éowyn laughed at something behind him and whooped loudly, fist in the air.   And Faramir suddenly heard the rush of hooves to his left and realized he’d forgotten entirely about Merry.   It was too late.   The rocks were directly ahead and both their horses were spent.   Merry’s horse, relatively fresh, Faramir realized, actually flew by the bigger tiring animals as they slowed, stretched out to the max, black coat lathered, the light-weight hobbit grinning ear to ear as he beat them.   Gradually slowing to a walk, they halted by the river.    Several miles downriver Faramir could see the hills of Emyn Arnen, the area where Aragorn had bid him to make his home. 

        The horses dripped sweat, breathing fast.   Faramir glared playfully at the beaming Merry.   “You planned that all along didn’t you?”

       “Course I did.  I used to ride ponies in heats in the Shire, you know.   I was good.”  Merry’s tone was proud.  He patted Blackie’s lathered neck.   “Though I never went that fast before on our little ponies.   Not even on good Buckland stock.”  He added smugly.  “I knew I could beat you.   You went too fast too soon.”

          “He had a strategy!   Can you believe that?”  Panting, Faramir asked Éowyn, who laughed immediately and lightly,

   “Boys ride in races in Rohan every year, so yes.   Men come from all over our lands to bet on the outcomes and see the quality of the horses.  It is like a festival.”  She was suddenly serious, troubled.  “Do you not have such things in Gondor?”  

            “Not often.   We are not such a horse-folk.”  Faramir was pained at the sadness on her face.   He did not want her to be sad, he’d always thought she should be happy, even from the first time he saw her.   He reached across the gap between them to touch her shoulder.   “Tell me more while we ride?”

          “You wish to hear about it?”  She was puzzled.

Faramir smiled.   “Your brother requires I learn about your people.   I can’t think of a better person to begin my lessons.”  His voice was warm and his hand reached out to squeeze hers.   Éowyn flushed. 

            Merry cleared his throat.  “Yes, and Éomer also said I should watch you quite closely.”   Faramir laughed, but let go of her hand.   He was hurt to notice that Éowyn smiled and seemed to relax and her spirits to lighten the moment he did.   The hobbit’s voice had been mock stern, yet Faramir could see something was truly troubling him as he nudged his horse between them.    “Now, you said we were riding somewhere?”

          “Yes,” He sighed, downhearted, and pointed south.   “We will get a bit closer to those hills.”

           “Well, let’s go on.  I don’t want to miss lunch.   Sam’s got them making chicken pot pie.”  Merry clucked to Blackie and they began to walk the sweating horses onward.   

***

Éowyn did not start the lessons.  She rode lost in her own thoughts as their path took them further and further along the river.   The Anduin, both wide and deep, roiled and foamed brown with silt and bits of debris.  It is nothing like to the Snowbourn…  Her river was shallower, slower and gentler—the Great River looked merciless to any that chanced to fall into its powerful current.  She watched her shadow stretch down the sloping clay bank, flirting with the edge of the water.   The country on the other side of the river was green and rose swiftly to high, rolling hills—as though the land itself were trying to ease her homesickness.    Her horse snorted at a passing stick and she steadied him with soft, all but inaudible words.   “Gebinda, min freond.”

             Merry spoke after a while, “It reminds me of Brandy Hall.”  He pointed with one small finger to an especially long, low mound, “An entire clan of Hobbits could burrow under that hill…course the river would flood us out, it is bigger than the Brandywine.”

            “Brandywine?” 

Éowyn smiled at Faramir’s curious tone, he sounded almost boyishly eager to learn something new.  This side of him always appeared when she spoke of herself—encouraging and enthusiastic, completely harmless...  She was a fool to fear him.

Her Prince asked further, “What river is that?  I have seen maps of the West and I don’t remember it.”

           “Oh,” Merry looked slightly embarrassed,”it is just a jest…my people are fond of naming things in fun.   I meant the river Baraduin.”

            “A clever twist.”  Faramir chuckled in appreciation.  Éowyn gazed across the swirling water at the land she would most likely look at for the rest of her life.   It was a strange and frightening thought that someday she might know those hills better than the plains around Edoras.  “I’m still deciding on the best area to build our home.” 

She became aware that Faramir was speaking to her.   His words registered and Éowyn sat up in her saddle, unease stirring in her stomach.   Surely not…   “Build?”  She asked it in a voice slow with dread, carefully keeping her tone level.   It would not do to fret like a child now, after so long a life of coolly dealing with warriors.   Merry was craning his neck, looking back and forth between them.   His brow was furrowed, guessing her distress.  

            “Yes,” Faramir seemed unperturbed as he answered,” we have made no great dwellings on the other side of the river since Osgiliath.  I’m afraid it will take some time until it is built.”  He hesitated,”I would like, another day, for you to come and walk the land with me, so that you can help decide where to construct it.”  Smiling, his voice was gentle, tender, “It is your home too, you will have a voice.”

Éowyn smiled back, distracted.  Faramir was kind.  “I would like that.”  Then, choosing her words carefully again, she asked, “Will we stay within the City?”

           “Of course.” 

Éowyn clenched her hands tightly on the reins.   Flame’s ears flicked back questioningly; he lifted his head as he felt her tense.  Absently stroking his neck to reassure him, Éowyn tried to absorb what Faramir had said.   Live in Minas Tirith, behind the walls, behind the gates and guarded like a bird in a cage?   She felt her heart beat faster, her throat tightening in anxiety.  With the women who laugh when I enter the room and the men that pat my hand and shake their heads when I speak?  Impossible.   She would die. 

         Merry piped up.  “How long will it take?  Surely it won’t be too long before I can come back to visit you.”  He partly understood.   She had found Merry eating elevenses with Frodo and Sam in the main dining hall earlier.   The hobbits had spotted her across the vast room and waved eagerly to Éowyn, who had been forced to push her way past a large group of women, painted and perfumed, dressed in fine silks.   She’d flushed, head high as they snickered and clucked at her clad in leather boots, a rough wool shirt and trousers for riding.  When she’d finally reached the hobbits’ table her fists had been clamped so tight she’d retained the half-moon indentions her fingernails dug into her palms for nearly an hour. 

“I’m not sure, Merry.”  Faramir pointed to one of the highest hills still many miles away.  Éowyn stared at its grey-green slopes; they were studded with the greyish rock that was so prevalent in Gondor and looked like they would take long to excavate.  “That, I think, is the best place.   However, our men will have to scout Emyn Arnen to be positive.   It will be some time before we can even begin drawing plans.”  He paused.  “It is a shame it would take too long to reach it, I would love for you to see more of Ithilien since you did not visit Cornmallen, Éowyn.”   Faramir smiled, “I doubt your brother would look kindly on a two day journey…even with a guard.”

She did not answer, cold with dread.

He continued, less enthusiastic now.  “The council is even now debating on the best place to build the new bridge.” 

Éowyn swore inwardly, looking away from the river.   New bridge?  New bridge?  Are they mad?  The road had wound far from their course; the men and carts passing on it were no bigger than ants.  

“But enough of Ithilien.”  Faramir smiled brilliantly, eyes striving to meet hers over Merry’s head.  “Come, let’s rest in the shade, and you can tell me about those horse races in Rohan.”   He turned his big gelding, leading them to a small clump of spindly trees that stood higher than the rest of the ground.  

        She swallowed hard, watching the sun gleam brightly in his dark hair as he rode before her.   Faramir is a good man…yet, what did she know about him?   He seemed to accept her—at any rate he had not appeared disturbed to see her dressed in something other than the flimsy gowns the tailors had seen fit to send her.   Nor was he surprised that he found her with the hobbits outside a stable, rather than sewing or chattering in Court like the women of Gondor did.   He said he loved her and spoke gently, weaving words into beautiful things like no other man she’d met.   The times he’d kissed her had been demonstrative, passionate; yet there was no lust in his eyes, only appreciation and control.  What do I fear…she feared everything, oh everything.

Éowyn laughed bitterly and soundlessly.   What would Théodred have said if he’d known she’d fallen for a man, almost purely because he waxed poetical about Númenor while the world was ending around them?  He’d always teased her, saying “You’d spend more time picking out a horse to ride than a man to wed, my dear cousin!” 

Oh, my cousin, brother to my heart…she could still hear his voice booming in her ears when he’d picked her up and swung her around, laughing over some victory in the field.   I miss you…he could have kept Éomer in line, stopped his foolishness with a firm word. 

            Théodred had offered to take her to Gondor many times to survey her options, but Éomer had always begged her to stay a while yet, arguing she was young and had plenty of time.   She bent her head, not wanting either of the males who rode beside her to see the tears prickling her eyes.   She supposed she loved Faramir; he was noble and did not press her to be something she was not.    But still, it was a hard thing to ask her to give up her people, her brother and her way of life to live with him.   I have already given it up…

             “Look, my Lady!”  Faramir’s voice was animated as he dismounted, gesturing across the river.   “Do you see where we shall live in happiness?”  His grey eyes were so hopeful that she could not bear to answer only in silence. 

“Aye.”  They’d reached the trees and from the modest knoll where they stood she could see far down either side of the banks of the Anduin and from the slight height, far across the flatter hills of Ithilien.   Blinking tears away at the austere sight of emptily rolling hills and copses of trees, she managed a smile in return.   “It is a fair country.”

He’d dismounted and moved to hold the reins of her horse, large, warm hand extended upwards.  She didn’t need it, but she took it, feeling it grasping hers as she slid from the saddle.  Éowyn gasped as her legs failed and, to escape a fall, she leaned against his body.        Strange, she could touch him at times like this and feel completely safe, even without the little dagger she’d carried ever since she became a woman.   It was this feeling more than anything that banished the darkest of thoughts from her mind as his arms cradled her to his front.

“Are you well?”  He was frowning; one hand was lifting to carefully brush strands of her golden hair from her eyes.   Merry, turned to sit sidesaddle with his legs swinging, looked apprehensive. 

“Yes.”  Éowyn allowed herself a moment to lean into him, and then straightened.  Her legs were shamefully weak.  “I am…it’s just, I’ve not ridden at speed since…” 

“Ah.”  Faramir nodded in quiet understanding. 

Looking at his mouth and remembering his soft kiss, she couldn’t resist her curiosity and reached up with one slim hand, thumb brushing across his lower lip.  It was very soft, just as she’d felt when he’d kissed her.

She heard him inhale, features smoothing with surprise, eyes widening.  Faramir shifted on his feet, not moving them, but nevertheless he was pressed to her more than he’d been an instant before.  His body was pleasantly firm, arms and front drawing her closer; she could feel his heat in his palms as he held her wrist and arm above the elbow.  Éowyn swallowed in apprehension, abruptly conscious of somehow doing more than she would have thought with her simple, utterly innocent-minded touch.  Faramir was staring down at her, attentive, captivated, and waiting.  His eyes had softened again at the edges and she knew if she gave him any sign of want, he would kiss her. 

Éowyn took a quick breath, unsure how to retreat or even if she truly wished to—it was pleasantly thrilling to see his desire and feel it in how he stroked one finger gently along the skin of her wrist.  She gathered her courage, wanting again to please him and finding that she did want his kiss, as long as he kept it gentle.  Éowyn did the only thing she knew of how to signal her assent.  Lifting her face to his, she waited, heart beating faster.

He smiled at once, eyes alight.  Faramir lowered and kissed her, his mouth pressing hers just once in a very proper fashion.  It lingered a bit as though he could hardly bring himself to retreat, but he did and smiled so gently and in such pleasure that she laughed, embarrassed.  Éowyn guessed the reason for his restraint was near in the form of a hobbit.

Merry looked away, his small face screwed up and trying not to snicker as she arched an eyebrow and said lightly, trying to recover from what she’d seen in her Prince’s gaze—vast desire amid and checked by eager love.  “Now, did you bring anything to eat or is my good friend Meriadoc going to shrivel up and fly away?  We’ll never make it back in time for lunch, you know.”   

Merry’s outraged cry banished the last of her moodiness and most of her tension.   Éowyn laughed into Faramir’s perplexed eyes.   Perhaps he is worth the price, the dreadful price of sundering myself from country and blood…  She dearly hoped so.

***

He was confused by her ease, her laughter, but not displeased.  Releasing her, he stepped back and admitted he had no food to the hobbit’s moan of distress.  Soon, they were sitting beneath the largest tree; Éowyn was upright, her back to the thick, gnarled trunk with Faramir lying stretched out on his side next to her, propping his head on his hand.  She had been gazing out over the river for some time as he waited for her to speak. 

“Ahh,” Éowyn looked at him and frowned slightly, reaching out with one hand to gently brush at his face.  “You have something…some dirt…here, Faramir.  It must be from where you were behind me for so long.”    She smiled impishly as her hand scrubbed at his cheek, first lightly, then harder.  He held still under the onslaught, wincing once as she rubbed the hair wrong way; he’d not shaved in a few days and was getting shaggy. 

Before she could remove her hand, he rubbed his stubbled cheek against it mischievously, kissing her palm warmly as his lips grazed it.  To his surprise she blushed, quickly taking her hand away and bowing her head to look at her lap.  Faramir frowned.  She puzzled him; Éowyn did not act like any of the women he had met.   She rode like a man, shouted down both her brother and the hobbits, she said she loved him and would marry him, yet when he touched her suddenly or moved unexpectedly close he sensed a hesitant shyness and even fear from her part.

Perhaps I am being too bold…yet surely, if Éomer was any example of a Rohirrim man, he must seem tame and even dull to her.  Faramir faltered; he was unsure of how to act or what to say.  Only a few moments ago she had leaned against him, laughing and now she was staring at her lap, not meeting his gaze.  What do I do wrongly?  His frustration was close to the surface, constant and unabated. 

“Well, I for one would like to hear some stories about Rohan.”  Merry coughed politely, looking down at them.  He was still perched sideways, and to Faramir rather precariously, in the saddle with his brown-furred feet swinging a good four feet above the ground.   “Surely there are some entertaining, and by that I mean embarrassing,” The hobbit grinned in an effort to lighten the mood, “tales about Éomer you happen to know, Éowyn.”

             “Oh.”  She frowned; still not looking at Faramir, then smiled a small, weak smile.  “I suppose there are a few.”   But she did not share them.

           “Aren’t you going to come down?”  Faramir, getting desperate, craned his head to look up at the still mounted hobbit.   Merry’s horse was dozing, hind leg cocked, his tail swishing gently at flies while they spoke.   The two other horses stood nearby, tied to trees, sweat drying on their flanks. 

          “I’m sorry.”  Merry said apologetically.  Then he winked bafflingly at Faramir and said sadly, “I just don’t think I could get back up.”  He frowned, confused,

        “Of course I would aid…”

          “He is very heavy.”  Éowyn lifted her head and to Faramir’s relief, glanced at him before smiling up at the hobbit.  “The first time I helped him dismount he slipped, fell on top of me, and nearly crushed the life out of me.”  She laughed, “All that and with mail on.”

    “I did not!”  Merry argued hotly.  “You said you could catch me.”

“You looked much lighter than you were, Master Hobbit.”  Faramir was silent, watching intently.   Éowyn was not awkward when she spoke with Merry; they bickered like old friends, like siblings.  Did she feel he threatened her?   Why and how so?   Faramir shifted on the ground, running his free hand through the tender, matted blades of grass, listening not so much to the words, but the tone of their voices.   It was something he’d learned long ago as a boy in a desperate attempt to tune his father’s brutally cutting remarks out and hear only his voice in hopes that it would not hurt so much if he could not distinguish the words. 

             “Do not worry, if he wants down he will jump.  He did it before.”  Éowyn was saying with a smile, her voice playfully indifferent. 

             “And break my legs?”  Merry cried theatrically.  “Do you see how far down that is?  I almost killed myself the first time!” 

       “Oh, pfft.”  Éowyn rolled her eyes.  “You stubbed a toe.  It was hardly worth all the wailing you did.”  And suddenly Faramir could see what Merry was doing; the hobbit was directing the conversation away from deeper subjects in an attempt to make Éowyn feel more at ease, even at the expense of himself.   It was admirable and baffling.   Faramir had the feeling he was walking in on a conversation already in place.   He felt lost between them. 

             “Wailing?”  Faramir grinned up at Merry as he valiantly rejoined the exchange.

              “Oh, like a girl.  He nearly cried.”  Éowyn teased.   To Faramir’s lack of surprise she was once again smiling.   He smiled back, even as he wondered why she was growing more and more shy around him.   What was he doing wrong?  He’d noticed her silence several times as they’d neared the trees; she had not responded to his attempts to include her opinions about what would be their new home or cheer her.      

             “Cried?  Cried?”  Merry gasped in shock, putting a hand to his chest.  “Éowyn, how could you?  You swore never to tell!”

She leaned against the tree, a slender figure swathed in baggy men’s clothes, laughing so hard she shook.  Merry was shaking his head in mock horror of her inconsiderateness when he caught Faramir’s eye.   “Patience,” the hobbit mouthed it silently and exaggeratedly.   Faramir sat up immediately, frowning as he did so.   He’d thought Merry had told him everything he knew about Éowyn before.   Obviously he hadn’t. 

But before Faramir could mouth anything back, there was the sudden thudding vibration of approaching hooves.   A rider had left the road and was coming towards them.  

***

Éowyn’s smile faded as Faramir and Merry turned to look at the approaching rider.   Her palm still tingled where Faramir had kissed her; he’d surprised and overwhelmed her with his casual intimacy.  It had been one thing to imagine marrying him when the world as she knew it was ending…now, things were different and with her brother here to supply conditions, to speak of the future as though it were just within grasp, she was facing the realization of her actions.  Éowyn found that didn’t feel ready at all and she swallowed, clasping her hands loosely in her lap, fingers fiddling with the large buttons on her borrowed shirt.   It had been one of Éomer’s, a hastily made thing; after all, he had no clothes here in Gondor. 

        She’d stolen it that morning, refusing to ride in a dress.   She could ride sidesaddle, of course; she’d learned the foolish, difficult art of it for her mother.  Éomer had always told her, a smile on his face that Théodwyn had given up almost immediately on Éowyn being the sweet civilized little girl of her dreams.   A girl who would play with dolls and wear ribbons instead of wooden swords and her brother’s old castoffs; Éowyn the sophisticated woman, not the untamed shield-maiden.    Yes and we saw how that went…she smiled thinly.

           When she was very young and rebelling crossly against some womanly task, Théoden would hold her in his lap and say that that was why no one objected to her running wild and following her brother and cousin Théodred as much as they would allow her.  That long ago, her mother had understood and given her wearied permission.   However, before she died she had insisted that Éowyn learn to at least some of what a woman was supposed to behave like, so she must learn how to ride sidesaddle, and how to sew and cook and run a household no matter how terrible it seemed.   Her Uncle had never once raised his voice, nor got angry when she exploded, pushed too far at a chore that she felt was beneath her.   He’d understood, as well as any man could and loved her like a father.  Théoden, uncle…my cousin, Théodred, why…why just as I needed you most did you leave me?   

Now as a grown woman she would have to put those little-used skills to work and Éowyn found that she was terrified just wondering what Faramir would expect.   She knew well enough what to do and how, she simply detested it to the point of an uncontrollable loathing.  But is it different in the City…what do Ladies do there?  Perhaps she didn’t know her duties at all.  As Faramir stood to get a better view of the approaching rider, Éowyn gazed up at his form, a tall, lithe and dark shadow against the glare of the midday sun.  She wanted to ask him what it was that he would desire of her, what he anticipated, but she dared not to in case she could not live up to it.    He’d been so kind, how could she displease him?  I already do, I cannot bear more.       

           “Who’s that?”  Merry swung his leg back over the pommel and picked up his reins. 

    “I don’t know.”  Faramir said quietly.  To Éowyn’s surprise, he turned and offered her his hand.   She took it, blushing as she stumbled against him, feet catching in the thick clumps of grass. 

Quickly righting herself, she stepped away, expecting him to release her.   When he didn’t she forced herself to look up, fighting the urge to jerk back as he brought her hand to his lips.   He smiled reassuringly, lacing his warm fingers with hers and stepping close to her side.  Éowyn tensed, not knowing what to expect.  “It’s all right.”  He murmured the reassurance with his eyes fixed to hers and all so quiet that she could barely hear.  The hurt in his gaze made her look away, tears stinging.  “Why do you shy away?  I would not treat you illy …nor do anything without your consent.”

              Éowyn bowed her head, fighting tears.   It was true; he had done nothing to make her think so, yet old suspicions died hard.   Too many men in the last years had looked at her hungrily, like starved hounds would a piece of meat dangled just beneath their nose or worse like they’d no memory of her, no memory of fealty or honorable conduct.   They’d been like men enchanted, bound by witchery, cursed into dark dreams so that they knew not what they did or said and their voices and actions were ever ruled by insolence and forceful anger instead of bravery and respect.  They had been men she had once trusted, men whose Marshall had directed them to ride too far west, perhaps…and once they came back, obeyed none but Gríma.   Wormtongue himself had been the worst, following her, always watching with dead, fish-like eyes and trying to touch her with cold, pale hands that grasped tightly—he’d known of her hate-filled revulsion.   But he did not care…never cared…  Éowyn shivered at the memories that rose blackly and frightened her still more.  

Faramir’s arm circled her waist.  It was a shock to feel him when she thought of the other and she jumped before Éowyn leaned to his comforting gentleness; his manner was that solely of gentleness as far as she could see or feel.  His breath came as a warm series of puffs against her neck as he pleaded with his voice soft and nearly desperate in her ear, “Speak to me, please, tonight…I beg you, Éowyn…my beloved.” 

Her throat tightened apprehensively, but she squeezed his hand in reply and nodded.   “If you wish it.”

            “My Lord?”  It was a Knight of Gondor.   He saluted, politely averting his eyes as Faramir released her.   “You’re presence is requested by King Elessar and the Council.   There is an urgent state of affairs that requires your services.  ” 

    Voice returned to calmness, he nodded.  “Very well, you may tell them I am coming.”  Faramir sighed.   The man saluted again and, wheeling his horse, rode back to the City.  Her Prince’s face was drawn with disappointment.  “I am sorry, I must go.”

Merry nodded.  “Don’t worry, “He said cheerfully, “I’ll get her home.  I’ve done this plenty of times.”  He winked playfully at Éowyn; she knew he was trying to make her laugh. 

             “Plenty of times?”  Faramir bantered back, “Perhaps I should stay…” Now they were both trying to cheer her.   Éowyn took a deep breath. 

             “No, go, please, if Aragorn needs you.”  She gave the innocent Merry a mock scowl, “I can handle him.”

              “As you wish.”  Faramir bowed to her, his eyes serious, before untying his mount.  He paused in the act of swinging into the saddle, “I will see you tonight?”

               “Yes.”  Éowyn smiled.  “In the gardens would be nice.”  The gardens were her sanctuary and she felt comfortable there.  The last thing she wanted was to speak in the Hall of Feasts, to appear weak before those women…those faultless women of Gondor…  All of her warrior’s training and her pride forbade it. 

“Not to interrupt, but who is going to, you know…  “Merry said, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. “  Now I could volunteer as a Knight of the Mark,” The pride in his voice made her smile widely, “And simply find something to occupy myself…”

Faramir looked to the hobbit, praising warmly.  “That would be wonderful, Merry.”

Merry blushed at the praise.  “Thank you.”

         “Is that all right with you, Éowyn?”  Faramir was asking her, now in the saddle, gathering his reins and preparing to leave.

She collected her nerve.   She could always scream for Merry if she wished; she doubted he’d wander too far.  With a nod, she said quietly, “It is fine.”

              “Good.”  He dipped his head respectfully one last time and turned, heels touching Cloud’s flanks and sending him into a canter. 

             “Well,” Merry said after a moment, “what do you say we go and see if Pippin left me anything to eat?  You can eat with us if you want.”

              “That would be very nice.”  Éowyn smiled sadly at him. “What will I do when you leave me, Merry?”  He blushed again but had no answer.  

Translations

Hwa mann durst hrinan ge ná mid gewyrhtum min sweostor?--What man dares to touch you so undeservedly my sister?

Ond butan min wyrdsæf?  Ge durst má, Hordere.  Má toss--And without my decree? You dare much, Steward.  Too much.

Eart ge hlysting?--Are you listening? 

Ge eart ná weorð in wermet, bestandan min sweostor, Hordere.--You are not worthy in status to stand by my sister, Steward

Is se æþeling æt má lond ná weorð in wermet, broðor?  Hwa béon?  Hwa béon?--Is the prince of many land not worthy in status, brother?  Who would be?  Who would be?

He wille ná be min wedbroðor--He will not be my brother by wedding

Ic lufie Faramir ond Ic wille lucan æt him--I love Faramir and I want to stay with him

Dá ge--Do  you?

Gea, Ic dá!  He is min lufiend--Yes, I do!  He is my love

Lufiend, ná mid min word, min wyrdsæf--Love, love, without my word, without my decree? 

Ge willst gefaran wundordeð æt wroht æt eower blydu--You will die a wondrous death of torture for your boldness

Ge eart atel pucel ond Ic behat forloreness æt ge ná atstand!--You are a horrible goblin and I promise misery for you if you do not stop!

Atstandan hit!--Stop it!

Ná!  Ná!  Ic lufie Faramir!  Ge ná wille wund him!--No!  No!  I love Faramir!  You will not hurt him!

Hwa dyde ge sæge æt me?--What did you say to me?

Ge wilst nu--You will now

A gehat æt min corennes--A promise of my choosing