Saddened and angered that his time with Éowyn was so swiftly cut short, Faramir returned his horse to the stables, patting the gelding's thick grey neck one last time as he dismounted.  “Good lad, thank you.”  The horse nosed him, brown eyes friendly.  He slapped the beast’s shoulder and smiled, looking about himself.  A boy was coming swiftly to take the bridle.

No longer distracted by Éowyn’s beauty or the constant, frustrating puzzle of her actions and heart, he paused before leaving his horse in the custody of a dirty stable boy.  It was only midday but the lad was the only one in sight not rushing by hauling buckets of water or pushing overloaded wheelbarrows of precariously balanced hay. 

“Here, my Lord.”  The boy bowed low to him when he took the swinging reins.  Faramir frowned and did not reply right away, studying the lad in concern.  It was easy to see that the youth was skinny and his clothes were uncommonly caked with straw and mud, even for a stable boy.  He did not remember the boys who worked in the stables being so pitiable before.  Resolving to look into it, for surely, in his City there was some place for the child to have enough to eat and clean clothing, Faramir nodded his thanks to the lad, who did not move. 

At once he smiled, remembering himself.  The boy was waiting for a word of dismissal, “Give him an apple for me.  He did his duty well.”

             “Yes, my Lord.”  The boy's head, hair dusty and peppered with bits of sweet feed, was bent as he murmured assent.  Faramir hesitated, taking a moment to look at the stables again.  The building itself was in undeniably decent repair, it was only the people who worked in it that were ragged and hurried.  How long have I not noticed?  He was appalled; he’d been here not an hour ago and not noted anything.  Where is my mind?  The City might be Aragorn’s in name, but it was his home.  He should know better than allow it to slip into ruin or disgrace.  This is my inheritance, my hallowed duty…

As he began to walk back up through the levels of the City Faramir had to admit, at least to himself, that for the first time in his life his mind was not focused upon Minas Tirith or Ithilien, but rather on Éowyn...as it should be as well.  He frowned; there seemed to be little middle ground for him between the title of betrothed and the duties of Steward.

Hasty voices broke into his thoughts, “Excuse us, my Lord.”  “I beg your pardon, my Lord.”  A group of soldiers parted for him with earnest reparations for getting in his way.

         Startled, he moved aside, saying in low reply, “My apologies.”  Faramir looked around himself; he’d halted in the center of the street.  Realizing that he was barely seeing his surroundings and had almost wandered into several people, Faramir firmly pushed the thought of his love away.  Aragorn would need him at his best, not distracted by the memory of her blushing as she stumbled against him and the troubled look in her eyes when he had kissed her hand. 

        But his resolve to think of Éowyn no longer did not hold more than a moment.  What bothers her?  He could not understand.  I do nothing and she flinches…had some other suitor in her lands treated her with dishonor?  He worried his lips, gnawing them.  Faramir did not like to think of another having courted her, having kissed her but surely it was so—Éowyn was ravishingly beautiful.  Did this suitor strike her cruelly so that she fears my hand?  But…Faramir could not imagine Éomer allowing the scenario he’d envisioned; the man was terribly rude and aggressive even when he acted with dignity and attempted rapprochement.  But if he did not know…if she did not speak…perhaps that is why he acts so, why she does…  There was nothing he could do but ask and he hesitated to broach such tender subjects—Éowyn barely replied to the most inoffensive of questions.

He frowned, deep in thought as his feet moved up the hill, stumbling occasionally on broken flagstones, following the back and forth curve of the road.  It was so well known he could have walked it in a daze.  Perhaps I do now…Faramir smiled, apologizing again to a maid he’d bumped into and nearly made drop her basket.  “My apologies…” She nodded and swiftly got out of his way.  He sighed.  Think of something else! 

It was strange to him, as earlier, his first impulse when the guard had approached them in their pleasant haven under the trees, had not been of submission, but of rebellion.  His tongue had longed to command the messenger away and refuse to heed the summons, to stay with his dear, puzzling Éowyn.  In that moment Faramir had found his heart stirred by anger, not compliance, which disquieted him.  He stared at his boots as they strode so steadily, so confidently—he did not feel the same confidence within. 

After a while he smiled, finding amusement in his perturbation, I nearly ordered him back to the City, to not disturb me again…  Only lifelong courtesy and obedience had stopped him and smothered his sudden anger back into his chest, voicing itself in a wearily resigned sigh. 

Frankly, he was confused about the summons; Aragorn had not mentioned anything to him about a Council meeting before next week at the earliest.  For there to be a meeting now, and unscheduled, meant something was wrong or the Councilmen wished to make him believe something was wrong.  Either way, Faramir did not think the status of the stable boys' welfare would be brought up. 

         They were his father's Councilors, or they were before…they belong to Elessar now…or myself.  He grew grim as his thoughts turned to the men who had summoned him from his pleasant, frustrating outing.  Consisting solely of the richest men, the most powerful, and those who boasted the noblest blood, Faramir doubted they had ever walked through the lower levels of the City, where the serving classes lived, to see the people whose lives they commanded.  No, I expect they have little knowing of the dustiness of stable boys…these men spent their time squabbling over taxes and titles and gleefully voting down any of Faramir's suggestions unless he resorted to begging or bribing Boromir to sit in the chambers and say them for him.  The only one they had ever truly listened to was Denethor.

Faramir smiled a tight, embittered smile to himself as he remembered his father's voice, “Well, Faramir, do you have another idea...or any idea?”  His tone had been mocking as he chuckled, all the while underscored by the faint laughter and smirks of the Councilors.

           Faramir had learned early that the ripple effects of his father's disapproval extended far.  The nobles of Minas Tirith had admirable survival instincts and it was little surprise that they were aware of the knowledge that they were virtually useless.  That they served no profitable or practical purpose in the ruling of the City and its lands was not lost on them, so they followed Denethor's whims and fancies like trained dogs.  Boromir, who hated the very idea of sitting in a chamber and listening to old men argue, had been eagerly received as Denethor's successor.  It made little difference to them if the Steward actually heard the debates or not so long as they remained assured of the power and respect that came from being named a Councilman.

           In fact, Faramir had long suspected the Council's love of Boromir had more to do with pleasing Denethor and making sure the next Steward would not think to question their place than any loyalty or allegiance.  Now, in the absence of his father and his brother, the unanimously approved heir, Faramir had no idea what to expect.  They call for me…they have never done so… 

Striding through the last Gate with a courteous nod to its guards, he wished it was not his responsibility now and that Boromir had not fallen.  Then he could do as he'd always done: quietly helping him to steer his City and the Council in the right directions.  But unfortunately, things had gone awry and Faramir found himself walking anxiously through the halls that led into the long, narrow room where the Councilors met.  How I dread this…

            Logically, if they stuck to their ways, these nobles would seek to flatter and heap praises on their new King in order to gain his approval and secure their continued position.  However…  Faramir debated with himself as he strode through the many, honeycombed halls with a nod to the saluting guards, the Councilors were my father's lackeys for many years and perhaps they will not accept Aragorn's rule so quickly.  Either way, he could not deny the feeling of irritation.  He was wasting precious time with his future wife to listen to old men who by their own admissions and actions disliked him.  It was infuriating.

            “Ic grete þe, Hlaford min Faramir.”  A vaguely familiar voice broke through the mists of his thoughts.  Faramir lifted his eyes and was surprised to see Halorl in his path, cradling Éomer's long, broad sword in his hands.  The weapon held his gaze for a moment, as it was very large sword, sheathed in battered leather.  The Rider was standing at attention just outside the tall double doors that led into the Council's chambers, which puzzled Faramir greatly.  Why would the Council summon Éomer?  He grimaced, what possible reason would anyone wish that brute into a room with them…and for hours at a time? 

As though to gain his attention, Halorl said his name again, along with the foreign word he supposed was a title; it was said like one, pronounced with the tone of proper respect that transcended languages.  “Hlaford Faramir.”  The Rohir man gave him a respectful nod and even more surprisingly, a grin.

            “Hello, Halorl.”  Faramir answered politely, if still slightly flustered.  “Ah, is Éomer within?”  The Rohir frowned; Faramir pointed at the doors helpfully, asking, “Éomer?”

Halorl nodded with an eager reply.  “Gea, Hlaford min.”

“Thank you.”  Faramir wondered just what answer he would get to this next question, if any.  “Do you know why?”  Certainly for the Council to call Éomer, it was over an unusual occasion.  The Lord of the Mark would have little input on City affairs.  Halorl was frowning at him; the blonde man shook his head and shrugged.  He did not understand the question and Faramir could think of no other way to put it so that he could.  He sighed and smiled, “Well, thank you anyway.”  The man nodded, stepping aside so that he could enter. 

Faramir decided that Halorl must have been with Éomer while they rode and accompanied him here.  He smiled, bemused.  Obviously he is aware that Éowyn sent his guard away…I wonder what he thought of that?

But none of his speculation answered the puzzling question of why Éomer was in there.  Faramir, who was not wearing a sword and thus could enter freely, grasped the door handle and took a deep breath, preparing himself for the ordeal.  But before he could open it, Aragorn burst out.  Halorl jumped out of the way just in time to avoid him.  Faramir was not so lucky and was thrust back several steps when the King ran into him.

            A strong arm grasped his and steadied him as he staggered.  “Faramir!  Oh, thank the Valar!  Quickly!”  Aragorn looked back into the room, eyes narrowed with suspicion.  Faramir could just see through the slender opening between the doors that what appeared to be the entire Council was inside, some seated with others rising, their faces concerned.  He heard their raised voices calling “Elessar...my Lord, wait!” before Aragorn slammed the door shut. 

            Faramir managed to squelch a cry of shock as Aragorn grabbed his arm and began yanking him down the hallway.  Astonished at this highly irregular behavior from his normally proper Lord, Faramir allowed himself to be pulled into one of the smaller adjoining rooms before hissing in reply, “What are you doing?”

             “They are mad and they wish to drive me mad!”  He was pacing rapidly in the confined space. 

             “What?  Who?”  He jerked on his surcoat, trying to straighten it.  Aragorn was still pacing; he paused only to rip off his cloak and toss it on the long table in the center of the room.  His boots were loud on the stone floor and Faramir thought in bemusement that if Aragorn wished to remain hidden for long, he certainly wasn't doing a good job. 

              “Them!  The...those...those excuses for Councilors!”  He was seething, growling each word through a tightly clenched jaw.

 Faramir was confused.  Certainly they had been infuriating in the past, but he had never been enraged enough to walk out on a meeting before.  I would not have dared…my father… 

He was about to ask what had happened but Aragorn continued,  “Elves!  Elves are rational, they do not lie and say that they want something, only to change it at the last minute!”  He whirled on the bemused and perplexed Faramir.  “They insist on speaking of things that do not matter!  They argued over whose turn it is to speak...for almost an hour...an hour, Faramir!”  The last was cried aloud in the near wail of a man driven to his breaking point.

          “Why did you not stop them?”  He ducked reflexively as Aragorn threw his hands up. 

           “I tried!  They do not listen!”  He suddenly turned.  “You must help me, Faramir.  They will listen to you.”  His voice was pleading.  Faramir couldn't help it; he burst out laughing.  Aragorn looked desperate, harassed as he asked.  “What?  What is amusing?”

             “They will not listen to me...they...” He laughed harder, “They hate me, they take every opportunity to disgrace me and disregard my suggestions.”  Faramir sobered some as he added with a smile, stating dryly, “I’m afraid you called me for naught.  I will be of little help.”

              “No, they have asked for you.”  That stopped the last of his quiet mirth.

                “Asked for me?”  Faramir was incredulous.

             “Yes.”  Aragorn ran his hands through his hair, looking at him in irritation.  “All they say, is “Where is Lord Faramir?” and “He will put it right, we must have Faramir.””  Faramir's mouth was open.  “You have not seen such annoyances of men.  I am utterly sick of hearing your name.”

“Are you jesting?  They have mocked me my entire life!”  But things have changed…he frowned to himself.  Could their allegiances change so swiftly?  If so, then the Councilors were as lacking of fealty as simple beasts, following whomever won the battle and uncaring as long as one stood above the others to rule.

          “Not any longer, apparently.”  Aragorn sighed and picked his cloak back up to shake it, then swing it over his shoulders.  He fastened the pin, saying, “Come, my friend, or they will be combing the halls for us.”  He stopped at the door and looked back at the still-frozen Faramir.  “Oh, yes, Éomer had something he wanted to say to you as well...” The King smiled, “But I’m afraid that in all the disorder that I’ve been unable remember.”               

         “I’m sure it was quite polite.”  Faramir was unable to curb his sarcasm, following Aragorn out into the hall.  Éomer on top of the Council...it shall be a long afternoon. 

  They emerged to see one of the Councilors, a pudgy, white haired man, speaking angrily to Halorl.  The obviously bewildered Rohir kept shaking his head and answering in Rohirric, followed by halting and heavily accented bits in the Common Tongue.

“I said, “Which way did they go?””  Faramir vaguely recognized him as one of his father's staunchest supporters.  “Answer me...whoever you are.  I demand an answer!  Now!”  He was advancing on the nervous Halorl, whose confusion was compounded by the increasingly rapid delivery of the unfamiliar words.  The man of Rohan shifted Éomer's sword in his arms as he took a step back and found himself against the wall.  

        Halorl's eyes lit up at the sight of Aragorn and Faramir.  He nodded in their direction, nearly begging for aid, “Hlaford min Faramir.  Faramir.”  The unfortunate Rohir was nearly breathless with relief.

        Suddenly everyone seemed to be calling for him.  Faramir smiled a little.

“My Lord!”  The man, whose name Faramir still could not recall, wheeled, forgetting Halorl in an instant.  “Ah, my good Prince, you have come!”  He bowed low, voice dripping with pleasure and commendation, “Perhaps now we can finally discuss the City’s affairs with someone who bears knowledge of them.”

        At Faramir's side, Aragorn stiffened.  Aware of him, he responded carefully, “Of course.”  Faramir tried not to flinch back as the old man gestured towards the tall double doors.  He did not wish to go in there, now or ever.  Halorl gave him a sympathetic smile as he grasped the knob and opened the door.  The Councilor breezed through, robes flapping, and Faramir had no choice—Aragorn was directly behind him, blocking his escape.  I doubt he would take it kindly if I broke and ran.  With a deep breath he entered.

The Council room's architecture mirrored its tall doors, being a long, narrow room that stretched to hold a massive table which could hold fifty, though as usual only about thirty held their chairs.  It rested along the center and was made of an exceptionally well polished dark wood and, as rumor went, had been there for hundreds of years.  The seating was arranged simply, the King at the head with the two most influential advisors on either side and the positions of the Councilors were ranked according to wealth and seniority, with the oldest and wealthiest being closest to the King.  Tall windows ran down the right wall and tapestries covered the other three walls, cutting down the chill from the bare stone.  The ceiling was high with the irritating tendency to echo. 

        Faramir followed Aragorn to the center seat.  He was placed on his right, finding himself face to face with Éomer who, in a position of high favor, sat on Aragorn's left.  The young King of Rohan was tilted backwards in his chair, the back propped against the wall.  One elbow rested on the chair’s arm, gloved fingers hiding his lower face.  He alone did not move or speak as they entered, ignoring the Councilors' earnest greetings.  Faramir glanced around himself, utterly nonplussed to hear and see the enthusiasm sparked by his arrival.  Truly, things had changed.

Éomer’s light eyes bored into Faramir's as he pulled out his chair.  After an instant of anxious contemplation, he tilted his head in a brief acknowledgement.  If I am civil, surely he must reply in kind.  He could think of nothing he’d done today that would enrage the man.  He cannot spend all his waking moments in rudeness…he hoped not.

At first there was no response; then a smile tugged at the corners of his mostly-hidden mouth and Éomer inclined his head, speaking smoothly, “Hail, Faramir.”

Startled, Faramir again dipped his head in respect as he sat, wondering at the quick flash of amusement and the innocently pleasant greeting.  He felt hope grow, answering in kind, “Hail.”

The Lord of the Mark asked, his chair legs setting to the stone floor with a bang.  “Did you enjoy your time without Halorl?”  His voice had been easeful and low, contrasting the loudness and aggressiveness of his movement.

Faramir replied stiffly, preparing himself for an argument.  “Éowyn sent him away.  Master Meriadoc served in his stead.”

“I know.”  Éomer smiled patiently.  He raised a brow.

He answered tightly, unsure.  “Yes, I enjoyed it.”

The man smiled and nodded.  “Good.”  Faramir stared at him, trying desperately to discern anything, anything at all to indicate the man’s mood.

        “Prince Faramir, would you like us to begin?”  Swathed in purple velvet, this Councilman was even fatter than the man who had been accosting Halorl was.  Faramir nodded.  Piggish eyes beamed at him as he smiled cheerfully. 

Aragorn groaned softly at his side and muttered, “I...don't believe this...I’ve sat here for two hours...”

        “Uh...yes.”  Faramir was distracted—Éomer had begun to stare at him.  Aragorn put his head in his hands as the Councilor answered.

        “Excellent.  Most excellent.”  A very, very large amount of roll of parchments and loose papers began passing down the table to Faramir.  One of the younger Councilor’s aides began forming them into three lots.  “These are the estimated City repairs, country repairs and some suggestions for continuing to house our honorable Rohirrim allies in comfort, of course, until,” He bowed to Éomer, who ignored him, “They choose to leave.”

      “All of these?”  Faramir tried not to grimace as the stacks mounted higher and higher. 

        “Why, yes, my Prince.”

        “Why haven't you approved of anything?”  He turned to hiss under his breath to Aragorn.  “Where's your seal?”

      “I don't have one.”

       “You don't have one?”  Faramir's voice raised several notches.

      “It was lost...” He paused for effect and then waved his hand down the table.  “I was assured that someone is looking for it.”  This was preposterous; Faramir was going to have to go through each thing separately and all on his own.  He glared back at Éomer, who seemed completely unimpressed and just arched a disdainful eyebrow.   

        “But couldn't you just sign...” Aragorn's expression went decidedly deadly and Faramir quickly moved on.  “Fine, fine, let's just start.”  He sighed and picked up the first list, a thick stack of repairs.  “Damage to the upper level bath houses...” He gritted his teeth as he thought he heard Éomer smother a laugh. 

        Uncountable hours later, his eyes burning from the smoke of candles, his hand throbbing from stamping hundreds of papers and his voice scratchy despite numerous goblets of wine, Faramir picked up the last City damage report.  He could see the stars beginning to show outside the windows, by the Valar, he would do no more today.  The entire meeting would have gone much faster except for the Councilors need to debate the serial importance of each and every item and then, referring back to some far earlier agreed upon order, reversing it to accommodate the new order of repairs.  Only a lifetime of control had kept Faramir from exploding with frustration.

        However, this was the last and, as far as Faramir was concerned, the Councilors could debate endlessly upon it.  He was leaving as soon as he read and sealed it.  He shook it out, holding the paper closer to the candlelight.  Aragorn's eyes were glazed over and he blinked slowly when Faramir glanced at him, trying to ignore the ever-present weight of Éomer's stare bearing down on his head.  The man had not looked away for even a moment.  Often, as Faramir had looked up he'd had the uncanny feeling that Éomer was waiting for something, but what he had no idea.  The King of Rohan hadn't said a word so far, even when questioned.  He is a boor…

        “Lower level stables.”  Faramir squinted, confused and wondering if his aching eyes had misread.  He'd been at the stables this morning; they were in good shape, and in no need of repair.  The roofs?  He’d not seen those.  He scanned the extensive list and began growing more and more perplexed.  He raised his head, looking down the table and opened his mouth to ask what the meaning of this was and suddenly Éomer caught his eye.  The man smiled with what Faramir considered rather out-of-place cheer.

        Faramir turned to Aragorn.  He was no help, trying not to yawn as he waited for Faramir to finish.  He was unable to blame the King; undoubtedly his Lord had sat there for hours before him.  The Councilors were respectful, unusually so. 

        “Oh, yes, my Lord.”  The man in velvet said.  “Quite in need of repair and aid.” 

Éomer chuckled, so soft it was no more than a breath.  Faramir looked from him to the man in velvet.  “Is that so?”

        “I'm afraid it is.  All our horses lost, cattle, goats...  Oh, and the main reserves of hay and grain to feed what few animals we have left.”

         “A pity.”  “Truly.”  “Food will have to be rationed.”  “Yes, a shame that the beasts will suffer.”  The Councilors' voices echoed up and down the long table.  Faramir turned to Éomer, utterly confused.  The man was still smirking. 

         “Unless...replacements are found...” The man in velvet, the head member, spoke slowly, obviously waiting for something.  He kept glancing at Éomer.  When he ignored him, he scowled.  Aragorn came to life, voice full of authority.

          “What about the fields?  The granaries?  Is there nothing?”

           “I'm sorry to say, King Elessar, that the fields were fouled by Easterlings and orcs, the silos were burned and all our excess stores have...been used...” He paused delicately, fingering his collar.  Again, he looked to Éomer.  Faramir frowned.  Why was Éomer there?  They had not even touched the pile of papers concerned about housing his people yet.  There was no logical reason for him to sit there all day.  What was happening?

         “So, my Lords, Elessar, Faramir, what do you suggest?”  Aragorn shook his head slightly; he did not yet know the City's needs well enough to say.  Faramir hesitated, the only thing he could think of was to purchase the needed goods from another realm.  The closest being...

          “Perhaps Rohan...” He began.

         “All of them used?”  Éomer’s deep voice shocked the men into attentive silence.  It was the first time he'd spoken since to Faramir so many hours ago. 

             “Why...yes...my Lord Éomer...or, very nearly.”  The velvet-garbed man bowed quickly, anxious to show his courtesy.  “Indeed, that is a very good idea, Prince Faramir.”  His expression became sly as he turned to Éomer.  “I understand he is to wed your sister.  Have you decided on a day...we would be happy to declare it a holiday and have all in the City come to celebrate.”

            “No.”  Éomer stood leisurely, not pushing his chair back in.  Faramir looked it in supreme irritation.  Could the man not perform the simplest of courtesies?

            “Are you leaving?”  “Where are you going?”  “My Lord Éomer, please!”  The Councilors burst out as one, panic on every face. 

            “What reason is there for me to say?”  He looked politely curious.  “You’ve not spoken of anything that concerns me.”  Éomer’s politeness abruptly vanished as his face became marked with repugnance, “I have wasted a day within this cell.”

            “As our most honorable ally, in these troubled times, sure you could not...”

            “Could not what?”  Éomer added disdainfully, coldly, “I’m afraid you will have to speak clearer…we have no Council in my lands and I’ve little patience for those of long-wind.”

            “You...you would not...would not...”

            “Refuse to freely give you the goods you need?  Make you pay for them, when you must use all your gold to repair the widespread damages to the City?”  Éomer’s lip curled in distaste.  “Of course not, but I require something in return.”  His eyes came to rest upon Faramir’s and he smiled, “It is but a small matter and worth little.”

            The head of the Council looked relieved.  “I knew we could come to an agreement, my Lord Éomer...after all, you're about to renew the ties between our two peoples.  You are a reasonable man and…”

            “How can you be sure of that?”  Éomer grinned wolfishly.  

            “Sure of w-what?”  The man in velvet took a hasty step back. 

            “That I am allowing him to marry my sister.”  He grinned wider as Faramir stood, pure fury roaring into his heart, his chair falling aside with a great clatter.

         His voice emerged thick with anger, “I agreed to your preposterous conditions…”

 Aragorn grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back down; he looked weary.  “At ease, wait and see what it is he wants.”  He spoke with a cautioning tone, this time directed to the Lord of the Mark.  “Name your small, worthless matter so that we may leave, Éomer.  It is late.”

***

Finally some action…  Éomer had sat in the dim, stuffy room for hours for this and he would not go about it lightly.  With deliberate care he began, “I wish the Steward to ride to the Mark at the end of the summer.”

“But, Lord Éomer, he is much needed here…” The repulsive Councilmen immediately began to protest, as he’d known they would.  Ah, but you do not wish to spend gold out of your own coffers to repair the City and feed its people when you can borrow from mine…  He had them; he’d known it the moment they’d begun to flatter him, the reason for the flattery had taken longer to discover.

“Yes, you seem to need him here…” To sit in this little room and do nothing but pacify and stamp things that need no authorization, they are repairs, you fools!  He made a show of troubling his brow and thinking, “But in order to wed my sister he must come with me to Edoras.”  He lied boldly, smiling into the Prince’s face, “It is our custom.”  Faramir’s jaw tightened but he did not respond.  It is my custom, as it is my lands now…

The man who seemed to lead them asked with hesitation, “Your custom?” 

They were unfamiliar, as he’d guessed.  “Aye.”  He shook his head.  “It is a pity you cannot find the King's seal.”

         “It will be found!”  “Yes, it shall, do not worry...” The two closest Councilors spoke quickly. 

            “And then your Prince will be free to leave?”  He looked smugly at Faramir; the man did not respond.

            “He can be spared...for a short while, if it is necessary.”  Despite the discouraging nature of their words, the Council was nodding eagerly to a man.

           “For how long, Éomer?”  Aragorn interjected.  He looked aghast at the thought.  “When exactly?  Will he ride alone, will you fetch him, tell me plainly.”  He smiled, “I have but one Steward and I am partial to him.”

             “Not for a while yet.  I will return for Théoden in late summer.”  He paused in grief, then continued, “Faramir can return with myself and my Riders and stay after the funeral feast of Théoden.”  Éomer smiled at the stern King.  “I will only keep him for a few months.”  Faramir’s face was incredulous and he chuckled, unable to help it.  “What is your answer, Faramir?”  Éomer stared at him, feeling an unconscious challenge rising to his eyes and words.  Do you dare, little princeling?  Do you carry boldness in your heart behind all your smooth courtesies?  My sister will have you as her servant if you do not…  He would not have them speak illy of her, would not have them say she ruled over all, but that she was a Lady respectable in all ways.  Mother wanted that… 

Éomer disregarded the fact that his arrangement would buy him many precious months with his dearest sister.  Besides, he’d not had enough time with this man.  I want to know how you will treat her, how you will deal with her when she does not wear gowns and swings a sword…  If you will protect her from herself when she forgets she is a woman…  Anxiety filled his heart.  Éowyn was terribly dear to him.  I will not lose her to just anyone, princeling.

***

Faramir thought swiftly, trying to truly absorb the daunting possibility of months in a foreign land far from his home, his people and all he knew save Éowyn and this brute of a man…  He felt himself tense.  Would he use himself to pay for his City?  He remembered the thin, dirty stable boy; perhaps all the talk of food shortages was not false—it would show first with the lowest of station.  Faramir felt anger stir, perceiving some injustice, “Would you refuse aid to my City if I said nay?”  I will not be a pawn…

Éomer looked mildly surprised.  “No.”  He wore a wry smile, “I am not so brutish as you claimed.”

I doubt that.  He thought further, asking without care that he’d already agreed, “Can this custom be overthrown without insult?  I have much to do here.” 

This answer was harder.  “No.”

With a deep sigh of capitulation, Faramir stood, facing Éomer with as much respect as he possessed for a man he considered a boor.  “Then I shall go and fulfill all that you require.”

“Most excellent.”  Echoing the Councilor’s words with clear repulsion, Éomer clasped his hand over the table.  The Councilors looked self-satisfied.  Aragorn appeared disturbed.

Instantly he felt regret, a feeling that lingered as the Councilmen began to rise.  What shall I do in Rohan?  Faramir stood quietly looking down at the stack of damages as the room emptied.  Aragorn was the last to leave, squeezing his shoulder gently in a gesture of support. 

“Do not fear the Mark.  It is a simple land of honest men.”  He ended softly, “Listen to me, Éomer is not this way once you befriend him.  His temper has deep roots, but I feel he means you no harm with this.”  Aragorn took a stride towards the door, then halted.  He turned to say further, “His heart lies with his sister, he has no others left to him…” His words came softer, “Much like to you, if that makes it easier to understand his mind.”

Faramir tensed, answering in a voice made uncontrollably hostile, “He is nothing like to me.”

There was a long moment of silence from his Lord.  “I believe he would treat any man who came for Éowyn’s hand like he does you.”  He heard the King’s smile in his words and felt again his hand on his shoulder as Aragorn said firmly.  “Do not take it to heart, Faramir.”

Faramir nodded, too tired and overcome to speak.  Soon he was alone in the long, dark room.  Blinking in the pleasant darkness, he rubbed his sore eyes and stretched.  Maybe tomorrow he would have the energy to pursue the damage to the lower stables.

He walked slowly into the hall and almost ran into Halorl.  “My pardon, Halorl.”  But to his surprise the man didn't leave.  Instead, he stepped back into Faramir's path. 

            “Faramir...” He frowned and then said haltingly, “You...learn...Rohirric, ná?”

          “You can speak the Common Tongue?”  Faramir was astonished.

             “Ná, ná...” Halorl held up his hand, forefinger about an inch from his thumb.  “Fea, fea.”

            “Only a little?”  Faramir was still delighted.  “Can you help me?”

           “Gea.”  He grinned.  “Gaer knows má...” He shook his head slightly and widened the gap between his fingers.  “Gaer...æt Minas Tirith.”  He held up one finger.  “Is fréond.”   

It took Faramir a moment to process that Gaer, apparently a friend of Halorl's, knew more of the Common Tongue and had been to Gondor once, if not the City.  “Good.  Where is he?”  Faramir, his exhaustion forgotten, was excited. 

Halorl gestured towards the ground.  He was in the lower levels.  “Ealu.”  He mimed drinking. 

          “Good.  Let's go.”  Faramir was both thirsty and hungry after the ages long meeting.  The Rohirrim nodded and began to lead him down the hill at once; they ended up in one of the largest taverns located on the third level.  Faramir had never been inside it before; he did not drink especially much and though his brother had taken him to many inns, he’d not kept the practice in Boromir’s absence.  The sound and sight of the tavern made his heart burn.  My brother…  He smiled faintly.  His brother would have thrown a fit to see him ride to the Mark and leave him alone in the City to manage the infuriating Council.  I wish he were here to shout at me for not being considerate enough…

          “Gaer.”  Halorl pointed into a corner, while Faramir peered about the dim room.  Everywhere soldiers of both Rohan and Minas Tirith laughed, sang and drank.  In the corner was a party of five men, all of whose chests bore the White Horse.  Halorl led Faramir straight to them.  As he approached, Faramir noticed the clear difference between these men and the Gondorians.  The Rohirrims’ hair was in shades of gold and red and they were all much broader in the shoulders and deeper in girth than he was used to.  The men looked like bulls, all stout muscle, and he felt himself to be a reed. 

          “Wilcume Halorl!”  A young man with fiery red hair cried out to greet them, rising a bit unsteadily from his bench.  “Hwæt eart seo?”  He offered Faramir a friendly grin.

            “Heo is Faramir.”  Halorl answered cheerily.  Faramir was surprised and flattered when the Rider added, “Is fréond.”

           “God, god.  Wilcume, Faramir.”  The men nodded, raising their mugs.  Gaer waved his arm at them, pointing at each in turn.  “Is Eanulf, Peothred, Ethbin, ac Deormud.”

Faramir blinked, wondering how in the world he was supposed to remember the names...if they were names...  He smiled.

         “Faramir ná nemnan Rohirric?”  One, Faramir thought it was Peothred, asked.

            “Ná.”  Halorl shook his head.

            “Ná.”  Faramir grinned hopefully as he slid into the spot they had made for him at the bench.  Gaer laughed.

              “Faramir learn fast, ná?”  When Faramir said yes, Gaer shook his head patiently.  “Gea.  Say gea for yes.”

             “Gea.”  Faramir repeated.  Halorl laughed and clapped him on the back, making him sway.

           “Ealu!  Má!”  Eanulf shouted, and thus Faramir learned the word for ale.  He took his mug from the many supplied, gingerly sipping the dark brew.  It was good and, he winced, strong.  Ethbin, a burly man even bigger than Halorl, leaned to ask Faramir something. 

He shook his head, speaking loudly over the din in the tavern.  “What?”

Gaer burst out laughing.  “Say hwa!”  He waved a hand at Faramir's questioning look.  “Hwa is the word!”

            “Hwa!”  Faramir felt silly, but was rewarded when Ethbin repeated his word through his own laughter.

            “Game?”  He jiggled his mug and raised his eyebrows.

           “Drink game!”  Halorl clarified. 

He knows that…  He smiled.  Deormud waved at a passing girl.  Faramir looked at the six men, all heavier than he was and wondered if he had a chance. 

          “Gea, Faramir?”  Gaer gave him a decidedly wicked grin.

          “Faramir ná is níðing?”  Eanulf asked slyly.

          “Ná!  Ná!”  Halorl defended him, reaching across the scarred table to slap at the white tree on Faramir's chest.  He grunted, nearly spilling ale all over himself—he’d been taking a drink.  “Cáf!  Minas Tirith!”

Faramir, with only the tiniest understanding of what they were saying, nodded.  “Gea.  Drink game.”  Eanulf whooped. 

          “Ful íeðelic.”  Halorl said reassuringly, which, of course since Faramir didn't understand it, didn't reassure him a bit.

Gaer joined Deormud at waving at the bartender, but paused a moment to add, “He sæge…says it is easy.” 

Faramir got it.  It was an easy game.  Well, that is good. 

         “Faramir, you win?”  Gaer asked just as another round of large mugs with amber foam slopping down the sides arrived.  He handed the Ranger a mug.  It was brimming with the strong ale.

       “Gea.”  Faramir answered, grinning.  This would be fun.   

“Nu…” He raised his red brows, “Hara is mettas fore hafoc, dogga, earn, fox, géow, wulf.”  Gaer spoke rapidly, holding up one hand.  Faramir began to wonder what the word easy really meant in Rohirric.

            He shook his head, interrupting, “What?”  Faramir remembered, “Hwa?  I don't understand, Gaer.”

            “Faramir,” He pointed at him.  “Hwa?  Lator.”  Gaer said and demonstrated, speaking slower and carefully enunciating. “Hara...is...mettas...fore...hafoc, dogga, earn, fox ond wulf.”

            “Hwa?  Lator?”  Faramir looked beseechingly at Halorl.  This was going to take some work. 

            “Umm...you say: What?  And…slow?  Slow?”  He nodded.  “No fast.”

            “Oh.”  That was a useful thing to know, Faramir thought.  “Thank you.”

            “Ic þancie þe.”  Peothred said slowly, carefully, then with a heavy accent repeated Faramir's words.  “Thank you.”

            “Ic... þan--þancie... þe.”  Faramir's tongue almost refused to pronounce it though the words were not much different.  This frightened him.  Elvish was not so difficult...he tried to encourage himself.

            “God.”  Eanulf grinned encouragingly.  He then said helpfully, “Hara is uh, um...rabbit.”  He made a fist with his index and middle finger sticking up and hopped it across the table.  Deormud and Ethbin, unprepared, nearly choked on their ale as Eanulf added tiny squeaking noises and zigzagged for emphasis.  The Rohirrim howled with laughter as Eanulf glared. 

            “Gea, gea.  Hara is rabbit.”  Faramir was laughing too, clutching his mug and nodding to show he understood. 

            “Hafoc is hawk, dogga is dog, earn is eagle.”  Gaer quickly clarified the other words and added some more, “Bár, cocc, eoh, fearh, fisc, forsc, colmáse.” 

            “Néat game.”  Deormud, still coughing, said. 

            “Animal. “  Halorl translated.

            “Hafoc is food for....”  Gaer smiled at Faramir's look of incomprehension.  “Silly game.  Ride long time, make new game or...” He spread his hands wide, shaking his head slightly.  “Is game for má drenc…when you are drunk.”

            “Gaer is cyst.”  Peothred slapped the much younger Gaer on the back; he grinned self-consciously. 

            “Hafoc is mettas hara.  Ná hara is mettas hafoc.”  Ethbin spoke up.  He held up his cup of ale, already half-empty.  “Hafoc is mettas hara...” He looked at Faramir expectantly.

            “Gea?”  Faramir was uncertain.

            “Ná!  Ná!”  The Riders all laughed and pointed at Faramir's mug.  “Drenc!”

            Faramir shrugged and drank.  As he put his mug back down, he noticed Halorl and Ethbin had drunk too.  “Hwa?”

            “You...Halorl, Ethbin...with you.”  Deormud grinned from the far end of the table.  Faramir nodded, understanding.  He sat on the end, with Halorl to his immediate right and Ethbin on the end.  Gaer was directly opposite of Faramir, with Eanulf, Peothred and Deormud. 

            “Faramir?”  Gaer raised his mug, looking expectantly at him. “Go.”

            “Hwa?  What do I say?”  Faramir could not remember a single animal.

            “Minas Tirith...” Halorl laughed suddenly and gestured.  “Néat.”

            “Umm, dog is food for mouse?”  Faramir felt ridiculous until he saw Eanulf Peothred and Deormud look at each other. 

            “Ná?”  Peothred offered. 

            Faramir pointed to his cup, grinning victoriously.  “Drenc!”

            A woman brought them another round.  Deormud challenged Faramir.  “Fisc is mattas earn?”

            “Ná.”  Faramir was beginning to feel the first pleasant warmth of the ale spreading through his chest.  Halorl groaned and Ethbin laughed, taking a deep draft. 

            “Gea!”  Deormud shouted.  “Drenc!”

            Faramir drank obligingly.  Odd that he'd never been to this inn before, the ale truly was good.  “Goat is food for oliphaunt.”  Again, looks of confusion that mirrored his own a moment before.  This was fun.  Utterly ridiculous, but fun.

            “Gea?”  Eanulf guessed.  Gaer was already shaking his head. 

             Faramir waited a moment before answering.  “Ná.  Drenc!”

            Innumerable rounds later Faramir, Halorl, Gaer and Eanulf were the only ones still playing.  Ethbin had dropped out first, staggering out of the tavern, slurring good-naturedly, “Beoð ge gesunde.”  Deormud and Peothred had left together, hanging onto one another for balance.

            “Ná.”  Faramir snickered at Gaer's last garbled question.  He'd gradually begun to learn the words.  Luckily it was before he drank so much he passed out.  Gaer's “Dogga is mettas pecg, ná...gea...dogga is mettas pecg.” was understood as “Dog is food for pig.”  And while this was debatable depending on the size of the dog or the pig, Faramir was in no condition to think that deeply anymore.  He'd figured out that the purpose of this silly game was to drink as much as possible and had embraced the idea as brilliant after the mind-numbing Council. 

            “Faramir is god.”  Halorl said.  “Gaer drenc.”

            “You learn fast, min fréond.”  Gaer’s reply was slurred as he lifted his mug.  His befuddled expression when it turned out to be empty sent Faramir and Halorl into a fit of giggles.  Eanulf's head was on the table, one hand curled around a cup as he snored. 

            “Ná má ealu.”  Gaer muttered.  “Is néah.  Is late, Faramir.”

            “Gea.”  Faramir yawned and blearily looked about the empty tavern.  A few maids were sweeping, gathering abandoned mugs and up righting toppled benches.  Carefully, he braced his hands on the scarred tabletop and began to rise.  “Ah...!”  Faramir snatched one hand off the table and put it to his spinning head.  Unfortunately, this had the negative affect of cutting his support in half and he swayed dangerously before Halorl grabbed his arm.

            “Careful fréond.”  Gaer was slumped forward, chin on his arms.  He smiled as Faramir staggered away from the table, clumsily lifting his feet away from the bench as they tried their best to tangle and spill him to the floor. 

            Faramir yawned again.  Halorl was gently weaving from side to side as they slowly lurched and stumbled to the door.  With a considerable amount of effort, Gaer had pulled himself up and was following.  “Gaer how did you...where did you learn the Common Tongue?”  Faramir formed his inquiry with careful concentration.  This question had been on his mind for a while. 

            “I...live in South.  Closer to Mundburg.  See more...more men of Mundburg.”  The young man stood in the doorway, one hand on each side, grinning foolishly.  “Halorl live in north.  Far from Mundburg.”

            “North?  Really?”  Faramir found this fascinating as he walked out into the street, legs wobbly and his head feeling as though it were floating high above him.  Luckily, the stars were out and their light was just enough to see by.  He stood in the center of the lane, looking back and forth.  Which way are the upper levels?  Faramir frowned.  I cannot be lost…this is my City…  He looked back and forth.  Each side of the street appeared the same: blurry and dark. 

            “Gea.  Má norðanweard.”  Halorl was staring up at the sky.  Faramir tried to think of what was northward of, of where?

            “Wait.  North of what?”  He was still trying to decide which way to go.  Whoever had designed the City in circular levels hadn't planned on someone trying to find their way home after a night of drinking.  Uphill…go up…

            “North of...” Halorl looked confused before brightening.  “Entwash, the Entwash.”

            “Where do you stay, Faramir?”  Gaer asked curiously.  He had staggered away from the doorframe and stood swaying in the road. 

            “What?”  Faramir looked at him in surprise. 

            “Who is your...your...” He ran out of words and just batted at the White Tree on Faramir's chest, losing his balance and nearly falling in the process. 

            “Faramir is...is...Hlaford.”  Halorl was laughing, doubled over.  “Mundburg.”  He finally gasped.

            “I'm the Steward.”  Faramir corrected peevishly. 

            “Hlaford?”  Gaer was impressed.

            “Gea.”  Halorl snickered. 

“Steward!”  Faramir was very loud in the empty street; he tried to lower his voice.  “I'm the Steward.”  He managed to whisper his title this time.

“Cyning?”  Gaer looked very impressed and very skeptical.

           “Ná. Læs; is ealdorman.  Mæst æðele.”  Halorl clarified.  He found another word and said it victoriously, “Hordere.”

“What did you call me, Halorl?  Halorl!”

The Rohirrim ignored him.  “Faramir is min Ides, Éowyn's ceorl þæs ymbe lítel Éomer...” And that was as far as he got because Gaer began to howl with laughter, clutching his sides. 

“What?  What?  Hwa?  Gaer!”  Faramir looked back and forth between the men, confused and wondering if they were laughing at him.  

“Ceorl!  Ceorl!  God gabban!  “ Gaer yelped between giggles.

“Éowyn?”  Faramir froze, a sudden feeling of dread coiling through his guts, adding to his nausea.  Éowyn…  “Oh no.”  He felt his eyes go wide.  He'd forgotten.  How could he have forgotten?  “I was supposed to meet her tonight...in the gardens.”  He closed his eyes, slumping with his back the cold stones of the tavern wall and put his head in his hands.  What do I do now?  There was nothing but to go on.

“This,” Faramir proclaimed very loudly to the guard on duty at the fourth gate, “never happened to Beren.”  The man stared at him, obviously confused.  “Or Túrin, for that matter.”  Faramir stopped, thinking.  “'Course I'd rather be Beren any day...Túrin had the curse and all that.”  He waved his hands to vaguely illustrate his point then perked up.  “Wait, wait, wait!”

             “My Lord...” The guard began, looking rather helpless.  Faramir felt a moment’s blurry pity—the man had no idea how to deal with this situation.  None did, as the guards weren't trained to deal with the Steward swaying on his feet, closely followed by two drunken Rohirrim who were belting some drinking song far too loudly for the early hour.

           “Is it prent...prente...no that's...pretnen...pretentions!”  Faramir said triumphantly.  “Is it pretentious to compare myself to Beren, you think?”

              “Um...no?”  The guard hesitated.  “Can you quiet them, my Lord?”  He nodded to the Rohirrim.  “They will wake someone.”

            “Oh.  Halorl!  Gaer!  Be silent!”  The Rohirrim quieted and he smiled, watching and swaying while the guard began trying to think of a way to get his Lord safely home and not abandon his post.  Sympathizing with him, Faramir continued thoughtfully, “Well, there were three Túrins, you know.  The first one was the first one.  The second was the sixth ruling Steward of Minas Tirith.”  Faramir snorted.  “He didn't do anything.  The third one was the, uh, the, uh, he was my great-great-grandfather.”

               “True?”  Gaer had wandered over.

              “Yes.  He defeated an army of Haradrim.  With, with King Folcwine!”  He pointed at Gaer.  “That's you…like you.”

            His redheaded friend laughed, “What?”

             “He was from Rohan.”  Faramir explained. 

              “Ah.”  Gaer nodded sagely.  The guard stifled a moan of frustration. 

             “My Lord...Faramir!”  It took a moment to get his attention.  Faramir was muttering, hands over his face,

            “What...am...” He moaned, slurring, “Amigonna...do?  What do I say?”  He focused on the man again.  “Yes?”

             “Do you need someone to escort you to your chambers, my Lord?”  

            “No, no.  I'll be fine.  It's only a bit higher.”  Faramir, ramblings aside, was feeling much less intoxicated now that he'd thrown up on several poor individual's doorsteps on the way.  “Good night, Gaer, Halorl.”

            “God niht, Faramir.”

            “Hæl ábéodan.”  Gaer and Halorl waved as they stumbled off to the great block of quarters assigned to the Rohirrim.  He yawned as the guard nervously stammered some more about an escort. 

            “No need.”  Now that he'd found the Fourth Gate and sobered a bit, Faramir thought he could find the rest of the way.  After over an hour of stumbling over rough cobblestones, he made it to the upper levels just before the eastern sky began to lighten.  Shoving open his door and half-falling into his rooms, he went directly to the inner chambers and his bedroom.  Once there, not even bothering to take off his boots, Faramir fell into bed. 

***

Éomer was terribly bored.  He wandered through the streets, staring at the broken stone lit in the morning light, the clutter and the chickens and various stable yard animals that ran about masterless until an approaching party took his attention.  He recognized Imrahil even from a distance and walked slowly in the man’s direction, taking his time to look at the crushed and ruined buildings.  It was near enough to make him guilty for taking Faramir, but not enough…  His heart hardened.  They have others to do his duties…  He had but one sister.  He smiled ruefully, and I am very thankful for that…

As Éomer wandered closer to Imrahil’s party, still looking about himself, he felt the distinct pressure of eyes and stopped to find their origin.  A girl was staring at him; she looked to be his sister’s age, perhaps even less.  Pretty in a way he was unused to seeing with her hair the color of chocolate and clothed in shimmering finery, she smiled.  He hesitated, smiling back in a bland sort of friendliness that quickly turned to surprise as the girl took a step in his direction, looked to make sure none observed, then gestured boldly that he should come to her side. 

When he frowned in pretending to not understand, she smiled widely as though pleased, something that confused him anew, and spoke to Imrahil.  The Lord of Dol Amroth turned to face him, squinting.  Alarmed at her boldness and perceiving that she was asking about him, Éomer quickly looked away, taking several strides and pretending to take no notice in their doings.  He gazed out over the wall as he walked slowly, casually, feeling his stomach tense.  The height was great as he stood on the fifth level and the view made him dizzy.  How they live like this I cannot fathom…

“Lord Éomer?”

He jumped and to his annoyance, she laughed at his fears.  Taking a breath to steady himself, he asked in a voice of pleasantry.  “Yes?” 

Her eyes were locked to his and very eager, nearly luminous with curiosity.  They were the same shade of chocolate as her hair, making him nostalgic for the taste of it.  When was the last time I had…she was speaking.  “You come from the horse-country?  From Rohan, the wild land to the North?”  He nodded in brief return, not wishing to invite conversation.  For a moment he thought of turning back, of continuing his walk in another direction, but it was too late, she’d fallen into step with him.  He halted at once.

They were side by side, yet not as a man could have moved between them with ease within the distance he kept from her.  He pretended great interest in watching a group of men rebuild an arch, all the while feeling her eyes on him.  Their weight was uncanny, making his skin feel tight, his nerves tingle.  Is she…?  Éomer knew it was unwise, but couldn’t help himself, he had to look. 

She was still watching him and with the same bafflingly self-assured smile.  “Do men not speak to Ladies in your rough lands, Lord Éomer?”  When she spoke his name it was with an odd accentuation, not as he’d ever heard it before.

She was not quite a Lady, more a girl to his eye.  He smiled faintly, then had a great burst of an idea.  Éomer’s smile widened as he answered, deliberately thickening his accent.  “Gea, we dá.”

Instead of puzzled, she looked charmed and he could have kicked himself as she laughed, “What did you say?  Oh, tell me!”

Gruffly disappointed, he replied, “I said yes, we do.”

He decided that the girl was utterly incorrigible as she commanded, “Speak more of that.  I love your voice.”  The girl gave a mock shiver and giggled with no modesty, “So rough and deep, like a ruffian…” She glanced up and down his form, “But you look the part of a Lord.”  Her eyes sparkled, “I like the picture you make quite well.”

        What possible response had he to that?  Frantic, he tried to come with one and failed utterly.  Éomer cursed inwardly.  How was he to get rid of her?  Falling back upon politeness, he bowed, saying quietly and with a purposefully distracted tone, “I’m sorry, I must go…”

        “Go where?”  She smiled, “I’ve somewhere to be as well…” The girl’s smile widened and she stepped closer to ask conspiratorially, “Why don’t we play truant for a while, you and I and enjoy each other’s company?”

        She looked so terribly hopeful and full of mischievous cheer that he felt a twinge of guilt.  Éomer shifted his feet, trying to think of a way to extricate himself.  The girl seemed nice enough, pretty and amusingly forward but he was wary for some reason he did not understand, intimidated when he had not been before.  She is just a girl!  He snorted, so was his sister and she was a dreadful creature.  Éomer sighed.  “I apologize, my Lady.”  He bowed from the waist, saying as gallantly as he could, “Another day?”

        “I suppose.”  Her face had fallen and he felt a great rush of guilt and misgiving.

Perhaps…no, he’d already told the lie.  He could not go back.  Éomer turned and walked away; as he did he felt her watching him.  Her amused voice halted him in his tracks,

“Scamper on, little mouse.”

        He turned, disbelieving.  “What did you call me?”

        She walked to stand before him, chin lifted, a merry smile curving lips that he noticed were quite well rounded.  “You wear the clothes of a warrior, but you scamper away like a mouse.”

        He growled, showing his temper in hopes of frightening her, “I am not a mouse, Lady…” Éomer realized he didn’t know her name.

        The girl laughed at him and growled fiercely, saying in a lighter tone, “You don’t think mice roar?”

        She was too quick, moving from one incomprehension to another so that he could not keep up.  Éomer tried to answer, irritated that he felt so defensive, she is just a girl!  “I have not heard one…”

        “Courtship is a field of battle where you pit your nobleman's sword to my maiden’s shield, Lord Éomer.  You, my little mouse, have not won a yard.”

“I am not trying to…” His chest filled with exasperation, bursting out in an explosion, “I am not a mouse!”

 The girl tossed her brown hair in scorn and stepped quite closely.  Éomer was astonished when she fingered Gúthwinë’s hilt.  “Indeed, I’ve got you at bay already and I quite plan to be storming your gates and planting my flag where I may.  I’ve conquered Lords with far more of a ruffian in them than you…” She was trying to shock him and Éomer was slightly shocked; she looked far too innocent to speak of such things so easily.

Fields of battle…quite suddenly he relaxed.  She comes so swift to disorient me.  He’d used this tactic in battle before.  It worked well unless his opponent kept his head, taking each blow in patient stride. She wishes to keep me off guard so that she shall look wise as I sputter, so that I do her pleasure with embarrassment.  Éomer thickened his voice again, speaking slower so that he might seem duller in wit.  Let us see who has had more experience in the field…  “Ruffian?”

“Aye.”  Her eyes were sparkling.  “You might as well surrender and bend to my will, Lord Éomer.  If you do I’ll let you keep your rough token, for I like it.”  She touched Gúthwinë again, fingers tripping around the round head, the hilt long stained with his blood and sweat—it was distinctly personal, this touch and she knew it.  He couldn’t help but stiffen in discomfort.  “Did none tell you proper noblemen don’t wear swords?”  The girl laughed, “No one will attack a great lump of a man such as you in this City.”  Her voice lowered to provoke him as she’d done twice with such success, “They don’t know you’re a mouse beneath all that armor.”

He played along, lumpishly, he thought in amusement for his thick, dull-witted retort, “I am not a mouse!”

“Aye, oh surrender.”  She smiled, “My line oft carries a pen in one hand, sword in another.  You, my rough Lord, have little chance.”

This girl thought she was so much smarter than he was that Éomer was hard pressed not to howl with laughter.  I think I like her.  Arrogant or no, she was certainly more engaging then the usual woman, whether humble maid or proud Lady.  He asked dumbly, “A pen, what for?”

“Scholars, my cousin is such.”  She laughed and extended her hand.

 He just furrowed his brow like he was in great thought.

The girl took his arm with a sigh as though he were too imbecilic to understand her gesture.  “Come, if you walk with me I promise entertainment of the likes you’ve never seen nor heard.”  She turned to him in sympathy, “Your rough folk have no theater, do they?”

Éomer hesitated.  He was fairly sure he was supposed to sit in the infuriatingly dull Council, but…  He laughed inwardly.  I don’t even care.  Making his expression blank, he had a great idea and stammered moronically, like he’d never heard the word, “The-theater?”

“I write plays, I’m quite good, folk from my country love to come and see them.” 

Could you speak about yourself with more glory, you’re being too modest, he bit his tongue.  Éomer fought to keep his expression properly vapid.

She smiled, “Like my cousin, I’ve read and learned too much history, save that I can only use it for my own amusements.”

He asked stupidly, as though he could not discern that she used history in her plays. “Amusements?”  Whether she did so to retell it as his own folk did with most stories, men acting out the parts around fires in the duller winters, or simply to borrow elements from it for her own tales, Éomer was unsure.  He’d seen theatre groups in the Mark, but they were oft from other lands and visited but rarely, telling foreign stories and amazing with their masks and costumes and ability to change voice and action.  He eyed her with curiosity.  This might be interesting.  It would certainly be more so than Council.

The girl shook her head, “Poor creature.”  

As she led him off, he said in the voice of one who’d realized something blatantly obvious, “You did not tell me your name.”

“And I won’t.”  She smiled, “I keep my secret, it preserves my memory long after you’ve forgotten other maids.”

He stared dumbly, thinking that was an odd thing to say, a terribly pushy strategy, but then she’d been on the offensive all along.  “Oh.”  The girl chuckled and he rolled his eyes at the stones as they walked, following the City street upwards through the gates, then turning to pace the wall about the Citadel.  The next time he met with Imrahil, he would ask.  We will see if I care to…he fooled himself and he knew it. 

The girl spoke much of herself and her plays, all in such a boasting way that Éomer was at turns amused and exasperated.  She was indeed interesting, as he’d guessed, and quite imaginative.  The girl had written many works and gotten men from her land to perform in them; her spirited tellings of her stories actually made him laugh.  He learned she was willful and clever; her swiftness was not all a diversion, but as he watched her closely, Éomer found it to his thinking that it masked the driving forces of a mind he guessed far too bright for what little was demanded of her.  The girl was naught but a girl, as he’d seen, not a Lady with a house to manage, but a spoiled child with nothing to do but while away hours and days imagining and thinking until she was near wild with it.  He felt some pity for her quickness and her machinations that really did nothing to amuse either of them and only served as words spilled, occupying her racing mind and tongue.  She is like to a horse kept stalled then loosed suddenly, all bursting inside so that it all but falls over its feet to run and leap.  

He’d kept to his dumbness, playing his game, but as they’d circled the Citadel for the unreckoned time, he tired of it, overcome with weariness.  “Tell me something of truth.”  All that she’d spoken was nothing but emptiness; he’d heard that she liked songs and tales of old, horses, games of cleverness, the City and many, many boldly stated preferences for this and that.  But it was all nothing, a cloud of dust thrown into his eyes just as her calling him a mouse…the moment I turned away.  Éomer felt pity again.  She had had to prod at him with insult to keep him to stay at her side.  Perhaps she thinks that if she ceases for even a moment, I will leave.  Leave her to her quickness and the silence of a City peopled by those who do not care to hear it… 

He felt the first ache of compassion rise in his heart for the girl with hair and eyes of chocolate and Éomer sighed inwardly.  He didn’t feel right to leave her—she reminded him of his sister.  Straining, always straining in her role, never satisfied, the only difference was that Éowyn had turned to a warrior’s skills and this girl went the other path and drove herself inward, only emerging to shake a spear forged with information at him to gain his attention.  Not even knowledge, but information of things past, of things personal, nothing concrete, and nothing that could be put to use.  He thought he’d never felt such pity.

“What…” She frowned, then shook her head.  “What?”  He’d startled her, maybe even insulted her.  Éomer found he did not care, as she’d insulted him many times by her arrogance.

He said quietly and more clearly.  “Your words are wind.”

The girl had stiffened as if she were insulted, “How so?”  But her eyes were quick, moving to his with interest.

“You tell me everything, but nothing…” He’d kept himself silent, now he burst forth, “You say you love horses…” To gain his favor or in full truth, he did not know, “But I’ve yet to hear you speak anything about them with wisdom.  You say you studied history, the elven tongues…what good is that?”  Exasperated still further, he advanced and asked, “What do you do that is good for anything, anyone?  You think you know more than me and are so great…but what do you do that would not be missed?  Plays?  What are plays to a people faced with war?”  His voice raised as he continued, swept away by his ire, “Tell me, did the peasants enjoy them while the orcs were burning their houses?”

The girl looked away and blinked rapidly before turning back to stammer in unsteady and terribly weak outrage.  “I…have never heard such rudeness…  Lord Éomer, do you always behave…so roughly?” 

Oh, by Eorl…she was near tears and it was his doing.  He wanted to explode with his simultaneous irritation and guilt.  Clearing his throat, he said humbly, shamefully, “I apologize.  I did not mean what I said…I meant…” He had meant it, but not so cruelly.  I do not know when it is that a maid weeps!  His sister did not cry so easily and he’d never had occasion to rant at another girl, they’d all been simpler, not arrogant at all.  What do I say, why did I say such?  He floundered, “I am truly sorry.”  She did not respond, head bent, chocolate hair hiding her face and Éomer gritted his teeth, unsure.  He’d only ever made Éowyn weep, he had no idea what to do or say to this strange girl.

Suddenly she looked up at him with a sweep of her hair and her eyes were watered, red, but burning with fury.  Éomer was relieved; anger he could deal with, weeping he could not.  She hissed at him, “What did you mean?”  Her voice cracked, “I may be useless, but I am not stupid, Lord…Éomer.”  The girl said his title as an insult, making it obvious of how little she respected it or him.  Now she was openly scorning, “Tell me something of truth—what did you mean?” 

Éomer knew at once that she would not allow him to withdraw his hurting words, so he compromised and added a further apology.  “I meant it, but I am sorry to have said it.”

She clasped her hand to her breast, “Oh, I feel so terribly relieved…” Her eyes darkened and her false voice of nicety vanished as she spat, “That you aren’t so ill-mannered as to know of guilt.  Have you any better apology?”  Now she was insulting him; he bore it in well-deserved silence.  “A quicker man might but you, I think not.”

Éomer surrendered anew to her righteous and rightful anger.  “You are right.  I have none better.”  He hesitated, “Is there anything I might say…”

Her eyes flashed.  “Your words are wind.”  The girl gazed at him for a moment.  “What is it you do that is so good to make you speak so disdainfully of me?”

His hand fell upon Gúthwinë’s hilt, seeking solace.  “I fight, defend my people…”

“War is finished.  You are just like me.”  She smiled tightly and echoed him yet again, “No good for anything, anyone.  You should not be so proud, Lord Éomer.”  The girl turned then in a swirl of skirts and chocolate hair.

And Éomer followed, unwilling to let her go, not quite sure why he cared so much.  He tried, “Will you not tell me your name so that I could apologize more properly…?”

“Whatever for?  Hearing you speak it would only anger me…I no longer have any desire to let you think of me so familiarly.”  She walked fast for a Lady; he was hard-pressed to keep up.

No longer?  For an instant he was bemused.  I should have held my tongue…  Then his guilt came again, crashing down on his shoulders, making his heart that had pitied her turn against him to burn in self-scorn and urge him forward regardless of his skeptical feet.  “What could I do to change you?”

The girl halted and faced him.  Éomer kept his distance; too mindful of his sister’s tendencies to strike when she was similarly angered.  “I am not a fool.  You are a man who has no knowledge of words, no knowing of a gentleman’s attitude…you know nothing of how to soothe a woman’s injury.”  Her eyes narrowed, “Why would I let myself by pacified by your hand, as you have so well shown to me that you wield it callously and with delight in your callousness?”

He pleaded, “I meant no callousness.”  Éomer sighed, “I take no delight in any of this.”

“There was delight in cutting me down and that is what you desired and succeeded in doing.”  He’d not thought for nothing that she was clever.

“No…”

The girl’s voice rose, “Then what did you mean?”

Éomer’s frustration had reached its limits yet again and he blurted, “I wanted to learn something about you that I could understand!”  He quieted, “Something I held in common.”

        She burst into laughter.  “You are terribly daft.”

        He smiled faintly and allowed, “Perhaps.”

        “Incredibly, sadly so.  You are a pitiful creature, aren’t you?”  The girl didn’t seem so angered anymore, but Éomer could not understand why and so he waited to see what would happen.  “Go on, Lord Éomer…perhaps before you ride back to your lands I will have forgiven you your stupidity and callousness.”  She smiled at him, a smile of both ridicule and some nameless emotion, and shook her head before walking away.

        Éomer stood frowning to himself and admitting that he wished he’d learned her name.  At least then he could have tracked her, brought her some gift in hopes…without her name, he was at her mercy.  Why do I care?

        He didn’t know.  With a sigh, he looked back over the wall.  The White City wasn’t quite as dull this morning.

***

Éowyn had spent the morning in a mood that was a strange mixture of exasperation and melancholy sadness, which was not helped by Merry's dark scowl and immediate question upon her arrival in the small room in the kitchens which was reserved for the hobbits, “Have you seen him yet?”

            “No.”  Éowyn's voice was carefully neutral as she, not seeing a chair, sat across from him, Frodo and Sam at the small hobbit-sized table.  It was a task requiring much folding of her legs and adjusting her skirts.  Luckily she was just barely slender enough to fit under the tabletop built for Merry and Pippin's slightly larger than normal height.  Éowyn, in the last month, had formed a habit of eating with the hobbits, at least breakfast.  Frequently Merry and Pippin insisted she stay for second breakfast, claiming she was disgracefully thin.  To this Éowyn had always laughed and replied she wasn't a hobbit lass, and couldn't possibly be expected to keep up. 

           As she squeezed under the table, across and slightly to her right, Frodo and Sam looked up from their plates long enough to offer polite, friendly greetings.  Pippin, at her side, bobbed his head, mouth so full that he had to chew and swallow a few times before he could speak.

           “Good morning, Éowyn.”  

           “Good morning.”  Éowyn raised an eyebrow as Pippin slid his heaping plate over and scooted towards her.

           “Want something?  Toast, jelly, eggs?  I’ve got plenty.”  He did and she smiled.

 Frodo offered politely, “We'll be having second breakfast soon.” She looked up from trying to choose from a packed together and mixed assortment of foodstuffs on Pippin's crowded plate.    

          “I don't believe it.”  Merry grumbled.  He'd stayed with her in the gardens last night, long after she'd known Faramir wasn't coming to her, an action she'd greatly appreciated.  

           “What?  I share!”

        “Not you, Pip.”  Merry snorted at him before scowling into his cup.

         “Oh.  Right.”  Pippin's tone and the way all the hobbits looked down, Frodo losing his smile, Sam's brow furrowing, led Éowyn to believe Merry had told them. 

She sighed glumly, their concern was heartening and Merry's loyalty was flattering, but it was not their problem if Faramir declined to meet with her.  And then declined to tell me…  Her jaw tightened but she willfully pushed away her rage.  “What kind of jam is that?”

        Pippin brightened.  “Apple butter.”  He handed her the last thick slice of toast, liberally spread.  Éowyn took it gingerly, hoping she wouldn't spill it on the front of her gown. 

         “It's very good.”  Sam said quietly.  Of the four hobbits he spoke to her the least, seeming to prefer his silence. 

        “Mmm-hmm.”  Pippin took his plate back and began shoveling runny eggs into his mouth, often having to catch the yellow goop before it dropped back onto his dish.  Éowyn, used to eating virtually her entire life in a hall almost entirely populated by large, hungry and not especially refined men, was not shocked, in fact she barely noticed, only smiling once.  He has a great big mouth for such a small thing…

        “Pippin!”  Frodo looked up at the greedy noises and scolded.  “Eat like a civilized hobbit!”

        “I'm not sure he can.”  Merry gave up his grumpy mood long enough to tease. 

         “Mmph...I can, too.”  Pippin slurped up a string of egg white and Merry and Frodo adopted identical frowns of disapproval.  She had an idea he ate so for the attention.

Utterly unaffected by the Took's atrocious table manners, Éowyn nibbled on her toast, unable to simply bite into it because of it's thick coating of jam.  Catching a sticky drop before it could fall onto her collarbone, she sucked her finger. 

        “This is good.”  Éowyn looked to Sam and smiled; he gave her a small smile in return before refocusing on his plate. 

        “I've got to stand in the throne room all afternoon and watch Aragorn look at pieces of paper and...” Pippin paused dramatically, “sometimes even sign them.”  Merry stared blankly into space but Frodo, Sam and Éowyn's attention encouraged him to go on.  Pippin asked cheerily, “What are you doing today, Éowyn?

         “I'm visiting the Houses of Healing.”

          “What're you going to do there?”

         “Learn about the healing properties of certain herbs.”  Bemused, she waited for the next question.  It was like this every morning.

        “Why?”

         She smiled.  “Because I'm interested.”

        “What kinds of herbs?”  Samwise broke into Pippin's questioning.

         “I'm not sure.”

          “Sam knows a great deal about herbs and plants.”  Frodo observed.

         The Gamgee protested in a nervous voice, “Now, I wouldn't say a great deal, Master Frodo...”

        “I would.”  Frodo corrected, smiling at Sam who flushed, embarrassed.

       “What do you think his excuse will be?”  Merry frowned, bringing an end to the easy conversation.

        “I don't know.”  Éowyn's voice was tight with emotion.  She didn't want to talk about it.  And as they sat in strained silence, a few serving girls burst out of the main kitchen and swept away any finished dishes.  Finishing her toast and jam, Éowyn wiped her hands on one of the cloth napkins; it could have nearly doubled as a hobbit cloak; then gathered her skirts, preparing to leave before second breakfast came.  

        Pippin’s eyes held disappointment.  “You're going?”

        “I'm sorry, yes.”  She smiled at the hobbit, resisting the impulse to ruffle his curls.  Although he was four years her senior and had a year on her brother Éomer, it was impossible to tell. 

        “You don't have to...I'm sorry I brought it up.”  Merry pleaded.  Frodo and Sam were gazing at her.

        “What's this?  Have I missed second breakfast?”  The elf's light, cheerful voice startled them all.

         “No, it's on its way.”  Éowyn answered as she stood.  “As am I.”

         “I'm sorry to hear it, my Lady.  You're superior company will be greatly missed.”  Legolas inclined his head respectfully even as he took a mischievous dig at the hobbits.  Pulling up a chair that Éowyn had somehow overlooked, he sat at the head of the hobbit's table.  The sight of the elf scrunched up, with the tabletop only coming to slightly above his knees, made her cover her mouth to hide a smile.  He looked ridiculous.   

“Wait a moment...” Legolas brushed the corner of his mouth with his fingers to show she should mimic the motion.  “You've got something right here.”

Blushing, Éowyn rubbed the last bit of sticky jam away.  “Thank you.”

         “You're quite welcome.”  He smiled.  “I would be remiss in allowing you to leave in such a state…” Legolas glanced to the younger hobbits in amusement.  “Though it appears others would have with no trouble.”

        She laughed.  “Farewell.”  Éowyn finally summoned the courage to leave and seek out the Warden in the Houses of Healing.  The hobbit's and Legolas's farewells followed her into the larger, public dining hall.  Resisting the urge to rub at her mouth again, Éowyn left the building, head high and ignoring the various admiring gazes of men, mostly soldiers about to go on duty.  At the doors of the Houses, she somewhat hesitantly joined a small group of women standing nearby.

“Do you know where I can find the Warden?”  She smiled as she asked, hoping for an answer as most had not even turned to her.

          “We're waiting for him now.”  The older woman answered politely and turned back to her neighbor.  Éowyn shifted on her feet, feeling awkward.  It was obvious most of these women knew each other; they spoke intimately, laughing at jests and gasping over gossip. 

          “Hello.”  A girl that seemed close to her own age separated from the group and smiled at Éowyn.  She brushed a few strands of chocolate colored hair behind her ears, her face expectant.

            “Hello.”  Éowyn smiled back, wariness fighting with hope.  She hadn't interacted much with the women she’d seen in the Houses of Healing and she’d not spent much time in other parts of the City; she tended to avoid them as they often cast discouraging looks her way along with half-heard comments and intimidating laughter.  Growing up in Edoras with no women friends didn't help to give her ideas in how to approach members of her own sex, much less befriend them, which kept her at a loss of how to deal with the women in the City.   

           The girl examined her, “You don't look ill, so you must be here to learn something.”  She tossed more brown hair out of her eyes and gave Éowyn a sly look, “Who made you come?”

           She hesitated, wondering if there were noblewomen that wanted to learn the arts of healing in the City or if it was considered absurd.  What is the right answer?  Éowyn told the truth, “No one, I wanted to come.”

          “Truly?”  The girl was open-mouthed with surprise, but there was no hostility in her question.

           She nodded, smiling with more confidence.  “Yes.”

The young brunette leaned closer, lowering her voice with an air of secrecy, “My father made me come, he thought it would be good for me if I learned healing, but I’d rather be elsewhere.  I met a most repellent Lord this morn...” 

That seemed to be the end of the exchange as the Warden bustled into the room, calling, “Come along now, come along, there is much to learn and we need all the help we can get...”

Éowyn found herself alone at the back of the group as they walked.  She told herself that this suited her quite well, leaving her free to look around and not be distracted by conversation.  Once, as they started, the brown-haired girl glanced back, but an older woman took her by the arm, chattering.  Éowyn took stock of the group around her, then pretended not to notice she was the only one walking alone.  A few robed Healers soon joined the women and the Warden, and they passed under an archway and descended a staircase into the vast, cool and dry storerooms for all the dried herbs and medicines.  Large, well-labeled containers were full of powders, or in some cases, the carefully preserved whole leaves, roots or berries of plants.  Also lit by the flickering of torches were open doorways that led to still more dark rooms.  Éowyn peered into one of these, squinting in the dimness.  She could see what appeared to be great quantities of white cloths, bandages most likely, before the footsteps and murmuring voices grew too far away for comfort.  She shivered in the chill as she hurried to catch up.      

           “Now, for pains in the head and in the body we use willow, poplar and beech bark, wintergreen and meadowsweet...” And so it began, slowly working their way through the use of innumerable herbs.  It was a great deal of information and the learning of even a tiny amount of it easily occupied her day with only a small break for the midday meal.  Éowyn soon found she was most interested when they were allowed to visit the sick and wounded men and she could see for herself how this herb or that one helped in each case. 

Most of the treatments were fairly simple—poultices, mixes and the like, and other than grimacing at the taste, the injured submitted quietly.  Others were not as simple or painless, such as a man who was brought in the late afternoon with a long gash on his leg, inflicted when a sharp piece of rock he'd been moving slipped in his hands.  He had to be held down by several large attendants.  Éowyn winced in sympathy as he sweated and thrashed, fighting as the men forced a stick between his jaws and stretched out his leg.  The ugly, seeping gash was rinsed repeatedly with clean water to remove any bits of dirt.  Red liquid stained the cloths under the man's body as four attendants kneeled, taking a firm hold.  The Warden explained in a cool voice, unstopping a small wooden capsule full of a fine, bright crimson powder as he crouched over the man's leg,

             “As you can see, “ He gestured to the thick, blood-soaked piece of cloth that had been wrapped around the man's leg, now discarded nearby, “The wound has not clotted.”  The man's high-pitched screams and curses nearly drowned the Warden’s voice out as he patted the powder into the bleeding cut, “We must apply pounded and dried cayenne to stop the blood loss.  It is an extremely painful solution, but guaranteed.”  The women shuddered as one as the man fainted.  After directing the attendants to carry him to a room and make sure his wound was stitched, the Warden continued, “Healing is very demanding and you must not allow your sympathies to rule you, my Ladies...”

***

Faramir opened his eyes.  He was lying on his back under a tree, the deep blue sky above him.  He stared up at the branches swaying in the wind for a while, comfortable in the cool grass.  It was a dream, Faramir was fairly sure of this.  But unlike the last truly vivid dream he'd had, this was...peaceful, heartening.  It was perfect in detail--he could feel the warmth of the sun on his legs as they stretched out of the tree's shadow, smell the rich earth and the grass.  He watched a Ladybug laboring across his chest, and down his arm.  Faramir smiled and reached out to catch the tiny creature before it fell.  The little red and black insects were good luck.

             Suddenly he heard the sound of laughter and the muffled beat of hooves.  The Ladybug quivered in his palm; Faramir opened his hand, releasing it as he sat up.  “Careful.”  He warned it.  “Strong winds today.”  Smiling, he rose, brushing lightly at the bits of dirt and twigs that clung to his clothes.   

          “Where am I?”  Faramir asked his surroundings in general.  At first glance he would have thought himself to be outside, yet upon further inspection, he was in a great courtyard, wider than anything in Minas Tirith.  Though walled with the same grey stone of his City, there the similarities ended.  These walls were low and had many openings, all of which had their doors propped open.  Turning, Faramir squinted into the sun.  The residence behind him was large and oddly designed.  Like the garden he stood in it was astonishingly spacious, airy and would be virtually impossible to defend.  Faramir wondered what people lived here that did not worry about war. 

The laughter grew louder, as did the hoof beats.  Faramir could make out words shouted in a young lad's defiant tone, “No…no!  I'm going to win this time!” 

            “Faster!  Faster!  Faster!  Make him go faster Hador!”  The last was in the high-pitched voice of a little girl. 

The sounds came from the nearest opening in the walls.  Faramir began to walk to it, curious to see these children.  As he moved, Faramir was distracted by flowers of many bright varieties he'd never seen before; in this courtyard tall trees and small rock-lined pools abounded.  Birds darted back and forth and butterflies danced.  It was entirely the most beautiful place he'd ever been in.  Finally he tore his admiring eyes away and reached the wall to pass under the cool stone and into the sun.  Faramir caught his breath, recognizing the land around him.  He was on the other side of the Anduin, in rolling hills of Emyn Arnen...only as he'd never seen them before.  Waist-high grass covered the ground, warring with multi-colored wild flowers.  Far away Minas Tirith stood in the sun, looking cool and aloof next to the riot of yellows, whites, blues, purples and colors Faramir couldn't quite name.  The children's laughter woke him from his appreciative daze. 

             There were three.  Two boys and a little girl.  The biggest boy looked to be about thirteen, and the other two appeared between ten and eight.  And although their clothes identified him as children of Minas Tirith, none of the lads or lasses in the White City had hair that color.  The girl's braids were the lightest, shining in the sun like the palest gold.  She rode behind the younger boy, clinging to his saddle on the back of a short, sturdy pony.  The lad's hair was unusual too--butter yellow, and the oldest boy's was the bright flaxen of ripe wheat. 

           As Faramir watched, the eldest, who was upon a small horse, kept glancing back at his siblings.  He was carefully keeping his mount to a slow canter, even as it pulled eagerly against his hands, obviously wishing to gallop to the younger children's joyful urgings.  Their chunky little pony was stretched out, hard hooves pounding as it ran.  The younger boy, Hador, whooped and the tiny waif-like girl laughed delightedly as they gained on their elder brother, who peeked back and gave a cry of mock dismay.  Faramir grinned as the older boy slowed his horse further as they neared, allowing his little brother and sister to pass.  The oblivious younger children screamed triumphantly.

           Their path had taken them past him in a straight line, about three hundred yards out; now they curved back towards Faramir, slowing to a jog.  The little girl bounced, clinging to the saddle as the boys laughed and shouted back and forth, voices loud as they approached.  Suddenly she peered over Hador's shoulder.  As her pretty blue eyes locked with his and she smiled brilliantly, Faramir felt arms slip around his waist. 

           He looked down at his chest.  A woman's slender hands were interlocked around his middle.  Faramir could feel her slight weight as she leaned against his back, standing on tiptoe to whisper into his ear, warm breath tickling. 

          “Min léof.”  Her tone was soft and happy, making him feel a rush of contentedness, making him feel warmly loved with just the briefest of greetings…even a greeting he could not recognize.  He began to turn in her arms, to see who she was, when—

        There was a loud, impatient call at his outer door and a rapping of knuckles.  “My Lord Faramir?”

        It woke him andhe bolted upright so fast the room spun nauseatingly and his stomach lurched.  Faramir clutched his head, moaning.  His eyes had shot open, allowing stabbing light to blind him viciously.  To his disorientation it appeared to be late, very late.  Did I sleep…?  His thoughts were terribly muddled.

          “Wmmmnnnggaatt.”  Faramir grimaced as he moved his tongue; his mouth was dry and tasted terrible.  He tried again.  “Who is it?”

        “My Lord, your presence is urgently needed at…” His groan drowned out the rest but he’d not really needed to hear it.

        Raising his voice, he called, “Yes, yes…!”  There was no more and he guessed the servant had mercifully departed.

Slowly, Faramir swung his legs over the bed.  After a while of staring at his boots, he stood a trifle shakily, getting his balance on the stone floor.  He felt terrible.  Normally Faramir didn't drink much but when he did, he usually paid for it triple-fold.  He groaned as he made his way through his dark bedroom and into his outer chambers. 

Oh…ahh…that hurts.  He raised his arm to shield his sensitive eyes.  At least the shutters in the bedroom were closed, Faramir thought, hissing in pain as he pushed open the door and staggered into the next room.  It was terribly bright in there, the sun shining through the two large windows, dust motes dancing over his mess of books.  Tripping over a twist in his rug, Faramir cursed at it.  He walked slowly, unsteadily, his head spinning, shading his eyes with one hand and frowning in confusion as he steered around a few unusual obstacles.  What…?  He stared blearily at the chair to his desk.  It was toppled into the middle of the room and a cushion lay several feet from the long, lumpy couch it belonged to and had until recently not seen fit to journey from.

He smiled, feeling a little woozy.  “Well, I don't remember doing that.”  Faramir then paused, thinking.  “I don't remember anything really...so.”  He laughed, which made his head hurt.  In retribution, he kicked the cushion aside, making his unsteady way to his water basin.  Splashing some of the water on his face would revive him enough so that he could dress and act and speak with coherence, or so he hoped. 

Leaning against his table, he groaned again.  I hate Council…  Faramir peered through slitted eyes.  The light at his window held the faintest tinge of orange.  If I take long enough it will be too late…  He smiled.  I have to find Éowyn…

His smile disappeared and his stomach was suddenly much more nauseous, roiling and twisting so that he didn’t dare move.  What will I say to her?

***

          The sun was setting, turning the light stonework of the City to rusty oranges and reds when Éowyn finally left the Houses.  Her feet hurt and she was hungry, but her mind felt more alive than it had in a long time.  There is so much…so much to learn…  Names of herbs and instructions for treatments were pleasantly jumbled in her head.  The promise of knowledge, ongoing knowledge and an art no one could ban her from, lifted her spirits as she walked so that she smiled and hummed under her breath.  Éowyn glanced at her hands; they were dirty.  A long bath before the evening meal, and a few minutes of peace…  She quickened her steps.  Deep in thought, it was a few minutes before she noticed she was being paced.  Her brow creased with irritation as a figure fell into stride beside her, stopping as she did.  Turning, she pushed her hair back, not sure who she was expecting to see.  It was Faramir.  He grinned sheepishly.

Translations:

Faramir ná nemnan Rohirric—Faramir not speak Rohirric?  (Simplified for Faramir)

Faramir ná is níðing—Faramir is not coward

Cáf—Brave

Ful íeðelic—very easy

Faramir is min Ides, Éowyn's ceorl þæs ymbe lítel Éomer—Faramir is my Lady Eowyn’s husband after the test of Eomer

Ceorl!  Ceorl!  God gabban—Husband!  Husband!  Good jest

Min léof—my dear